recordar Bon Vinai (parte dos)

The Recycled Minds blog (linked in the IHE piece) reproduces the language of the change. After reading it, I think it is simple insecurity on the part of "scientific anthropologists" that is inspiring the hubub. The changes in no way denigrate scientific approaches, they simply don't mention them. To me this does not in any way de-legitimize scientific approaches, it simply provides a more inclusive framework for what anthropology can be.

As I've always said, the beauty of anthropology is you can do anything you want* and call it "anthropology" (*with proper theoretical and contextual backing).

I think the real issue is stemming from the fact that the "scientific" parts of the discipline are already marginalized to an extent. The change is serving to remove one small claim to centrality they had. So, I think its more of a political issue than ideological issue here. But then again...what isn't?

recordar Bon Vinai

There's been all sorts of hubub because the AAA's "future plan" (not its mission statement) has dropped the word "science." And thus, of course, this Inside Higher Ed article is being widely circulated.

Now, I haven't read the full text of the future plan, so I shall reserve official judgement on the change in the future plan (though my initial reaction is that--despite my usual proselytizing against "objectivity" and quantitative data--scientific components are important to anthropology, particularly in linguistic, bio/physical, and archaeological sub-disciplines and to remove the wording is only to further distance these important aspects of anthropology from the hegemonic cultural forms). However, the IHE article is annoying me because its reproducing something that I think is all too common both among academics, and the public at large: a false dichotomy between "science" and "local ways of knowing" or "humanities approaches" (I think 6th grade science teachers may be to blame). It seems to me that the strength of anthropology is the ability to incorporate different ways of knowing. To understand something scientifically while not foreclosing other ways of understanding the issue. So perhaps that means that "science" should remain in the future plan, but I'll reserve judgement until I actually read the thing.

In the article however, I particularly found the last statement interesting.

"Are we to accept the local explanation that children are dying ... because someone is breaking a taboo and the gods are angry," he said, "or do we look to see how fecal matter is being introduced to the water supply?"

I think the false dichotomy is most evident here. A good anthropologist knows that their own understanding of a situation may be different than the understanding of those around them, but simply jabbering on about microbes to people who haven't had advanced chemistry or biology training isn't going to get very far. Rather understanding danger, but communicating in a way that makes sense in the local lexicon and view are what make anthropology a valuable tool, at least in public health situations.

Anyway, this all reminded me of something written by one of my favorite past professors. Dwight Conquergood worked with Hmong refugees in Thailand, and helped design and direct "a health education campaign based on native beliefs and values and communicated in culturally appropriate forms." --using community theater.

Health Theatre in a Hmong Refugee Camp: Performance, Communication, and Culture

A few excerpts:

"Specifically, we started a refugee performance company that produced skits and scenarios drawing on Hmong folklore and traditional communicative forms, such as proverbs, storytelling, and folksinging, to develop critical awareness about the health problems in Ban Vinai."

"Any communication campaign that ignored the indigenous cultural strengths of performance would be doomed to failure."

"Simplistic health messages imported from Western middle-class notions of cleanliness simply would not work for Ban Vinai. What was needed was a health education and consciousness-raising program that was sensitive to the history and specific environmental problems and constraints of the camp."

Using the character of "Mother Clean" and Drawing on the poj ntxoog evil ogre character from Hmong folklore, they created an ugly Garbage Troll.

"Mother Clean would lovingly amplify the message of proverbs, explaining how a small village on a mountain slope with plenty of space for everyone could absorb organic refuse naturally through the elements of wind and rain. She pointed out that Ban Vinai is very different from the mountaintop villages in which the Hmong used to live. Consequently, customs and habits, particularly regarding garbage, needed to change accordingly. She exhorted a change in behavior without degrading the people whom she was trying to persuade, locating responsibility in the environmental circumstances."

bigotes

toward an anthropology of beards (cont)

from Fake Science

la lucha de los EEUU

just a little shout out to the heathered levis and her awesome quotes on the vida lucha in the huffington post.

el doctor joven

this blog was recently compared to the musings that appeared at the end of Doogie Howser, MD. i took this as extreme compliment. not because I remember 'ol doogie writing anything terribly interesting, but because i loved that damn show. i loved doogie. i loved vinnie. i love that whole "wiz kid aces SATs."

well, it occurred to me that the reflexive journal writing as ending to television episode genre did not end with doogie. indeed, that neoliberal bastian of consumerist womanhood, sex and the city, also used such a convention. needless to say, i was pleased this was not the show chosen for comparison.

that is all. just some meta-reflexivity today.

miedo de nuevo

just a link to another great dc blogger's take on the stewart/colbert rally.

en cordura y el miedo

i went to the stewart/colbert rally to restore sanity and/or fear. mostly i went because it was here, and seemed to be what all the cool kids were doing. But I allowed myself the privilege of claiming my involvement was something of "participant observation" given my research interests in the efficacy of various forms of (performative) social movements.

As per usual, my thoughts on the rally were not without critique. Was this just another vagina monologues/take back the night/national coming out day stunt to promote decidedly neoliberal ideologies and distract us from the real issues all in the guise of progressive politics? Well, pretty much, yes.

