28 September 2006

L'education des gosses



The beautiful baby boy pictured above is my Godson, El Babycito, the child of La Antropóloga and Mr. Polemic. He just had his first birthday, so the photo above is a bit out of date, however since I think all men look better with shorter hair, I am fond of this photo. I could swoon over his brilliance, his talent, his adorableness, but suffice it to say he is wonderful in his own special ways, as all children are before they discover the art of talking (back). Ah, the miserable joys to come!

The night La Antropóloga told us she was pregnant, Mr. Gordo and I had invited her over for supper, sans Mr. Polemic, who was elsewhere, exactly where I can’t remember. At the end of dinner, as we sat and yakked over the table, La Antropóloga announced she had something to tell us, to which I responded by saying jokingly, while blowing out a stream of smoke, “What, you’re pregnant?” When she answered in the affirmative, I was a little disconcerted, for a number of reasons. Mr. Gordo, of course, ever effusive, responded wonderfully. It took me a few weeks to regain my composure.


Why I would be less than excited by the coming of a child had a lot to do with how I consider(ed) parenting. Children are symbolic of so many complicated things: the end of adolescence, responsibility, maturity, adulthood. In one’s twenties and thirties, the carefree nature of adult life, the joys of adult life, and yes, the selfishness of adult life, struck me as the epitome of pleasure. Also, I could barely feed and clothe myself (some things never change). What would I do with a child? As I moved through this period of my life, I would often think of my mother at the same moment in time in her own life, for she had me at a young age. How she was able to accomplish parenting seemed like a divine mystery, a riddle of the Sphinx considered briefly as one applied cologne before going out to a fancy dinner with chums. It didn’t help that seemingly every heterosexual couple I knew at the time (and some LGBT ones as well) were getting pregnant or adopting babies or grabbing children off the street or however people go about getting children these days. It wasn’t that I didn’t approve of having children, I just didn’t want to lose my friends within the superstructure of modern parenthood, disappearing within the maze of obsequious "play dates", hypercompetitive endless yak about Junior’s progress, and precocious children interrupting adult conversations with mindless questions and demands. I feel/felt that parents in my particular intellectual and economic class experienced more than just the physical and biological changes that occurred during a natural human gestation: they also became in short order pod people, single-minded and decidedly unpleasant to be around.


Partially, this feeling was also reinforced by the phenomenon that was La Antropóloga and Mr. Polemic. La Antropóloga and I had begun working the same year at Sadistic College, and I remember our first meeting. I was at an introductory cocktail hosted by a very old but very jolly faculty couple (i.e. drunks) at their interestingly Preppy-Baroque-Scarsdale Killer home right before school started. La Antropóloga showed up with an old grad school chum, another young woman, in matching black outfits, and I just assumed, certainly from their physical countenance, that they were lovers. At the time, La Antropóloga had a tendency towards cute, ultra-sexy outfits that befitted her petite figure, a rare site among the majority of women academics I had known up to this point, who generally tended to match their male colleagues in a race to the bottom of the frump pile. In retrospect, the fact that she was so fashionable corresponded to my impression of La Antropóloga as a lesbian. At least in my universe, aside from their bad reputation, some of the most beautiful women in the world have been devotees of Sappho. Gimme a lipstick lesbian any day and twice on Sunday.


It was some time later that I met Mr. Polemic when he joined La Antropóloga in residence at Sadistic College, returned from whatever bushel his light had been hiding under, and then it all made sense, as one of those couples that seemed destined to find each other and belong, visually, aesthetically, and temperamentally, to one another. While I may have met him beforehand, the first lasting impression I have was at a party thrown at my small apartment, before Mr. Gordo and I lived together “officially.” Mr. Polemic ranged over a variety of topics, while drinking steadily. Charming, effusive, argumentative, and provocative all at the same time, he had the peculiar talent of nailing a point to the floor with a sledgehammer and a disarming, wry smile on his handsome face; all in all an unusual talent among academics, who especially amongst themselves tend to be as cautious and nervous as wallflowers at their first school dance. Together, they were bon vivants of a sort that I thought had gone extinct with smoking in airport lounges, the Gold Standard, Patricia Nixon chiffons, and gasoline at 75¢ a gallon, always impeccably dressed and groomed. I made the mistake once of showing up at their house for dinner at the end of one hot, humid summer day in shorts and a rank t-shirt, and had to suffer a delightful dinner astride them in their linen. Afterwards, recovering from my mortification, I always made sure to be put together for any little outing, whether that was the grocery store or dinner.

La Antropóloga and Mr. Polemic rapidly became a social centre of life at Sadistic College in those early, heady, and relatively happy days, and their parties became legendary, as much for the amount of top-shelf liquor and luscious, rich food that flowed from their kitchen as for the engaging talk and quirky, unstable personalities that surrounded their dinner table. It was like living in the fifties, where a drink (or three) before dinner was de rigueur and beef was always on the menu. So much so that Skanque Huore, always right on the money with witty impressions, began calling them the Kennedys of Sadistic College.


In this time, as well, Mr. Gordo and I had become quite close to them both, but the impending arrival of the proverbial bundle of joy, in my mind, brought the roof crashing down on the pleasant party we had been living. In place of cocktails, overflowing ashtrays, and huge cuts of grilled steak, various other cuts of roasted, fried, or barbecued animal flesh, and the other strange concoctions emanating from Mr. Polemic’s experimental kitchen, I imagined nappies, oversized prams, and macrobiotic, gluten-free snicky snacks. What a bore. By the time that La Antropóloga and Mr. Polemic asked Mr. Gordo and I to be the Godparents to the forthcoming El Babycito, I had resolved some of these questions in my mind. After all, what can one say? Don’t have the baby because then we won’t have as much fun? I suppose one could say that, but it doesn’t sound quite correct. But part of me was caught up in mourning the old relationship during the early part of La Antropóloga’s pregnancy, especially after smoking was, natürlich, banned from the house. In their defense, the soon-to-be parents were also conscious of the parenting trap that our society has elevated to a peculiar art, and vowed not to become pod people in that annoying Upper West/Dyke Slope sort of way.


When La Antropóloga and Mr. Polemic asked us to be the godparents of their El Babycito, we said yes immediately, incredibly flattered by the honour and privilege of the role. But like a true egghead, I began to ponder what it meant to be a godparent anyway. For a nominally Jewish couple and a couple of homosexual Catholics, what was the meaning of godparenting? Especially given the syncretic Latina/o Catholicism that Mr. Gordo and I practised, with our saints, candles, and fetishes, we certainly weren’t going to be escorting El Babycito to Confirmation in matching Brooks Brothers suits. We’d be lucky if we didn’t burst into flames at the Church door. So, doing what every egghead does now, I went to the Internet and researched godparenting, to help me answer some of my own questions regarding the practice, as well as be clear in my mind the nature of my relationship not only to my friends the new parents, but also to the baby. In other words, both Mr. Gordo and I took the role of godparenting seriously, and not as a somewhat outmoded social convention.

What I found online spoke to the rich history of Christianity as a spiritual practice, as well as the larger human dimensions of parenting beyond the nuclear family. Godparenting originally was related to the concept of religious sponsorship and training, for in the early years of the Common Era, when persecution of Christians was a regular occurrence, godparents ensured that the child was raised as a Christian if the parents should be unable to, either through death, disappearance, or dislocation, and/or to attest to the faith of the subject for entry into the faith.


After doing some of this initial research, I gathered one night with Skanque Huore and Mr. Gordo and we talked about godparenting and the role of LGBT people in the raising of children. If we, secular homosexual humanists, weren’t terribly interested in the actual Christian doctrine we were purportedly responsible for (which was already creaky, given that the parents were Jewish, we were homos, there is no godparenting tradition in Judaism, and none of us were truly interested in the dogmatic spiritual dimensions of the traditional role), then what exactly was our “official” role, especially since in the developed world even the Catholic godparenting tradition had become little more than ceremonious nothingness. So what exactly was it now? Gift-giving? Trips to Disneyland? The odd occasion of free child care? Mr. Gordo was more officially Catholic than I was, and actually had had godparents, including the head of a prominent Catholic family organisation in Venezuela who apparently provided fabulous gifts (a Fisher Price Airport playset!) until he ran off with his secretary in a naughty scandal. When Mr. Gordo told me this story, it reaffirmed my faith in Latin Catholicism.


