Author Archives: The BLS Program at UNCG

Season’s Greetings, Bah Humbug, and All That

by Matt McKinnon

oreilly-war-on-christmas

So, they’re at it again. Bill O’Reilly, Fox n’ Friends, even Mike Seaver from the 80’s sitcom Growing Pains. It’s that time of the year to gird your loins, strap on some armor, grab a sharp object or two, and get ready for the annual War on Christmas. It’s going to be brutal this year.

Or so it would seem. Heck, Kirk Cameron even has a full-length film out on how to save Christmas—titled, appropriately enough, Kirk Cameron’s Saving Christmas. Spoiler Alert: It’s not a remake of that yuletide classic from 1996 Elmo Saves Christmas, so don’t buy a copy thinking it will make a great baby-sitter for the little tikes while mummy and daddy sample the ole egg nog until they’re both Blitzen.

No, this is serious. The fate of the Holiday—er—Christmas season is at stake.

kirk-cameron_saving-christmas

Now there’s plenty of material to make fun of in this latest holiday counteroffensive, not the least of which is Cameron’s suggestion to mothers and wives: “(D)on’t let anything steal your joy…. Let your children, your family, see your joy in the way that you decorate your home this Christmas, in the food you cook, the songs you sing, the stories you tell, and the traditions that you keep.”

Yeah, that’s just my wife’s problem this time of year, what with her sixty-hour work weeks and dissertation writing—letting something steal her joy. “Come on baby, put those papers away and decorate! Cook! Sing! Tell Stories!”

And there’s even more fun to be made of the historically and theologically unsustainable claim by Cameron that it was Pagans who actually stole Christmas, making everybody believe that Christmas is really just some Pagan holiday that Christians co-opted. Christians didn’t steal Christmas from the Pagan Saturnalia and Yule: Pagans stole it from them. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the ticket. And, and, Santa Claus is really just one of the wise men from the East who lost his way and wandered into the Germanic celebrations of Yuletide (with a soot-black horned sidekick named “Black Peter” if you happen to live in the Netherlands. I forget what part of the Bible that’s in, but it’s got to be somewhere).

gruss-von-krampus

But instead of making fun of Kirk Cameron’s Saving Christmas, I would like to agree with—and champion—its premise that Christmas has become way too commercialized and has lost sight of anything resembling a religious and holy observance.

Except…that isn’t the film’s premise.

No, instead of arguing along with some Christian groups, that the real war on Christmas is the fact that it has been almost completely co-opted by our neoliberal corporatized economy, Saving Christmas seems to embrace the very materialistic overconsumption that eats at the soul on that sacred day.

black-friday-gate

The message is targeted to other Evangelicals and conservative Christians (who would pay to see the movie) and not to those dead-souled secularists whom Bill O’Reilly charges with making war on Christmas. And the point seems to be that Christmas really is Christian (did any of us doubt this?) and that everybody should be making as big a deal about it as they possibly can—there’s where decorating, cooking, singing, and telling stories comes in.

But also, presumably, throwing oneself full throttle into this Christmas marketing blitz that begins earlier and earlier every year, and which now includes shelling out some dough to watch Kirk Cameron save Christmas.

And then there’s Federalist blogger Mollie Hemingway who points out that Saving Christmas ultimately means Defeating Advent.

publick-notice

What gets lots in all of this is that, once upon a time, Advent was the rather solemn and eminently respectful lead up to Christmas (at least it was when I was a kid way back in the ’70s). Or that it was the 17th century’s version of the Evangelicals—the Puritans in New England and regular-old England—who led the first war on Christmas when they attacked it as unhistorical and unbiblical, banning it and making it illegal in Massachusetts for much of the 1600’s. Or that, despite Cameron’s (and others’) love for their holiday, or their version of the holiday, there are in fact many other holidays celebrated around the same time. Some religious, some not so much.

And there are worse things in the world today than wishing someone “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas” or pointing out the syncretism between Medieval Christianity and the religions it replaced. Or opting out of all the commercialized craziness to concentrate on what’s really important—what folks think is really important in their lives (which we don’t have to agree on).

But making a holiday movie that embraces all of the commercialization and materialization of our culture is not a solution to the problem of the loss of meaning in Christmas and religion in general—it’s part of the problem.

bah-humbug

So with that in mind, I offer my own corporate-free observance, culled from various places on the internet and elsewhere, edited, redacted, plagiarized, but always heartfelt:

Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally friendly, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, ethnically diverse, class-inclusive celebration of the wintertime holiday of your choosing, including but not limited to (in an order not meant to suggest priority or preference):

Winter Solstice, Dongzhi, Signature of the Constitution of the Republic of China (Taiwan), Hogmany, Advent, Thiruvathira, Saint Nicholas’s Day (Western Calendar), Christmas Eve, Christmas, 12 Days of Christmas, Night of the Radishes, Saint Lucia’s Day, Saint Stephen’s Day, Saint John the Evangelist’s Day, Holy Innocents’ Day, Saint Sylvester’s Day, Watch Night, Feast of the Circumcision, Feast of Fools, Festivus, Dhanu, Twelfth Night, Epiphany, Eastern Orthodox Christmas, Monkey Day, Eastern Orthodox Epiphany (Theophany), Three Kings’ Day, Larentalia, Modranect, Yule, Hanukkah/Chanukah, Yuletide, Yalda, Sadeh, Brumalia, Saturnalia, Festival of the Birth of the Unconquered Sun, Boxing Day, Winterval, Bodhi Day, Agnostica, Zamenhof Day, Day of Neutrality, HumanLight, Chrismukkah, Mummer’s Day, Kwanzaa, Agonalia, New Years Eve, New Year’s Day, Omisoka, Karachun, and/or Rohatsu,

…practiced within the traditional, religious, and/or secular perspective of your choice, with respect for the traditional, religious, and/or secular perspective of others (and mindful of your option to not practice religious and/or secular traditions at all),

…as well as a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the commonly accepted calendar year 2015, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures, traditions, and/or religious persuasions whose contributions to society have helped make America a great country (not to imply that America is necessarily greater than any other country nor is the only “America” in the Western hemisphere) and without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, and/or sexual orientation of the wishee.*

xmashup

*By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms: This greeting is subject to clarification and/or withdrawal. It is transferable without the explicit consent in writing of the wisher and may be altered, edited, redacted, expounded upon, or discarded at will. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement or guarantee any of these wishes and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year, or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.

