°2005.10.29.sa | Ethnography from sociology class
Field note: I am the only male, and one of the few non-sociologists, sitting in a classroom of 11 females, two of which are the faculty. We are discussing a particularly difficult book, and it's not clear what the argument of the author is, why she even chose the title of the book, or if there is a contribution here. Yet, there does seem to be a consensus that the author is correct to argue that gender differences in the academy can be seen in the male's predilection towards abstract theory and the female's embodiment in her life-giving body. There are allusions to "the men down the hall" and a rolling of eyes. Ironically, I find this sort of abstract discussion too much for my (male) brain.
After arguing for more than an hour about what a term means, one professor turns to the glossary to try to find a comprehensible definition; the other "theoretical" professor shakes her head and says, "any book that has a glossary..." implying "sucks." The snarky graduate student says, "yeah, like 'Tony' Giddens."
And in another irony, in a class outside of the sociology department, but led by a faculty member with the sociology degree from Berkeley -- also home of the author of the book mentioned above and the anti-glossary professor -- we were asked to introduce ourselves by stating our name and our favorite theorist. I was unable to comply with the latter part of the request, but in time became fond of Anthony ("Tony") Giddens' theory of structuration. To me, it seemed powerful and clear. (In fact, I wrote much of the Wikipedia's article on structuration.) So, should I ever be asked such a weird question again, I might have an answer. However, it's clear to me now that that answer would not be satisfactory: he included a glossary in his book after all. (I like to define terms for the same reasons I benefit from working on a Wikipedia article or preparing a 5-10 slide presentation for any paper I write, it allows me to go back to my writing with greater clarity -- perhaps this is a form of the "Feynman freshman lecture" principle: if it can't be clearly explained, it's not fully understood.)
This tiny exchange is representative of my worst experiences in sociology. Often, academic disciplines are very much like an extended family. People can trace their lineage back many generations. (I appreciate when someone expresses gratitude for a mentor who made a difference in their professional development, but more often than not it's a sort of bragging.) Also, one can discern cultural differences -- writing style, philosophical presumptions, and a friendliness or bitterness -- in such lineages. Even the usage of the first name of an author is indicative. This is a pretension one might find in any academic: when they go out of their way to use the familiar name of the person who is not otherwise personally known to everyone else in the discussion. But in the sociology class, it is the rule, followed even by students making nasty comments about authors whom they have never met. I don't know what Berkeley is like nor how the treatment of female academics have affected their own disposition relative to a "macho" theoretical culture, but I can feel a cultural echo, aftershocks underfoot, that makes me glad I'm not at that epicenter.
°2005.10.28.fr | Good smells
Last night when I told Nora the smell of burnt syrup had been following me around in NY, she mentioned that people having a stroke sometimes smell things. Well then, I'm glad I wasn't the only one!
°2005.10.21.fr | Honor killings and paternity tests
On the BBC I read of a study in which 40% of those surveyed in Turkey still support "honor killings": the dishonorable practice of men killing their female relatives for perceived sexual indiscretions, including a pregnancy. Elsewhere, I read an Islamic apologist explain this practice by arguing that, while often harsh, the Koran was fair in that the same punishment was prescribed for men and women; also the standard of accusation was high requiring a number of witnesses. Yet, in practice this standard precludes the punishment of men because the whole of the world can see, and witness, a woman's adulterous pregnancy, but not so for the man. This is one of those unfortunate circumstances in which an allegedly fair standard becomes unfair in practice. How might that standard have been applied in a matriarchy? And consider the implications of DNA paternity testing in Muslim culture today. What might happen to this practice if the accused female could require a paternity test, the results of which everyone can witness, of her sexual partner?
°2005.10.15.sa | I heart history
I've realized I really like history; this realization has come to me like the discovery of a suppressed memory. The revelation occurred while speaking to my historical methods professor who received his degree at Johns Hopkins University. I mentioned I attended nearby UMBC. It turns out that he taught there in the early 90s. I responded, "Yes, I was there then too, I minored in history." This surprised even me when I said it. We knew some of the same faculty. In fact, I'm surprised I can remember so many of my classes: the history of the Middle Ages, Christianity, China/Japan, science, and computers. In fact, the possibility of minoring in history only occurred to me after I had developed the habit of taking their classes; in my senior year I had to take an American History survey course with a bunch of freshmen to qualify. I also remember an archaeology and ancient Greece course outside of the history department. (The first time I saw Road Warrior was as a comparative analysis with the Iliad.)
