Becoming Don Gately

Don Gately, for those of you who haven’t had the time or patience to read David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, may seem like an unlikely character with whom to identify. (and if you’re planning to read this novel, you might want to skip down several paragraphs as I’m about to give some of the plot away)  Gately is one of two main protagonists in Wallace’s work. The first, Hal Incandenza, is a brilliant, privileged young tennis player who, while attempting to give up a not-so-secret marijuana addiction, suffers a mysterious mental breakdown. Don Gately, at the other end of the socioeconomic and intellectual spectrum, seems at first glance to be a born loser. Raised in an incredibly dysfunctional family setting, he becomes a narcotics addict and supports his habit through burglary and collecting bad debts. Built like a linebacker, he has a large squarish head and an ill considered hairdo.

But Don Gately redeems himself. After doing some incredibly foolish things, like gagging a man with a head cold while committing a burglary (and unintentionally causing the man’s death by suffocation), he sobers up, becomes a devoted adherent to AA and analogous self help programs, and ends up running Ennet House, a residence for recovering addicts just down the hill from the Enfield Tennis Academy, home of the aforementioned Hal Incandenza. Towards the end of the novel, Gately finds himself defending an Ennet House resident, a twisted cocaine addict named Lenz who brutalizes small animals for fun, from some hulking, crazed Québécois nationalists, enraged over the death of their dog.

At the end of a brawl which involves the enthusiastic participation of most of Ennet House’s eccentric inmates, Gately is barely alive. He wakes up in a hospital, unable to move or talk, and experiencing intense pain. Taking his sobriety seriously, he refuses narcotics and has to deal with well-meaning doctors who push pain medications that he is desperately trying to resist. We never really find out what happens to Gately. It’s unclear if he lives or dies. But as he lies there, striving to communicate, living in the moment of each tortured breath, each pained spasm, he assumes noble, even heroic proportions.

Upon completing Infinite Jest, I didn’t quite know what to make of it. It is a hugely ambitious and terribly sad novel. The principal characters, as should be obvious by now, wrestle with the legacy of warped family dynamics, mental illness, drugs, and various forms of dependence. Most of them are incredibly damaged. Their lives unfold amidst an imagined early 21st century backdrop which pits Québécois terrorists against an imperialist United States. Wallace depicts, among other topics, an increasingly intrusive media, the dynamics of advertising, terrorism, avant-garde film, higher mathematics, professional tennis, addiction, and pharmaceutical minutiae in bewildering detail. The book lingers in the mind and defies easy analysis. Much as I hated to admit it, I think I will probably need to read those 1,079 pages again.

Recently and unexpectedly, though, I found myself reflecting upon Don Gately. A week ago, I underwent surgery, a “three segment LeFort I maxillary osteotomy with rigid fixation” to correct “severe dentofacial deformity and Class I openbite malocclusion.” In simple English, I voluntarily agreed to have my jaw sawed into three pieces and realigned so that I could chew with all of my teeth instead of just my molars. Once the general and local anesthesia wore off, I found myself asking, “what was I thinking?” And I found myself empathizing with poor Don Gately. For several days, I even imagined that I looked like Don Gately. Thanks to facial swelling, I now had a large squarish head, trapezoidal even. The associated bruising looked much like misshapen sideburns, that, as I recovered, seemed to slide down my face on to my neck.

But more essentially, I realized the helplessness that one feels when one cannot talk. My jaws were and still are being held shut with rubber bands. I can now take them off a few times a day. But at first I could not and was limited to writing on a yellow legal pad. I was also taking a light dose of hydrocodone (Vicodin) for pain relief which wasn’t quite enough. In those first post-operative days, it was impossible to think beyond the immediate present, a present which was characterized by extreme discomfort, utter dependence, and an inability to believe that things would ever be any different. It was truly wretched.

Of course it also turned out to be finite. My face is slowly becoming my own. I can breathe comfortably again. The discomfort is bearable. If I have to, I can speak through the rubber bands; it’s just not much fun. The liquid diet is temporary. And things will continue to improve.

But getting back to poor Don Gately. In his situation, I do not think I could have been so stoic. Being in a situation of extreme pain, when one has limited information about how long that pain will last, being unable to speak or communicate without knowing if one ever could again, would be unbearable. I’d have begged for drugs, all too quickly, so I wouldn’t have to deal with that reality. And that thought is sobering.

A passionate answer to a tired question

The tired question: “Is history an art or a science?”

This kick-ass answer is from a revved up student (I liked it so much that I asked permission to post it):

“It IS both; the skill, the craftsmanship of the individual historian, becomes manifest, if it exists, in the blending of the two in the ‘finished’ work. The now-standard way of finding the eigentlich gewesen, the insistence on primary sources and thorough research, those things that we can directly touch, all these things are the science. The art is the assemblage and the way that the historian interjects him/herself into it, which he or she must, either hypocritically proclaiming objectivity or swimming naked in pools of subjectivity…the historian’s presence in history is an inevitability too often closeted.