My mother, on the other hand, had been so furious with the Church following her K-12 experience at the hands of taciturn and martially-minded nuns (“Penguins!” she would say dangerously, as she blew the smoke from her Virginia Slims 120 across the room and sipped her signature E & J screw top Burgundy on ice) that she refused to have me baptised at all, much to the consternation of my great-aunts, who began to dutifully bring me icons of saints and martyrs whenever they visited, as well as the occasional trip to church itself, although no one in my family was Catholic in the way the Roman Church imagines Catholicism, or rather I suppose in the way that Protestants imagine Catholicism. Like many US Latinas/os and Latin Americans, our relationship to faith was attenuated by indigenous practices: spells, magic, curanderas, offerings in the garden, the realm of nature, candles, icons divorced of dogmatic meaning but profound with power. And, of course, like any fabulous gay proto-Catholic boy, I had my own dreams of martyrdom and priesthood within and outside of these traditions and my mother’s dedicated secularism, delighting my grandmother with lurid Crayola portraits of the Crucifixion on craft paper, while at the same time she would nurture my fascination for lip-synching to Diana Ross’s Love Hangover into a microphone at six years old. In such tantalizing combinations Chicana/o experience can be found, strangely enough.


In any event, neither Mr. Gordo’s nor my own model of rather unconventional Catholic spirituality would quite do. As I turned to my computer, my online sources gestured towards the shifting potential of godparenting as a humanistic, secular practice. The night of our gallinero, Mr. Gordo, Skanque Huore, and I all agreed that this we could offer, not the faith as practised in our worst stereotypes of Catholicism (“Who made you? God! Where is God? Everywhere!” Et al), but the special faith of human and humane values that LGBT people can express and offer the world, and especially children. This is not to say that all LGBT people are somehow special, but rather to argue the point that LGBT people can offer something unique and vital to the raising of children, a perspective grounded in our location outside of heterosexuality, ideas about personhood, identity, and worldview that complement, enhance, and expand the idea of family in a positive way. It is to argue for the return of LGBT folks back into the “family,” not in a boring, mainstream way (although no doubt there are many boring, mainstream LGBT people doing just that), nor from a position of biological essentialism, but from the standpoint of our critique of heteronormativity and our rich tradition of synthetic familial relationships that emerge from our contemporary alienation from the biological family.


Of course, some would argue that LGBT people have never really left the family, that even in our varied states of alienation we are still present, even as unspoken shame, within our families. And, from what I’ve read, younger LGBT folks, at least from the bourgeoisie, may have more “normal” relationships to family that do not meet the classic pattern of dislocation and shock that typified “coming out” for many LGBT people (and still does). The nasty stereotypes about LGBT people, that we are infantile, immature, unrealized, can still exert a strong power over even enlightened parents on the role and relationship of LGBT people to their children. But what the odd progression of LGBT “liberation” and visibility means for us today is that LGBT people are returning to the family as both parents and members of extended families (such as godparenting), and for those of us to whom this matters, we are doing this on our own terms— not under the guise of bland asexual “uncles” and “aunts” but as ourselves: fabulous, idiosyncratic, and different. Such returns can offer their own riddle in a heteronormative culture, for sure.


I am reminded of my experience living with a faculty family whilst finishing my doctorate. I had returned from Montréal with no place to live, under intense pressure from the Dean to finish, and feeling alienated from California. With the help of my department administrative assistant, I found a billet with Chaucer Dad, a full professor in another department, his wife Philosopher Mom (also a PhD), and their two fraternal twin sons, living there for three years and completing the thesis under their roof with their incredible support. It was an interesting re-introduction to the family, not the least of which was that Chaucer Dad and Philosopher Mom were the exact biological age of my birth parents, the effect being that in the end I began to feel like the son from the first marriage, especially as we forged a familial relationship between ourselves within the house and formed a strange unit in public, with strangers attempting to figure out the dynamic between us (who exactly belonged to whom?). Chaucer Dad and Philosopher Mom had tried, through their feminist and progressive politics, to raise their sons with an eye towards a critique of gender and societal norms, which was successful in some instances and a complete failure in others, and much to the consternation of the other faculty families that surrounded them, who unsurprisingly were invested in relatively traditional orthodoxies of family. As I was to learn during this instructive time, theories of child-rearing and political exigencies wilt under the intense heat of actual children and their strange, secret cultures. When I arrived, the boys had just turned five, and they were wild, full of mischievous boy energy, a direct confrontation with a raw and untamed masculinity that had all of us perplexed and nervous.


They burned off the heads of the Barbie dolls they were given, and destroyed the purses and various feminine toys they had been given, while at the same time had been so exposed to LGBT people before my arrival that, at that time, they had no sense of LGBT alterity, in a literal sense. Once, when they asked me why I wasn’t married, I told them I guess I hadn’t found the right boy. They responded in their innocence and sense of care that they would marry me if I couldn’t find someone. I laughed and reassured them that I would indeed find someone my own age, as they would when the time came. But their response was so “normal” I was a bit disarmed. They had no “ick” factor, they had missed that lesson that boys marry girls and vice-versa exclusively and that any other option was “sick.” Sadly, their introduction to formal education and peer networks would shift this openness to human experience, this innocence about heteronormativity, and they became, in their early school years, a bit embarrassed by my presence, their strange “family,” the butt of a schoolboy joke, their very own “funny uncle.” This heteronormative homophobia induced by schooling was countered, however, by all that they knew about LGBT people and their relationships with LGBT people within and without the family. While the dimensions of this tension remain uncertain (they are now teenagers and as such are notoriously secretive about their feelings, especially as boys, a strange reassurance to nervous heterosexuals that even fabulous LGBT creatures parading through a childhood cannot prevent the tortured manifestations of teenaged masculinity), the existence of an alternative to the heteronormativity of the schoolhouse has at the very least forced them to articulate spatial and political dimensions with “normal” and carve out a recognition of different relationships within that concept, wherever that recognition may indeed be.


Surprisingly, Mr. Gordo and I share, as I find many gay men do, an odd affinity for children and their worlds, although I am perfectly willing to entertain that this may be exclusively a factor of being gordos and having facial hair, which makes us appear, especially to young children, like characters from Where the Wild Things Are, or alternatively, overly groomed stuffed animals, curious little hands tentatively touching beards, fat cheeks, bald pates, big hairy hands and arms. I am, however, cautious over the project of parenting, for that is what parenting is for most LGBT people: a project undertaken with great care and thoughtfulness, contra the majority of heterosexual births, which like immaculate conception, Mideastern political crises, and global warming, "just happen." As Camille Paglia once infamously quipped, “penis fits vagina.” Indeed.


In fact, within LGBT communities the question of parenting can be fraught with emotion, politics, and passionate disagreements. For every loving LGBT parent having children of their own or seeking to adopt here or abroad, you will find others who claim that not having children and the bourgeois accoutrements of the familial domestic is what being queer is all about. And while I appreciate and honour the labour of child rearing by LGBT parents (and for that matter, any parent really), I have had my own fears that our growing project of LGBT parenting may be reproducing the worst of our collective social narcissism in the spectre of the overly pampered bourgeois child, a risk most LGBT parents share with their heterosexual kith and kin. The ridiculously expensive prams, special diets, and child-centred nothingness that now parade shamelessly in plush LGBT urban neighborhoods are matched in the heterosexual world, and speaks to the general American obsession with unique and special children, every one a genius.