But as faux mia pointed out over vegan breakfast, protest in the U.S. doesn't work (anymore?). So we've moved on to something else. Something more corporate. Something less overtly (but still covertly) political. Something that appeals to desires of the masses and does not contradict or question the ideological indoctrination they've experienced since their reagan-era births. perhaps its as lukacs and postone suggest-the commodity fetishism pervades all aspects of life. we can't escape it, even in our efforts to express dissent.

celebrity is the new politics. We have wrestlers and bodybuilders that have become governors, and presidents that have been compared to paris hilton (not that i'm saying it was an astute comparison). corrupt governors get recruited for reality tv shows. politics is celebrity and celebrity is politics. hell, have we already forgotten that colbert actually tried to run in south carolina?

and this phenomenon is perhaps not unlike the cholita luchadora phenomenon. the overt political connections are not clearly defined, but it is a spectacular event that cannot truly be understood without analyzing it as political. it speaks to social relations, but in a way that is digestible to the crowd that gathers for it. it does not push the boundaries too far.

so then, the real question is: what is the effect? will we being to understand political rallies as forms of entertainment (which is basically why i went, as well as the middle-aged african-american guy next to me on the bus "well, its saturday, and its something to do."), complete with celebrity music performances and professional athletes video-conferenced in? will they become just another outlet for coca-cola or comedy central to sell their wares? and if so, does this necessarily forclose the possibility that they can contribute to progressive political action?

i suppose in both cases, only time will tell. but if performance truly is a space in which social relations become more clear and possibilities of change are envisioned, then we might be on to something here.

bebiendo

i've recently realized i have a bar to call my own. and it happened on accident i suppose.

back in the days when the bar formerly known as El Camino was known as its former and current name (which shall not be named...) i stopped by with the boys on thursday nights to claim my status as "lady" and thus, free appetizers. on friday's i'd go with B for our free 9-10pm well drinks, competing to see who could drink more (until she went to rehab). in the beginning, i hated the place, and would have much rather gone to Guillo's. but alas, by the time the place shed its pseudo-mexican interior, i was joining softball teams, friends with the barbacks, and showing up solo.

and somewhere along the way, i've realized that this is how you know a bar is "yours": you have no hesitation to go it alone.

and now i find myself happily, unexpectedly, wandering into the bird on friday afternoons. and people shout my name as i walk in (i mean, really, who hasn't always wanted to be "Norm!"). Greg asks if i want a yuengling--amusing because it was just a fluke that i ordered it the first time, but i'll go with it. i help people with crossword puzzles, and get updates on the pool to see if Ralph really will get married (he did). but that's the afternoon. its easy to shout names and remember beers when the lighting is good and there are 3 people in attendance.

but saturday night, i wandered in around 10:30, and heard the same "Nell!" as i sauntered in with a birthday crowd. now something magical happens to the bird around 8pm most days. the disgruntled government workers have their fill of schlitz and wander home, while skinny jean donning 24 year olds with unkempt hair filter in. the bartender starts carding. and they stop keeping tabs. and with this transformation, i never expect special treatment. but alas. John (who i had not seen or talked to since the spring) called my name from behind the bar, took my order, and told me my drink was on the house. and i breathed a sigh of relief.

in a way, i had come home. not just to the bar, but to the neighborhood. to the community. to the city. and maybe its silly to say that community exists in a neighborhood bar. or maybe it just makes me an alcoholic. but i would argue that its a public sphere in a habermasian way. i've had conversations (or arguments) ranging from immigration law, to charter schools, to heroin addiction. i've critiqued the capitalist economy, and then gone to the atm to pay my tab. and i've cursed myself many a time for ending up at the raven, because i always drink one too many drinks and can't sleep, but the reason i go back and stay too long is not the schlitz. its the people. good conversation and feeling like i belong. and isn't that what everybody's really looking for? and you can't entirely control where you find it, i suppose.

Appadurai en bigotes

thanks to professor ponger

‎"Even an unkempt beard must be maintained"

A. Appadurai

la isla playa larga

leaving scammellot (too) is always a bit painful. but truthfully, this time i went in not knowing what to expect. all of my previous scammellots have been parties. 10 kids filling the house. el capitán flowing liberally. people i've known for what feels like forever. half-nude, manual strobe-light dance parties, firecrackers aimed squarely as human flesh, bonfires ignited with rustoleum, bloody marys in the morning, beer in the afternoon, and tequila in the evening. and someone always wakes up where they're not supposed to.

but this was not that. just my best friend, JC, and i (not even el capitán made it this time). tits was busy, fiend visiting the lady, JC recently single, and the r___ living the [practically] married life. and so it was calm. sure we began the day with beer. we ran to the beach, jumped in the water, removed garments, and let the waves lap us around. we dug our feet into the sand and talked about blush-worthy topics. i extolled the virtues of the ring, and discussed the intricacies of NAMBLA. and it was just as magical as any other scammellot.

and so, as i dropped them in the municipal parking lot on route 9 and turned back south, i had a tear in my eye. not because i'd miss them, or because i'll have to wait at least 6 months before i can dig my feet in the sand again, but because i always fear i'll never find people like them again.

every year the distance between LBI and dc seems further. every year i plan more and take fewer trips to the city. every year it gets harder. and coming back always makes dc feel foreign and uninviting.

but then this evening i ran into my favorite st.louis/chicago/dc resident, and planned for catching up. i gossiped with raf at the conference. i had brief conversations with the jag about fieldwork. and though its no replacement, the people here are truly great. they'll just never live up to dancing in a thunderstorm to blind mellon.

bigotes: fieldnotes

just a snippet from the other night.

a crowd of archaeologists (professors and graduate students) gather at a bar. they order a few pitchers of beer and chat in the patio area which overlooks a busy dc street. those at the far end of the table barely notice when JR wanders in from the street and takes the open chair next to his advisor. from down here, nothing looks amiss. and then dan (the advisor says):

"What happened?[and with barely a pause for breath] I don't like it"

JR replies:

"It was a mistake and a tragedy"

Alas, JR's clippers were broken and he unknowingly shaved a stripe into his beard while trying to trim it. So the whole thing had to go.

Now, as you may guess, he's a rather light haired italian man, so from the far end of the table in the dim evening hour, the beard's absence was barely visible. But Dan, given his proximity, continued to discuss the problems with beardless archaeologists (and i'm not touching that gendered dynamic).