I want history that is out of this closet. I want history that I can touch, breath, feel; I want history that scares me, that staggers me, that sets me back, that’s too dangerous to know, that makes me laugh and makes me cry and makes me sick, history that pulls me deeply, darkly within it and then throws me back out like my puppy spits a hidden carrot out of her kibble.

And I want it without footnotes.

* * * * * * * *

And for the record, it’s stuff like this that makes me love teaching.

Engels and patriarchy

Perhaps it’s no surprise that the man who described monogamous marriage at its best as “a wedded life of leaden boredom which is described as domestic bliss” might inspire some additional commentary. (He never formally married by the way). His cynicism about middle class marriage aside, is Engels’s broader argument about the material bases of gender inequality convincing? Or as David commented, only partly tongue in cheek, are men inherently jerks who subordinate women simply because they can? Rebecca has asked me to post the following in hopes of continuing yesterday’s conversation.

Right before the break, we discussed the impact of marriage on modern times and the role of women in past and contemporary marriage pairs. This made me think of an article I read in Ms. magazine awhile back. It discusses the role of the housewife in relation to the phenomenon of Desperate Housewives. I personally have never seen the show, but the large following ensures that I know a little about the plot. Basically, how does popular culture affect our understanding of what is acceptable in terms of marriage? A couple years ago, it was Sex and the City (another show I’ve never seen), which portrayed the ability of single women to live their own, independent lives. I know at the end, however, they all had their fairy tale ending, complete with true love and a man in the picture. Going from that supposedly independent lifestyle to Desperate Housewives seems a little backward to me. This may not seem directly related to Engels but am a fan of relating theory to present day life and how various things affect culture. Below is the link for the article in Ms.

http://www.msmagazine.com/spring2005/housewifewars.asp

Also, below here is Heidi Hartman’s article in Signs.

http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0097-9740%28198121%296%3A3%3C366%3ATFATLO%3E2.0.CO%3B2-Q

About the issue of work…Engels demonstrates the division of labor as detrimental to women for several reasons. First, once men’s “work” starts being monetarily rewarded, they are given dominion over women’s “work” that is usually unpaid. Second, when men start working outside of the home, there is a clear demarcation of where supposedly valued work should be performed. Thus women get marginalized and their activities are deemed inferior. Jeanne Boydston’s Home and Work discusses this idea and analyzes the historic transformation of women’s value in the capitalistic society. I am just wondering how given this information and the ever present notion that housework is not actually “work”, how do we as supposedly enlightened people overcome this dichotomy? It’s rather depressing because still women do the majority of housework despite their increased participation in the “workforce” (which is a problematic term, but I’ll let it go for now).

Comments?

To Bestemor on her 100th Birthday

When I was a kid, I really liked the idea of having a Bestemor. Bestemor is Norwegian for grandmother – literally best mother – which I thought was much more friendly than grandmother. As a child, of course, I didn’t really understand that “grand” in the British sense really meant “splendid,” “great,” “wonderful.” So I found it a bit imposing. Best mother fit better. Your real mother was more likely to swat you on the butt for doing something naughty; your best mother was more likely to sneak you a really decadent butter cookie (that she had baked herself) when nobody was looking.

Not surprisingly, many of my memories of my Bestemor have to do with food. She kept a lovely garden from which came strawberry-rhubarb pie, gooseberries and other yummy produce. There was usually a cat that liked to live in the garden and get handouts on the back porch. At holidays, we had Norwegian appetizers – exotic cheeses and little bits of herring – on quintessentially American Sociables crackers. We served ourselves with elegant little pewter forks and knives.

As I got older, my Bestemor developed more dimensions. I remember how she cared for my grandfather (a.k.a. Bestefar) singlehandedly over a decade as he became more and more debilitated from a series of strokes. In her 70s, she learned to drive. After he died, she and her friend Evelyn took road trips together, to Virginia and other places.

When I decided to become a historian, I remember repeated attempts to get her to talk about her own history. After all, she lived through World War I. I had pictures of her in flapper dresses and hats. She has witnessed the beginning of the petroleum age and the beginning of its end. However, she really wasn’t that interested in talking about the past. She made it clear to me, without actually saying so, that the “good old days” were not always so good; that there is nothing particularly glamorous or memorable about being one of nine children growing up in a cramped home in Oslo, about impoverishment or having to leave one’s home for economic reasons. Her present was more palatable and she preferred to live in it. And I had to respect that. And I became a little more aware of the boundaries that historical subjects might impose on overly eager inquisitors.

