Thinking about difference

Lately I have been thinking a lot about how human beings perceive difference. This, of course, is an occupational hazard. Much theoretical ink has been spilled on how human societies and individuals deal with difference – psychologically, culturally, historically, linguistically: “I and thou,” “Self and Other,” “sign, signifier, and signified,” the evocative and provocative “free floating signifier.” As scholars, how do we/can we/should we represent people unlike ourselves? What are we to make of physical difference, the most dramatic example being male/female, and the gender constructions based upon those anatomical distinctions? Racial difference which is less physically marked but no less socially important? The less immediately visible categories of religion, ethnicity and class conveyed through verbal and non-verbal forms of communication: dress, gestures, ritual, conversation? Finally, as privileged intellectuals, can we represent those differences without being dismissive, condescending, patronizing, presumptuous, or just plain wrong?

I believe that we can and should speak of difference, if for no other reason than, as an historian, I am required to translate the thoughts and actions of people from the past in ways that make sense to my own time and place. If this can’t be done, I’m out of a job. So I try. Students sometimes challenge my attempts – rarely on epistemological grounds, more frequently on identity-based claims. Every time I teach the history of slavery and race relations, for example, I know that at least one student will wonder what an uppity white girl from NJ could possibly tell them about the history of their own people. On a few occasions, students have said as much to my face. This doesn’t really offend me. I advise them to stick around for a few weeks and if they don’t like what they see, drop the course. No big deal.

Race also comes up because of what I don’t teach. I once had a colleague who told her students that I was a racist due to my failure to include material on Native American history in my undergraduate historiography class. This did offend me – until my sense of humor kicked in. True, Native American history wasn’t in a syllabus that covers the history of history from Herodotus to the present in 16 weeks. It does include material about identity-based history (working class/women/African-American). I cover indigenous history in my Latin American history classes and I also do research on Brazilian Indians, but as she barely knew me, she wouldn’t have known that. Had she, I suspect her ire would have only increased. Not only do I assign books on Native American history written by non-Native Americans, but I am attempting to write Native American history myself. Given my identity, could I hope to do so properly?

Moving beyond academic pettiness, the perception of difference, of course, has huge consequences in everyday life. It typically justifies wars, massacres, genocides, and all sorts of socioeconomic and political discrimination. It should go without saying, however, that although human beings may have an innate propensity to create oppositional categories to make sense of their world, difference need not be the basis of inequality or exclusion. Why can’t difference simply be … different?

When thinking about such heady ideas, I have found it useful to take a step back and observe how children deal with living in the world. This leads me to what got me thinking about all of this in the first place. A few months ago, my kids started taking African dance classes. My eldest daughter was exposed to African drumming and dancing two years ago at a summer camp and has been begging for lessons every since. I finally located a class for children sponsored by the African American Performing Arts Center, a lovely facility that promotes a variety of cultural activities. My youngest daughter tried a few classes and quickly dropped out. Why? She felt self-conscious. Why? Because she was different. “Mommy,” (delivered in an overly loud stage whisper) “I’m the only one that’s white.” Interestingly, despite the fact that her kindergarten class is almost evenly divided among Hispanic, black, Native American, and white kids, and this never seems to have been an issue, being the only one that was different mattered. No problem; she plays with other siblings who are stuck there during dance class.

My older daughter, however, has been all but color blind since she was very small. If anybody thinks it’s strange that this fair blond kid likes African dance, they haven’t said so. The dance community consists of African American kids and their families, some biracial couples and their kids, and some white parents who have adopted African kids. There’s a few African and Haitian families as well. Nice folks.

While going through the whirlwind of rehearsals leading up to the first performance of the “African American Performing Arts Youth Ensemble,” however, one could not escape constructions of difference. I overheard one adult volunteer attempting to herd a bunch of kids running amok into some kind of order, trying to sort out names. She asked Renee, “are you Ruth?” “No, she answered, “Ruth’s the white girl.”

The white girl. Of course, she is. As her mother, this revelation should not have come as a surprise. But in a certain sense, it did. This is probably the first time she’s been identified with reference to her race. Since “white” is the dominant racial signifier in US society, there is rarely cause to specify. Towards the end of the dress rehearsal, the dancers formed a “solo circle” which allowed any child who felt so moved to go into the center and dance while the remainder of the group clapped. The Brazilianist in me instantly recognized this as a “roda” a circle or “wheel” that one sees in Brazilian samba. Sometimes the kids went out alone, sometimes in twos or threes. Ruth went out with two girls but as they hadn’t coordinated what they were going to do, it didn’t work very well. Later she said, “mom, I felt weird being out there with Diandra and Isis.” “Why?” I asked. Whiteness, it turned out, had nothing to do with it. “Because they’re so tall,” she said. “I felt really short.”

The performance, by the way, was great. It had absolutely nothing to do with elitist, intellectual qualms about white people appropriating the cultural forms of the “other.” The drums were loud, the dancing was great, the applause genuine, the occasion heartfelt. My kid was out there having the time of her life, dancing with verve and a huge, radiant smile. She took my breath away.

