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")......

"mascara" en CSI

I better watch out!!!

thank goodness i work in bolivia, not mexico.

eleciones

hoy, la gente de bolivia votan.

the democracy center's reports.

and of course, how it relates to wrestling.

aaa 09: Installment 2

I woke up early in my big king size bed, to ee delivering me hot chocolate and croissant. i begrudgingly worked on the diss proposal for a few hours (methodology is complete), then finally in the afternoon i tore ee away from his musings on the workings of hegemony on the food network and we made our way to the marriott.

there, i briefly met up with the texan, then wandered off to a panel with ee to see riley. riley's paper was quite good, but the young man who followed him was painful to listen to. we skipped out. ee went to the book exhibit and i saw the texan again, and stopped to chat. at which point the lazy-eyed-texan also appeared. an uncomfortable conversation ensued.

time was drawing near for pine's epic honduran resolution vote so i wandered off to the business meeting and found a seat on the side. not long after i realized i was just down the row from the dumpling, and moved over to sit near her. much business was conducted including the official "goodbyes" to old board members performed through song by some old anthro dude with a guitar. the entire (250+) quorum was invited to sing along (to everyone's detriment). eventually, it came time for the big show...the resolution. immediately, an amendment was proposed by charles briggs to explicitly condemn the results of the recent election and call on the US government to not recognize the results. it passed unanimously.

and then things got a little funky. some dude (presumably honduran) read aloud what seemed like a 20 minute long letter from some honduran anthropologists condemning the resolution as among other things, imperialist. it accused some (honduran?) anthropologists of voluntarily leaving the ministry of culture. it suggested honduran anthros were not consulted in writing the resolution. bunny (a 90+ year old anthro) commented we needed to have a plan for implementation. the (presumably honduran) dude again stood up to clarify that he did not write the letter but agreed with it. someone asked rosemary joyce a question, which she did not understand, but setha low (aaa prez) clarified that robert's rules of order stipulate the question could not be restated. alas, we moved on to pine's empassioned (as usual) and frantic (as usual) plea that these honduran anthropologists represented not all honduran anthropologists, and there were plenty more academics in honduras who had been persecuted. she gave a number of examples. finally, a venezuelan woman stood up shouting, crying and suggesting we stand in solidarity, not with honduran anthropologists, but the honduran people.

the question was called and we VOTED to vote. it was confirmed. then we VOTED on the question (being whether to pass or not). it passed the (now iffy) quorum. but this second vote does not mean that the resolution passed. oh no. it simply means that it is now eligible to be put be VOTED on by the entire AAA membership. yes, 3 votes to make this happen. who knows when we'll know for sure.

After all this, I met up with the So Ill kids, Gerry, Yata-Tanaka, & Juancho. we had some tasty food, and came up with brilliant questions for Gerry (the primatologist among us) to ask in cultural sessions. Gems included "Can you explain how this is related to hegemonic ideologies of transnationalism?" and "One word. Intersubjectivity. Think about it." Later bryan suggested throwing in the word "Linkages." after dinner we wandered over to Finn's and drank a few beers with bryan and channell, who was getting on my nerves. Futurama eventually joined us, and she was actually quite pleasant to be around. We eventually wandered back to a king size bed and passed out with plenty of room between us.

a little andean candy

a picture of a luchador wearing a Manfred Reyes mask (Reyes is 2nd in the polls-after Evo-for the upcoming Bolivian Presidential election)

(from Wall Street Journal Photos of the Day)

aaa 09: installment 1

I bring you this message from a luxurious king sized bed off of rittenhouse square, philly's ritzy neighborhood.

it is practically noon and i am still in bed (though I've been working on a paper for 2 hours) wrapped in a fluffy hotel-provided robe, sipping free Ghirardelli hot chocolate. i have been gchatting my companero who is doing something similar (though at least he's showered already) in the next bedroom of our incredible aka suite.

but yesterday was quite a good one. i woke up before the sun rose and picked up ee for our drive to the city of sibling love. we got in, checked into the hotel, parked the car, and had a terrible breakfast of strangely flavored non-fat-frozen-yogurt and awful coffee (at least that's how ee reported on it. i of course, did not partake).