This semester, over 10 years later, I'm taking ethnography (sociology) and a historical methods course. The history course is one of the best I've ever had and the ethnography course, while useful, is beginning to raise my suspicion that I am averse to sociology. Perhaps it is sociology's reach and preoccupation with "theory" and a sort of sharpness that arises from its sense of inferiority with natural science? I'm not sure, but I often feel affinities with historians and some dissonance in spirit with sociologists, even those in my own department.
On the other hand... last weekend Nora and I attended a performance at Brooklyn's Greenwood Cemetery. As part of Open House New York the cemetery opened its catacombs and prominent tombs while guests were accompanied by accordionists, dancers, and the cemetery's historian. I remember mentioning to Nora that I was envious of the historian: what a fascinating and beautiful site in which to locate one's work. Or, I'd been complaining to Nora earlier this week that I had exhausted my nighttime reading -- fun stuff I don't have to take notes on as the day winds down. When we went to the library she pulled two books off the new arrivals shelf for me: The Gods Drink Whiskey and the Friar and the Cipher. I'm now reading the latter, about "Roger bacon and the unsolved mystery of the most unusual manuscript in the world." It is a popular press book by a team of married authors. The inner-jacket claims it will be of interest to bibliophiles and lay people alike. While I have encountered a couple of paragraphs that could use a little more editing, I am enjoying the accessible and dramatic rendering of old friends: the tortured -- sometimes literally -- history of great thinkers and thought. Plato's forms, Aristotle's logic, Augustine's Confessions, Lombard's Sentences, Avicenna's and Averroes' Arabic translations and commentaries on Aristotle's other works (Metaphysics) that when translated into Latin by Scot shook the ground of scholasticism and set the stage for Aquinas. Then there are the intrigues of the popes, kings, monastics, and faculties at Paris. Great fun.
°2005.10.03.mo | The third stanza
In my recent reflection on my anxiety I annotated the first two stanzas of the Serenity Prayer as an attempt to reduce, or at least understand, my suffering. But there is a third stanza which I am not fond of. It falls into the high almighty superstition to which I have a great aversion. Yet, I've been thinking about it a lot this week because it seems unfair to pretend it doesn't exist, and I suspect it contains a truth that I need to reckon with.
Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it.
Capitalized pronouns and aspersions of sin can be offputting, but these also disguise an insight with which I have great difficulty. In my anxiety the majority of my angst arises around decisions. I've become better at accepting the past, but my ego still firmly believes it is in sole control of determining my future. That if I only thought enough, planned carefully, and ordered my world with enough discipline and precision I would be happy. This is perhaps my greatest sin; not in a sense of a violation of some commandment, but a pretense that causes me immense pain.
Trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to his will.
A little joke I heard recently asks, "How'd you make God laugh?"... "Tell him your plans." Rightness does not follow from deistic intervention but in our acceptance of an imperfect world, selves included.
Surrender or submission are common themes in many practices. The 12 Steps ask us to understand that we are not in control. Islam means to submit or resign oneself. A part of my aversion to this stanza is that this notion is perhaps so often misunderstood and abused. To surrender oneself is not to reify it in relation to a dominant other, but to relinquish it altogether. There are innumerable cases where this notion leaves the well intended astray (Church and believer, Yogi and student). To the extent that I understand it, or any spiritual teaching, I read "surrender" as the Buddhist concepts of interdependence and emptiness.
That I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him forever in the next.
I'm happy with reasonably happy. And then when I'm dead, there's nothing more to worry about because, as Lucretius noted over two millennia ago, I'll be dead. As we all will be one day. As the sun will one day explode. As the universe will continue to expand and fall into a frigid silence. Or maybe not. Who can say for sure. That, certainly, is out of my hands.
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