A final post script: at the dinner following the performance, one of the drummers asked me if I was the parent of the “tall, blond girl.”

I had to laugh.

Out of the mouths of babes

I have been writing a book for what seems like forever, to the point of embarrassment.  I’ve been working on it so long, half the time I don’t remember why I’m writing it or what I’m trying to say.  Like a graduate student that hopes to avoid queries about the progress of one’s dissertation, I dread the well meaning questions: “so how’s the book coming along?” “Are you getting any writing done?”  “So what is your book about anyway?”  I expect this from family, from friends, from colleagues.  Sometimes it comes out of the blue.  At my grandmother’s 100th birthday party in 2007, a friend of her named Connie, a spry, talkative, and mildly irritating 90-something, pounced on me and asked “so when is your next book coming out?”  Huh?  It turned out that she had read the copy of my first book that I had given to my grandmother.  Go figure.  Moreover, she came up with a very precise summary of the book’s main arguments that was surprising in a non-academic.

I began thinking about this book in 1997 and researching it in earnest in 2000.  A few extenuating circumstances – children born in 1998 and 2002, several years of related sleep deprivation, a five year stint as associate chair of my department – have legitimately slowed my progress.  But now it’s time to get the damn thing done.  A sabbatical last semester provided a much-needed jump start and I have two substantial (read overly long) chapters completed.  Since then, I try to write a little bit every day; often I get up early to make this happen.

The book, by the way, is about attempts to settle an indigenous frontier in Brazil from the years 1760-1910. It examines the extent to which Indians were able to dictate outcomes in a context of limited effective state presence.  It deals with how disparate cultures interact with one another.  There’s violence and slavery and disease and exploitation, illicit sex, lascivious dances, entrepreneurship, religious and cultural intolerance, environmental degradation, and a fairly predictable unhappy ending.  In the most abstract sense, it deals with how human beings deal with difference and create boundaries to make sense of their world.

So this morning, I was completing  a section about an Indian soldier named Inocencio who served as an interpreter and mediator for a Portuguese man named Bento Lourenço who was a prospector, explorer and road builder.  Inocencio traveled to Rio de Janeiro and requested and sought audiences with the Brazilian emperor, not once, but at least three times during the 1820s.  This involved walking several hundred miles in each direction.  The local authorities didn’t approve of this fellow wandering off to Rio without formal papers, often attracting native followers to join him in Pied Piper fashion.  They issued arrest warrants.  The Emperor, however, was impressed, and gave the shrewd Inocencio a title as Captain of the Indians, special privileges, freedom of movement and lots of presents, some useful, others symbolic.  My favorite was the portrait of the emperor in a gilded frame – which Inocencio valued enough to lug along a few hundred miles before he was arrested.  Within the space of a year, he went to Rio, illegally sold booty gained from the Emperor, was arrested, reassigned to a new frontier post, escaped, went back to Rio, was arrested again, and sent back to his new post.

As I was finishing, my husband wandered out and asked me what I was doing.  I proceeded to summarize this tale, in a shamelessly long-winded and circuitous fashion, replete with excessive detail.  While holding forth, my 6 year old daughter emerged from her room and sat in my lap and listened.  She then spontaneously made up the following dialogue which summed up the main points quite nicely:

“Oh no, I’m in jail again!  Poopy!”

“Hurrah!  I’m out of jail!  Let’s go to Rio!” (upon repetition, she added “with our Indian friends!”)

“Let’s sell stuff!”

I think she should write the damn book.

On community and narcissism

This week I attended a ballet recital put on by a studio that my daughter and I had attended for four years.  She had moved on to a new studio; I had taken a temporary break from dance altogether.  As the auditorium filled, we both felt conflicted for related reasons.  She, understandably, felt left out as she watched the girls with whom she had danced for several years perform without her.  She found the choreography more interesting than what she was doing at her new studio.  Well past her bedtime, this spilled out in an angry, pouty, teenager-to-come outburst,

I could relate.  I saw many people, parents of other girls, other women with whom I danced for many years, all very welcoming and happy to see me.  But it wasn’t the same as dancing with them on a regular basis.  I also noticed a number of talented young dancers in the audience that I was accustomed to seeing on the stage.  And some weren’t there at all.  I was not the only person that had moved on to something else.

I also viewed the performance with a more critical and less indulgent eye.  The little ones were adorable; their primary function is to be cute and they did it well.  The more seasoned dancers performed a variety of interesting, often playful or moving numbers.  But many in my daughter’s cohort seemed to struggle with the ambitious choreography.  This contrasted with an informal holiday performance at my daughter’s new studio.  While the dances were simpler, they were well executed in unison and with confidence.

