Hulu recently premiered its first movie. Crawford began as an expose into the ways the Bush campaign took the image of a rustic cowboy, smalltown American man and turned him into a President (when he wasn’t really from a small town, nor really a rustic cowboy). What this movie turned into was a great insight into what makes a nation function: its people.
This is really a film about identity: the identity of a President, a town, the people of the town, and the visitors. The most obvious, of course, is the identity of the President. Look closer though and you’re going to see how a town’s identity changes because of the historic events that take place within it. You’re going to see how the locals shape their identities around not only the town, but the events that occur within that town. The visitors change not only the identity of the town, the people, and the President, but we see such a small piece of them that their identity is set up to establish the idea of “other” within the town.
So much of our personal identities are constructed from where we’ve lived, how we’ve lived, who we call “our people,” and other factors. I think that this movie is an excellent look into that phenomenon, in a microcosm sort of way.
It’s free. It’s online. It’s a great piece of documentary work.
As an instructor, I told the students in class today that I wanted them to vote tomorrow. I told them that I didn’t care who they voted for (because that’s not my job as their instructor), but that I wanted them to exercise the privilege of voting. I actually got some applause from some of the students for saying that. I also got some cheers.
They are smart people, those students.
I do care who wins, of course. But it’s not my job as an instructor to influence students who take my class to vote one way or the other. It is my job to encourage them to be good citizens.
My job as a good blogger, a good online friend, is to encourage those of you who are U.S. citizens and registered to vote to do so. So get out there. Stand in that long line, make your voice heard. It matters. Don’t think it doesn’t. Too many recent elections have been lost because people have forgotten how much their voice matters.
Vote. Please. It’s not a privilege everyone has and we’re fortunate to have it.
Ever since I’ve gotten here, I’ve been hearing about this phenomenon called “Minnesota Nice.” According to Wikipedia:
Minnesota nice is the stereotypical behavior of Minnesota residents described as hospitality and courtesy to others. The term is also sometimes used in a derogatory way, to connote a sort of smiling stubbornness, forced politeness, false humility or passive aggressive hostility.
I was speaking to some of my students, asking them about this behavior. They laughed. They said that the Twin Cities area is not renowned for its Minnesota Nice behavior.
This behavior does not translate into Minnesota politics either. Not at all. I’ve seen some aggregious political ads having lived in California (Arizona politics doesn’t come close to these levels of aggressiveness), but I’ve never seen such mean-spirited attack ads, especially in the Senate race.
Here in Minnesota, there are several candidates (Charles Aldrich (L), Dean Barkley (IP), Norm Coleman (R), Al Franken (DFL), and James Niemackl (C)) running for the U.S. Senate seat that is currently held by first-term Senator Norm Coleman (who replaced Dean Barkley, who replaced the late Paul Wellstone). While Barkley has been a part of the debates, it is really the race between Coleman and Franken (yes, that Al Franken) that has been the worst. This summer, the first ad that I remember seeing was against Franken and included accusations of being involved in pornography. While Coleman has suspended his attack ads and has tried to portray a compassionate, family man who understands our hardships, the ads have not stopped (fueled by money from the Republican National Committee, the National Chamber of Commerce, and others). Coleman has also been attacked with low-blows (but by most accounts, not nearly as often, as harshly, or as personally as Franken).
So imagine my concern when John McCain visited the Twin Cities a few weeks ago and the people attending this rally talked about “being scared” and Obama being “an Arab.” McCain’s response wasn’t much better. He states, “No ma’am. No ma’am. He’s a decent family man citizen that I just happen to have disagreements with.” Ummm..those of Arab decent can’t be decent family men and citizens (of somewhere)?
I actually respect Senator McCain. I wouldn’t ever vote for him because our belief systems are not compatible at all, but I do think that he believes that he can give this country what it needs and that he does care about what happens to the people of this country. However, when a major political candidate makes a statement like that, it makes me wonder what he really believes.
All of this in Minnesota, where Minnesota Nice is supposed to be the acceptable behavior (the positive Minnesota Nice, not the derogatory aspect of it).
The new Chevy Traverse commercial disturbs me. It takes a stereotype (all women like a lot of shoes) and tries to sell a car through that stereotype. Now, it’s not a nearly naked woman selling the vehicle to men. Oh, no…it’s a women scooping up armfuls of shoes into the back of the Traverse — selling, I suppose, to women. Because we all love, love, love shoes. Don’t we?
Frankly, I’m not really a shoe person. Ask anyone. You’ll see me more in Tevas, Birks, or Croc sandals than anything else. High-heels, especially those shown in the this commercial or immortalized in Sex and the City (I wouldn’t even know what Manolo Blahniks are were it not for that show), look uncomfortable and, let’s face it, too expensive for someone like me to buy.
