Feline Warrior

It’s been a while since I’ve posted in the old school girl category, but I’ve got a post that truly belongs here, so brush off your mouse and kick your feet up - we’re bloggin’ tonight!

I actually have a blogging assignment for my media law class. Yes! How very modern of Dr. B., eh? The assignment is not to blog just for the sake of blogging. No, that would be far too narcissistic; we know that blogging is not about the self, but about contributing thoughts, ideas, and sharing information and insights with the masses. Well, it’s sometimes that; very often, though, blogging is a narcissisto-fest.

So, then, on to the assignment:

“The ethical dilemma of blogging,” an article by Patrick Beeson, was given to the class by Dr. B (no relation to Beeson). In it, Beeson discusses the notion of standards and ethics among bloggers and suggests that perhaps blogs are not as transparent as they might be. Transparency would lend credibility, but of course nobody can force bloggers to be honest, ethical, or to credit their sources.

(NOTE: “…transparency — that is, opening up the processes of journalism to audiences — may help strengthen the credibility of mainstream journalists.” - Jon Ziomek)

So there’s the ethical dilemma of blogging. Toss into that our recent class discussions about the first amendment, focusing primarily on free speech (it is a media class, after all). And then for good measure, let’s add John Milton’s “marketplace of ideas” theory, and you’ve got my class assignment. More specifically, we are to take Milton’s idea and apply it to blogging - is blogging a good idea in terms of Milton’s marketplace? And finally, will truth prevail?

Let’s start with some background, shall we? Technorati (who calls itself “the authority on what’s going on in the world of weblogs”) claims to track 18.8 million sites. According to a Pew Internet Report, “44% of U.S. Internet users have contributed their thoughts and their files to the online world.”

The blog is a reflection of our society, no doubt. We started with afternoon talk shows which featured guests spilling family secrets, attacking one another, and allowing themselves to be embarrassed in public makeovers. We moved on to personal web sites that share the same sort of stuff; now we have blogs (web + log = blog), which started as online diaries or journals -logs- and have been taken up by political campaigns, newspapers, television networks, and journalists. There are even photo blogs, telling stories by way of images.

John Milton (1608-1674) was a British scholar, poet, and philosopher. A few Milton quotes: “Give me liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.”

“Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let Her and falsehood grapple; who ever knew truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?”

According to author Clay Jenkinson, “Milton’s majestic prose was marshaled against the Puritan government’s licensing act of June 1643, which could be used to impose prior restraint on authors whose views it disliked. Milton provided the classical formulation of the principle that truth is most likely to emerge in a ‘free and open encounter.’”

And, of course, I cannot omit this: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” -First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

Now, then, Beeson’s article addresses blogging in relation to media, which from where I’m sitting does not include bloggers such as myself. Although my academic focus, or cognate, is journalism, I am not a journalist - unless you count my blogging activities to be journalism. I believe that Beeson is talking about people who masquerade as journalists via their blogs, and in that way may mislead readers. You will find that, even though I do not call myself a journalist, nor am I paid by any publication to write here or elsewhere, I include links to my quotes and sources. You may not know my real name (to protect myself from wackadoodles), but you can email me. So long as you are not an evil mechanized spam-spawner, you can even leave comments about specific posts.

There are those, however, who do not include sources or references - and their blogs assume the posture of journalism, presenting their written wares as equals to Time Magazine, the New York Times, or electronic publications such as can be found on E-Journals.org.

The dangers of such blogs can be compared to the dangers of those anonymous web sites that students are so often citing in their essays these days. And in each class that calls for a research essay, the professor reminds the students that sources from the web must be “real” sources - not “Bob’s Site About Benjamin Franklin,” or some such thing. This should be obvious, and yet it’s important to remember that ours is a society of fast answers and instant gratification - and we often believe what we read because it’s in print. Or in these electronic times, we believe what we read because it’s on a web site.

So then anonymous blogs -that is, blogs that provide no accountability such as citing sources, signing one’s true name to written pieces, or providing contact information- are not reliable as sources of factual information. They may provide one with further avenues to pursue, which I have found on many occasions. Sometimes I will search on a term and end up at a blog; the blog is simply someone’s opinion, yet from the blog, I find a name or other information that sends me further on my path to finding whatever it is I’m seeking. But the blog itself is often not the primary source of truthful and reliable information - it must be verified.

I believe that personal accountability is now not only the job of the writer; it is also the job of the reader. That is, if the reader wants to know that what he or she has read (and may possibly quote or refer to) is truthful, the reader must assume the responsibility of verifying the material. This is not always the case, but in reference to blogs, I think this is absolutely the case. As a writer, it is my responsibility to check the facts of the material I plan to use. When preparing to write this post, for example, I reviewed a number of sites with information about Milton; there were many pages available, some personal, some academic papers, some from educational institutions, and others from journals. I looked up statistics about blogging so that I would be able to present a bit of reference for those who are unfamiliar with the blogging craze.

Will truth prevail? The truth is out there, and so is a bunch of other stuff - stuff made up of opinions, rumors, and imagined concoctions. And let’s not forget Jenkinson’s statement about Milton, “truth is most likely to emerge in a ‘free and open encounter.’”

And is the web a “free and open encounter”? I believe it is. Perhaps, though, Truth is fighting it out against an army of lies, rumors, and suppositions. Truth stands a far better chance of emerging if those who seek it don’t stop the minute they find one source -an anonymous blog, for example- that suits their fancy. In other words, truth will be found by those who seek it and it will only prevail if consumers -writers, readers, and bloggers- demand that it does.

