Goodbye, Again, College Football

Last week, the Indiana University Hoosiers football team won the national college football championship. It provided a heck of a story, as a football program that had historically been not very good rose to become an undefeated champion in just a couple of years. Some folks even invested in some considerable hyperbole, such as suggesting that the Indiana football team had “saved” college football.

Years ago, I quit following college football, as I documented on this blog. In recent years, I had allowed myself to gravitate back into following it again somewhat. I’ve enjoyed sports, including college football, since I was a kid, and I wanted to feel that entertainment again. Yet, even as I followed this year, I repeatedly returned to the concerns that led me to give college football up years ago. For example, when I read about the Texas Tech donor whose money essentially made the university into a football contender and who now has considerable influence at that university (and, to boot, was even characterized in the article to which I have linked as possibly “fixing” college football), I felt rather disgusted. It seems like no one should have that degree of power, and if they do, that they would invest their resources so heavily in football seems inappropriate. My reaction is compounded when I consider that specific example alongside the Texas Tech system this fall prohibiting faculty from being able to teach the idea that there are more than two genders. The entire situation seems emblematic of misplaced priorities in U.S. society, aligning with my thoughts when I gave up college football years ago. In a market-driven economy that uses the logic of that economy to justify expenditures on college football, I feel compelled to spend my time and money elsewhere and to encourage others to do the same. Especially at a time when education, the arts and humanities, scientific research, and so many other things that are vital to universities are under attack and losing funding, I can’t justify contributing to the inequitable financial resources thrown at college football.

To add to this, in the week before that college football national championship game, I read a nationally syndicated column arguing for universities to lose their nonprofit status and the tax advantages that go with that. The argument was predicated on the amount of money flowing into college football. The columnist admitted that, despite his concerns, he would be watching the national championship game. This seemed not only like a case of being unwilling to address one’s own complicity in a problem one has identified, but also a case of mistaking college football financial success with supposed financial success of universities themselves. As I see the significant budgetary drains that occur within the educational, research, and creative parts of universities, the argument in the column becomes particularly obnoxious. On the one hand, if we want to have a philosophical debate about whether universities should be considered nonprofit organizations and receive tax breaks because of it, I’m willing to engage in that discussion. On the other hand, on a pragmatic level, if we did remove those tax breaks and universities now had to account for that in their budgets, do you think for one moment in the current situation that it’s the college football teams that are going to bear the brunt of that? Over the last couple of decades, we have seen expenditures on bigtime university athletics soar at the same time as other aspects of those very same universities, most notably the educational services that are the core of the universities, face even greater budgetary constraints. I see no reason to expect that further economic constraints on the university will go any other way, unless those constraints directly impact the bigtime athletic programs, whether through required reductions in funding to those programs; mandated additional flow of financial resources from those programs to other areas of the universities; or, as in the market-driven response I have advanced, less people consuming the sports. (Of course, maybe other educational services bearing the brunt of the budget cuts is exactly what folks such as that columnist ultimately want and just aren’t explicitly saying.)

In the end, I’m back to where I was in 2012 when I gave up college football. I’d really like to follow it, getting back into my pattern of putting it on television and radio on Saturdays and on weekday evenings in the fall. I can’t in good conscience do so, though. As much as I have let myself drift back into college football, I have to force myself back out. It’s not about saving college football; it’s about saving all the other, frankly more important, things that go on at higher education institutions. 

American Ambiguity

As someone whose positions generally place on what is considered the political left, I did not, as USA Today columnist Ingrid Jacques suggested, “lose my mind” when I found out about American Eagle’s ad campaign featuring Sydney Sweeney. I hadn’t even heard about it until I read Jacques’ column about it, and I didn’t follow up reading the column by burning, mutilating, refusing to wear, or doing anything else to my American Eagle jeans, which I do own and some of which I just purchased earlier this summer. That said, American Eagle’s campaign warrants critique.

On the one hand, the advertisement is clearly built around the play on words between “gene” and “jean,” and it’s quite possibly not intended as a more serious statement about someone’s genetics. Additionally, while the advertisement discusses genes, it does not directly state that Sydney Sweeney has good “genes”; rather, it states that she has good “jeans,” which of course, is meant to offer a value statement about the brand being represented. American Eagle jeans, the advertisement clearly intends us to think, are “good” jeans.” 

On the other hand, it would be disingenuous to argue that the advertisement is not implying that Sydney Sweeney has good “genes” as well. The play on words, framed by discussion of genes, doesn’t work without the implication.

The idea that Sydney Sweeney has “good genes” in that she is objectively physically attractive is a cultural one. This is not to say that she is or that she isn’t physically attractive. It is to say that such a statement either way is culturally bound. There is no universal truth outside of particular time-and-place-bound human perspectives that Sydney Sweeney is physical attractive (or that she is not, for that matter). Meanwhile, as a white woman of particular body dimensions, Sweeney fits historical notions of feminine beauty that have been not only dominant but explicitly built and promoted within practices of racism that have accompanied European and European-based United States cultures. As such, with its implication that Sydney Sweeney has good genes, the American Eagle advertisement hails a history of racist ideas about beauty.

Yet, the advertisement is (I would guess deliberately) ambiguous in doing so. The implication that Sydney Sweeney has good genes is not necessarily an implication that other people do not have good genes. For instance, if I tell someone they did good work or they look nice, that doesn’t necessarily mean that I think other folks didn’t do good work or don’t look nice. American Eagle’s response to criticism of its advertisement relies on this ambiguity, stating how their jeans are for “everyone,” as if to cement the idea that implying Sweeney’s good genes doesn’t mean they are implying other people do not have good genes.

As I consider all of this, I don’t think American Eagle is Nazi propaganda or attempting to evoke eugenic violence. That said, if American Eagle executives uttered the kinds of judgmental statements Abercrombie and Fitch executive Mike Jeffries once did, I would reconsider my assessment of what they are trying to do. Still, even if American Eagle does not intentionally invoke white supremacy, a good deal of racism throughout U.S. history has been perpetuated through ambiguity, and the Sydney Sweeney advertisement occurs within the context of that history.

