coughing in ink

Claiming and Complicating the New Elite

2010-10-24T22:13:00.002-05:00

Charles Murray has an editorial in today's Washington Post. It outlines the rise and reality of what Murray (following Tea Party leaders and others on the right) call the "New Elite."

The interesting thing for me about reading Murray's critique of this new elite (its insularity, its class rarification, and, most of all, its distance from the lives of "real Americans") is the way that I feel simultaneously included and excluded from the category and the flaws that such overlapped hailing and hindering reveals in Murray's larger argument.

This post, by the way, is flawed from the outset because I am going to rely on anecdotes and vague memories of statistical reports rather than careful documentation of my claims. In many ways, my post shares this flaw with Murray's editorial.

Let me begin by saying that I am, in many ways, a member of Murray's New Elite. I am unfamiliar with each of the "quintessentially American things" Murray introduces to show that the New Elite live "in a world that doesn't intersect with mainstream America." I don't know who replaced Bob Barker on "The Price is Right." I've never watched an episode of Oprah and have no idea who Jimmie Johnson is (but I can refer accurate to yoga poses and know a fair bit about skiing). The acronym MMA does, indeed, "mean nothing to [me]" and I haven't read a "Left Behind" novel or been on a cruise ship. And, even if graduate school did count, I haven't spend a year with a family income below the poverty line, I have no close friends who are evangelical Christians, and I have never worked on a factory floor.

Let's add an additional detail or two: I have a Ph.d.. That alone places me in company with just .7% of the US population. I'm a University professor - the ultimate in liberal elite. I have a passport and have traveled to two other continents (and feel a bit chagrined that it's only *two* others). I drop money on health care for a dog that many people wouldn't be able to spend on health care for their children. Our current credit card debt is the first such debt I've had in my life, and it will be gone very soon. I could go on (and on and on). I can name a handful of friends and family who do not have college decrees, but most people I know have more that four years of post-secondary education. I know a few people who would label themselves "conservatives," but many people I know wonder if "liberal" is too tame a term for themselves.

If anyone has made a place for herself in Murray's New Elite, it's me. Indeed, I often worry about my stratified life and the class and race barriers it enables. I am aware of my extreme privilege, especially in a global context, and I am also occasionally reminded of how taken-for-granted that privilege is for me. My awareness usually does nothing to change my behavior, and I'm liberal (and Lutheran) enough to feel useless guilt over that. I take Murray's point about our isolation from one another, the increasing (yet also more hidden) lines of class and privilege that divide us and form embankments of hostility, misunderstanding, or simply ignorance between individuals and communities.

And yet, even the way I re-phrase Murray's point shows the complexities that my own experience (and, perhaps, my liberal perspective) would introduce into his divide between the "New Elite" and "real Americans."

Let me offer a few of those complexities: Murray scoffs that the "New Elite" has never lived in a small town or in an urban neighborhood in which most of their neighbors did not have college degrees (he adds "gentrifying neighborhoods don't count" as if any of us live in static neighborhoods). As I think about my highly educated, professional friends, I can barely think of a single one who *hasn't* lived in at least one of those contexts, even if we today live in elitist liberal cities. We grew up in New Ulm, Minnesota; Idaho Falls, ID; Wausau, WI; Harrisburg, IL; Twin Lakes, WI... We've lived in urban neighborhoods that might, by Murray's standards, be called "gentrifying," but they were still filled with "real Americans": immigrants, school teachers, social workers, political activists, welfare recipients, nurses, non-profit administrators (hmm, I may be tipping my hand here...).

Similarly, while I have ten years of post-secondary education, only one of those years was spent in a school that Murray would accept as prestigious or selective. St Olaf, NYU (the one year), and the University of Illinois are good schools that do, indeed, have trouble maintaining diversity in terms of both race and class, but they don't quite evoke the dons and secret societies of the Oligarchs (St. Olaf, in particular, is more likely to evoke the Golden Girls).

And those two previous paragraphs begin to show the thing that makes me sure that Murray's "New Elite, and not real American" thesis is fundamentally flawed, even if the facts he cites do point to a real problem of internal isolation and separation. The "New Elite" is far more complex and has far more diverse life experience than Murray wants to allow even as his point about the homogenous social values of that group does hold water. Similarly, even if we grant Murray's crowning of "real Americans" as a category distinct from "New Elite" (a point I am loathe to concede, feeling rather solidly real and utterly American), his suggestion of that group's defining characteristics seem woefully limited. Murray's real American is a Christian (reads "Left Behind" novels), probably of an evangelical bent; watches football and goes on cruises, but sometimes earns less than twice the poverty line; works on a factory floor (or used to, before neoliberal policies moved that factory job elsewhere); and is a member of the Kiwanis club.

By the facts provided, Murray's real American is male, I think. Rural, it seems. White, most of the time. I'm sure this is not, in fact, how Murray would describe a real American. It is the picture his anecdotal descriptions give, though.

What matters here is not that Murray's sketch is itself classist or racist or sexist. I'm not sure it really is. What matters is that his sketch of the real American is as rarified, as unusual, as partial as his sketch of the New Elite.

It is essential that we Americans (all of the very real and very varied folks who make up that rather rarified in itself category) pay attention to the ways that we are increasing divided from one another. That we look at how homogeneous our social circles often become.

It is equally essential that we cut the crap about a simple divide between "Elites" and "real Americans." Not least because "real Americans" are about as divided and as varied a group as one could put together out of several million people.

Imagined Communities

2010-08-03T08:58:00.003-05:00

"Benedict Anderson has persuaded me that nations --and all other collectivities except the most intimate-- are, indeed, "imagined" rather than known" (Gregory Clark, Rhetorical Landscapes in America, 15).

Every once in a while, I wonder what it must be like to be Benedict Anderson. The man introduced us all to the idea that nations are "imagined communities" and, for that singular insight, he is cited repeatedly, appearing in almost every publication in English that treats the idea of the nation (or even of community) even in the most cursory sense.

Like pretty much everyone else, I find Anderson's titular innovation useful. I've cited in a few times, myself. I think he's right about "imagined communities."

The problem is that while Anderson's concept "imagined communities" has captured scholarly imaginations in a fairly profound way, his argument in the book Imagined Communities, the argument about how nations as imagined communities first came into being (in the Americas during the end of the colonial period), has been roundly debunked. He cites print culture as the mechanism by which residents begin to imagine themselves as part of a nation, but in the Americas prior to the second half of the 19th century (or even, in some cases ...cough ... Ecuador... prior to the second quarter of the 20th century)there was little in the way of print circulation. In several, if not most, cases, nation-states emerged well before national feeling, the opposite order from what Anderson says occurred.

Which is all just to say that it must be a little strange to be Benedict Anderson. So completely and utterly right and yet also entirely wrong. So known for a simple but profound phrase, so cited for that singular phrase, so incredibly influential ... all grounded in a reading of history that simply didn't happen the way you said it did.

I think we are all better off for Anderson's formulation. I wonder, though, if the fame is a bit bittersweet.

Ways of [Not] Seeing

2010-03-05T08:26:00.002-06:00

I am making a wave of final revisions to my dissertation prior to depositing it. One of my revision tasks is to provide a bit more metacommentary about the images I discuss, to elaborate on how I chose the images and how I know that they show what I say they do. Pursuing that revision task, of course, has me thinking about whether I do, in fact, know what I am seeing, or rather, what serves as convincing evidence (even to myself) that I have seen in a way consistent with the historical period and geographical location about which I write.

I know already that seeing is not, as it were, transparent. It is highly contextual. I was reminded of that recently as I re-read portions of John Berger's classic collection of essays Ways of Seeing. In one of those essays, Berger discusses a photograph showing three men, dressed in suits, standing on a country road. Much of Berger's point hinges on his assertion that those men do not usually wear suits, they are peasants. He points to their posture and to the ways that the suits fit as well as to their hands and faces to suggest that these men are, in a sense, in costume, removed from the everyday of typical peasant life. To cement his point, Berger offers another photo, this one of a group of aristocrats dressed in suits. Berger points out not only the quality of how the suits fit, but also what he describes as the obvious comfort of the men in their suits. He suggests that the suits and the men look right together (apologies for not having the photos, they don't appear to be available online).

I'm away from my bookshelves right now and have forgotten Berger's overall point, but his reading of the images has stuck with me, in large part because that reading was largely opaque to me. Confronted with the comparison, I was able to, up to a point, sort out the differences between the aristocrats and the peasants. Given only the original three men, I was essentially taking Berger's word for it. I could tell from the setting that the men were probably not aristocrats, that they were probably, in fact, workers dressed-up for something special. I could not, however, read the sense of comfort/discomfort in the look of the suit itself, and that inability has stuck with me, worried me ever sense.

Being back in D.C., I have had ample opportunity to observe men in suits and I believe that I have begun to understand why it is so difficult for me to see as Berger does (this realization has not, however, been particularly helpful in calming my worries about my ability to see other images). Berger was writing in the 1960s about photos from the early part of the 20th century. I read Berger and look at those pictures from the perspective of the early 21st century. In the forty-some years since Berger wrote, I suggest, the way men wear suits has shifted such that my ability to read class in cut and comfort is befuddled.

I do not know any men who regularly get suits tailored just for them. Lawyers, pastors, pipefitters ... they all wear suits of their size that they bought off a rack. Even the most high-power of the men I see walking across Capitol Hill are, I'm fairly certain, wearing suits that fit more like the peasants in Ways of Seeing than like the aristocrats. The Capitol Hill politicos may look somewhat more comfortable in their suits than those three men (the former do, after all, wear their suits every day), but they do not look so much like they were born to them. We 21st century Americans inhabit a more casual world than either the peasants or the aristocrats from Berger's photos. The smiling, talking man in a suit who sits across the coffee shop from me right now sits on a bar stool as if he were wearing jeans like his companion. His suit pants hike up to show his socks; his suit jacket pulls a bit at his shoulders; his tie is tight to his neck, but still slightly askew. This is not abnormal and this man likely wears a suit to work every day. And, more to the point, his way of wearing that suit is what suit-wearing looks like to me, even in DC's formal, quasi-aristocratic context.

My ways of seeing suits today, in other words, makes it hard for me to see the peasant men in Ways of Seeing as Berger does. I assume, because Berger has sufficient ethos in this regard, that he is seeing these photos in a way consistent with their original era, but Berger does not particularly elaborate on how he knows that the original viewers of such photos would have seen what he sees. That is unfortunate, I think, since it would be a useful model. In the absence of that model, I am left to remember how I taught myself to see Ecuadorian images from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and to interrogate that way of seeing as best I can to determine how well in hews to its moment.

Five Things to Know

2009-12-30T21:01:00.005-06:00

1) Sofitel pretty much rocks the house.

2) We have amazing families and amazing friends. Whoa. Everyone should be as lucky.

3) By some calculations, I'm a doctor now. This still doesn't seem real to me and won't, I believe, until May when I officially graduate.

4) My life would be improved approximately .5892% by a pair of black boots to wear with dress pants. There is a slight possibility that percentage could increase dramatically in the next several weeks. Shockingly, fairly open dress shoes make for chilly winter-time walking.

5) It does not take very long (3 days, actually) for me to get used to seeing myself in a suit. It takes far less time (3 seconds, give-or-take) for me to readjust to snuggling on the couch with my human and canine companions, looking forward to a long spring.

Justifications

2009-09-13T08:47:00.002-05:00

The other day, I attended an interesting talk on rhetorical practice in a region and time period that has rarely drawn the attention of U.S. rhetorical scholars and that, in those rare moments, has been dismissed or denigrated by U.S. scholars who take the history of Greco-Roman rhetoric as their universalized frame for understanding and evaluating rhetorical practice in any context.

The speaker gave an in-depth introduction to the inscription practices of hir region/period and suggested that rhetorical study needs to pay attention to the interesting history and practice that came from there/then. Ze also raised the question of whether "Rhetoric" is the proper term to describe the practices ze laid out, given the term's particular foundation in the traditions of Aristotle and the Sophists, in a logo-centric context*, in a history of terms and assumptions.**

Unfortunately, the speaker omitted a perhaps obvious, but incredibly important step in his argument, a step that would have moved his speak away from the paradigm that Virginia Dominguez gently terms the "rescue project" and into the realm of (again, Dominguez) a "politics of love and rescue." That step is to move beyond the impulse of "we should pay attention to this period/place because it's interesting and we haven't paid attention before" and into an argument for why, beyond a recognition of previous neglect, rhetorical studies needs to pay attention. Into, in other words, a direct articulation of what the study of rhetoric gains from such attention, how a change from "history of rhetoric" to "histories of rhetoric" might both challenge and enrich our ability to understand practices of persuasion and identification.

To hir credit, the speaker did ask us to imagine how the study and even the definition of rhetoric would be different if it were hir period, not the Greco-Roman period, that served as starting point. However, ze did not guide us into that investigation, did not lay out for us the contributions that I believe can be made by greater attention to hir region and period.

Because omitting the justification for such expansion in how we in the US think about "rhetoric" feels like a threat to the work that I am doing, I want to take a few moments here to launch a general defense of the study of what might problematically be called 'other' rhetorics. Though I cannot make this argument for the specific region/period covered by the speaker, I believe there are some general reasons for broadening and re-examining our received definitions of rhetoric.

First on my list is the reminder that those of us introducing new regions to the study of rhetoric are not, in fact, doing anything so terribly different from our colleagues who, in recent years, have argued that the "history of rhetoric" ought to include the histories of women, people of color, and the everyday or that definitions of rhetoric should make room for the persuasive, identificatory force of images, space, and culture. These colleagues have argued convincingly that "rhetoric" is diminished by a slavish adherence to the doctrine of the "good man speaking well." They have shown, more importantly, that it never was just the "good man speaking well." What we know as *the* rhetorical tradition is chock full of images and bodies, of women and slaves, of foreigners and interlopers. We cannot, these colleagues argue, understand rhetoric, even rhetoric as we think we know it, if we simply accept the lacunae and erasures that have come to use via long histories of European bias. Similarly, those of us who focus on regions previously neglected (i.e. the vast majority of the globe) can argue that there is no justifiable claim to understanding the "available means of persuasion" if vast traditions of rhetorical practice are summarily ignored. Indeed, even those who remain staunchly committed to the study of "Western" traditions must realize that their traditions are fundamentally influenced by those vast realms of the not-West. As the speaker pointed out, Aristotle was not a European. I would add, Alexandria was not a European locale. Augustine of Hippo was not a European. And, perhaps more importantly, the history of colonialism brought syncretic practices into existence, required the adaptation of rhetorical modes, and influenced key periods of transformation (like the Enlightenment).

In addition (and this point was implicit in the speaker's argument), broader study of rhetoric often gives new and definitive support for arguments suggesting that rhetorical force can be found in a wide array of human practices. Articulating the different means of persuasion and identification at work in a given context can provide new terms for rhetorical theorizing, contributing either new applications of existing terms or contributing new terms for understanding previously unrecognized rhetorical behavior. It is in this context, for example, that I plan sometime to return to Guaman Poma's 1615 "Nueva Crónica y Buen Gobierno" to study the dialogue on the subject of good government that Poma imagines occurring between himself and the king of Spain. Poma's re-interpretation of a feature of Western rhetorical history (i.e. Alcuin's dialogue with Charlemagne) should offer us important new insight into that tradition and the syncretic rhetorical practice that Poma developed.

Of course, any specific project will carry specific contributions to be articulated. Given the ease with which such efforts to expand the purview of rhetoric can be dismissed as simply "not rhetoric," it is of utmost importance for us to make clear the many ways that a more expansive study of rhetoric strengthens and challenges the field.

*An additional difficulty I had with this talk was its insistence on the heritage of Greco-Roman rhetoric as language-based. The deluge of recent scholarship on the importance of visual artifacts and bodily comportment to ancient ideas of rhetoric ought to remind us that the assumption of the ancients' logo-centrism tells us more about our biases than the actual rhetorical practices of the Greeks and Romans.

**I also had objections to the either/or construct offered here and the underlying assumption that we must either define rhetoric as "big-R" Greco-Roman rhetoric (and thereby find new terms to refer to practices growing from different contexts) or entirely reject the useful terms and histories that US scholars have inherited from Greek, Rome, and Europe in order to make space for a more pluralistic set of rhetorics. I won't go into that larger argument here, but will simply note that while I don't believe that all rhetorical practice can be interpreted using the terminologies that we've inherited from Greece and Rome, I do believe that it would be ridiculous to therefore declare those traditions useless for approaching anything other than ancient Greco-Roman (and perhaps European) rhetorical histories. If we have any claim to the heritage of "available means of persuasion," we ought to be able to conceive of a more flexible approach to rhetoric.

Three Realizations

2009-08-23T18:43:00.003-05:00

1. It's really a pain to open a can without a can opener. Those ridiculous little things on utility knives that are called "can openers" are really just a form of frustration torture. It's also lucky that I didn't slip and open a major vein while trying to use said torture device.

2. I was completely remiss in deciding not to buy basil at the farmers' market. There is never a good reason to not have basil on hand when one has fresh tomatoes.

3. A good 85% of my fondness for Champaign-Urbana is a direct result of my fondness for the people I know/knew here. The fact that more than half of the people whose company I enjoy have left is going to mean that the remaining few will have to work overtime...

Things you learn during 8 hours in a hot car

2009-08-17T20:31:00.002-05:00

1. I was very much a child when I bought my red 1997 escort wagon, at least when it came to major purchases like cars. Despite my apparent adulthood and ability to drive and drink (though not at the same time, naturally), I decidedly didn't have a clue what I was doing.

2. The escort's lack of air conditioning and tape/cd player and cruise control are evidence of this general cluelessness.

3. Today is the 40th anniversary of Jimi Hendrix playing that famous feedback-rich rendition of the Star Spangled Banner at the last day of Woodstock.

4. Today is also the 40th birthday of Donny Wahlberg of the New Kids on the Block (this thing is hereby designated "I feel old, part 1").

5. Also, according to a radio station in west central Wisconsin, Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" and Guns n Roses' "November Rain" are now "classic rock" ("I feel old, part 2").

6. Trips go faster if you stop less often.

7. Ceisaf still recognizes the streets leading to our Champaign home.

8. The next car will have ac, a cd player/ipod jack, and cruise control.

Long Distance

2009-08-06T11:07:00.002-05:00

Last night just before I fell asleep, sideways, in the double bed I have to myself, I found myself wondering what percentage of 'married' couples spend the kind of time apart that Anna and I have. In the limited circles I run in, such separation seems somewhat normal, though I've never heard it described as desirable. I think most academics know of at least a couple academic pairs who have tried the distance thing at least briefly. I also know that military families live a far more anxiety-laden and longer-distance sort of separation whose trials I can't even begin to imagine.

But, aside from those two examples that come to mind, I realized, in the fog of coming sleep, that spending months at a time apart and even contemplating a longer, though still temporary stretch must seem ridiculous to most couples ... maybe even a sign of marital issues.

Of course, separation isn't new to our era. Men, especially, have migrated for work or left on long campaigns. And, I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky in this era's modes of separation. Anna and I will talk most nights, will see each other almost once a month, will email regularly. Our connection will be made easy by cell phones, computers, and airplanes and big events will be communicated almost as soon as they occur.

Still, maybe it's heartening to imagine that this separation isn't the norm and will likely not be the norm even for us before too long. If most couples, even dual-career couples, manage to live happy, fulfilling, challenging lives together in the same city, maybe some day we will too. And believing that it might just be possible makes the empty bed, the silent breakfasts, and the solitary dog walks just a bit more acceptable.

resident chef

2009-08-02T20:24:00.002-05:00

This week I am resident chef at the fine home of one Dr. M.E.O, elder sibling. She is rounding this week at the hospital and will working long hours. I am planning mornings of school work (hello syllabus, job materials, and chapter revision...); afternoons of errands, reading, exercise, etc.; and evenings of cooking.

Yesterday, we went to the St. Paul farmers market, an extravagant affair of reasonably priced and beautiful locally grown produce. Now, the fridge is stocked and I am unreasonably excited to have a large kitchen and a gas grill at my disposal.

The following dishes are on tap for the week:

Stir-fried tofu and snow peas with basil

Grilled eggplant spread with mustard oil, cilantro, and onions

Grilled corn summer chowder

Vichyssoise

Pizza (grilled) with eggplant, fontina and caramalized onions.

also, if the nearby coop carries rennet and other sundry cheese making supplies, it is entirely possible that there will be fresh mozzarella later in the week. We shall see.

I do appear to have more meals that we have days. This could pose a challenge, but i think my food-loving sister and I can see our way through.

Departure

2009-07-29T09:14:00.003-05:00

I am supposed to be packing. There are bits of piles scattered all over the house and several half-filled boxes sitting open here and there.

But I don't want to pack.

Partially it's the complexity of this packing project. We're dividing our goods for the fall and it's not quite a short enough time for me to be without a set of wine glasses but maybe isn't long enough to need a full complement of serving bowls. Plus, I've sort of forgotten what's still in Champaign and we have no idea which of us is more likely to have use of the salad dressing pitcher or the small white bowls that can go in the oven. To complicate things further, I'm going to be packing all this into a rental car and have no idea exactly how much space that car's gonna have.

Mostly, of course, the problem is that I don't want to leave. It seemed like a good idea to spend one last semester in Champaign back when I was mapping out the idea a year ago. Today, I'm thinking I'd rather just keep living with Anna. Screw being on-campus for the beginning of the job market. Who needs to teach that last class? What use is it being close to faculty when three fifths of my committee lives somewhere other than central Illinois?

Still, I'm going. A long drive today, trying to get as far across Ohio as I can. Tomorrow I'm headed to Chicago and need to get the rental to O'Hare before 3pm. Should be fun.

And, I'll see Anna on Friday. After all, I'm leaving today so that we can meet up in Minneapolis for a wedding there this weekend.

But this is still the big departure. We've had our last night at home together, eaten our last breakfast at the dining room table. And I do not like departures, even of the temporary sort.

meh. I have nothing profound to say, just some whining to offer. I promise Northern Minnesota photos soon.

On One of my "Ol' Blocks"

2009-06-18T17:18:00.006-05:00

I'm pretty pleased to be "chipped" from both of my parents. They are among the most generous, caring people I know. I am constantly amazed by their concern for others; their overwhelming generosity to friends, family, and strangers; and their warm, solid hospitality. Heaven knows they aren't perfect, but they are truly, truly among the salt of the earth. What I have to say here could be said about either one of my parents. But, because of the post that inspired me to write and because, well, it's Father's Day, I'm going to write about my dad in particular.

When I read the conversation going on over at Historiann about fathers and the hereditary denigration and exploitation of women, I took a moment to be grateful for my own dad. I didn't want to comment there, not wanting to derail a discussion that I think is very important, but I do want to use this space to be glad for the many men out there, like my dad, who raise their daughters to be strong and courageous and to believe in themselves.

It's not that those men haven't been shaped by sexism nor that they always manage to set aside the learned privileges of masculinity, it's that even in the midst of being imperfect, even if they don't consciously say "I'm going to resist patriarchy," even if they would likely not call themselves "feminist," they do make a conscious decision to value their daughters and raise them up to know they can do and be whatever they like.

My sister and I were told from an early age that we could be whatever we wanted when we grew up. Our parents also made sure that we knew that they loved us. No. matter. what. That's a pretty powerful thing to know.* My dad was as committed to that idea as my mom and while mom and dad had pretty traditional gender roles around the house, they made sure that their daughters knew how to do just about everything. And, come to think of it, since dad was as likely to cook as mom and all of us had cleaning responsibilities, I probably did get a pretty egalitarian sense. In any case household activities, from mowing the lawn to vacuuming, from using the wood saw to making applebutter weren't presented to us in terms of gender. They were things that we learned to do because we were part of the family. I'm sure "Free to Be" didn't hurt too much either. I can still get the proper intonation on the housework poem ("Little boys. Little girls. If you want aalll the daaays of your lives to be suuunny as suuummer weather, be sure, when there's housework to do, that you do it toGETher!").