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Sources:

Beeson, Patrick. “The ethical dilemma of blogging.” Quill Magazine, p. 18-19. April 2005.
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Jenkinson, Clay. “From Milton to Media: Information Flow in a Free Society.” Center for Media Literacy. Jenkinson
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“Online Activities and Pursuits.” Pew Internet Report. 02/29/2004. Pew
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Technorati. About. Technorati
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“The English Enlightenment: John Milton, John Locke, David Hume, John Stuart Mill.” Radford University. Freedom First: Free Speech and Free Press for Students of Media Law and Media History. Radford

U.S. Constitution. Legal Information Institute. LII

Ziomek, Jon. Associate Professor of Journalism, Medill School of Journalism, Northwestern University. Transparency quote. Ziomek
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Related sites of potential interest:
Cyberjournalist.net

I seem to recall that our journals [in the class Race, Gender, and Human Identity] are not supposed to be critical of specific people from class (or was that for Origins?), but I cannot resist. I promise to keep my microscopic look at an individual to a minimum, and to use it as a jumping board to a broader discussion.

The fellow in our class -the outspoken, opinionated one- troubles me. He reminds me of my cat, Lily, who will tuck her little kitty head beneath a table, but leave her kitty butt sticking out. She seems to think that, because she cannot see me, I cannot see her. Of course, that’s preposterous thinking - unless you’re a cat. Lily is a cat, so she’s right on target!

The fellow in class, however, is not a cat. Yet he seems to me to be have stuck his head under a chair rather than enter into a discussion about the effects of sexualizing and objectifying females. What we saw poking out from under the chair was his defiance of a reality, the part he was sure we could not see. Nevertheless, of course, many of us could see it - it was ignorance, defiance, and fear. This is not unusual behavior - I find that people often prefer to do the proverbial sticking-the- fingers-in-the-ears and singing “La-la-la!” loudly routine, rather than simply discuss an issue that might require that person to alter his or her viewpoints one way or another.

The fear, presumably, is that if one enters into such a discussion, and finds that his or her beliefs are challenged, then he or she may have to adjust one’s thinking. That takes effort and time and can be painful and even scary. Is it better, though, to remain in denial about issues, the effects of which have been proven? The idea that someone would choose the head-under-the- chair routine scares me.

Okay, so let’s look at the issue that brought this up: We were shown a number of advertisements that depicted women in various poses, primarily in provocative poses and often in various stages of undress, but some of the images merely mirrored what I consider old-fashioned ideals.

I’ll start with the latter - old-fashioned ideals. There was a Rosie the Riveter look-alike ad for a cleaning product. I don’t recall the exact words of the ad, but the message sent through that ad was in keeping with the ideal that cleaning is women’s work. (Even today on TV commercials, men are saved from their blundering attempts at cleaning by experienced women - never mind that the women are presented as superheroes; they are super heroes of the vacuum cleaner!)

In other images we saw, women’s bodies were used to promote products that we were not even sure of - were these ads for brothels, perhaps? No, it turned out that they were ads for products like cologne, shoes, and other items that were not always even included in the image. In some cases, the message seemed clear: “Buy this car and you will find yourself surrounded by busty babes in bikinis!” (But what if I want to buy the car and I am not a Lesbian or bisexual? What, then, is the appeal to me? More on that later - see the Silent Reaction.)

What do these images tell us? The ever-popular idea, mentioned above, that the buyer of a product will find him- or herself surrounded by just the sort of women shown in the ads is but one message. It implies that those women are “prizes” - these would be the ideals. Otherwise, why use their bodies to promote the products?

What is the result of that practice? Probably nobody truly believes that buying a certain brand of beer will render him or her desirable to women who look just like those in the ads. However, what does happen is a silent encouragement of ideals that already exist, and are perpetuated every day by advertisements, pop stars, and other mediums, such as film, music videos, and print advertising. Does an ad for cologne that shows a woman who appears to be having an orgasm -but fails to show an image of a bottle of the cologne- alter the lives of all women in the United States the minute that it’s printed? Not exactly. However, that ad makes it okay to consider women as sex objects first, and people second - maybe. The ads send the Silent Message that this woman represents the ideal woman -naked, wrinkle- and fat-free, and so uninhibited that she shares her orgasm with whoever happens to be watching.

When women are offered as prizes -imagined or not- for purchasing products, men are not the only ones who take a message away. Girls and women also receive the Silent Message that this woman, who is the ideal woman (because she is being offered as a prize), is how girls and women should be. Not every girl or woman responds in a drastic, immediate manner, of course. However, when we look at the rising numbers of girls who are bulimic and anorexic, and at the younger and younger ages at which they acquire these diseases, we can easily see a Silent Reaction to the Silent Message.

The results of such reactions include lowered self-esteem (because what 12-year old, much less 34-year old, can live up to that image?), self-destructive behavior (bulimia, anorexia, promiscuity, and so on), and a potentially life-long sensation of not being up to snuff.

Why, then, with just this little bit of discussion on the topic, is it so horrible an idea to look at another point of view? Why is it necessary to refuse to hear another’s thoughts on the matter, holding tightly onto one’s own as if one’s life depended upon maintaining that view?

Frankly, one’s life does depend upon maintaining that view, in a way. If one wishes to avoid a feeling of guilt, of perhaps participating in the Silent Message (and by default, the Silent Reaction), one must hold on to those thoughts! I can compare this to white people refusing to discuss white privilege. By discussing it, admitting that it exists, the white person might have to do something about it! Would that require giving away one’s white privilege? Of course not - one cannot give it away. However, by being aware of white privilege, just like being aware of the Silent Message, one can begin to view the other differently. Perhaps step up to the plate when sexist remarks are being made, or when a young female is clearly reacting to the Silent Message in a self-destructive manner. What is cute about a 12-year old girl who dresses like J-Lo? What was cute about Jon Benet Ramsey?

The Silent Message robs females of the opportunity to be people - people with thoughts, ideas, feelings, desires, and needs. The Silent Message promotes age-old ideals about women: they should be subservient to men, be attractive -in whatever is the fashion of the day- and they most definitely should not be so sensitive when being valued as objects rather than as people.