In the column I referenced at the beginning of this post, Ingrid Jacques connects criticism of the American Eagle to what she claims to be the problems of diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives. As part of her discussion, she writes, “Whether progressives want to admit it, the country is still majority White and these Americans are tired of being made to feel evil or unworthy simply because of their immutable characteristics. No one should be made to feel that way.” The reference to a white “majority” in the United States suggests a judgment of their opinion mattering more than other folks’ opinions, which draws on the same kinds of problematic histories as the American Eagle advertisement. Beyond that, the very sentiment Jacques’ statement offers when she states that no one should be made to feel evil or unworthy simply because of their immutable characteristics is exactly at the heart of diversity, equity, and inclusion work. No one should be made to feel the way Jacques describes, and that’s exactly why the American Eagle advertisement warrants criticism. The advertisement corresponds with U.S. cultural notions that white people have good genes and folks who are not white do not, and thus that based on immutable characteristics, folks who are not white are not as worthy as white people. Ambiguity not only does not change that; it reinforces it.

The Day I Struggle Most to Be a Major League Baseball Fan

Thursday, July 31, at 6:00 p.m. is Major League Baseball's trade deadline. Some baseball fans and pundits consider this as an exciting time as teams make deals, acquistions, etc. It's become a prominent pseudoevent on the Major League Baseball calendar. Yet, as a baseball fan, this is perhaps the one moment every year that most makes me question my interest in following Major League Baseball. Those players who are dealt, acquired, etc. are people. So, all this excitement built around the trade deadline is actually excitment about people being moved about like property. Sure, some players, such as Nolan Arenado, have negotiated rights that allow them to veto this treatment or have a say in the process. Yet, by and large, the activity remains a relic of the system of labor that Curt Flood compared to slavery when he challenged MLB's reserve clause more than fifty years ago.

I continue to follow Major League Baseball, and because of that I have to acknowledge my complicity in this system. I suppose that because the players' union, which has been quite powerful and influential for the past six decades, has agreed to these terms, I am willing to live with them. At the same time, particularly as the trade hype crescendoes at this time each year, I would like to see that hype balanced with more stories that recognize more fully the humanity of the people involved and the real human effects of what happens when baseball players are traded. Even more, I'd love to see the practice of trading players (at least without their consent) abolished.

The Humanity of Donald Trump (Redux)

Eight years ago, when Donald Trump won election to the presidency of the United States, I wrote on here about the humanity of Donald Trump. As he appears poised to return to the presidency, I return to that post.

It's difficult. Trump and some of his supporters have ratcheted up their rhetoric on the very kinds of issues that I and other folks voiced concern about eight years ago. For as much as I strive to see their humanity, I don't see reciprocation of that effort on their part, and that is what frustrates me the most about the movement Trump leads and the kind of future for the country and the world that movement might produce. I think I understand the concerns into which Trump has tapped, and I am willing to work through those concerns. I worry, though, about the paths for advancing those concerns that Trump's movement has been advocating.

I am quite willing to accept disagreements on policy and perspective. Take, for instance, Ohio governor Mike DeWine. I have not voted for him (though I likely would have had I lived in Ohio for his U.S. Senate race in 2000, and I left the ballot blank for his race against Sherrod Brown in 2006 because I had concerns about some of DeWine's positions, but I also still respected him). I don't agree with DeWine on a number of things, but since I saw him on C-SPAN in his early days in the U.S. Senate in the 1990s, I have held the impression that he examines things meticulously and scrupulously, and that he pursues policy objectives with an eye toward working across viewpoints and political sides. As Ohio's governor, I have seen him continue in that vein. I think DeWine cares for his fellow human beings, and I think that is evident in what he says and does, even if I think some of his conclusions warrant reconsideration.

Many things I hear from Trump and from some of his supporters don't reflect that same care, and it worries me. At the same time, I will not stop caring about them. I may get frustrated sometimes, but even amid moments of frustration, I love my fellow people, I care deeply for the society in which I live, and I promise that I will continuously seek to work with my fellow people. To Trump and his supporters, congratulations on your election victory. May we find effective ways of working together going forward, and may we do so in a way that is mindful of our differences and compassionate not only to each other, but to everyone.

In the Wake of Juneteenth

 Yesterday was Juneteenth. I hope that everyone had a safe and reflective holiday. I think holidays are, in general, moments that compel reflection, and this holiday really calls for that as we consider African-American history, including the contributions Black folks have made to the U.S. and the world as well as the obstacles Black folks have faced and continue to face.

Holidays carry a lot of symbolic weight, and as someone who studies culture and rhetoric, I’m continually going to assert that that symbolic weight matters. At the same, I recognize that it’s important that celebrating symbolic significance not drown out efforts to produce practical social, political, and economic change. Additionally, it’s important that we not act as if one form of symbolic significance absolves us from having to address other forms of it.

With that in mind, I’m struck by the juxtaposition I have been experiencing this week as I have seen commemorations of Juneteenth while also feeling bombarded by media stories about “wokeness” in what are egregious misappropriations of the term. Being “woke” is a practice that originates in Black folks becoming aware of the depths of racism and inequity. Historically, it’s not the kinds of associations with anything deemed politically liberal or progressive that now permeate popular discourse. It’s not just about whom Hollywood casts in what parts or what kinds of comments will solicit critique or whatever people mean when they refer to that nebulous thing they label “cancel culture.” Certainly, the politics of representation and discussion of the merits of particular comment people make matter, but contemporary uses of the term “woke” pay a disservice to the word’s important origins. Current popular iterations of the word, which I have seen deployed by folks who define themselves on the political left as well as the political right, erase the deep interest in racial awareness from which the term emanated. In this process, this misappropriation limits discourse in ways that prevent reflection on the systematic and structural conditions that perpetuate racism and inequity. As such, our society would do well to look back on the term’s origins and refrain from using it in ways that diverge so widely from what it was intended to mean.

