In which Chris Hedges uses boxing as a metaphor for protest and social revolution

Here is just the part on boxing. For the full post, see Alexander Higgins's blog

There were times when I entered the ring as a boxer and knew, as did the spectators, that I was woefully mismatched. Ringers, experienced boxers in need of a tuneup or a little practice, would go to the clubs where semi-pros fought, lie about their long professional fight records, and toy with us. Those fights became about something other than winning. They became about dignity and self-respect. You fought to say something about who you were as a human being. These bouts were punishing, physically brutal and demoralizing. You would get knocked down and stagger back up. You would reel backwards from a blow that felt like a cement block. You would taste the saltiness of your blood on your lips. Your vision would blur. Your ribs, the back of your neck and your abdomen would ache. Your legs would feel like lead. But the longer you held on, the more the crowd in the club turned in your favor. No one, even you, thought you could win. But then, every once in a while, the ringer would get overconfident. He would get careless. He would become a victim of his own hubris. And you would find deep within yourself some new burst of energy, some untapped strength and, with the fury of the dispossessed, bring him down. I have not put on a pair of boxing gloves for 30 years. But I felt this twinge of euphoria again in my stomach this morning, this utter certainty that the impossible is possible, this realization that the mighty will fall.

en casa

This morning as I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed just to be stood up on a skype call, I thought to myself, “at least I’m in the land where hot showers are dependable.”

No such luck. I have discovered that the shower in my new home—in the belly of the beast, home of the Washington Concensus—likes very much to vascillate every 3 seconds or so, between what might be described as “cool” and “really freaking hot.”

Psht. I might as well be in La Paz then.

I would have 15 Bs lunches. Any pirata I could think of. A sunny afternoon on the roof. T’tkos mystery drinks. The excitement of dodging left turns. Api with Ramiro. Authentic salteñas. A visit to my favorite laundry man. My boy Sammy. Cebras. A cab ride to Zona Sur. Los Auténticos Decadentes. Lucha libre. Telephone calls instead of Skype.

But here I have some great things too. Phô. Fast internet. Cool nights in the garden. Maker’s Mark. The excitement of dodging undergrads. Wine with my roommates. Authentic tacos. Laundry that takes 2 hours instead of 36. My cohort. Leap. Rides home with the windows down. Wilson Phillips. Low altitude footie. Telephone calls instead of Skype.

2 bolos

Ok, do you know where the Obelisco is?

Despite the fact that I had walked past it at least twice a week for the last 4 months, I did not know where the Obelisco was.

No.

There were muffled discussions on the other end of the phone.

Ok, its across the Prado from the post office.

The post office I did know. So I walked downhill on Calle Colombia crossed the Prado and took a left. After a few blocks I found the fabled hotdog cart and squeezed past it through the doorway it partially occupied. I pressed on, down the concrete steps, past the scantily occupied plastic lunch tables, and there at the back I found the two hand-set bowling lanes and all six of them mid-game.

I was late and had to bowl five frames in a row. I realized quickly the lanes were warped, and as Justin put it, “these guys set pins like they’re on acid.” In the end, I was more than pleased with my score ( “chocho” as they would say in Bolivia—but not Spain or Brazil). I came in fourth of seven with 109 points, and was given a nod of approval.

A month later I found myself cruising down a Western North Carolina highway to the nearest bowling alley on the outskirts of Asheville. As my companion and I rounded a wide corner he told me the only time he’d ever scored a turkey was in Asheville when he was about 13. I responded that if I ever had such a fluke I’d be too stunned to finish the game.

And then, an hour later, on a lane in which my first gutterball of the evening hopped out of the gutter and knocked two pins down, I stood ready to throw the first ball of my tenth frame. The eighth and ninth had both been strikes. I sent the ball down the lane in a way consistent with my previous rolls. And nine pins toppled over. I shrugged my shoulders, turned my back and laughed slightly. Who was I to think I could ever master The Turkey? And then, my partner stood up with a funny look to his face. What? Look. Yes, miraculously, a pin started teetering well after the ball had left the end of the lane and eventually fell. Fortunately, just a few more rolls and I finished off the game. Yes, still in shock, but apparently no so shocked I couldn’t finish.

After several more pins falling at random times far from impact from the ball, and no less than 3 times the 10-pin formation coming down with only 9, I declared that these pin setters, as mechanical as they were, also must be on acid. Apparently that’s the only way I can even hope for mediocrity.

en heyworth

Most of my friends from this place scoff at the local establishments. And for the most part I don’t blame them. The “Family Restaurant” (refered to as “res-turnt” by most of my family) presumes that a Greek Salad should include bacon. The grocery store carries no veggie burgers and only Boone’s Farm Wine Products in the alcohol section. And Bell’s Lawn and Video, the only known store this side of the Mississippi where you can browse the video rental library while waiting for diagnostics on your riding mower, closed years ago. But one thing I do appreciate, in spite of it all, is the bar scene.