I questioned JR and he said in the last few years he had only shaved for work, never had a goatee, and would certainly grow the beard back as soon as possible. he just didn't feel like himself without it.

los diarios motocicleta

i watched the motorcycle diaries tonight for what i believe was the third time. its a gorgeous movie, haunting at times, and appeals to my leanings (however one would describe them). but its also the "intertextuality" of the film that makes me love it so much. for some reason its touched my life in strange ways.

to begin with, z-gil (the first of my anthro-gils) took me to see it in hopes of persuading me that latin america, not china, was a more fitting fieldwork location. the ploy worked. possibly too well. and here i am writing in a blog i started upon going off to perú.

secondly, most people know i have a soft spot for one gael garcía bernal. and seeing him always reminds me of that patrón party for cuarón where i hoped he'd be. alas, i had to settle for heather graham. and it was possibly the only time i "used" my NYRB credentials. but that was also the first time i met val. which is suppose is somehow significant. (note that despite a strong desire, i am not referring to her by the borat-inspired nickname)

its strange i suppose. the movie makes me remember places more than anything. lima and la paz (though i only noticed on this viewing that they never make it to bolivia-which is a shame, because 1952--the year they traveled--was also the year that land reform took place in bolivia). carbondale. jersey city. places that evoke strong nostalgia coupled with memories of unhappiness, at times. as the admiral wolye-holt would put it, the "kind of beaut[iful feeling] that hurts"

abd

so i defended my dissertation proposal yesterday. dissertation PROPOSAL. don't get any ideas. so, yes. i'm ABD. all but dissertation. but really it should be written aBd. all BUT dissertation. that's an important "but."

and it wasn't as exciting, relieving, exhilarating, climactic as i thought. in fact after i finished i just sort of felt disappointed. i'm not sure in what. myself? the experience? the conclusions the four of us drew about my research question? i'm not sure. but i cried. right there in the hallway. in front of d'vine. and not in a single tear running down my cheek sort of way but in a my throat is closing up and i can't speak and my face gets contorted and i want to close my eyes tightly and open my mouth widely and let the stress all pour out through my eyes sort of way. and then when i finally removed myself from the situation, i went to the history bathroom and had a good loud wailing cry for about 15 minutes until some other unsuspecting woman came in. i figured i'd better quiet down, shut myself up, and get on with things (which involved free sorbet and seeing h-gill's new giant television).

but this is not a good sign. if this is how i react to the PROPOSAL defense, what's going to happen when i defend the real thing. in front of friends and colleagues. in public. where anyone with a ph.d. can ask a question. damn.

but really the point of all this is (unfortunately) that i ended up watching the season finale of the real world tonight (they were in new orleans for anyone like me who might be clueless). and they all leave the house one by one and talk about how much they've grown and grown together and come to love one another and how they can't imagine what it would have been like without each and every one.

and i suddenly realized: someday i have to leave grad school.

it was heartwrenching when rumagin, tune, and rodo al left at the same time. and its still empty without them. but at some point, i will have to walk away and leave everyone behind. sure, some of my cohort will already have made their way into the world. rodo's already there. the partridge has left prematurely, and otto's about to run off to Mugabe-land. but at some point jules, jag, futurama, k-pearl, jtorres, and all those others i've grown close to will have to turn our backs and go off into the world we've been avoiding for so long.

and maybe the gradualness of the process makes it easier. maybe the ending of coursework, and then fieldwork, and then shutting yourself up in a windowless room (not so different from a cube) to actually write the damn thing provides an adequate transition period.

but these people are special to me. different from the rez. different from 409. and certainly different from my high school friends. but we have seen each other at our worst, and supported each other at our best. because we know we are not alone. and not just in a "damn if i don't question you maybe dolores will think we actually understand this stuff and not put me on the spot" sort of way, but in a true sense. because we know that in the end what makes you better and stronger makes me wiser too. and our interests are disparate, and our theories conflict. but i trust and love these people so much.

and they've taught me so much too. i was commenting to h-gill over sorbet yesterday, that there are all these things i have strong opinions about that i really don't know the details of. but when you have a friend writing a dissertation on a topic, and they tell you michelle rhee is the devil you trust them. and you may pick up on the reasons along the way, but because they're less urgent than the protests in potosi, you don't remember the details. so you just blindly agree that south african casinos obscure the inequalities of post apartheid and hunting practices in queros can only really be understood in light of eco-tourism. and i stand by that.

and maybe i'm just getting a little sappy, but i hope i know these people forever. i hope i run into them at aaas for decades to come and someday we're all department chairs and have some sort of reunion in a random marriot room and drink margaritas and reminisce about cactus cantina. because i think that hope is the only thing that will make walking away from this place and these people possible.

libros y canciónes

this is a pitiful way to post for the first time in 2 weeks, but all i can do is apologize.

after 2 weeks of fretful insomnia, i may have kicked the habit. thus, i woke up at 5:30 am today (a mere hour after my usual 4:30 am fall-asleep time as of late) after a lovely night's sleep. and i randomly stumbled across a list of stereotypes by favorite indie band. I found this especially interesting because my favorites change so often, and are even more likely undefinable (and not in an "oh, i'm so knowledgeable i can't be pinned down sort of way. or an i'm so knowledgeable you've never heard of my favorite band sort of way. no, just in a hm...who do i feel into today sort of way). and the wonderful thing about that positioning is you get to decide which stereotype you like best and go with it. So I went with bat for lashes. mostly because ee and i were talking about them the other night, and they were at the forefront of my memory.

So apparently, i wear leggings to places other than 80s parties. Which is true. But I wear them under dresses in the winter. I'm not sure that counts.