There’s something to be said for being Latina. Depending on the situation, I can fit into either the People of Color Group, or the White People Group. (Since we don’t have a huge Latino population in WV, there’s generally no “middle” for me.)

As a person of color: “Well, you know… I don’t have to tell you - you know how white people are!” Well, yes, indeed I do, because sometimes I am one!

As a white person: “You know, the night shift sleeps the whole time they’re supposed to be working – they’re all Black so I shouldn’t be surprised!” Well, yeah, but have you heard about how lazy the damned Mexicans are? Oy, vey!

Last semester, a classmate actually complained to ME about how all those Mexicans were invading Northern Virginia! It was weird and made me really mad! I looked at her, stunned, and just pointed to myself and said, “HELL-OW!” She didn’t get it. To her, I was not Mexican, because to her, Mexican is an all-encompassing term for people who speak Spanish, and then laborers, at that. Me, I’m a pretty woman with a Spanish background, like, oh, Salma Hayek, or better yet, Natalie Wood - Spanish-looking.

Being included in the White People Group means that I hear “jokes” that are not normally told in the presence of the browner folks. People are stunned when I protest, or, as my mother taught me to do, ask, “Could that person (Black, Polish, etc.) have been any other race (gender, etc.)?” Nobody ever likes that interruption, but it’s important to me to point that out - could the butt of this “joke” be anyone else? Why was that person chosen? It can be exhausting to put joke-tellers into this position, so I don’t do it as much as I once did.

When I’m included in the People of Color Group, I get to find out what is really going on, and I learn first-hand about the experiences that people are having. I wouldn’t ask a man if women are being treated better in the corporate world, nor would I ask a straight man if Gay men are being treated differently in the work place than their straight counterparts! I sometimes feel like a spy for the underdogs, because I can hear things that others might not be privy to. Of course, there’s still the question of what to do with the information I gather. So far, I just write and talk about it.

When, in summers past, I would get very brown, people would sometimes ask if I am “mixed.” Once, a few years ago, a nurse in a doctor’s office asked me about 120 questions, none of which made sense to me, so I finally asked her, ‘What is it that you really want to know?” It turned out that she didn’t know whether to test me for Sickle Cell Anemia - and she was afraid to ask me if I was Black! Earlier in life, my best friend was Black (and to this day, she’s still Black!), and we spent every waking moment together. When I was with her family, who ranged in skin tone from light-skinned to dark-skinned, people assumed that I was a member of the family.

Let it be said, however, that no matter how often people confuse me for being African American, or ”mixed,” or anything else, I am aware that I have the privileges of a white person. Being followed in stores every now and then is nothing compared with not having certain opportunities because of how I look - and how people assume I must be, based upon that look. I grew up with a certain expectation of life that, a level of confidence; there was nobody telling me that I wouldn’t be hired because I was ____. (That happened in terms of gender, certainly, but that’s next chapter!)

As a female, I believe that I understand prejudice fairly well, because those of us for who the “system” was not made tend to better understand its workings. We see it more clearly than do those for whose comfort and success the system was made (made for and by, even). Even so, when it comes down to racial versus gender prejudice, my guess is that it’s a crapshoot - each person’s experience depends upon the other players.

There is a tremendous book that I read back in 1985, Anne Wilson Schaef’s “Women’s Reality: An Emerging Female System in a White Male Society.” I read that book so many times that I had to replace my worn old copy. I was a much younger person, obviously, but that book opened my eyes to a society that was created by and for men - white men. The rest of us are just supposed to make do. (I will, no doubt, bring up this book again when discussing the next chapter.)

In any case, it’s interesting to me, especially here where there is no Latino community (of which I am aware, anyway), to be accepted into both groups, the White People Group and the People of Color Group. I appreciate gaining the insights from the People of Color Group, but even more than that, I feel more of a bond with that group. I don’t know if it’s because of how I look or that my mother grew up in a part of Los Angeles that had only Mexicans and some Armenians. Or maybe it’s because my grandmother, with her mother and siblings, came to the US from Mexico in 1910 and they worked their asses off to make it. Maybe it’s simply my cultural identity, and thus, an awareness of racism, of my own mother’s and grandmother’s experiences, that sets the bond for me.

My husband, who is a white guy, refers to me as a woman of color - a term I did not use for myself for years because I felt that it was reserved for people who suffered injustices constantly and blatantly at the hands of white people. But maybe I can be a woman of color - because I am.

It’s been a few years since anyone mistook me for “mixed” or Black, yet my ethnicity and my cultural background provide reason enough to accept the name. Am I really a member of both groups? It’s hard to say. I don’t feel a part of the White People Group, often because I would be ashamed to be considered a part of that group! Yet I benefit from the privileges of membership in the White People Group. I benefit, too, from the membership in the People of Color Group, but those benefits are more connected to soul, to growth, to expanding self, and to touching the rest of the universe.

I am glad that we saw the film “True Colors” in class today. I have seen and read of similar experiments and they always come out the same - we find that the African American person gets the short end of the stick.

Oprah did something similar on her show years ago. In the first phase of the experiment, she went out shopping to expensive stores, but did not have her makeup on, nor was her hair done - in other words, she didn’t look like Television Oprah. One of the shops that allows customers in by appointment only (and then one must ring a bell from outside to be let in) did not open the door to speak to Plain Oprah. In the second phase of the experiment, Oprah went out looking like Television Oprah and was let in to the appointment-only shop without an appointment, and received all sorts of luxurious treatment at all the other shops where she’d been shunned just the day before, when she was Plain Oprah.

