If I started asking people, especially people born in the last several decades, who Paul Robeson is, I doubt I would find a lot of people who could tell me. Indeed, when I, while embarking on my Masters degree more than 15 years ago, took up more intense study of sports history, I didn't know anything about him going in. Yet, go back 60 or 70 years ago, and it's a very good likelihood that lots of people could tell you about Paul Robeson. Perhaps most prominently, Robeson was known to much of the U. S. public as an athlete and then as a singer and actor. By the early 1950s, though, much of that public--especially the white U. S. public--had developed a very negative view of Robeson based on association of him with work toward racial justice throughout the world, with communism, and with other political issues and institutions. Indeed, as I'm writing this, I know I'm not giving Robeson anywhere near his due, given that I don't have a lot of time today to compose this post, yet I wanted to get is posted. So, to read more on Robeson, check out here and here.
In the meantime, I want to post this today to note that today marks 35 years since Paul Robeson passed away. By the time of his death, he had fallen from prominence in U. S. culture, largely blacklisted for his political and social work. That blacklisting is why, though so many of us really should know about Robeson, so many of us don't. It's also a significant factor in why the reporters of news who like to mark 25th, 35th, 40th, and 50th anniversaries are much more inclined to tell us about the 25th anniversary of the establishment of Martin Luther King Jr. Day and the 50th anniversary of John F. Kennedy's inaugural address this past week, but not acknowledge the 35th anniversary of the passing of a U. S. American who, I would attest, deserves to be held with at least the same regard as King and even higher regard than Kennedy. Much of what Robeson said and did could have a lot to bear on contemporary political, economic, social, and cultural issues. With that in mind, on the 35th anniversary of his death, I encourage everyone today to learn a little or think a little about him and his legacy. I know I will being do so.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Some Thoughts on the Winter Holiday Schedule
Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day, everyone! May it be a peaceful, hopeful day of thanks.
As a number of posts on this blog have demonstrated, I think it's important to examine the politics of holidays. With that in mind, to mark Martin Luther King Jr. day today, I want to put forward my thoughts on reworking the holiday schedule of the United States.
First, let me begin by saying that it would make sense to have our major holidays in the summer instead of the winter. Weather conditions in the summer would mean less cancellations and less accidents brought on by winter cold and snow. That said, if we want to continue to have the major holidays in the winter--perhaps, for instance, because they bring some joy to what might be an otherwise dreary time of year, as winter solstice festivals have been doing for ages--then I think we should have New Year's Day take the place of Christmas as the major holiday for gathering with friends and family and giving gifts, and we should have Martin Luther King Jr. Day take the place of Thanksgiving as the major holiday for gathering with friends and family and giving thanks.
First, in terms of the Christmas to New Year's Day switch, New Year's Day would seem to be the more inclusive holiday. Since Christmas is a Christian holiday, emphasizing it marginalizes those people who belong to other religions or who are not religious at all. Now, certainly, we have elements of our culture that have tried to make it more inclusionary, emphasizing Hanukkah for Jewish folks, developing and celebrating Kwanzaa for folks of African heritage, substituting "Merry Christmas" with "Happy Holidays," and more. Yet, this all remains based around ways of accomodating Christmas for non-Christian folks--something that maintains the centrality of Christianity and, thus, marginalizes other religions and religious perspectives. Meanwhile, some Christian folks have fought against these kinds of moves. Every year some Christian folks voice opposition to use of "Happy Holidays" over "Merry Christmas." From another angle, some Christian folks voice concern about the commercialization of Christmas, arguing that by making the holiday a day focused on buying and getting things and emphasizing elements of the holiday like Santa Claus, the things that Christmas should signify get lost. By moving the major holiday from Christmas to New Year's Day, many of these concerns could be alleviated. New Year's Day is not tied so directly to a particular religion like Christmas is, so it is more inclusive of many different groups of people. Additionally, Christians who voice concerns about the secularization and/or commercialization of Christmas can then celebrate it as a holiday particular to their faith without so much of the secular generalization to include everyone else or the emphasis on buying and getting things. Christmas would be something that Christians celebrate in the ways that they see fit, with New Year's Day as the day that we all come together, give each other gifts if we wish, and celebrate our lives and communities. On New Year's Day, we look back at the year that has ended, remembering what has happened, while looking forward to what lies before us in the year ahead. That seems like a sentiment that matches up really well with families, friends, and communities gathering together and with giving and receiving presents--i.e., things that help us remember the past as well as things that we want as we go forward into the future.
