random thoughts on a gallery and a national controversy

Where do happenings happen? In spaces, not objects. People gather in rooms, in parks, in stadiums, not in statues.

So what is this predilection for the object, as opposed to space? Perhaps, on one hand, space reminds us of absence. That was one of the criticisms of the 9/11 memorial in New York City. The memorial grounds underscore absence in the two pools that occupy the footprints of the towers, and are themselves an absence when compared to the density of the rest of Lower Manhattan.

On the other hand, space represents chaos, a multitude of possibilities, when many of us perhaps long for certainty. After all, it is clear in today's America that one person's progress (positive change) is another's regression (negative change).

That's why a name like Negative Space intrigues me so much. I wonder if anyone hears it or sees it and thinks...why on earth would you name your business that way? As an art historian, I recognize the design terminology: negative space is the void, the opposite of body, mass, and ground in a work of art. It is the space those bodies and grounds occupy. In essence, negative space is where the art happens.

This artistic understanding of space may seem too lofty, too idealistic for those who mourn (prematurely) the removal of Confederate statues. Was it the statue that really embodied the concepts we must remember about the Civil War? Was it the statue that really encompassed the character of a town, like Charlottesville, to the extent that it could never be altered or removed? I say no, because history exists in space, not in objects. History exists in the fields of Gettysburg and the courthouse of Appomattox. Objects occupy those spaces, surely, and enrich our understanding of the spaces, but they are not untouchable, unchangeable. History is a living record, not set in stone--or bronze, for that matter--and the decisions of citizens, councils, and arts organizations to change objects in historical spaces are part of that living, changing record.

Change is scary. Empty space is scary. But without it, we are static, immovable objects that abhor growth to the extent that we scorn the needs of others. Therein lies my dilemma: what do I do with people who want to be immovable objects?

a developing Ambrose Bierce inspiration

Alt-Right adjective 1. referring to white supremacy without owning up to white supremacy in order to attract followers who previously had no idea they had no problems with white supremacy, 2. bull-shit.

Antifa noun 1. a shortened form of "antifascist," 2. when spoken by Trump, a single exclamation that needs no other explanation in order to keep right-wing voters worked up about a leftist boogeyman, 3. a confusing catch-all for leftists, communists, fascists, Nazis, Black Lives Matter, Occupy, and probably also the Clintons, used by those who spent their days in history class scratching "commie bastards" into their desks.

libtard noun 1. a last-ditch effort on the part of a right-wing troll to assert superiority by confirming main stream criticism of right wing trolls. Origins: liberal (Latin) meaning free, and retard (Latin) meaning slow, or in its modern context, a pejorative description of developmental disability.

rino noun 1. as opposed to a misspelling of the endangered rhinoceros, this is an acronym for "Republican in Name Only," Note: this term is often used without any notion of irony, as most users do not realize that they are Conservative in Name Only, Christian in Name Only, or Human in Name Only.

my 2001

Some thoughts popped into my head this past 9/11, thoughts about my own evolution as a political person. Often I describe the year 2001 as my big transformation from just a kid to a caring, voting, adult; after all, it was the year I turned 18, graduated high school and went off to college. This story has been co-opted by my biggest political opponent, my father, many a time. He prefers to think of my move to New York and graduate school as the event that turned me into a liberal.

I suppose between 2001 and 2007 he considered me conservative. Or more accurately, he had no clue.

As meaningful as it would be to become politically aware in 2001, the year the U.S. experienced the largest, most deadly attack on our own soil since Pearl Harbor, I think my age and my move to college was purely coincidental. The transformation started much further back, when I was just a kid parroting the beliefs of my elders.

What do I mean? I mean pointing to a friend's flag pin in second grade and telling her how good it was to wear it, considering we were at war with Iraq. Desert Storm was the first big conflict I remember, and it seemed so simple back then. Saddam was bad, and we were good; we had to help Kuwait.

Parroting wasn't always so benign, though. I am forever grateful to a Sunday School teacher, though I cannot remember her name, for showing me that my father's use of the term A-rab was not the most appropriate. We were discussing people of the Bible, and little me pronounced Arab in a way that is used to mock, though I thought that was how it was said. Dad said it, after all! Of course, grown-ups say a lot of things we shouldn't say.