This shouldn’t be surprising. Eddie Murphy did a routine on Saturday Night Live (SNL) where he went out as himself and then later went out made up as a white man - light-colored makeup on his face, a suit, wig, glasses, briefcase. As himself, he got the usual treatment, nothing special, just a ho-hum day on the subway in New York. But when he was in his white man disguise, he was shocked to learn that the minute the last Black person stepped out of the subway car, a big party began. Dancing girls served drinks, there was music, and everyone had a great time. When the train came to another stop and Black people got on, the fun stopped. In another sequence, White Eddie Murphy went to see a loan officer at the bank and the white loan officer offered him piles of cash - for free.

This was not an experiment, but a comedy skit on SNL. The difference in treatment that people receive, based upon their skin color, had made it into our pop culture by the mid-80s (I just checked and found that Murphy stopped being a regular on SNL in 1984).

The point is that this is mainstream knowledge, this business of different treatment among the races. (Instead of “Separate but equal,” how about “Different but -eh- kinda equal”?) When Dianne Sawyer, Oprah Winfrey, and Eddie Murphy all have the same idea, you know it’s not a fluke! It’s good that our media is shining a light on this issue, yet it’s clearly not enough. The Dianne Sawyer piece was in 1996; the Eddie Murphy segment in the 80s, and who knows when the Oprah piece aired. We can make fun of it yet we cannot do anything to change it? Is that the take-home message? I do not understand what is up with that.

Things do not change if nobody makes them change. If people do not report landlords who use old and illegal applications, those landlords will continue to use those forms. (And strangely enough, people will continue to fill them out.) If we continue to laugh at “jokes” that perpetuate a sense of different-than (or less-than, or even hatred), who will stop telling those jokes? If we do not check ourselves constantly, when will we start to think about what we are saying or thinking?

In a racism awareness workshop that I attended in Washington, DC, I learned that it is normal for me to have “bad” (i.e., judgmental) thoughts - some of my socialization lives within me still. However, it is my responsibility, I learned, to check myself. It is my responsibility to ask myself, “What is my motive? Why did I just say/think that? Was that a fair assessment of that person?” The best person to change my way of thinking is me, and I do it through a constant check-in with myself. It is not a shame-based experience; it is just me, asking myself a few questions. I can do it not only in situations having to do with race and gender, but sexual and gender orientation, age, size, ethnicity - the list can go on and on.

Rather than cry, “I am not a racist!” and then brush off any further thought or discussion, I think it is better to say, “I work hard at not being racist,” and then following through on that with my actions. It seems nearly impossible not to have some sort of preconceived ideas when meeting new people; however, I have found that I have met some incredible humans by being open and not prejudging them. Life is so much more interesting when I am open to the possibilities rather than deciding what those possibilities will be ahead of time.

Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear a strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black body swinging in the Southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant South
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh
and the sudden smell of burning flesh!
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the sun to rot, for a tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

- Lewis Allan, © 1940

The lyrics above were made famous by Billie Holiday, who first sang the song in 1939. Holiday had to record it on a record label other than her usual one, which refused to record such a controversial song. “Strange Fruit” is a haunting song about lynching in America, and is, to me, a perfect prelude to a writing inspired by the film about Emmett Till.

The story of Emmett Till, which is partly the story of Mamie Till, but really the story of the breaking of the camel’s back, the last straw - the shocking horror of the events that took place, the images we saw, but then the goodness that came from the whole thing - wow.

As I’ve reflected on those images of young Emmett, all smashed up, I can’t help but think of the Holocaust — the systematic murder of millions of Jews, Gypsies, Poles and others who didn’t fit the “Aryan mold.” The killing of Blacks in America is not so different. Rather than rounding people up in one fell swoop, however, the Black Holocaust in America took place slowly over a long period of time - really, since Africans were brought here as slaves. There are those, no doubt, who would argue that the Black Holocaust is still in progress, and it would be a tough argument to counter. Have things gotten better? Absolutely. Are people of color occupying more jail cells than any other group, or more often under-educated, under-funded, and under-represented? I offer a resounding Yes!

But back to Holocausts… I wonder - the waiting, the careful stepping, of course the hiding. How can people live like that? Yet they did. There had to be, I think, a sense of immediacy in both situations (Germany and America); we know from saved journals, diaries, and the accounts of survivors of the Holocaust that people did maintain a sense of hope. From similar documents, we know that American Blacks had a sense of hope, or I think there would have been no revolution.

If there’s nothing to fight for, there would be no fight. The publicizing of Emmett Till’s murder was gasoline on an already raging fire. There was definitely something to fight for, and there was most certainly fight.

Just as I wept over Baldwin’s Going to Meeting the Man, I felt hot tears as we watched the film. Neither the story nor the images were new to me, but I do not believe that I will ever become comfortable with them - and for that, I am grateful. I have forced myself to look at old, grainy, black and white images of Blacks hanging from trees and bridges just as I took myself on a tour of the Holocaust Museum. It’s not a perversion, but a sense of obligation. These people -all of these people- must not have died only to be forgotten. Surely, none of them would have been thrilled at the idea of someone studying images of their dead bodies, hanging from trees or piled like trash, and yet I have felt for a long time that it is my responsibility not to let these horrid events go unfelt. As a child, my parents told me I was too sensitive, even too dramatic, but I’ve always known -a deep-down knowing- that looking away is not the right thing to do. The right thing to do can be painful, but without pain, there seems to be little growth.

And so it was in America, in the summer of 1955, when Emmett Till was so brutally murdered. The pain had to have gotten to the point of boiling over, a countrywide blistering wound, and ready to burst. As we were reminded in class, the timing of events played a big part in the reaction to Emmett Till’s murder - Brown vs. Board of Education, another broken promise, and perhaps just one too many people dead at the hands of whites. The publicity of the brutality of Till’s murder, followed by Rosa Parks’ actions, and then those who were ready to get people moving - it all fed into what became the Civil Rights Movement. The people were ready to move!