Once upon a time, before I was old enough to really be aware of such things, the American Legion was the only place in town serving booze. Then, I believe during my jr. high days, the owner of the Irish Circle bar, in the next town over, decided the market was gaping and opened up Circle II (the logo to which is a branding iron style circle with the II emblazoned in the middle). And then finally, sometime when I was off at college in Chicago a real “Chicago style” bar opened. Yes, in the building that had been vacant since 1982, when the historic Hickory House Saloon shut down, Pit Row opened its doors. Now the place does have a nice wooden bar. It has a well kept pool table and a long row of electronic poker games along the back. The ceiling is high and they do actually enforce the now ubiquitous Illinois smoking ban, unlike the bartender only known as “Smokey” over at II. But after having spent the better part of 6 years in Chicago, I have yet to find a NASCAR themed bar there. So while I find the paintings of a racetrack crowd on the walls, the racecar hanging upside down from the ceiling, and the cardboard cutouts of Dale and Dale Jr. in the corner endearing, I would not exactly call this place a Chicago bar.

But despite the Dales, despite the smoke, despite the implicit proliferation of militarization in small town United States, I love these places. And I rather enjoy checking in on them during my infrequent trips to heytown. I suppose because you always run into someone interesting. And by interesting I do not necessarily mean someone who is leading a fascinating life (though its happened on occasion). Mostly I mean someone unexpected from the past.

So my most recent trip to heytown happened to fall during the NCAA tournament, and for the final game, Mama H, Papa H, and I decided that since none of us really cared who won, it might be more interesting at the Row. Papa H, in his sage-like way, predicted I would run into a young man who I hadn’t seen in 3-6 years. I agreed saying, “who will it be? Someone who will induce crying, like CT? a old flame like MN? Or maybe just someone silly dancing by himself in the corner like JC?”

And so, we all took the 5 minute walk to the Row, and plopped down at the bar. It was slow on a Monday night, and when we arrived was only populated by the bartender, the owner’s wife, and an older gentleman waiting for a to-go order of the night’s special, chicken wings.

But was we watched the game, JC came in and ordere more to-go food. MN came in with his home-wrecking new(ish) lady-friend. And the predictions came true. Two out of three ain’t bad. And to top it all off (despite the lack of a CT appearance), LM, the current mayor wandered by and said hello to Mama and Papa H as if they were best friends.

There have been times I’ve been creeped out a bit by the close knittedness of heytown. I don’t like knowing that gassing up on my way into town sets in motion a series of text messages which results in a former classmate calling my parents’ home to talk to me. But the flip side is, its comforting. People know you and care about you, and in a pinch would surely take care of you. They may not be family, or even friends. But there’s a trust and knowledge that develops just seeing people in the IGA that you can’t replicate in larger communities. And as much as I curse it at times, sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.

mal futbol

its a bad day for spanish-speaking footballers. Peru and Spain are both having problems. there's nothing like pederasty, murder, and narcotics to give a sport a bad name.

a silbar

i'm reading (for a 2nd time) Evelyn Hammonds's "Black (W)holes and the Geometry of Black Female Sexuality." She touches on the double silence of black lesbians' sexualities, and its reminding me a bit of the cholas, though I'm taking it in a different direction. Weismantel & Albro both agree (for once) that cholas are historically sexualized because they are "white enough to be desirable, non-white enough to be accessible" (really, that's a paraphrase of Weismantel 2003, because i'm too lazy to walk into the other room, and look up the page #). Cholas are often portrayed as busty "cholitas" in short skirts, and are periodically the butt of jokes about what's under (or not under) their skirts. On the other hand, cholas are imagined in a Gill-ian Postcard way, to be the mothers of the nation. They are associated with fertility and feeding their children, but not as part of a household or sexual relationship. Much like the madonna/whore dichotomy, cholas are either sexless mothers or scantily clad vixens waiting for the taking. So my question (in light of both cholas and black lesbians--and let's throw in Wesley Crichlow's discussion of Trinidadian Bullermen as well) is this: How does one resist sexual objectification without resisting sexuality or objectifying others?

I have no answer. It is an open question. I only have an example of the way I failed to negotiate such a situation.