I'm grateful for teachers who didn't chastise, but rather corrected and redirected. I don't think I was aware enough to ascribe to any political party, though I liked President Bush. He was spoken of in a positive light by the grown-ups around me. I "voted" for him in Weekly Reader, though to be fair, Mr. Dukakis' name was just strange enough to make me lean to the friendly, monosyllabic Bush.

When Clinton won in 1992, I had no feelings either way, except that our own mock election in 4th grade had the same result. How fun! So I was on Perot's campaign team, and we didn't win...oh well. All three candidates were represented by friends and classmates. There was nothing ugly, nothing negative, about that little play-election.

Looking back, I guess I didn't hear the criticism from my conservative father, or the alleged negative opinions of my mother toward Hillary. Throughout the Clinton administration, I grew up, I grew away, I grew to question. By 2001, I was primed to rebel, but I had absolutely no clue what to rebel against.

The Canadian protesters outside our tour bus in Toronto didn't clue me in. I thought, "Canadians don't like Americans?" I didn't know enough about Bosnia or our involvement in the Balkans at that moment. The whole impeachment process didn't stir anything in me, either for or against the Democrats. I just didn't like the idea of Bill being unfaithful to Hillary. Of course I was sad to hear about people killed in Oklahoma City and abroad. But where do I direct my new power of opinion?

Then the day came, when I woke up to the sound of Dad shouting "Ahab the A-rab has done it again!" The morning news was fixated on the Twin Towers, and later on the Pentagon and United 93 in Pennsylvania. I had planned to visit the high school that day, and by the time I got there, everyone was dismissed early. I shared my distaste for Dad's initial reaction, and my teacher agreed.

Later, I read about Americans targeted for being Muslim, for looking Muslim, and for sounding Muslim, and I knew that, just as the brand new "War on Terror" didn't give us a single national enemy as we had in the past, I would not direct my criticism against one person, or one party, but against ideas that did not ring true.

It would take me longer, beyond the year 2001, to voice that criticism. So I guess I didn't reveal myself as the opposition even then. Maybe that's why Dad was so surprised. Hindsight gives me some comfort, as if it proves that the adolescent angst I felt was all about learning to think for myself and realizing that people around me did not, would not, or would at least prefer I keep it to myself.

this is what happens when I read a troll's comments on my boyfriend's facebook feed

Oh, how some love to mansplain about birth control. And oh how I cannot resist researching articles and studies to shut them down. This time around, I’ve read that having children correlates to a lower risk of cancers, including breast cancer. Well, I’d like to reduce my risk of cancer, so…

You heard ‘em Dan, let’s make this happen! So we get pregnant…wait, it doesn’t necessarily happen on that first try, does it? We could be trying for months, even years. We could go in for awkward discussions with our doctors, embarrassing tests, and painful procedures to create this child. And all that costs money. Will it be covered by insurance? Maybe, but most likely not. See, it’s not just “Hey, let’s do this!” A planned pregnancy can also be an emotionally and mentally draining process that threatens relationships and financial security. And honestly, do you really think I’d have a child just to lower my chances of breast cancer? Just because it’s the next thing to do in life? When there are so many kids out there hoping to be adopted?

Say we successfully create a baby. It’ll be an adorable science whiz with mad verbal skills, to be sure. But it’ll take up to 40 weeks to arrive. In the meantime? How will I deal with morning sickness? What if I miscarry? Prenatal vitamins and checkups aren’t full-proof…there are some scary complications out there for pregnant women: gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, being put on bedrest, constant nausea (worse than morning sickness…my sister had that). And just what is Dan going through during all this crap? Why can’t he buy the right ice cream?! It’s not that hard to read a fricking label! Seriously, hormone levels will be changing; I could become a monster in Dan’s eyes. I really have to wonder…is it worth all that?