I hope that this movement will never end. I hope that the images of Till’s murder, and of all the murders, will not ever be tucked away and out of sight. It is the painful reminder that keeps history alive - important not only to honor those who died, but those who put themselves on the line to fight for justice. The memory of those times is necessary for people of all backgrounds, so that we do not ever repeat those horrors. Sadly, I fear that they will be repeated again and again; as long as there are humans, there will likely be power play that uses violence as its primary tool.

I am cranky with myself because I didn’t mention something crucial to James Baldwin’s Going to Meet the Man during class. Never again will I not speak up, even when I feel like I’m having a one-on-one discussion with the professor!

That said… Here’s the crucial part of the story: When the story opens, the main character, Jesse has failed to either attain or maintain an erection. His wife tells him that he has been working too hard and doesn’t make a big deal out of the situation, but it’s important to him. He can feel excitement “like a toothache,” but it isn’t going to his penis. Jesse thinks about asking his wife to perform oral sex on him, “the way he could ask a nigger girl to do” but that, apparently, would not be proper.

As Jesse lays in the dark, his hand is between his legs. He hears the night sounds, but his mind goes to the events that will come the next day - apparently young Blacks trying to get other Blacks registered to vote and Jesse’s role in preventing them from doing so. Jesse ponders this, and he remembers beating the living daylights out of a young Black man in the jail earlier that day. That memory triggers one from his childhood. The childhood memory is horrific (to the reader, to me) yet it is crucially related to the state of Jesse’s penis - and an erotic state of mind.

Of course, the story about the captured Black man being hung and dipped into the fire is just horrible. (Personal aside: I wept when I read it. I get weepy thinking about it. The reality of it makes me sick and weepish.) One of the white men responsible for the torture of the Black man approaches him with a large, gleaming knife. He holds the man’s “privates” in his hand and stretches them out. Jesse has eye contact with the Black man for not as “long as a second, but it seemed longer than a year.” Then the white man takes the knife and cuts up and then down, slicing off the Black man’s “privates.” After this happens, the crowd tears at the man’s body, with knives, rocks, and their hands, and then someone throws kerosene onto the man’s body, which goes up in a huge flame.

This is the connector, the horrific connector. There is so much to say about it that I hope I don’t get off-track in my attempts to share my thoughts. First, there is to consider the belief at that time (and still now, to varying degrees) that Black men are sexual animals, that they want white women sexually and cannot control themselves. (As we discussed in class, a Black man speaking to, looking at, or otherwise interacting with a white woman often resulted in lynching.) So there is a sense of fear of the Black man’s penis - this is what gives him power (in the eyes of the white people). By cutting off the man’s penis (and presumably his scrotum), his power was taken away from him - right before the eyes of the “offended.” That they did it while he was still alive was, of course, monstrous - the pain alone must have made the kerosene seem a gift. However, he was humiliated all along the way: First stripped naked; then hung by a chain over a fire; then dipped into the fire so that his body hair was burned off; then the rest of the torture… all done in front of a crowd of people - white people.

So then, there is humiliation, pain, even more pain, and then a stripping of power - not even a power that the Black man was likely aware of, but a power in the eyes of the white people. If the Black man was aware of that “power,” it was not something that he believed he truly had, but knew it was a fear conjured up by people who wanted to hate him, who wanted to be afraid of him, and who would -and did- kill him because of it. The Black man would not have intentionally acted on that perceived power, because it would land him exactly where the story finds him - being murdered by a hideously perverted, picnicking crowd of whites.

Jesse felt a sense of sexual arousal when the Black man’s “privates” were being displayed by his captor; he felt a sense of arousal later, when he was beating the crap out of the young Black man in the jail. When he recalls these two incidences, his own penis becomes erect and he has sex with his wife. But not just any sex; he says to her, “Come on, sugar, I’m going to do you like a nigger, just like a nigger.” Jesse’s sexual power is returned to him when he is reminded of the Black man’s power being so violently taken away.

This is not a practice that I am familiar with, cutting off a Black man’s genitalia. It sickens me to think that it happened outside of Baldwin’s story, but I imagine it must have happened more than a few times.

Something else that has struck me as fascinating is the title of the story and its meaning. In relation to Blacks, white men in power positions (isn’t that repetitive?!) have often been referred to as “the man” in literature and other cultural/historical references. Yet in this story, the white people are going to see the torture and murder of a Black man. Who is going to see whom? Is “the man” a reference to Jesse’s penis, to his erection? The story is about, in essence, the power that this white man feels as a direct result of witnessing the dreadful event, the violent removal of the Black man’s genitalia; Jesse’s father also becomes aroused by the event. It’s about the arousal this white man feels later, as an adult, when he carries out violence against a Black man. It’s about attaining power at the expense of a Black man.

So there you have it - my thoughts on the sexual-power theme of the story. What a powerful story.

The discussion in small group about Islam and stereotyping of Muslims brought back some strong memories. On September 11, 2001, I had been a 16-year resident of Washington, DC. At that time, I lived in Northwest DC, worked at George Washington University, and as a regular user of public transportation (and the sidewalks), considered myself a city girl.

I was at work when the planes crashed into buildings and the earth. It was devastating to be so close to the Pentagon and some of the major government buildings in Washington, DC, and no doubt, my fear and horror were matched by people around the world.

In the afternoon of that terrible day, as my mind began to clear just a bit, I started to have some other fearful thoughts: What if people in the United States began to assume that this was the act of Middle Eastern terrorists? What if people began to eyeball others who might be from Middle Eastern nations with a suspicious eye? What if racism was to take a twist, and include anyone with brownish skin in its grips?