However, I have picked up snippets over the years. I know about her and my grandfather’s peddling bootleg whiskey in the Bronx; how she birthed and fed her babies (sample diets for a six month old included “half a strip of bacon – broiled”); about dealing with rationing and working at a fish market during the second World War; that, unlike her friends, she refused to destroy her wedding china just because it had been manufactured in Japan. I have material artifacts – her mother’s krumkake iron, her cheese plane, pewter serving pieces, photos, an embroidered tablecloth, a traditional Norwegian dress, and the infamous Noritake china. But there is a lot I don’t know and never will.

One of my fondest memories dates from when I got divorced. When I first told her, she was shocked, as I expected, and I braced myself for disapproval. Instead, after a measured silence, she began to tell me stories of friends of hers that had been locked into bad marriages for decades. For them at that time, the only out was widowhood. Without saying so directly, I felt that while she might not have entirely approved, at least she understood my choice.

I remarried and Bestemor attended the wedding, looking magnificent, in her late 80s, with her erect carriage and fancy pink dress. (For my first marriage, she had been unable to find anything that didn’t look too staid and ultimately bought a very flattering dress in the juniors’ department!) When I had my first child, Bestemor became “Oldemor,” or Old Mother to my children. But she will always be Bestemor to me.

I have moved away, so my children don’t know her the way I did, except when they look in the mirror and see her features imprinted on their faces. And when they eat her traditional recipes which I make during the holidays. But as we celebrate her birthday with her, I hope they will be able to appreciate, if only in a small sense, the magnificent woman she is. Not just the “old” mother, but the many women she has been during her life.

On death, history, and historians

I’m at Echo Lake camp on Mt. Desert Island in Maine, an evocative site to address this particular theme. Some fifteen years ago, my sisters, dad and myself, deposited a good portion of my mother’s ashes, off the “little dock” overlooking the lake. Actually, this is not entirely accurate as the original dock no longer exists. Formerly a simple square structure with an intimate connection to the lake, it was rebuilt some years ago and is now a handsome octagon, considerably more elevated from the water, and surrounded by a tasteful fence, no doubt to comply with the advice of legal counsel. Moreover, my mother’s remains could more accurately have been described as “gravel” rather than ashes. I still remember what seemed to be an excessively loud “plink, plink, plink,” as they hit the water. We hadn’t actually asked permission to scatter her there and I thought the noise might have attracted attention. I like to imagine that I can see bits of her glinting up through the water; for a while, one could. But by now, they have no doubt migrated farther in, lost to view, if not to my fancy.

Incidentally, the little dock (the former one) was also the place where I was kissed for the first time. So the site has multiple meanings for me. But I digress, back to my subject.

About a year ago, I thought a lot about the connection between history and death, at least in theoretical terms. At the time, I had the good fortune to have a student that harried me mercilessly about my choice of profession. He found the premises on which he believed history to be based to be intellectually bankrupt and ultimately unsustainable. Twice a week I attempted to defend myself and my discipline and in so doing, I gave serious thought to why I am a historian and what purpose history serves.

So one day I confessed that one of the reasons (among others) that I find historical research compelling is that it provides a means to defy death. He countered – did I write to ensure my own immortality? Hardly. I’m under no illusions about the longevity of my historical writings or that of my audience, which, if I’m lucky, MIGHT outlast me. Rather, I was referring to the ability of the historian to resurrect the dead. We can rescue people from obscurity (or not), breathe life into them, and recreate them, albeit in terms they probably would neither recognize nor approve.

Being a historian may give one a marginal advantage in representing the dead, but recent experience suggests that it doesn’t really help at all in dealing with the reality of death or the threat thereof. I speak here of a co-worker’s adolescent son in a coma as a result of a drunk driver’s poor judgment, of my best friend in Brazil who is about to undergo surgery to remove a brain tumor, and of course, the recent tragic death of my colleague, Tim Moy. Tim was a professor of the history of science, a voice of reason in the debate on creationism vs. evolution in the public schools, a consummate bureaucrat in the best sense of the word, a revered teacher and advisor, a devoted husband to his wife, and father to his son.

One can take some small comfort in the manner of Tim’s dying. Drowned while attempting to rescue his son in the coastal waters of Oahu, he committed the ultimate parental sacrifice. Most parents, if asked, would probably say they would die for their children. Thankfully, few of us are put to the test. Tim was – and his courage enabled his son to survive.

To put this in perspective, however, I find myself turning not to history, but to fictional role models that we both held dear. When we weren’t embroiled in memos or sub-committees, Tim and I talked about Star Trek or Harry Potter, more often than not. The last conversation I had with him just before he left for Hawaii consisted of speculations about Harry’s fate in Deathly Hallows. The parallels proved almost eerie. I could not help but think of Harry’s willingness to sacrifice himself for his friends, for his real family in the wizarding world. Tim’s death coincided with the release of Deathly Hallows and as millions of readers were learning of Harry’s fate, Tim was battling to save his son. Harry, of course, is a fictional character who ultimately was spared despite his noble intentions. Tim was not so fortunate, nor were those who knew and loved him. But unlike many of the stereotypical heroes of history that die in the name of political ambition or ideals, Tim died simply because of his love for his child. There is really nothing more honorable or historically significant than that. Rest in peace, Tim.