But the real point here (if this is even an excuse for a "real" point) is on this list there was a link to stereotypes by favorite author. Now, if you have had any discussion about fiction, books, love, death, life, inanimate objects, cigarettes, choice, or any other number of pseudo-philosophical topics, you know who my favorite (fiction) author is. but of course, as expected, he is not on the list. however, what i didn't consider is that the close 2nd (though still undoubtedly second) would be on the list. and since #2 was the mentor of #1. and #2 shares things like cities and academic disciplines with me, it seems only right that I consider him as my stereotype.

So, I don't think I've ever actually "played Creep by Radiohead while having sex or smoking pot." But if someone insisted I had, I wouldn't argue. Though i was (surprisingly) never much of a radiohead fan, most of my friends were. so, even if i never actively played the song, i can easily imagine that it may have been in the mix at some point in serge's room or 409 or the like. but the reason i'm really writing about this (another "real" point?) is the brief stereotype also includes a link to a fuller explanation, in which this fine blogger suggests i must be crazy (so true), ever changing (who isn't?), "random and varried" (sure...), and a rebel (i wish!).

so, there you have it. leggings and rebellion. i can live with that.

a casa (de nuevo)

a year & 1/2 ago, i wrote about coming back to dc from chicago. about resetting my computer's clock.

i've just done it again. school is about to start, and i'm painfully missing all that i left behind. but the strange thing is, i felt that way upon arriving in chicago 3 months ago.

the week before i left was magical in a way. it was one of those times when the senses are heightened and everything is urgent. And this was due in no small part to the immanent departure of several good friends. Having earned post graduate degrees, all were bound for greater adventures...in the UK, South America, and the Texas (yes, the Texas). And we celebrated in style. Late night margarita-fueled romps through our favorite garden. Galavants through the woods in the pouring rain. BBQs turned dance lessons. Jack Daniels-inspired antics, and a long night that began with Japanese bar karaoke and ended at 4 am the the Chesapeake basement.

The city felt alive and I wanted to kiss everyone. I wanted to pour myself into their lives the way Carolina kept pouring wine into my glass. But time was running out, and we had spent too many of our opportunities simply staring at maps in the cubicles. These moments were all we had left.

carolina pours me more wine

And then after staying up until 4am and stealing the Chesapeake basement bed from ben, i awoke on a wednesday morning at 8am. I with my wrinkled, sweat-soaked clothes from the night before and unbrushed teeth, shared a metro car with the world of good government workers, off to a boring wednesday in the office. And I wanted to shout at them "Don't you realize? I'll never see them again!" But alas, they went about listening to their ipods, reading free papers, and generally trying not to make eye contact with anyone. And then I loaded up the car and left.

I arrived in Heytown, and then Chicago a bit melancholy. For a few weeks I regretted my decision. But slowly the pain faded. I didn't think about those I left behind every day. I didn't wish to be at deluxe or cantina with the jag and futurama. I fit myself back into chicago. I ran into old friends on the street. I saw my sister as much as I liked. I went for bike rides, and brewed beer, made ice cream, and escaped the city for more rural settings. and it felt like home.

and then responsibility (or however one might refer to grad school) ripped me away and back here. and again, i'm going through withdrawal. i want to buy cheap avocados at tiangis. i miss my walks down Milwaukee ave. i'd rather be back watching world cup with 100 mexicans in a cuban cafe. salvadorans just won't cut it. i want my yoga room and basil plant back. i want postone. i want to sleep beside someone.

i suppose its a never ending (and i mean that figuratively...it better end) cycle of becoming comfortable and then ripping yourself away. Perhaps I'm lucky to have two homes, but that also means that one is never completely home. there's always something missing. perhaps this is the postmodern condition in which space and time are both compressed and stretched. perhaps this is the direction we're all moving. but one thing i know is tomorrow afternoon i will see the great majority of the people i love who live in this city. and i can't freaking wait to go have a drink with them.

a volver

I've been back in the district for a week and am rather sad I'm no longer writing posts from the big brown couch. But perhaps what is saddest is that the big brown couch is moving. Not far, but I'll never sit on it and stare out above all the 2nd story windows again.

I've been a bit down since I've been back. I attribute this mostly to my hermit-like behavior. But a grad student's end-of-summer bank account, lack of strict schedule, and looming book chapter deadline have joined forces (a la captain planet's planeteers) to keep me shut up in my room or buried away in the cubes.

But speaking of the planeteers, In a little more than one week's time I'll be on my way back to 1/4 of the corners to see my bilagaana, the admiral kelsey wolye (wolye), get hitched. And speaking of getting hitched...keep your eyes peeled for some interesting blog posts in the near future. But until then, a pretty little picture to remind me that the florescent lights of the cubes are not the only light in the world.

gregory bald nc/tn

empleadas

after much time, i have finally cleared out my reader backlog, and found some gems. my favorite is this art project out of Colombia, Argentina, and Chile. Called Lugar Común, the aim is to (according to Sociological Images's write-up) "disrupt our acceptance of established social hierarchies."