Employees of the University of North Carolina at Greensboro (UNCG) and their families may be subject to disqualification from proposed wishes if these wishes constitute an infringement on proprietary wishing rights held and enjoyed by the UNCG institution itself, its Board of Trustees, Chancellor, Provost, Deans and Associate Deans of various colleges, and/or Department Heads, as well as the Board of Governors and President of the University of North Carolina, whose own well wishes may take precedence if limited and/or counteracted by these heartfelt greetings of yours truly.

Void where prohibited by law.

Hungry Americans in Norway

by Carrie Levesque

In many of my contributions to this blog since I moved across the pond, I’ve effused about the wonders of Norway: The scenery! The slower pace of life! The egalitarianism! Aside from the challenges of Norway’s many dialects and their absurd driver’s license requirements, life in Norway has been a fairly positive experience. But as we come upon that time of year when food takes center stage in our lives, I feel it is time to disclose one area in which the United States, compared to Norway, definitely has all the advantages: Food.

canned mackerel in tomato sauce

Mackerel in tomato sauce (“plane crash in a can”).

I love food. I’m one of those people who starts thinking about lunch just after breakfast, and dinner just after lunch, and goes to bed dreaming about breakfast. I believe food is, in the wise words of my friend Doug, life’s only consistent joy.

So as I was scrolling through my Facebook feed a few weeks ago and saw a link to an article promoting The Scandinavian Diet, I could only wonder what kind of desperation a person must be experiencing to want to knowingly subject themselves to such flavor deprivation. I assumed anyone who’s ever considered dieting knew that the best way to increase the likelihood of success is to find foods that allow you to minimize your intake of calories and fat without compromising flavor. If you can’t find some enjoyment in what you’re eating, you’re not going to stick with it. From an American point of view, there is not a lot to enjoy in the Scandinavian diet.

You see, I am currently serving a six-year sentence on the Scandinavian Diet (also called the Viking Diet or the Nordic Diet). I live in a land in which tradition and convenience dictate what’s available in supermarkets and restaurants, and those traditions are bland, bland, bland. Until they struck oil in the late 60s, and learned how to turn it into huge sums of money in the 70s and 80s, Norway was a poor, rocky country, where people survived off of root vegetables and the sea. Though Norwegians can certainly afford more variety these days, and they certainly love to indulge in exotic foods on their many travels, for whatever reason, old, bland habits die really hard at home in Norwegian kitchens.

skive-med-kokt-skinke

Ham-and-cheese skive.

While I’m more of a ‘variety-is-the-spice-of life’ kind of girl, Norwegians don’t value variety in their diet quite as much. For breakfast and lunch, every day, most Norwegians eat open-faced cold-cut-and-cheese sandwiches called skiver (slices), or smørbrød (sandwiches) if they’re fancy. Sometimes instead of cold cuts, they’ll top bread or crispy rye flatbread with liver paste or a tin of mackerel in tomato sauce (colloquially called ‘plane crash in a can’ for its chunky, gory appearance), or add a yogurt or a boiled egg, but that’s about as exotic as breakfast and lunch usually get. Most restaurants in the city center don’t open before mid-afternoon, because there’s just no lunch crowd; if workers aren’t savoring the soup-from-a-mix in their company’s cantine, they are most likely tucking in to their dry skiver from home. As for the evening meal, although more flavorful international fare such as tacos and pizza has made it on the scene in recent years, dinner is traditionally some form of meat and boiled potatoes. Norwegians love plain boiled potatoes.

norwegian meat and potatoes

Don’t ask. Just, don’t.

This may not sound like such a big deal unless you can really understand how much I like food. And I know I’m not alone because food is about all we talk about in our 1,600 member Americans in Norway Facebook group. In fact, it has been proposed that the group be renamed Hungry Americans in Norway. There is even a whole set of unwritten rules about how one may talk about food on Facebook, and woe to those who break them (and posting pictures of food, say, from a trip home to the US? Just not done. So cruel, so gauche.). Food is a very serious topic among expats in Norway.

“Surely,” you might object, “no one is putting a gun to your head, insisting you eat like the Romans simply because you are in Rome!” Ah, but if it were that simple, there would not be 1,600 Hungry Americans in Norway. It is, of course, possible to make tastier food in your own home. We have learned to make our own Mexican and Chinese dishes, but not only can the preparation be rather labor intensive, so is the hunt for ingredients. And as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, food is very expensive, with grocery prices 65% higher in Norway than the European average. Beef is $17-20 a pound; chicken is about $10/lb. In this context, cold cuts as a staple of the Norwegian diet is not so surprising.

"Flavor of cardboard with ham and cheese."

“Taste of cardboard with ham and cheese.”

The convenience issue brings us to another American criticism of food culture in Norway: the hypocrisy. Some Norwegians need to remove the frozen pizza plank from their own eye so that they might see well enough to cast out the potato chip from their brother’s eye. Norwegians may not eat a lot of fatty restaurant food and they may love to criticize Americans’ bad eating habits, but like busy people everywhere, Norwegians and their diet present no picture of health. If bland white fish and potatoes fill the fresh outer aisles of Norwegian supermarkets, the inner aisles are filled with frozen and other prepackaged processed foods, as in any American supermarket.

While there are lots of conflicting articles in the media about whether Norwegians are trending toward more or less healthy eating habits these days, it is clear that they do drink a lot of soda and eat a lot of prepackaged and frozen foods, just as we do in the States. For example, Grandiosa frozen pizzas are as much a part of the Norwegian diet as white fish and boiled potatoes- in fact, these two dishes now follow each other through many a family’s Christmas Eve feasting. Five million Norwegians eat 45 million frozen pizzas a year, of which 24 million are Grandiosa pizzas. About 2.5 million of these are sold during the holidays (side2.no); 200,000 Norwegians responding to a 2011 poll serve Grandiosas outside the main meal on Christmas Eve.

grandiosa-xtra-allt-xtra-acklig

“Extra thick. Extra disgusting.”

Norwegians also drink more Pepsi Max than any other country in the world, in 2011, an average of 22 liters per person (the Swedes manage to drink only 9.5 liters per person, the article proudly notes). Little Norway, with a population smaller than North Carolina’s, accounts for 9 percent of Pepsi Max sales worldwide.