So, even though I'm halfway across the country from my dad on this particular Father's day, I'm still thinking of him and feeling oh-so-very grateful that he's one of the people who brought me into and up in this world and that he continues to be such an amazing counselor, parent, and friend.

*I used to test this, especially with my mom: "Would you love me even if I killed someone?" "Yes, I would love you even then. I wouldn't understand why you did that, but I would love *you* even so."

Memorial Day Weekend in the Adirondacks

2009-06-09T14:21:00.009-05:00

(a tad delayed)

I've been slow to get around to putting up a few photos from our weekend in the Adirondacks... it's been a tad crazy around here since then. But, I thought I'd throw them up now, even if the trip is rather old news.

As you may recall, I'm a northern Minnesota gal. I was raised on trips to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, spent several formative summers working at a camp there, and return whenever I can. The first big thing I saved up for and bought myself was a backpack for camping. Being big enough to portage my family's old, heavy Grumman canoe was a major step in growing-up. My parents gave us a canoe for our wedding. You get the point.

Because it is not the wilderness area of my childhood, I don't imagine that I'll ever find myself trekking across the country to spend a week in the Adirondacks (a thing I can absolutely imagine doing for the North Shore ...because, er, I will be doing that in a few months). Upstate New York doesn't pull at my heart strings with the same emotional force as does Minnesota's North Shore. I'm not sure it could.

All that said, however, I was entranced by the beauty of the Adirondacks and would happily go back again and again. Even in the midst of black fly swarms, the lakes and mountains were spectacular. I'm imagining that early September would be an amazing time to visit and hope we get the chance to see.

A cloudy first-night sunset seen from our campsite.

One of the salamanders we met on our Sunday hike.

Ceisaf requests that we rent a softer canoe next time, or bring along a duffer to provide a lap.

The pair of mallards that tormented Ceisaf Sunday night.

Monday morning breakfast at Buttermilk Falls

Buttermilk Falls

Scholarly Work Is Not [always] Autobiography

2009-05-11T13:57:00.005-05:00

In an August 2000 article in Cultural Anthropology, Virginia Dominguez reflects on a moment of scholarly inclusion that crossed the narrow borders of identity politics in order to affirmatively acknowledge her scholarly work. Interrogating her response to that moment and advocating a related scholarly re-orientation that pays attention to "what love does, or should, have to do with it" (362), Dominguez writes "While opening the academy to people who in the past have been largely excluded is essential, conceding the right to participate in the production of knowledge about particular places, peoples, pasts, and societies of the world to people just from those places in principle limits all of us to the production of knowledge about only very narrowly defined communities of which we might unquestionably be a part" (364). Dominguez also notes, of course, that the "on-the-ground application of the principle" has generally meant that "Non-'minoritized' U.S. anthropologists still study most other people in the world, but few 'minoritized U.S. anthropologists study -and are seen as authorities on - people and places separate from the society with which they are ancestrally connected" (364).

Given my own scholarly orientations, Dominguez's argument, and related conversations, have long been important to my work: they both challenge and make space for my projects and prevent me from either assuming carte blanche justifiability or despairing of my inherent status as trespasser.

A few recent exchanges, however, have gotten me thinking about a corollary another aspect of Dominguez's point, one that I haven't often considered from my own particular identity status, even though the sentence is starred on the tattered copy where I first read it: "Where are the Chinese experts on the Italian Renaissance (in the United States), or the Indian experts on the American Revolution (in the United States), or the Puerto Rican experts on GATT (in the United States)?

The corollary to that set of questions, raised in the sentences around it, is this: why must members of a "minoritized" group include study of their own group among their scholarly interests? How often is a white, or male, or heterosexual, or U.S. native scholar assumed to be qualified to teach or study whiteness or masculinity or heterosexuality or [North] America in addition to whatever else s/he teaches or studies?

A scholar acquaintance of mine, during a conversation about the academic job market, recently encouraged me to be open, in job interviews, about my interest in gay and lesbian stuff and women's studies. Another recent exchange with a feminist scholar of women's rhetoric required me to explain that, though there are several rich avenues for exploring issues of gender within my current scholarly project, I have not chosen to pursue them directly.

Now, the second anecdote is less, err, problematic than the first. For a scholar interested in women's and gender studies to inquire about the implications of gender in my work is not different from a scholar of literature asking about how Ecuadorian literature fits into my project. And yet, the exchange prompted some pondering. I consider myself a feminist, yet my feminism does not directly enter into my scholarly work. Does that make me a bad feminist? I am a woman, yet my primary political and social investments are not correlated to my sex or my gender. Neither are my primary scholarly interests. I do realize that in both the theoretical underpinning of my work and the practical realities of my scholarly career I owe a great deal to current and fore-going women who have blazed professional trails and made the conceptual paths I follow visible as well. At the same time, I refuse to believe that I betray their efforts if my own work does not directly advance the goal of making the histories of women and the interstitial influences of gender more obviously central to the study of rhetoric.

To the first anecdote. As can be gathered from the paragraph above, my own work does not trace the histories of women or gender in composition and rhetoric. There are, however, a number of amazing scholars of my own own generation whose work does chart new territory for the field. It is, most certainly, my duty as a scholar (not as a woman) to support and engage their work, to read it, and to make sure that students are reading it. On the other hand, for me to suggest that, because I am a woman, I am particularly qualified to teach the sorts of classes those experts would teach, or write the sorts of articles and books that they produce, would do them a gross disservice. My future courses (be they on visual rhetoric, history & criticism, publics and democracies, the Americas, or performance) will most certainly engage a range of perspectives and a variety of authors, not for reasons of identity politics, but for reasons of quality. A rhetoric course on social movements would be remiss not to include the women's movement. A study of the rhetorical force of images of indigenous people in Ecuadorian art (hmm ... wonder if anyone's doing that?) will need to grapple with the gendered choices made by artists. But there are men and women in the field who can, do, and should teach courses on feminist rhetoric or women in rhetorical history with a level of expertise that I do not currently have. I would be horribly uncomfortable suggesting that I would be able to teach such a course simply by virtue of the training I have received thus far and my own possession of two X chromosomes. This is not to say that I wouldn't share the task of prepping such a course if I were hired at a school where we had no expert. Graduate school, if nothing else, trains us to train ourselves, deepen our knowledge, and respond to new intellectual challenges.

The question of a scholarly interest in gay and lesbian stuff is a tad more complicated. With an MA in Performance Studies and a continuing interest in bodies and performance, I'm tolerably familiar with more-or-less current work in queer theory. I could put together a course that looked at the legacy of queer theory within rhetorical studies without feeling out of my element. At the same time, my encounters with that broad array of work one could loosely lump under the heading 'queer theory' have generally, um, 'queered' the question of sexual orientation, refusing to be about gay and lesbian, often refusing to be about sexual orientation at all, being far more interested in social forces, public spaces, identity politics, and performance than in the lived particulars of "being" gay or lesbian, transgendered or transsexual, queer or whatever. My future course on bodies and performance will be utterly indebted to the giants (and the worker bees) of queer theory, but I'd hesitate to describe it as an example of "gay and lesbian studies." My own writing, similarly, may quote Butler and co. but if the word "lesbian" appears in my dissertation it'll be as an aside or in a comparative and I can't say that any of the little project fetuses bobbing around in my head these days are any more likely to prefer members of their own queer little genders.

Frankly, the closest I come to writing directly about any of my own identity categories is in writing about whiteness in the Ecuadorian context. But, the Ecuadorian white-mestizo experience/performance of whiteness is sufficiently distant from my own that such a comparison hardly seems justifiable.

Method Envy (or is it skill envy?)

2009-05-05T13:29:00.002-05:00

In preparation for drafting Chapter 2: "Land, Labor, and the [Indigenous] Nation," I've been hitting the books lately. Mostly, I'm reading things that are long overdue on my "read this, damnit" list or that I read so cursorily the first time that they might as well be first reads. This process is, not surprisingly, both edifying and terrifying. On the one hand, I'm getting all sorts of great insights that I will, hopefully, be able to incorporate into my chapters and am deepening my understanding of and familiarity with existing scholarship. On the other hand, reading the erudite and incisive scholarship of my betters leaves me painfully aware of the gaps and oversimplifications in my own work. It also reawakens my anxiety about remembering subtle insights long enough to have them make it into my writing.

One major cause of both uplift and dismay for me is a sort of methodology envy which may very well be more envy of skill and depth than actual method.

The two most compelling texts on my reading list in the past week have been a set of articles by A. Kim Clark and the book Liberalismo y Temor by Mercedes Prieto, both historical anthropologists. Both women practice a level of evidentiary density that boggles my mind and makes the loosely knit ruminations of my own work feel all the more fictive in comparison. Of course, I have to recognize that these are women in the prime of their careers and I am only starting. On the other hand, I long for the sort of affective certainty that comes from building an argument rich and directly related archival piece by rich and directly related archival piece. Confronted with the archival ephemerality of the Ecuadorian art world and exacerbated by the sweeping abstraction of my central theme, my own methodology tends more to assemble a handful of gestures and then draw a speculative path among them.

So I wonder, did I merely look in the wrong places? Did I perhaps choose the wrong focus? Are my archives and my historical skills fundamentally deficient? Or does the work I'm doing, the study of rhetorical and visual culture in Ecuador, simply force a different, perhaps more tentative and less demonstrable, methodology? Most likely, I suppose, the answer to each of those is "in a way, yes."

Faces, Hands, Emotion

2009-05-04T08:17:00.004-05:00

As usual, when I rode the metro this morning, I did a lot of reading over other rider's shoulders. I rarely pick up my own newspaper, and when I'm standing on a crowded train, it's hard to read my own book. So, I look at what other people are reading. Toward the end of my ride, I glanced over at the Washington Post held by the woman next to me and saw a photograph of two members of the Dutch royal family, looking on in horror as a car crashed (intentionally) through the crowd of onlookers celebrating the Queen's birthday, killing six. Similar ones, and related video, are available online this morning.

Synopses of the images, echoing the AP report on the event, consistently used the word "horror" to describe the reactions of the royal family. Al Kamen, of the Post, for example, wrote, "Footage showed the royal family, riding in an open-topped bus, covering their mouths in horror as the car careened through the crowd and crashed into a monument."

The gestures (and facial expressions) that signal horror in these images are familiar: hands fly to mouths as if to hold back a scream or cover eyes to shield them from the image.

Looking over my neighbor's shoulder, I tried the gesture, putting my hand momentarily over my mouth and feeling, unbidden, the rush of anxiety, though I was only mimicking the image.

So I wonder, what is it about placing hands on our own faces that is so closely linked, at least for Euro-Americans, to strong and sudden negative emotions? Is that urge unique to Euro-Americans? I'm suddenly thinking about Darwin's studies of facial expression and human emotion and the pictures by that guy who used electrical stimuli to spark facial expressions and try to spark emotions. Those early studies didn't engage gesture, beyond facial gesture, if I remember correctly. But the urge to cover eyes or mouth, to bury our heads in our hands ... I wonder if that urge does cross cultural moments and spaces.

I know face touching carries a message of horror for the mestizo artists and audiences of Ecuador, but the influence of European cultures could easily explain the gut-wrenching sense of anxiety in, for example, Oswaldo Guayasamin's "Grito."

I'm also drawn to the intimacy of face touching and the connection between horror gestures and a deeply instinctual desire to contain or protect that intimacy. In the Euro-American context, touching the face of another is either a gesture of incredible intimacy (wiping away tears, stroking a cheek, placing a palm against a sick child's forehead) or of deep invasion (imagine the hackneyed, yet emotionally effective image of an attacker covering his victim's mouth or the affective force that accompanies the physical force of a slap). We cover eyes or mouth, hands leaping to our faces before thought consciously recognizes the event before us, to block the invasion of an image we don't want to see or prevent our own horror from escaping. We acknowledge our own helplessness - I don't think of face-covering responses (rather than head-covering responses) occurring in response to events that happening directly to us - we touch our faces when we see but cannot intervene. They are a gesture of helplessness, which is, I guess, part of why Macaluay Culkin's famous face-clutching gesture works so well as spoof: his manic cleverness is accentuated in comparison to his supposed helplessness.

Yes, I'll take trails, even if they come with hills

2009-05-02T09:56:00.002-05:00

Anna and I often justify the outsized price we pay to rent our moderately-sized, cave-like apartment by reminding ourselves that we live across the street from one of DC's best-kept secrets: Rock Creek Park(map). Though Rock Creek's urban location and reputation for occasional trouble means that we avoid it once the sun starts to set and I don't go far in on afternoon walks with the dog, on weekends and during after-work daylight hours it's a perfect place for hiking, biking, and running. And, we've been taking more advantage of it as spring's arrival has meant longer days. We'll also be frequent visitors come full summer when the shady forest and proximity to water will make the Park one of the few places in town where we can move our bodies without collapsing.

This morning we did a new and beautiful run. I have no idea how far we went, certainly not more than 4 miles, but it was a wonderful workout none-the-less, thanks to the many uphill climbs. We took our little local spur trail down to the valley floor and then went looking for the Valley Trail, a path we'd been on once before, but hadn't tried for running. We caught it and immediately started up, passing through a meadow before immersing ourselves in the forest. After a brief respite of level ground, we plunged down again, crossing a wooden bridge over a stream, then a road, and then, sigh, heading back uphill.

Coming down the far side of that hill, we turned sharply to follow Rock Creek itself, a beautiful trail full of the sound of rushing water. We joined the road (closed to cars for the weekend) briefly to cross a huge boulder bridge and then headed uphill again. Crossing the bridge also gave us a glimpse of a full-sized tree leaning over the creek, covered with the clustered purple blossoms and spreading vine of some member of the grape family. I wish I could carry a camera while running, but alas.

From there, we returned to our spur trail on familiar paths, finishing with a sprint and then walking up, crossing Melvin Hazen creek a few times along the way.

I'll run on sidewalks if I have to and have no other options for exercise. I'm willing to work much harder, though, in exchange for trails like the trails of Rock Creek Park.

Oh, so that's why they got a little defensive...

2009-04-29T10:39:00.006-05:00

One of the main threads of argument in my current project looks at the sedimentary quality of topoi (commonplaces), especially visual topoi. In a not terribly original nor a ground-shaking move, I'm trying to direct attention to something we all already knew: appeals to common sense work because there's been a lot of social meaning (sediment) built up over time around those commonplace appeals. That working-because-of sediment, however, also means that it's hard to redirect topoi, hard to use them in new circumstances for new purposes without them also dragging along their old meaning.

I've explained this idea a few times to Ecuadorian scholars (and, here, I'm meaning both Ecuadorians and scholars of things Ecuadorian) and met with pretty strong resistance. They've reacted negatively to the idea of continuity, insisting that "things are different now."

They're cautions have made me careful to pay attention to both continuity and change, to acknowledge that topoi do change their meaning and have new affects even while arguing that they always also carry the residue of earlier moments. But, I was always sort of surprised by the vehemence of the responses. I guess I should have realized that I was stumbling into a pre-existing conversation (and, if I had really thought about it, I should have remembered something about this particular conversation), but it just didn't hit me.

Until I picked up Jeremy Adelman's edited collection Colonial Legacies: The Problem of Persistence in Latin American Histories. I had forgotten that "persistence" and "continuity" have been major themes for explaining the "failure" of Latin American states in comparison to their North American, anglo neighbors. There's a long history of saying that colonial legacies, the curse of the "Black Legend"* made the Creoles of the age of revolution unfit to found independent, liberal nations. That the hold-over of colonial practices like the large plantations and hierarchical authority structures, not to mention the colonial relationships between Creoles and indigenous and African populations, meant that Creole elites had no true investment in democracy and, furthermore, were ill-equipped to enter into capitalist economies. The narrative of continuity has often been a deterministic bludgeon for marking Latin America as having failed the modernity test.

Now, Adelman and his co-contributors acknowledge continuity and persistence, but they are interested in how the narrative of continuity itself has become a historical force and how its blanket application to Ibero-America in general obscures the very particular histories and presents of the many Ibero-American republics while also sometimes determining policy of other nations toward Ibero-America.

All of this is a reminder to me of two things:
First, my effort to turn south in order to help US rhetorical scholarship understand more about how rhetoric works will always run into the problem that we North Americans have usually seen the lessons running only the other way, suggesting that Latin America is so different (read, inferior) to us, that we have nothing to learn from them, but they, of course, should learn from us. Part of my writing needs to be directed forcefully against that latent assumption.

Second, my own exploration of topoi in terms of persistence must be complicated. It must not assert a deterministic continuity and must not suggest that continuity is the only appropriate lens for examining Ecuadorian rhetorical practice. If I focus on continuity, then i must also turn to moments of rupture to show how they complicate and re-direct my assertions. As Adelman suggests in his introduction, "continuities, in short, have to contend with the indeterminacies of life if they are to mean anything historically” (12).

Receipts

2009-04-20T12:48:00.002-05:00

In a terrifyingly lame moment of avoiding the many projects that really need to be done (unpacking from a lovely wedding weekend, revising chapter 4, making bread), I just went through our file folder of Visa receipts to take out the ones that are more than a month old.

If you are a reasonably organized person, this task probably sounds simple to you since you would keep receipts in a way that allowed you to easily pull receipts out by month, or you'd only file them once a month. If you are one of the millions of people who don't see the point of saving Visa receipts, this task probably sounds baffling to you. Why would I have a folder stuffed full of 9 months' worth of Visa receipts anyway?

Unfortunately, I live in a sad world in between those two nice logical places. A world in which I feel compelled to save receipts but have no ability to maintain that organization. So, I stuff receipts into a file folder for months at a time and then, eventually, spend an hour flipping through them, sorting out the recent from the old, and then have a shredding festival with the old ones.

Now, sorting receipts is crappy work at the best of times, but I have been known to start smiling stupidly in the process when I come across the receipt for a particularly fabulous meal or the detritus of the little costs of travel to see friends.

Today however, whether it's the rain coming down outside, having just left family, or the general malaise that dissertation writing has left around me lately, sorting receipts has left me, embarrassingly and ridiculously, near tears. In a year when money seems infuriatingly, depressingly tight (I know, we are so lucky compared to so many, yet that doesn't change the fact that things are tight here too), I just felt heavy seeing little receipt after little receipt for mediocre meals eaten hurriedly while driving from DC to Illinois or back... for gas ... for the other small ephemera of separation.

I think of how archeologists learn about long-gone communities by sifting through their garbage. Seeing how those by-gone people lived, what they ate, and what they valued, in what they threw away. I wonder, what could some future archeologist specializing in credit card receipts say about us? And, what would be missing from that tale? She would know that we traveled and, looking closely, she would learn that I traveled, most often, alone and by car. She might wonder about the erratic patterns of grocery buying, swinging from indulgent Whole Foods excursions and multi-bottle wine purchases to weeks in a row of trips to the little corner store for cheaper conventional groceries. She would notice that I used the credit card more than Anna (or, at least, that I saved more receipts) and that those indulgent trips were usually on my end. That when I traveled, my frugal love would eat bowls of Cheerios or pasta with sauce.

If, as is likely, she were an environmental archeologist, critical of previous eras' destruction of the planet, she would find us as guilty as most of our neighbors, given to the consumerist approach of buying organic and choosing to eat in rather than take out styrofoam, yet still, fundamentally, buying too much, eating too much, using too much petroleum ...

If she could figure out that I was writing a dissertation (though she'd need to do some triangulation to put that together, perhaps by making deductions from my travel routes or by working with a specialist in checking accounts), she might launch an insightful critique of the early 21st century academy and its economy of coffee and wine consumption and its problematic reliance on international import/export markets and shipping. We might all get slightly off the hook for our obsession with fair trade, organic coffee and our preferences for locally-owned options, but I'm guessing the academy won't have changed so much as to let her be too easy on her decadent predecessors.

Perhaps she'll launch a new methodology, find a way to crack the codes of some of those old decaying google servers discovered on the west coast of what used to be the United States, and trace the networks of expenditure that facilitated early 21st century academic work, looking especially at the phenomenon of long distance relationships. Maybe she'll find scraps of old blog posts and decipher their cryptic phrases, to discover a world of self-absorbed, navel-gazing dweebs who look, when she really stops to think about it, a lot like the self-absorbed, navel-gazing dweebs who inhabit the offices around her in the University of West Reclaimed Landfill Department of Environmental and Technological Archeology. And she'll keep that mostly to herself, at least in her publications, but she'll probably post a comment about it on whatever the late 23rd century equivalent of facebook is.

Who knows.

Craving.

2009-04-16T08:41:00.002-05:00

At least once a year I start to get intense cravings for the North Shore (of Lake Superior). This year, those cravings are intensified by an additional longing for smoked lake trout from the little smoke shop on old highway 61 between Duluth and Two Harbors. I know that the North Shore would be a cold and leaf-free place right now, but that doesn't stop my longing.

I'm pretty sure that filling my homepage with pictures of THE lake isn't going to help the craving, but then, I'm not sure anything but getting up there (c'mon, August!) will help, so I might as well share pretty pictures.

Citizen Democracy

2009-04-14T13:08:00.003-05:00

It's spring in Washington DC, which means flowering trees, rainy days, and an upsurge in tourists. Walking to the Union Station metro stop from my preferred work coffee shop takes me past the Library of Congress, the Capitol, and the Supreme Court. As I play human dodge ball with school groups and families, I can only shudder to imagine what it will be like when summer vacation arrives.

One of the unexpected advantages of these encounters is the chance to hear and see people's ideas of government and democracy in action. There are moments of basic civic education (Daddy? What does a Senator do? ... Senators make laws, honey) and chances to see people young and old experience government first-hand (Our first appointment is with Senator so-and-so, and then we'll meet with Representative such-and-such...).

It's also interesting to me to watch people's political beliefs play out in what they choose to see and what they say about the monumental buildings they pass. I''m looking forward to hearing more of these as the summer arrives. One recent encounter nearly sent usually tranquil Anna into conniptions when a father, having looked at a sign to answer his daughter's "What building is that, Daddy?" replied: "Library of Congress, bah. That's the government wasting every penny of our hard earned money."

The Washington that tourists see is a monumental city. Wide avenues with spacious sidewalks lead from national monument to major building, from famous landmark to seat of state, passing grandiose building after grandiose building that houses people doing the mundane work of government. This is a city meant to make people proud
of their nation. Their participation in its festivals, their footsteps through its monuments, their tours of its major buildings echo with symbolic meaning. Sometimes that symbolism seems lost on the people running to get across the street and catch the double-decker tour bus. But sometimes, walking past, you can listen in and hear that some of the messages are hitting home.

Searching for poems for my cousin and finding three for me and mine instead

2009-04-07T16:24:00.003-05:00

Sometimes
Sheenagh Pugh

Sometimes things don’t go, after all
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don’t fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can’t leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.

Wild Geese
Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rives.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Repression
C. K. Williams

More and more lately, as, not even minding the slippages yet, the
aches and sad softenings,
I settle into my other years, I notice how many of what I once
thought were evidences of repression,
sexual or otherwise, now seem, in other people anyway, to be
varieties of dignity, withholding, tact,
and sometimes even in myself, certain patiences I would have
once called lassitude, indifference,
now seem possibly to be if not the rewards then at least the
unsuspected, undreamed-of conclusions
to many of the even-then-preposterous self-evolved disciplines,
rigors, almost mortifications
I inflicted on myself in my starting-out days, improvement days,
days when the idea alone of psychic peace,
of intellectual, of emotional quiet, the merest hint, would have
meant inconceivable capitulation.