Is this ad sexist? Is it feeding on a negative or a positive stereotype? Do you think it’s all in good fun, or should we be finding a fault with it?
I like the music. It’s catchy. I’m not too keen on the premise, though. It bothers me a bit.
(BTW, their ad that shows a man ironing, cleaning a toilet, etc., bothers me because of its sexist bent, as well.)
The latest Magnum in Motion video podcast (under 4 minutes in length) is phenomenal. While the images themselves are really wonderful, it is the commentary that adds a special flavor to the video. Listening to the words and watching the corresponding images was an interesting view into what is deemed noteworthy in popular culture versus what is really happening in the world.
I especially liked the “blondes have more fun” segment.
I’ve always been conscious of my place within society. I’ve known, since the beginning it seems, that I’ve been on the peripheral edges looking in, wondering how to get “in.” I’ve been reading back through my blog in an effort to not reiterate things I’ve written about before, and I’ve realized how much my identity as a marginalized person has permeated my writings. I’ve also realized how much it has really affected me in what I’ve chosen to study, how I go about my education, and why I’m so keen to understand these artificial divides we construct.
I’ve written several times about our poverty and the trials that went along with that. As I’m pondering all of this, though, and re-reading my own writings, there are moments in my life that are becoming more important and more defining than others. Most of these concepts have to do with an omission of some sort.
Take, for instance, the linguistic style of dropping g’s. Obviously the dropped g has a connection to class. I didn’t realize how this impacts us in education until one day when my brother, Shadow, came home to tell me about the girl he was dating (who would later become his wife). He said, “Jennifer comes from a higher class than we do. She doesn’t drop her g’s.” I thought about it. I considered, very carefully, how I pronounced things. I started paying attention to how my classmates pronounced words. I realized that I was in the minority, that others, especially in an academic setting, were much more careful about their “g’s” than I was (or that it was just a part of their linguistic style). My omission of a consonant, whether noticed by others or not, set me apart in my own mind.
It is assumed, especially with an English background, that we have read the classics. It is assumed, when you walk into a college classroom (at least it was when I first started college, but I don’t think this is necessarily true now), that you will have a basic knowledge built upon certain texts. I haven’t ever really been introduced to the canon of English literature. I took Shakespeare in college because the one Shakespeare play I read in high school, Romeo and Juliet (of course), reminded me of the tickets I had won to see Much Ado About Nothing when I was twelve and how privileged I felt to go to a play at the university to see Shakespeare. I thought you were supposed to immerse yourself in Shakespeare to be educated (and to be fair, I actually love Shakespeare now). But I haven’t ever read Moby Dick, Huckleberry Finn, or even Wuthering Heights (which is on my nightstand because I thought it might be time). I can pass myself off as being knowledgeable and well-read, but in reality, I’m not. I read everything I could get my hands on, but acceptable literature was rarely available to me. This omission of a “real” literature background has forced me to have a distaste for canonical discussions. To me the very idea that only certain books allow us to have a cultured education is ridiculous.
I once took a creative non-fiction course. The first assignment in this course was to write about a real-life experience. I wrote about being trashcan kids. It’s such a real experience for my family, and one that is not shared by many people we know. We then had to share this writing with the rest of the class and have it critiqued. As the class read the story, I could hear the rumblings. Was that my panic or their disdain? Then came the discussions. “Disgusting.” “How can people live like that?” From that moment, I decided that it might be better if I didn’t share too much information about myself. It wasn’t until I was in a graduate class dealing with memoirs and trauma that I actually shared more. At that point, one of my classmates began talking about being raped. The class went silent. It was like they couldn’t relate. In order to alleviate some of the focus (because she was obviously still dealing with the emotions of the attack), I talked about being a walking cliche: poverty, homelessness, abuse, and other things. And yet here I am, fighting against the status quo to make my life different. Then my classmates opened up. Another talked about her alcohol addictions. Yet another spoke of living on the streets (by choice, but still about the impacts of that on her outlook). What I omitted, though, was that this is a struggle. Every day is a struggle to overcome these issues.
I own a home (which I’m trying to sell). I don’t tell many people about my home, and I have rarely invited people over. Why? Because while I own my home and the 2 1/2 acres with amazing mountain views, it is the type of home that automatically establishes an identity for the homeowner. I own a manufactured home. When people call it a trailer, I cringe. It’s on a stemwall. It’s in place. It doesn’t have aluminum siding or paneled wood walls (and I’ve lived in those types of homes, as well). My biases start coming out because of the stigma that is attached to that type of home. I don’t tell my classmates where I live and I don’t invite people over for study groups because I’ve heard their comments about those types of homes. This only places a larger divide between my classmates and me. I’m not one of them.