Meanwhile, I've discussed the politics of Thanksgiving on this website before. As a summary, Thanksgiving reinforces a version of U. S. history that privileges perspectives and experiences based in white, European, Christian backgrounds, to the exclusion of perspectives and experiences that differ from that, especially those of Native Americans. Indeed, the traditional story of Thanksgiving can easily be read as one of hegemonic assimilation, with one group using "friendship," "community," "peace," and other ideas to sell domination to the group they are working to dominate. Meanwhile, though often understood as specifically situated within the movement for African American Civil Rights Movement, Martin Luther King Jr. Day is much more about the ideas of inclusion that supposedly are the basis for the United States as a nation. While King's messages especially mean a lot to many African American men and women, they have also resonated with many other groups, they have helped inspire many other fights against inequality and injustice, and they are largely recognized as being centered on peacefulness in a way that the characters from the traditional Thanksgiving narrative cannot signify. To me, the cultural meanings of Martin Luther King Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement provide a much more sound basis for a day of gathering with friends and family and giving thanks than the cultural meanings of the story of Thanksgiving. Martin Luther King Jr. Day can very easily signify thankfulness for the process of democracy, by which I mean, among other things, recognition that democracy is an ongoing thing; we must keep working to eliminate exclusion and oppression in order to create a society that more fully embodies a democracy. In doing so, we give thanks for those, signified by King but including so many others, who have worked to help us move forward in developing that democracy. By celebrating the process of democracy like that, we're celebrating what our nation as a community is all about. This would seem to me to be a much more appropriate place for a national holiday to give thanks and gather with the meaningful communities in our lives.
Of course, neither of these holiday moves is free of politics. Even with the greater inclusiveness of New Year's Day, the holiday is not entirely inclusive. For instance, not all cultures mark the beginning of the year on January 1. Meanwhile, while King often signifies progress toward civil rights, not all individuals agree with his message, and we might very well examine the politics of the "peace" that he promoted. Among other things, there are important arguments to be heard that suggest that King offered too much of a message based in assimilation to white society and, thus, celebrating a day commemorating him compromises the quest for equality and justice. I think these are important exclusions to note, consider, and work with going forward. Indeed, while making an argument about the ongoing process of democracy, it would seem rather disingenuous of me then to say that my plan alleviates these concerns and that we would not need to continue reconsidering the holidays we have even with the switches I propose. That said, moving the major holidays to New Year's Day and Martin Luther King Jr. Day seems like a step in the right direction.
As a number of posts on this blog have demonstrated, I think it's important to examine the politics of holidays. With that in mind, to mark Martin Luther King Jr. day today, I want to put forward my thoughts on reworking the holiday schedule of the United States.
First, let me begin by saying that it would make sense to have our major holidays in the summer instead of the winter. Weather conditions in the summer would mean less cancellations and less accidents brought on by winter cold and snow. That said, if we want to continue to have the major holidays in the winter--perhaps, for instance, because they bring some joy to what might be an otherwise dreary time of year, as winter solstice festivals have been doing for ages--then I think we should have New Year's Day take the place of Christmas as the major holiday for gathering with friends and family and giving gifts, and we should have Martin Luther King Jr. Day take the place of Thanksgiving as the major holiday for gathering with friends and family and giving thanks.
First, in terms of the Christmas to New Year's Day switch, New Year's Day would seem to be the more inclusive holiday. Since Christmas is a Christian holiday, emphasizing it marginalizes those people who belong to other religions or who are not religious at all. Now, certainly, we have elements of our culture that have tried to make it more inclusionary, emphasizing Hanukkah for Jewish folks, developing and celebrating Kwanzaa for folks of African heritage, substituting "Merry Christmas" with "Happy Holidays," and more. Yet, this all remains based around ways of accomodating Christmas for non-Christian folks--something that maintains the centrality of Christianity and, thus, marginalizes other religions and religious perspectives. Meanwhile, some Christian folks have fought against these kinds of moves. Every year some Christian folks voice opposition to use of "Happy Holidays" over "Merry Christmas." From another angle, some Christian folks voice concern about the commercialization of Christmas, arguing that by making the holiday a day focused on buying and getting things and emphasizing elements of the holiday like Santa Claus, the things that Christmas should signify get lost. By moving the major holiday from Christmas to New Year's Day, many of these concerns could be alleviated. New Year's Day is not tied so directly to a particular religion like Christmas is, so it is more inclusive of many different groups of people. Additionally, Christians who voice concerns about the secularization and/or commercialization of Christmas can then celebrate it as a holiday particular to their faith without so much of the secular generalization to include everyone else or the emphasis on buying and getting things. Christmas would be something that Christians celebrate in the ways that they see fit, with New Year's Day as the day that we all come together, give each other gifts if we wish, and celebrate our lives and communities. On New Year's Day, we look back at the year that has ended, remembering what has happened, while looking forward to what lies before us in the year ahead. That seems like a sentiment that matches up really well with families, friends, and communities gathering together and with giving and receiving presents--i.e., things that help us remember the past as well as things that we want as we go forward into the future.