then off to the marriott to register. ee's first panel was right away, and i tagged along. speaker #1 spoke about Bolivian marketwomen's subjectivity within neoliberal formations (sound vaguely familiar?). It wasn't anything new to me, but now I know I need to get in touch with her. Most importantly, she was recovering from the flu and almost passed out during her presentation, so someone else in the room had to finish reading the paper for her. a few more papers and then tonsilitis-infected ee just gave a brief description of his research before commenting on the awful conference theme/session title employing the "End/s of Anthropology"

After the session, I met another audience member who will be on my panel on Saturday, who studies trans activism in Mexico City, along with Susan Paulson, a long-time Bolivianist. ee & i then walked to trader joe's and got some supplies. after dropping the foods off at aka, i went back to the marriott to see spaulson's presentation on humor and the familia galan in La Paz. she was using some disidentification theory which got me excited. and a few other presenters opened my eyes to some new theory i should look at. but most excitingly, when i walked into the room before the presentations began, she shouted out to me "hi nell!" and introduced me to stuart rockefeller, another bolivianist.

i left directly after that panel for e patrick's performance of sweet tea at Penn. there i also ran into jackson5 (with whom i re-exchanged phone numbers) and riley from radical intersections. as i waited for the perf to begin i glanced through the aaa program and found siu gerry's name. a few text messages to my wife later, i was in contact with him, and now have plans to meet up (after 5 years). i saw the perf, drank some free wine, then headed back to center city to meet mcneil for some whiskey. upon arriving in the midst of a torrential downpour, i discovered he was well into his 5th hour of drinking, and some painful karaoke had just begun, so we decided to brave the elements and walk back to aka to drink some free booze with ee. some watermelon vodka and 4 mini-bags of popcorn later he trekked home (to the travelodge) and ee & i passed out in our respective king size beds.

day 1=success.

grasa y la policia

i promised beards, but instead i bring you pishtaco!

la antropologia de las barbas

i know its been a while. and i've got nothing for you right now.

except.

the promise of.....



"toward an anthropology of beards"

lo hice

ok, so that dilemma of the day thing didn't quite happen...

but i'm sitting here eating homemade ice cream (a birthday gift from ee), and am thinking about self-sufficiency. when i learned to knit & crochet this summer i joked that it made me one step closer to completely removing myself from the capitalist system. and not that i ever really intend to go off the grid, but there is something so fulfilling about having control over how exactly you're inserting yourself into commercialist systems. yes, this is just the control freak in me rearing her ugly head.

but i'm quite proud of things i've been doing lately that help me to claim a sense of agency where i didn't before. knitting scarves, crocheting hats, screen printing t shirts, making ice cream, brewing beer, growing veggies, mending shoes. and of course the usual sewing and flyer making.

there's nothing profound here. i suppose my point is there's a certain contentness that comes from making something that i never get from buying. Sure Sharon Zukin may say that we are in an age where shopping is a profoundly social process in which we claim or invent identity. But I'd like to think there is an admittedly smaller, but strong number, that is more in line with Halberstam's notions of queer time and space. we are working under the radar, creating our own identities along avenues that are decidedly anti-consumerist (along with plenty of other anti- s) despite the fact that i covet a $300 coat, and drove a car to school today. little steps i suppose. i'm no saint. but at least i've successfully boycotted whole foods for the last 8 days.

la musica del jc

i saw the black hollies saturday night. in planning to go, i worried that the six years that have passed would be enough to forget faces. that i'd be just another former neighbor like clint shoyman or a passerby like "jk's sidekick." my fears were confirmed when, though jong said he'd put me on the list, the doorman shook his head and looked at me as if to say "honey, i get that trick all the time, and i'm not falling for it." but after coughing up $10 and making my way inside, i was greeted with profuse apologies, and a shocked looking justin angelo yelling "nells bells!"