Cross Country Thoughts

2009-03-28T09:30:00.002-05:00

(I) I am feeling particularly fond of the nice curving shape of my front bumper and the smooth transparency of my windshield (not to mention keenly aware of my own uninjured body) after a near miss with a deer on the Ohio Turnpike yesterday. I'm also very grateful that the deer's companion didn't decide to cross the road, since I'm not sure I could have successfully played keep away against two large, terror-struck mammals.

(II) I swear that I read Robinson Crusoe when I was a kid, but I've realized that it must have been a version specially abridged for children... a version that left out the pages and pages of morality tale and that played Crusoe's relationship with Friday way, way, way down. I started listening to the book on CD on my way across the country but had to stop two thirds of the way through. I enjoyed, well enough, the parts of the story that were about Crusoe making a way for himself in the wilderness, and I let my mind wander during the long discourses on God's infinite justice and his micro-management style (err, my terms, not Defoe's). But, when Friday appeared on the scene, I just couldn't handle it any more. I tried, briefly, to remind myself of when the book was written, but then I remembered that I wasn't listening to the book for academic purposes and I didn't have to put up with early 18th century Euro-centrism and racism if I didn't want to. So I turned it off. I'm guessing Crusoe got off the island. So much the worse for poor Friday. I hope Kidnapped (my listening project for the trip home) will be a tad less painful.

(III) If you don't get much sleep, get up at 4:30am (EST), eat a light breakfast at 5:30 (EST) and start driving at 6:30 (EST), you will be hungry for lunch by 10:30 (EST). This can mess up your internal schedule (at least if you're me).

(IV) Though long, silent days may make me embarrassingly loquacious with perfect strangers, they tend to make me quiet with family.

(V) Babette's Feast is a fabulous, beautiful movie. Well worth seeing, especially if you love food.

"Lover" is always more than anyone wants to know*

2009-03-03T09:15:00.002-06:00

Dear people who are uncomfortable with my lesbian relationship,

I get it, you have a hard time saying "lesbian" without cringing. I understand. I've always thought is was a sort of clinical sounding word myself (though better, clearly, than "ho-mo-sex-u-al"). And maybe, as Anna theorizes, it's easier for you to be happy about having me/us around if you can think of us as "roommates" or "friends." But, honestly? I don't think self-delusion is healthy, especially when it requires such leaps of fantasy (Really? Roommates? How many 30-year-old roommates do you know who live in a one bedroom apartment and share a queen-sized bed?).

To be honest, I'd prefer your clear disapproval to your mental gymnastics. It doesn't bother me that you disapprove (I think that's entirely your problem), but somehow it does bother me that you're trying so very hard to pretend that we don't exist.

kisses,

c...

Dear open-minded young professionals,

I really do appreciate the solidarity of those of you who refer to your heterosexual spouse as your partner in order to not claim relationship rights that are denied to homosexual couples. I also appreciate your socio-political opposition to the exploitative history of marriage and your accompanying desire to avoid the terms (and/or a legal status as) husband and wife. I have no problem with you getting married (because I think institutions, like cultures and societies, change over time, and a lot of you are doing a lot of good to change the reality of marriage into something more egalitarian and better for the world), but I also have no problem with you using "partner" to refer to the person you're hoping/planning to spend your life with.

However, I wish those of you who use "partner" to refer to your current bed-mate (straight or queer) would stop it. It leaves us with the unsatistfactory and cringe-worthy options of "wife" or "life partner" if we want to make clear that our relationship is not temporary.

Alternatively, if you're attached to using "partner" for your casual SO, you could just stop saying things to Anna like "It's so cool that c... came to DC with you when you got a job here" as if our relationship couldn't possibly be committed enough to make a move together. Seriously, would you say something like that if Anna were married to a man? "Wow. Your husband moved with you. That's so great." Yeah right.

committed to my partner for the long haul,

c...

dear restaurant hosts,

I understand that you have a financial prejudice against groups of women, especially young women. I've been told that we apparently buy less than groups that include a man and/or tip less generously. I can see why you'd start seating groups of young women at your crappiest tables, figuring to cut your losses. But, from my end, it gets really tiring to spend date nights staring into the kitchen, shivering from direct blasts of wind through the door, of sitting right across from the bathroom. It really cuts into the romance. It makes us leave more quickly than we otherwise might, which I know just reinforces your stereotypes.

I begging you. Get over your prejudice. Remember some of those young women are couples on dates. All we want is a quiet table in a corner where we can have a nice conversation, enjoy our food, and drink a bottle of wine.

So sick of that swinging door,

c...

Dear Vermillion and Palena,

You get gold stars for not being in the above group. Thanks.

With fond romantic memories,

c...

*hat tip to Allison Bechdel and the original Dykes to Watch Out For

Dissertation Mechanics II: Fun with Highlights (or, the Epic Struggle between Flow and Accuracy)

2009-03-02T14:51:00.002-06:00

Because I know the two people who still read this blog are just *dying* to hear more about my writing process...

Because the biggest struggle for me, when it comes to the actual process of dissertation writing (i.e. the material activity rather than the conceptual structuring), is sustaining forward motion, and because the greatest impediment (other than having No. Fraking. Idea. What. I'm. Doing.) to forward motion is my constant desire to word things well, and because I have no brain for maintaining research details (like the name of the major mid-20th yearly century art competition in Quito ... Mar-something Ag-something), an because going searching for said details takes up a lot of time that necessarily contributes to my forward motion problem ... I've developed a new writing strategy since starting my diss.

It's based on a simple text highlighting system using grey and yellow*:

Grey highlights mean "this is definitely not the right word but my vocabulary has, once again, failed me so I'm going to acknowledge that this is not the right word but am not going to flounder here for the next hour trying to figure out what the right word is." This highlighting in grey works quite well, especially since one of two things seems to always happen: 1) I go back to the highlighted term while revising and decide that it actually is just fine where it is, or 2) I completely delete the whole sentence in the process of revision an would just have wasted my time if i'd looked for the right word. I'm a big fan of grey highlights and the way they let me off the hook. (Also? I clearly spell grey wrong all the time but have no interest in self-reform).

Yellow highlights are more pernicious and problematic. If I'm writing along and need to insert a concrete fact that is not easily accessible or can't remember exactly where I saw a particular point made in a secondary source, I write in just enough info to make it clear to me later what I was meaning, and then highlight the resulting mess in yellow [i.e. Kingman's XXXXX (yellow) won first place in the 193X (yellow) Mar-something Ag-something (yellow) competition]. This system works pretty well, allowing me to move forward and giving me an easy but productive activity for days when I'm not getting anywhere with actual writing. There is a small problem with this approach though ... or rather, this approach highlights (heh) one of the problems with me as a scholar: I've been known (somewhat often) to make a claim and then highlight in yellow "(Find Citation)" an innocuous looking phrase that should actually read "I'm just guessing here. This seems reasonable based on my general sense of the world. Surely *someone* has made this point before." I'm pretty sure this is not acceptable historical methodology and that my resulting keyword searching in Project MUSE and JSTOR are an embarrassment to the field ... but, it seems to work (she says, while praying that the Ecuadorianist on her committee doesn't declare her a complete fraud after reading her chapters).

Thrilling, huh? I think I may have put myself to sleep while writing this. But, better to kill my blog through inane content than through neglect. I'm sure you all agree.

* A system that, I just realized, is going to run head-long into my other simple text highlighting system used for keeping track of which sections of previous papers I've copied into which chapter in which I highlight the taken material in a particular color (ch 1= red; ch 2 = orange, etc.)...

Incivility

2009-02-23T20:33:00.003-06:00

I was working on a long, elaborate post on the topic of civil discourse and dealing with conflict. It went on and on about my quick temper, civility, and the past few years' effort to let my better nature win out over the adrenaline rush of anger. It had very little to say that can't be said much more simply:

Speaking as person who is prone to getting all worked up and then launching ineffective lines of argument, I just want to take a moment to recommend to the ether the incredible value of imagining one's self in one's audience's place, or, even better, doing enough information gathering to be able to imagine how one's audience might respond, even if it's different from how one might respond, and then building one's approach accordingly.

Because it's hard to find common ground with someone *after* you've driven over their feet, undermined their authority, made them defensive, or otherwise gotten them generally disposed against you. This is true no matter how justified, or unjustified, you are in your frustration. It's also true whether or not you "started it."

Of course, saying this is easier than doing it. Feel free to remind me of this post next time I get all riled up and fuming.

Fidelity

2009-02-09T15:33:00.005-06:00

This video is part of a project by the Courage Campaign to get try and convince the California Supreme Court to nullify Proposition 8. I'm skeptical about the power of petitions to shift Supreme Court decisions (seems a bit antithetical to the way courts work), but I did, somehow, find the video super affecting.

I hope that a video like this could help people move beyond their extreme prejudice against same-sex relationships. At the same time, I am hesitant to believe that such a video would be effective for people who feel strongly opposed to same-sex love. I know that my reaction to emotionally powerful videos advocating political positions that I dislike often seem emotionally manipulative to me and anger rather than persuade me. I can only imagine a similar reaction from gay marriage's strongest opponents. Perhaps the video might be effective for people who don't feel strongly, but only remain neutral or react with a "we've never done it that way before" sort of misgiving, though. And, perhaps those are the people that actually need convincing anyway.

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo

oh, and thanks to S. for linking to the Courage Campaign petition via facebook so i saw the video.

Excuse me? What have you done with my hours?

2009-02-05T20:41:00.002-06:00

Err.

There appear to be fewer hours in the day in Champaign than there are in D.C.

I am getting up at the same time, or earlier.

I am going to bed at the same time, or later.

I am spending less time wandering aimlessly through the internet.

I am getting in less exercise.

Yet I am getting in essentially no time on my dissertation and can't even seem to fit in a nice long afternoon walk for my poor pup.

I know that my D.C. days don't often include meetings or lectures, but it doesn't seem like that can possibly account for the drastic reduction in available time.

Therefore, I can only conclude that someone has stolen some hours from my day.

Please give them back.

Thanks.

scattershot 8 - cross-country edition

2009-01-30T23:05:00.002-06:00

1) i like debbie's "scattershot" better than "random bullets of crap" and am, therefore, thieving it from her.

2) yesterday, i took the car to the mechanic for an oil change. On my way home from the mechanic, I drove past the Library of Congress, the US Capitol, several Smithsonian museums, the Department of Agriculture, the Washington memorial, the WWII memorial, the White House, and the World Bank. I also spent most of my drive in a national park. Living in DC has its perks and its bizarrities.

3) I am not a fan of the WWII memorial. It cuts the mall between the Lincoln and Washington memorials and, more importantly to me, its symbolism seems completely wonky. How does fascist-style architecture celebrate the triumph over fascism? And why? really why? are the states and territories that participated under the US flag divided apparently randomly in semi-circular halves labeled with the names of the Atlantic and Pacific theaters of the war?

4) leaving DC, I passed a car with the license plate "RRRTIST." If that is your license plate, am I to assume that you paint nautical scenes? or that you have made your career performing in a certain Gilbert and Sullivan musical? Or perhaps that you are a fan of Napster?

5) This afternoon, I arrived in Chicago and, on a walk with my parents, had the gratifying, essential-to-any-winter-worth-its-name experience of my legs freezing to my jeans.

6) Relatedly: On Wednesday I took the dog for a walk in a hard rain. The air temperature was 33 degrees. The ground was mostly covered in ice. Where there was no ice, there was cold slush. I far, far, far, prefer -20 plus windchill to that despicable excuse for winter, any day. At least when it's bitterly cold one is guaranteed a brilliant blue ski.

7) Ceisaf may never actually catch a cat. Nor would he know what to do with one if he did. But he is just fine with keeping his long suffering owner up most of the night on the off chance that he might get his chance.

8) The Count of Monte Cristo, in 43 glorious hours, is a lovely way to pass the time of an interminable drive across Ohio. Being on disc 9 of 35 and having the trip almost halfway done really puts things in perspective (as does comparing my 10 hour drive with the possibility of 14 years of more-or-less solitary confinement in a dungeon).

Memory Door

2009-01-27T10:46:00.005-06:00

My childhood memories are full of days at my paternal grandparents' farm just outside of Eagle Grove, Iowa.

A snapshot image of ice-covered snow, encrusted, bending, grasses, and sparkling fence; the sharp pain of my tongue stuck to the old school bell that sat outside the garage; the big circle of family opening Christmas presents in the kitchen; the taste of candy cough drops while watching the compass turn in the front seat of the big Buick; the taste of roast beef, jarlsburg cod, and lefsa; the doctor's office in town after i stepped on a big rusty nail in the farmyard; the enormous yellow and black corn spiders that surely started my arachnophobia ...

In many cases, those memories are literally 'housed' in the architecture of the big yellow farmhouse. From the dank basement with its treasure-trove of deep freeze delicacies and old chemistry sets to the freezing/stifling attic and its dusty stacks of old furniture, books, and material memory, that house shaped my childhood. The love, faith, humor, practicality, and loyalty of that family might well have soaked into the walls.

When my grandparents were no longer able to live alone on the farm and moved to my aunt's house an hour away, my aunts and uncles agreed that, much as they loved that old house, it was too aged to really attract another owner. And, none of us were willing to risk our beloved farmhouse become another of those empty staring wreaks that increasingly dotted the rural landscapes as small family farms became more and more a thing of the past.

So the house, most of the trees, and all the farm buildings came down.

Before it did, though, true to the frugal, memory loyalty of the family, there was much scavenging. The cabinets from the kitchen moved eventually to my Aunt Carmen's. Carmen and Leonard reclaimed the wood from one of the farmstead's prominent trees and made little stools for each of us. My dad rescued the newel posts from the front stair with plans to make a plant stand (or something. the post is still in the garage, i believe). Inspired by an earlier architectural scavenge by our Aunt Julie, my sister and I each requested one of the front doors. One day, we said, we'd make them into coffee tables like Julie had.

Several years passed.

When Anna and I moved back to Minnesota from New York, my parents announced that it was time for us to take over storage responsibility for the door. It moved into our basement, the heavy, beveled glass of its window wrapped carefully in an old curtain. Looking at the door with its many layers of age-coated varnish, I felt pangs of guilt, but couldn't bring myself to take on the huge project of stripping it.

Then one year my parents decided it was time to move on the project. Carmen and Leonard had mentioned that Uncle Leonard's nephew had some real carpentry skill and, looking at photos of Julie's table, had thought he'd be able to do the conversion. Somehow, the doors made their way to Iowa.

That Christmas, our gifts included little check boxes with photos of Julie's table in them. Sometime later, the unfinished pieces of the doors cum coffee tables arrived at my parents.

And they sat there for a couple more years.

This fall, when I brought our furniture from Champaign to DC, I hauled along the pieces of the door. Every couple days, i'd haul a piece outside and, sitting on a piece of cardboard in the concrete patio of our building, sand away at it, getting ready to stain.

As we got closer and closer to the finishing part of the project, I became more and more nervous about doing the project in DC. We had no indoor place to do the work, let alone leave the stained and poly'd door to dry. Luckily, my mom's brother and sister-in-law live nearby, in WV, and willingly offered space in Rich's work room.

I moved the door there and slowly continued the work.

With my dad's help, Anna and I stained and poly'd the door over Thanksgiving, but had to leave it there to dry when we left.

At Christmas time, we hauled the door all the way from West Virginia to Minnesota and then back to D.C.

But we had forgotten the pieces of molding that would attach the glass to the door. So we had to wait until I remembered to ask Rich and Rusty if they'd send them. And then I kept forgetting to get screws to attach the moldings to the frame.

Last Saturday the pieces were finally all together.

So now a very special piece of those farm memories is sitting in our living room. Since it left the farmhouse that door has been in almost every place we've lived. Every aunt or uncle on both sides of my family has had some role in making it into a coffee table. It is very special to me.

If you come to visit, we might even let you set a glass of wine on a coaster on top of it...

Dissertation Mechanics: I like Writing Footnotes

2009-01-15T09:51:00.003-06:00

I've been feeling rather sheepish about my blog lately. It's been so neglected, pushed aside by the malaise of dissertation writing and the silly one-liners of facebook. I'm concerned, however, that my lack of blogging may also signify a basic dullness and lack of creativity in my life. So, I'm thinking, in a sort of "fix the underlying problem by addressing the symptoms" approach, that I'll start forcing myself to blog more frequently in the hopes that I'll make my life more exciting in order to avoid boring myself and y'all with constant sniveling posts about how painful it is to write chapter 1.

However, today's post (because I like to be contrary) is going to be about my dissertation and how it's hard to write it.* I'm also thinking it'll be the first in a series titled "Dissertation Mechanics" in which I reflect on the little things that go into making this enormous document.

Chapter four is in a solid-enough stage that both advisors have allowed it to be set aside for the moment and encouraged instead a turn to chapter one. Chapter one is that magical chapter in which everything of importance to the dissertation gets introduced (though I've been mentally pushing a few things to a previously-non-existent introduction). This means laying out the skeleton of the three historical case studies and sketching in (to stretch the physical metaphor as grossly as possible) the lymph, circulatory, and nervous systems that will tie the muscles and bones of the chapters together into a (supposedly) cohesive whole.

Now, starting chapter one has not, thus far, been quite as painful as starting chapter four was. After all, I have a much better sense of what chapter one is supposed to be doing (see above). That said, getting going on Ch1 hasn't been exactly a cakewalk either ... which brings me to the true topic of this post:

I like writing footnotes.

They are so straight-forward. They are so isolated. They don't need to flow into other paragraphs, they don't need to forecast particular topics, and they don't raise questions about whether they ought to be introduced four pages ago. They are anchored to a single idea and, blessedly, their whole purpose is to mop up the messy ideas that just don't fit into the paragraph but are necessary for the reader's full understanding. Also, they're usually simple explanations of facts (or of contending opinions) and don't need careful analysis. Plus, if I do discover that I need to give that info in the main body, they are so easily cut and pasted into the appropriate paragraph.

At least, even if none of those positives are exactly true, they feel that way to me as I'm writing them, and that allows me to pound them out quickly and feel a sense of accomplishment. I'm thinking that I should maybe just write my whole dissertation in footnotes and then transfer them to the main body (except, that would ruin their special feeling and defeat the purpose).

Also? Footnotes help me deal with one of the great anxieties I have about writing this dissertation: the fear that people smarter/more knowledgeable about this topic than I am will read it and think "but you didn't consider X" or "clearly you didn't research the complexities of Y," just because I'm making some necessary simplifications in order to get my broader point across. With footnotes, I can nod to the complexities and even explain why I'm simplifying them here without having to turn the dissertation itself into a convoluted treatise of self-defense and circular argument.

I love footnotes. And I like writing them.

Also? I've been thinking as I write this post? I like writing blog posts too. The sentences just flow out and my fingers keep moving and that's so satisfying. It's a similar feeling to writing footnotes. If only I could transfer some of this perpetual motion to the body paragraphs of my dissertation, even for just a few moments, I'd be oh-so-happy.

Writing all this is making me realize I'll have to write another post soon on my defining character trait: impatience. Stay tuned.

For now, back to the dissertation. Perhaps this blog post break will rub off on my chapter writing and i'll have a few moments of churning out sentences. We can only hope.

*If dissertation posts make you want to hurl, don't worry. You can look forward to next week when I should have some posts (with pictures!) about our trip to St. Louis & Jefferson City and our visit with our dear friend the Phenomenally brilliant, wine-drinking, literary lawyer (PBW-DLL, aka Anthony). You're also likely to get a post about the adventure of getting home from the airport at 7pm on inauguration day.

No Original Ideas Here ... Hence, a New Year's Meme

2009-01-08T08:03:00.002-06:00

Because I'm tired of looking at my previous post, but have nothing of particular interest to say ...

1. what did you do in 2008 that you'd never done before?
puke out a bus window, start writing a dissertation, move to dc ... a couple other things...

2. did you keep your 2008 resolutions, and will you make more this year?
i don't think I made any resolutions and haven't so far this year...

3. did anyone close to you give birth?
people all over the place seem to be having (or getting ready to have) babies. I feel a little behind the times.

4. did anyone close to you die?
no, i don't think so.

5. what countries did you visit?
Ecuador

6. what would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?
Chapters 1 and 2? A summer with my partner (the first since 2005!).

7. what was your biggest achievement of the year?
er... it was really a year of little achievements, not so many whiz bang moments, i'm afraid. But, rescuing Anna's sun glasses from a drunken would-be thief in Quito is pretty far up there.

8. what was your biggest failure?
i'm still a long way from my goal of not saying unnecessarily snarky things about other people.

9. did you suffer illness or injury?
not much ... there was the puking out a bus window + fainting + altitude sickness episode in August, but i'm otherwise hale and hearty.

10. what was the best thing you bought?
A week at the Black Sheep Inn ecolodge in Ecuador with Anna (despite the bus window/fainting/altitude sickness issues)

11. whose behavior merited celebration?
wow. I'm pretty pleased with 54% of the US electorate right now ... and I think the Ecuadorian electorate's approval of the new Constitution could be a pretty good thing. And, closer to home, I'm pretty proud of Anna's graduation from law school and beginning of a fabulous new job.

12. whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
a shocking list of elected officials (or officials seeking to be elected) whose behavior demonstrated a willingness to pander to the worst in all of us (cough, Gov's Palin and Blagojevich? I'm talkin' to you!)

13. where did most of your money go?
housing ... people of our income level don't usually maintain a city home and a country home.

14. compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer or poorer?
a.) same? b.) thinner; c.) both ... dang increase in cost of living ...

15. what do you wish you'd done more of?
spending time with friends & family, being in/on water (and out in nature in general)

16. what do you wish you'd done less of?
wasting time online when I could be wasting time outside, with a good book, or with friends.

17. did you fall in love in 2008?
every morning.

18. what was the best new book you read?
you've probably been reading this blog enough to know that i'm oh so poorly read ... i am just completely captivated by Nancy Mulvany's Indexing Books right now ... though i sort of wish I was reading Indexing, The Art of instead ...

19. what was your favorite film of the year?
um ... i'm not such a movie person ... but I had fun seeing Dark Knight and Quantum of Solace at our cool neighborhood theater and I really want to see Frost/Nixon soon.

20. what kept you sane?
having a dog who needs three walks and two meals and at least 8 hours of cuddling each day.

oh, and eating meals at regular intervals.

21. tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2008.
the more interesting your city of residence, the more house guests you will have.

Our Christmas Driving in License Plates

2008-12-29T10:35:00.002-06:00

I'm either offended or impressed

2008-12-08T15:18:00.004-06:00

The two big DC papers (the Post and the Times) put out mini-versions that are available for free to commuters. I rarely pick up my own copy because I am rarely able to do anything but focus on keeping the contents of my stomach inside when I ride the Metro (I find this problem bizarre. I have very little trouble with motion sickness in any other situation, but for some reason, the DC metro is regularly nausea inducing). However, I am sometimes tempted by the copies that people have left lying on the seats or the floor in their rush to de-train at their station.

The column below, an advice column written by "Manolo" the shoe blogger, caught my eye last week and I risked making a pukey fool of myself to be able to bring it to you today. Aren't you grateful?

Now, I'm not sure how to react to this column. Or rather, after finding it quite funny, which it obviously is. Either Manolo has a very sad view of graduate students to which I would like to object or she's so spot on in her analysis that it's hard to believe she's not a graduate student herself. Maybe both.