In any event, the arrival of El Babycito, the actual infant, transformed these theoretical paradigms of pre-birth discussion, worry, and conversation into a more tactile challenge. Here is a child. Of course, the changes for La Antropóloga and Mr. Polemic have been immense, but they remain, essentially, who they were before, if also now attentive to the needs of a growing child. Steak is still served, wine still flows, although unfortunately smoking remains outside chez eux (you win some, you lose some). For our part, Mr. Gordo and I have approached our relationship to El Babycito both in the effort to “take a vested interest in raising a more complete human being” as well as an integral part of our relationship to his parents, as a connection and bond and symbol of our love and deep affection for La Antropóloga and Mr. Polemic and the privilege of being a part of the raising and care of their child. For obviously in many ways it is a privilege, the same privilege we tend to take for granted as instructors in the classroom. Through our example, we affect the direction of our students’ lives. As El Babycito grows into boyhood and later manhood, Mr. Gordo and I can provide to him a complementary relationship, a parallel parenting in the best sense: of community, of difference, of sensibility, of connection. Teaching by example of the men we are: gay, Latino, intellectual, creative, loving, affectionate, bilingual, bicultural, introspective, not necessarily in that order. And gifts. Yes, of course, Mr. Gordo and I started on the gifts early, eyes full of extravagant Auntie Mame visions. But not Disneyland. Caracas, Curious George, Madrid, Tin Tin, London, the joys of department stores, the beneficial effects of high-end products, Paddington Bear, cute little outfits (and what age is cuter than toddler, I ask you? We introduced El Babycito to his first button-down onesie in blue plaid! Although the adventures of two large hairy gay men in the baby section can be enlightening to say the least…), literature, art, nature, even Teletubbies, yes, we are up for that. Mr. Gordo can sometimes act like a Teletubby around El Babycito, in fact. But Disneyland? That is decidedly someone else’s job. (Along with the nappies— In short, ew.)

17 September 2006

Scream



The recent tragic shootings at Dawson College, a CEGEP in Montréal, underscores a number of unacknowledged facts about our lives as professors and teachers (as well as students): we can be targets for the rage and anger of others. Of course, this is not necessarily distinguished from the quotidian dangers most citizens face, however exaggerated they in fact may be. But there is something spectacular, both for the assassins in question as well as the general public, in the transformation of places of learning into charnel houses of gore. Perhaps it is the connection between youth and promise and its early demise, or maybe more to the point, the frustrations and anger and disappointments and rage that typify one's experiences in school. For of course the schoolhouse, whether that be K-12 or university (or in the Dawson case, a CEGEP, which is sorta kinda like a Community College) is a shared experience for most everyone: whether we finished or not, were successful or not, most of us have been through the doors of school. For instance, who didn’t, in that most secret and deepest place, recognise the violence of school in the Columbine shootings, as deeply disturbing as such a recognition may be? Violent, ugly, terroristic, frightening? Yes. Senseless? Perhaps not as much as we may want to believe.


When I lived in Montréal, my apartment was on Boulevard de Maisonneuve Ouest near Metro Guy, right between Dawson’s Westmount location and the downtown campus of Concordia University, the site of yet another infamous Canadian school shooting: the case of Valery Fabrikant, the frustrated engineering professor who rampaged through his department, shooting as he went. Dawson had a beautiful campus, filled with a multi-racial collection of anglophone students who would come and go, although I was mostly familiar with them on the platform of Metro Atwater or roaming the aisles of the Pharmaprix in the Place Alexis Nihon, the mall across the street from the College. Like the students at Concordia, they seemed a special Montréalais class: sexy hip-hugging flared pants on the women, club chic on the men, both sharing a fascination with elaborate hair preparation and coiffure. At the time, the look struck me as quintessential Montréal: sophisticated, a little pretentious, overdone, but not overly so. In short, a serviceable class identified through visual markers of style.

The initial indications imply that the Dawson incident is of the “random-frustrated” variety of bullet-fueled massacres, with at this point seemingly little actual tactile connection to Dawson itself. The Fabrikant case, on the other hand, is much more powerful as a symbol of the frustrations of the profession and how they can, in certain cases, lead to the material manifestation of the anger and rage most of us keep contained. Feeling professionally cheated by his colleagues, denied tenure, stonewalled in his efforts in seeking redress, facing termination and reaching the end of his proverbial rope, on August 24th, 1992 Fabrikant arrived at school on his deadly mission of revenge, killing four professors and wounding an administrative assistant.

This followed by three years the other infamous Montreal school shooting at the École Polytechnique de Montréal of the Université de Montréal, when failed engineering student and murderous misogynist Marc Lépine went on a rampage, shooting any woman he could find. He killed fourteen women and injured thirteen others (men and women), in a case that shook Canadian society to its core.

Aside from causing one to question why Montréal would be the site for the most infamous school shootings in Canadian history, and the strange connection to engineering, both the Fabrikant and École Polytechnique incidents point us in disquieting directions in understanding the effect of education and the murderous rage that can be associated with the endeavour of education as practice, no matter how rare the actual manifestations of violence may in fact be.


Fabrikant represents on some level the tragic consequences of institutional politics and the violence of those politics taken to the material extreme, while the Lépine case reveals the discomfort some feel at diversification of society and increased competition from formerly excluded student and faculty populations (Lépine considered part of his failure at the École Polytechnique to be at the hands of affirmative action for women, a sort of Allan Bakke gone wild, or perhaps literal). I would argue that Fabrikant is the psychopathological manifestation of a system that too often unfairly evaluates faculty and that can be, in its worst cases, rotten to the core. In fact, the Fabrikant case led to two investigatory commissions that found partial support for Fabrikant’s claims against his colleagues and department at Concordia. Lépine is even more horrific, because it was an expression of rage against the changes in society that by its very nature the contemporary university embodies, as well as a telling measurement of the relatively facile nature of the transformations in society around gender, race, and sexuality. The women Lépine targeted in 1989 were pure symbols, not as in Fabrikant’s case known rivals but unknown paragons of changes in society and delusions of “unfair” advantage. Rhetorical charges of reverse racism are not wholly innocent, of course. Such claims have paradigmatic and material manifestations that, when the smoke clears, no one wants to take responsibility for, because they are ugly, and inhumane, and violent.

This disquisition is not meant to exculpate either Fabrikant or Lépine from their horrific crimes. But it is trying to read both cases as indicative of more than just psychopathology, more than just "senseless violence," as symbols of something deeper and more rotten at the core of what we do, as well as more powerful than we may understand it: the process of education and self-transformation which can bring both professors and students to the brink of sanity.

This is a process that we often seek as educators, pushing our students to become changelings, challenging their worldviews and self-perceptions. But as agents of these transformations, educators can also become, along with our students, the targets of the rage of those unable or unequipped to travel such a route. The cases outlined above reveal, in some ways, the material violence of the educational process and institutional structures, which for most of us is traumatic, revelatory, and powerful, even if it doesn’t result in a murderous manifestation.


The other day in a phone conversation with Professor Fussylicious, late of Sadistic College and now at Deep South U, we reminisced over the anger and rage we had (and have) over our treatment at Sadistic College, being targeted as gay men, dismissed, not respected, wounded. We also compared notes on our fantasies of revenge, which ran the gamut from embarrassment of the college to various personal purgatories for the individual players, some of whom were (and are) clearly nuts. Now, neither Fussylicious nor myself are apt to become school shooters of the classic sort, partially because like most people we internalise our anger and rage, or attempt to channel that energy into something more productive than plotting murder online; like, say, professional revenge. This is most of us, who partake of violence the old-fashioned way: skullduggery, gossip, put-downs in our written work and conference presentations, and malicious storytelling. And indeed these are violent, although they are not accorded the shock, the disbelief that physical manifestations of gun violence are, because they are different in degree as well as kind. Ruining someone’s reputation is miles away from wiping them off the face of the earth at the end of a sawed-off shotgun. Or is it, if all you have is your reputation? In any event, clearly not everyone has the ability to contain their expressions of rage within the realm of the metaphysical.