dj dusty shadows circa 2003

and thus began my nostalgic daydream in which i began to fall in love as we sat listening to a fuzzy ella fitzgerald eminate from the turntable while drinking wine and eating jong's eggplant rolatini. in which i awoke after a night at Guillo's to the sounds of Two Tough Guys, and arose to fully embrace my unemployment. in which the bridge & i would walk to the bar later known as el camino and consume 5 free rail cosmos in an hour, later drawing pictures of our stomachs with crayons depicting two doritos swimming in a pink sea. in which we all developed a strange attraction to biography channel programs on serial killers. in which i didn't have to worry about my name being on the list at maxwell's.

but these warm memories of brisk fall nights fail to capture my true feelings of those times. rhino has philosophized on the hegemony of memory, and this is certain a case for study. those were the worst of times. unemployment and then practically dehumanizing employment, academic disappointment, disagreements that should have indicated failure long before i acknowledged it. but at the same time, perhaps that is what made the good times so good, and the experience as a whole so intense.

those years in the jc were awful years, peppered with close friendships, crazy antics, belonging in unlikely places, sleepless nights, flaming bars, silly notebooks forever lost to the white star gods, and the feeling of truly being in a neighborhood. i suppose that's the last time i really felt like i was home. i haven't been back in almost 2 years, and i'm sure things have changed. i suppose the condos at the end of pavonia are complete, and PJ's somehow functions without the guz. but it still feels like i could defy frost and return home there. like i could walk by 7s and strike up a conversation with any of the smokers. like the high scores on the photohunt machine at uncle joe's might still be dominated by those using the quadrant approach. like the guys at the 7th and erie liquor store would still make quips about knowing how often i'm there. like something called rye coalition still exists. like i could show up at hamilton park and play some ball or take a nice stroll down coles, pausing at 130. indeed, i still remember the first time i pulled up to that apartment, with jk & the fiend holding a parking spot for me. that was the beginning of something definitive in both its complete depravity and its utter transformative qualities.

130 coles

and looking back from here-where i am happy, and get to reminisce with old friends-makes it all worthwhile i suppose. as i said in "Beneath the Surface" (by former JC resident, Scammell) memory is how we cut up the long runon sentence of our lives to derive meaning. it tells us who we were and thus, who we are. it is the way in which we define ourselves. i am no longer that same nells bells that moved onto the futon on coles street, but that will always be part of who i've become.

pina

i had my first shared cup of pineapple of the semester. it wasn't quite ripe, but taste aside, its good to be back.

manana

manana regreso a EEUU.

here is what i'm looking forward to:
vegetables. salad. real healthy food.
good non-yellow mustard.
real vegetarianism
putting toilet paper in the toilet.
not worrying about when the hot water's running out.
not worrying about the shower electrocuting me.
summer.
walking a block without steep uphill climbs
traffic that pays attention to lights
drinking water whenever i want
not worrying about if there's anyone home to let me in at night
cheaper cheese

here is what i will miss:
$1.50 glasses of wine at fancy french restaurants
saltenas
the luchadoras
the chilen@s
ramiro's thoughts about what i should be studying
scarf weather
el sol andino fuerte
the spirit of latin america
a good excuse for not replying to emails
comeraderie among gring@s
random people lying and saying my spanish is good
fresh $0.07 bread
living in SoHo-cachi
fireworks for no reason

i'm sure there's more for both lists. leaving is always a weird feeling. on one hand i want nothing more than to be back in the land of endless hot water, needless neoliberal regementation, and healthcare debates, but its hard to leave too. in a way, i'm very glad the chilen@s are leaving tomorrow too (though i'll miss the other 2). i guess i always just feel there's so much more to be done. i haven't cracked the surface. i don't really understand. i just have to remember that's not a failure, its just an appropriate end to round one.

now, off to buy some cheaply made tourist trap gifts.