On the one hand, as a host of a few graduate student christmas get-togethers myself, I hope I can safely say that neither tofurkey nor macrobiotic sprouts are likely to appear (even when one does have a plurality of vegan guests, one is far more likely to get boston cream pie cupcakes...). Impressive culinary achievement has been a hallmark of all the grad student parties I've attended, actually. I mean, I believe elaborate cooking projects are an essential feature in the procrastination tactics of most graduate students I know. And, perhaps most importantly. The fact that Manolo belives that grad student holiday parties imply "the sort of lugubrious hilarity ... one associates with Moldovan politburo lunches, sans the lubricating effects of vodka," suggests that she has never actually been to a grad student holiday party. I mean, what grad student party worth the name would happen "sans the lubricating effects of vodka"?

On the other hand, I'm afraid she has us nailed. If her ignorance of the alcohol tendencies of partying grad students implies that she's never joined them, her description of the morose dissertator suggests she might co-habitating with one. Talk about being hailed by a passage: "the misanthropic gloom settles in, brought on by the ... low, muffled beating of the unfinished dissertation, which, like the tell-tale heart, lies insistently beneath the floorboards of the mind."

Yikes. Maybe I am as enjoyable as a Moldovan politburo lunch sans vodka. Perhaps Manolo knows me better than I know myself.

In defense of the U.S. public

2008-11-26T07:26:00.004-06:00

I'm a little shocked to be taking this position, since I have been known myself to bemoan the sad state of citizen participation in this country. I've criticized the U.S. education system's disinterest in critical thinking and our disheartening tendency to evaluate political candidates on charisma rather than policy.

However. I feel compelled to write about the new study, "Our Fading Heritage," by the Intercollegiate Studies Institute. The study found that seventy-one percent of the 2,508 U.S. adults who took a 33 question test on US political and economic concepts failed that test (I believe they used 60% as their cut-off for failure). The study focused especially on how well college prepared people for civic life, concluding that "after all the time, effort, and money spent on college, students emerge no better off in understanding the fundamental features of American self-government." By the numbers, the average score for a person with a bachelor's degree was 57% while the average for those with a high school diploma was 44%.

The study also asserts that "only 24% of college graduates know that First Amendment prohibits establishing an official religion for the United States."

Which brings me to my specific criticisms.

The quiz includes thirty-three questions. Some test "basic" civics knowledge: what are the three branches of government? Name one right or freedom guaranteed by the first amendment (the options are "right to bear arms," "due process," "religion," and "right to counsel"). Others test more specialized knowledge, asking questions such as "what was the main issue in the debates between Lincoln and Douglas in 1858?" and "What impact did the Anti-Federalists have on the US Constitution?"

Thirteen of the thirty-three questions fall squarely into the category I would call "requiring special knowledge." Those questions touch on theories of free market capitalism, the content of Thomas Jefferson's letters, and FDR's threats about the Supreme Court. I'm not sure those last two are "basic" knowledge required for civic engagement and, more importantly, it doesn't surprise me that a substantial portion of the US public, including college students, don't know the answer. If you didn't take a US history class in college that specifically covered that era and those issues, you probably wouldn't. I was able to identify that building a "wall of separation" between state and religion came from Thomas Jefferson's letters and that the anti-federalists were instrumental in making the bill of rights happen only because I have gone through the Library of Congress' awesome exhibit on the making of Constitution twice in the last month. Maybe prior to that experience I was, as Kathleen Parker suggests in a Washington Post editorial this morning, "too stupid to vote," but I beg to differ.

I also have to take issue with the assertion that "only 24% of college graduates know that First Amendment prohibits establishing an official religion for the United States." What they mean, actually, is that only 24% of college graduates correctly chose "religion" when given the options "right to bear arms," "due process," "religion," and "right to counsel." In other words, and I know this is still a bit sad, only 24% of college graduates can distinguish the contents of the first amendment from the contents of other amendments in the bill of rights. I'm guessing that the percentage getting the question right would be significantly higher even if the four options included rights guaranteed in later amendments. I would still like both high school and college graduates to know what's in the first amendment. I think it's useful knowledge for understanding civic information. But I'm skeptical that the situation is quite as dire as the ISI would like to make it.

The report also asserts "If there is any presidential speech that has captured a place in popular culture, it is the Gettysburg Address ... the truth is, however, Lincoln's most memorable words are now remembered by very few." This argument is based on the fact that only 21% of people accurately identified the phrase "government of the people, for the people, by the people" as coming from the Gettysburg Address. The other options? the speech "I have a Dream," the Declaration of Independence, and the U.S. Constitution. I guess I think people can be forgiven for thinking that those famous words that do, in fact, reference the Constitution, might appear in either the Constitution or the Declaration of Independence. The fact that they got the question wrong doesn't necessarily mean that people don't recognize the words. In fact, it suggests that they are now so much a part of our understanding of US government that people assume they belong in a more foundational document than Lincoln's address. It suggests that Lincoln's words successfully redefined what's going on in the Constitution. I also wonder how the percentage would have changed if they had added the famous line "shall not perish from the earth" to the end of their quotation. It wouldn't shock me if the percent of people responding correctly would increase, at least a bit.

I know that these are, in some cases, small criticisms and the fact remains that people struggled to answer questions that thorough knowledge of government and history should have made fairly simple. But, I also think the small criticisms pile up. And, most importantly, I don't think that failing to answer these questions correctly provides an accurate picture of a person's civic capabilities or even their knowledge about the current issues on which the national public ought to be taking stands. When I complain about the civic laziness of the U.S. population, it's not because, as the ISI seems to suggest, colleges are stealing from the US taxpayer by failing to teach "America's history, key texts, and institutions." It's because we continue to think and act as though a set of basic questions, a standardized test, or a crash course in U.S. history is what is needed to prepare people for life in a democracy. I care far more that my students be able to launch a well-reasoned and well-researched argument outlining their position on domestic HIV/AIDS funding or, yes, even abortion, than that they be able to respond correctly to more than 18 out of 33 questions on a civic literacy quiz. Indeed, I care more that my students know how to use the internet and the library to find the answers to those quizzes when they need them than that they know them off the top of their heads.

Finally, I think that the report's suggestion that the fact that federal, state, and local government gave $114 billion to public colleges and $17 billion to private colleges in 2005 obliges those colleges to "[teach] students America's history, key texts, and institutions" as expected by 71% of survey respondents rather than obliging them to use that money for the research agendas, capital projects, scholarships, loans, and other programs to which it was directed, is spurious. Especially when the argument is framed as "what do taxpayers, many of whom cannot afford to send their own children to college, receive in return for this investment?" Putting government funding for higher education on the table because it's doing something other than providing civic education is ridiculous and endangers rather than helps the cause of those parents who can't afford to send their kids to college. I would like to see increased civic education at the college level. I think there are lots of innovative programs out there already making good progress (Campus Compact, anyone?). Access to courses in history, political science, and economics is certainly part of that effort. But, we would be remiss if we caved to the idea that such training is the foundation of an active citizenry.

Because I'm avoiding my chapter ...

2008-11-21T09:19:00.002-06:00

Even in this southerly and coastal city, fall is making its way to an end. Evenings hover near freezing and I've taken to carrying (if not necessarily wearing) a hat and mittens. The trees are mostly bare and the leaves that still cling to branches have that pale, resilient look that speaks more of winter than fall.

In theory, I should be buckling down as well. A full draft of this chapter is due in just under a month. DH's new advisee writing group gave helpful feedback on the first half of my chapter when I was in C-U last week and I have big plans for revision, even if the second half of the chapter remains stubbornly unformed.

But, I am having trouble giving myself over to the work i know i need to do. The gritty work of putting paragraphs back together after I've torn them apart is daunting and there's a nagging fear that the re-constructed paragraphs will fall far short of my expectations.

So, I'm posting pictures of an earlier moment of autumn, when the fallen leaves were sun kissed and brilliant ... as if I could convince myself that I too was a bit brighter back then (i wasn't ... writing was just as slow ... but i'm beginning to think that dissertating is all about self delusion...).

The ridiculous things that distract one while theoretically dissertating

2008-11-20T10:24:00.002-06:00

For the sake, especially, of Florida and the Malay peninsula, I am pleased to learn that my flash of etymological inspiration turns out to be incorrect... thanks to the OED for clearing up my momentary fascination...

Peninsula, n

[< classical Latin paeninsula < paene PENE- prefix + insula island (see INSULA n.). Compare French péninsule (1519 in Middle French as peninsule), Spanish península (1527-50 or earlier; 1726 or earlier in la península denoting the Iberian peninsula), Portuguese península (c1539), Italian penisola (16th cent.; attested earlier as penisula (a1494), peninsula (a1504)).
With the form peneinsula compare PENE- prefix. In forms probably after French.]

1. a. A piece of land that is almost completely surrounded by water; a piece of land projecting into water, such that the greater part of its boundary is coastline.

***

Pene, prefix

[< classical Latin paene almost, of unknown origin. paene is used to qualify adjectives and nouns (as well as adverbs), generally written as a separate word. With some words it is written in combination (before a vowel paen-, pn-), e.g. paenultimus PENULTIM adj., paeninsula PENINSULA n. With pene-infinite adj., compare classical Latin paene infinitus.
In Latin borrowings, the form appears from the late Middle English period (see e.g. PENULTIM adj.). Formations in English are found from the late 16th cent.; in the late 16th and early 17th cent. chiefly in formations after earlier models (see e.g. PENULTIMATE adj., PENISLE n.). Formations occur more frequently from the second half of the 19th cent. onwards.]

A1. Used with the sense of ‘nearly, almost, all but’ to form adjectives and nouns.

***

Penis, n

[< classical Latin penis tail, the male genital organ < the same Indo-European base as Sanskrit pasas, ancient Greek . Compare French pénis (1618 as penis; subsequently from 1753).]

Anat. and Zool. The male genital organ used (usually) for copulation and for the emission or dispersal of sperm, in mammals containing erectile tissue and serving also for the elimination of urine.

Remembering Why Christmas (and Christianity) Are Radical

2008-11-19T11:02:00.003-06:00

So ...

it could be a minute shorter, it oversimplifies the issues that make providing safe drinking water complicated, and it's a tad gimmicky in its production ...

but ...

I'm always a fan of messages that remind us that Christianity, especially if you actually think about its basic stories, ought to be countercultural ... and that its core teachings still can be.

A Nation Divided by our Mutual Mistrust

2008-11-11T12:29:00.002-06:00

First, an apology for the utter silence going on over here lately. I'm afraid that full time dissertation writing [and dissertation writing evasion] have made for a lack of interesting things to say.

Last Thursday/Friday I drove across the country to spend time first with family and now in Champaign. A couple hours out from DC, after the suburbs had given way to copper colored ridges and dusky hollows, I pulled off the road to fill up my tank.

From the top of the ramp I could see a gas complex off to my right, but I had seen a sign for a BP to the left, and decided to head that way. I crossed the highway, followed the curve, and came across a little brick building with a dingy BP sign. I couldn't tell if the place was actually open, but it had the now ubiquitous pay-at-the-pump option, so I pulled in, disregarding the little misgivings that welled up inside as I realized how empty the road was and how few buildings there were around me.

The main building was surrounded by cars in various stages of junker. Just beyond the pumps was a 1970s sedan with the windshield shattered in. I told myself I was being silly to feel vulnerable. I was, after all, a rural kid myself.

But, talking-to aside, my heart sank a little as a skinny jeans-and-t-shirt clad man with salt and pepper beard and oil co. cap made his way toward me. I started the gas flowing and, to my embarrassment, gripped Ceisaf's leash a little tighter.

The man didn't say anything for awhile. Instead, he scuffed the aging asphalt, seeming fixated on the front of my car. I realized he was looking at my DC license plate... the only license plate in the country that proves beyond a doubt that you're an urban dweller.

Finally he looked up and said slowly, "What're you doing out in the country?"

"Going to see family in West Virginia," I replied, taking refuge in my distant Appalachian heritage (though my midwestern voice must have undermined my claim).

He grunted, and asked if Ceisaf could have a fried pork rind. I said yes.

He proceeded to win over my little dog who knows that anyone who gives him food is his kind of guy.

I paid. We said goodbye to the guy in the oil co. cap, who tossed Ceisaf another pork rind with a smile. I got back on the road.

Danielle Allen argues, in Talking to Strangers, that widespread mutual distrust is the greatest threat facing our democracy today. After a campaign where liberals slammed the Republican vice presidential candidate, not only for her limited resume, but also for her small town, frontier origins, and that same candidate described the nation as divided into real and [implicitly] fake Americas, we can only hope that a president elect who staked his campaign on the idea that we can be better than these politics of division and mistrust can inspire the rest of us to live that possibility.

I bristle at the accusation that being liberal, gay, decaf-latte-drinking, doctorate-pursuing, urban-dwelling, etc. somehow diminishes the content of my citizenship. I would defend to the last minute my belief that it is my *love* for this country, not my hatred for it, that makes me criticize it, argue against its imperialistic behaviors, and hold it to higher standards.

And, yah know? I'm pretty sure the guy at the BP would have bristled himself at the thoughts running through my head as I filled my tank.

We didn't talk much. Mostly about the dog (Ceisaf is the biggest reason I talk with strangers). We didn't exchange deep thoughts on our citizenship or broach the subject of the election. We passed five minutes in mutual mistrust, leavened slightly by a dog, and then I went on my way. What could I really expect from a gas station conversation?

But the moment and my shameful response to it, made me remember how far we have to go to reshape the ordinary habits that Allen says are the stuff of citizenship.

And I thought my dissertation's scope was ridiculously broad

2008-10-06T15:59:00.002-05:00

From the preface to Marilyn Grace Miller's Rise and Fall of the Cosmic Race:

"My dissertation, titled 'Miscegenation and the Narrative Voice,' explored the relationship between the notion of 'mixed race' and narrative production. [It addressed] textual representations of miscegenation in Latin America, the English Caribbean, the United States, and South Africa within a temporal frame that stretched from the colonial moment to the late twentieth century" (ix).

Holy Crap.

Walking the Talk

2008-10-03T14:12:00.003-05:00

I'm a little prone to excessive self-confidence, to the assumption that I already know how to do something because, well, I've been in the same room with someone who did it. Sometimes, however, life brings me face-to-face with the fact that actually *having* an experience is pretty necessary to understanding it and that I previously had no idea what I was talking about.

Case in point? Writing a dissertation.

I mean ... I know this will be a shock to all y'all who have actually written (or are well into writing) one ... but ... Writing a dissertation is *hard*. Incredibly hard.

Now, I'm not talking about the things that are always challenging about writing, things like crafting good sentences, providing coherent analysis, or establishing and supporting an analysis. I'm familiar with those challenges and have had my share of struggles with them. I expected to clamber my way through those obstacles much like I have in the past.

Nor is it just that the dissertation presents all those challenges but in larger format, though that's closer.

No.

For someone who has written a few short stacks of conference and seminar papers but who has never tackled anything made up of multiple, separate chapters, writing a dissertation is hard because it clearly requires a conceptual orientation that she has not yet developed: the conceptual orientation required for a book.

I had not realized that this would be a major difference.

It is.

First there's the problem of sorting ideas and examples into their proper places. Even though I have little paragraphs telling me what each chapter is going to be about, it's not like those four chapters are separate from one another in the way that four seminar papers might be. For one thing, what does dh care if I turn in a seminar paper that relies heavily on the same examples that I used in cf's seminar? As long as the paper is it's own thing (i.e. as long as I'm not recycling the entire paper), reworking an example to make a new point (or even repeating an example and a point) is perfectly acceptable. It seems to me, however, that such repetition in a dissertation (or a book) doesn't work. So, I'm constantly tripping over myself as I start making a point and then realize that probably I should make this point in another place.

Then, there's the related problem of maintaining the chapters simultaneously conceptually separate and conceptually related. Every time I sit down to write, ideas that are supposed to be carefully placed in chapter 2 keep trying to invade my writing of chapter 4. Even worse, the way that ideas keep piling on top of one another makes me worry that I don't actually have four chapters - just one massive, rambling mess of an overgrown seminar paper.

Which suggests that the real problem is that I don't know what a chapter is, how it works, or how you write one. I certainly don't know how to write a book.

I suppose this is why one writes a dissertation in grad school and then gets a job and revises the dissertation into a book instead of having to do the whole process for the first time while on the tenure clock.

But holy crap. There's nothing like trying to write a dissertation to make you realize that you, in fact, have No. Fraking. Idea. how to write one.

And, I'm just guessing here, but I'm thinking there's probably no way to learn how to write a dissertation other than ... well ... writing one.

gulp.

Legs and Lung Capacity

2008-10-01T11:59:00.003-05:00

You would think that my four months in Quito would have left me in good shape for hills, but ... no. Perhaps because I didn't have my bike there so was using different muscles. Perhaps because I didn't run much in my last month because of a pesky knee injury. Perhaps because I didn't start up a brisk cardiovascular workout schedule immediately after returning to the US ... who knows.

What I do know is that three years in the middle of Flatsville has left me a decided hill wimp when it comes to biking. Today, for some reason, I was especially without hill oomph. Unfortunately, my little topographic route maps leave much to be desired in terms of hill comparisons.

So, you'll have to take my word for it. In the past three weeks of biking my way to local coffee shops, grocers, and hardware stores, I am pretty sure that I have gained and lost more elevation than I gained and lost in the three years of biking I did in Champaign. I'm hoping that someday soon I'll be able to make it up at least a few of these hills without the sad deceleration at the top, without the huffing, and without the screaming lactic acid in my legs.

Running is similarly challenging. Yesterday we ran down through Rock Creek Park and then rewarded ourselves by *walking* up through the zoo. If you need some hill training in your workout, feel free to come visit.

On making new habits

2008-09-29T09:54:00.002-05:00

Settling in to a new place takes more than unpacking boxes, getting books on the shelves, and art on the walls. I'd say that this settling in has been more difficult than previous ones, but I'm not sure that's true. It seems like the long process of making a place feel like home itself erases the memory of the process. I'm pretty sure we cried ourselves to sleep our first night in New York, railed against the useless public transportation system in Minneapolis (pre-light rail), scoffed at Champaign's college-town smallness, and felt oh-so-lonely for the first weeks (months?) in each place. I'd like to think of myself as fairly flexible, but the truth is that I'm a change wimp.

So, in the spirit of tracking minutia, a few of the little things about our new apartment that mark and ease the transition to life in Washington D.C.:

The refrigerator: I didn't bring many condiments from Champaign. Since condiments don't go bad quickly and I'm going to be in and out of our apartment there, it seemed silly to transport (and try and keep cool) all those open bottles. This means, however, that the little, sometimes expensive, things I use regularly but in small amounts aren't here and we've had to start over on the slow process of re-accumulation. We have some basics now (sesame oil, soy sauce, capers, maple syrup, mustard), but I also regularly run into things I'm lacking (fish sauce, ketchup, red wine vinegar, rice vinegar, the dregs of a bottle of white wine). Plus, the fridge still has that disorganized appearance that happens when you start with a completely empty space and just add things randomly as you acquire them.

The kitchen in general: The problem with remodeling a kitchen (at least if you're in my family) is that you're then destined to move within the year. And you're almost certain to move to a new kitchen that falls short of the newly remodeled one. Our new kitchen is, um ... slightly lacking in counter space and cabinets. We really limited what we brought, so I'm already missing some of my more esoteric kitchen items. We've managed to fit most of what we brought (though the kitchen aid mixer will be stored its box on the floor for the duration, I'm afraid), but there are two key things still in process. Anna wanted to leave our Champaign pot rack in place, so I got materials to make a new one... but it's not ready yet. And, our spices are currently stacked in bread pans under the sink because we haven't managed to buy a wall-mounted spice rack yet. So, things still feel unsettled in there and progress is slow.

The state of the plants: Our new apartment is significantly smaller than our Champaign place (and significantly more expensive ... go figure). It's also sadly dark, despite large banks of windows in the two main rooms (damn buildings next door). The darkness is a bit wearying in general (especially since I'm mostly working at home), but I am most worried about what it means for our plants who are used to our sunny dining room in Champaign. I think having them die off one by one is not going to be good for my psyche...

The state of the dog: Ceisaf has never had trouble transitioning into new places before, but this move seems to be hard for him. He's getting older and I'm sure that affects his flexibility (Anna noticed this summer that he did less well with all her moving around). I'm sure the smallness of the apartment also affects him, and even more, the fact that he no longer has good windows for surveying the world around him. Also, our apartment is on the first floor right by the front door. That means that almost everyone leaving the building goes past our door - and puts Ceisaf on alert. He's been giving me big eyed looks a lot more often lately, curling up against me or climbing in my lap whenever I sit down, and being a little bit resistant to walking when he's with only one of us. On the other hand, our new bed is pretty low and we immediately gave up on keeping him off ... so he's pretty happy to sleep at our feet (or up by our heads, taking over half the bed) every night.

Sharing: Though the change is hard, I can't get over how much easier this transition surely is thanks to the fact that I can share it with my partner. Being away from Anna for the long stretch of summer reminded me how much of a difference she makes in my life. I suppose she doesn't really count as minutia ... but as I've said before, it's the little things of our love that really keep me going ... and having her walk into the apartment every evening is the best moment of every day and makes the little things of transition oh so much easier to accumulate.

I can empathize, but I still think that was ridiculous

2008-09-23T16:19:00.002-05:00

As someone who has spent a fair amount of time trying to get work done in a language that's not my native tongue, I have a lot of empathy for people trying to live and work in that same situation in the US.

And, I know that I am extremely lucky to have inherited my mother's good ear so that I have fewer struggles with my accent than do the vast majority of second (or third, etc.) language learners.

And, I understand that proper nouns, especially people's names and the names of streets (which are often people's names) are somehow especially difficult to catch because there are no contextual clues and you have to get the word exactly right. Plus, native speakers tend to say addresses in a way that is inexplicably difficult to understand if you're not a native speaker.

And, oh *man* do I get how much harder it is to talk on the phone, especially a cell phone, than it is to talk face to face. Words get dropped, little mechanical noises get in the way, voices get altered, and, most importantly, you can't *see* the person you're talking to.

And, I have absolutely felt my share of frustration with my native speaker interlocutors who speak to quickly or too complexly or who just can't seem to figure out what I'm saying. And I've sometimes wondered if the problem is as much their failure to actually listen to me (because they have already decided that I won't be intelligible) as it is my failure to speak well.

But.

I'm not sure that tow truck operator in a large city, for a company that makes the operator communicate directly, via cell phone, while driving, with the customer to arrange the meeting is the ideal job for someone with a strong accent and only decent comprehension.

And,

I can't bring myself to have a lot of empathy for someone who works a car-based job in DC who hasn't figured out that east-west streets go in alphabetical order, starting first with the letters of the alphabet, then with two syllable words, then with three syllable words. Not that DC is an easy city to navigate ... the state name streets that cut the city diagonally make easy navigation impossible ... but that simple alphabetical structure seems like a useful and fairly easy thing to learn. I suppose the one exception to this would be if one's native alphabet used a significantly different system than English ... then the alphabet wouldn't be as second nature and would maybe be harder to use as a guide. So, maybe I should cut the guy some more slack.

But.

I still think maybe a cellular-telephone, street-name-identifying job isn't quite the right niche for him.

Warning Label

2008-09-09T08:26:00.002-05:00

Mixing archival research and packing can be dangerous to your will to simplify.

It's not that I'm under the illusion that I will ever be famous/infamous/just-plain-interesting enough to be the subject of some 23rd century budding historian's research project ...

but ...