This perceived rising threat of violence, through the highly publicised school shootings at universities and high schools of the last twenty years, has increasingly led institutions to become hyperconscious of the minimal yet present risk of violence. It is hard to tell whether such concerns are metaphorical and panic-inspired or more literal. Apocryphal and not-so-apocryphal stories of in-class violence, of yelling, screaming, threats, punches, and physical assaults, circulate among the professoriate and administrators, causing increased attention to classroom behavior, litigious risk, and physical danger to students and faculty. Security desks, panic buttons, CCTV security surveillance, and emergency contact points on campus are symbols of containing the disorder. Psychological reading strategies have also become more present, turning professors into psychics, trying to divine whether student X or colleague Y will turn out to be murderous, mildly disturbing, or just annoying.

At the first faculty meeting at Cold City U, we were given a draft of a new counseling guide for faculty and administrators on dealing with, in essence, lunatic students. Titled something like “Dealing with Disturbed Students,” it has several helpful nuggets of wisdom for our new practice of education in a violent society, some of the most interesting sliding across the spectrum from the sublime to the ridiculous: from stating behaviour guidelines in the syllabus, to having an active cell phone on and programmed with the number for Security at hand, to finally knowing an evacuation route out of the classroom and/or building en cas d’urgence.

Some of the listed “warning signs” for a potentially disturbed student are so quotidian as to be laughable, including falling asleep in class, appearing distracted, appearing disinterested, absences, and “bizarre” behaviour. How to separate the lunatics from regular, normally disturbed students here is like trying to divine the number of angels dancing on the head of a pin, with the overall effect of such a banal list being that any student, at any time, can be the next shooter, which I suppose in some ways is true, although such a list gives the hyperconscious and careful instructor little comfort, much less techne, for telling the loony bins from everyone else. In dealing with clearly disturbed students, the guide helpfully tells us it is probably not a good idea to identify or confirm the student’s disturbance. The example they use is to avoid saying that you ‘also hear the voices,’ or to engage in intellectualisation, such as asking questions about the problem or debating the merits of suicide in history. No duh! Some faculty wanted these guidelines on a small business card for easier reference, to which I turned to the colleague sitting next to me and said, “They should keep it simple. ‘What to do in a classroom emergency: RUN!’”

Aside from the gallows humour, we have all had encounters with students who are, ahem, in need of help. How I have dealt with them is to be very, very careful. The scrim of professsionalisation, maintaining distance between the student and myself has been a pretty effective tool, not to downplay my advocacy role for students, but to reinforce my position not as their friend, therapist, or probation officer, but as their professor. Even in the best of scenarios, however, we have moments of vulnerability. Last semester, I had a student who was a little edgy, smart but unstable in certain ways. One day, he arrived unannounced at my office to discuss his poor score on a question on the midterm, just as I was opening boxes. We sat down at my appointment table and he began to rant and get very emotional, while the pair of scissors that I had been using to open boxes were inches away from his hand. I maintained calm, but desperately wished there was an elegant way to reach across the table and snatch up the scissors and put them away. For a split second, I wondered if my colleagues down the hall would hear my screams when he plunged the scissors into me, he was so upset. The moment passed, and I have made it a rule to keep my scissors out of sight at all times subsequently, which is a pain when you actually have to open something.

But a very fine line of control was mildly crossed in that moment, and it made me think long and hard about the dangers we face, not only in the paranoid sense of crisis guides distributed by administrators concerned about lawsuits and scandals, but by the basic risks of the educational mind-meld we work every semester. I see no easy solution to these risks, for I believe in the mind-meld, the challenge of self-transformation, the trauma of education. The chilling fact that these processes may very rarely result in violence is not enough, in and of itself, to dissuade me from that mission. It is, however, enough to convince me to hide sharp implements in my office and always leave my office door open, and in some senses be wary of the very students I wish to reach through education. It may be depressing, it may be a symbol of our failing culture, it may be many things, but for me it is above all pragmatic. Shit happens, and I mean to survive. The big queen you see next on the telly crawling out a window with her hair askew and knickers on display for a national audience as her skirt rides up on the way down, will be me: ragged, shocked, a mess, but alive. When all else fails, when the mind meld goes awry, when your crisis guide was left at home, break off those heels and run for your life.

14 September 2006

Oso Desnuda


Photo taken by Mr. Gordo in Mexico City, August 2006

1. Where did you take or get your profile picture?
Someplace online
2. What exactly are you wearing right now?
Plaid flannel Pyjama bottoms, plaid boxers underneath, and an Izod orange and white ringer T-shirt
3. What is your current problem?
Unfortunately, to many to name here succinctly á l'instant, but I'm sure you'll hear all about them eventually
4. What makes you most happy?
Madrid, Genève, Montréal, delicious products, lazy rainy days with Mr. Gordo, being with my closest friends (La Zeez, The Voice, The Fierceness, La Donna, Big Sis, Skanque Huore, La Antropóloga, Mr. Polemic, and El Babycito, La Vicks, Prancilla, et al)
5. What's the name of the song that you're listening to?
"Ode to Boy," Yaz
6. Has anyone you've been really close with passed away?
My maternal grandmother, who was the light of my enfance
7. Do you ever watch MTV?
I tried watching that new reality show about hot football players (Mainstream Jail Bait), but after the first episode, kept missing it, so, I guess the answer is no. I'm afraid I'm not a terribly dedicated television watcher.
8. What's something that really annoys you?
Unnecessarily mean or taciturn people, which apparently includes 50% of the American people

Chapter 1: All About Oso
1. Middle name: The Spanish name of a saint, also the name of a great-grandparent
2. Nickname(s): Cacho, Gordo, Feo, Oso, Chango (childhood)
3. Current location: Cold City
4. Eye color: hazel

Chapter 2: Family
1. Do you live with your parents?: Decidedly not
2. Do you get along with your parent(s)?: No, I was a little too fabulous for them
3. Are your parents married/separated/divorced?: Divorced, oh so long ago
4. Do you have any Siblings?: No biological siblings; many chosen ones

Chapter 3: favourite...
1. Ice Cream: I don't fancy ice cream, generally
2. Season: Fall
3. Shampoo/conditioner: Clarins Men Shampooing Idéal

Chapter 4: Do You..
1. Dance in the shower?: Distinctly not, I'm too busy exfoliating
2. Write on your hand?: No, I'm not a teenaged girl (anymore)
3. Call people back?: Very rarely, I've given up the telephone for the ephemeral life of the Internet
4. Believe in love?: Yes, doesn't everybody?
5. Sleep on a certain side of the bed: Only with Mr. Gordo, when that certain side is next to him
6. Any bad habits?: Too many to list here, but, ahem, yes. A girl needs some secrets after all.

Chapter 5: Have You...
1. Broken a bone?: No, although there are many people I have known that deserve a broken bone or two
2. Sprained stuff?: Yes, once, ankle, in high-heeled platform shoes
3. Had physical therapy?: Yes (see above)
4. Gotten stitches?: Yes, when some schmuck pushed me at the slide in kindergarten and I hit my head on a concrete block. My grandfather came to get me and took me to his doctor. I was embarrassed to be in my underwear on the examination table. I was five.
5. Taken Pain killers?: You mean prescription? Yes, but they didn't really work (I should have stuck to whiskey)
6. Gone SCUBA diving or snorkeling?: If God had meant me to be a fish, She would have given me gills
7. Been stung by a bee?: Yes, but Wasp stings hurt more. Once, on a stupid lark, I held class outside and in the middle of my lecture was stung by a Wasp. I continued the lesson until breaktime, and then retreated to the men's loo to howl, it hurt so much.
8. Thrown up at the dentist?: No, does that happen often? Ew.
9. Sworn in front of your parents?: My mother taught me the fine art of the word "Cunt" (among countless examples), so make an educated guess
10. Had detention?: Yes, once, but for what I cannot fathom, since I was such a Miss Goodie Goodie Gum Drop in High School

Chapter 6: Who/What was the last
1. Movie(s)?: Another Gay Movie (Oh Mary, don't ask!)
2. Person to text you?: Mr. Gordo
3. Person you called?: Mr. Gordo
4. Person you hugged?: Mr. Gordo (getting repetitive here)
5. Person you tackled?: I generally don't tackle people
6. Thing you touched?: My delicious American Spirit Light (such refreshing flavour!)
7. Thing you ate?: Homemade Chicano tacos chez moi
8. Thing you drank?: Antarctica Diet Guaraná
9.Thing you said?: "Te quiero" to Mr. Gordo
10. Friend you miss the most that has moved?: Many, but at this particular moment, Prancilla

11 September 2006

September 11th, 2001



September 11th, 2001 was a teaching day for me. It was the second week of classes of my first semester at Sadistic College. At the time, I didn’t know how to drive, and had been commuting with a friendly woman from the Publications Office. I arose at 6:30 am, made coffee, and showered and dressed whilst listening to NPR. I loved Garrison Keillor’s poetry segments, for I thought he had a very sexy voice. Shortly before I was to meet my commute partner at the corner, as I applied lip moisturiser and readied my bag, the plane destined to hit Tower One flew roughly over my head. It rammed into One World Trade Center as I sleepily clambered in her car.