P-farm

Total bummer, dude.
Here's why...

time to start learning arabic...

it seems female wrestlers in iraq are the new rage.
and i've only got about 7 minutes of my first luchadora interview transcribed. the work just keeps stacking up.

renewal

“Travel is glamorous only in retrospect.” - Paul Theroux

Most anthropologists (at least young ones) know this. This is the price we pay for the “glamour” of grants to take us to far away places(1) where we are adopted(2) by the natives(3) and given(4) special things to eat(5). We eventually write books that make our lives seem so out of the ordinary(6) and interesting(7). But the truth is, we are lonely like everyone else. We doubt ourselves, and cry at night, and miss loved ones and wonder why we didn’t just become comparative literature majors back when we had the chance.

Most days I look around La Paz and wonder how I'll spend a year here. Not to say that its awful: I actually quite like the weather. There's always something going on. I really like my neighborhood. I could sit in plazas and talk to people for hours. Life is cheap and good food is easy to come by. But its not home. Its a lonely place. And part of it is the language, but I always feel disconnected. Alien. I mean, I should feel out of place. I do not belong here. I am not a resident and not a tourist. I have no place.

But on friday nights, the city seems to open up. Granted, these are among the few nights I've places to go, people to see, things to do. But there's a glow to the city en viernes. A warm, yellow, homey glow. And people laugh, and the music is soothing, and the pisco sours taste like they should.

And tonight, in particular, I discovered some things. I was a little early for my dinner date (I was the 3rd wheel on the date), so i walked arounId sopacachi, and suddenly, unexpectedly, the sky was alight with fireworks. I've never been overly taken by fireworks. Even as a fairly young child I remember being bored with them. As I've grown older, I think this has disappointed a number of my friends. But fireworks at the right time can be magical. Not every night at 10 pm at Disney. Not at sundown on the 4th of july. But when fireworks pop up unexpectedly during otherwise magical moments, everything falls into place.

So eventually, the fireworks faded and I made my way to the Alianza Francesa for dinner. I still arrived ahead of my dates, but got a table and looked over the menu. For some reason I've never really liked french onion soup (on the menu of course, as sopa de cebolla con queso). But after a hearty french-oniony dinner party this winter, I thought I'd give it a go. and it was marvelous. I gobbled it up as I slurped Peru's signature beverage (I had to have one in honor of 28 de julio!).

I walked home content with good friends, food, beverages, and a city that, at this moment at least, felt like it could become home someday.

(1) or our own back yards
(2) or tolerated
(3) or the local residents & institutions
(4) in exchange for money
(5) usually just the bland local cuisine
(6) or alienating
(7) or trying

esta enferm@

so, i've been sick the last few days and therefore doing a lot of reading. mostly from Odd Tribes: Toward a Cultural Analysis of White People (Hartigan 2005) (review here), but today also an as-of-now unpublished paper a friend is writing on post-accord politics in guatemala.

In OT, Hartigan attempts to focus attention on the fact that classism within "whiteness" reaffirms and solidifies the hegemony of whiteness. Though I take issues with some of his approaches (which I fully intend to write about here eventually), he also makes some excellent points. One of which reminded me of a few films made by d'vine around election time.

Hartigan writes (p. 157) about Time reporter Steve Lopez's investigation of Southern whites' reasons for voting for George W. Bush in 2000. "More often than not, when I asked people "Why Bush?" it was as if they had zinc deficiency. The smile would freeze, the eyes would cloud, and all signs of intelligence would fade." Hartigan comments, "This image reproduces the most enduring images of rural poor whites: faded or absent intelligence, stemming from some sort of indelible physical deficiency."

Now, as a disclaimer (#1), i think that d'vine is a fantastic professor, advisor, humanitarian, activist, writer, and person in general. But my point is he is falling into a common trap in which it is ok to disrespect certain types of peoples' opinions because they don't quite jive with the ways in which the upwardly mobile, urban, liberal, well-traveled, lucky ones think. And I'm not condoning the racism and other -isms present in the narratives in his short films. But I also think the particular way they are framed (and perhaps edited) contributes to disrespect. And I think the second film illustrates particularly well the way in which the filmmaker (and presumably viewer) are positioned as morally and intellectually superior to Noe. We are invited to approve of and commend him for his decision. Had he decided differently, we would be invited to judge him disapprovingly.