It appears that my 15 weeks of digging through archives and often wishing that Mr. Jijón y Caamaño or Bishop Gonzalez Suarez or, heaven forfend, Mr. Joaquín Pinto himself had kept (or written) a few more letters ... specifically letters touching on themes of interest to me ... has left a bit of a mark on my psyche.

I mean, what if some erstwhile graduate student interested in the decline of conventional mail wants to see what sorts of events occasioned hand-written notes? Or has an interest in the use of vintage images? Or wonders about the ritual practice of faux-religious holidays like St. Valentine's day?

That stack of cards and letters that has been building in our dining room could just be the goldmine that future-grad-student has been longing for. How can I deprive her of it?

Well, anyway, I'm having trouble recycling cards and letters (which makes me wonder, with fear in my heart, if we still have the letters that Anna and I exchanged in the first year of our relationship ... oh dear, I hope we threw those out in a fit of simplification) ... So, if your great, great, grandchild is trolling the dregs of the ancient archives of the world wide web and finds this blog post, he might just be able to go searching for the c.. & Anna miscellaneous crap archive at Podunk University in We-Were-Desperate's-Ville.

Send help.

A Perfect Quito Send-Off

2008-09-06T07:16:00.003-05:00

Thursday, my last day in Ecuador, though not what you'd call a *typical* day from my research, was a day that decidedly captured, in concentrated form, the experience of my research trip. Allow me to present an annotated schedule:

7:10am: Went walking at the nearly vertical Parque de la Mujer with my friends Martha and X (MV couldn't join us, unfortunately). Going on Thursday was unusual, but since we hadn't been able to go on Wednesday morning and this was my last day, we made an exception.

9:00am: Caught to bus to the Banco Central... except, the bus couldn't go directly to the Banco Central because there was a rally in favor of the new constitution taking place and it was completely blocking the road. So, traffic was going the wrong way up a merging lane and then doing a u-turn onto the one-way street on the other end to go around. However, my bus driver didn't want to do a u-turn because that would have taken us way off our route. So, the bus driver's assistant ran ahead of the bus, waving on-coming cars out of the way, so that we could drive three blocks in the wrong direction and then go back to our route.

9:30am: Spent an hour and a half at the Historical Archive of the Banco Central, working in their database to write down complete information for the photographs that I had requested copies of. However, I wasn't able to get the information for several of the images because no matter what word or combination of words I typed in, the database *refused* to pull up the record. Even when I typed words that I *knew* were in the title of the image. I pointed this out to the exceedingly helpful archivist (the archivist who had opened the archive, just for me, in the last week of August even though it was supposed to be closed that week). He smile, apologized, and shrugged. "Sometimes that's just how databases are" he told me. "You contract someone to make them and maybe that person isn't quite as good as he said he was. Plus, it's an old database."

11:00am: I book it up the hill and a mile north to get to a meeting with the head editor of one of Ecuador's presses. This meeting had been scheduled the day before after I had lunch with my friend Maria. I borrowed Maria's cell phone to call the editor's office and he, once again, wasn't in. Maria, hearing the editor's last name said, "oh. I work with his niece. Let me call her and see if she has his cell phone number." Armed with the cell phone number, I finally got through to the editor and ended up with a meeting the next morning.

11:30am: I arrive at the meeting and proceed to have a lovely chat with the knowledgeable and interested editor. In the course of the meeting, he hands me, for free and out-of-the-blue, copies of two beautiful and expensive books that the press had published (and that I had been coveting). He also, quite directly, opens the door to the possibility of them taking my dissertation/book for publication. This is an amazing door opening (though only a door opening. He has, of course, only heard my description of my work and may not actually be interested in the final product). I had no idea it was even possible to publish a non-commissioned book with this press, but if I had known, this would have been the press, in all of Ecuador, that I would have dreamed of working with. They make beautiful books.

1:00pm: I have flitted and danced (or, would have flitted and danced, were not my new books so. darn. heavy.) away from the meeting with the editor to join some friends for an Almuerzo at one of my favorite little cafes (though I avoid ordering one of their excellent Americanos since I want to sleep tonight). Almuerzo is lovely, conversation is good (though sad, since this is my last almuerzo with these friends for awhile), and the day is beautiful. Despite having been in Ecuador for four months, I've managed to get myself a good start on a sunburn because I was careless about sunblock this morning.

3:00pm: I stop by the book store at the museum of the Banco Central to buy three volumes of a series of re-printed periodicals. I've been trying to buy these periodicals for the last several days, but the book store clerk has been sick (according to the sign on the door) and so the book store has been closed. While checking out, I politely inquire about the clerk's health and we have a short and pleasant conversation about her work.

between 3:30 and 4:14pm: I head home to drop of the now enormously heavy load of books that I have collected. The bus driver, who has stopped for every person who flapped his or her hand for the bus, no matter where in the block (or in relation to the nominally marked bus stops) that person is, cannot be convinced to stop right at my corner to let me off because there is no bus stop there.

4:30pm: I catch the bus to Pilates and wonder, for the 25th time, if slamming into the seat in front of me, should the insanely accelerating and braking bus driver actually hit someone, will break my kneecaps and/or jaw. I am relieved that no jaw or knee breaking happens, since that would be an unpleasant and inconvenient end to my trip.

5:00-6:00pm: My last Ecuadorian Pilates class. I wonder if Pilates will feel different if I take a class given in my native language. I'm pretty sure there could be no sweeter instructor than N.

Sometime during Pilates: It *pours* in parts of Quito. When I get out of class cars are dripping and streets are filled with water. People either hold rolled up umbrellas or have sad faces and soggy clothes. For *once* I've missed being caught in the downpour. I am usually one of those sad, soggy people.

6:00 - 7:15pm: I make my way to a restaurant to have my final dinner in the company of a welcoming dinner for a group of US students taught by my friends Martha and Maria (they've invited me to come help introduce the group to Ecuador). Of course, getting there is not straight-forward. My first bus ride goes relatively smoothly. The line to get on the "Trole," though long, moves quickly, and I even get a seat on the Trole, an unheard of event. However, then things get complicated. First, a see a few people walking past holding red posters emblazoned with "Si!" (in Ecuador right now, any time you see "Si" or "No" written somewhere, you can be 98% sure it's a reference to the upcoming vote on the new constitution). Then, all of a sudden, we are at a dead stop along with the rest of traffic. Looking out the window, I see a mass of people ahead of us, lit in profile by the burning torches and (possibly) oil drums they have set up. We sit still for awhile, and then the massive, articulated-bus of a Trole starts up its diesel engine (usually Troles run on electric wires) and does a u-turn, heading back the way we came and then snaking around to join the route of the Eco-via, taking us well out of our way on a detour that skips several stops (interestingly, there is no complaint. There is barely remark from the passengers. We all take this as something relatively normal). When I get off at my stop, I realize that the Trole system is closed. There's a line of people waiting outside the stop, but they aren't allowed in. No one appears to be complaining, but they are pressed firmly against the entry, ready to rush in, falling over each other, whenever the doors do open.

7:15 - 8:15: I arrive at the restaurant, on the roof of a building in the midst of the historic center of Quito. The view is spectacular and the rain has cleared away. Brightly lit churches surround us. Quito at night is incredible. The gathering started at 6:30pm. Martha doesn't arrive until 7:30. We don't order until 7:45. Food arrives at 8:15.

9:30pm: Martha drives me home and we say goodbye. It's bittersweet. I'm so excited to go home and be with my family. But, this is a longer goodbye. I won't be back to Quito for awhile - probably two years - and I will miss the city, the mountains, the people.

9:40pm: I get up to my apartment. The phone is dead again. Much finagleing ensues so that I can reserve a taxi for 4:30 the next morning for my ride to the airport.

12:20pm: I finally get to bed, having started packing at 10:00pm. My research files are backed up, my bags are, miraculously, zipped. And I have only left behind two books, neither of which I had actually needed in the first place (thanks, random guy in the archive who handed me a signed copy of your book on the universe complete with professions of undying friendship after talking with me for 20 seconds, but I think I'll leave your book for my landlord's rather impressive[ly random] collection).

Belts and Bagginess

2008-08-27T21:43:00.003-05:00

I've lost a bit of weight since I arrived in Ecuador. I'm not sure how much weight, poundage-wise, because, well, one inevitably weighs less here in Quito because of being on the equator and at high altitude. Plus, I don't have a scale of my own.

However, my weight-loss isn't just about the change in altitude. Nor is it just an illusion caused by the lack of a clothes-dryer to provide the much needed service of pants-shrinkage. It's most definitely a reality, unless altitude and stretching can make me lose a third of a cup size and flatten my tummy.

Now, it's not that I object to losing a little weight, but I have to admit that the loss could have come at a better time. You see, I'm not a huge fan of the sorts of clothes available in Ecuadorian malls (really, inordinate amounts of polyester). Plus, we aren't exactly rolling in cash. So, since the majority of this weight loss took place at the very beginning of my trip, I've been walking around for going on four months now looking very much like a pre-growth-spurt kid in her older sister's hand-me-downs.

Anna found the situation pretty amusing when she was here. And really, there is just something basically ridiculous about having to belt a pair of pants (admittedly, already a bit baggy before I left the states) until the fabric buckles in order to keep them up.

This morning, the baggy clothes situation reached a new low. Faced with the alternative of hitching my black dress pants up every two steps or pairing my nice-ish pants with my decidedly worn belt, I chose the belt. The result was, um, rather silly looking. Still, losing my pants in the middle of a Quito intersection seemed comparatively more silly.

What. The. F@c&???!!!

2008-08-26T21:42:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, I swear I took digital images of two pages from the "Oficios y Solicitudes Dirigidos al Jefe Politico" from 1868.

When I got home and was transferring and cataloging my photos from the day, those two images were missing. I figured that I must have written the data down but forgotten to actually take the pictures.

Today, I went back to the 1868 tome and re-took (or took for the first time) those images. I just sat down to start transferring and cataloging todays images. Those exact same pages are missing from my collection again. I SWEAR I took the pictures.

What the crap is going on?

One of those days

2008-08-26T20:34:00.002-05:00

Today was one of those days where almost everything you do is *technically* productive, but you still end up feeling like the day was one long series of dead ends.

I tried, but failed, to start working at the Banco Central's Historical Archive (but did confirm that I can show up tomorrow morning)

I tried, but failed, to set up an interview (but I did at least renew my contact with the potential interviewee).

I tried, but failed, to get access to a cool map of the Amazon the shows Quito as its source (but I did find out where to go to see the map and got the name and phone number of the proper contact person).

I tried, but failed, to pick up a disk of images from the Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana (but my visit did remind them that they needed to get the disk ready, so I'll probably be able to pick it up tomorrow).

I tried, but failed, to get access to a set of historical maps of Quito at the Instituto Geografico Militar (but, I did get some good exercise climbing to the top of the hill, had a nice view of Quito, and found out exactly which office to go to once the staff return from vacation on Sept 1).

I tried, but failed, to make an appointment with the Banco Central's curator for colonial and 19th century art (but I did manage to learn his phone number).

I'm hoping that tomorrow is a much more directly productive day. We shall see. I'm not sure I can handle another day like this if I want to actually accomplish the list of tasks I've set for myself between now and 4:30am on September 5.

A few images to let you know what I've been doing lately

2008-08-18T21:09:00.004-05:00

I'm afraid that these weeks of being not-solo in Ecuador have not been so good for my regular blogging, but rest assured that I am happy and, other than some spectacular passing out / vomiting in a bus, healthy.

You'll hear from me again sometime after August 24, at which point I will be sprinting madly through the Historical Archives of the Banco Central while simultaneously preparing mentally to move to DC and desperately missing my dear, dear love whom I've gotten used to having around again.

err ...

2008-08-01T07:27:00.001-05:00

yikes!

please oh please oh please oh please no.

Hi! Why, yes! I have been writing! And drinking caffinated Americanos! Why do you ask!?

2008-07-31T20:24:00.003-05:00

Or, "Thoughts on my Writing Processes"

I am generally a computer-centric writer. Most of the time, I start writing on the computer, do initial revisions on the computer, and only print out a paper to do hand corrections when I am feeling stuck.

However, there have been notable exceptions to this computer-first process and I'm beginning to think that dissertation writing may take those exceptions to a whole new level.

In the past, I have tended to turn to handwritten beginnings whenever I was a)very very stuck or b) feeling a strong pull to be enjoying nature but still also feeling obligated to work, or c) both.

Since beginning my research in Ecuador I've discovered a new version of the pull to handwriting. You see, I tend to want to type papers, even early on, because I can type at about the speed that I can form sentences. That way, I can get ideas out without my thoughts getting ahead of me. Handwriting, since it's slower, sometimes means that I lose ideas or end up writing in a shorthand that is later illegible when I try and sit down and transfer the ideas to the computer.

Right now, however, I'm feeling pretty overwhelmed with all the details I've gathered in my research. I'm feeling pulled in about a million different directions by the various strands of my project and can't yet untangle them sufficiently such that I can see how they'll weave together into a complex and subtly beautiful argument (maybe this is wishful thinking...). And, I'm feeling uncertain about both how much background information my readers will need and how to go about communicating that background information (in a separate section? woven into each paragraph? in footnotes? all of the above?). In this context, handwriting is just the right pace.

I can lose myself in explaining a situation, taking the time to write out sentences and the long phrases of Spanish names and titles (President Gabriel García Moreno, the contribución de trabajo subsidiario, etc.), and somehow, in that semi-mindless writing, I find connections among details that had previously eluded me or stumble across a new argument possibility. And then, depending on how connected that new point is to the the phrase I'm writing, I have time to let it gestate as I begin scratching out the next sentence or can jot myself a quick note in the margins and take it up later.

Lately, when I sit down at my computer, writing about my research feels almost impossible. Sitting in my favorite little cafe in Quito's "Mariscal" district with an Americano, a pen, and an old college-ruled notebook in front of me, it all feels so much more doable (though I'm not good at estimating how much space i'll need for footnotes, so they trail ahead a few pages...).

It is, of course, difficult to make predictions. Maybe once I'm back in places where I'm willing to haul my laptop around with me I'll feel inclined to type rather than write* again. But, I'm thinking I might be in a handwriting phase for awhile now. Processing research, at least for me, is slow work. Handwriting is slow work.** They go together perfectly.

*Hee. A few years ago I had my Rhet 101 students write their first paper on some topic that included the word 'writing' ... I can't, for the life of me remember the actual topic and am too lazy to look it up ... Most of the students, i'm guessing since they actually read the short article that I assigned as a prompt, got what the assignment meant by 'writing.' One of the students, however, (in his defense, not a native speaker of English) thought the assignment was about handwriting (as opposed to typing). Luckily, I had the students come to their tutorials with a brainstorm about the topic so we caught the misunderstanding early on. The kid was understandably confused about why handwriting mattered in college...

**Of course, about halfway through my second caffeinated Americano (y'all may remember that I'm a decaf kid ... I *never* drink caffeinated beverages in the US ... but in Ecuador, coffee drinks just don't come decaffeinated) I found that I was writing much, much faster than I had been in a non-drugged state.

Almuerzo $1.50

2008-07-30T16:31:00.003-05:00

A sad sort of adventurousness combined with an even sadder compulsion to not spend money has had me eating a lot of $1.50 almuerzo's lately. Today's $1.35 almuerzo may finally have convinced me that it's time to return to the $2.00 and $2.50 almuerzo.

By this point, unless you have lived in Ecuador, you probably need a bit of almuerzo-ducation.

An almuerzo, as any speaker of Spanish should know and the rest of you have probably deduced, is a mid-day meal. Here in Ecuador, and I think this is true in most, if not all, Spanish-speaking countries, almuerzo is the big meal of the day and it's usually eaten at around one or two in the afternoon.

But, I'm not just talking about the basic vocabulary word. One can eat almuerzo (almorzar, if you must know) without ordering *the* almuerzo. One could, for example, go into most restaurants around here and order camarones ala plancha (seared shrimp) off the menu and legitimately say that she had eaten almuerzo. But she did not order the almuerzo.

No, the almuerzo is a multi-course prix fixe menu, often published on a placard set outside the door of the restaurant. By convention, an almuerzo must include a soup and a segundo (second, the main dish). Most almuerzo's also include juice and/or a dessert (both is common, especially if you're spending a little more. At cheaper places, if there is dessert it's often a piece of fruit).

I like almuerzos ... it's easy to find inexpensive ones and there's something pleasing about being in a restaurant full of people eating the same meal. Also, it's pretty common, especially in popular places, to end up sharing your table with another group.

However, I think I might be done with $1.50 almuerzos. It's not that I've gotten sick from them (though I wouldn't recommend most of these places to people who haven't spent a bit of time here, adjusting the population of their stomachs), nor is it that the food tastes bad, it doesn't.

The thing is that while I've had a few stellar $1.50 almuerzo soups (usually a salty chicken broth with potatoes), the segundos are pretty uniformly uninspiring. Even here, where the wholesale prices for food are much cheaper than in the US, making the costs for a two to three course meal with juice come in under $1.50 requires adding cheap bulk. That means that almuerzos include huge swaths of (white) rice, that meats are cheap and small (lots of chicken legs, my friends), side dishes go easy on expensive spices and condiments, and juices are made from the cheapest fruits and then watered down. I end up using a lot of Ecuador's ubiquitous (and often tasty, but predictably less so the cheaper the meal gets) condiment, aji, or house-made hot sauce.

All in all, this is not a recipe for food that excites. And as someone who loves to be inspired by her food and who is, at home, often willing to pay amounts that make her parents blanch, I may have reached the limit of my capacity for utterly uninspiring food. And really, making the jump to $2.00 or $2.50 for an almuerzo? Really. That shouldn't kill my budget. Subtracting the days that I'll be with Anna (when we will eat at somewhat nicer places both for the sake of Anna's nube gut and for the joy of being on vacation), I have something like 16 days left in country (and will only eat almuerzos out for something like 12). I think even our rather frayed and tattered budget can handle an extra $15...

So: little hole-in-the-wall almuerzo places? Though I can't help but love your wide doorways, your crowded tables, your plastic covered tables, and your cheap cost, I think this is goodbye. The meals you serve are far, far, far superior to your equivalents in the US (Taco Bell, Wendy's, McDonalds, etc.), but the truth is, I usually avoid those places ... and the places in the next tier up. I don't regret the incredible chicken soup I've had, nor the hot, crunchy popcorn that went with it. But I think it's time for me to graduate to your slightly more expensive siblings. There are things about you that I'll miss. I'm pretty sure you won't even notice that I'm gone, though as a gringa I was certainly an unusual customer.

Don't worry, $1.50 fritada places, you're in a different category. I could never abandon you.

Bleg ...

2008-07-29T09:26:00.003-05:00

All right all y'all more HTML-savvy people out there ... I need some help.

I want to have the image in my header be an image stream rather than just a single, static image... but i can't, for the life of me, figure out how to make that work ... grr...

Here are the images I want to use, set up as a handy Picasa slideshow:

Oh, and, yes, I am working hard on research ... why do you ask?

(it's just that i'm waiting for my hair to dry ...)

Another Shameless Fruit Gloat

2008-07-26T16:11:00.002-05:00

I bought fruit again today from the truck that passes every Saturday. I went running out excitedly when I heard the unmistakable call of the fruit truck: "Mandarinas, Manzanas, Naranjas, 25 por un dolar, naranjas!" in high pitched voice piped through a cheap loudspeaker attached to the top of the pickup.

Here's my haul

In case you can't quite tell, here's the breakdown:

30 (or so) bananas (of small stature): $0.50

25 Oranges: $1.00

12 Peaches: $1.00

1lb Strawberries: $0.80

1 medium cantaloupe: $0.80

Total: $4.10

(will need to drink a lot of milkshakes if I want to get through those bananas...)

Panic

2008-07-23T21:30:00.002-05:00

Panic

Panic

Panic

Panic

Panic

Panic

etc.

Translation: Holy. Crap. I still have work to do in all these places, plus a few more, and I have fewer than 20 days of research in which to do it. At the same time, I am so worn out, so swimming in information, so generally fried, I'm note sure that I have the mental energy to really approach, let alone take in 20 more days' worth of research. How do people spend 9 months or more at a time doing archival work?!

Modified Argentinian Empanadas, or Cooking Makes Me Lonely

2008-07-21T19:54:00.004-05:00

A couple weeks ago I spent the afternoon at my friend Alicia's place, learning to make her Argentinian empanadas (she's Argentinian). That afternoon dealt the final death blow to any claims of semi-vegetarianism... I had beef for lunch with her and ground beef in the empanadas (but I wasn't about to announce that I don't eat beef after she'd kindly invited me over to teach me her techniques).

Having been introduced to Alicia's methods and armed with both a copy of her recipe and her instructions on where to buy handy-dandy empanada wrappers, I decided that I should make my own version of empanadas.

As you may have deduced from my post below, I decided to make chicken, rather than beef empanadas. The results, if I do say so myself, were rather tasty. Which is good, since I have several more empanadas' worth of filling stored in the freezer. If I make empanada filling again (likely in the US), I'll make a few changes, like blanching the peas (or using frozen) and chopping the raisins (or using currents) to distribute them more evenly. I also need a bit more patience to let the tops brown.

Just for kicks, I thought I'd share the recipe with you.

I'm guessing that one can find empanada wrappers in well-stocked markets in Latino/a neighborhoods and/or in Latino/a markets. If not, I think you could approximate with an egg-based dough rolled very thin, or even with regular bread dough, though you'd have a different texture/flavor profile.

In a pot, saute in olive oil (infused with achiote, if you can find it) until reduced, but not browned:

5 medium onions
4 red bell peppers
5 cloves of garlic
(proportions here can be adjusted to taste)

Add

1-2 cups shelled peas (blanched if using fresh peas)

Let cook a bit.

Add

3-5 cups shredded chicken, ground beef, ground pork, or hydrated TVP
1/2 cup chopped olives
1/2 cup currents or chopped raisins

3T Cumin
1t oregano
chives to taste
Salt to taste

Stir together.

Stir in flour in small amounts until any liquid in the pot has turned creamy looking.

Let filling cool.

Separate and lay out a number of empanada wrappers.

Wet the edge of a wrapper and place 2-3 T of filling in the center. Pinch the edges of the wrapper together, making a preliminary seal. Then, starting at one edge of the half circle, begin folding/twisting the dough to make a fluted edge and tight seal (this is nearly impossible to describe in writing ... sorry). Essentially, take the corner and fold it up (toward the bulge of filling). Press that firmly with your thumb and finger. Then, do the same motion with the newly formed corner. As you work, the edge should begin to twist, forming an attractive rolled edge that holds the filling in nicely.

Bake the empanadas in a hot oven (i don't know ... my oven here is Celsius and at a high altitude ...something like 350 or 375?) until they're browned or until you're too impatient to wait any longer (not that i'm writing from experience). Eat hot. They're apparently tasty with coffee, but I haven't tried since Alicia only makes instant andI don't have a coffee pot in my house. Tea and empanadas is also tasty.

The filling will make many many empanadas (no idea how many yet, sorry). If you don't need that many, the filling apparently freezes well, as do the wrappers.

Wish y'all were here to eat these with me. It's sad to have a semi-successful experiment and no one to share it with.

Sigh.

I'm ready for Anna to get here. And also ready to be back in my own kitchen.

Vegetarians Should Most Definitely Look Away

2008-07-20T15:30:00.003-05:00

So ...

If you've ever baked a whole chicken that you purchased in the US at a supermarket or even a farmer's market, you're probably used to pulling the little bag of giblets out of the cavity before you do anything else with the bird. I suppose some people directly cook and eat parts or all of those giblets. In my family, they're reserved for making stock ... or sometimes Anna and I feed the liver or heart (cooked) to Ceisaf as a special treat.