Meanwhile, I've discussed the politics of Thanksgiving on this website before. As a summary, Thanksgiving reinforces a version of U. S. history that privileges perspectives and experiences based in white, European, Christian backgrounds, to the exclusion of perspectives and experiences that differ from that, especially those of Native Americans. Indeed, the traditional story of Thanksgiving can easily be read as one of hegemonic assimilation, with one group using "friendship," "community," "peace," and other ideas to sell domination to the group they are working to dominate. Meanwhile, though often understood as specifically situated within the movement for African American Civil Rights Movement, Martin Luther King Jr. Day is much more about the ideas of inclusion that supposedly are the basis for the United States as a nation. While King's messages especially mean a lot to many African American men and women, they have also resonated with many other groups, they have helped inspire many other fights against inequality and injustice, and they are largely recognized as being centered on peacefulness in a way that the characters from the traditional Thanksgiving narrative cannot signify. To me, the cultural meanings of Martin Luther King Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement provide a much more sound basis for a day of gathering with friends and family and giving thanks than the cultural meanings of the story of Thanksgiving. Martin Luther King Jr. Day can very easily signify thankfulness for the process of democracy, by which I mean, among other things, recognition that democracy is an ongoing thing; we must keep working to eliminate exclusion and oppression in order to create a society that more fully embodies a democracy. In doing so, we give thanks for those, signified by King but including so many others, who have worked to help us move forward in developing that democracy. By celebrating the process of democracy like that, we're celebrating what our nation as a community is all about. This would seem to me to be a much more appropriate place for a national holiday to give thanks and gather with the meaningful communities in our lives.
Of course, neither of these holiday moves is free of politics. Even with the greater inclusiveness of New Year's Day, the holiday is not entirely inclusive. For instance, not all cultures mark the beginning of the year on January 1. Meanwhile, while King often signifies progress toward civil rights, not all individuals agree with his message, and we might very well examine the politics of the "peace" that he promoted. Among other things, there are important arguments to be heard that suggest that King offered too much of a message based in assimilation to white society and, thus, celebrating a day commemorating him compromises the quest for equality and justice. I think these are important exclusions to note, consider, and work with going forward. Indeed, while making an argument about the ongoing process of democracy, it would seem rather disingenuous of me then to say that my plan alleviates these concerns and that we would not need to continue reconsidering the holidays we have even with the switches I propose. That said, moving the major holidays to New Year's Day and Martin Luther King Jr. Day seems like a step in the right direction.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Maybe If We All Stopped Trying to Go West ...
Much has been written in the last few days after the shooting that occurred at Congressional Representative Gabrielle Giffords' "Congress on Your Corner" event in Tucson this past weekend. In particular, much discussion has placed rhetoric squarely into the center of discourse, articulating various questions and positions on the role of rhetoric in this instance and instances like it. See, for instance, this piece, from CNN's website, which actually cites rhetorical scholars Thomas Benson and Richard Vatz. Indeed, the central place of rhetoric and the word "rhetoric" in this discourse led me to feel overwhelmingly compelled to make this the example I used to introduce the Rhetorical Criticism class that I teach, which began with the new semester at Bowling Green State University this week.
Some have denied or refused to recognize a connection between rhetoric and actions like those of Jared Lee Loughner this past weekend, while still others have suggested holding off until a direct connection between something specifically said and what Loughner did has been shown, as if only an explicit direct connection provides any basis for calls to examine the significance and impact of rhetoric. Others, though, like Bud Goodall, in this post on his blog, have made compelling arguments for seeing why rhetoric is significant and important in an instance like this (and, for that matter, in so many instances in our everyday lives, including both the ordinary and the out-of-the-ordinary things that happen).