(disclaimer #2-these videos were not intended to be "neutral" ethnographic accounts, but rather campaign tools, and i'm sure, if dr.vine were to conduct true ethnographic work on such people, the results would be stunning and beyond reproach)

now, back to the texan's article on Maya Guatemala: He explores reasons that many Maya seemingly contradictorily back right aligned political movements. In reviewing literature on similar topics he writes that many authors give important counterpoints to pervasive racist ideas that ignorant Mayas are tricked into aligning themselves with right wing politics.

So my point here is that in some ways this illustrates Hartigan's idea that phenotypically "white" but otherwise degraded individuals and groups are treated in similar ways to racialized "others" in different places. Obviously, all is not the same between rural Southern whites and the Maya of Huehuetenango, but I think the questioning of political affiliation without thick analysis is dangerous.

lucha blog

its weird when you show up in your own google reader.

cuy

i just wanted to point out that i made this comment 3 weeks ago...
(you think you're so clever otto-ok, maybe you are, just behind the times)

suspicions confirmed

mas preguntas

i'm having one of those days. nothing seems right.

who the hell am i to be doing research?
do i really want to do research abroad?
do i really want to do research at all?
how the hell am i going to get any sense of what's going on here in a month?
how the hell am i going to get any sense of what's going on here in a year?
how the hell am i going to write a dissertation proposal?
how the hell am i going to write a dissertation?
do i really like this whole "academia" thing?
am i really cut out to be an anthropologist?
am i ever going to get over my shyness?
am i ever going to get a handle on spanish?

...definitely one of those days that asks questions.

que quieres?

i am convinced of one thing: people who tell me my spanish is good want something from me.

usually money or sex.

shoeshine boys and creepy 35 year old men from cochabamba say "Tu espanol es muy bien"

bullshit.

la lucha

today marks the 4 year anniversary of the day i read this.

that's right, for 4 years i dreamed of the day i might see the "cholas" wrestling. i hoped to see the power of revolution in performance. i anticipated moralization of gender and race. i expected the power of the pollera would be manifest in the ring.

on sunday, i took a little tourist bus to la Ceja en El Alto, paid my 80 Bol, shivered, and watched. my previous hopes were not quite realized. now, don't get me wrong, i am not entirely disappointed. but what i found was more tourist spectacle than local phenomenon (and i wonder if half the local phenomenon is coming to see the crazy gring@s watch the event). and most of women's empowerment seemed to come from demasculinizing men: pulling down their pants, forcing them to wear skirts, etc. Of course, the men retaliated, at times by kissing them (what's that say about sexual violence?).

so the luchadoras are not quite the feminists i had hoped (though, this does not surprise me entirely). but i've also found a lovely little anarchist feminist group. now, i just have to figure out how this all fits together...

lucha manana

look what youtube recommended for me



(and seriously, traditional inca dress? try hacienda era...)

photografias

today i went to Bolivia's Palacio de Gobierno (which, i've been referring to as Evo's house, but he doesn't actually live there) & Plaza Murillo (named after Pedro Domingo Murillo).

(note El Alto in the background)

It was a nice sunny afternoon (as seems to be the norm here) and there were a lot of families out and about, as well as some strangely-clad, dreadlocked traveler types. Many of the women were in polleras, and I'm beginning to think that maybe all this about the pollera is over-emphasizing its importance. Certainly, clothing is always a choice, and expresses certain things about both individuality and collectivity. It is both constituitive of and influenced by identity. Of course. But i'm not sure a pollera has any more significance than my green chucks.

...but back to the plaza. There were lots of shoe-shine boys (who all wear ski masks), young bolivian teens selling books, and ice cream and jello vendors. There were also a few vendedoras selling balloons and inflatable balls. One (wearing a pollera) was fairly near me, and an older german guy kept trying to take her picture with his giant camera. She clearly did not like this. She kept turning away, and pulling her hat down over her face. But this dude in his cargo pants, hiking vest, and stupid hat was persistent. It was kind of making me mad, so I decided I would take his picture. Here it is....