Though the women wear identical shirts and the viewer is not told which woman is which, I found myself guessing. And perhaps I am too confident, but I'm fairly certain I can tell which is which in the vast majority. And though the blonde fluffy hair or skin color differential in many cases is part of my assumption, I think more importantly, signs of physical aging are quite telling, belying the bodily impacts of relative impoverishment. and perhaps that is exactly what is (supposed to be) highlighted by this project. we see visual evidence of the way experience is accumulated on and in the body (see Harvey 1996).

elecciónes

today (thanks to the cooke) i came across a blog about the problems with endless choice. it reminded me (at least thematically) of something i wrote back in '07 on the myspace. yes, back when i actually wrote things with frequency. back when i had "time." back when i was more jaded about my future and less jaded about the state of affairs on earth.

so first, the link to fake plastic fish's blog on choice. and for those of you annoyed or bemused by my recent attempt at plastic free-ness mr. fake fish is to blame...but i digress.

on to the meat (or tofu, if you will)

my '07 ramblings:

10 April 2007

its been a short while, and i have little to say, but much time to waste. however, one topic keeps coming up in my life: choice. now, in some ways this is obvious, being that i work for a pro-choice organization. in others, its less obvious.

last weekend, i attended the civil liberties and public policy conference at hampshire college. there were good parts (like playing 'i never' with coworkers in hotel rooms) and bad parts (transportation), but the most enlightening moment for me was when the synapses fired, long overdue, and i finally saw the intimate connection between reproductive justice and homebirth. so there you have it. we should be rallying just as much around choice in birth as choice in reproductive health.

then, this weekend, at easter dinner, i was sitting next to a 50 year old woman i had only briefly met once before. but as good diasporic midwesterners do, we talked about the homeland (hers being MN, mine being IL). she mentioned that her daughters (who grew up out east) don't understand what its like to not have choice. and to wait for things. in NY you can get whatever you want within the time it takes you to get from wall street to 42nd on the subway. probably shorter. for me, growing up, it required at 30 min car ride to bloomington. then the choices were cub foods or jewel. bergner's or jcpenney. chili's or tgi fridays. for late nights, denny's or steak n' shake. etc. etc. and being an indecisive person, this was in many ways a good thing.

last night, rhino mentioned something on a strangely similar note. we are a generation of choice. we have every product at our fingertips and this may affect us even more than the information that is so readily avaliable. perhaps the variety in choice makes us less cohesive as a generation, or perhaps it binds us together because we all crave option. whatever the case, i truly believe its a defining feature.

finally, i am left with a choice that's seeming all too important. and it has to be made by friday. really tomorrow. and i pretty much know what i want, but i'm scared to sign my name and send it off. perhaps its just poor former experiences that make me hesitate, but its time for me to start being decisive and go with it.

besides, wherever i choose, the ball will be rolling in the right direction.

this all reminds me of ol' tommy robbins, and still life with woodpecker. though its among my least favorites of his books (which as a set rank just above hoosier vonnegut jr.'s cannon), it centers around this word choice and its use on Camel cigarette descriptions. so, i'll leave you with a quote:

The word that allows yes, the word that makes no possible.

The word that puts the free in freedom and takes the obligation out of love.

The word that throws a window open after the final door is closed.

The word upon which all adventure, all exhilaration, all meaning, all honor depends.

The word that fires evolution's motor of mud.

The word that the cocoon whispers to the caterpillar.

The word that molecules recite before bonding.

The word that separates that which is dead from that which is living.

The word no mirror can turn around.

In the beginning was the word and that word was

ok, so first things first (another digression) that impending choice i had to make back on 15 april 2007 turned out just fine. even though the gill did make me question it momentarily a year later.

but the real point is that i think mr. fake fish is quite astute

...Having fewer choices of products to buy means that I can get on with what’s more important in my life. But then Scwartz goes on to say something I disagree with fundamentally, and it’s this: When there’s only one choice, you can tell yourself that the world is responsible for your decision because it didn’t give you any choice. When there are hundreds of choices, you feel that you are responsible because you could have made a better choice.

I disagree with that premise because I reject the notion that I have to choose from the menu I’m given in the first place. My choices are not chunky vs. smooth. My choice is neither. Or making my own. Or writing to the company and asking for what I want. Or starting a consumer action campaign. Or taking a walk. I think that feeling restricted to the menu companies offer us and the frustration of bumping up against the infrastructure when we try to live our values is what is depressing to many of us. That’s not freedom. It’s powerlessness.

i'm a bit inspired by all this. i think he really gets to the bottom of the freedom of choice. real choice is not A or B. real choice is having the courage to go outside the box. outside the alphabet and create the world you want. forgive my marxist metaphor (but i've been reading papa karl, lukács, and postone in the last week) but choice is not about what commodity you may achieve by selling your labor. choice is seeing the immediacy as the reification it represents. it is understanding the abstractions as such, conceptualizing "forces" as structured by human behavior, not "objective natural laws." its finding a way around the system.

and so, with that, i wish you all a happy, revolutionary, 4 july "with freedome and self-determination for all", because as an email invitation i just received states

"nobody is free until all are free"

martes de musica mala

yesterday unexpectedly turned into "bad music tuesday" in the cubicles. i thought i'd share some of the selections.

it began, really on the ride to school when e.e. played for me his least favorite song by his most favorite tennessee musical artist

well, upon arriving in the cubes, we decided that teddy-sam should hear it too. and then i made my contribution

teddy-sam followed up with his favorite



the day was then rounded out with this.

sopa roja

yesterday i made roasted red pepper soup.


it was delicious.


this means i have made it until spring break (1/2 way there) actually making soup from scratch every tuesday. resolution 1: almost complete. not sure i can say the same for that whole not being stubborn thing.

bigotes, p.s.

this is my favorite beard from the throwdown.