With that in mind, I found interesting that the number one film in the United States this past week was the Coen Brothers' remake of the film (and adaptation of the book) True Grit (something that has been partially the subject of another recent post by Goodall, by the way) While I have wanted to see the film, I have not yet had a chance to do so. I remember watching the original "John Wayne version" of the film as a kid, but I don't remember anywhere near enough about it to comment effectively on the film's story or ideological commitments. Having not seen the new film and not read the novel, I don't feel comfortable speaking much about either of those either. The connection I see, though, is a very general one. Namely, the story is a Western, taking place in the U. S. American West and containing many of the conventions that make a novel or film a "Western." Indeed, David Carr's review of the film in The New York Times calls it "a classic Western" and notes that the film's producer, Scott Rudin, has said that the filmmakers took a "formal, reverent approach to the Western" (Carr's words there, apparently paraphrasing Rudin). It's also not the Coen Brothers' first venture into the land of the Western, as their award-winning No Country for Old Men (also based on a book) also went that route, though it certainly was not a conventional Western. So, while I have not seen the film, I have it on good authority, based on my own general knowledge of what the story is about and my reading of what others have said about the film, that it invokes the mythology of the U. S. West. Now, there remains the question of whether in the process of invoking those mythologies the film offers a critique of them or reinforces them. However, even if critiquing them, invoking them to do so shows their significance in U. S. society.
I'm not going to go too deeply into the mythologies of the U. S. West here, as I'm limited in time and space, and I can make some good recommendations on where to go to read more about it, starting with Richard Slotkin's Gunfighter Nation: The Myth of the Frontier in Twentieth-Century America. Some elements of the mythology include the lone hero figure who both exists on the fringes of society and protects society from dangers beyond its borders; the rugged individualist cowboy figure who silently and with strength goes about his work (and who, notably, is white, male, and assumedly heterosexual, though there are some interesting queer readings of the character, as Jon Stewart pointed out while hosting the Oscars in 2006 when Brokeback Mountain was among the nominees); and the notion of regeneration through violence, which suggests that an act of violence can take care of a problem that society is facing and make everything okay again. These mythologies of the U. S. West have been very pervasive in and significant to the development of U. S. culture and society--something explicitly noted in historian Frederick Jackson Turner's famous Frontier Thesis from 1893, which argued that "the existence of an area of free land, its continuous recession, and the advance of American settlement westward, explain American development."
While Westerns constitute one of the most explicit forms of references to mythologies of the U. S. West in U. S. culture, they certainly are far from alone. Star Wars has been directly linked, including by George Lucas himself, to the mythology of the U. S. West. Star Trek explicitly references the frontier as part of its introduction. The theme song from the sitcom Mad About You called marriage "the final frontier." Plenty of texts and practices use horses, cowboy hats, guns, and other signifiers of the U. S. West as means of identification and promotion. Though not exclusive to the region, states like Arizona, Texas, and others in the U. S. Southwest draw on mythological U. S. West imagery to promote their states, bracket tourist experiences within the states, and identify themselves. A cowboy even appears on the Wyoming license plate, and a vista straight out of a Western, complete with mountains and cacti, appears on the Arizona license plate.
Amid all of this, politics is far from immune. Indeed, much political rhetoric has both explicitly and implicity referenced the mythology of the U. S. West. Much of this has been associated with the political right. Consider the many images of Ronald Reagan in his cowboy hat that circulated during his presidency. Consider John McCain's presidential campaign utilizing the word "maverick" to characterize their candidate. Consider the many uses of Western imagery by George W. Bush--something that Mark West and Chris Carey have analyzed in their essay "(Re)Enacting Frontier Justice: The Bush Administration's Tactical Narration of the Old West Fantasy after September 11" in Quarterly Journal of Speech from 2006. However, the political right is far from alone in this regard. For instance, Secretary of the Interior Ken Salazar is known for wearing his cowboy hat to conduct official government work.