Sure, who the hell am i to be acting as karma, and i'm sure he a) wouldn't care that i took his picture and b) will probably never know, but i thought i'd try to objectify him a bit.

later, i got pooped on by a pigeon. it was green and slimy. and older dutch guy sitting next to me also got hit, and we started a little conversation. but after we both got hit a second time, we decided the spot was too dangerous and both left. but that's supposed to be lucky, right?

Tomorrow I'm off to take some pictures (but hopefully not objectify any more than they want me to) the luchadoras in El Alto. 4 1/2 years in the making....

preguntas

About 7 years ago an acquaintance had an unattributed quote as her away message on AIM.

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.

I wrote it down and googled it to no avail (this was in the days before google was so good at searching books). But yesterday I read it as if for the first time. At the beginning of Chapter 3 (page 21 in my Perrenial Classics 1998 edition) of Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neale Hurston writes, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”

This thought was my saving grace when I was 22, 23, 24. When I turned 25 the answers started coming almost immediately. But there are always spots along the way that start asking again. I wonder if its maybe days that ask questions now.

There are days that ask questions and days that answer. But some days are so confused, they don’t even know what question to ask.

mantequilla

for anyone who's been keeping up on the butter controversy, it seems to be settled.

it's official. MJ has no place in butter.

the Duff Dog will be happy

el dia de la paz

today was a city-wide holiday. this on the brink of the national bicentenial (sort of-its 200 years since a declaration of independence. which failed, at first). i saw a bit of a parade, and a strange protest i couldn't make sense of. masked young people holding hands in 4 or 5 rows, walking slowly through a plaza.

my only accomplishment was getting a slightly better sense of the city, and i made myself a nice google map. i also set up a time to meet with a friend on friday for beers. oh, and i figured out the hot water in the shower. that is certainly an important accomplishment.

but the lonliness has set in. its always hard to figure out a new place by yourself. especially when people like leap have high expectations of what you'll come back with. and its nothing new. it happened in austria, on the rez (yes, even with bii jih bah around), in lima, in carbondale, even in dc. but the ability to predict it does little to prevent it.

i'm convinced that a partner would change things drastically. i'm certainly more adventurous with a partner. its easier to walk into a bar and strike up a conversation. its easier to explore new areas. sit in a coffee shop without looking conspicuous (well, of course a couple of gringas look a little conspicuous). try new food. go to museums.

and certainly all these things are possible alone. they're just harder. especially for someone shy like me. especially for someone who's not so confident in their spanish like me. in essence, i need a field wife. someone who's up for a little adventure, but are willing to go along with my whims as related to my "research." the husbands of those like furnea, wolf, and turner don't know how good they had it. maybe this is just all whining and without merit, but i think there's something to be said for collaborative research, especially in the beginning. though i am most certainly not advocating people be arbitrarily stuck together based on common interests, and grant makers certainly wouldn't want to pay double for plane tickets and lodging, i think it might open doors more quickly.

in essence i'm jealous of those people like the jag, hgill, & rumagin that have an in.

maybe i should stick with small town karaoke. i've certainly got the background for that. but oh now....i have to go out on a limb to a place where i don't speak well, and try to make something of it. sigh. i hope this gets better (i mean, i know it will, but it didn't get THAT much better in peru)

la ciudad de nuestra senora de la paz

i'm here.

and one of the best parts is (this betrays what a dork i am), i get to go through my google task list and erase all the things i had to do to get here.

otherwise things are a bit overwhelming, and though my spanish is pretty much working, i'm going to have to use el dicionario to decipher the signs that tell me how to get agua caliente for my ducha. i guess its hard not to get a little freaked out the first night in a new place. especially when you're alone. especially when the language isn't quite comfortable. especially when you have high expectations for yourself.

p.s.

happy birthday papa franz!

a message from P-farm

yes, most awesomest man ever (even better than david harvey?)

el rey

merely a link

hee hee hee: michael jackson and the transgendered erotics of voice

aleatoria surtido

#1
this is a picture of the address listed for the bolivian consulate in chicago.



#2

fromedome wrote up something on his trip to peru. and since it makes me miss the land of pisco, i'll post the link.