So my experiences here have taught me a few things about food and culture. I’ve learned that Norwegians may be much more physically active than Americans, but their illusions that their greasy meatballs and potatoes swimming in gravy are really healthier than our burgers and fries are a bit silly. And I’ve learned that man literally can’t live by bread alone. As God is my witness—as God is my witness!—I’m going to live through these six years in Norway and when it’s all over, I’ll never eat skiver again.

leverpostei

Skive with liver paste and cucumber.

 

I Owe My Life to White Privilege

by Jay Parr

unarmed531x289

Who‘s the armed gang here?

I had a nice article from Carrie all ready to publishabout foodperfect for the holiday season that basically begins this week. But then the grand jury decision over the Michael Brown shooting was announced and Ferguson, Missouri erupted into a new wave of outrage and protests and tear gas and pundit commentary, and my news feed became a discussion of racial inequality both in Ferguson and beyond (because I’m fortunate to have a friends list of mostly thoughtful people), and that was when I realized I needed to drag out this post I was too busy to finish back in the weeks after the shooting.

The killing of yet another unarmed black teenager at the hands of the police really had me thinking about the persistent and serious problems in our ostensibly “colorblind” culture. I mean, I’m glad it opened up a little bit of discourse about racism, and classism, and access to education, and the role of law enforcement, and the unfortunate necessity of code-switchingat least for a couple of weeks, anywaybut at the end of the day, yet another teenager is dead. Let me repeat that. Yet another teenager is dead. For the oh-so-grave offense of acting like a teenager. I felt like I needed to write something about that, but I hadn’t been able to find the right approach. Then it occurred to me.

Had I grown up black, I would probably be dead.

Seriously. Given my own teen years, had I been black instead of white, I probably would have ended up dead. Or in prison. Or both. I certainly wouldn’t have a master’s degree and a steady (if unglamorous) job in academia. No, I can thank my white privilege for all that.

Let’s take a look at the factors, here.

The house in Shepherd Park.

The house in DC. Just a city bus fare from the Smithsonian.

I was poor. When I was fourteen and my parents divorced, my father left the ministry and Washington DC to go do cabinetmaking in southwestern Virginia, and then ended up severely disabled after he broke his neck in a motorcycle wreck a few months later. He never provided a dime of child support that I’m aware of. The church in DC had provided our housing in a manse next door, but as it was part of my father’s compensation and he was no longer their pastor, it was decided that after the end of the school year, if my mother and brother and I were going to stay we would have to rent the house at market value. My mother had just finished nursing school in her late forties, and had almost no work experience (she had spent most of her adult life raising seven children), so there was no way we could afford to stay in that three-bedroom, two-bath house, or even in the racially- and ethnically-diverse, well-educated, upper-middle-class DC neighborhood of Shepherd Park. So my mother moved us down to Virginia to be near my father, and we bought a run-down fisbo in the crappy neighborhood where my father was renting an apartment. Even after she managed to get her Virginia nursing license, my mom had a hard time finding anything but casual work for quite a while. So that was how she supported my little brother and me for years. As a nursing temp. Finally she landed a steady job at a nursing home, but the pay was far from glamorous, and the benefits were nonexistent. None of us had health insurance for many years.

Mine is the white house left of center. That porch has always been a busy place.

Ours was the white house. That porch next door has always been busy.

I lived in a dangerous neighborhood. Let me put it this way: The first night we spent in that house, a couple of the neighborhood punks got into a scrap right out front, and one of them ended up in the hospital with stab wounds. I have bleary memories of red and blue lights, squawking radios, and a line of people a few years my senior sitting on the curb in handcuffs, right below my window. That was our first night there. We would soon discover that anything not chained down would walk away, and that locked doors just meant the windows would get broken when someone wanted to come in and look for valuables. And every once in a while one of the old fire-trap houses would burn down. As if that weren’t enough, among school administrators and law enforcement personnel, my address itself was sufficient cause for them to assume my criminality. Thing is, we could afford to live there (well, sort of). My mom bought the house for $9,000 in 1980, and the sellers even financed it with no down-payment. They were a working-class family accustomed to doing things informally, so when we couldn’t make a house payment, a simple phone call was all it took to put matters right. With all that, buying that house was more affordable and more secure than even a crappy little apartment somewhere else in town. In short, we were trapped.

Whereas the neighborhood in DC was educated and genteel (and maybe even a bit pretentious at times), most of the adults in the new neighborhood had not finished high school. Those who worked had the kind of jobs that involved polyester uniforms with embroidered name patches, but much of the local economy was welfare, theft, and the black market of drugs and “hot” merchandise. Even with all that, the culture of racism was such that the mostly-white denizens of that neighborhood would have referred to my old neighbors with a plethora of xenophobic slurs and held themselves above their more educated and well-off counterparts by virtue of their skin color alone.

I had an undiagnosed and untreated mood disorder. Clinical depression and bipolar disorder both run in my family. I’m fortunate to have been blessed with the lesser of those ills, but left untreated (see “uninsured” above), in a hormonal teenager, it led to all sorts of fun. I was prone to sudden fits of self-destructive rage (e.g., hurling a broken bicycle chain at a motorcycle cop—thank heavens I missed, and he didn’t see it), and equally self-destructive apathy (“So suspend me. I’ve got a book I’d rather be reading anyway”). Sometimes my affect was so flattened that people thought I was on drugs when I wasn’t, which was merely a little awkward when that was the school guidance counselor, but could be a little more dangerous when it was some gung-ho rookie cop who was obviously scared shitless of the neighborhood he was patrolling.

Mixing a gig in high school. The collared shirt was a total fluke.

Mixing a bar gig in high school. The collared shirt was a total fluke.

I looked like a tweaker. That’s a meth addict, for those of you who haven’t been educated by Breaking Bad. I was scrawny, partly from genes and partly from poor nutrition. Food was scarce at times, and I never had lunch money at school (I spent it on smokes instead). I had a tendency to chain-smoke and drink a lot of iced tea when I was hungry, leaving me hangry and over-caffeinated. So not only did I look like a tweaker, scrawny with the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, but I was also twitchy and cranky. Especially if I was out of smokes. Add that to a strong sarcastic streak and a complete lack of respect for authority, and it was a recipe for trouble.

I smoked. Duh. I started smoking at fourteen, because to not smoke in that neighborhood was to be a pariah. A misfit. A narc. A pussy. Better to learn to smoke than to invite the all-too-often-physical disdain of the abused and abusive teenagers who were my peers in that neighborhood. But the thing is, nicotine is also ridiculously addictive, so I was a smoker everywhere I went. Even when I was somewhere that my smoking only further labeled me as worthless trash (i.e., pretty much anywhere that wasn’t my neighborhood).