I hope what I've mentioned at least goes a little way to show how deeply embedded the mythology of the U. S. West has been and continues to be in U. S. culture and society. It is, then, there that I see another connection to the events in Tucson this past weekend. I have no clue whether or not Loughner saw himself in any way explicitly in connection with a kind of cowboy or Western hero identity. Perhaps he fashioned himself more of an emo or Goth type. Perhaps he regularly watched Dexter or he regularly watched Blues Clues. Perhaps his favorite films were zombie films or romantic comedies. Perhaps in addition to the many books that have been reported that he owned, he also liked to read the work of John Grisham or of Neil Gaiman or of Jodi Picoult. Perhaps he liked to watch bowling on ESPN. Regardless, by virtue of being in the United States (and even if he engaged with the kinds of possibilities I have just listed), he was not only exposed to but at least in part socialized by many texts and practices that both explicitly and implicitly link U. S. society, culture, and identity to the mythological U. S. West and its ideologies of violence and often short-sighted pride in rugged individualism. In that regard, then, the rhetoric of the U. S. West that has been so dominant and foundational to U. S. society played a role in his socialization and, thus, him getting to where he is today. In a state like Arizona, which is among those that most explicitly links itself to these mythologies, that socialization is all the more likely. Rhetoric thus played a rather significant role in Loughner's actions.
And even if, by some chance, Loughner managed, despite their incredible pervasiveness, to avoid being socialized by the mythologies of the U. S. West, the deep identification with guns, which became part of the Bill of Rights because it was a large part of the frontier mentality at the time of the formation of the United States and which continues to remain high in U. S. culture today, aided Loughner in his actions. Among the many things that the U. S. Western mythology influences, it informs people's fascinations with guns (and, by extension, explosions, shoot outs, and so on in films), and it informs U. S. policies on gun control and people's positions on that issue. If not for the continued identification with what really is an outdated and in many ways overly romanticized way of life associated with the U. S. West, perhaps guns would not be as widespread or as available in this country, and thus perhaps Loughner would not have been able to get one (or to go with the extension to film I noted above, would not have been able to get access to other kinds of weapons and explosive devices). So, even if the rhetoric of the U. S. West in no way directly influenced Loughner (in itself hard to fathom, but perhaps remotely possible), that rhetoric influenced the attitudes, positions, and laws involving guns, weapons, and violence that pervade this country and that allowed Loughner to access the gun he used. Again, rhetoric did--and does--matter here, and it played a significant role in what happened this past weekend in Tucson.
Few can honestly deny that they think that culture and language--both of which are highly invested in rhetoric--play significant roles in socializing people. Indeed, while many on the political right have denied a connection between contemporary political discourse and the events involving Loughner's actions in Tucson this past weekend, many of these same folks have spoken of the need for a "culture war," have made arguments about how the word "hero" should be selectively applied, have decried what they think is the indoctrination of U. S. society through cultural texts produced by the "liberal media" and "liberal Hollywood," and have railed against the use of "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Their arguments on these issues don't work unless they accept the premise that culture, language, and rhetoric matter. So, they can't, then, genuinely make the kinds of arguments they've been making over the past several days about political discourse and the events in Tucson.
Critical studies of culture, media, and rhetoric ask us, among other things, to be reflective--to be willing to examine our own assumptions and see the power relations and ramifications of these assumptions. It seems to me that more reflection on the deeper mythologies and ideologies upon which U. S. culture and society have been built would do a lot more good right now than posturing defensiveness claiming not to be involved or connected. Given my thoughts here, I'm rethinking what I do and how the things I do might involve and reinforce the violent aspects of the U. S. Western mythology. As part of that, I'm rethinking, among other things, my interest in seeing True Grit. I don't think this is the only answer, but it seems like a useful path to pursue.
Some have denied or refused to recognize a connection between rhetoric and actions like those of Jared Lee Loughner this past weekend, while still others have suggested holding off until a direct connection between something specifically said and what Loughner did has been shown, as if only an explicit direct connection provides any basis for calls to examine the significance and impact of rhetoric. Others, though, like Bud Goodall, in this post on his blog, have made compelling arguments for seeing why rhetoric is significant and important in an instance like this (and, for that matter, in so many instances in our everyday lives, including both the ordinary and the out-of-the-ordinary things that happen).