With that in mind, I hope that as part of the reflectiveness of Juneteenth as we move forward in our calendar, we all might reflect on how we and other folks use the term “woke” and we might take two specific actions: (1) ceasing to use the word in ways that erase its history of calling attention to racism and inequity and (2) calling out other folks and institutions when they use the word in ways that create such erasure.

Wide Right

The phrase "wide right" is affiliated with the Buffalo Bills, not the Kansas City Chiefs, though during the most recent NFL playoffs, "Wide Right Part 2" happened while the Bills were playing Kansas City. Still, the phrase might be considered an approporiate characterization of the commencement speech Chiefs' kicker Harrison Butker gave to the Spring 2024 graduating class at Benedictine College. That speech espoused opinions about, among other things, women, LGBTQ folks, diversity and inclusion initiatives, and President Biden that fall significantly on the right of the current U.S. political spectrum.

Butker claimed his speech to be a reflection of his Catholic values, and he doubled down on that with more recent remarks in Nashville. As Butker stated in Nashville, "If it wasn’t clear that the timeless Catholic values are hated by many, it is now," referring to the criticisms his commencement speech has garnered since he gave it. His phrasing in that statement reflects the broader theme he invoked, suggesting that he has been subjected to, as he put it, "a shocking level of hate." Comparing himself to Daniel from the Christian Bible, he has depicted himself as a courageous martyr who, along with similarly minded folks, is propelled by "our love for Jesus and thus our desire to speak out."

I was raised Catholic, and I went to Catholic school from Kindergarten through twelfth grade. I am no longer a practicing Catholic, as my theological views, which I have discussed to some degree on this blog, do not correspond with what Christianity professes. However, I have read the Catholic Bible from cover to cover twice, and I have read most sections of the Gospels in the New Testament more than that. I still have what in many ways is a Catholic-informed view of the world, and I find value in many of the ideas I attribute to Jesus based on my readings of the Bible. From that perspective, I find Butker's views inconsistent with his proclaimed "love for Jesus." Jesus, as I understand him, encouraged the greater participation of women in public life, embraced diversity, and promoted inclusion (and he may even have been gay). 

I used to get pretty angry when I would come into contact with folks such as Butker and the problematic ideas they espouse. That anger was rooted in my own experiences at the hands of similarly thinking Catholic folks in small-town Ohio, many of whom I sense would agree with a lot of what Butker has recently said. I still feel a little anger, though its more focused on how views like Butker's have been given prominent support and incubation in contemporary U.S. (and global, for that matter) society. More fully, though, I have replaced that anger with sadness. I feel sad for Harrison Butker and folks who identify with what he has said. For as much as they say they love Jesus, I sense that they haven't reflected effectively on what Jesus said and did, and that really is a disservice to their church and to the world.

The Tao of Le Guin

When I was in college in the early 1990s, I took a fantasy fiction course with Dr. Carl Holmberg. For one of the course's writing assignments, we had to choose an author, find three different books the author wrote, and write a paper on a theme that applied across all three books.

To find possibilities for the assignment, I browsed through my dad's fantasy and science fiction collection and considered my options. Tolkien was an option, but that seemed too easy and overused. I already had a bunch of Frank Herbert stuff, and I considered that, but Dune was my favorite book, and I wanted to branch out a little. My dad had a number of Piers Anthony books, and I considered them. In the end, though, I chose Ursula K. Le Guin, and I did the paper on A Wizard of Earthsea, The Left Hand of Darkness, and The Lathe of Heaven. In addition to reading the books, I found some articles on Le Guin, and I picked up on the theme of Taoism. I don't remember the details of my analysis, but I ended up focusing on some aspect of Taoism that spanned the three books.

Writing that paper began my appreciation of Le Guin. I hadn't known much at all about her before that, but afterward, I knew I enjoyed her work. It was so imaginative, so full of beautiful writing, and so full of love. While I didn't read a lot more of her works, I always cherished the time I spent on my paper. To this day The Lathe of Heaven is among my all-time favorite books, and I owe some of the growth in understanding sexuality I experienced in my twenties to The Left Hand of Darkness.

Le Guin passed away earlier this week at the age of 88. I'm not Taoist; I'm much more Buddhist than anything. The rudimentary understanding I have of Taoism would tell me that death is part of life, and so the passing of Le Guin, who was fortunate enough to live a long life, ought to be recognized for its inevitability. Still, I feel another inevitability -- the sadness of knowing Le Guin is no longer with us.

Here I Go Again for 30 Years

I found my deep interest in popular music in the summer of 1987. Sure, I had listened to pop music before, knew words to whole songs, etc., but the summer of 1987 is when I started really following and learning about popular music. It began with watching Dial MTV counting down the Top 10 vote-getting videos of the day, and it would continue into listening to Rick Dees’ Weekly Top 40, followed by listening to American Top 40 with Casey Kasem and within a couple years subscribing to Billboard magazine and religiously following the Hot 100 chart.

I feel fairly certain the interest in popular music I cultivated that summer led me to love popular culture, which led to me to study popular culture, which led me to my career today. So, really, the summer of 1987 was pretty influential for my life.

As I said, it started with watching Dial MTV and the songs that consistently made the daily chart. I remember developing a crush on Whitney Houston, who I thought was so beautiful in “I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me).” I remember Ann Wilson belting out Heart’s “Alone,” which seemed to be the most heavily played song of the summer. I remember wanting to watch Beverly Hills Cop 2 because of Bob Seger’s “Shakedown.” I remember thinking about the word “monogamy” for probably the first time in my life after seeing George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” video. And I remember my reaction the first time I saw Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” video.