Today, I bought a whole chicken at the Supermaxi a few blocks from my house. I want to make empanadas, and cooking a whole chicken seemed like the most economical way to get the meat for the filling. Plus, I've been thinking it would be nice to make a pot of soup, but I don't have any broth ... and homemade chicken broth always makes the best soup base, as far as I'm concerned.

So, when I got home, I took out the chicken, cut off it's plastic wrapping, and pulled out the bag of giblets, happy to see that they were, in fact, included, since I'm planning to make broth. I set the giblets bag on the counter and set about rinsing, drying, and salt & peppering the bird. I was rubbing a mixture of butter, honey, garlic, and rosemary under the skin when I noticed something strange.

Yes, look closely at that picture. Your eyes are not deceiving you.

Apparently, in Ecuador, the giblets bag contains a few extra treats. Along with the neck, liver, and heart, you get two feet and ... yes... a head. Beak and maybe even eyes (I haven't gotten up the courage to look closely enough) included.

Hrm.

I guess I'll just put them in the stock pot with the rest ... unless someone thinks that beaks add strange flavor ... I have not yet joined the camp that enjoys 'patas' (feet) in their soup.

Two Reasons

2008-07-19T20:54:00.002-05:00

Why it's a little bittersweet to listen to Mason Jennings while I'm in Ecuador and Anna's not ...

(you have to run a little forward in this one, he takes awhile to get to singing ...)

Skipping a Few Steps

2008-07-17T21:00:00.004-05:00

The past week or so I've been a few thousand steps ahead of myself.

It began with a casual conversation with dh about the cover art for her upcoming (and her previous) book. She's chosen and gotten permission to use a piece of art (I'm excited to see it). Which of course got me thinking about the mountains of art options that I have to choose from ...

do I go with one of the late 19th/early 20th century watercolors by Joaquín Pinto?

Or with a mid-twentieth century woodcut by Galo Galecio?

Or something more esoteric, like one of the maps that show Quito as the source of the Amazon (maps that, after Ecuador's 1942 loss of access to the Amazon are usually paired with slogans like "The Discovery of the Amazon is Quito's Glory" or "Ecuador has been, is, and will always be an Amazonian country")?

Remember ... though I have written a few papers on my diss topic, I haven't. written. a. single. page. of. the. dissertation. itself.

Thinking about cover art for the book is, um, a little beyond ridiculous...

And then, today at lunch, I got even farther ahead of myself in a conversation with my Ecuadorian friend Martha.

You see, Martha was talking about a fairly serious problem of academic ethics... the fact that many, many, many international scholars who write about Ecuador. Who use archives funded by Ecuadorian tax payers or foundations. Who write books and articles that propose important, challenging, or just plain interesting points about Ecuadorian history, culture, politics, etc. Who benefit from conversations with Ecuadorian scholars, politicians, archivists, etc. ... NEVER RETURN THEIR WORK TO ECUADOR IN A FORM LEGIBLE TO THE VAST MAJORITY OF ECUADORIANS, EVEN MANY SCHOLARS. Maybe a copy of a thesis, written in English or French or whatever, gets sent to those archives that require it. But, for example, books in English, published by US university presses, don't often make it to Ecuador. And the number of international scholars who get their work translated and published here? Quite small.

All of which means that there are sometimes parallel conversations going on. Means that my friend Martha has never read work by a prominent and widely-published (in the US) anthropologist from my University, even though she'd sort of like to. Means that there's a major gap in the most basic circuit of scholarly reciprocity.

It also means that Martha feels pretty adamant that I need to get my future book translated and published in Ecuador.

And I agree with her and will do my damnedist to make sure it happens. In my never terribly humble opinion, I would be absolutely remiss if I didn't.

So, now I'm thinking about the grants that I'll need to write ... thinking about needing to educate myself about translators and the economics of publishing in Ecuador ... thinking about my preferences for Ecuadorian presses ...

and I haven't written the book in English yet.

Wait. I haven't written the dissertation in English yet.

... I mean ... I haven't written a freaking paragraph of the dissertation yet...

I'm skipping a few (hundred thousand) steps.

Thinking of my Uncle (and his siblings)

2008-07-14T17:58:00.003-05:00

My uncle, who occasionally reads this blog, is an agricultural economist. Before I left for Ecuador he gave me contact info for a former student? of his who is a professor of some sort of agriculture (obviously I paid careful attention ... embarrassing!) here in Quito. Kent also mentioned that he and this Ecuadorian prof had discussed the possibility of Kent coming to Ecuador someday to do some consulting / exchange.

This uncle is also brother to my dad (and their two sisters) ... they all grew up on a farm in north central Iowa. A place that could possibly be described as some of the flattest land on Earth. I walked beans there as a little kid, carrying a hoe and probably not doing a whole lot to actually help. I remember seeing the row stretch ahead of me into the distance, appearing to narrow to a single point. Talk about a way to learn how perspective works.

So, in honor of that farm and those 180 degrees of field, and as a sort of preview for Kent of the sorts of fields he might be seeing if does ever make it to Ecuador, I wanted to share a different sort of 'flat' field ... a field built flat into the side of the mountain.

It's not hard to understand why the Incan Empire's strategy of terracing was a good idea. It is hard to understand why it was that early Spanish colonizers couldn't see that.

New Clothes!

2008-07-13T10:36:00.002-05:00

I wanted to share with y'all the results of a little experiment I recently engaged in.

Other than clothes made by my sister (when we were in our teens) or my mom (when I was quite small), I've never worn clothes made especially for me. It's not something, I think, that really happens any more in the US (again, other than people who make their own clothes, which I'm putting in a different category).

So, when I heard my friend Martha talking about getting some clothes made, my ears perked up. That seemed like something worth trying, especially at the prices she was quoting.

With Martha as my guide, I went to the fabric store and picked out two lightweight wools for pants and two cotton blends for shirts and took them over to the seamstress.

She took my measurements. I showed her two pairs of pants that I really like. And then I left.

A week later I went back for a 'prueba' to test the sizes. Then, after a few false attempts, on Friday I finally picked up the finished products.

I am generally pleased with the results. My only concern is that the pants aren't as flattering as i might like in back (I've omitted rear view pictures here because, um, well...). However, that might be, in part, due to the weird creases the seamstress ironed into them (creases that run all the way up to the waistline). And, in any case, the front and side views look pretty good, I think. I'll definitely be able to make use of all four items.

You all are welcome to give critical opinions. I didn't spend so much that I'll be offended. Plus, part of the expense is covered by the fun of the experiment!

My Very Own Cevichochos

2008-07-07T20:08:00.004-05:00

Today I decided that it shouldn't be terribly hard to make cevichochos myself and that they would be awfully tasty for dinner.

So, I bought a few lemons and a red onion on my way home and whipped up the broth, made some chulpi (toasted corn that swells instead of pops and is laced with salt, garlic, and onions), and popped some corn. The only thing missing from the 'real thing' was a couple plantain chips, but i didn't miss them too much.

The effect is quite authentic looking and was also pretty authentic tasting. Unfortunately I *way* over-salted* the broth. Which means, since chochos come pre-salted and chulpi is supposed to be really salty (and mine is), I have had far, far, far, more sodium this evening than any single person should consume in a day ... maybe a week.

So, I've spent the rest of the evening with a glass of water as my side, hoping my poor little cells don't shrivel up ...

Oh, and I would share the recipe, but since two of the key ingredients (chulpi and chochos) are essentially unavailable in the US, it seems a little silly. Still, if you happen to find them and are feeling inspired, leave me a comment and I'll set you up.

*Ecuadorian food is, in general, far more salty than I would choose. And I like my salt. So, the fact that my cevichochos tasted too salty to be authentic? That really is saying something ...

cough cough... cough cough cough

2008-07-03T20:10:00.002-05:00

hmm ...

i know that posts about google searches that brought people to your blog are probably passee (how do you spell that?!) at this point, but i just had to share today's gem:

cough means gay

wha?!

is there some secret queer signal that no one told me about? or have people actually gone nuts enough to think that not only can you 'catch gay' in a manner analogous to catching a cough but also that catching a cough might lead to homosexuality?

i'm confused...

The Rhetorician does Cultural Tourism

2008-06-29T17:13:00.006-05:00

Being a rhetorician interferes with my photography.*

Today I went with some Ecuadorian friends to Cayambe to attend the local festival of San Pedro. It was a very cool experience and might have been a chance to get some incredible photos. But my career / personality got in the way.

You see, the festival of San Pedro, like the other late-June Catholic feast days of Corpus Christi, San Juan, and San Pablo, are, in Ecuador, highly syncretic events, having been interwoven with the pre-Colombian celebration of Inti Raymi.** So, though I saw a few nuns in full habit, the festival had a very indigenous feeling. In fact, as indigenous communities in Ecuador have begun to reclaim rights as political and social subjects, some of the Catholic elements of the celebrations have been further submerged in Indigenous symbolism. In Otavalo, the event last week, which used to be called the festival of San Juan, is now called Inti Raymi and has essentially divested itself of Christian elements.

So, as a rhetorician studying the creation and circulation of images of indigenous people as part of the constitution of a sense of Ecuadorian national identity, I'm in a bit of an odd position with my camera at the festival of San Pedro ...

This was, after all, a public festival [we tourists, especially foreigners, were welcomed multiple times from the main stage] and part of the symbolic heritage of these syncretic events is the question of an indigenous occupation of public space. The "toma de la plaza" (taking of the city square or main plaza of the hacienda) was and continues to be an annual means for indigenous communities to assert power and resistance through symbolic performance. In that context, my taking photos might easily be read as an amplification of that claim to public space: the documentation and circulation of images of indigenous presence.

On the other hand, as a gringa tourist, the photos I capture and this blog post are hard to disentangle from the 21st century version of the 18th and 19th century travel writers who produced or commissioned watercolors or etchings of indigenous 'types' to illustrate the travel narratives they published back home in Europe or the United States [see Pratt, Imperial Eyes, if you haven't heard about these]. Plus, what are these images if not images of indigenous people that I'm circulating to give a sense of my Ecuadorian [national] experience? Especially since, other than some photos of food, these are the only pictures I've posted since arriving last month...

So, the practical outcome of this sense of ambivalence on my part means that my photos are mostly taken from a distance and are limited in number. I also ended up taking many more pictures of the school groups (of both mestizo and indigenous kids) who started the festival than I did off the community groups, mostly adults, who came later. This feels a bit reversed to me - my IRB training tells me that children are more vulnerable subjects than adults - but I had much more of a sense of 'performance' watching the school groups than I did watching the adults, so taking photographs felt less intrusive.

Still, as you've probably noticed, I've decided to share some of my pictures from the day. It really was an impressive event... an event meant to be visually powerful. And it seems a shame not to give a glimpse. I didn't take, and wish now that I had, a picture of the street up which the communities were dancing. We had been watching school groups and then community groups passing for probably an hour and a half when we climbed up toward the little community plaza and could see down the whole broad avenue stretching away from us for probably ten blocks before it disappeared down a hill. Those entire ten blocks were packed with swirling, dancing, guitar-playing people. We didn't stay to see the end, but I imagine the road would have remained packed all the way down for at least another hour. It might have given some sense of the size and scope of the day.

It would not, however, have managed to capture the range of colors and outfits worn by the participants. Men and boys in fur-covered chaps, white cotton shirts, and wide-brimmed hats; women and girls in white blouses covered in bright embroidery and worn with matching bright pleated skirts; women in chaps, men in skirts; clowns in white face mocking blanco-mestizo dominance; groups of men playing guitars, horns, flutes, and drums; young men in jeans, sweatshirts, and double-sided 'aya-uma' [spirit head] masks ...

Also, because I am always comfortable capturing photos of food, I offer two ceviche pictures.

The first is of my bowl of cevi-chochos ... the little white bean-looking things are chochos. I have no idea what they'd be called in English, but they are fantastically tasty little legumes that are a ubiquitous snack here. In cevi-chochos, the chochos are combined with a saucy salad of diced tomatoes, onions, and lemon juice; tostado (toasted corn), chifles (plantain chips), lemon, and a lot of salt. The streets in the little community where the San Pedro festival was held were full of people selling cevi-chochos in little styrofoam bowls or in plastic bags. My bowl was pretty tasty, but I have to admit that the little bag my friend Martha got 20 minutes later was even better. Less salt and with popcorn. I was jealous.

I did not have a bowl of the other sort of ceviche I saw being sold ... but I was highly intrigued. As you can see, it appeared to have many of the elements of cevi-chochos, but, instead of chochos, this ceviche appears to have come with some sort of snails (those are the little pointed shells you see in front). If I hadn't been a) pretty sure that the snails had been hanging out at air temperature for a few hours and b) absolutely unsure how to go about eating said snails, I might have gotten myself a bowl. But I didn't. So I can't give a report on quality. Sorry.

I am definitely not going to start doing academic work on food. It might undermine either my food photography or my enjoyment of food itself ... either loss would be absolutely unacceptable!

* Actually, to be honest, I had this problem before becoming a quasi-official rhetorician ... Photographing strangers, even strangers taking part in a public performance, has always felt to me like an invasion of privacy...

** Okay, I wanted to give you all a link, but the pages I think are decent are in Spanish and most of the pages available in English talk about Inti Raymi as a past thing, not a living festival. If you're interested, you can google "Inti Raymi" or search on YouTube for "inti raymi ecuador" and get some sense, but i'm not going to sponsor any particular page ...

I swear, after i write this post i'll actually get some work done!

2008-06-23T19:20:00.003-05:00

I'm supposed to be writing a little something to send to my adviser at the end of the week (oh! hi dh... I didn't see you there...). Needless to say, it's not yet going terribly well. I've learned a lot of new stuff in the past four weeks (can you believe i've been here four weeks?!) and gathered an incredible amount of material. But I am still having a lot of trouble translating that material and my swirling thoughts about it into thoughts that seem reasonable and useful to record and share with the head(s) of my committee.

So, in one last little moment of distracting myself before settling down, I'm going to write about the nagging little experience I had this afternoon...

Quito is not a particularly dangerous city. By that I mean that it is no more dangerous than your average city - places where you need to be careful about which neighborhoods you're in, need to keep alert, and shouldn't walk alone at night. However, Quito has a larger than average problem with petty (and not so petty) theft. Violent robbery is, I think, rare. Opportunistic theft of cars, household goods, and purses/wallets/cameras is almost ridiculously common, and gringos/as are common targets, especially for that last category.

So, I carry as little money as I can. I never carry a credit card unless I absolutely have to or am going to and from my destination in a car. I would also never take my computer with me for research.

But even so, I'm pretty hyper-aware of the risk of theft. Part of what that means is that I tend to look at anyone who approaches me as a potential thief. Even if I'm standing and talking to someone who I have every reason to believe is an honest person (owners of stores, building guards, bus drivers, etc.), I have my hand on my bag and keep an eye on both the person i'm talking to and the people around me.

I find that fact incredible unpleasant. I'm a generally trusting person. I like to believe that people are good. I know that it's in my best interest to be hypervigilant here, but it can take a toll. It also means that sometimes I let my guard drop a bit and allow interactions that really ought to be avoided.

One such interaction happened today after lunch as I was sitting and waiting for the library I'm working in to reopen. And, the way the interaction played out left me feeling sad, embarrassed, guilty ... yet also fairly sure that I would do the same thing again.

I was sitting on the steps outside the Cultural building of the Banco Central del Ecuador. I was writing a letter to Anna, so I was a little distracted, and was thinking in English, when a man walked up to me.

He asked, in English, if I spoke Spanish. Unable to swallow my pride and also not really thinking, I said yes. Then he asked if I spoke just a little bit or if I spoke well ... and, again, pride intervening, I said that I spoke well.

With that, he launched into a story about how he was a writer, working with a group of writers from Cuenca (a city about 10 hours south by bus) ... as he was talking, I realized that I really shouldn't be sitting there on the steps with him standing over me. Even though i was on a fairly busy street, it would only take him a second to show me a knife and demand my bag if he was so inclined.

I stood up suddenly and backed up a few extra steps. The man looked a bit puzzled and maybe also a bit offended. What I should have done in that moment was said "I'm sorry, I'm late for an appointment. Please excuse me." and left. But I didn't. Instead I suggested that he follow me into the foyer where I knew a guard was standing. I explained that I would feel more comfortable talking somewhere where we weren't alone. We stepped into the foyer and he continued. He wanted me to buy a book of stories to help sponsor the writing group he's in so they'd be able to eat and have a place to sleep while in Quito.

I apologized. Explained that I'm just researching here and don't carry money with me, so I couldn't help him.

He shrugged and left the building.

Now. Like I said, I would do the same thing over again ... meaning that if I failed to cut the conversation off immediately, or if I let the conversation start and then didn't think of saying I had someplace to be once I felt nervous, I would again want to get into a place where the interaction was observed by someone with reason to intervene should the interaction go bad.

But. And this is a big but... If I put myself in the place of the man who approached me and assume that he was, in fact, just trying to earn some money by selling books (I don't buy his whole story, it was too improbable, but I do believe that he was wanting to sell his books), then I can only imagine how insulting it must be to have someone make clear to you that they think you are likely a thief and need to be supervised. And I can only imagine that it confirms stereotypes of arrogant, off-putting North Americans.

And, most importantly, it seems to me to be a horrible way to treat another human being. I am not really willing to accept that it's "what you have to do" and is therefore okay.

I accept that it is what I have to do (though I will try to be better at not letting it get to the level I let it get to this time). But even in the most mild form of carefully avoiding interactions in order to protect myself, I do not believe that a sort of self-protecting necessity necessarily makes that necessity right. It is an ugly and dehumanizing necessity. A mild one, maybe. I know there are things that happen in our world everyday that are far, far, far more ugly and dehumanizing (like, for example, a global economic system that means that some people see no other option than theft). But still, these are the sorts of little ugly, dehumanizing things that inure us to the larger things.

So, though I will continue to be vigilant. Will continue to cross streets and step into shops to make sure i'm not being followed. Will continue to view most passers-by with some amount of suspicion. I will not equate necessary with right.

Tenía una linda noche.

2008-06-21T01:53:00.002-05:00

I had a beautiful night, and I'm sharing it here to capture for myself, and for you, both the moment and the broader reminder of why and how life is a beautiful, beautiful thing, something to be celebrated with, at least sometimes, a bit of abandon.

Yesterday I was at a talk centered around the celebration of Inti Raymi, the Quichua celebration of the summer solstice (here, since we're below the equator, a celebration held to call the sun back from his northern wandering). One of the speakers, an anthropologist whose talk was otherwise unremarkable, made an opening point that sticks with me, and that seems especially apt tonight.

He said that anthropologist, looking for those features that are common across human societies have stumbled upon three common beliefs of most, if not all, human societies: 1) that except in very particular cases it is best to tell the truth, 2) that except in very particular cases, one should not kill other humans, and 3) that celebration, ritual, fiesta is more central to cultural life than is work.

That, in other words, no matter how much Western culture denies it, no matter how much the protestant work ethic appears to define life in late capitalism, it is the time of rest, of celebration, of the extraordinary that defines the cycles of human life.

Tonight I came home from a day of research and, after drinking a lovely class of lemonade, had the most astonishing conversation with my family.

I had planned to skype with Anna and my mom after their dinner. My parents don't have a webcam, so while I'd talked with them, they had been feeling a bit jealous of Anna and my ability to talk 'face to face' across continents.

But, soon after the three of us started our conversation, the phone rang at my parents. It was my sister, returned just today from Tanzania. So, she hung up with mom on the landline and we started a 3-way conference call.

Soon after, my parents' phone rang again. This time it was my dad, calling from a business trip.

Not wanting to leave him out, we ended the first conference call and started another, this time 4-way.

Talking all five together was not exactly easy, but it was wonderful none-the-less, and we had a few moments of feeling close together.

After finishing the phone call with my family, I went outside to catch a taxi and head over to my friend Martha's house. We sat with glasses of wine and slices of cheese and toast and talked for more than an hour about how our different cultures value family and how important those networks of kinship are for us.

And then we left the house and made our way up the hill to the 50th birthday celebration of a neighbor and friend.

When we arrived at 10:30 the house was full of people and music was spilling out so loudly that we could hear it as we left Martha's house a block away. We entered to find a full mariachi band playing and singing. We were pulled inside, offered rum and coke, and given seats. Though Saira, the celebrant, had only met me once, and that two years ago, she welcomed me as if I were a long-lost member of the family, taking my hand, kissing my cheek, pulling me into the dancing when it started.

After the mariachis finished playing we moved on to music and dancing ... a room full of people, at least three generations, dancing and shouting and laughing, new people arriving and making the rounds, kissing cheeks and exchanging jokes. When we had danced and danced and folks were tired, over in the corner of the room, a man picked up a nylon string guitar and starting playing and singing, his wife beside him filling in the harmonies.

The music was beautiful. Ballads that made me wish I could play and sing like that. "To be beside you, dawning, dusking, dreaming my entire life with you near..." Ballads that you see people singing in movies and think, 'that only happens on screen,' yet there i was in an ordinary, everyday Ecuadorian house, having been regaled by a marichi band and danced with a rum and coke in my hand and then to be sitting there and listening to the blending voices of a husband and wife so clearly in love and the melody of a Spanish guitar held cocked high across his chest.

And when they ran out of songs and the candles on the cake had been lit and blown out, the dancing started again. Then Martha and I ducked out, making the rounds of goodbyes - kissing cheeks, giving hugs - and I assured Saira, with utter truthfulness, that I had had a fabulous night, a night that had struck me and made me remember why it is that there is something about Ecuador that calls me back and back and back, even when I ache in the midst of joy to have my Anna sitting beside me. And we walked down the steep steps to find Suko, Martha's oldest son, waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. And Martha and Suku drove me home in the truck that Suku had driven home because his friend, the truck's owner, had been a bit too tipsy to drive himself. And the dogs - little terrier Godric and big Golden Scott - bounded about in the back of the truck, so happy to be out in the city at night.

And I came home and climbed the flight of steps to my apartment and came into my room, at 1:30 and night, and could think of nothing but taking a moment to acknowledge that work is important and the rhythms of the everyday compelling and calming and even worth celebrating. But the moments of fiesta, and perhaps especially the moments of fiesta in a culture so incredibly welcoming of the stranger, so incredibly willing to invite an outsider like me in to a family celebration, remind us that it is the ruptures in ordinary time that mark and enliven our lives.

To make up for the fact that I spent a ridiculous amount of money on my lunch today,

2008-06-16T17:18:00.005-05:00

I'm going to write a blog post about it.

That way, my $11.41 will not only provide sustenance for me, but also a bit of (nominally entertaining) entertainment for you all.

I had heard that there was a good Thai restaurant in El Mariscal, and I thought I remembered my friend Martha saying it was on Carrión St. I am now not entirely sure that this is the place Martha was talking about. I would think that most Ecuadorians would shy away from prices obviously set for the wallets of gringos.

Still, though I'm not allowed to go back again for lunch (at least, not on my own), the food really was quite tasty.

I ordered the "Almuerzo": a prix fixe menu of several courses available for lunch at most Quito restaurants (Lunch here is definitely the major meal of the day). In traditional Ecuadorian restaurants, Almuerzos usually include at least a big bowl of soup and a plate of rice, meat, and sides. They often also include dessert and/or a juice.

At Siam, the almuerzo came with an appetizer, a main dish, a side, and dessert. Drinks were extra.