Upon my arrival at school, the campus Internet was down, so I went to the faculty steno pool to make photocopies, which is where I was when Tower Two was struck. Making photocopies. As I was returning to my office, I saw two new colleagues across a lawn and waved at them. They looked preoccupied and in a rush and did not return my wave nor smile, which I found curious and disarming. Upon return to my office, the Internet, annoyingly, was still not working. I busied myself with collating the copies I had just made for my 11:30 class and found myself idly eavesdropping on my colleague next door, who was speaking with her mother in Saint Louis.

Her mother, reporting from Saint Louis, told her there was an incident at the WTC, possibly terrorism. I heard enough of the one-sided conversation to make me uneasy, immediately thinking of Big Sis, whose commute at the time took him close by the WTC. When she hung up, I went over and asked her what was going on. She was grabbing her bag to go to the Student Centre, where apparently they were broadcasting a CNN live-feed in the cinema. How she knew this I did not know. Since the Internet was down we were remarkably ignorant of what was happening at that very moment. We later found out one of our routers went through New York Metro and had collapsed from the volume of traffic that morning.

We walked to the Student Centre together, and arrived in the packed cinema just in time to watch as Tower One collapsed live on CNN, and with it a whole way of life.

The shock was palpable, but I do not remember any expressions of outright grief. Just shock. It was there that I learned of the Pentagon, Tower Two, boxcutters, terrorists, hijackings, the outlines of the plot that have not changed significantly in five years.

I met my 11:30 class to tell them that we would not be meeting in a time of national emergency. Most of them had actually come to class, remarkably enough. However, one of my students, from the Bronx, would not stop asking detailed procedural questions about the syllabus, midterm, and final examination. I answered her questions, and later recognised quite clearly this moment as one of shock, her shock at pressing urgent questions on the final (13 weeks distant), and mine at answering.

That afternoon an information session was held on the soccer field. It was warm and sunny, and there was no new information, only what at that point we all knew. I returned home that evening, made several phone calls, talked to Big Sis, The Voice, and perhaps some others, and listened to my radio. I had no television and no local friends really, so all I had was NPR and after midnight, the BBC World Service. Unlike so many people here and around the world, I did not witness the collapse over and over again. The event was not, initially, a visual spectacle for me in the same manner that it was for people with televisions and cable. Aside from the brief time in the cinema, I had no repetitive visual. Only the idea, which was in point of fact much more frightening.

For me, it was voice and Internet and the New York Times, but most importantly voice. The voices of reporters and witnesses, the live television audio feeds on several local radio stations, and the measured calm of the BBC, reporting the events in every statistical detail, late into the night, listening in the dark while laying in my bed, alone and scared and bewildered.

Big Sis, oddly enough, had gone to work that day. He was able to see the burning Tower One from his subway station in Brooklyn, and got on the train anyway. Tower Two was hit while he was riding on the number 4 train uptown. He emerged in midtown to chaos, panic, terror. Talk about vertiginous (as if the subway wasn’t enough). His office was unceremoniously closed for the day and he ended up walking home, across the 59th Street Bridge, for by then all subway service through lower Manhattan had ceased.

Life has continued, of course. We have survived, if, it is true, not thrived. But I think sometimes of that day, and the horrible year(s) that followed, and think about the life before. A year or two after, I read an interview with an SNL comedian, I can’t remember who, where she talked about the life before 9/11, the innocence which sounds so clichéd but is true, in a certain way, and how she would have given anything to have that life back. I’m no longer sure whether or not that life before was superior, but I do know that I could have happily lived the rest of my days without that moment, at that time, in a new job in a small town with no TV, of feeling awfully afraid and alone.

The spring following 9/11, The New Yorker did a profile on some stunt that the "street magician" David Blaine had performed in New York, standing on a pole for hours or something like that. Afterwards, when asked how it was, Blaine replied that he was afraid. I remember being struck by the piece, which was sadly wry, using Blaine’s trick and commentary, standing alone and cold and afraid, as a metaphor for the national feeling at the time. We haven’t moved very far from that moment, which only adds tragedy to the farce of the last five years, the life after the life before.

08 September 2006

Our Partisan Divide: A Note



Logo Image by Matt Fitt



Careful readers of this blog will be familiar, in a basic sense, with my political sensibilities. I am a critic of the current administration and the particular dynamics of the contemporary Republican Party. Hardly a secret, and for most academics in the humanities hardly a shocker either. The true conservative nature of the academy is rarely played out along such openly political lines, where it is quite possible to be both a "radical" and a rabid reactionary simultaneously. Now, this personal distaste for the Republican Party precedes our current administration by many years. I grew into political consciousness during the Reagan years, and saw first hand the deleterious effects of Republican policy in its milder, friendlier variant (the eighties, who knew?). My political sensibility was drawn both from immediate experience as well as moral and ethical compasses borrowed from family, teachers, and friends. I consider my politics to be, above all, humane: concerned with others, empathetic.

Mind you, as I meander along this pathway, that I have not described myself as a Democrat. I am, of course, registered as a Democrat, for what that’s worth. But, again, like many intellectuals, I have problems with the Democratic Party that stretch back to the Clinton years and the whole “don’t ask, don’t tell” debacle, among other things. But then again, I would be the first to admit leadership is hard, and leadership is what we have decidedly been lacking since, seemingly, Lyndon Baines Johnson, who I love as the expression of an American ideal in spite of all his well-noted flaws and errors.

What has led me to this brief, schematic political curriculum vitae is the current crisis over ABC’s telefilm, The Path to 9/11, airing this coming Sunday and Monday commercial-free to emphasise the gravitas of the moment. In short, ABC has produced a “docudrama” that claims to be based on the September 11th Investigatory Commission Report, but in fact deviates significantly from the report’s conclusions in a seemingly partisan effort to shift “blame” (if such a thing can be assigned in reference to 9/11) onto the Clinton administration. Those of you unfamiliar with the brewing scandal can read about it here and here, and take action here and here.

If this were just a kerkuffle on a Rightist blog, I would be less than interested, for after all, the American Right has had an unhealthy antipathy towards the Clintons in particular since well before Monicagate. However, the fact that a major television network is sponsoring this telefilm, written by a well-known conservative operator, I have found profoundly shocking and depressing, like the last vestige of hope for the Republic has slipped through one’s fingers. I know the ridiculousness of placing the hopes of the Republic on a commercial television network in the form of a doubtless incredibly cheesy and badly acted melodrama. But there was a time when networks attempted to avoid such partisan politics in favour of more vanilla moral messages. That time, apparently, has passed, gone the way of the loon along with the Fairness Doctrine.