The Grabowskis (my one-time favorite sports team and subject of my research on pain & masculinity) had a habit of whistling at women. Guzman always suggested a nice round of applause was more respectful. I disagreed, but admitted this was preferable to the "hey single lady" sidewalk calls. In any event, often on the drive from JC to hobroken (yes, that's spelled as I intended) windows would be rolled down, and some nice young woman walking down Monmouth might get an acknowledgement, often in the form of a short double honk of the horn. Usually at that point I would get pissed off, and tell them to stop the car, I was going home, etc. But one day, on the drive back to JC, with a few beers in my belly, we passed two young men moving into an apartment near Hamilton Park. They had their shirts off and were lifting furniture. Being in the front seat, i leaned across JK and hit the horn twice. I waved out the window. The boys in the backseat cracked up and encouraged me. And we all had a good laugh.

And despite my laughter, I didn't feel totally ok about it. I did it to demonstrate a point to them, but I think it was probably lost. And I doubt the two men, being in a generally priveleged position were really offended or hurt. But I chose to make my point in a way that only served to reinforce their ideas. I played into the trope that sexuality is only expressible through the objectification of others. And this seems to be a widespread problem across culture, time, location, class, race, sexuality, etc. And with sexuality being such a wonderful thing, in general, why is it so hard to express without hurting others? damn.

el amor y futbol

futbol returns to la paz!

FIFA suspends the ban on high-altitude matches

and on a related note, i've mentioned evo's notorious quote a number of times (at least to my friends), but didn't have the exact quote or a source. fortunately, i have re-found it in reliable reference form. that is, of course, if you consider fox news a reliable reference...

futbol americano

it was kind of a shitty weekend. it started with a rainy day. saturday was more pleasant, but in the evening crappy stuff occurred. but at least i had a birthday party to attend which was full of merriment, and people (deb) being excited about my new research direction.

i had quite an assortment of booze and past out on kronner's futon. then i lost a contact. fortunately, har-gill drove me home. i took a long walk and cleared my head. i got some school work done.

then i set out for participant observation. har-gill & i both had to do some, with differing topics, but when combined, we had the perfect site. a gay sports bar. and it was the superbowl! so after a tasty dinner of fajitas at his place, we drove to nellie's and participated in drinking while observing behavior. what was most striking to me was that i was the "expert" on football. i was told that the giants were a baseball team, not a football team on the way to the bar. once we arrived, i had to explain the scoring. i had to tell everyone why the cameras kept showing peyton when the giants scored.

and then, after the game, i got a ride all the way back to tenley. so many mood swings, so many unrequited feelings. but in the end, you can't go wrong being a hag, i guess.

mujeres de futbol

this is how you know you're in too deep.

i have been trying vehemently but unsuccessfully to get a hold of a book through the consortium and inter library loan for about a week.

tonight i realized i have three chapters by the author in various edited volumes on my bookshelf.

which is, of course, relieving. but a little disconcerting.

(there will be a blog about aaa soon, i promise)

atletas embarazadas

my usual athletics consultant, k, sent me a link today about ncaa athletes that become pregnant.
and i, of course, have many thoughts.
first, i have to say that the glaring problem with the article is the complete absence of reproductive justice discussion. sure, i can imagine why, but there are a variety of topics approached in the article that require mention of rj for thorough discussion.

the very first paragraph begins, "The timing wasn't the greatest," bringing to mind my (mis) quoted statement from the chron, "I think that abortion rights are central to women being able to control their own lives." Followed by (surprisingly appropriately named) Junk's appraisal that my comment "implies that women are neither free nor equal citizens unless they can legally end a pregnancy." And her assessment is pretty right on.

I do believe that a woman who is unable to decide when, where, and how to get pregnant is neither free nor equal. The Daily Herald article illustrates both of these aspects. First, women who are not free to choose between abortion and a child are not free from several constraints. They are not free from biology. They are not free from economic consequences. They are not free from social consequences. They are not free to pursue a future of their choosing. But, by this argument really no one is "free," we all make choices within constraints not of our choosing (to loosely paraphrase Marx). And since what sort of "free" is not specified in Junk's article, I'll move on to the second point.

Women are not equal citizens if they are unable to choose. Now, since I've been reading a lot of Altusser, Ong, and other such citizenship theorists lately, I should mention that here I use the term "citizenship" to mean the full rights associated with being an official member of a group. I do not mean mere "belonging," nor do I mean simply the right to vote. Citizenship is hailed by the state and ensured through Ideological State Apparatuses. It includes the full protection of the state, the right to participation in the public sphere, and all benefits associated with membership. And it is not "merely cultural" (Judith Butler, 1997), but implies real material consequences. In the case of pregnant athletes these consequences are the scholarships they receive to attend school. When these scholarships are taken away, at best they are left with paying tuition. At worst, these women will be financially forced to quit school, and may also miss out on a promising professional athletic career (and I'm now resisting the urge to switch gears and launch into a critique of gender inequality in professional athletics).