While some of these divides are my own creation, some of them are also based upon a societal need to define and organize everything and everyone into categories. If I try to pass or blend in through omission, is that defying categorization, or just feeding in to it?
I’ve been reticent to write. I think that I’m afraid that if I write about things, then it will all blow up and the dream will dissipate. It’s more than the very real imposter syndrome that so many academics feel. It is the knowledge that I actually don’t belong here. They’ve made a mistake. I don’t fit.
That’s not to say that I don’t want to be here. I do. I actually like it (despite the feelings of claustrophobia because I’m surrounded by people living on top of me, across from me, and on both sides of me, and the ribbons of asphalt and cars and people that seem never ending, and because I miss my mountain views and my wide-open property that gave me breathing room when I felt overwhelmed). There are lots of things to do, my fellow students are amazing, and the faculty have been supportive. It is a beautiful place, and my apartment has come together. But I don’t fit.
Pshaw, you’re saying. I can hear it. Really.
I’m not saying I’m leaving. I’m not saying I’m not going through with it. I’m just realizing that I am different, that there are reasons why I’ve never felt like I belonged in academia, and why it has always been a struggle. I’m reading an amazing book, Those Winter Sundays: Female Academics and Their Working-Class Parents, and I’ve really begun to realize that all of these feelings of inadequacy, of difference, of an “otherness,” has not been imagined, and I’m not alone in feeling it.
We don’t talk about class issues much in the United States. We (as in the American society) like to pride ourselves in being a classless society. We’re not. It’s clear to those of us who have had to deal with issues of poverty, homelessness, unemployment, and the fears that come with these issues that there is a definite class divide in the United States.
Nowhere is it more apparent than in higher education. This is the realm of the priviledged. For those of us who come from working-class families and who manage to make it into college and who, by some miracle or unnatural act, actually make it into graduate school, the university systems of the United States are filled with the perils of trying to fit in, trying to blend, trying to not be noticed for the interlopers we are. We’re not supposed to be here. Not only do our classmates not understand us and make snide remarks regarding the working class (or even worse, those who have been homeless or who are unemployed), but faculty rarely understand the pressures that accompany a non-traditional student and the struggles that go along with trying to beat the odds to be a part of the academy.
Oftentimes, family and friends don’t even understand this need to get an education (And it’s a need for me. No one struggles for twenty years to get a bachelor’s degree and three years for a master’s degree, works full-time during the entire process, and moves 1600 miles away from everyone they love to pursue something they don’t need. That would be insanity (and maybe that’s really what it is).). We don’t push through the comments made by people who love us (and worry about us), even when they hurt us, for something we don’t need. “It’s only an AA (Associate of Arts) degree.” “Now s/he thinks that s/he is smarter than the rest of us.” “I’m not stupid. I can understand what your research is about.”
I struggle to straddle the fence between my working-class upbringing where few people have more than a high school education, but who are amazing, inspirational, supportive people and the world of academia where most of my classmates have been supported financially and emotionally to attain their degrees, but who speak a different language and understand a different world than those of the working-class.
I don’t think of myself as better or smarter than anyone. If anything, perhaps I’m the one that is lost. My working-class family and friends have a path and understand it. They know what they want and they work hard for it. They are diligent. They are, for the most part, happy with their lives. My academic family can be defined in exactly the same way. Me — I’m the one who spends hours crying over a thesis because it’s not working out right, or who wonders if I’m doing the right thing, or who has given up a very good paying job to move thousands of miles to be unemployed (at least until the semester starts and I begin teaching).
In the next few days, I’m going to be writing a bit about this struggle. I want to talk about my experiences, the people who have inspired me, where I come from, and what I think my upbringing and struggles can do to make me a better educator, a better researcher, and a better person. One reason I’m doing this is because my brother, Shadow, and I have discussed writing a book about these issues (once I get my doctorate — not before). If I start putting down the foundations here, while I’m thinking about them, it will help me in the long run. However, another reason I want to talk about it is because class seems to be a taboo subject in our society generally, and in academia specifically. Oh, sure, we talk about it. We theorize and discuss it ad nauseum. But most people don’t really understand it and make judgments based on theory and not on actual encounters in class struggle. If there is another student out there who is struggling with these issues, or another person who is considering pursuing any degree but is stopping her or himself because of class issues, and my words can help, then this will all be worthwhile.