Perhaps the first tremors of what was to come were actually contained in Gore v. Bush, our very own velvet putsch. But we continued on, angry perhaps, but not unnecessarily so. Americans, by and large, are a bland, conformist people. From such revolutionary and inspirational roots has grown a pragmatic and unimaginative mass culture. Our cities however, even the smaller ones, contain the vital life of the urbane, the striving, the questioning, the revolutionary in all its exalted and annoying aspects. To a certain extent this also exists, in a deformed version, in the universities. But out there, beyond the horizon of the cosmopolitan vision, lies a nation not necessarily scary as much as boring. It is not for nothing that the classic New Yorker cover showed a slim void where the heart of the nation lay, between the Hudson and California.


If you would permit me a moment of indulgence, Cold City is a remarkable example of this. In spite of the best efforts of banality, it has managed to hold onto some sense of the urbane, however strange a formation that may be. There is a small city centre, mid-density but full of people, apartment buildings, poorer and richer neighborhoods, parks, stores, alterna-youth, highways, boulevards, and streets, all very manageable and practical. Cold City is not terribly attractive, but it is serviceable. However, in the space of two generations, it has been put under the hot iron and spread, like melted butter, nilly willy in all directions. The sprawl is incredible, as first, second, and now third-tier suburbs ring the old city centre, connected by a freeway system designed for much less volume than must be dealt with today. There is, typically, no public transport system to speak of, and local efforts to revive streetcar service, which as was the case for many American cities was once extensive and efficient, have met with suburban complaints to the state legislature over monies diverted from “highway improvement.”


For me, personally, Cold City is a pale shadow of a city, amusing perhaps on the rare occasion, but largely invisible through a mutual ignorance. Cold City is not exactly friendly to newcomers, and my life has been so torn between here and there (Big Eastern City), that I have not found it within myself to get to like the place. At least there is sexual and racial diversity here, which I suppose is my way of saying it could in fact be worse, much worse. But for the regional transplants who have come from the dying Empty Quarter states and provinces, Cold City is paradise, where they can become who they want to be, free from the prying eyes of dying towns with no interstate exit. Chacun à son goût, evidently, which is to say that while I find the place dreary in the extreme (I am reminded of André Laurendeau's memory of gazing out of his Winnipeg hotel window onto an icy and snow covered parking lot: "What am I doing here?"), this is not without a recognition of the power of this urban(e) space for others, a blue-ish island in a red-ish sea.


Now, what does the space of the American city have to do with our partisan moment, one may wonder? In the space of half a century, Americans have jettisoned their cities for the suburban home, climate control, the SUV, and Big Box stores. What is lost is the quotidian contact essential to democracy: negotiation, consensus, and dialogue. Isolated by television and our vehicles and in point of fact our national misanthropy, we can fool ourselves into thinking we actually don’t need each other, or worse, that we don’t need the government. Without having to be uncomfortable, which in fact is what a true confrontation with diversity (of race, sexuality, opinion) is, we are marooned in a strange and frightening box where like-minded opinions reverberate like a horrifying echo chamber, slowly but surely driving us all insane. Perhaps we are already there, ready to retreat, like Lucía after her shoot out at Barajas in Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, back to the asylum, where it is more peaceful than the challenge of living in three dimensions. It is not an accident that North American cities have been under siege for the last fifty years, for cities are where one becomes polluted by the strange, the foreign, the different, the unknown, irrevocably contaminated by the race and sexuality white Americans have always been terrified of. City slickers, even the Cold City variety, have more in common with their brethren in cities around the world than with the country folks down the road, and as such form a cosmopolitan segment that rises above local, regional, and national politics, and therefore, also, containment.


The legacy of 9/11, and what has followed, much more than what occurred before, reflect this procrustean bed of American nightmares, at the very least the nightmares of those who have forgotten what it means to connect, those who hate cities and what they stand for, and those who have hated or resented the social and political changes since the 1960s. The recently oft cited quote from Benjamin Franklin, “Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety,” seems to ring especially true in the current moment. Perhaps our republican era has ended, and we have now moved onto becoming something else, something different: an Empire? An oligarchy? An autocracy? Who can be sure, in the middle of the metamorphosis? Committed Leftists would observe that we have been, at least since the end of the 19th century and perhaps before, all of these things already. And our current moment seems to share quite a lot with the Gilded Age, the darkness before the progressive dawn. Yet even in the Gilded Age, people were agitating for change, through labour organising or progressive and populist movements (however bad a reputation some of those might have), often times violent and dangerous work. The percolations of those movements are present, fleetingly, in our own age, but the ambivalence of the vast majority of Americans, on one hand, and the rabid partisan politics of smaller, better organised sectors of political society, have thrown a blanket over overtly expressive sentiments of Leftist or progressive or even (gasp!) liberal sentiment. The disabuse such rhetoric has fallen under is a function of many things, not the least of which has been dissension on the Left and zealous ressentiment on the Right.


I suspect, however, and as I have hinted at here and before, that the rightward turn of electoral politics and the never-ending march of the Culture Wars have their roots in irresolvable national questions of race and sexuality. If we trace the political through the cultural, a natural movement, we see the end of the liberal consensus at the same moment when the Civil Rights Movement began to make serious inroads into the infrastructure of white supremacy, at the same moment that sexual liberation, birth control, and safe and legal abortion (on a state, then national level) were beginning to significantly change (some would say modernise) American culture and society. The city, and the values of the city (cosmopolitanism, sexual sophistication, tolerance, negotiation) spreading its glorious wings over the nation, over the bland middle. And then all Hell broke loose. Oops.


A fact that I love to drop on my students, much to their dismay, is that formal white supremacy ends in this country in 1965, not 1865, with the passage of the Civil Rights (1964) and Voting Rights (1965) Acts by Congress. We are not that far out of the gate on this question, and the sustained attacks on racial justice (or even any question of racial justice) as well as the ever-present conundrum, seemingly, of contemporary LGBT rights, has rent the political fabric that, in its halcyon expression, was arguably grounded in white supremacy and a static social dynamic. And most distressingly, these attitudes have been sustained not (only) by the descendents of the English colonisers, but by and large by the white ethnic communities that arrived in the middle and end of the 19th century, who had a possessive investment in whiteness and its privileges. Where this race problem meets the problems of "deviant" sexuality of contemporary women and LGBT people is where we find the locus of the contemporary right centered around the Culture Wars. This pining for moral "seriousness" masks other, more disturbing socio-economic agendas that have marched forward as everyone dickers over whether gay people deserve to marry. The Pandora's Box of facing our changing and dynamic and ugly, resentful selves has been sprung, and there's no going back to either our pre-modern past of white supremacy and gender hierarchy or fantasies of liberal consensus predicated on rationality, especially given the incredible effort on the part of many to avoid looking in that mirror, the strange effect of which has been to deny that there is even an image to be reflected back.


All of which is to say that there seems to be little meeting ground around these questions, precisely because they are so foundational. White supremacy and the politics of resentment hurt us all, not just people of colour or LGBT people, evidenced most explicitly by the support some Americans express for a political party that does not have their, nor the nation’s, best interests at heart. I have written to ABC, I do my little work here and there to foment critique, but at a moment like the one we are living through, I am reminded of the 1978 march in honour of Harvey Milk, as related by Randy Shilts, the night he and the Mayor of San Francisco were murdered by a racist and homophobic white ex-policeman. As hundreds of LGBT and str8 people peacefully and placidly marched down Market Street, holding candles and crying, there was one real angry black queen, on the sidewalk, screaming at the numb passersby: “Where is your rage?!”

Where indeed?

07 September 2006

Ode to the Commencement of the School Year (Objet Trouvé)



In honour of my hard-working colleagues in the Imperial Faculty, I offer this nugget of wisdom, from the glamorous streets of New York City—

Teacher #1: So I decided what my big job switch will be in a couple of years.
Teacher #2: What?
Teacher #1: I'm going to be a party planner. Or, someone on the set of a TV show.
Teacher #2: Huh?
Teacher #1: Well, I was watching Rachael Ray the other day, and the camera pulled back, and there was this girl with a headset.
Teacher #2: Yeah?
Teacher #1: And that's what I want to do. I mean, teaching's nice, but you don't really get to interact with anybody, right? It's just us. And the kids.
Teacher #2: Right.
Teacher #1: Oh, God, when will this train get there? I want to start drinking!