With that in mind, I found interesting that the number one film in the United States this past week was the Coen Brothers' remake of the film (and adaptation of the book) True Grit (something that has been partially the subject of another recent post by Goodall, by the way) While I have wanted to see the film, I have not yet had a chance to do so. I remember watching the original "John Wayne version" of the film as a kid, but I don't remember anywhere near enough about it to comment effectively on the film's story or ideological commitments. Having not seen the new film and not read the novel, I don't feel comfortable speaking much about either of those either. The connection I see, though, is a very general one. Namely, the story is a Western, taking place in the U. S. American West and containing many of the conventions that make a novel or film a "Western." Indeed, David Carr's review of the film in The New York Times calls it "a classic Western" and notes that the film's producer, Scott Rudin, has said that the filmmakers took a "formal, reverent approach to the Western" (Carr's words there, apparently paraphrasing Rudin). It's also not the Coen Brothers' first venture into the land of the Western, as their award-winning No Country for Old Men (also based on a book) also went that route, though it certainly was not a conventional Western. So, while I have not seen the film, I have it on good authority, based on my own general knowledge of what the story is about and my reading of what others have said about the film, that it invokes the mythology of the U. S. West. Now, there remains the question of whether in the process of invoking those mythologies the film offers a critique of them or reinforces them. However, even if critiquing them, invoking them to do so shows their significance in U. S. society.
I'm not going to go too deeply into the mythologies of the U. S. West here, as I'm limited in time and space, and I can make some good recommendations on where to go to read more about it, starting with Richard Slotkin's Gunfighter Nation: The Myth of the Frontier in Twentieth-Century America. Some elements of the mythology include the lone hero figure who both exists on the fringes of society and protects society from dangers beyond its borders; the rugged individualist cowboy figure who silently and with strength goes about his work (and who, notably, is white, male, and assumedly heterosexual, though there are some interesting queer readings of the character, as Jon Stewart pointed out while hosting the Oscars in 2006 when Brokeback Mountain was among the nominees); and the notion of regeneration through violence, which suggests that an act of violence can take care of a problem that society is facing and make everything okay again. These mythologies of the U. S. West have been very pervasive in and significant to the development of U. S. culture and society--something explicitly noted in historian Frederick Jackson Turner's famous Frontier Thesis from 1893, which argued that "the existence of an area of free land, its continuous recession, and the advance of American settlement westward, explain American development."
While Westerns constitute one of the most explicit forms of references to mythologies of the U. S. West in U. S. culture, they certainly are far from alone. Star Wars has been directly linked, including by George Lucas himself, to the mythology of the U. S. West. Star Trek explicitly references the frontier as part of its introduction. The theme song from the sitcom Mad About You called marriage "the final frontier." Plenty of texts and practices use horses, cowboy hats, guns, and other signifiers of the U. S. West as means of identification and promotion. Though not exclusive to the region, states like Arizona, Texas, and others in the U. S. Southwest draw on mythological U. S. West imagery to promote their states, bracket tourist experiences within the states, and identify themselves. A cowboy even appears on the Wyoming license plate, and a vista straight out of a Western, complete with mountains and cacti, appears on the Arizona license plate.
Amid all of this, politics is far from immune. Indeed, much political rhetoric has both explicitly and implicity referenced the mythology of the U. S. West. Much of this has been associated with the political right. Consider the many images of Ronald Reagan in his cowboy hat that circulated during his presidency. Consider John McCain's presidential campaign utilizing the word "maverick" to characterize their candidate. Consider the many uses of Western imagery by George W. Bush--something that Mark West and Chris Carey have analyzed in their essay "(Re)Enacting Frontier Justice: The Bush Administration's Tactical Narration of the Old West Fantasy after September 11" in Quarterly Journal of Speech from 2006. However, the political right is far from alone in this regard. For instance, Secretary of the Interior Ken Salazar is known for wearing his cowboy hat to conduct official government work.
I hope what I've mentioned at least goes a little way to show how deeply embedded the mythology of the U. S. West has been and continues to be in U. S. culture and society. It is, then, there that I see another connection to the events in Tucson this past weekend. I have no clue whether or not Loughner saw himself in any way explicitly in connection with a kind of cowboy or Western hero identity. Perhaps he fashioned himself more of an emo or Goth type. Perhaps he regularly watched Dexter or he regularly watched Blues Clues. Perhaps his favorite films were zombie films or romantic comedies. Perhaps in addition to the many books that have been reported that he owned, he also liked to read the work of John Grisham or of Neil Gaiman or of Jodi Picoult. Perhaps he liked to watch bowling on ESPN. Regardless, by virtue of being in the United States (and even if he engaged with the kinds of possibilities I have just listed), he was not only exposed to but at least in part socialized by many texts and practices that both explicitly and implicitly link U. S. society, culture, and identity to the mythological U. S. West and its ideologies of violence and often short-sighted pride in rugged individualism. In that regard, then, the rhetoric of the U. S. West that has been so dominant and foundational to U. S. society played a role in his socialization and, thus, him getting to where he is today. In a state like Arizona, which is among those that most explicitly links itself to these mythologies, that socialization is all the more likely. Rhetoric thus played a rather significant role in Loughner's actions.