I'm sorry I don't have a picture of the appetizer for you. It was a "wantan Siam," essentially a large wonton wrapper filled with a couple tablespoon's worth of red pepper and scallion studded cream cheese and then fried. Rather than your typical wonton shape, the filling in the wantan Siam was secured by a grass tie and decoratively arranged on a little platter with a tasty relish on the side.

My main dish, vegetarian pad thai (though it didn't taste like the pad thai I'm familiar with, it was still really good), came in a big bowl and had lots of veggies. There were also tasty bits of fried tofu sprinkled throughout. I'd ordered the dish 'spicy,' but ended up asking for more aji (hot pepper sauce) to get it to my desired temp. Ecuadorian food is very much not spicy, so I wasn't surprised by the chef's mild take on 'spicy.'

My side dish (because i wasn't thinking when I chose) was a fairly tasteless bowl of 'coconut rice' ... bland rice with some dried coconut on top ... very sad ... i was hoping for the sticky, saucy sort of coconut rice one can sometimes get in the US.

But now, my friends, we come to the thing that may have made the whole $11.41 worth it ... the chocolate cake.

Oh my. Moist. Rich. Surrounded by chocolate sauce and strawberry sauce.

I-N-C-R-E-D-I-B-L-E

and beautifully presented.

Also beautifully presented? My glass of sparkling water. It came with a little uvilla, complete with husk, set onto the rim. A very nice touch.

(and, if anyone can tell me what uvillas are in English, i'd be most grateful. They are in the same family as tomatoes and tomatillos ... like tomatillos they grow with a husk around them ... but they are tangy-sweet and a beautiful color of orange ... and very tasty)

The one thing that marred the beauty of my lunch was the unintentional company of Loud-Talking-North-American and Her-New-Friend. I eventually figured out, because I could hear their whole 'conversation' (in quotes because it's had to call something a conversation when one person talks the whole time and the other listens), that they were getting ready for a Galapagos tour. Even before I figured that out, I knew that they clearly were not going to try and make their way around Ecuador on their own. They, without any sense of apology or irony and without asking whether he could understand them, spoke to the waiter in English.

Now, the waiter managed to get by... and later told me that he appreciated the chance to practice his English ... but it's a particular pet peeve of mine to watch North Americans who assume that people in other counties will always accommodate their mono-linguality. I have no problem with people going on vacation to places where they don't speak the language. Heck, I've done that. But I think there's a certain humility that is entailed in that decision. You learn a few key phrases ("do you speak english?") and some key words (like the names of food you *don't* eat), and then you smile sheepishly and do a lot of pointing. You don't just sit down and start talking to the waiter as if he or she should, of course, know your language.

But, I might be a bit less snarky about LTNA and HNF if I hadn't had to spend my entire lunch listening to LTNA's hard life story ... about her horrible ex-husband, her ungrateful younger child, her preparations for environmental disaster based on the predictions of various psychics ...

My favorite part was where she mentioned her good friends who are going to get married ("They're lesbians!") and then went off on a little tangent that included not only the lovely, "My best friends are a gay couple. I don't know what it is about me, but I really like gay people. AND! They REALLY like ME!" (note: c... is thinking to herself here: "this gay person REALLY doesn't think she likes you"). But also! "My friends think I might be a lesbian in hiding, but I've never tried ... my older daughter did once. She called me and asked what I'd say if she told me that she'd had sex with a girl last night. And I said that I'd say 'THAT'S interesting ... and TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT!!!'"

Oh, was I glad when she didn't then launch into the description.

Did I mention that the chocolate cake was really good?

Would you like to see it again?

Saturday Pictures 4 - For Prettytypewriters

2008-06-14T19:43:00.001-05:00

Maybe you need to do an international chapter ...

Saturday Pictures 3 - Compras!

2008-06-14T19:36:00.002-05:00

Today on my way home from the library I stopped at two little fruit/veggie stands to replenish my supplies and wanted to share the image of my spoils with y'all.

Just in case you're interested:
5 Oranges $0.50
5 Ears of Ecuadorian corn (choclo) $1.00
1lb Potatoes $0.35
2 Avocados $0.50
6 Green Plantains $0.50
1 Pineapple $0.50

Total: $3.35

Saturday Pictures 2 - Sometimes Ads Scare Me

2008-06-14T19:31:00.002-05:00

I first noticed this store a couple days ago and have been looking for a moment to take a picture of its awning.

Here, take a closer look at that graphic.

I don't know about you, but I really don't need to have the image of a pair of boxer shorts licking its lips floating around in my head.

Just saying.

Saturday Pictures 1 - A Trip to the Greenhouse

2008-06-14T19:16:00.003-05:00

This morning I went with Martha and Alicia to the the pueblo of Nayón, a little community just on the other side of the ridge east of Quito. At the end of the 19th century, Nayón's indigenous population was contracted with the city of Quito to provide lamp lighting at night. "Nayón Lamplighter" is, in fact, one of the costumbrista watercolors I've been looking at.

Today, Nayón is instead known for its greenhouses. The approach to the picturesque, restored town square is lined with plant shops ... shops that burst with vibrant greens and shout a riot of colors. As we meandered through the greenhouses, I recognized many of the plants surrounding us: cyclamen, bougainvillea, amaryllis, begonia, calla lilies ... What was astonishing to me was the realization that these plants were meant for outdoor gardens and would bloom and bloom and bloom all year long.

An astonishing thing for a Minnesota girl to contemplate.

These pictures, by the way, don't even *begin* to do justice to the experience.

Research Thus Far, The Tag Cloud

2008-06-14T08:22:00.004-05:00

So, I'm not usually so in to tag clouds ... but this morning I saw a pretty little tag cloud over at collin brooke's blog and it occurred to me to be interested in the main words that show up in that fieldnotes file that so confuses Word ...

I'd say it's a fairly decent representation...

Cloud courtesy of Wordle

Screw it ... for some reason I can't get the image to show up ... so, here's a link... sorry! MY SUMMER RESEARCH TAG CLOUD

Meriada

2008-06-10T18:44:00.002-05:00

So, I don't think of myself as prone to things like motion sickness ... I tend to do fine on winding roads (except that time in Redwood National Park in CA when I got so car sick *while driving* that we had to pull over) and as long as I have fresh air, don't do too badly with sea sickness either.

However, I'm apparently prone to what I'd like to call "screen sickness."

I've noticed this problem before after long hours of internet surfing, especially if I'm playing games that involve moving shapes or watching lots of little videos. I also remember having a bout of serious nausea after watching the video of a childhood vacation my parents made with a borrowed video camera pre-camera-auto-stabilization days.

Today, the culprit was the microfilm machine at the Humanities library of Ecaudor's Banco Central. Oh holy crap. I was going along just fine, skimming through pages of a generally unhelpful 1890s newspaper, when all of a sudden I realized that I had two options: 1) Stop looking at the microfilm machine, or 2)Spend the rest of my research trip hiding from the librarian after having puked on her equipment.

I stopped reading.

There's another periodical on that microfilm that I'd really like to get to ... but i don't know if I can handle the thought ... I'm still a little off and it's an hour later. I may have to put a note in my dissertation that says something like:

"Additional information on this topic may be available, it has been omitted in order to retain the dignity of the author and the hygiene of the Banco Central del Ecuador."

Heh.

2008-06-08T16:53:00.003-05:00

A little note:

The Word doc in which I'm keeping track of my research progress (i.e. writing notes about my days, transcribing quotations, listing bibliographic references, and cataloging the digital images I've collected) just gave me an error message that I'd never seen before:

The document "Ecuador Fieldnotes 2008.doc" has too many spelling errors for Word to continue keeping track of errors in the document. If you would like to check the spelling of the document, please select "Spelling and Grammar" in the Tools menu.

Apparently, 25 pages of mixed Spanish and English is just too much for poor Microsoft to handle.

A Shout Out to My Rhetoric Peeps

2008-06-07T16:02:00.001-05:00

A little slice of the Agora, four blocks from home.

In which I feel insulted, but shouldn't really

2008-06-06T17:56:00.004-05:00

Today I had what is actually a rare experience for me: someone cast ~~dispersions~~ ~~aspersions~~ on ... gah! ... said something negative about my capability with the Spanish language.

The someone, in this case, was the librarian for the Humanities Division of the Library of the Banco Central de Ecuador. She's a very nice young woman, probably about my age, who is always friendly in a professional sort of way. Our exchanges are mostly quick: Me asking for a text, her checking in about something I've requested, and occasionally, me commenting on something I'm reading.

I should also note that I have made comments about language frustration to her, most notably, commenting that all the time I'm spending by myself and reading on this trip has meant that my Spanish often feels rusty when I need to respond to a question or make a request.

Which I guess means that I brought her comment about my Spanish on myself ... but really, she could just play along, right?

So, here's the scene:

Open with Christa and Jesi alone in the small Humanities reading room

Christa: (laughs to self, then says to Jesi) Hmm, I must be thirsty ... I just read this line about an expert on Cervantes (cervantista) and thought it said he was an expert on beer! (cervesa)

Jesi: (laughs) (pause) How long have you studied Spanish? (quickly adds) Not long?

Christa: Er, no. I've been speaking Spanish since I was 15 and I'm almost 30.

Jesi: Hmm.

(Jesi takes a phone call, gets off, silence)

Christa: So, you think my Spanish is pretty bad, considering?

Jesi: Oh, no ... I mean, maybe you just haven't practiced much?

And really, it's sort of true. I've been feeling like my Spanish is rusty, and the fact that I'm spending most of my time on my own, communicating mostly with myself in my own head, doesn't help. I mean, I think in Spanish about half to two-thirds of the time, but it's my head Spanish ... which I understand perfectly and which is peppered with words in English when I don't know the Spanish word.

Plus, the last time I had formal classes in Spanish grammar was my first year of college, more than ten years ago. And, because I placed more highly in Spanish then I probably should have, I never learned the more complicated verb tenses, nor gained the practical vocabulary that I might have.

Since college, I've mostly just trusted to my reasonably good accent to get me through ... figuring that if I sort of sound like I know what i'm talking about, people will ignore the fact that I'm using the wrong words and talking like a 10 year old. My vocabulary increases slowly as I pick up words in practice... but I haven't been working on it in any concentrated way (I've been, I guess, a little distracted by preparing for my dissertation).

So, in many ways, Jesi is right ... I lack practice. And, as I said to her later, I think once you reach a certain plateau with a language, it's a lot harder to get beyond that point ...

But, I like to think of myself as getting along quite well in Spanish, thank you very much. A lot of men on the street and in buses have told me so repeatedly. And it makes me sad when people whose opinions I trust a whole lot more are clearly convinced otherwise.

Sigh.

An Internet Connection, One of Life's Little Pleasures

2008-06-05T13:32:00.002-05:00

So, it seems like a bit of a splurge, but I decided to get broadband in my apartment (yea for three month minimum contracts!), and now I'm all set up.

This means easy access to email, access to library websites (so I can figure out if I'll be able to get texts at home, thus making it unnecessary to read them here), and access to skype.

So, since I think y'all all know me IRL (such a failure as a blogger, I'm afraid), I'm happy to chat whenever ... just let me know!

It will feel really nice to be more in touch. Hopefully, I'll be more, rather than less, productive now (I suppose there is some danger, given my fondness for nblox...).

An Encomium to Quito

2008-06-04T15:22:00.003-05:00

For Anna´s sake (and mine).

Oh Quito, cloud-wrapped queen of the Andes, could there be a city blessed with summer climes more sweet and gentle? I know a visitor from Leipzig in 1903 once wrote that your climate was hideous. He must have vistited in winter, when afternoon rains catch the unsuspecting without shelter and soak them to the bone. But I am from Minnesota and know that nasty winters keep the riff raff out. And that kid from Leipzig? Clearly riff raff, considering the other nasty things he said about you... especially that detailed and extended description of early 20th century Quiteño plumbing (people didn´t really through their junk through a hole in a wall and down into the dry river chasms to wait for the next rain, did they? Were they related to the people who today piss on your corners?).

But anyway, your summer climate ... a perfect 20 degrees celcius, dry air, fierce sun. I woke this morning to see Ruku Pichincha clear as if I could touch it and perfectly free of snow. And there, across the valley, Antisana, peaking through the clouds and resplendant in snowclad shoulders.

And when I ¨ran¨ this morning? Trotting down the side of your steep hill and puffing my way part way back up before giving in to my screaming lungs and walking? Could I have asked for a more perfect temperature? Working hard on those hills, I barely broke a sweat and the gentle breeze left me feeling fresh, if winded.

And your old neighborhoods? The historic center? Part of humanity´s cultural patrimony, with its narrow streets and colonial buildings, it´s beautiful churches and fabulous museums? The Mariscal, filled though it is with tourists and thieves? It´s bars and cafes, shops and street venders ... it´s cobblestones and it´s new bike lane? Who could say anything but that you are one of the most beautiful cities in the world (it they kindly forgot to notice the unfortunate coincidence that you experienced a surge in building during the 1960s and 70s ... resulting in an absurd number of painfully ugly concrete towers filling the rest of the city)?

And, though I take my life into my own hands every time I cross a street and sometimes even when I´m solidly on the sidewalk, you are such a wonderful city for walking. Though two million people live within your limits, I can make my way almost anywhere I need to be within an hour of walking. With your traffic (its diesal smoke wrapping you in dark perfume), in the evening I can walk home faster than the bus can drive. And, I get so much more exercise from walking along your pitted, steep sidewalks than I could ever get in any US city. The combination of your majestic altitute (3,000 meters) and the convenient location of your residential neighborhoods on the steep slopes of Pichincha make my heart race, my breath come quickly, my legs feel like jelly. If I could get enough oxygen to my brain, I might think I was in love with you.

Oh, Quito, I could go on and on ... but before I finish let me say one final thing I love about you: your lunch hour stretches for hours. I left my stack of early 20th century magazines at 1pm and no one will look askance at me when I return at 3:45. Your pace of life, belied by the busses and taxis that zoom and honk and squeal outside, is magesterial. Fie on twenty minutes lunches taken at your desk. Quito, you beautiful thing, you have it right.

And the fact that if I were to weigh myself, I´d weigh at least a kilo or so less than I do at home, also thanks to your altitude? That´s just gravy, Quito.

UPDATE: Quito? Another great thing about you? I *never* have to go to a chain store if I don´t want. In the US, if I want paper or pens or a notebook, unless I want the ¨artistic¨ type of those things, I´m pretty much going to have to go to Target or Walgreens or OfficeMax. Here, I can walk down pretty much any street and pass a little hole-in-the-wall, mom and pop papeleria or a grundgy little internet place that also sells office supplies. You´re great that way, you know that?

Two notes on the joy of negotiating a different country

2008-06-02T15:12:00.002-05:00

Note 1: Hot Showers
At Ivan´s house, as in many Quiteño homes, one procures hot water using an ´Instant Water Heater.´ It works thusly: When I want to take a shower, I light the pilot light in the instant water heater and then turn the heat lever to max. Then, whenever I turn on the hot water tap anywhere in the house, by some magic, flames erupt in the instant water heater, heating the hot water pipe and the water that runs through it.

Now, I understand, given that mechanism, why it might take awhile for the water to get hot. The pipe needs to get heated through, after all, before the water can warm up. Plus, all the cold water in the pipe needs to be evacuated and the extension of pipe from the heater to the bathroom also needs to get at least semi-heated so that the heat from the instant water heater isn´t escaping between the heater and the bathroom.

However, what I don´t understand is why, every time, after the shower water gets nice and hot, it suddenly begins to lose its heat and goes through a brief period of cold before heating up again, this time fairly quickly, and to a warmer temp than before.

Baffling to me.

Of course, this morning´s discovery that the magic flames would not erupt at all has me much sadder than a brief mid-shower cold spell.

Note Two - How to Save Money and Get Back at Americans, a Guide for Governments

You may have heard that as the US makes it more and more difficult and tedious for foreigners to get visas, countries whose citizens are suffering through the US system have begun making visa processes more challenging for US citizens.

However, I´m not sure if the bizarrely dispersed and complicated visa registration process here is based on a goal of increasing tedium for foreign visitors or if it is rather, in fact, a clever business scheme, benefitting both the government and a number of small business owners and providers of transporation.

Here´s a short timeline of my (now! finally! completed!) visa registration process in country (if you actually read this blog, you´ve already heard a bit about the US side):

5-26 Arrive in country. Immigration agent tells me I need to get a censo (ID card).

5-27 I seem to remember that I need to do something before getting the censo, but can´t remember what, and when I look at the visa forms I filled out in the US, they just list the Censo.

5-28 I walk 1 mile downhill to the Migrations office to get my censo. I take a number and wait. When they call my number, they tell me I need to get another passport photo taken and then affix the photo to a 8x11 manila envelope and write a long list of personal information beneath the photo. Then, they realize that my visa isn´t registered (aha! the missing step!)and tell me i have to do that before I can get a censo. The registration place, of course, is a mile across town.

so I walk a mile across town and up a hill.

I enter the visa registration place and take a number. While I´m waiting, i notice a list of things that i need in order to register my visa: a folder with ´binche´ to hold papers; an envelope big enough to hold the folder; copies from my passport of the main page, my visa, and the stamp noting my arrival date; and, a certificate of deposit from the bank down the street saying that I´d deposited $10 into the visa registration account. I leave the visa registration place in order to gather the required items.

I return, take a new number, and wait.

I am called back, deposit the various items, and am told to return on June 2 to retrieve my passport and registered visa.

6-2 I go to the visa registration place to pick up my passport. They can´t seem to find it. They search around for awhile and finally find it. I feel relieved.

I walk back across town to the Migration office to get my censo. I take a number and wait. I get called up. They say, ¨Oh, you need a copy of your passport main page, of your visa, and of the registration you just got. YOu can go next door to get that.¨

I go next door, there´s a line of people waiting to make photocopies. I get my photocopies and run back.

They fiddle around a bit and then finally hand me my censo card. But, get this, when they hand me the card, they also hand me a piece of folded plastic, just big enough to fit the card. To get the card laminated, however, I have to go next door to the copy shop and have them laminate it. Getting the card laminated isn´t part of the $4 price you pay to get the Censo.

I go next door and have them make a color copy of my censo and then laminate both the original and the ¨extra¨ ... i´m not going to get the thing stolen and then have to do the whole process over again ... no way. i´ll carry the copy. thanks. (this is apparently not unusual. the woman at the copy shop knew exactly what i was asking and prepared the whole thing for me.

What i find most interesting in this whole process is the way the Ecuadorian government manages to export the costs of materials to citizens and visitors ... instead of them stocking the folders they need in order to file materials, they have us buy the folders and get them ready ... magically saving the government time and money without demanding too much expenditure from us (total cost for the whole in country part of the project? $20.70 ... sigh)

Mystery Solved

2008-05-31T13:56:00.003-05:00

So, some of you may remember my confusion at how Ecuadorians always think I look young? Like 22?

Well, I had a passport photo taken yesterday (sigh, part of the long process of registering my visa) and it turns out that people are being generous when they assume I´m 22 because apparently being in Ecuador knocks about 20 years off my face and I look like a small, vulnerable ten-year-old.

See?

Vegetarians may want to look away ...

2008-05-29T11:57:00.002-05:00

Yesterday evening, after two days of low appetite and no desire to cook for myself, I gave in to a particularly tantalizing aroma that accosted me on my way home.

I had eaten all of a piece of corn for lunch and a bowl of yogurt and granola for breakfast. And yet, I wasn’t particularly hungry. And that made me nervous.

So, when I collided with the rich, meaty aroma of fritada on my way up the crowded and diesel fume-swathed Avenida Colon and found my mouth watering, I figured I should stop.

One dollar and fifteen seconds later, I walked away with a small bag of food and a little plastic spoon, all resting on a tiny sheet of newsprint designed to catch the inevitable grease. The bag, just bigger than a standard sandwich bag, contained about half a cup of mote (hominy is the closest thing in the US), a small boiled potato, a thumb-sized hunk of grilled ripe plantain, and four greasy, salty, caramelized pieces of fried pork. I’m afraid I can’t show you a picture of my bag because I didn’t have my camera along with me and, um, the bag of food, minus a few grains of mote, was empty before I was halfway up the insane hill leading to my house.

I’m pretty sure that this little meal of street food will come back to haunt me (though, in my defense, I did refuse the spoonful of onion, tomato, cilantro salad that should have gone on top). I’m not sure that, even so, I will regret the decision (check back with me in a few days and I’ll let you know).

You see, while llapingachos are by far my favorite sit-down traditional Ecuadorian meal, fritada is an immense guilty pleasure for me and is also equally traditional. At the more established, and probably best, fritada places they sometimes have the whole cured pig hanging from its hind legs above the cooking area. This can, I’m sure you can imagine, be a little disconcerting. It can also prompt reflection on the sanitary-ness of the meal. But, I take heart in the fact that the meat is fried in oil (okay, probably lard…) and always served piping hot … again, I’ll let you know. Plus, the pig wasn’t on display at this place (come to think of if, that might actually be a worse sign …).

I happen to know that one can purchase fritada at the Ecuadorian restaurants in Chicago (sorry folks, can’t help with location … just don’t try inside the loop…). It’s not quite the same since it comes as a restaurant meal rather than piping off the streetside grill, but you can get a bit of the sense that way. Alternatively, you could come visit me in Ecuador sometime in the next few months … What’s a several hundred dollar plane flight in exchange for tasty fried pork?

2008-05-28T10:26:00.003-05:00

I am sitting in Ivan’s office on my first day in Ecuador (though I won’t post until later since I don’t have internet access here). However, instead of writing a post that is mostly, directly, solely about being in Ecuador, I’m going to turn back to clock a bit to our recent excursion in the north. At the same time, I think it will be clear from my tale that thinking back on that canoe trip in the BWCA also has resonance with my current expedition.

I also should warn that this long, long post is largely written for my own benefit. It will likely be tedious to others. Feel free to skim or, even better, check out the cool pictures that really are the whole point of the thing anyway.

The anticipation of our trip, for me, was a mixed bag. Time to be in northern Minnesota, yes, but also a weather forecast that seemed overly-filled with chances for showers and thunderstorms. And, the ice had just recently gone out, even on the smaller lakes. Plus, I felt a sense of responsibility. Anna and Anthony are both competent, talented, strong people with a plethora of outdoor experience between them. But, with a childhood full of boundary waters trips and three years of work as a canoe guide, I was clearly the most experienced and, though I knew it was a bit silly, I therefore felt responsible for the smooth and safe functioning of the trip. In addition, it’s also true that taking a canoe trip is a lot of work. Good, satisfying, physical work. Work in the beautiful outdoors. Work that reminds you to notice the basic things in life. Also, work that can be exhausting and frustrating, especially in the face of wind and rain.

Our first day was cool with increasing clouds. We arrived at Brule Lake to an almost empty parking lot and a lake that felt like it had just dripped of a glacier. We packed our beautiful Northwind canoe fuller than it’s ever been, and set out across the lake.

I felt tired. My shoulder and wrist were hurting. And we were heading into the wind. I started feeling nervous about our safety. When we saw a small iceberg floating near us, I would have liked to take a picture, but the force of the wind made me concerned about stopping and about rummaging around in the packs for our camera. We pressed on. I felt on edge, worried. I wondered if we should have come

But then, we moved into a narrow passage that took us from Brule to South Cone. On South Cone we pulled up to a modest little campsite and unloaded our things. We gathered wood for a fire. I managed to get the ropes for the bear pack hung impressively high (after a number of hysterically inept tries). We let Ceisaf off leash and watched him explode with excitement about exploring the small island where we were camped. We ate an early dinner. We paddled around the small lake as sunset neared, enjoying the soft, golden light of evening and the sun that had emerged from the clouds. We sprawled on the rocks and had little conversations and read out loud from Jorge Luis Borges’ book of imaginary creatures. We (um, I mean, as individuals) climbed the trial uphill to the latrine with a view of the lake and surveyed our temporary territory. When clouds started to fill the darkening sky and rain threatened, I was happy to scoot into our warm, dry tent with partner and dog and fall asleep to the patter of raindrops on the rainfly.