Uptown #1 Subway Train, New York City
Overheard by: Duncan Pflaster


Only fifteen weeks until Christmas! Make every drink count!

04 September 2006

An Appreciation: Willi Ninja, Legend (1961-2006)



Sometimes on a legendary night
like the closing of the Garage
When the crowd is calling down the spirits
Listen
And you shall hear the footsteps
of all the houses who walked there before


— Malcolm McLaren, "Deep in Vogue"

Late this evening, Prancilla sent me an email telling me that the legendary voguer and New York nightlife star Willi Ninja passed away yesterday after a long struggle with HIV disease. He was 45 years old. Several other bloggers have tributes up to this truly remarkable dancer and personality, who reflected the brilliance of Black and Latin@ diasporic and gay syncretic dance and cultural forms in his practice and persona as Diva and Ballroom voguer (legendary).

Most of you are probably familiar with Willi from his key appearance in Jennie Livingston’s 1991 documentary Paris is Burning, which examined the ballroom scene of New York City in the late 1980s. Livingston’s film was in many ways a case of being in the right place at the right time: She captured almost by accident the vibrant yet ephemeral world of Black and Latina/o LGBT people and their celebrations of self-transformative identities right as that world was being changed by HIV and shifts in popular relationships to voguing as an art form.


Shortly before Livingston’s film debuted, voguing and the challenging world of ballroom culture exploded as a trend, first through Malcolm McLaren’s ballroom-inspired 1989 album Waltz Darling (with its single featuring Willi, “Deep in Vogue”), then of course through the queen of appropriation herself, Madonna, with her white-washed cover of the voguing phenomenon, "Vogue." Yet Madonna’s attribution of Classic Hollywood Cinema stars to the voguing phenomenon was misplaced, for both voguing as practice and the ballroom culture as an expression of sophisticated Black and Latina/o urban forms of cultural syncretism were in fact grounded in more contemporary and immediate aspects of race, class and glamour: popular magazines, fashion, the city, and dance music. As much as I love her, Bette Davis really had very little to do with it.


Of the voguers featured in Paris is Burning, Ninja stood out for developing a particularly athletic style, featuring difficult positions and limber movements, quick pose changes and, of course, irony and attitude. Ninja parlayed his talent into teaching models and socialites, appearing in music videos, film, and on television (including Marlon Riggs’s groundbreaking Tongues Untied and How Do I Look?), recording dance music, and hosting nightlife events in New York City. You can see his music videos here and here, and listen to one of his tracks for free here (after the long queeny intro, which is worth listening to as an example of the Black/Latin@ gay accent). This song, “Hot (for you),” is also available for purchase on ITunes. He follows several other prominent stars of Livingston’s feature that have succumbed to HIV disease, including fellow legends Angie Xtravaganza and Dorian Corey.


I first saw the brilliance that was Willi at a benefit screening of Paris is Burning in San Francisco in 1990. I had just moved west, and felt a strong identification with the film, not only because I had been marginally associated with the scene through friends from New York City, but also because of the powerful and rigorous vision of self-identity and social critique that Paris is Burning offered gay men of colour. Livingston’s film turned out to be controversial for many str8 critics of colour, not the least of which was bell hooks, who panned it. Alternatively, the film received vast praise from post-structuralist theorists working on gender and sexuality, most prominently Judith Butler. Those debates seem very distant, like the echo of conversations from another place and time.

In the end, of course, Livingston’s film has had incredible staying power, as a vital and important documentary that, almost in spite of itself, serves as a platform to hear the voice of a particular marginalised subculture at the height of its fruition. What Livingston’s film does, for me at least, is preserve a peculiar moment in time that includes and envelopes me: the dancing, the music, the scene all bring back strong memories of being young, angry, scared, and joyous in the late eighties, growing into ourselves as peculiar expressions of class, race, and sexual identity in a dark time, of HIV disease, drug use, homophobia, and economic insecurity.

While on the face of it the gilded halls of Prestigious Eastern U. had little to do with the Harlem ball scene, in my mind and the minds of my cohort of young queens of colour at PU, they were closer than one might have suspected (not the least of which were the connections some of our crowd had with the scene itself in New York). From the snap-pivot to language/argot to the centrality of dance and dance music to shade (learning and deploying) to reading to the highly conscious awareness of appearance and the power of verisimilitude, we were engaged in our own version of ballroom culture, the stakes of which would be as disastrous and tortured as what befell the Harlem voguers after their fifteen minutes of fame were up.


The strange refraction of race and class and gender through education and privilege and identification was a process that resulted in a lot of damage, but drew some of closer to those we had “left behind” while driving others away, towards a peculiar expression of assimilation. While our str8 compatriots either bought into the promise of non-offensive racial identity ("incognegro") or alternatively festishised Malcolm X and began wearing leather amulets with images of Africa on them, "the children" (New York slang for LGBT folks of colour) were listening to Shep Pettibone and Kraftwerk, dancing, and shopping. We were accused, as the voguers of Paris is Burning, of not taking our political responsibilities seriously. However, the real difference was between methodologies of activism, one of insouciant joy versus banal sobriety, irony versus deadly dull seriousness. Being gay and of colour meant, at least in the eighties and at least for myself and the people I knew, recognising one’s essential alterity from standard notions of race and community, and struggling to figure out a way to accommodate such differences in one’s life and politics in an engaged way, a process central as well to the ballroom scene. We children were interested not in returning to ancient origins or, alternatively, the sixties, but in living in the moment as creatures of modernity and the city, in creating new communities that acknowledged who we were.

For my summer class, I screened Paris is Burning, and Prancilla came to class that night to discuss the film with students. I don’t remember the nature of the conversation, but what I do remember is the joy of discussing this moment with my doublegood girlfriend Prancilla, and the connection and bond between us that it spoke to, both as viewers and gay men of colour. How, in some ways, and in a manner very different from, say, Tongues Untied, Paris is Burning was a cinematic expression of ourselves and the moment of our emergence as gay men of colour, playful and ironic and pissed off at the world and fabulous and full of attitude. Willi Ninja, along with the other queens on Livingston’s celluloid, speaks to us and through us, and is thankfully forever preserved in his brilliance and temporality.

I mourn tonight Willi Ninja, another sister passed on, a true legend, a talented and accomplished artist. I’m going to put on a little SalSoul and Larry Levan, sit back, have a smoke, and think of Willi, Angie, Dorian, and all the other great LGBT legends who have made us who and what we are, who form on some essential level part of ourselves.



Pop, dip, and spin, girl! Work it, Miss Thang!

Through memory we honour their presence and contribution and keep them, and ourselves, alive.

02 September 2006

The Empire Strikes Back



The must-read thread of the moment can be found over at the fabulous University Diaries, where an engaged conversation is underway on Donald Kagan’s recent piece on Harvard, the collapse of core curricula, and the "Imperial Faculty." Kagan, ex-Dean of Yale College and Lady Huffenpuff Professor of Something or Other, uses the foibles of refining Harvard’s core curriculum, the scandale Summers, and Derek Bok’s recent work to indict what he portrays as the Imperial Faculty: a self-enclosed and hermetic world of eggheads and mandarins who have lost sight of teaching as a legitimate goal of university education, the potential effect of which is to threaten not only the quality of undergraduate education but the sanctity and social use-value of the university as a whole.

My first reaction to the thread at UD was positively allergic, as I think of Kagan as one of those endlessly angry conservative fuddy duddies, railing against women of colour, LGBT studies, and the changes in the profession engendered by the social movements of the sixties (such as affirmative action, diversity initiatives, curriculum redevelopment, canon debates, etc.). But, getting over the ick factor and in his defense, his article in the loathsome Commentary deserves some attention, only because he does skirt the edges of real debate in his piece, a debate that, in my experience, is too often dismissed out of hand, because of its bad reputation among the good people of the academy (that would be you and me).