Later on, I switched to hand-rolled cigarettes, which had a tendency to look like joints. Especially when you got down to the dry crumblies at the bottom of the pouch. That got me into quite a few shall we say, conversations with law-enforcement personnel.

The corner where the local hoods hung out.

The corner where the local hoods hung out.

I got suspended, and skipped school, on a regular basis. Smoking got me suspended from my junior high school several times. Losing my cool with a teacher got me a vacation from my first month of high school. Sometimes I would just skip school with a pack of the other neighborhood kids, and we would shoplift and/or get someone to buy us beer. Then we would go wander along the railroad tracks, or trespass in derelict buildings or desolate industrial areas, and vandalize stuff, and just generally act like young hoodlums. Other times I just wouldn’t wake up in time (see: untreated depression), so I would just stay home and read books.

I dressed like a hoodlum. Most of what I wore came from charity bins or through some other hand-me-down channel, and I wore it long past the point that pretty much anyone else would have thrown it away. To give it some character other than just hand-me-down rags, I would decorate everything with magic markers, safety pins, scraps of random fabrics, and anti-mainstream (or anti-establishment depending on how you saw it) buttons, slogans and symbols. I got into punk rock a little bit, and the “fashions” that went along with that scene gelled fairly well with what I was already doing, so I added a few re-purposed dog chains and some metal spikes to my style somewhere along the way. This was the ‘80s, in southwest Virginia; it wasn’t a style that was cute and retro then. It was generally viewed as a pretty loud “f*** you” to people in positions of authority.

I usually carried a knife. Part of it was the influence of the neighborhood. Part of it was because in high school I got into theater tech, and a knife is a handy tool there. But it still meant that pretty much every time I came in contact with law enforcement (see: neighborhood) I had a knife in my possession. One of them kind of looked like a switchblade. Among my peers, a knife was just another accessory, as essential as smokes or a light (butane, matches, a Zippo if you were really swanky). But I can’t tell you how many times I was interrogated about what I was “planning to do with that knife.”

Clearly the only reason anyone would ever carry a knife.

Clearly the only reason anyone would ever carry a knife.

One of those times I was walking to get smokes and found a cop behind an old VW Beetle with his headlights pointed at the open engine cover. I knew a bit about old Beetles by then; we’d had several, and my mom had long since enlisted me as her designated VW mechanic (see: poor). So I went over to see if I could help. Turned out it took me five minutes to figure out the problem and a twist of a knife blade to fix it, but the cop had been obviously suspicious of me since he saw me approaching in the dark, and after that girl drove off in the convertible Beetle her daddy had bought her, the cop turned on me and interrogated me about that knife. For a little while I honestly wondered if I was about to spend my first night in jail. I will tell you that the whole time I was excruciatingly careful not to make any unexpected moves. I’ve tried to write that story several times, but it always just sounds too contrived.

I took suspicious shortcuts. Before I got my motorcycle, I walked pretty much everywhere I went, and I was always trying to shave a few steps off my route. I would cut through brownfields, derelict service alleys, along railroad tracks, between houses. My neighborhood had a lot of abandoned spaces that made good shortcuts, but merely being there was suspicious. And trespassing.

I rode a barely-legal motorcycle. When I got a little older and could gather the means, I got my hands on a cheap old ugly motorcycle for transportation. It turned out the mufflers were too rusted to pass inspection, so I fixed it the least expensive way I could, which was with a set of little loud rattle-cans. So even my “car” shouted that I was trouble.

Sometimes I would hang out with some other young rat-bikers. I’ll never forget the time a gaggle of us were hanging out around our bikes at a roadside parking area in the city park not far from my house, when a preschooler  came running past us on a bee-line for the road. I reached down and snatched her up before she could get run over, then scanned for an adult only to see the horror in her mother’s eyes. I played it cool, with a smiling “Is this yours?” But I can only imagine how that could have played out if nothing else were to change but that I had been a young black man.

One of my old bikes (not the first, but a similar aesthetic).

One of my old bikes (not the first, but a similar aesthetic).

I was a smart-ass to cops. Or really, to anyone who was pushy about wielding authority. I could get into my complicated relationship with my authoritarian (but also rebellious) father, but I’m just going to own it instead. I had problems with authority. Specifically, I had problems with authority being wielded in any way that I considered inequitable or arbitrary. I still do, for that matter, but these days I’m older and mellower, with better outlets for venting my frustrations. And better mood-stabilizing pharmaceuticals. In those days, I was more prone to fume in silence right up to the bursting point, when I would lose my temper right at the teacher or vice-principal or cop I was being confronted by. As I mentioned, It got me suspended more than once. How it never got me in handcuffs, I have yet to explain.

The list goes on. For example, I got all my binge-drinking out of the way before I was of legal age (which was 19 at the time). I stole road signs and decorated my room with them. Pretty much all my friends were holding weed at any given moment, and most of my acquaintances in the neighborhood were holding something strongermeth, or acid, or pills, or hash, or sometimes heroin. Between insomnia and my involvement in theater tech, garage bands, and bar gigs, I was often out and about in the ungodly hours, either walking the crappy part of town or out on my ratty motorcycle. I had the vocabulary of a sailor. And I had a strong sense of social justicea strong sense of the injustices often perpetrated by those with more power on those with lessand I wasn’t good at hiding or tempering my outrage at those who had the power. Even though they were also the ones with the power to make my life much more difficult.

So, with all this, how did I never end up in jail? Or dead? Or with a criminal record? Given the times I argued with cops, or got pissed off and threw something in the presence of a cop, or failed to restrain my body language from letting a cop know I thought he was being completely unreasonable, had I been a black teenager, who lived in a black neighborhood (or worse yet, who lived in a white one), the statistics show that I would have been much more likely to have been detained, arrested, imprisoned, or even killed. By the authorities whose job is ostensibly to ensure our safety.