My fears were realized by the next morning. Sure enough, students from Iran, Iraq, Africa, and Pakistan – anywhere that bred people who might look Middle Eastern, by physical appearance or by dress- were calling the university to find out if it would be okay for them to come to school that day. At first people wondered, “Why wouldn’t it be okay for them to come to school?” Then the students explained: They were afraid of retaliation by fearful American students.

Through the rest of my time in Washington, DC (until the end of October 2001), I took what I called random, spontaneous surveys. I asked cab drivers - those who were brown, wore turbans, or otherwise might fit the “terrorist” bill- how they were being treated. Was business affected at all? Cab drivers who wore turbans or who had dark skin but did not “look American” told of fares that would nearly get into the cab, then see the driver, and back out of the car. They were losing fares, the cab drivers were. Some reported verbal abuse by passengers who did get into their cabs. Students at the university told of receiving “mean looks” and being afraid to travel the streets alone. Of course, within a few weeks, mosques around the country were being damaged, and I recall that there were other acts of violence. Americans were lashing out at people who looked like they might be of Middle Eastern descent.

About a week after the attacks, I was in a store shopping and noticed that I was being followed by a security guard. That was not something that happened in the city - I had been followed by security guards in the suburbs of Northern Virginia, if I happened to be shopping alone and not dressed in work attire. But never in Washington, DC! On this day, however, a guard followed me and then, with his watch clearly showing on his wrist, asked me the time. Once I began to speak, the guard went away, not even waiting to hear my complete answer. I asked one of my cab driver friends for his opinion, and he concurred that the guard wanted to see if I had an accent; when I did not, he had no reason to follow me.

Something that troubled me all throughout this time (and still does, frankly) was the immediate assumption that the person or people responsible for the September 11th attacks must be Middle Eastern. Especially troubling was a refreshed hatred and distrust of anyone who might be from that region. I even argued with people, reminding them of the Oklahoma City bombings, and that those responsible turned out to be a couple of white American guys. I would ask, “Does that mean we should distrust all white guys from now on? Should we treat them with suspicion first?”

This line of questioning did not ever meet with much acceptance, and of course, nobody ever saw the parallel I was trying to draw. Nevertheless, it became clear to me then that there is a double standard, even in the case of horrific violence. People assumed that those responsible for the September 11th attacks must be of Middle Eastern descent, and once the images of the terrorists hit the media, people’s suspicions were confirmed. End of story: Anyone with a turban, headscarf, or brown skin (but not African Americans, who already have a set of stereotypes to deal with) became a potential terrorist.

Is it that a terrorist is in the eye of the beholder? Certainly stereotypes and racism existed in terms of people from Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, India, Africa, and a hundred other places, yet the day of the attacks, there seemed to be unleashed a new brand of racism and stereotyping. There’s nobody to whom I can say, “Told you so,” and frankly I would not want to, in this case. But I can say that I saw it coming as the fires were still burning in Manhattan, at the Pentagon, and Sommerset County, PA. I saw it coming yet I wish that it were not so. I wish that we could learn to hate hatred, not people.

::: this is the essay that I mentioned earlier :::

It seems that stereotyping, with all of its -isms, is alive and thriving despite enormous efforts to change people’s views. I often hear people say things like, “I am not racist, but…” or: “I am not being Anti-Semitic, but…” and then go on to say something racist or Anti-Semitic.

This is particularly troubling to me because I have participated in many events in an effort to change public views and policies. I have rallied against the KKK, protested the nomination of an ultra-conservative to the U.S. Supreme Court, marched for Gay and Lesbian rights, and helped coordinate buses that traveled across the nation for the first unfolding of the AIDS Memorial Quilt. With my mother, I demonstrated against the outrageous cost of the senior Bush’s inauguration, and I have marched for peace, for choices, and for human rights. I have invested a great deal of time and energy working for the rights of Americans, a piece of which is shedding light on the misinformation that leads to stereotyping.

Stereotyping disturbs me whenever I observe it, yet it is especially appalling when it finds a home in an institute of higher education. College is where students learn about the world, where horizons can be expanded, and a place where students learn how to become better citizens of the world. I envision college professors as those charged with leading students towards those ends. In stark contrast with that ideal, however, one of my professors frequently exposes her ignorance by encouraging stereotypes and racist and homophobic ideologies in the classroom. Particularly absurd is the fact that Lily White is a professor of Speech Communication, using a textbook that makes clear the importance of understanding that people have many ways of being, different backgrounds, cultures, and experiences. One chapter features a discussion about stereotypes, and another focuses on cultural differences. Both include evaluation exercises, designed to help students look at their own beliefs and behaviors, and to learn to monitor and even change any distorted ways of thinking they might have.

To demonstrate that “we stick to our own kind,” Professor White brought a stereotype to life before our eyes and then failed to dispel the myth with facts. Professor White selected two male students to stand on either side of the classroom aisle. One of the men, a slender Caucasian fellow, stood to the left, and the other, who is very muscular with brown skin, stood to the right. Professor White moved down the aisle so that she was facing them from several feet away. She asked the class, “Now, if I was walking down the street alone at night, and these men were on either side, as I have them here, which side would I go to?” First there was silence, and then someone offered, “To the side with the muscular guy?” Professor White rolled her eyes and said, “No! I would go to the side that this guy is on!” pointing to the Caucasian man, “Because he looks familiar to me! He looks like people I went to school with, like people in my neighborhood!” Then as a second thought, she added, “I’m sure he’s really nice,” pointing to the brown man, “but he doesn’t look like people I know. See? We tend to stick to our own kind. It’s nothing against people who look different, we just feel safer with people who seem familiar.” With that, the stereotyping lecture had become a how-to lesson, and I had a quick mental image of the class donning white sheets and hoods for a fieldtrip. Well, not everyone, of course — just those who matched the sheets.