As I pointed out over at UD, one of the most immediate limitations of Kagan’s argument is that it focuses on Harvard as a template for undergraduate education across the spectrum in ways that speak to Harvard’s “reputation” such as it were, but in fact puts too much emphasis on the effect of that particular institution across the spectrum of R1, R2, four-year liberal arts colleges, community colleges, and technical schools, the entire mixed bag of institutions and missions that constitute the contemporary North American educational apparatus. Harvard may indeed lead, but its effect becomes more diffuse the farther away (or down the pecking order) one gets.

That aside, the transformation of core curricula from traditional canonical knowledges to the admittedly hodge-podge collection of various tracks, sub-specialties, strange inferences, and institutional particularities we work within today, is used by Kagan as symbolic of the larger crises around education in our society, although he is also careful to cut such a circumspect path around this thorny issue that his piece offers no actual and upfront subjective diagnosis as to why this has happened, although it is implied in several places. He writes:

Does it matter that Harvard’s curriculum is a vacant vessel? It is no secret, after all, that to the Harvard faculty, undergraduate education is at best of secondary interest. What is laughingly called the Core Curriculum—precisely what Summers sought to repair—is distinguished by the absence of any core of studies generally required. In practice, moreover, a significant number of the courses in Harvard College are taught by graduate students, not as assistants to professors but in full control of the content. Although they are called “tutors,” evoking an image of learned Oxbridge dons passing on their wisdom one-on-one, what they are is a collection of inexperienced leaders of discussion or pseudo-discussion groups. The overwhelming majority of these young men and women, to whom is entrusted a good chunk of a typical undergraduate’s education, will never be considered good enough to belong to Harvard’s regular faculty.

Leaving aside the question of what makes up a Harvard faculty member (snips and snails and puppy dog tails, no doubt), the problems Kagan points to here are well known (do we sense a fatuous whiff of labour activism here as well, towards the exploitation of Harvard's doctoral candidates?), if lacking an immediate solution (which I suppose would fit discretely within his argument). Again, however, Kagan gestures here towards the fractious and pitched debates over the last forty years in the North American academy, but reaches for Bok both to contextualise the debate between the political forces of Left and Right in the academy as well as diagnose the problems of the university in its teaching mission (producing idiots, in essence). This summary of positions is nicely done, indicting Bok and other “leaders” for naming and addressing problems intellectually but refusing to offer true solutions for fear of raising the considerable ire of the "Imperial Faculty." He concludes with this dark proposition, saying:

This is not a battle over the control of academic turf. The turf itself is at stake. The twin purposes of a university are the transmission of learning and the free cultivation of ideas. Both are entrusted to the faculty, and both have been traduced at its hands. An imperial faculty that responds to well-founded complaints about the curriculum by, in Lewis’s words, “relaxing requirements so that students can do what they want to do,” thus leaving professors free to teach only what (and when) they feel like teaching and—though Lewis does not mention this—to select as colleagues only those who share their narrow political perspective, is no longer serving the purposes of higher education. It has instead become an agent of their degradation.

As things stand now, no president appears capable of taming the imperial faculty; almost none is willing to try; and no one else from inside the world of the universities or infected by its self-serving culture is likely to stand up and say “enough,” or to be followed by anyone if he does. Salvation, if it is to come at all, will have to come from without. (emphasis mine)


Oooooo, scary! Now, I agree, basically, with Kagan here on many points, oddly enough. Faculties have, in some cases, perhaps many, absconded on their responsibility to address the pressing questions of educational and social relevance that confront us. Yes, faculties, like government, the corporate world, and popular culture, can be cliquish and narrow-minded (shocker!). R1s tend to do a piss poor job of teaching, and that (related to Harvard or not), does have an effect that filters down through the profession. In other words, for many of us, teaching is the red-haired stepchild to research, especially for younger and probationary faculty, because that is where our bread is buttered, so to speak. And as I noted on UD, faculty generally work quite hard at their teaching. Just because pedagogy has such a poor reputation when it comes to tenure and promotion does not mean that the vast majority of faculty members in North America aren’t constantly thinking and revising and adjusting their teaching. This, as I’m sure you know, is hard work, and work we do constantly, generally without great reward or praise.

My intellectual beef with Kagan (aside from dismissing his snarky participation at the very end in Horowitzian Culture War positions) would be two-fold: firstly, to blame the collapse of core curricula (and subsequently, analytic and linguistic skill) on the faculty alone is a simplistic, sloppy error. The death of Core and the rise of consumerism has been driven by students, administrators, elected officials, and the general public as much if not more than the faculty themselves. Certain faculties may indeed be resistant to change and selfishly engaged in self-promotion and self-aggrandisement (Kagan’s case contra Harvard’s faculty struck me as about right, knowing what I know about Harvard). However, to generalise from Harvard’s faculty (of all places) to the rest of us is a pas jeté Kagan’s argument is incapable of making. It is pure Rightist polemic.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, the collapse of skills and Core are not one and the same thing. They indeed may parallel each other, in fact be intertwined in places, but they are distinct pathways of social change that are not inherently related. The end of mass-distributed and adequate baseline thinking skills is a widespread challenge many of us struggle with regardless of institution level, the roots are which are grounded in a number of social, cultural, and economic factors that have relatively little to do with the academy itself, and speak more to the crisis of mass education at the K-12 level that we as university educators inherit.

The passing along of such students through the system is one that the faculty, regrettably, does participate in, yes indeed, but I would argue we do so reluctantly and under considerable pressure from administrators, parents, and legislatures concerned with bottom-line statistics and not quality of instruction or demonstrable skills (Heard of RateMyProfessors? Hello!). All of which begs the question, is this skills building in the most basic sense even within the purview of university education? I would say decidedly no, however it is one that is now foisted upon us due the collapse of K-12 public education in this country, a collapse that has everything to do with greedy and selfish publics, racism and intolerance, classism and class hatred, and falsely populist elected representatives, and nothing with the Shop, per se.

So, let’s lay blame where it belongs, and not upon the easiest target, which of course is the realm of intellectuals, despised and resented in American society and therefore an easier mark than looking in the mirror. The new demand for university accountability, which on paper looks so compelling and rational, is of course one of the most dangerous aspects of the recent federal commission on higher education, which on some level seeks to replicate the disastrous federal policies towards K-12 on testing to (public) higher education. But such efforts stem from a socio-cultural myopia so extreme it borders on the pathological, and therefore need to be resisted with all our energy, even if it puts us in bed with elements of the Imperial Faculty (traveling and transitive, not exclusive to one institution or level, ultimately, but more akin to state of mind) that Kagan rightly indicts, for its shortsightedness and egocentric narcissism. Fiddling while Rome burns.

Lastly, Core (or core curricula) is really shorthand here for Canon, and the American canon is in crisis for a number of reasons that have to do with the changing perceptions of what constitutes knowledge. The reasons why we as a society would have moved away from “Shakespeare” (as symbol of Old Canon) for Toni Morrison (as symbol of New Canon) are complicated, nuanced, uneven yet widespread (and therefore shared). But the changes to the North American academy and the idea of intellectual educations, however controversial, are reflective of the larger questions confronting the multi-cultural, multi-racial, and polyglot white settler colonies of North American, and not sui generis within the academy itself. It is beyond the purview of this entry to account for those histories, however suffice it to say that to collapse the end of Core/canon with the end of skills and the crisis in teaching is a sleight of hand that tells us more about Kagan and the political drive behind his critique than the manifold crises we face, both as a profession and society.

For, in the end, the Imperial Faculty must be, ipso facto, part of an Empire, and Kagan's implied populist solution to the crisis of education has all the hallmarks of a blatant, ham-fisted attempt to wrest control of whatever independence university faculties may have (however misused), and wed it to larger goals of Imperial control and surveillance, under the guise of accountability and the public good. Unfortunately, therefore, more of the same we've been getting for awhile now.



Poster by Laurie Arbeiter and Caroline Parker