My first reaction to “Here I Go Again” was to think this was just another long-haired 80s rock band having a popular song. I didn’t really even listen to the song. I sort of dismissed it as something I would find run of the mill. But sometime soon thereafter I actually did listen to the song, and not only did I realize my first reaction was wrong; I was blown away. This song spoke to me like no song ever had before. Every line seemed to sum up my life and my identity, and the sound of the song itself seemed to emphasize those lines so perfectly. This was my song if ever there was one.

Of course, once I had become attached to the song, I maintained a firm interest in its chart performance. It rose to the Top 10 and then the Top 5, and it seemed like it might stall out at number 2. But, then, “Here I Go Again” forged upward to the number one spot on Billboard’s Hot 100 chart. I hoped it would stay for more than one week, but alas, the song was already well into its run, and Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam had other plans for the next week. So, disappointedly, I listened as Whitesnake fell from the top spot after just one week on top. Still, though, the song that spoke to me had made it, achieving the pinnacle of pop song success by topping the chart.

Incredibly, today marks exactly 30 years since “Here I Go Again” rose to number one. Every now and then, I think that maybe a song has replaced “Here I Go Again” as my favorite. I’ve loved many songs in the past three decades. Yet, all it takes is one listen to the song, and all of those doubts subside. "Here I Go Again" still speaks to me like no other song ever has. Its sound still resonates through my bones, and its words still seem to represent not just my life, but my career interests – the very interests upon which it played such a profound influence.

It's Time for Football to Go Away

Five years ago, I made a decision to give up watching and following college football. While I didn’t as explicitly quit following and watching the NFL, I found that over the course of that first season without college football, my interest in professional football waned, and over time, I have given up the NFL and football at other levels as well.

All of this hasn’t been easy. Football is so heavily built into U.S. life and had become so much a part of my fall routine that at times I have found myself watching a few minutes of a game and, more often, checking scores and standings for various leagues at various levels. Working at a Division I university makes it even more difficult because so many university activities, especially in the fall, revolve around football. Yet, despite the occasional slipups, I remain committed to avoiding football and to get to a point where I never check standings or scores and never choose to watch any part of any game.

You can read my blogpost from five years ago for explanation of my reasons for giving up college football. Those reasons had much more to do with the inappropriate position of football within university power structures than with the physical toll of the sport on its participants. That said, in the five years since, that physical toll has become much greater of an influence on my decision to avoid football. Stories from the past week about deaths playing college football and the results of the study of former professional footballplayer Aaron Hernandez’s brain strengthen my resolve. It really is time to end this sport. Those who run it don’t appear willing to end it or even address the problem in a meaningful fashion. Many of them have sought to downplay and discredit the connections to brain injuries. They are making too much money off it. And so, I’m led to the same conclusion I came to five years ago: within our current economic system, power exists in consumption choices. More of us must refuse to consume football, and we ought to do it sooner rather than later.

When a Member of Your Sandlot Passes Away

Folks who take classes I teach in which we talk about it know that I critique the film The Sandlot for its representations of gender. The film makes the exclusion of women rather explicit, and the implications of that exclusion are all the more significant when we recognize that the film is typically characterized as a “family film.” In fact, my own DVD copy of the film says “Family Feature” on the front cover.

Still, as a baseball fan, the film has appeal because it captures the joy of playing sandlot baseball with a group of other kids. That joy is important to me because I spent a significant amount of my time as a kid doing exactly that. My brothers and I, along with a collection of other friends, would go to the local park in my hometown that had a number of baseball diamonds, and we would play baseball for hours.

Among that collection of other friends, the most consistent participant was Jason, a classmate of my youngest brother, Nate, who shared with Nate and me a passion for baseball – a passion borne out in our shared interest in collecting baseball cards and, of course, in playing baseball together. Indeed, “consistent” is not strong enough of a word to convey Jason’s participation in our baseball games. “Constant” works much better. I think only Nate and I participated more.

Jason passed away Friday at the age of 39. I don’t know the cause. I do know he had experienced some health issues recently, but I don’t know if they contributed to his death or not.

I can’t say I know Jason well any longer. We were connected on Facebook, and there was a little interaction there, but I really hadn’t seen him in a couple decades. I remember that he won my NCAA men’s basketball pool in 1993, and I have specific memory of giving him the money when he won. I remember him working at my grandfather’s drugstore for a while in the 1990s. I remember trading baseball cards with him in the late 1980s and early 1990s. But most of all, I remember him as an integral part of my sandlot experience.

The Sandlot is about remembering childhood. As we get older, that which makes up our childhood slowly recedes. Our favorite television shows go off the air. Buildings we knew make way for newer structures. Our friends and family pass on, and so eventually do we. When these people and things are gone, it makes the process of remembering the joys of childhood more difficult … or at least it makes that process take less concrete form. Sometimes the process happens before it should, and that’s the case with Jason. Still, even though less concrete, that which has passed on remains with us. Jason will always be an important part of my youth, and he will always figure prominently in my memory of that youth.

On the Benefits of Being Snowflakes

I don't live in the kind of bubble that popular opinion since November has suggested leftists and academics like me live in. Indeed, I think many of us don't fit that characterization. Rather, I am well aware of the kinds of things folks of different backgrounds and political perspectives say about folks like me. One of the latest trends I'm seeing is use of the word "snowflake" to disparage us. This is much preferable to other words that are used. "Libtard," for instance, may be the worst of the lot, given not only its implication that leftist and liberal perspectives are stupid, but also its marginalization  of people based on disability by invoking the word "retard" as an intended insult. While not as marginalizing, "snowflake" in these contexts is still meant to belittle leftists and academics as weak.

I would like, though, to reclaim "snowflake," given its potentially positive connotations. Consider that every snowflake is different. Claiming an identity as a snowflake is thus a celebration of diversity. Additionally, while an individual snowflake may be easily crushed, if you put a whole bunch of snowflakes together, you get something very strong that can make a tremendous impact -- a snowstorm. This, then, adds to the celebration of diversity as it recognizes the substantial power that can occur when a great number of diverse people work together even as they maintain their diversity. Indeed, as I write this, it occurs to me that snowstorm might work as a replacement metaphor for the problematic melting pot that has been used to symbolize the goal of U.S. democracy.