But I was white. I had grown up in the rural Midwest and mainstream D.C., so I didn’t have to code-switch to sound like the people on TV. Or the white cops I encountered. I wasn’t rich, but I was still given a certain benefit of the doubt in some situations, simply because I was white (I really don’t like to think about what might have happened had I been a black teenager when I pulled out my knife under the hood of that old VW). When I got a little older, I could cut off my ponytail, put on a collared shirt, and blend right in with the country-club-and-beach-house set (or at least the country-club-and-lake-house set). Because I was white. Had I been black and tried to do that, I’m pretty sure someone would have assumed I was an employee.

scholar-not-criminal-edit

But in a more general sense, my whiteness meant that, clean-cut or not, flat-broke or not, in an industrial brownfield or a moneyed neighborhood, I could smile at a cop and say hi, and have it be assumed that I was innocently taking photographs, or taking a walk, and not that I was “up to something.”

The population of Ferguson, Missouri is 67% black. However, the mayor is white, and the police chief is white, and 94% of the police force is white. Black citizens are subject to 86% of the traffic stops, 93% of the arrests, and 92% of the searches (despite the fact that of those searched, whites were 65% more likely to have contraband). Another report shows that black citizens in Ferguson are about twice as likely to be searched, and about twice as likely to be arrested, despite the fact that whites are half-again more likely to be carrying contraband. Nationally, black citizens are incarcerated at nearly six times the rate of their white counterparts, according to NAACP data, mostly for nonviolent, drug-related crimes.

Don’t tell me we’re a colorblind society. The numbers prove otherwise.

When I was thirty and divorced, and finally managed to escape that neighborhood, I moved up to New York City for a while. One of the things I though I was escaping, in my naivete, was the racism of the South. I had been there a few weeks when one day I saw a black teenager on a pay phone, having what was obviously some kind of lovers’ quarrel. He stopped mid-sentence, and having apparently been hung up on, got flustered and slammed the phone down. As a passerby having only witnessed what I had overheard, I thought it was a perfectly normal response to what appeared to be happening. Too bad there also happened to be an NYPD cruiser passing by at that exact moment, because within seconds the poor kid, still keyed up about his relationship drama, found himself slammed over the hood of a squad car with his arms pinioned behind his back, and two white cops labeling him as a criminal. My relationship with my first wife having been what it was, I couldn’t begin to count the times I had slammed down a phone, public or private, every bit as hard as that poor kid had just done. But I can count the times I found myself handcuffed over the hood of a police car for having done it. Precisely zero.

___

Further reading: “The Science of Why Cops Shoot Young Black Men”why-cops-shoot

In the Market (For an Education)

by Matt McKinnon

college-student

There is a thick stack of beautifully-produced glossy pamphlets depicting fall leaves and smiling good-looking young people and gothic architecture on my kitchen counter. So many that they continuously slide around and fall off onto the floor to be chewed on by Max the family dog and stepped on by most everybody else. And more arrive everyday: a continuous stream of personalized correspondences proclaiming “Hey Nick” and “Fit is Everything” and “Rocky Says Yes” and “Your Future is Now.”

It can only mean one thing. And anybody who has a kid who’s a junior or senior in high schools knows just what it is:

It’s time to apply to college.

college brochures

I must admit, it’s been a while since I did any applying to schools—the last time being over fifteen years ago when I applied to doctoral programs. It’s been almost thirty years since I applied to undergrad, and even then I only applied to one school.

There may have been a few brochures here and there, but certainly nothing to compare with the mass of publications that seem to be single-handedly keeping the US Postal Service in business.

Ah, there’s the applicable term in all of this: business.

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College, for better or worse, has become a business, and like all businesses, it relies on advertisement.

Ergo the huge stack of pamphlets overtaking the counter.

For even in this age of digital technology and social media, not to mention limited resources of both the natural and economic kind, colleges are still heavily invested in print. And nice print at that: thick glossy paper with lots of color and professional graphic design. Some even send short books, paperbacks that are designed more like travel guides than college brochures.

But don’t get me wrong, there’s heavy investment in digital media as well, from emails and Facebook messages to Tweets and IM and who knows what else. And even phone messages from personal Admissions advisors and perky college students extolling the joys of going to Whatever U or This-and-That State.

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Throw in the fact that my son wants to play Soccer, most probably in Division II or III or perhaps even NAIA, and you have another aspect to deal with. College coaches (though limited in how much contact they can have) sending texts or leaving phone messages. Recruiting companies selling their services. College Showcases here; ID Camps there. Recruiting forms to fill out and highlight videos to make.

And if you add something else like band or the International Baccalaureate program, then it all gets multiplied exponentially.

Schools we’ve never heard of contacting us and sending materials. Like Finlandia, which is not quite all the way in Finland, but it’s close (Upper Peninsula Michigan on Lake Superior). Or Lutheran Schools of every Synod imaginableevidently, when you apply to one Lutheran School, they tell two friends, who tell two friends, and so on and so on, until the thought occurs that maybe we’ll convert to Islam just to stop the obscene amount of materials coming from Lutheran schools alone.

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And God forbid your student played a highly coveted instrument in the band. Like the Euphonium (the what? I know; it’s a fancy baritone). On a recent college visit to the corn fields of Nebraska my son met with the band director, even though he has little to no inclination to continue playing in college. When asked by a few band students in the music building what instrument he played, the opening of their eyes was only exceeded by the gaping of their mouths as they sat there drooling, barely able to contain their joy: “Euphonium? You play the Euphonium?” Even the band director could not completely hide his emotion (I still swear I saw a little tear in his eye as he spoke), promising the chance at several thousand dollars in scholarship without even the requirement of a music major or minor. “Just a couple of practices a week and concerts a few times a year.”

In real estate, they call this a “buyers market.”

The fact of the matter is that colleges and universities need students way more than students need colleges and universities.

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By that I don’t mean to denigrate a college education, only that the supply seems to be outpacing the demand. And the skyrocketing cost of a higher education isn’t helping, as schools vie for the attention and tuition of students who have many choices, from traditional to online.

College is expensive, the College Board recently reporting that the average total cost (including room and board) for a four-year in-state public school is $18,493.00 per year, and $32,762.00 for out-of-state. Cost for the average private school is $42,419.00.

And with such high dollar amounts and a plethora of choices comes the need to stand out. To show how these amenities or those services provide the best fit or opportunity or quality of life or whatever. Hence the need to sell; the need to advertise. The need for all those %@#& pamphlets and brochures.

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Gone are the days when colleges and universities just offered an education to students. Now, like everything else, we offer services to a clientele: a product, a lifestyle, a brand.

I don’t know if, in the long run, this is a good or a bad thing. After all, one benefit is the opportunity of higher education to a broader range of students. Of course, one of the drawbacks is the oppressive student debt that a generation of students has racked up since we shifted paradigms from mostly grants to mostly loans several decades ago.