(i'm sure you can guess why...)

bigotes, pt 1

as promised:

toward an anthropology of beards

whiskerino fieldnotes

Though the event officially began at 2pm, we pulled into the bowling alley parking lot around 2:30 and it was full. I immediately noticed a few license plates from Illinois, where I grew up, which drew my attention to where other cars may have come from. Most were from Tennessee, but I also noticed Georgia, Alabama, Colorado, and Missouri. We parked and walked into the AMC bowling alley, which was crowded with people, most of whom were men with beards. Tune, who had informed of the event and invited me along, went looking for one of his old college roommates who had flown in from Colorado for the event. This was actually quite beneficial for me, because it involved walking along the length of the 18-lane bowling alley, looking around. The vast majority of people were men, but there were a sizable number of women. I was caught off guard when two blond 5 year-old looking boys ran past me. We eventually found Tune’s friend Ben, and they stood around talking. This gave me the opportunity to survey the bowling alley a little more. Ben mentioned there were about 200 “beards” (men who had participated in the beard growing event) registered for the final “Throwdown.” This did not include wives, girlfriends, children, and friends of participants (like Tune and I), and overall, the bowling alley probably had about 300 people in it.

The bowling alley itself was near a highway that cuts through Nashville. It looked similar to most bowling alleys I’ve been to in both major cities like Chicago, and small towns. It had 18 lanes, a snack counter/bar, rental window, and few windows. Top 40 radio blared over the soundsystem. The carpet was swirls of bright red, blue, and purple punctuated by yellow stars. A line of video arcade games, pinball machines, and giant claw games lined the back wall. Separating the main walking area from the actual bowling lanes were racks of bowling balls, long tables with high stools, and a few steps down to the chairs and lanes.



At first my attention was drawn to the demographics of the attendees. Of the men over the age of 20 there, I noticed only one that did not have a full beard. He was clean shaven. Most men appeared to be in their 20s and 30s, with a few exceptions of about 3 men seeming to be in their late 40s or early 50s, sporting full bushy gray beards. Most of the attendees were also white. One black man, and one Asian man were present, and possibly many of the men appearing white to me may have identified with specific national or ethnic origins, but a cursory perusal of the race/ethnic make up of those present left one feeling the overwhelming majority were white. Most of the men, especially the younger ones, were wearing jeans, with t-shirts, plaid button down shirts, or hooded sweatshirts (and bowling shoes, of course). Notable exceptions were a few men in argyle sweaters, a few in business-like button down shirts, and one man in a three piece suit, and one wearing a t-shirt and kilt. From my observations, it looked like about 1/3 of the men were wearing glasses, usually of the thick plastic, or horn-rimmed type. One of the most widely varied appearances of the men was their hair. A good number of them had well-coiffed dos, that had been combed and styled. Some had shaggy but still somewhat short and uncombed hair. Others had very short haircuts (shorter than their beards). A few had shaved their heads bald. Some had longer hair tied back in a ponytail. A few also had hair that was long (at least shoulder length) and was rather messy, looking as if it wasn’t shampooed or brushed regularly.

Many men also wore small pins with pictures of beards on them. Most of them displayed the same picture that is something of an icon or logo for Whiskerino. It was explained to me that these were not meaningful designations within Whiskerino (I asked if they were awards), but were made by participants, and sold through the website. The website itself did not make money off of their sale, or directly participate in sales, but was merely the forum in which they are advertised, for the creators to sell.

The women, most of whom were of similar ages, and also white, wore jeans and sweaters, or t-shirts. Several of them wore glasses as well. Most had fairly long hair and were thin. One woman, wearing a dress, had a tattoo of the outline of the state of Mississippi on her upper arm.

Other than people and bowling balls, the most prevalent things in the bowling alley were cameras. Because this beard-growing community is centered around documenting the growth with photography (and often quite artistic photography), it was not surprising that so many cameras were present, but was readily visible. Camera types ranged widely, however. I noticed a number of film cameras, which now appear old fashioned. Many people had very nice, professional quality digital cameras with zoom lenses. Many others had small boxy digital cameras, but all were out, and in action. This actually comforted me greatly because I had hoped to take pictures, but wasn’t sure I could do so inconspicuously. However, I think I would have been more conspicuous had I not, given the circumstances.

At first, as Tune talked to Ben, I just listened. At the start of the conversation, Tune mentioned he and his beard felt so comfortable and at home with so many other beards around. Ben responded that it was nice to be in such a supportive community. He then involved me in the conversation, and explained how the group was really about fostering community, not competition. He mentioned one beard-grower who took Whiskerino seriously as a competition, and how he was generally disliked among the rest of the beards. Ben told me this man was “too concerned” with winning King Beard and would post disparaging comments on the pictures of people who beat him for King Beard. Ben said, “he needs to relax, he’s wound a little to tight.” He continued, saying you could ask people from all over who have never met him, who only know him from online, and also those who have known him for years and they’ll tell you they don’t trust him, and they don’t like him. This is because he’s not a positive influence on the community.

Ben introduced us to a few Scottish men who had flown in just for the Throwdown. He said they had posted a message on the website looking for someone to drive them to a local whiskey distillery. Ben had offered and when he learned they planned to take a taxi from the airport to their hotel, offered to just pick them up at the airport instead. It seemed they had quickly formed a friendship, and laughed about how ridiculous it was that they were looking for each other at the airport based solely on the fact that they all had beards.

Ben also mentioned during this initial conversation that he was thinking about growing a “yeard,” explained to me as a beard that is untrimmed for a year. He said he saw no reason not to. His work (as a photographer) doesn’t require him to be clean-shaven. Though its always something I try to pay attention to, this statement spoke directly to issues of socio-economic class. Though, undoubtedly there was a wide range of income and wealth among those present, this was also an event to which many people had to travel great distances, either by car or airplane, necessitating disposable income. As Ben’s comment brought up, often working in certain professions would constrain one’s ability to grow an untrimmed beard. Further, participation in the community necessitates both a camera and internet access. Though these are not necessarily huge constraints for middle-class men in the United States, it does eclipse participation of certain sectors of society, and may be unique to North Atlantic countries, where aside from particular cultural meanings associated with facial hair, most people have access to cameras and internet on a regular basis.