Stunned, I asked Professor White, “Exactly who is my own kind? Who is in that group?” She gave me a tired look, eyes rolling up towards the sky like Jesus painted on cheap velvet, and said, “Does he,” pointing to the brown man, “look like someone you went to school with? Or does he?” with emphasis, pointing to the white man.

“They both look like guys I went to school with,” I said. “They both look like friends of mine.” With a snort as her reply, the lesson was over.

Another time, as we discussed cultural differences, Professor White mentioned a practice common in some cultures wherein people, including men, kiss one-another on both cheeks in greeting. Not to have their masculine sensibilities betrayed, several of the men in class shouted, “No way! If I was over there and a man came up and kissed me, I’d punch him in the face!” Now my eyes were rolling upward as I silently begged God to please step in and stop the madness, but God stayed out of it, and a shouting match ensued. Soon enough we’d stepped right into that creepy land where straight men protest just a little too much about something they’ve perceived to be Gay. I begged Professor White to explain that this was all contextual, even that men embracing one-another is fine, that Gay men embracing is fine, for crying out loud, and that this was out of hand. She ignored me, and it continued on, Professor White breaking into laughter as she asked the men if, for example, they didn’t ever hug or kiss the cheeks of their fathers. None of them had ever, in their entire lives, touched any other man unless there was an outdoor sport involved. That the preferred sport in this instance is one in which the players wear snug fitting, shiny pants and pat each other’s hinies for encouragement made it even more ridiculous, if not a smidge hypocritical.

As the class began to simmer down, one of our classmates announced that she is Lesbian and requested that we watch what we say about Gay people, or she might be offended. Obviously anticipating another demonstration along the lines of the “we stick with our own kind” lesson, this student was alerting us ahead of time, and who could blame her? But ahead it went, and before you could say “stereotypical homophobic nonsense,” we were listening to Professor White tell us about Gayness. She pointed out that the self-identified Lesbian student does, in fact, look like a Lesbian. However, if the good Professor was out with one of her girl (space) friends, nobody would mistake them for Lesbians - it would be different, as she is so very feminine. However, if the Lesbian student were out with a girl (space) friend, it might be confusing due to the appearance of the student - one would not be able to tell if they were girl (space) friends, or girlfriends. I pointed out that there are many Lesbians who are quite feminine and many straight women who are not, but it was lost in the voices of dissent.

The semester is still young, so who can say what lesson will be next? I can only imagine, though, that somewhere right this minute, someone is denying the very behavior that they’re acting out, later saying, “I’m not being racist, but…” And from whom did they learn such things? With Professor White and others like her bringing stereotypes and

“-isms” to the classroom, the lessons of the past continue to be taught. It is unfortunate that these are not lessons learned from past horrors, but instead lessons based upon past beliefs and condoned by people in leadership positions by their very actions.

Aah, a fresh day with a fresh blog! What could be better? {Oh, world peace, a different president, more shoe sales…}

I work part-time, three days a week in the fiscal office on campus — the good people there deal with students who have various loans. One of the co-workers, who, just for kicks and giggles, we’ll call, “Lucifer,” is the Collections Man. If you went to my school on a loan, for example, and you haven’t paid it back, watch out, because Lucifer will be on your ass like a Pink Pony dancer on Jack Whittaker. (That’s a little local humor for you!)

So there I was today, at the front desk, innocently minding my own business, working on a project, when Lucifer came up to chat. You should know that he still cannot pronounce my name. It’s now a joke (to him) to say it like this: “Fran-ch-elbdleblde?” It’s supposed to be funny to me, too, but it’s really not, and I’m done trying to make him say it correctly.

In any case, he came up to chat with me, which was strange enough, seeing as how our “chats” thus far have been about the paper-eating copy machine located in the hall across from his office. His office would be the one with Rush Limbaugh screeching from the radio. Imagine how much I love making copies when Lucifer’s in.

So, me –innocent, minding own business– when Lucifer came up to chat. Somehow he had determined, by looking at me, that I am not “like that.” Here’s how it started: After asking me who my American Government professor is, not recognizing the name so asking for a description, {”he has a kind of fu-manchu beard thing, pony tail, favors those snappy little driving caps…”} and then frowning at the description, Lucifer said, “Don’t you think that people dress too casually these days? In my time we wore at least a tie with our shirts, even to college.” He interrupted himself to say , “You know, Fran-ch-elbdleblde {laughs}, I can tell that you’re not… like that, so I think I can talk to you about some things.”

{Me: HUH?!}

“What do you think about that? About how liberally people dress?”

“Well…” I had to think quickly, realizing that I need this job and literally cannot afford to get myself canned for being honest at this point in time. “What do you mean ‘liberally’?” Ask for more information, that’s how to get out of it, I thought. Maybe he’ll forget his idea while explaining himself.

“Oh, the kids and even the teachers here, they dress so liberally. Ratty jeans, tee shirts, tennis shoes - they don’t look like the kind of leaders we want for our country tomorrow, do they?” He leaned over the counter at me a bit, looking genuinely concerned.

“People do dress more casually than they did when I was a kid, it’s true,” I answered. “I remember when you’d get dressed up to go on an airplane or a train, for example.”

“Exactly!” Lucifer’s ruddy cheeks deepened in color. “And these people, these liberals, I can’t even stand that word, when people say it in connection with politics! It’s horrible!”

Now I had to think really hard because, frankly, I wanted to bonk him on the head like Little Bunny FuFu, but deep in my heart knew that violence is not the answer. Violent war is not the answer, not even little tiny wars with simple head-bonking.

“Do you really think that there’s a connection between liberal thinking and casual dressing styles?” I asked, hoping that my widened eyes looked to him like astonishment and not what they really were: the pressure of keeping my hands in my lap had caused my eyes to bulge out.