So, yes, I'm a proud snowflake.

Curt Schilling -- A Matter of Character

In September 2015 I wrote on this blog about applying the character argument to Lance Berkman when he becomes eligible for voting in elections for Major League Baseball’s Hall of Fame. I had planned to write a similar post this winter about Curt Schilling, who both is currently on the ballot and has a much stronger case for election. Indeed, there’s a good likelihood Schilling will be elected at some point, and were I a Hall of Fame voter, the only thing that would keep Schilling off my ballot is that the ballot has a limit of ten names, and I might have ten names that go before him. Barring that, I would vote for him, and I consider Schilling a Hall of Famer.

I also would not apply the character guideline when voting for the Hall of Fame. To me, it’s a judgment I would not wish to make and that I would not see as something that should play an important role in my voting.

That said, I was prepared to write a post about how folks who can vote and who do apply the character criterion should consider applying it to Schilling. Based on inflammatory things Schilling has said in recent years, there ought to be questions about his character. Fortunately, though, I do not have to advance the argument, because people who are in much greater positions of visibility, including some voters, are already doing so.

Perhaps predictably, Schilling has responded to folks advancing that argument, claiming that they would vote for him if he had said "Lynch Trump" and that "There are some of the worst human beings I’ve ever known voting. There are scumbags all across." His response is exactly indicative of the problem. There seems to be little if any self-reflection and self-evaluation on Schilling's part. In the past, he has made disparaging remarks about various groups based in willful ignorance, and when called out on it he has relied on tired tropes about fictional bogeymen such as political correctness and people getting offended too easily. Now, as he faces legitimate questions about his character, Schilling continues his pattern of blaming others rather than taking responsibility for himself.

Two years ago Schilling claimed that he lost Hall of Fame votes because he is a Republican, a claim that does not appear to hold up when we consider the many other Republicans who have been elected. His current claims seem to echo that sentiment, suggesting that his political positions are at the heart of arguments about his character. Curt's politics do have something to do with this, bit it's not simply the expressing of particular political positions that constitutes the problem; rather, it's the way in which those positions are expressed, the kinds of sentiments through which they are expressed, and the kinds of demeaning and marginalizing assumptions that inform those positions (at least as they are expressed). Curt's losing votes not because he's a Republican, but ... well, frankly, because he appears to be a jerk. And that certainly is a matter of character.

Remembering Carrie Fisher

As news spread a couple days ago about the death of Carrie Fisher, like so many other folks I found myself thinking of Fisher in connection with her role as Leia in the Star Wars films. I’ve read a number of statements and accounts by heterosexual men relating how they had a crush on Fisher/Leia during the time period of the original Star Wars trilogy. I probably did, too. I was of the right age, sexual orientation, etc. to do so, and I certainly was a Star Wars fan. Yet, if I did, I don’t remember it, so it must not have been a particularly strong crush like the ones I do remember, such as Kim Richards in Escape to Witch Mountain or Nancy McKeon as Jo in The Facts of Life.

At the same time, I’ve read a number of statements and accounts that frame Fisher and Leia in terms of being a princess. Yet, while I called Fisher’s character Princess Leia without thinking about it, out of a sort of rote consciousness because that’s what Leia was called so often, I didn’t really think of her in terms of being a princess. Sure, I knew she was a princess, and there were times in the films that highlighted that. But as I’ve thought back on it the past couple days, that’s not what Leia signified to me.

Rather, the more I reflect on it, the more I think I saw Leia – and by association Carrie Fisher – as tough. Sure, she was the damsel in distress in the first film, but her interaction with Luke Skywalker begins with the sarcastic “Aren’t you a little short for a Stormtrooper?” and Leia was the one who blew a hole in the garbage chute so that she and her “rescuers” could escape the detention level. Additionally, the first time we see her in the film, she’s quite willing to stand up to Darth Vader. In The Empire Strikes Back, she’s in a leadership role from the beginning of the film, one she maintains through the next film and then, of course, decades later with The Force Awakens. Much has been written over the past four decades about the complexities of gender representation in Leia’s character, and I’m not going to rehash it all here but to summarize that it’s generally considered a mixed bag of reinforcing traditional images of women as an object of sexual/romantic desire for heterosexual men, yet also challenging those images through her leadership, strength, and courage.

In my life I’ve thought a lot about Star Wars, engaged with plenty of texts and artifacts from the Star Wars phenomenon, written about Star Wars, and even taught a class on Star Wars, but I had never really reflected so deeply on my own perceptions of Leia until now. After doing so, my most prevalent thought is to admire her toughness. Carrie Fisher has a tremendous legacy that includes advocating for mental health awareness and opening spaces for honest discussion about stardom. Her portrayal of toughness in the character of Leia Organa in one of the most significant phenomena in popular culture history should be considered a vital part of that legacy as well.

There Ain't No Point in Moving On Until You've Got Some Place to Go

In the fall of 1990, I was in my first semester of college, just a couple weeks in, when George Michael released Listen Without Prejudice Vol. 1. Having loved his hugely successful previous album Faith, I walked to Finders Records in downtown Bowling Green, Ohio, to buy his new release on cassette tape as soon as it came out, and I made it back to my dorm room with just enough time to listen to the entire tape before heading off to the Introduction to Popular Culture class I was taking. I remember walking to class after listening to the album, completely enamored with what I had just heard. It was neither the first nor the last time I had responded like that to George Michael's work. In 1988, before "One More Try" was released as a single from Faith, I listened to the song so much that the first time I heard it on the radio and realized it had been released as a single, I told the first people I saw -- some classmates at my high school who likely couldn't have cared less -- how excited I was. Eight years later, in 1996, from the first time I heard it, I loved the feel of "Fastlove," and I still play it occasionally for no other reason than to groove to it. Still, my memory today returns to Listen Without Prejudice Vol. 1 because (a) it contains the song that a few years after its release I would come to view as Michael's best song ("Freedom") and (b) because news of his death takes me back to falling in love almost instantly to the last song on the album, "Waiting (Reprise)," and listening to it over and over again just after its release.