College is big business now, and not just the athletic programs with sponsorship and television deals. It’s big business for academics too. And let’s not kid ourselves: given the amount of money that the government receives from interest rates, it’s big business for the federal government as well.

And big business means big advertising. And creating demand. And promoting a brand. And selling series.

Which in term means lots and lots of slick pamphlets and shiny brochures collecting on the counter.

votc

Ebola, Kaci Hickox, and Fort Kent, Maine

by Carrie Levesque

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Let’s be honest, what small town doesn’t love a little drama? A little controversy? The pot stirred? Something to keep the conversation hot as another cold winter approaches?

Normally, there’s nothing my hometown  of Fort Kent, Maine loves so much as some good gossip. But the media circus that has recently engulfed our isolated community of about 2,500, on Maine’s northern border with Canada, has been a lot for even the most seasoned gossips to handle. While the locals respect and admire the service that nurse Kaci Hickox has provided to Ebola victims in Sierra Leone, many are a bit less enthusiastic about her refusal to abide by a state-imposed quarantine to ensure that she has not been exposed to anything that could bring such a horrific disease to a small community with limited resources for fighting such an outbreak.

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Let me first say that I understand that Kaci Hickox is extremely unlikely to pose any threat to those around her. She is asymptomatic, and as numerous authorities on the issue have vigorously insisted (including the Centers for Disease Control and the New England Journal of Medicine), there is no scientific basis for ordering quarantine for asymptomatic healthcare workers returning from West Africa. Kaci Hickox, at this time, is not contagious.

But it seems to me that what Kaci Hickox is, is her own worst PR headache.

In her defense, her actions over the last week are understandable. She has been through an exhausting, emotionally draining experience that few of us could ever imagine—and that was before she touched down in Newark. What has happened to Hickox since she revealed to airport personnel where she had been and what she had been doing would certainly anger, frustrate and demoralize any of us.

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She was detained for hours at the airport and interrogated repeatedly, sometimes, according to her account, by people who didn’t bother to introduce themselves. She was tired and hungry from a transatlantic flight and given a granola bar and water for her troubles. After four hours of this, her temperature, recorded by a forehead scanner, registered 101. Her doctors at University Hospital in Newark would later concur: her ‘fever’ was the likely result of being flushed and upset. At all other times during her confinement, Hickox’s body temperature was normal.

I imagine you know much of the rest of the story. Her ordered confinement, her vow to sue for the violation of her civil rights, the invitation from the eloquent humanitarian Gov. Chris Christie: “Whatever. Get in line.” Her eventual release and escort back to Maine, where she first went into hiding in an attempt to avoid the networks that had already schlepped cameras and crew hours through the Maine wilderness to the town where the road ends, to her rural home in Fort Kent, ME.

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But here is where my empathy for Hickox’s story is tested. Not because she disagrees with the recommended 21-day home quarantine (Yes, “science,” I understand), but for her combative insistence on the rightness of her actions and for her repeated threats at litigation. For what I perceive as a failure to defend her laudable and legitimate interests while also addressing the concerns of the community with a bit more sensitivity.

The unavoidable fact is, whether there is a scientific basis for it or not, many people are concerned for their own safety and for the safety of their loved ones. Concerned for the “what ifs” in this situation which, while unlikely, are, as of this writing, still possible. In the absence of any guarantees, these concerns are understandable. Even if they should not be what drives policy—even if, in an ideal world, we could reason them away—it is not unreasonable to expect Hickox to acknowledge the feelings of the community when she makes choices about where she goes, and when.

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Having lived now in another culture for 2 years, it’s hard not to see the situation as characterized by a very American attitude that my individual rights are more important than the community’s peace of mind, that I will insist on my individual rights whatever the social consequences. As someone in my town said to a journalist friend of mine, “She’s holding this small Valley town hostage to a point of principle.” I think it’s worth asking why doctors returning to other countries are willing to submit to quarantine, but it becomes a civil rights battle in our country.

At the end of August, a Norwegian newspaper reported on the experiences of a doctor who had just returned home after serving with Doctors Without Borders in Liberia. He quietly quarantined himself at his family cabin for three weeks, waiting out the incubation period.

No drama, no fuss, no lawsuits, no government. Just simple concern for the community around him in an uncertain time.

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After all the fear that the media have stirred up around ebola (yes, even in Norway), including an article linked to the one cited above that ran with the headline “WHO: Ebola epidemic can infect 20,000 people,” is it honestly so surprising that people are not putting aside their fear so easily?

What’s more, as Hickox has witnessed firsthand the hell that so many others in less economically-developed parts of the world live every day, I have a hard time accepting the idea that home quarantine is a serious civil or human rights issue. That seems pretty insulting to the people who experience oppression (and global indifference) in their lives every day, circumstances that endure for much longer than 21 days. While we often discuss in my BLS courses the unfairness of comparing or ranking oppressive situations, I also think if we throw around the term “civil rights violation” too liberally, it ceases to be taken seriously. It becomes just another media sound bite.

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Yes, the situation is unfairly tough for Hickox because she is one of the early cases of her kind and states are still figuring out how to proceed. Yes, I support her demands that governors craft policies based on science and not fear, and that she be allowed reasonable freedoms, like her recent bike ride. But in the meantime, her situation is not Guantanamo Bay, and the current discourse has done little locally but escalate the drama and rhetoric, and, once again, distract us nationally from real human rights violations taking place every day.

My friend Julie Daigle, the local journalist mentioned earlier, said something that seemed to me very fair. “The thing is, she may in fact be making a point that needs to be made in the bigger picture, and in the long run, we may all be better off for her refusal to allow her behavior to be affected by the fears of those around her. But to castigate people for a very predictable response to having to face a sizable fear (again, regardless of how reasonable that fear is) and their clear understanding that she is choosing to ignore their fears is as demonizing an action as those seeking to cast her in the role of the witch.”

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I understand Kaci Hickox’s anger. I understand that she feels that she has already given enough—and in all fairness, she has given far more than any of us. She’s right. At the same time, especially in a small community, it is sometimes better to be generous and patient with a difficult situation. Even when we’re right.

___

Author’s update: Hickox responds to a judge’s order lifting the quarantine, and members of the Fort Kent community respond to the whole debacle.