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.

Ideology and Imperialism

Yesterday we began a very interesting discussion towards the end of class about the origins and nature of U.S. Imperialism. The debate addresssed intentionality – were policy statements and ideological constructs (like the Monroe Doctrine and Manifest Destiny respectively), mere window dressing to justify more sinister political and economic aims? Or did they represent sincere and well intentioned beliefs that went awry in practice? Or a combination of the two? Other questions had to do with distinctions among Imperialism, neo-imperialism, economic imperialism, etc.

It would be presumptuous of me to attempt a definitive definition of Imperialism. Additionally it would consume more time than I have available today. But I invite all of you to continue this discussion by posting comments.

Clayton-Bulwer treaty revisited

The Clayton-Bulwer Treaty was signed on April 19, 1850 by U.S. Secretary of State John M. Clayton, and British diplomat, Sir Henry Bulwer. By 1850, the British had already established significant territorial claims in Belize, the Mosquito Coast and the Bay Islands. However, the treaty sidestepped territorial issues and focused on policy regarding a proposed inter-oceanic canal. Both nations had researched the possibility but neither wanted to assume the costs of the project at that time. Essential passages of the treaty stated that neither power, “will ever obtain or maintain for itself any exclusive control over the said ship canal … that neither will ever erect or maintain any fortifications commanding the same … or occupy, or fortify, or colonize or assume, or exercise any dominion over Nicaragua, Costa Rica, the Mosquito coast, or any part of Central America.” Essentially a canal would be pursued jointly by both nations or not at all. Complete text of the “Convention Between the United States of America and Her Britannic Majesty, April 19, 1850,” can be found at http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/history/johnson/cb.htm

However, the status of pre-existing British claims in Nicaragua and Honduras that might enable Great Britain to assert control over a future canal remained unresolved. The US argued that the convention should be applied retoactively; the British clearly disagreed when they named the Bay Islands a British colony in 1852. A compromise was reached in 1859-60 when Great Britain ceded claims on the Bay Islands and Mosquito coast and was awarded greater latitude with respect to Belize.

The treaty (with respect to its canal policy) came to be seen in the US as a betrayal of the Monroe doctrine and by 1880, US presidents began seeking ways to overturn it. The Hay-Pauncefote Treaty (signed in 1901, ratified in 1902) replaced the Clayton-Bulwer Treaty, and provided the means for the US to build a canal independently. This concession on the part of Great Britain reflects the changing international status of the US following the Spanish American War and growing concerns with the balance of power in Europe, particularly with respect to Germany.

Q: Julio asks, “what is the origin of the term gaucho?”

A: According to www.paginadogaucho.com, a Brazilian site, the word comes from Guarani – guahu, “the howl of a dog” with the pronoun, che, “ my,” resulting in “people who sing sadly.” I think this translates to melancholy, a supposedly gaucho characteristic. Another theory links it to the Guarani mispronunciation of garrocha, a kind of scythe. Some have argued that it is a corruption of the French word “gauche,” (farfetched to my mind). Wikipedia attributes the etymology of gaucho to the Quechua huachu (orphan, vagabond) or the Arabic chaucho (a type of whip used in herding animals). An online dictionary claims it derives from Araucanian (a Southern Cone indigenous language) cauchu “wanderer.” (www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=gaucho)

If you are completely confused by this point, you are not alone. The ever-helpful pagina do gaucho informs us that in 1925, an Argentine journal sponsored a roundtable to clarify the term’s definition. Thirty intellectuals debated the matter and failed to arrive at a consensus. The term with its present meaning first appeared in Spanish texts and dictionaries in the 1780s, signifying a wandering cattleman (presumed a rustler or thief) of the pampas.

I love the Internet. Thanks to Google I did not have to go to the library to check out Richard Slatta’s Gauchos and the Vanishing Frontier (U. of Nebraska, 1983). However, if you would like more information, it’s a decent social history of Buenos Aires.

As an aside, if you google “gaucho” and “etymology” you will come up with a link that takes you to a very intriguing short story by Jorge Luis Borges entitled “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,” that might change how you think about history. It may be found at aegis.ateneo.net/fted/tlontext.htm

Got a question? General advice column for students

Here is a place to post general questions about course content, about research, and about academic life in general. For topics that might be of general interest, I will start a new thread. My office is always open but if you get struck by a random thought and want a quick answer, or if you want advice about a general issue but prefer to remain anonymous, here’s your opportunity.