Fast forward to yesterday evening: opening night of the Nutcracker.  This version is put on by the studio my daughter now attends and she and a good friend were both performing in it.   Her friend’s mother and I had volunteered as ushers.  Here I experienced a different sense of community.  I had performed in this show last year and thus had gotten to know many of the dancers.  For several months, I have also been interacting with them in the studio.  I have watched their skills evolve and seen them move into new, more demanding roles.  I have begun to know their parents.  So, there I was in the back of the theater sitting on a folding chair next to the mother of the female lead, “Clara,” watching her cry (and shedding more than a few tears myself).

What was wholly unexpected, was my reaction to the first act, the party scene, in which I had participated last year.  I expected to feel some regrets at not taking part, some envy, feeling left out.  There was some of that.  But mostly, I was spellbound, genuinely moved.  In the past, I’d always found the party scene a little boring, a little too prolonged.  But having done it, I felt as if I were there and not there,  simultaneously within and without.  It was as if I was watching myself even though I was not on stage.  Perhaps this is voyeurism, or a kind of narcissism, who knows?  It was, nonetheless, a curious sensation.  I could predict the choreography, the flow of people on and off the stage.  But from the outside, I could see and fully appreciate the complexity of the staging that involves so many people in a relatively confined space.  When on stage, my primary concern was to not bump into anybody, remember my right from my left, and to engage in purposeful milling about.

My daughter and her friend, of course, were lovely in the roles they performed.  More mommy tears.  Then, at the reception after the performance, a number of dancers and parents came up to me and said nice things about her.  Not just about her dancing, but about her essential character, aspects that only people that knew her and was paying attention would notice.  She may not yet fully appreciate this new community.  But I did. And I also look forward to reconnecting with the old one.

On evidence and agency

A recent event that took place in my home led me to reflect, as an historian and as a parent, on evidence and agency. It had snowed so school was closed and my daughter and her friend were playing nicely in her room, or so I thought. Much to my surprise, they even included the much disdained little sister.

While they played and I was preparing for class my daughter’s friend came to me complaining about some orange stains on her hands and clothes. I asked the obvious question: “Where did they come from?”

“I don’t know.”

I decided to do some basic research to discover the answer. On a shelf in my daughter’s room was a tube of bright orange oil paint, neatly severed in two.

Another obvious question: “Where did this come from?”

“I don’t know.”

I have found the raised eyebrow to be an effective tool in extracting information from recalcitrant small girls. Eyebrows up. No effect. So I up the ante and try the furrowed brow.

“Well, it was on top of the computer.”

“How did it get there?”

“I don’t know.”

Well this was a line of inquiry that went nowhere. I gave up, threw the paint tube away, and applied stain remover to the clothes.

Later that evening, little sister, says, “Mom, what’s this on my puzzle?” It’s one of those little recessed wooden trays that holds interchangeable faces, dresses and shoes. It is covered with a mystery sticky red substance. So I try my favorite question once again: “Where did this come from?” I am nothing if not persistent.

Small children are sometimes more forthcoming than larger ones. “Well…. maybe it came from the Hawaiian Punch from the tea party.”

Hawaiian Punch. I knew that buying it for my lowbrow-themed dinner party was a bad idea.

So (with studied casualness): “Where was this tea party?”

In my sister’s room. Uh oh. Food in bedrooms is verboten. Especially sticky, sugary food that attracts bugs and vermin. Investigation is in order.

Eyebrows up. A confession of sorts is forthcoming. Yes, there was clandestine Hawaiian Punch use but no responsible party is identified. So evidence but no agency. Next question: “Did any of it get spilled?” Eye contact avoidance. Bingo. A stern look produces a balled up white blanket with telltale red stains from under the bed.

Emboldened by my partial success, I return to the mystery of the orange oil paint. After some pointed questions and much squirming, I get the following hesitant reply: “Well…. some scissors might have cut the paint?”

Such grammatical contortions make a lot of sense in Spanish or Portuguese but don’t come across so well in English. For the moment, I continued in this vein and tried to acquire evidence without assigning agency.

“Did you see the scissors cut the paint?”

“No.”

“Did you see anybody use the scissors?”

“No.”

“Did you use the scissors?”

“No.”

A search for the scissors commences. We have learned that despite not seeing the scissors that they are blue and purple. The pair under the bed does not fit this description. The other pair cleverly concealed in the desk drawer has telltale orange stains on the grips. OK.

Much later in the evening in an effort to regain some credibility, my daughter confesses that “there may also be some paint on the laptop keyboard.” By this time I’m inwardly cringing, but the damage turns out to be inconsequential.

So at the end of the day we have material evidence: a severed tube of paint, orange stains on hands clothes, keyboard, and scissors. We have Hawaiian punch in unauthorized locations. We have scissors with agency and human beings that lack it. What is a historian (or a parent) to do?

My daughter’s friend’s mother is also a historian. Knowing that arriving at THE TRUTH is never possible we decide to give up and punish them equally. But it also reveals a central quandary: If it is impossible to arrive at a consistent narrative moments after the event by eyewitnesses who were directly involved, then the authority of written documents or oral testimony produced at some remove from the events they describe is even more contingent. As for determining human agency, when in doubt, pick an inanimate object.