The next morning, the nerves were back. I felt lazy, daunted by the
long day ahead of us… and though it was partly sunny that morning, it seemed the sort of day likely to switch to rain.

But again, breakfast eaten, things packed up, canoe loaded, we headed out on our long day of paddling and portaging. I began to get in the rhythm of the work. After an ungainly start at portage coordinating, we seemed to get it down. And Ceisaf, miracle of miracles, seemed happy to stay with us even if we let him off the leash. I began to remember why I enjoy canoeing. Especially since my body seemed to have accepted the work and the previous day’s nagging discomfort in shoulder, wrist, and thumb seemed to have disappeared. Even a portage still somewhat decked in snow felt more an opportunity for ironic photos than a reason for frustration.

When it started raining at about lunch time, I sighed in resignation. But the campsite where we stopped to eat was beautiful and, despite the increased exposure to wind and rain, we couldn’t help but have our lunch high up on the rock that dominated the site. The rain had slowed by the time we pulled away from our lunch spot and as we turned a corner to continue our trek north and west, we were treated with one of the great moments of the trip: the sight of a mother moose and her tiny little calf. We didn’t take a picture, not wanting to stay and upset the mother, so you’ll have to take my word for it that the enormous ears of a few week old moose calf are among the most adorable and comical in the animal world. Especially since the calf, perhaps because it was almost to short to see over the grasses in which it stood, was twitching those ears back and forth and up and down trying to make sense of the noises it was hearing.

Later, as we paddled down the last long, narrow, lake between us, a few marshy portages, and our campsite, it began to rain again. And I remembered, not for the first time, that it is far, far, far better to be paddling in the rain, making progress, doing something, than it is to sit sadly at a campsite waiting for the threat of rain to pass.

But, though the rain passed quickly, we were not out of the woods. Those last marshy portages served us up one of the biggest challenges of the trip. The portages had burned the summer before and, in the intervening months of winter, many many trees had fallen. On the second of those portages, the trail was completely blocked and we had to bushwhack, cutting our own trail and maneuvering over rocks. By the time we reached the other side, safe, intact, but tired, it was late afternoon. We were a bit wilted, hungry for dinner, and looking forward to climbing into sleeping bags. But, I also felt elated. It had been such a long day and that final portage had required a great deal of creativity. The hard work of that day was exactly the sort of hard work that makes canoeing so rewarding, so fulfilling. As we made camp on a beautiful site, Anna came over to give me a hug, worried that I still felt the weight of responsibility and had been stressed by the day. But the truth was, I felt so incredibly happy.

Of course, I didn’t really learn my lesson. The next day it was sunny, but fiercely windy when we woke up, and we almost stayed at the campsite to avoid the hard work of paddling into the wind. Once we got going and made our way through sunny wind, thunderstorm, and freezing drizzle to another campsite, this one with a most spectacular view of the most gorgeous sunset, I was again surprised to remember how much better it is to be moving. And again the next day, cold and blustery, when all I wanted to do was huddle by the fire, getting moving made a threatening day seem more doable.

So here I am in Ecuador and I have written this post in little spurts such that it is now evening, and I am alone and feeling sorry for myself. A ridiculous creature, in many ways. But I am trying, again and again, to remind myself that in the morning I should get up and eat some breakfast and then make a few phone calls, trying to set up appointments. And maybe I will make my way over to the archives at the Catholic University and see if I can figure out where to start.

And maybe tomorrow night, like tonight, I’ll watch a movie and go to bed ridiculously early. Or maybe I’ll try to read a chapter in one of the books piled beside my bed and make a little progress on secondary sources.

Then the next morning, I’ll haul myself out of bed and keep looking for ways to fill my days. For questions to ask, places to visit, activities to involve myself in. And often, I know, each little impulse of getting started will be hard bought. And once I get going things will be easier. And when I stop it will be hard to start again. But I will do it, because the other options are distasteful and the rewards of doing the work seem promising.

And that will be the way of things for the next several weeks.

I promise I won’t post again until I have something happy, or at least snarky or ironic or amusing, to pass your way.

Thoughts on Five and Ten

2008-05-25T22:51:00.001-05:00

Today marks the fifth anniversary of the ceremony that Anna and I called our Celebration of Promise. We gathered with family and friends at our small Minneapolis church to make promises of love, patience, commitment, and hope to each other and to the gathered cloud of witnesses.

Now I'm sitting in the passenger seat as Anna drives us to Chicago. Tomorrow I'll get on a plane on my way to spending 15 weeks in Ecuador.I can barely remember the words of our vows, though I do remember the fight we had while trying to write them ("THAT'S what you're promising me?!?"). And yet, though I'd have to go search for the tear-stained cue card with my vows on it, that series of earnest promises we made and the whole service filled with symbolism and witness have opened up into years of daily companionship, the wonderful, unimaginable beauty of quotidian love.

It's not that there are no challenges. The fights we still have more often than either of us would like are emotionally brutal. Some of our old disagreements have gotten easier. Anna's learned to (sometimes) recognize my 'teaching' voice as something other than pedantry and I've learned to (sometimes) trust her words even when I think I hear something else in her voice. And yet, there always seem to be new struggles, new conflict, new misunderstandings to go around. I'm still quick to be defensive, occasionally arrogant, and often, often, often impatient.

Still, these have been good years for us, in the big picture and in the everyday. We started dating just over ten years ago. Those first five years were often good: an adventuresome year in New York, a successful master's degree for each of us, long walks with Ceisaf, canoe trips and hiking. At the same time, we were *so* young when we started dating ... all of 19 ... and for Anna especially, the whole idea of being in a lesbian relationship and the social and familial consequences of that relationship were hard to reconcile. These past five years we've come into our own much more, emotionally, professionally, and as a couple. The relationship feeds both of us, challenges both of us, helps us develop as the women we want to be.

A major part of that development is about the dailyness of our love. The quiet moments of togetherness, the long conversations while walking the dog, the rituals of being together. I depend on Anna's feedback, her quiet strength. I think she depends on my confidence and encouragement. We give and take in the little moments of living together.

So it is this, this quotidian love, that I can't quite handle being away from this summer. I leave in the morning. I'll hold Anna as close as I can for as long as I can, trying to imprint her presence on my body so that I can carry some piece of her with me. But then I'll have to let her go, and it will be ten weeks before I see her again. And yes, I will miss the spectacular moments of love: the amazing conversations, the special meals, the celebration of her 30th birthday... but I will miss, far far far more the tone of her voice, the touch of her hand, the proximity of her in the bed every night.

Take care, sweet love. I'll be back soon, and we will, I hope and pray, have many many more moments together.

A post to whet (wet) your thirst

2008-05-23T15:14:00.003-05:00

A Safe Haven, Winchell Lake, May 16, 2008

Windy Orange Sunset, Cherokee Lake, May 17, 2008

waiting for Godot visa

2008-05-12T10:24:00.002-05:00

several months ago Anna asked me "are you sure you need to stay in Ecuador for more than 90 days? Are those extra fifteen days really going to make that much difference?"

and I replied that having the visa would make me feel safe. If it turned out that I needed more research time, I'd be able to change my ticket and stick around. Chances were that I wouldn't need to add time (or, more accurately, that I'd be so ready to come home that I would rationalize not needing it). But it seemed dangerous to have only three months and so very much to do.

now I am sitting in a coffee shop in Chicago wondering if I'd be a happier person if I had just decided to do the damn work in 90 days.

I have run around getting letters notarized and getting the notarizations notarized.
I have been poked and prodded a few more times than necessary.
I have done some clever accounting in order to demonstrate a high level of financial stability (thanks mom and dad).
I have filled out forms and photocopied forms (can any of *you* say that you are currently holding three copies of your birth certificate?!)
I have applied for and waited for and not received support from a university in Ecuador that would have allowed me to get the less expensive sort of visa.
I have taken out of my bank account a full tenth of the money I've received to fund my dissertation research in order to pay for the more expensive visa.
I have taken the freakin' 6:10am train to Chicago to go the consulate.
I have filled out more forms and negotiated with the consulate staff.
I have called my doctor's office to ask them to fax me a copy of my HIV negative status which they conveniently failed to attach to the letter they gave me the first time around and I stupidly forgot to check for before coming all the way up here.
I have had to have Anna go get the HIV status letter because the doctor won't fax it due to privacy concerns.

and now I am waiting for that fax to come through so that I can actually get. the. damn. visa.

I'm not sure those 15 days are worth it.

sigh.

On second thought ...

2008-05-09T17:17:00.001-05:00

Oh dear.

Scroll down to this list of lakes still frozen. Our permit is for Brule.

Phew!

2008-05-06T17:17:00.002-05:00

I know that all you coughinginink readers out there have been waiting with bated breath to learn if our upcoming canoe trip would involve icebergs or not.

I am happy to announce that icebergs appear unlikely. The picture above is from the Sawbill Outfitter's newsletter where they have been tracking progress toward ice out.

Yesterday, we were starting to wonder if our canoe trip would instead be an ice skating trip. Today brings much better news.

However, before you all start pulling out your bikinis and begging to be invited on the trip, let me inform you that the 10 day forecast includes 40 degree overnight lows and highs in the 50s. The water ain't going to warm up much.

I will go swimming because that is what you do when you go on a canoe trip in the boundary waters and you are an O... daughter (my sister announced a few days ago that she's glad she's not coming along on the trip because she would feel obligated to swim). I don't think Anna or Anthony are likely to join me. My own obligatory swim is likely to be *very* short. And I will have to skinny dip, because some water is too cold for clammy nylon.

1 lb worms plus lots of food scraps plus 6 months

2008-05-04T10:56:00.005-05:00

From this:

To this:

Via this:

We started doing worm compost last September and in the last several weeks we've been "harvesting" the rich, soft dirt produced by the silent little creatures living in our kitchen. It's pretty amazing stuff, especially when you consider that it comes from the vegetables and fruits, coffee grinds and tea bags, and bits of newspaper that we deposit once or twice a week. I've mixed the worm compost with potting soil and used in on some house plants and on the four pots that sit on the ledges of our building. I also put a bit on the garden, but our rate of production is so small that we don't really have enough to make a big difference even in a small garden like ours.

I still sometimes worry that our worm habitat isn't ideal ... that the population is decreasing instead of increasing as it should ... but the worms seem content enough to go about their business of eating and pooping. Which I guess is all that we expect from them.

Still, every time I make a fancy meal and throw almost nothing away from the preparation, putting it instead in the refrigerator in an old yogurt container to wait its turn, I feel very happy to have a box of worms to keep us company.

Me in a six word sentence

2008-04-30T18:15:00.003-05:00

uh, i can't remember all the rules for this meme, so you may need to wander over to diss dat and diapers to get the full story... but, the basic idea as i understand it is to use six words to give a particular insight into you. You all know this by now, I assume. So, without further ado:

Not so together as I seem.

Yes, thank you, mgm, Juicy, and EB, I know you never thought I was terribly together in the first place ...

Here's the deal. I invest quite a bit of energy in appearing to be solid, practical, confident, grounded. I'm a capricorn, astrologically, and when I first started my job as a production manager, my astrologically inclined co-workers thought a capricorn (down-to-earth, solid, no nonsense) was just what they needed in the position. As a graduate student I've put a lot of emphasis on being solid, dependable, efficient. On meeting deadlines and filling roles.

And the truth is that I delight in being depended on. I like to give advice, often to excess. I tend to say what I think, without, I hope, being a catty or talk-behind-the-back type. I want people to see me as someone who can be trusted to bring up hard issues, say the thing others didn't want to say, yet keep the tone professional.

I get a lot of this desire, I think, from watching my dad. I've always admired his ability to stay unruffled in the face of conflict and the way people see him as a dependable and thoughtful leader.

But the truth is, anyone who knows me has seen the dependable togetherness slip ... either into controlling conceitedness or into a little whimpering puddle of misery.

I can pull examples of this from at least my early teen years when my parents would ask, in helpless confusion, how the screaming, tantrum-filled girl in front of them could be the same child who continually impressed teachers and administrators with her discipline and hard work.

I'm aware of not being as together as I'd like (another candidate for the 6 words) especially when I find myself saying unprofessional things in professional contexts or getting hot under the collar and snapping in a situation of public conflict. Or in moments, like happened yesterday evening, when I'd like to make my calm, dependable, practical impression and instead find myself acting like a defensive, childish idiot in front of someone I barely know (the ultimate betrayal of togetherness).

And, I guarantee you that part of the reason I so hated my doctor's office experience this morning is that the admission of pain and my inability to grit my teeth and relax my hips demonstrated in a semi-public context the extent to which I'm not as together as *I* think I should be.

So there you are:

Not so together as I seem.

or.

Not so together as I'd like.

Oh, and i'd like to see j and planbreaker do this as well as candy and EB (who I think mgm nominated) ...

Random Bullets of Doctor's Office Crap

2008-04-30T09:18:00.002-05:00

• I. Hate. Pap smears. Some are more painful, some are less painful. I have never had one that wasn't at least somewhat painful. Today's would have sufficed as a form of torture.

• I don't know if this is just standard operating procedure everywhere now, but in the health/physical questionnaire, I got asked not "are you using birth control?" but "what method of birth control do you use?" ... you can imagine my answer.

• Did i mention that i hate pap smears? I *still* hurt.

• On that subject ... are pap smears easier for women who sleep with men? Just wondering ...

• I think the top part of the paper gowns has gotten shorter recently. Mine was more like one of those little trendy jackets than any sort of covering. I love annual exam fashion.

• I'm thinking that maybe i'll start getting bi-annual exams... I'll think of it as an art exhibit. "The c... biennial this year will be held ..."

• I. Hate. Pap Smears. "Just relax," they say. Yeah right.

When Visual Information Tells You Nothing

2008-04-28T14:46:00.003-05:00

This morning I had a doctor's appointment. As usually happens, I had some time alone in the exam room waiting for the nurse practitioner to get around to me, so I did a little perusal of the brightly colored health education posters and signs that covered the back of the exam room door.

The pain scale with numbers, words, and faces in various states of grimace pretty much made sense to me, and the body mass index charts are always fascinatingly clear yet opaque in the same way that road map distance charts are (okay, so i can run my finger down from Tucson and over from L.A., but do I really know how to get from one place to the next?).

But, there was also a big poster offering education on cholesterol and its effects on heart disease. Some of the visuals were recognizable to me: the gradually filling artery, the drawing of the heart itself, etc (btw, sorry that I don't have an actual picture of the poster...). However, the entire right side of the poster was filled with an explanation of the different types of cholesterol, and here the transmission of visual information seemed to fall apart.

The accompanying text was quite clear. I learned a little bit about why LDL is bad and HDL is good, finally understanding that the whole role of HDL is to carry fats out of the blood stream and into the liver for processing. The drawings bordered on the ridiculous. The picture here is much, much, much more informative than the images on the poster. Essentially, there were three balls made of bulbous purple things labeled "proteins;" unlabeled, small yellow spheres; and the occasional small red sphere labeled "cholesterol." The biggest ball was labeled "HDL," the medium ball was "IDL" (which I had never heard of ... apparently it's an intermediate stage), and the small ball was "LDL." Other than size, there was no apparent difference among the three balls. Even the size difference appeared to have more to do with the balls having been resized smaller or larger than with the amount of the three elements included in each. Plus, the accompanying text didn't really refer at all to size as a feature defining the difference among the types.

So, a full third of the poster was filled with what seemed to me to be utterly non-informative visuals. From what I could glean, there are apparently multi-sized red, yellow, and purple bucky balls bouncing around in my bloodstream.

That's enough to give anyone chest pains.

To Do (aka accountability plan)

2008-04-21T21:58:00.014-05:00

Ecuador-Related
• ~~Get police record~~
• ~~Have dr.'s appointment~~ & get letter stating freedom from contagious diseases
• Get police record and contagion letter notarized
• ~~Get 2nd letter of recommendation~~
• Get letter of agreement for USF in Quito
• ~~Make 'cita previa' with Ecuadorian consulate in Chicago~~
• Get letter from bank suggesting that i am more solvent than I am
• ~~finalize housing plans~~
• make list of questions to pursue
• ~~get appropriate shots~~ NONE! Except for some blood drawn!
• get into better shape to avoid altitude sickness

House-Related
• ~~laundry~~
• ~~clean refrigerator~~
• ~~give dog a bath~~ Thanks Anna!
• ~~recaulk around tub~~
• ~~clean kitchen~~
• ~~change worm bedding~~
• ~~dust/sweep/mop~~

Dissertation, etc.-Related
• ~~file dissertation papers in new file box~~
• ~~revise IRB application~~
• ~~write summer funding grant~~
• keep (move faster at) reading
• write CCCC proposal

oh goodness i know i'm missing something key ... well, there's always space to add more ...

Why I Have a Hangover Today

2008-04-17T15:00:00.002-05:00

plus

this

My Ridiculous Little Problem

2008-04-12T17:51:00.002-05:00

I am sitting on the bed, softly lit by the glow from the birch log lamp that I made in my eighth grade shop class. My eyes are full of tears and my stomach is churning. I'm thinking about running out into the living room and asking Anna if I can be a stay-at-home mom for our non-existent child (feeling suddenly oh-so-jealous of our friend Superdad).

What brought on this sudden bought of saline gushing? What leaves me so melancholy and ready to quit?

I just bought tickets to Quito, Ecuador, leaving Monday, May 26 and returning Friday, September 5.

Yes, I know. I'm the one who chose an international dissertation. And I chose it in the face of a field that would probably be happier with me and more able to understand my work if I hadn't.

I have only myself to blame.

And yet I'm turning into miserable jelly at the thought of being a continent away from my dear partner and my family and friends for almost four months.

I'll get through this. I have every time so far. But I also know that a little pall of loneliness will hang on me the entire time I'm gone. And somewhere in the back of my head, there will be a running countdown of days left until I see Anna. I worry sometimes that my inability to immerse myself fully in travel means that I'm weak or, at the very least, failing to take advantage of the opportunities I have. Still, that nagging sense of having failed the grown-up test doesn't keep me from looking forward, even from the first day away, to being back in the arms of my partner.

But then again, most of the time I think I'd still choose this project if I had the chance to go back and start my ph.d all over again. I think it's interesting, challenging, and it forces me to do things that I know are valuable, even if in the moment I want nothing more than to run away.

The irony of this situation is made all the more ridiculous by the fact that if you asked me to list the next three projects that I'm excited to pursue post dissertation / first book, they'd all. involve. travel.

International. Travel.

Apparently, I'm an academic masochist.

(p.s. I looked for an image to go with that last line. Blegh! Sorry folks, no images today)

Hemorrhaging Money, Part II: with a little help from my friends

2008-04-11T16:17:00.003-05:00

I know that at my age, investments and retirement accounts are supposed to be for the long term. It's okay that they go up and down right now, I'm not supposed to draw on them for another 35 years or so.

But, I can't help but feel a little (to completely misappropriate a phrase) lighter in my loafers, since discovering yesterday that my extremely small nest egg is now ten percent more extremely small than it was at the end of last year.

sigh. I guess I won't be retiring after I finish my dissertation.

It may be raining out,

2008-04-10T10:04:00.004-05:00

but today

i feel

like this

Lost

2008-04-01T21:27:00.002-05:00

Literacy.

Last seen in a proposal for a CCCC panel. May also have made brief appearances in an early draft of a conference paper.

Has not been seen since the 30 page version.

Please return to c... prior to Friday at 11am when c... is supposed to be participating in a panel on "Literacies that Matter."

Without literacy, c... is going to look a little silly or like a liar.

Which celestial body best describes Your week?

2008-03-28T08:24:00.003-05:00

If My Academic Career Were a Track Meet, I'd Run the 800

2008-03-10T16:45:00.004-05:00

Last year sometime, caraf wrote a post comparing the ideal academic writing discipline to the runner's training in long slow distance. Her point, if you're too lazy to click over to her post, is that a lot of graduate students still work on the sprint model they developed in college (writing a paper in a frenzied, sleep-free rush in the days before it's due)but that if we're going to survive not just graduate school but a long career in those parts of higher education that require publication, we need to develop stamina. We need to write the equivalent of long slow distance, working steadily at writing projects and disciplining ourselves to writing every day.

Now, I get the wisdom of this approach, just like I got the wisdom of the nine mile poor farm run we used to do a couple times every cross-country season. Building up the endurance and habit of writing is the only way to avoid burning out when there are big tasks like a book or a series of articles to complete. But, I also remember how I hated the poor farm run ... those endless miles of gently rolling gravel road, the mile-long uphill at the very end ... and because I was sort of a lazy cross country runner, I had never kept myself in good enough shape between seasons, nor developed the will power to ever feel the joy of the interminable steady pace. So, I will also admit that I felt a little thrill of terror when I read caraf's piece.

That said, I've also never been prone to the sprint model of academic writing, just like I was never much of a sprinter in track and cross country. I not fast enough, not quick enough off the block, and not satisfied by the quick finish.

Anyway, I'm going to beat the running metaphor to death right now, and I have way less experience in both academic writing and running than does caraf, so be warned ... and take this with a few million bottles of electrolyte beverage.

I'm sitting on the couch in the living room at five o'clock in the afternoon. I've spent much of the day so far vacillating between games of n-blox and work on the never-ending article revision. I'd work for a couple hours or so on writing and revision and then I'd reach a point that seemed to call for a break (a section heading, a particularly complicated piece of revision, a need to find a missing citation) and scurry away to yet another game of n-blox ... or snake ... or a blog tour. This pretty much describes my approach to writing. I even have a little rule for n-blox where after a game I have to work for the number minutes equal to the number of thousands of points I earned (i.e. 34,000points = 34 minutes of writing).

And it's not just in the midst of writing that I follow this pattern. When I finish a project (like how i just sent my article draft to an art history prof for some 'what if i f@#&ed up?' review), I immediately enter a funk characterized by increased web-crastination, sometimes so serious that I am simultaneously bored to tears and miserable with staring at the internet and unable to tear myself away.I generally work in spurts, but they're extended spurts and they aren't particularly deadline driven.

So, I think that maybe my writing process actually *is* a perfect mirror of my running habits. In junior high and high school I was a committed 800 runner during track season. I would run a 1600 if I had to, but I was thrilled when my friend Mary joined the track team and discovered that she loved running the 3200 because it meant I'd never have to race eight laps around a track ever again. 800s were perfect for me. They were long enough to require stamina, long enough to scare away the sprinters, long enough to pursue a strategy. But they lasted less than three minutes (okay, sometimes 3:10). These days, I don't have much chance to run 800s, but we do take a lot of two and three mile runs. That's about what my will power can handle. As I tell my sister who is much more athletic than I am, "I hate running. I just love the way I feel when I'm done."

Maybe it's the same with writing. The writing equivalent of an 800 is enough to let me really develop an idea and work with it. If pressed, I can run a handful in one day. And I'm pretty decent, though not State material. Plus, if I happen to neglect my training for a day or two, I'm not so out of shape that getting back into the swing of things takes weeks of wheezy misery.

That said, if my academic career were a ski race and Nordic skiing worked as an analogy for writing, I might reconsider my process. Because I'd really like to ski the Birkie with my sister some day.

wtf!?

2008-02-27T16:42:00.002-06:00