To borrow a line from "Waiting (Reprise)," George, "I guess there's a road without you." It's a road, though, that the world is walking much too soon.

The Humanity of Donald Trump

I always try to remember that everyone was once a baby, new to the world, deserving of all of the love we can give. This goes for everyone, even Donald Trump. He’s a person, and I don’t want to forget his humanity, no matter what his presidential campaign has done or what his administration does.

I am concerned about what will happen in President Trump’s administration. The racism, sexism, ableism, Islamophobia, etc. of Trump’s campaign should be causes for concern. The history of Vice President-elect Mike Pence’s treatment of LGBTQ folks is very troubling. Trump has the public persona of a bully, and that is very worrying. Yet, one moment gives me hope. I watched the first season of The Apprentice, and I caught parts of the show over the next few seasons. At the end of Season 4, there seemed to be a good case for both of the finalists. Trump chose Randal Pinkett, but then he said he could be convinced to also hire the runner-up, Rebecca Jarvis. He gave Randal the choice, but Randal said there should only be one hiring that day. Now, maybe I’m giving too much credit it here, and of course this is ripe for critique of the gender and race implications when Trump asked a black man to share the win with a white woman. Still, this seems like a moment of humanity out of Trump. He was willing to say there doesn’t have to be just one winner. He was willing to put aside the way things were done to allow for a little more inclusion. Again, maybe I’m being too generous, and maybe I’m naive, but this is the moment I keep coming back to as a source of hope that maybe Trump’s administration will be okay. I’m still worried. There’s still much work to be done. But losing hope and losing humanity would be disastrous, and perhaps this moment in Trump’s life can remind us of both.

On Trump and the Culture of Racism

I remember the first time I heard the word "nigger." (I'll henceforth refer to it as "the n-word" because I do not feel comfortable saying the word, nor do I think I should say the word. I only used it in that first sentence for the sake of clarity.) I was on the school bus in my nearly all-white small Ohio town headed to Kindergarten. Yes, that's right -- Kindergarten. I was five years old, and another white kid who, if I remember correctly, was a year or two older than me said the word. The bus driver, thankfully and appropriately, told him he was not to say that word again. To be honest, I was so unfamiliar with the word that I didn't even hear it correctly. I thought he said "digger," and of course I had no clue why the word was inappropriate.

I figured it out very soon afterwards. I don't remember how long after that it was, maybe a couple weeks, maybe a few months. I was looking in a book at a map of countries in Africa and I saw Niger. I instantly blurted it out, mispronouncing it as the n-word, and I went to my mom repeating it several times. She must have been so embarrassed. She was sitting at our kitchen table talking to someone who was over at our house (I don't remember who), and her son came up loudly saying this racial slur. She told me not to say it anymore and why it was inappropriate. I said it was the word I had heard on the bus, and she reiterated her response, also correcting me on the pronunciation of Niger.

I also remember the first time I heard the word "jigaboo." I was a trainer for my school's eighth grade boys basketball team, and we were playing an away game at one of the city schools in Lima, Ohio. The school had a large African-American population, and that of course translated to a basketball team made up of mostly African-American players. Some of my team's players, huddled together out of earshot from the opposing team, were trash talking the opposing team among themselves, using the word rather loosely to refer to the opposition's players. At the time wanting to desperately to fit in, I laughed along with the comments, even though I could tell by context this word was inappropriate and I didn't like it being said.

Something must have changed in my attitude by a year later because I remember that as a freshman in high school, I told another boy in my class that he should not use the n-word after I heard him doing so. He physically threatened me for telling him that. At the time, I carried my books in a briefcase. He took it and started trying to damaging it. He went to my locker and started kicking it with his boots, trying to bust into it to damage some of my things. He added a warning that I should watch out for him, all because I told him not to say the n-word.

Later in high school I remember a girl in my grade -- she was white; more than 90% of us in my school were -- telling me that her father had told her if she ever went on a date with a boy who was black, she may as well never come home. I also remember shortly thereafter witnessing her dad being honored at our church -- the same church that was affiliated with the Catholic school we attended -- for his commitment to the faith.

Finally, I remember when the varsity boys basketball team from my high school -- the one that contained a number of boys who had been on the eighth grade basketball team from the incident above -- made the state semifinals during my senior year. The team played a school from Columbus whose basketball team was predominantly African American, and that team beat my high school's team to advance to the state finals. I remember sitting in the stands hearing a number of my classmates, many of whom I had been growing up with since before Kindergarten, saying and yelling out racial slurs, especially the n-word, directed at the opposing team during the game. I was so disgusted that I moved to a different seat, one near one of our parish priests, and I told him what I was hearing. I also told my principal about it a few days later.

I'm writing all of this because I've been thinking about it lately while witnessing what has happened in and around Donald Trump's presidential campaign. Donald Trump's campaign has drawn on and emboldened some of the most racist elements of our society. White supremacists feel very comfortable endorsing him because the things he says and advocates resonate with them. Just recently, someone wrote "Vote Trump" while vandalizing and setting on fire an African-American church. Also, a man who reportedly supported Trump and who had been known to have waved a Confederate flag at African-American folks at sporting events killed two police officers. Anti-Semites, some of whom have used Trump rallies as places to vocalize their anti-Semitism, have also felt empowered by Trump's campaign. Islamophobes have been egged on by the policy positions Trump has advocated, which have been based on damaging stereotypes of Muslims, Arabs, and basically anyone from the Middle East. Trump's comments on Mexicans have also incited anti-Latino/a sentiments around a number of issues.