Of course the consequences for women are only one half of the equality equation (haha). As the article mentions, many college athletes have children. While an undergrad myself, one of nu's star football players was the father of no less than 3 children. he went on to the nfl. Even one child for a female athlete, on the other hand, would not only preclude playing in what could be a pivotal season to be able to play professional sports. Perhaps I verge too closely to equating pregnancy with injury, which in some ways may be appropriate but from a legal standpoint gets, well, "sticky."

It is also important to note that members of a Clemson team did terminate pregnancy out of fear of losing scholarships. Now at risk of sounding like I'm anti-choice (bear with me here), it is an atrocity that a person would be compelled to terminate a pregnancy for such reasons. Of course, it happens all the time, and there are plenty of women who simply cannot afford a(nother) child and terminate pregnancies. Which points to the vast array of underlying problems, with healthcare systems, welfare states, maternity/paternity leaves, day care systems, and plenty of other institutions. All this is simply to say, that perhaps de Beauvoir was too quick to assert that "biology is not destiny." Unfortunately the current state of reproductive justice and the aforementioned institutions do leave women unequally equipped to claim the rights associated with citizenship.

Alright, now...moving on. In large part I agree with the article, but I find it too apologetic. Aside from her complete sidestep of rj issues, Babcock McGraw says she can "see both sides." Female athletes engaging in unprotected sex are being irresponsible, and this behavior is equated with drinking and driving or snowboarding. Sure, unprotected sex is never a good idea, but if female athletes are held responsible for such acts to an extent that they are dropped from rosters (and funding), to maintain equality, male athletes who father children should be held to the same standard. If we regard athletes as having a primary commitment to their institution (as the author implies), a child constitutes a breach of that contract whether the fetus is physically growing in the athletes womb or simply takes half of its dna from the athlete. Any distinction between to the two privileges male-boded athletes (as if they're not privileged enough). If athletes are dropped from rosters for "irresponsibility" this should include all bodily injury or change, drugs or drinking, or anything else that may get the athlete into legal trouble (even a misdemeanor arrest). Isn't this why we have Title IX?

the espnU website has a nice write up of outside the lines that includes a little video.

Ok, so now i'm just rambling on and i've spent too much time writing this instead of my paper on german anthropology. ah, procrastination...

no los tenian hambre

well, the bears lost their first game. rather depressing considering the 7-0 start they had last year. fortunately, the mildcats won yesterday, so the weekend wasn't a total waste in terms of football.

its times like this i need a little pick me up


ah, the glory days...

be a woman. be a fan.

the doorbell rings, and woman 1 opens the door, sporting a trendy giants tank top. woman 2 enters, wearing a similar (but distinct) shirt, and they engage in a "secret handshake" style greeting. woman 3 enters wearing a giants track jacket, and a similar greeting ensues. woman 4 enters, wearing a similar trendy tank top, only in green with the jets logo prominently displayed across her chest. she's met with "hello," and a cold stare.

it was clearly marketed exactly to me.

the commercial ends with the postscript: "be a woman. be a fan."

so, of course i immediately went to http://www.reebok.com/ to check out the collection. i was pleased to see that in addition to the skimpy tank tops, there were jerseys, yoga pants, jackets, hoodies, even sandals (though they only came in pink and gray). so, i'm left pondering, what exactly does this mean?

clearly it parallels (or parodies) male interaction. but i'm a little put off by it. certainly the recognition that women do watch nfl, and are a key demographic/money-holding consumers, is overdue. but the portrayal on the commercial was offputting. and in theory, i do like the slogan. yes, one can be a woman (not chick, not girl, not lady, but strong confident, but at times feminine, if that suits you) and enjoy watching football. i'm all for that. but the visuals of the commercial indicate something far different. its ok to watch football as long as you're still cute, still feminine, sexualized, and maintaining what are considered female relationships. while on one hand i would be equally as critical if woman 1 had accepted the jets fan similarly to women 2 and 3, it also seems to reinfoce the cultural notion that women, are petty, catty, and don't get along (as exemplified in oh, so many seasons of the apprentice and many other reality shows as of late).

so, in short, i'm glad reebok finally wisened up and started marketing to women, even if i don't agree with the way they're continuing to relegate women's fandom to a purely "female" realm (and objectify/sexualize in the meantime). but don't fret. you won't catch me wearing this next sunday.