As someone often paying attention to gender dynamics, I inquired as to whether any women with or without visible facial hair had ever participated. Tune told me that no women had ever been involved to the extent that they had posted daily pictures of their faces, but many were registered to vote for King Beard and comment on pictures.

As the conversation with Ben wound down, Tune decided to go get a beer from the concession stand. I walked to the other end of the bowling alley with him, passing along the way, the “founder” of Whiskerino, Mackle, who seemed to be in some sort of serious conversation about logistics with another beard. Mackle seemed to be in his late thirties, and was dressed in horn rimmed glasses, a casual button down shirt, and jeans, with a thick reddish brown beard and short hair.

When we got to the bar, three women working the snack and beer counter were laughing hysterically. They had just run out of another keg of beer, and were having to switch over their taps. Tune told them he’d wait a few moments for them to finish, and pondered to me about how many kegs they had gone through so far. I thought I’d ask the women, but at that moment Tune recognized another friend, Davis and they began to talk.

Davis said he had earlier ordered “a beer” and they gave him a pitcher, so he poured us each a small clear plastic cup of Miller Light as he and Tune caught up on mutual friends. From the conversation I learned that they had originally met while both working at a radio station in college. It was through davis that Tune first learned of Whiskerino. Davis now lives in Brooklyn with his wife, who had not come, and is a web designer. Davis told Tune that six beards from New York had taken the same flight to Nashville and met up early at the airport. An older woman asked them as they boarded the plane if they were a band. This was met with a lot of laughter. But Davis admitted that it wasn’t a bad assumption. I think this speaks a lot to the cultural significance of beards. Though they are not uncommon, as I mentioned before, certain socio-economic, employment, and aesthetic circumstances must be present for a man to have an unkempt beard. And possible reasons several men with such beards might be traveling together are limited. There are particular cultural ideas of “creative” types as often have beards, and they are perceived as not taking extensive time grooming themselves. Musicians, often seen as lacking in discipline and having more “freedom” may be more closely associated with beards than other professions for young men, and would logically be traveling together. Of course, this is all conjecture on my part, but even as someone who is interested in facial hair on a somewhat academic level, I might make a similar assumption in that situation.

While speaking with Davis it was announced over the loudspeaker that a “Beer Drinking Competition” would begin shortly. All beards were encouraged to sign up at the bar. “If you like drinking beer, and can drink it quickly, and want to win more free beer for doing so, come sign up,” the voice said. After a short while, the competition began, and much cheering and photography was involved. I handed my camera to Tune who is much taller than I and hoped he would be able to get a good shot. I just watched the crowd react to the drinkers (who were far too surrounded by spectators to be visible anymore). There were a few rounds in the pyramid-style competition, and the final round ended in a seeming tie. The tie was resolved by even larger glasses being poured for the two finalists, and in that round one was decidedly faster. I couldn’t see who it was, and it was not announced, nor was the prize. But it seemed that the prize was not important, winning was simply about pride.

Later, I followed Tune back across the bowling alley to find Ben again. As we walked back I noticed a woman lining up several bowlers to take a picture of them all bowling at the same time. Further down a group of 5 guys danced overly-enthusiastically to Beyonce’s Single Ladies song. Near where Tune found Ben, there were several beards playing the Deer Hunter video game, which involved shooting small orange guns at the screen.

As Tune and Ben continued to talk I spoke with John, one of the Scottish men who Ben had been chauffeuring. He was wearing a bright orange Boise State t-shirt, which he explained to me someone had given him (though I didn’t catch some details of the story because of the combination of thick accent, loud music, and general talking in the bowling alley). Over this, he had a Scottish flag tied around his neck in the style of a cape. Ben told me that john had started the beard growing a day late, and so was not officially registered. Because the group requires posting a picture of the beard growing progress daily, he kept a tumblr account separately for his pictures. Eventually, Mackle incorporated him into the site, and he transferred his photos over.

It was planned that a group photo would be taken, but as it neared 5:00pm, it was announced they would meet later at a music club to take the picture (and see bands perform). I wasn’t able to attend this portion of the event, so I was disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see the picture orchestrated.

We said goodbye to Ben, who insisted on hugging me (though I didn’t protest), and walked outside. Everyone was still gathered outdoors in the unseasonably warm weather. Lots of people were taking pictures of each other, and one person had set up a professional looking camera on a tripod against the plain brown exterior wall of the bowling alley and was taking posed pictures of beards, both as individuals and in small groups.

tamil bigotes

toward an anthropology of (mustaches &) beards

In Tamilnadu, mustaches are virtual seals of masculinity. As far as I know, all Tamil men, except those in the acting profession, wear mustaches. This is not simply my perception. Mustaches stand in metonymically for men, just as earrings and a bindi worn on the forehead do for women.

-from Susan Seizer. 2003. Stigmas of the Tamil Stage. p 165

para todos mis homies, pasado, presente, y más allá

I’ve generally been lucky when it comes to death. I’ve had very few of those close to me die.

Both of my grandmothers went before I was born. One grandfather passed when I was 5 and still too young to really understand (or have developed much of a relationship with him). My other grandfather, Grandpa Joe, passed on when I was a senior in high school. I missed running the 4x800 in the state track meet for his funeral, and still occasionally am disappointed that the alternate will forever be the one whose name still appears on the list of school records. But it was important for me to be around for all those jokes about him building sidewalks in the sky.