I think my main concerns are still valid—that this whole media circus is avoided in cultures where people just put the concerns of their neighbors first from the start. What do you think?

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Chew on This: The Ethics of Carnivory

by Matt McKinnon

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Let me start by being perfectly clear: I like meat. No, I love meat. And I eat my fair share of it. As the one who does most of the cooking for my wife and three sons, I cook a lot of it. Almost every night in fact.

Meat. Starch. Vegetable.

Just like most every meal my mother cooked us when I was growing up.

And aside from a brief foray into vegetarianism when I fancied myself a Buddhist monk, or the year I tried to abstain from meat during Ramadan when I was attempting to be a Muslim, or the meatless and fast days I put my wife through whilst contemplating becoming a Russian Orthodox priest, I have always been a meat-eater.

Tyrannosaurus Rex ain’t got nothin’ on me to be sure.

Oh, I have often wished I was a vegetarian, mostly for the health benefits — cooking and then consuming a rather large meal of fried animal muscles and skin and fat, only to push myself away from the table at the end of the engorging, and bemoaning out loud (much to the annoyance of my wife), “Sickness and death. Nothing but sickness and death.”

But also in view of the way we treat the animals we eventually consume. Especially after watching a documentary or news report on the latest scandal within our industrialized food industry.

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I just have never been able to commit to it, and I don’t intend to do so now.

To be honest, I have never been all that convinced by the moral argument against killing and eating other animals, finding it the height, in fact, of anthropocentric thought. After all, nature, as Tennyson reminds us, is “red in tooth and claw,” and no other species of animal that I am aware of refrains from killing and consuming other animals based on moral principles.

There is thus a disconnect from nature in the moral argument against eating animals. A version, I think, of Hume’s Guillotine whereby normative claims (what ought to be the case) are made based on positive premises (what is the case). The idea that we ought not to eat animals has absolutely no basis in observable nature. And in fact, the opposite may be true: We evolved to the point of having such large brains able to come up with ideas like vegetarianism and the is/ought problem as a direct result of the large amounts of protein our pre-homo sapiens ancestors got by virtue of eating meat—from eating other animals.

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But arguments for or against vegetarianism aside, the manner in which we treat the animals that we eat is beyond unsettling. It is downright inhumane and, I would argue, unnatural (thus steering clear of my own is/ought dilemma).

As a student of religion, I am aware of and even sympathetic to religious convictions about why humans are superior to other animals. Whether we humans have a “soul” and are made in the image of God, or whether we humans are in a better position to reach enlightenment, or whether we humans are just better adapted to do things other animals cannot, I can accept the idea that, for the most part, we are at the top of the food chain, and thus are in the same position to cows and chickens and pigs as grizzly bears are to salmon or chickens are to bugs and worms or pigs are to, well, absolutely anything that wanders into their pen.

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As humans, we define ourselves, for better or worse, in relation to the rest of nature and the rest of the animal kingdom, and we define ourselves, for the most part, as superior to it.

Okay, that’s all well and good (though it is also the cause of the environmental destruction we have wrought over the past few hundred years).

So we are at the top of the food chain and are, using nature as our model, free to kill and cook and eat whatever we find tasty and/or nourishing.

I get that: For Christians, all other animals are not created in the image of God and, a few crazy cat people notwithstanding, are not endowed with the same inalienable rights that humans are. Or for Buddhists, who forbid the killing of animals by their adherents but nonetheless allow them to eat animals that someone else (presumably a non-Buddhist) has killed, and for whom those other (non-human) sentient beings are not in the same position as humans to work out their karma and achieve enlightenment in this lifetime. Or even for scientific materialists, who merely see this behavior as that of a dominant species in a given food chain.

But what I don’t get, and what I don’t think I have ever come across, is a discussion of how it must feel to be one of those animals unfortunate enough to be trapped in the middle of our industrial food complex.

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For that, I would argue, is where the real issue lies.

Those who would argue for human superiority often go too far in distinguishing us from the rest of the animal kingdom, based upon our possession of souls, or higher-order reasoning, or what have you. But likewise those who would argue against the eating of other animals go too far in asserting an egalitarianism, an equality, that simply does not exist or is not respected anywhere else in nature.

But what rarely gets discussed in arguments about the superiority of humans is what we sentient beings all hold in common: Sentience itself. The ability to feel. And more to the point: The ability to feel pain.

After all, do we really think that animals, while not possessing the same quality or degree of reason and consciousness that we do, therefore do not feel pain? Or feel it any less or differently than we do? Indeed, science tells us that animals do feel stress—direct evidence I would argue that they do in fact feel, and process sensations, in a similar manner to humans.

But why then does it not matter that the vast majority of animals that we end up eating live lives where their pain and discomfort is not taken seriously? And if it does matter, why then do the vast majority of us continue to support such practices by turning a blind eye, effectively supporting the system and perpetuating the problem?

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Well, the biggest reason is probably the cost of buying organic meat in the form of grass-fed cattle and free-range chickens. Availability is also an issue. And yet, most of us are not up in arms about any of this, instead seeking out the weekly specials on flank steak or chicken wings or baby back ribs, oblivious at best and unsympathetic at worst to the plight of those animals’ lives before we eat them. Complicit just the same.

Indeed, why is it ever alright to participate in this brutality by excusing it, supporting it, or simply ignoring it?

Thus it seems to me that this is the important and defining issue: Not lauding ourselves over the rest of the animal kingdom as possessing an inherent right to treat our food source any old way we choose. But neither in simply equating the value of a human life to be the same as that of any and every other animal in nature. Most of us simply don’t equate the lives of other animals with that of humans.

But both positions seem wrongheaded to me.

The issue is not whether or by what right we eat animals but how we treat them before we eat them. The solution, I contend, is simply to treat animals in a way that is conducive to a natural life—to the manner in which they would live naturally if they were not part of an industrialized food factory (the way, arguably, humans have done since we domesticated these animals for our own consumption thousands of years ago). Whatever it costs in terms of higher prices or lower profits.

And then eat them. Presumably with a smile on their faces as well as on ours.

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When Two Chicks Get Married…

by Joyce Clapp

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This Saturday it’s October 11 again, so it’s National Coming Out Day again.
Last year I rhapsodized about how much I love working for UNCG. And I still do. However, this year my brain isn’t as much on sexuality as it is on gender, gender roles, and being gender non-conforming.