#3
this is flippin' hilarious

Mexico Builds Border Wall To Keep Out US Assholes

#4

should i live here in la paz?

#5

if you read en espanol, this is also pretty incredible. well, sad, but crazy.

#6

once again, i've been scooped

Mamachas del Ring

Mamachas del Ring -Trailer - English from Betty Park on Vimeo.

(also see The Fighting Cholitas)

so jealous.....

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/06/09/MN09183NV8.DTL

on visas

though he is the only (current or former) head of state of which i have ever been within throwing distance (and if you've ever seen me play softball, that's saying something), I am no Evo apologist. I do not think he is the anointed messiah. i do not see him as the direct spawn of the Pachamama or a reincarnation of Túpac Amaru. I do not think he and Barak Obama share as much in common and some would like.

That said, I also do not think he is one of Chavez's cronies. I generally like the guy. I think he is well-liked and well-equipped to navigate hard times for political leaders. I think he, though controversially, has the nation's best interests in mind, and though those interests are generally skewed in favor of the rural, indigenous, and poor (oh my, what a horrible thing!), he believes (and i do not necessarily disagree) that this is best for his nation as a whole.

But I've got a small bone to pick with him.

So, I've been trying to get a visa for Bolivia. And this is another story entirely, but phone numbers are disconnected, offices are empty (as in, even all the electrical fixtures have been ripped out), and emails go unreturned. Alas, I'm banking on an airport visa--but that's not the point of the story. The point of the story is, I may or may not need certain things to be allowed into the country.

You see, back in January 2007 (2 years after Evo's election), Bolivia started requiring U.S. citizens to have a visa to enter the country. This was done with much rhetoric about "reciprocity" and "Peoples' Diplomacy."

Ok, I'm with you there. The subtext I'm picking up on (and perhaps i'm reading too much into this, or am totally wrong about what i'm reading into it) is "well, yankees, you require all sorts of bullshit from us to visit your country, so if you want to come to ours, expect a hassle as well." And I'm fine with that. Despite the fact that I do rather enjoy the privileges i've been granted by virtue of being born an anglo-american woman with upwardly-mobile, college-educated parents in the United States, I know that the vast majority of the rest of the world is worse off, and my objective is not to rub it in their faces or take advantage of that. what's fair is fair. give me a hassle. i can take it.

My problem is, for a president who is so staunchly anti-neoliberal, his idea of "reciprocity" here supports some underlying principles of neoliberalism*. According to the information I have, in order to enter the country (though i have a feeling none of this will matter when i actually get there), I am required to

1. sign a sworn statement that basically just says who i am, and where i'm going

2. have a passport
ok, so i could deconstruct the class, economic, and time constraints here, but since this is now standard, i certainly do not place the blame on evo for this one, and will bypass complaining on this point.

3. a copy of a hotel reservation or invitation letter from a friend.

so, again, having an address at which you're staying is pretty standard, but i think it deserves a little scrutiny. it requires either social capital or economic capital. and not just any sort of social capital, but the kind in which your "friend" must a) have an address-which may seem picky, but i've been to plenty of places where the streets have no names, b) be literate, and c) have the capability to send you a "letter" either via the internet of by buying a stamp, envelope, paper, and some writing implement to send you this letter.

--now my point here is not to exoticize bolivians to a point at which i imply that none of them have the money to buy an envelope or stamps. but i think its worth keeping in mind that small things we all take for granted, in some contexts, are much bigger deals.

4. round trip ticket or travel itinerary

ok, fair enough. you don't want blanc@s to stay forever, and want proof we'll actually leave

5. bank statement showing "economic solvency"

i'm not sure what sort of balance proves "economic solvency," but i feel like this one needs no explanation.

6. yellow fever vaccination certificate

and here's my personal aversion. i took care of this yesterday, and it cost me a mere $474. There are costs for the "travel nurse consultation" "vaccine administration fee" (helpfully discounted if you receive more than one vaccine in one day), the cost of the actual vaccine, and "documentation fees." now granted, i did get a typhoid vaccine thrown in (for a mere $104 + the discounted $10 administration fee). but my god, that's 1/3 of my budget for the trip. well, 1/4 now that i had to add it on. that's more than i will spend on housing and food combined in bolivia for a month. that's more than i've spent on housing and food combined here in the US for the last month (though admittedly, i am living rent-free at the moment). but to me, and a LOT of people, that's a LOT of money.