And even if, by some chance, Loughner managed, despite their incredible pervasiveness, to avoid being socialized by the mythologies of the U. S. West, the deep identification with guns, which became part of the Bill of Rights because it was a large part of the frontier mentality at the time of the formation of the United States and which continues to remain high in U. S. culture today, aided Loughner in his actions. Among the many things that the U. S. Western mythology influences, it informs people's fascinations with guns (and, by extension, explosions, shoot outs, and so on in films), and it informs U. S. policies on gun control and people's positions on that issue. If not for the continued identification with what really is an outdated and in many ways overly romanticized way of life associated with the U. S. West, perhaps guns would not be as widespread or as available in this country, and thus perhaps Loughner would not have been able to get one (or to go with the extension to film I noted above, would not have been able to get access to other kinds of weapons and explosive devices). So, even if the rhetoric of the U. S. West in no way directly influenced Loughner (in itself hard to fathom, but perhaps remotely possible), that rhetoric influenced the attitudes, positions, and laws involving guns, weapons, and violence that pervade this country and that allowed Loughner to access the gun he used. Again, rhetoric did--and does--matter here, and it played a significant role in what happened this past weekend in Tucson.
Few can honestly deny that they think that culture and language--both of which are highly invested in rhetoric--play significant roles in socializing people. Indeed, while many on the political right have denied a connection between contemporary political discourse and the events involving Loughner's actions in Tucson this past weekend, many of these same folks have spoken of the need for a "culture war," have made arguments about how the word "hero" should be selectively applied, have decried what they think is the indoctrination of U. S. society through cultural texts produced by the "liberal media" and "liberal Hollywood," and have railed against the use of "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Their arguments on these issues don't work unless they accept the premise that culture, language, and rhetoric matter. So, they can't, then, genuinely make the kinds of arguments they've been making over the past several days about political discourse and the events in Tucson.
Critical studies of culture, media, and rhetoric ask us, among other things, to be reflective--to be willing to examine our own assumptions and see the power relations and ramifications of these assumptions. It seems to me that more reflection on the deeper mythologies and ideologies upon which U. S. culture and society have been built would do a lot more good right now than posturing defensiveness claiming not to be involved or connected. Given my thoughts here, I'm rethinking what I do and how the things I do might involve and reinforce the violent aspects of the U. S. Western mythology. As part of that, I'm rethinking, among other things, my interest in seeing True Grit. I don't think this is the only answer, but it seems like a useful path to pursue.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
If I Had a 2011 Hall of Fame Ballot
Tomorrow at 2:00 p.m., the announcement of who has been elected to Major League Baseball's Hall of Fame will be made. As I've made a tradition of doing here, I'm indicating for whom I would vote if I had a ballot. The first nine are easy. In rough order of how strongly I feel that they belong, they are:
Roberto Alomar
Mark McGwire
Rafael Palmeiro
Fred McGriff
Barry Larkin
Tim Raines
Jeff Bagwell
Bert Blyleven
Jack Morris
For everyone but Palmeiro and Bagwell, see last year's post. For Palmeiro and Bagwell, both fit into the no-brainer category for me. I know that, especially with Palmeiro on the ballot, a lot of discourse this year focuses on use of performance-enhancing drugs. There's much more I could say to elaborate on my position regarding that, but for now suffice to say that I think using that as a criterion for not voting for recent players fails to recognize the many ways that players of previous eras bent both legal and league-mandated rules to enhance their performances. I, thus, do not use that criterion. (Besides, if this really was a Hall of "Fame" and not Hall of "Excellence," Mark McGwire is the only no-brainer on the list, with only Palmeiro, Don Mattingly, and maybe Dale Murphy even worthy of consideration.) With that in mind, Palmeiro's numbers make him a heavy no-brainer. Bagwell is not as strongly definite. I might pause for a second and glance at his numbers just to make sure, but in the end would not have to think much about it at all.