In the midst of this I have seen people from the town in which I grew up -- both people I know and people I don't know -- voice support for Donald Trump for president. Now, I want to be clear here. This does not apply to everyone from that town. It is, as all places are, a place with diversity, including diversity of perspectives. Many folks from there will not vote for Donald Trump. Additionally, I suspect a fair number may vote for Donald Trump, but they will do so despite him. I can see, for instance, the dilemma of someone who identifies as Republican, who sees voting for the ticket as her or his interest, and thus votes for Trump hoping Trump can be contained. I find a lot wrong about the positions of the Republican party, and so I don't advocate this path anyway, but I can at least understand the rationale. I can also see how dislike of Hillary Clinton and/or how some aspects of Trump, such as his "outsider" status in relationship to government and his willingness to buck elements of the system, might seem appealing. I still find these appeals lacking, but I think I can understand those types of appeals.

Meanwhile, I see a fair amount of enthusiasm about Trump emanating from folks in the town I grew up in and places like it (as well as from, it should be noted, some places with substantial differences). It's easy to try to rationalize this as the kinds of votes for Trump I just talked about. After all, I think people often wish to think the best of the people they know. At least I've often found myself doing that. But then I think of those experiences with which I began this post, and I come to the conclusion that there's a very racist component to many of these folks' support of Trump. In some cases, it's pretty overt. In other cases, it's not so overt, and folks may believe that they are not racist, Islamophobic, anti-Semitic, etc., yet they are products of racist culture -- the very racist culture in which I grew up, the one that produced the kinds of experiences I have narrated here.

I want to reiterate part of that. I grew up in it. At least since high school, I was the liberal one who talked about the Civil Rights Movement, who did things like tell my classmate not to use the n-word, and so on. Yet, even while I learned to speak up against overt racism, I still ended up with some inferentially racist ideas, many of which I didn't recognize until well into my twenties, after I moved across the country, exposed myself to new and different people and perspectives, and dove more fully into my education as I began working on my Ph.D. This is not to claim that I have rid myself of all racist ideas I learned. Anti-racism involves a dedication to being willing to reflect on oneself and one's own practices and perspectives for the rest of one's life. I am, though, suggesting that if one of the more anti-racist folks to come from such a culture has had work to do to overcome racist ideas and practices, then those who have not been so openly anti-racist surely have work to do. In the end, then, this is a call for all of us -- for folks from the town in which I grew up, but also more generally than that -- to commit to a willingness to reflect on the forms of racism that exist in our own perspectives and practices, and to commit to a willingness to change those perspectives and practices so that we do not continue to perpetuate racism. Hillary Clinton is not without fault here. There are plenty of examples of things she has said and done that have perpetuated racism. A similar case can be made for other candidates as well. Yet, Donald Trump's campaign has activated this in a much more overt and violent way. Again, among other things, his campaign has emboldened white supremacists in a way that we haven't seen for awhile. And if you like what Trump has to say, maybe you need to consider that much more fully. Perhaps you will consider that, and I thank you for that. Perhaps, though, you won't, and if that happens, then I suspect you are -- whether you know it or not -- a white supremacist.

Respect: Conviction vs. Submission

I was raised Catholic and went to Catholic school as a kid. I made my First Communication, got confirmed, all of it. Then, in high school, when I was at mass (which usually meant only when we had mass during school hours), I stopped going to communion. I had come to the realization that I didn't believe in communion; I wasn't sure about whether God existed; and while I believed a man named Jesus had existed, I didn't believe he was God. So, because I had been told that nonbelievers and non-churchgoers were not supposed to take communion, I stopped taking communion. My mom questioned me about it. I saw whispering and shocked facial expressions around me. I was told I was self-centered. And so on.

The thing that I think so many Catholic folks around me did not understand is that I did this out of respect. I took what I had been taught seriously, and I didn't want to make a mockery of their religion by partaking in their practice when I shouldn't have done so. It would have been easy just to go along with everything and keep going to communion. I would have just gone through the motions, finished out my days in Catholic school, and moved on. I knew people who were doing exactly that. But I had been told how meaningful this was to Catholics, and so I wanted to respect their beliefs and their religion, and so I stopped taking communion.

To this day, I get frustrated when I see religious folks -- and in the United States, that largely means Christian folks -- seeking to impose their practices on others, whether those are practices involving birth control, sexuality, expression of belief in God, or any number of other things. It's as if they don't want people to respect their religion; they simply want people to submit to it. Not only does that run counter to my understandings of how liberties in a democracy are supposed to work; it disrespects their own religion as it takes away opportunity for others to respect it.

As I have seen recent discourse surrounding protests during the national anthem at sports events, beginning with and emanating most heavily from the protest actions taken by NFL quarterback Colin Kaepernick, I see something similar happening. I see folks mandating that everyone stand for the playing of the national anthem, often out of what is a problematic appeal to support for the military. It would be easy for Colin Kaepernick to just go along with common practice and stand. That would take no courage and little if any conviction. As Abraham Khan put it so well, the argument for standing to support the military is not the courageous one here; rather, Kaepernick's stance is. Kaepernick chooses to protest, and what so many of critics fail to see is what I think folks failed to see when I stopped going to communion. While those critics argue that Kaepernick's actions are disrespectful, his actions are quite the opposite. He is showing respect for the national anthem by investing it with enough meaning to protest during it. If he really didn't respect it, he wouldn't care and he wouldn't do anything. He'd likely just go along with standing for the anthem rather than expressing his convictions. Like religious folks who would rather people do things out of submission rather than conviction, Kaepernick's critics want him to put aside conviction and simply submit to the action of standing for the anthem. Those critics want submission, not respect, and so disrespect is occurring, but it's Kaepernick's critics, not Kaepernick who are doing it.