7. visa fee of $135

again, fairly self-explanatory. i'll pay it because i have to, and i totally understand the rationale, but i'm not going to do it without questioning the underlying ideology that national borders are real things, and nation-states can impose silly rules and fees for those wanting to traverse imaginary lines....and if i were more in the mood to write today i'd tell a little story about the 4 corners 4 square team, but another day...

so when you add it all up, its

75.00 passport application fee
25.00 passport execution fee
1.36 postage for letter from bolivia (significantly less than $ required for email)
474.00 vaccines, etc.
135.00 visa fee
---------
710.36

just to get in the country. not including the cost of the roundtrip ticket or hotel reservation. and what it all adds up to is, to get in, you've got to have some serious cash, or serious cultural capital.

is that what you had in mind evo?

on an entirely different note, the visit to the travel immunization clinic did yield some interesting images ripe for anthropological examination. i'll leave you to your own defenses on this one though.

*and by neoliberalism, i mean the late-capitalist system of beliefs and associated institutions among which is the notion, specifically, that human value is equivalent to economic value, and citizenship--and sometimes belonging--hinge almost exclusively on the ability to contribute to consumerist networks.

once again, proof that the butter cow and citizenship are (to quote Nancy Fraser) "interimbricated"

(previously discussed in #5 here)

chicago

this place is "comfortable" a friend told me last night. there's something about this city that just fits. its natural. i never feel like i'm squeezing myself into what someone here is supposed to be or do. i never feel like a tourist who has stayed 2 years too long.

and fate has a way or making things happen here. last weekend, i went to meet some dc friends for dinner. i walked into the restaurant and who happened to be sitting at their table but ms. snow. apparently her man-friend went to college with (the other) jk. so, she invited me to a bbq she was throwing for brunjeses. and when i showed up on monday the r____ came along and we had a mini JC reunion. on tuesday i accompanied brunjeses to the film fest in which our JC masterpiece was being shown (note that using the word "our" in no way implies i did more than take trips to the JC salvation army, the police station in the heights, and stand around for a few hours on 5th & coles on a wintery day). as the program ended i got a text from she-ra asking if that was my name she saw in the credits. Yes, people just keep popping up all around. it seems like every time i leave the apartment someone new (but really, old) crosses my path.

which is exciting, in part, because i've been thinking about friends. i seem to be at an interesting moment in life where there are tensions between new friend, old friends, and those that were sort of friends before, and following a period of absence are poised to become better friends. there are the people like ee and otto who are working their ways into my heart, but its an uphill battle. i'm not sure if its because i'm not open to them or if the chemistry just isn't there. there are the oldies like the r___ who seem to grow more distant each day. and though there are times when i want desperately to grasp on and do everything i can to not let the friendship slip. and others when it seems inevitable that this will fade away in time. there are the old friends that i never doubt will always be there, but more and more of them fall out of that category and into a more precarious one. and then there are the new (but old) friends, and the new-new friends. and i have little profound to say about them, except that taken all together, the different kinds of people in my life present a challenge. where does one focus energy? is it more important to keep the people you hold dear or make new friends where you are (whether for the moment or for a good while)? ideally of course, one could maintain all of them, but we know that we have limited resources. some kids must be cut from the team. or at least banished to 2nd string. (and now i commence a my boys-esque thought) but is a history of talent more important than future potential? What is the homerun from 8 seasons ago worth today? And are the well formed double batted swings on deck worth taking a chance on? I guess you never know until you try. And people make the wrong choices all the time. But maybe no amount of comtemplating or planning can ensure a playoff team. Maybe you just open up the call and see who shows up.

ok, enough silly rambling. as if things weren't confusing enough i am now contemplating giving the r____ the painting that i recently rescued from the r___.