Since the ballot only contains 10 slots, this leaves me with one slot to fill this year. Based on last year, Harold Baines would go in this spot, though it would be tough to choose among him, Dale Murphy, and Lee Smith. The same pretty much holds true this year, and I suppose I would pick Baines again, but that can change from minute to minute, which of course, means that I would, as in the past, need a bigger ballot. All told, if I could vote for as many individuals as possible, I would vote for the 9 above; the trio of Baines, Murphy, and Smith; and 10 others (in rough order of my assessment of their worthiness for inclusion): Larry Walker, John Franco, Don Mattingly, Alan Trammell, Benito Santiago, Dave Parker, Edgar Martinez, Juan Gonzalez, Maqruis Grissom, and John Olerud. Grissom and Olerud made the cut only after scrutiny of their careers and statistics suggested to me that, after initially leaving them off, they belonged with others whom I've included here and in the past. In all, then, if I could vote for more than 10 players, I would vote for a total of 22 individuals on my 2011 ballot. Obviously, I disagree with the likes of Rob Neyer, who suggest that "Exclusiveness is preferable to inclusiveness."
Among the rest of the names on the list, Kevin Brown is the first one left off the list (joining Ellis Burks and Jay Bell from previous years in this distinction). Like Bell and Burks, I might even be persuaded to include Brown. Indeed, even Neyer argues that Brown has at least a case for consideration. In the end, though, Brown falls just short. I would also give a little more consideration (in alphabetical order) to Bret Boone, Al Leiter, Tino Martinez, and B. J. Surhoff than to the list of remaining names. However, none of these players would make the cut.
Roberto Alomar
Mark McGwire
Rafael Palmeiro
Fred McGriff
Barry Larkin
Tim Raines
Jeff Bagwell
Bert Blyleven
Jack Morris
For everyone but Palmeiro and Bagwell, see last year's post. For Palmeiro and Bagwell, both fit into the no-brainer category for me. I know that, especially with Palmeiro on the ballot, a lot of discourse this year focuses on use of performance-enhancing drugs. There's much more I could say to elaborate on my position regarding that, but for now suffice to say that I think using that as a criterion for not voting for recent players fails to recognize the many ways that players of previous eras bent both legal and league-mandated rules to enhance their performances. I, thus, do not use that criterion. (Besides, if this really was a Hall of "Fame" and not Hall of "Excellence," Mark McGwire is the only no-brainer on the list, with only Palmeiro, Don Mattingly, and maybe Dale Murphy even worthy of consideration.) With that in mind, Palmeiro's numbers make him a heavy no-brainer. Bagwell is not as strongly definite. I might pause for a second and glance at his numbers just to make sure, but in the end would not have to think much about it at all.
Since the ballot only contains 10 slots, this leaves me with one slot to fill this year. Based on last year, Harold Baines would go in this spot, though it would be tough to choose among him, Dale Murphy, and Lee Smith. The same pretty much holds true this year, and I suppose I would pick Baines again, but that can change from minute to minute, which of course, means that I would, as in the past, need a bigger ballot. All told, if I could vote for as many individuals as possible, I would vote for the 9 above; the trio of Baines, Murphy, and Smith; and 10 others (in rough order of my assessment of their worthiness for inclusion): Larry Walker, John Franco, Don Mattingly, Alan Trammell, Benito Santiago, Dave Parker, Edgar Martinez, Juan Gonzalez, Maqruis Grissom, and John Olerud. Grissom and Olerud made the cut only after scrutiny of their careers and statistics suggested to me that, after initially leaving them off, they belonged with others whom I've included here and in the past. In all, then, if I could vote for more than 10 players, I would vote for a total of 22 individuals on my 2011 ballot. Obviously, I disagree with the likes of Rob Neyer, who suggest that "Exclusiveness is preferable to inclusiveness."
Among the rest of the names on the list, Kevin Brown is the first one left off the list (joining Ellis Burks and Jay Bell from previous years in this distinction). Like Bell and Burks, I might even be persuaded to include Brown. Indeed, even Neyer argues that Brown has at least a case for consideration. In the end, though, Brown falls just short. I would also give a little more consideration (in alphabetical order) to Bret Boone, Al Leiter, Tino Martinez, and B. J. Surhoff than to the list of remaining names. However, none of these players would make the cut.
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