Lance Berkman -- A Matter of Character

If you've ever read anything I've posted on this blog about National Baseball Hall of Fame voting, you likely recognize that I have pretty liberal standards -- I'd bet among the most welcoming standards around. (For more, see here.) As part of that, I don't put much stock in the "character" criteria that is part of the process. To me, it's about performance on the field, regardless of my thoughts on the "character," "morality," or other such stuff of the players I would evaluate. That said, I think that if character is something folks who actually vote do care about -- and signs suggest that many of them do -- then recent news about Lance Berkman should cast serious doubt about his qualification.

Now, I begin this by recognizing that Lance Berkman is by no means a sure thing Hall of Famer. In fact, I don't think he'll be a Hall of Famer. His 366 home runs, 1905 hits, 1234 RBIs, and .293 batting average, while probably good enough for my very open standards, fall short of or in the same range as other players who didn't even make it past their first year on the ballot (Joe Carter, for example). Still, I imagine Berkman might get at least a handful of votes and some discussion when his ballot time comes. Yet, if those voters use the character test, they ought to examine Berkman's recent appearance in an advertisement against the city of Houston's Proposition 1 -- a ballot referendum that, if approved, would uphold the city's prohibition of discrimination against individuals for, among other things, gender identity.

Here I'm suggesting that in evaluating character, we ought to take into account willful ignorance, by which I mean not just ignorance (as we all have ignorance of some things; none of us knows everything), but maintained ignorance even in the face of clear exposure to knowledge that would keep one from being ignorant. Berkman's arguments about men using a faux "trans" identity to access women's restrooms to attack women and girls fit that definition of willful ignorance. Studies have shown no evidence of patterns of this kind of behavior. And even if Berkman didn't know that -- though it's been pretty prominently publicized by Houston Unites, which is leading the effort to pass Proposition 1 -- a simple cursory recognition of recent stories involving Penn State and the Catholic Church should demonstrate to Berkman that singling out transgendered folks not only perpetuates a demeaning and harmful stereotype, but also doesn't stop sexual assault and misconduct from happening.

So, if I was voting in a few years when Berkman is eligible, and I was of the mind to consider character when voting for the National Baseball Hall of Fame, I would have to have serious reservations about Berkman because of this advertisement. More to the point, Berkman would fail the character test because of the willful ignorance he displays in this ad.

Reflections on this Labor Day

On this Labor Day, I'm taking some time to think of all the folks whose labor contributes through a myriad of ways to my country and my world. Of particular note this year, I want to acknowledge folks who work at fast food restaurants. Amid national discussions regarding significantly raising minimum wage levels, I've seen considerable disparagement of folks who work at fast food restaurants, yet I go to places such as Burger King, McDonalds, and Subway frequently, and I see folks working quite hard whose labor deserves respect, not disparagement. The next time we celebrate the contributions of the firefighter who saves someone's life, the soldier who defends the country, the teacher who puts in long hours hoping to educate our young people, the utilities worker who works overtime away from home restoring power, and so on, let's not forget that the fast food workers who provide that teacher's coffee, that firefighter's breakfast, that utilities worker's lunch, and so on are providing valuable contributions as well. This is one reason why I support -- at the very least -- a living wage for folks who work at fast food restaurants and, for that matter, everyone.

The Long-Awaited Completion of a Voyage

This coming January will mark 20 years since the debut of the television series Star Trek: Voyager.  When the series debuted in 1995, I tuned in religiously.  For the first season or two, if I didn't see every episode when it aired, I came very close to it.  Then, working on my Master's degree interceded; life moved on from there; and except for the occasional instance when I happened to catch it, I didn't see much of the final five seasons of the show.

By the time the show ended its seven-season run in May 2001, I was living across the country from where I was when it began, I was a few months away from starting my Ph.D. program, and I was generally out of touch with the Star Trek television universe.  It had been two years since my favorite show, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, had ended, and even though I had remained a little more regular in watching that until the end, I still hadn't been as consistent about it as I had been in the early 1990s when that show first started.

For Christmas 2006, knowing it was my favorite television show of all time, my wife bought me the complete collection of Deep Space Nine, and I began the process of watching the entire series from beginning to end -- a process that didn't take me too long to complete.  Then, two and a half years ago, when I got an Amazon Kindle and signed up for Amazon's Prime service, with access to Voyager available as part of that service, I began watching Voyager from the beginning.  It's been and off-and-on process over the past two and a half years, sandwiching episodes and sets of episodes within breaks in my workload.  Last night, though, I completed my voyage (pun intended) through the show's run, and I'm a bit sad to see it go, for the sake of nostalgia but also for something more.

A couple of years ago, just after I started watching the entire run of Voyager, one of my students told me that the show struggled for the first couple seasons but found its stride in Season 3 and was noticeably better after that.  I would agree completely with that assessment, and I would add that, in my final analysis, Voyager gets an undeserved bad rap.  In particular, the show left on its best note, as the seventh season contained a lot of excellent work that sought to address conscientiously the interests and complexities of multiculturalism.  From its beginning in 1966, Star Trek has always sought to articulate a multicultural vision, starting with the constitution of the original series' cast.  Still, especially with the original series, those attempts were clumsy, a reflection of a 1960s version of multiculturalism from which the show emanated.  Among the many reasons I like Deep Space Nine so much is that the series addressed multiculturalism with complexity and nuance that reflected growth in understandings of power relations and ethics in intercultural situations that had occurred by the 1990s.  Voyager seemed to seek to articulate some of that same understanding throughout its run, but it really hit its stride in its seventh season in doing so.

Interesting enough, Voyager's run ended just a few months into the George W. Bush administration and just a few months before the events of September 11, 2001, both of which facilitated (though, it should be noted, did not originate) a multicultural backlash within the United States that remains prevalent today.  I wonder if the final season of Voyager would have been the same had it aired today.  I tend to think it wouldn't.  I also, though, tend to think it would be worth returning to where Voyager left off in its articulation of multiculturalism and seeing if we can chart a course for a renewed voyage that furthers that mission. Voyager was certainly not free from critique, but it seemed to be moving in the right direction -- a direction that's worth revisiting and (again, pun intended) reengaging.