Currently, I’m teaching a face-to-face course on race, gender, and social class inequalities. These last couple of weeks in particular, we’ve been talking a lot about gender roles and sexuality, and how these two separate concepts are so intertwined in society. We live in a heteronormative society that takes its cues on how you’re supposed to act in relationships from our gender roles. When you don’t fit into either the gender or sexuality mold that society expects, you’re left without a cultural scaffolding to guide your interactions with other people and in relationships. Additionally, sometimes other folks don’t quite know what to say to you.

“So, who proposed?”
“I did, but she knew it was coming.”

gay-lunchThis past December, I had the great pleasure of asking my now wife to marry me. She knew I was going to askin my world, you don’t ask questions like that if you don’t know the answerbut nonetheless, the evening of the proposal came and we were both incredibly nervous. I was proposing on campus (after all, it’s gorgeous, my work at UNCG is a huge part of my life, and it seemed way nicer than in my living room with the dog and the roommate trying not to pay attention to what we were doing). Originally, I’d intended to ask her in front of Minerva, but my wife guessed that, so I fell back on my second favorite spot on campus: the round pavilion on the side of the School of Music Building.

She’s currently living several states away while finishing her degree, so I’d promised her a bit of a campus tour. However, every time I stopped to tell her about something, she started getting more nervous (thinking that it was time), so we finally just wandered back to the School of Music. I’d had this great speech planned that zoomed out of my head as soon as it was time, and instead I just said “Lee, will you marry me?”

She said yes. We both sniffled. And then I asked her to ask me, and she did. And yes, I said yes.

(We both wore engagement rings. There was never any question.)

“I know, I know I shouldn’t ask this… but when two women are out on a date, who pays?”
“Did you really just ask me that?”

So, after the proposal and traipsing around campus in the dark, we took our dressed-up selves out to an amazing seafood dinner (I paid, her being the “broke college kid” that she is), and all was right with the world. Which brings me to this: When you’re out to eat, pay attention to the dynamics of the check drop. The check usually gets dropped in front of my (male) roommate; my card with my picture on it has gotten dropped in front of him, as well (and he has several inches more hair than I do). On the other hand, when my wife and I are out together, waitstaff approach the table, and then pause for a moment before carefully placing the check in the middle of the table.

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“So, who cooks?”
“I do. I have a gluten intolerance and she’s worried about poisoning me. And I like to cook. She does the dishes though.”

This is not news to anyone who’s in a same-sex relationship, but since folks don’t know what to say sometimes, you get a lot of questions. Sometimes you get a lot of nosy questions. Sometimes folks are just curious. But all of the questions get back to gender roles; often folks have real trouble considering how you might structure a relationship with two women, two men, or two genderqueer folks. The woman cooks and the man sits in the living room with a beer, right? Feedback that I get from students in class lets me know that many students are being raised in homes with non-traditional gender roles; however, I’ve also heard really heartbreaking stories from female students about being expected to do all the heavy lifting in households where fathers and brothers were not doing their share. We may try to assert that we live in a post-racial society these days, but no one even tries to make that assertion about gender. We know better.

“So…who…you know…who’s the guy?”
“Are you really asking this?”
“Yea, I guess I am.”

I’m gonna let Mae Martin take this one for me

I feel like I frequently have this exchange with my straight male friends where they are like, "Oh, you are a lesbian, that's awesome. That's cool. But your relationship with your girlfriend which one of you is the man of the relationship?" Like fair enough question, but I am like we are genuinely both women, that's kinda the point. That is the essence of the arrangement that we have made. "I know, but which one of you represents the man?" And it's like saying to a vegetarian, "Oh you are a vegetarian? That's the best. Which part of the salad represents the pork chop?" No, it's made of vegetables. Which vegetable wears the strap-on is really what they are asking. The answer is: All the vegetables. Even the long-haired vegetables sometimes wear them. And when they do it's very exciting for the short-haired vegetables.

See, there is no “guy” in the relationship; we’re both just us. I cook. She does the dishes. Unless she needs to study, and then I do them. She mostly takes out the trash and recycling. Neither of us works on cars; we both have a little knowledge (her more so than me), but we don’t like to do it and we’re happy to pay other folks to do it.

She wears men’s clothes all the time but is way more particular about her looks and painting her toenails than I am. I keep my hair short most of the time (I grew it out for the wedding, but right now it’s high and tight), and wildly vary shaving my legs and painting my nails. There are mornings when my room resembles the clothing scene from The Great Gatsby, because nothing feels rightnot men’s clothes and not women’s clothes, and while UNCG may be pretty laid back, I still can’t go teach class in my pajamas.

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She can drive anything on wheels (having driven trucks through Iraq during Operation Iraqi Freedom), but she prefers automatics because of a bum shoulder. I prefer to drive a stick. I kill the spiders (she’s terrified of them), and she reaches the stuff on high shelves (being nearly a foot taller than I am). We’re still working out a lot of this (see also: long distance marriage), but whenever we do work out something, it’s because it’s the solution that makes sense, not because society tells us that one of us is supposed to take out the trash or fold the clothes (answer: she’s a lot better at that than I). Opposite sex couples have this process of negotiation to go through as well and often go for the “makes sense” solution, but they also have a lifetime of socialization and culture behind them as well (for better or worse).

Gender is in everything we do; our society eats and breaths gender in a way that we don’t notice when we’re in the middle of it. We still have terrible levels of inequality in our society (we’re still discussing women’s earnings as a percentage of men’s, for example). And when we get down to people’s lived experiences, the differences can become even more stark: ask Ben Barres, who was infamously told that his “sister’s” work wasn’t as good as his. (And we’re not even getting into issues of violence or job discrimination against trans* people, or that some days, there just isn’t a box for you on forms, because I don’t have those emotional cycles today.)

“What did y’all do about last names?”
“Well, we had the same options any couple has, right? One person takes the other name, you hyphenate, you both keep your name…”
“Yea, I guess so. Huh.”

The takeaway is that living sexuality and gender is sometimes super messy, but a lot of times it just is what it is; mostly we’re just a normal old couple doing boring old couple things like work and walking the dog. As I’m fond of telling my students, no matter who is in the relationship, someone has to buy milk and someone has to walk the dog and someone has to grade papers. I’m just glad that I found my person that I want to buy milk with for the rest of my life.

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A few resources:

Link to UNCG Pride on Facebook

UNCG Pride on Facebook

UNCG Safe Zone

National Coming Out Day page at Human Rights Campaign