“Oh, absolutely! Those liberals, the way they think, they want to make this whole country casual! I want our country to return to being conservative - that’s why I’m a Republican,” he said proudly, not even considering for a speck of a moment that maybe I’m one of those evil liberals. “Everything is different, even the language. It disgusts me when I’m walking down the hall out there and hear one of those little girls {aka: female college students} use that four-letter word! That word has become… regular… usage… of the language… that people have!”

I was worried, just a smidge, that Lucifer was about to have one of those scary Right-Wing orgasms, right at the front desk - like the kind that Dubya has by the minute over his war. But I digress…

“It’s true that language has changed and that people dress more casually these days. But don’t you think that our whole society has changed over time? Look at daytime programming, for example — all those shows that feature people telling their deep dark secrets on national television. People are much less private about things these days. People seem to be casual in many areas of life.” That would be me trying to not exactly disagree but not agree, either.

“Oh, Fran-ch-elbdleblde, that’s just part of it. Those liberals are bringing the whole country down. Without saying their names, I will say that the last president and his wife brought the image of the White House down completely. Just trash!” I was afraid that he was getting closer to the ejaculation.

He continued,”Now, you look at the President and what’s her name? Laura Bush. She’s the best First Lady we’ve had since… I don’t know when. Isn’t she the greatest?”

{Me, thinking: Dear God in heaven, why have you forsaken me?!} “She seems very sweet. Very interested in literacy,” I manage.

“Yes, yes!” he cried, ruddy cheeks now an almost-plum color. “She was a lie-bear-ean, you know! Yes, a lie-bear-ean! And didn’t go on her first date until she was 30-years old!”

Aah, yes — I recalled the Christian-fundamentalist-Right-wing-conservative virgin fetish. {”Just Say No” motto replacement: “Virgins At Any Age!”}

“Did you know that I once met the President’s mother, Barbara Bush, in person?” Of course he had no way of knowing this, but I threw it into the mix, hoping to steer this conversation towards meeting the mothers of famous people… or something… anything… else.

“She’s great! And a lie-bear-ean, Laura!” It became clear that Lucifer was following his own version of this chat, and I wondered if he thinks of Laura Bush bending over a book cart while having sex with his wife. Ewww, gross.

“Well.” I’d now moved down to one-word statements that have no meaning.

“Now, I’m not going to ask you what religion you are,” he said, “but I’m guessing Catholic” {pause, wait for acknowledgement from me that does not come and then…} “and so you know how important it is to dress nicely when you go to church. Why would you dress any differently at college?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe people spend long hours on campus and feel they learn better when they’re dressed comfortably.” I was straining to stay with the tour but not pay too close attention to the guide.

“It just wasn’t like that when I was in college. Now, my people were farmers, and after working in the fields, they would come in, clean up, and put on nice clothes again - just for supper! That’s how we did it! Country people are just like that.” This is a fact, apparently, even though it does not quite jive with my own experiences with “country people.” And either way, who gives a fluffy rat’s ass how people dress for dinner in their own homes?

“Yes, these liberals,” he continued, “they’re trying to bring the whole country down and it’s just awful.”

“Wow, that’s a pretty powerful statement,” I replied, as I tried to will my eyes back into their sockets while nearly pulling my fingers from their rightful place on my hands.

“Powerful, that’s true. I just wish our country would be conservative. Things would be a lot better. Well, Fran-ch-elbdleblde, I’m glad we had a chance to talk. I just wanted to talk to you about conservatism a little bit.”

And off he went, back to his office, where his good buddy Rush Limbaugh was, no doubt, spouting diarrheic fountains of idiocy.

Well. I was sure that I’d sent Naomi and a few others more fascinating email from my first days of school, but apparently I did not. Only two old posts are included here, since it would be dishonest to make things up and give them old dates. (But I considered it!)

I’m working on an essay right now (taking a break to write this, obviously) about one of my professors and I’ll post that when it’s all edited and such. It’s for my English class but about the speech professor. I’ve discreetly named her “Professor Lily White,” and the story is about her lessons in racism, homophobia and stereotyping. Truly a how-to lesson! No, i am not making that up!

Here I am in West Virginia, where no “h” will go unpronounced and being openly racist in class is just jim-dandy for the professors!

This is the first in my old school girl posts. Naomi asked me to keep a weekly journal of the adventures of my return to college and I am following her directions!

I’m not really “old school” so much as I’m old(er) and going back to college to finish up a degree that, by the time it’s wrapped up, will have taken somewhere in the 22-year range.

Of course, I haven’t been in school all this time, silly! In fact, the last time I was a full-time student, the year was 1979. There were no CD’s yet, MTV had not yet aired, and ecstasy was still something that you experienced with a really intense orgasm… or a good ice cream cone. Either/or. (I can say that I’ve now had all manner of ecstasy, including the illegal kind, and it’s still a toss-up as to which is the better choice!)

In any case, here it is, the beginnings of something. I may add my posts to Naomi here, for posterity. You know, keep things in one tidy place and all of that. And now, old school girl really must go to sleep, so that she’s prepared for a full day at college tomorrow!

In my film appreciation class, we are seeing “Cinema Paradiso,” which, believe it or not, I saw when it came out. In… 1989…?! We have to see it in 2 parts because the class isn’t long enough to see it whole, but it’s amazing to me how bored these kids act! Maybe they really aren’t and just have to act that way (but why…??) - either way, they’re a bunch of goofballs.

Oh, and this skinny girl (oh, like THAT tells you which one I could be talking about!) was telling the prof after class, “I had a really hard time following it because who is Sal-vuh-torry and who is TOTO? It’s so confusing!” I thought the professor was going to belt her across the mouth, but she restrained herself, much to my chagrin.

Naturally, I was weepy when the lad was pulling Alfredo from the fire. I did it the first time and I did it again.

Next week we see “Citizen Kane.”