During my first year in JC, a close friend from high school passed away. I guilt tripped myself for a few years that I hadn’t called him, as intended, earlier that month. Perhaps its just a convenient excuse that shuts people up, but I’ll never smoke a cigarette because of him. He was also the first death I cried over. It took me about 7 months for it to hit me, but one night, out of nowhere, I was packing up to leave my apartment for a new place. I came across the obituary my mother had sent me from the Heyworth Star. I immediately melted into a heap of hyperventilating sobs. He was the Abe Lincoln to my Sarah Josepha Hale in the 2nd grade play. In fifth grade, he made me seriously question color perception, in ways that I still find phenomenologically complex. He dreamed of going to Notre Dame to play football, but never tried out for the high school team. He never graduated, but was by far the smartest in our class. Our friendship came and went, but it was just two months before his untimely death that I felt like we got to know each other again. I smoked my one and only cigarette with him in the cold freeze of a snowy Midwestern December night, and then he made me promise him I’d never do it again.

Just under a year later I experienced my second emotionally trying loss. This time it was Dwight. We had all known it was coming, but it didn’t hurt any less. He was never officially my advisor, and I mean no disrespect to Helen, who was indeed wonderful herself, but he was the inspiration behind my senior thesis. Even now, in times of academic need, I think to myself, “What would Dwight do?” Be savvy. Be kind. Be creative. I want to be his legacy. I will forever list him in my acknowledgements. Just the mention of his name, or citation in something on gangs, Hmong, or death penalties, makes my throat close. But for him too, it took me months to cry. In fact, upon entering the chapel for his memorial celebration, I worried I wouldn’t be able to cry. But my god, when Soyini Madison started to speak, and I looked into A. Burr’s eyes, the tears streamed and would not stop.

And now, I find myself mourning the loss of someone I hardly knew, but loved in a way that is hard to describe. The daughter of one of my closest friends in this city gave her final “peace out” on Friday night. She had Retts, and as such we never had a conversation, at least in the traditional sense. But there was something about her presence that put everyone at ease. I imagine the sound of Jack Johnson’s voice will forever haunt me with the memory of her giggles. I haven’t cried yet. I don’t expect to for some time. But I know in the next 6-18 months it will catch me off guard. And I will melt into a pool or useless melancholy remembering her suffering. The jokes about her botox. Her birthday parties, and Make-a-Wish trip. The way she looked at me like I was crazy sometimes. And the awful pain she was in before leaving us for something better. Like Dwight, and perhaps more so, she was someone who was just wholly incapable of doing wrong. She was preserved as a perfect soul. And how do you account for all the pain she endured? She deserved none of it.

But maybe the real sorrow I feel is for her mother, who has single-handedly cared for her (ok, well with nurses’ help) for all her 13 years. Who hasn’t left DC for 2 years because its too hard to travel with her. Who makes it home by 11 every night to sleep next to her. Who has sacrificed early adulthood for her and now must learn to live without her.

If only more time had passed, I’d order her up deathbear, which I know normally she would find endlessly amusing. But the timing is off. Damn!

snowmageddon

yeah, its been kinda crazy around here, what with 40" of snow and all...

and so i give you....."masculinity & snow"

i've personally vascillated between venturing out and making snow angels and staying snuggly inside (going only so far as my porch while wrapped in a blanket. i have to say, i've had a lot of fun doing snowy activities this winter. ice skating, sledding, and now just sliding down snowy inclined sidewalks and making snow angels in more than a meter's worth of snow. though i did miss the city-wide snowball fights. and maybe it was just the raven's last drips of jack running through my system, but there was something so magical about falling backwards with absolutely no worry about how it would feel when i hit. and indeed the snow didn't disappoint. 36 inches is apparently enough to cushion a fall perfectly. then you make the snow angel. and then you ruin it spending 5 full minutes trying to get up. giant flake that cover you in white from head to toe and make best friends anonymous. watching from my window seeing drunks head dive into drifts as the walk home down the middle of the street. really, just the ability of cars, bikes (yes, bikes), and pedestrians to share the roads equally. oh, and no school for a week. it really is all quite perfect.

and some of the best news of all this is, i've actually been working on my comprehensive exam (with homemade apple cider)!

though, if this keeps evening flights from arriving at DCA, i'll be quite heartbroken...

estados iguales

i am quite intrigued by this map. it makes some interesting points, and i'm curious to know how the blue/red would break down on it (not that i endorse such a binary system....)

but what i find most interesting is the fact that DC is "preserved as is." if the point of the map is to envision a more equal form of representation, it seems silly to "preserve" one (but certainly not the only) of the worst examples of blatant disenfranchisement in the nation.

gotta keep on fighting taxation without representation!

rey mysterio en bolivia

via alberto...

apparently, rey mysterio masks have shown up in bolivia (the picture is looking like a sagarnaga-area street in la paz, to me, but my expertise is not without flaw).

mis amores

i'm having one of those days where i feel like everyone i love is a million miles away. which i suppose is true. one of those days where i really wish i had someone i felt close to in dc. i guess i'm always swinging this way and that about friends here.

the one positive thing about all this is it seems like it won't be so hard to leave eventually.

ok, that's really all i have to say. just a pointless, slightly-depressed 1am rant. this blog is really going downhill

volviendo

i'm back in the district after a month & 1/2 of simultaneously roaming and re-settling in the windy city. the house is warm, and my hands are sweaty and to me it smells like summer in my room. i'm always a little wired when i finish that drive. i blame it on the dr. pepper, but really it probably has more to do with 12 hours of minimal movement and maximal thinking. the body is about to collapse, but the brain won't shut down.

in any case, au classes start tomorrow. though i'm not actually taking any real courses there, so i don't start my umd class until next week. but i do start TAing anthro of american life tomorrow afternoon; a course in which i will lecture about WWE wrestling and possibly midwestern state fair butter sculpture. i can't wait to see what these kids think of me. i suppose it will be a bit of a reality check after the undergrads nearly knighted me last semester. but given the circumstances, i really shouldn't have let it go to my head.

anyway, here goes the last real semester of classes (if this even counts as a "real semester of classes")......