Then there’s all the clothes, toys, decorations, furniture, a newly painted bedroom. Wait, where will this bedroom be? Dan moves all over the place, job-site to job-site, and I live in the middle of nowhere. Who will pay for this bedroom? Do we really have to have a cutesy little baby shower, honestly…

And I’m not going to post my sonograms to facebook. Hey, look what’s inside my uterus! I don’t really share with you guys all that often but take a look inside my BODY. No disrespect to those who enjoy posting those pics or enjoy seeing them.

All right, the day arrives! Whoops, it’s not on the proper due date because those aren’t hard and fast rules, you know. Baby could be like me and join the party a month early, or he/she could be like my niece and refuse to come out. That means inducing with hormones in the hospital, or a C-section. I’ve heard about those…my sisters recall being laid out on a table crucifixion-style, awake but numb. That is the stuff of nightmares, I tell you! I’ll be thinking the entire time…that doctor is cutting into my abdomen…I can’t feel it but I know it’s happening. Thank God there’s a drape there and I can’t see it! What if something is wrong, what if the baby isn’t breathing, what if the baby has a congenital problem that didn't show up on any tests? On top of being gut-wrenching, all this costs money. The hospital stay, the tests, the medications, the scans, the surgery, procedures for any of those nightmare problems. Is it all covered by my insurance? Probably not 100 percent.

Quick, Dan! Break your leg so we meet our deductible sooner. Oh wait, that might help financially, but then my partner is laid up with a broken leg. Perfect.

So pretend we’ve got a place to live, pretend we can pay the obscene hospital bills, and pretend we’re all healthy. That’s when the real work begins. We’ll be feeding, changing, nurturing, teaching, disciplining…and I say “we” assuming that, through it all, Dan and I can keep it together. There will be childcare to pay for; wait, have we both advanced in our careers? Oh God, what if we’re trying to do all this with our current jobs? What if one of us gets laid off? This is not just the product of anxiety; it happens to real people…real, hard-working, deserving Americans. What if we need government assistance? How will we cope with the shame? What if people find out? All of that distracts from the real work of being a loving family. It takes a heavy toll on all those traditional values so many politicians gab about.

We’ve got a lot of work to do, but we get through it. We endure kindergarten screening, maybe even open-enrollment, or a lottery for school choice. We go to teacher conferences and naturally, our child is a boss. Because, really, what else would you expect? Eighteen years later, and crap! Did we start a college fund? Did we sign you up for band and sports and volunteering to prove to all those admissions boards that you are special, that you deserve a spot at that university, and that you earned that scholarship or grant? Will we need to choose between our retirement accounts and your education? Hell, will we even have retirement accounts? At the rate it’s going now, just how ridiculous will tuition be in the future? Will you, the child of a scientist and an art historian, choose a technical vocation, and not have to put up with society devaluing you? Will you, our child, feel encouraged to get an MFA or a PhD, or will the STEM rhetoric pass from good idea to all-out prejudice by then?

Through all this, have we provided a good home for you? Has Dan been able to work in one place, and not all over the place, to spend more time with you? Come to think of it, have I been able to balance home and work, to spend more time with you? Have we decided to give you a sibling? Do we have the right cars or trucks? Are we cool? Are we fair? Soon, it’ll be time to deal with bullies, peer-pressure, boyfriends, girlfriends, alcohol and other drugs. There will be the right brand of shoes, iPhones, and can’t you just wear these jeans instead of the expensive ones? They look great on you, so who cares? You won’t care in ten years, trust me. Will you have friends? Will you hate high school like I did? Will you struggle to connect with people, like I did?

Do you know where you come from? Do you see your aunts, uncles, cousins, grandpa and grandma often enough? Are you well-rounded, like we want you to be? Have you seen more of the world than I have? Is the world even safe for you? Seriously, eighteen years from now is typically the time frame most Hollywood productions choose for their post-nuclear dystopia, isn’t it? What about climate change? Are the science-deniers still clogging up the conversation? What about inflation, what sort of economy am I sending you into?

But then again, you could see the next great leap in scientific discovery. You could witness, or even be the impetus behind the next great historical event! You could follow in my footsteps and live in New York, unless it’s under water, or you could follow your father’s footsteps and traipse around Utah on a geological expedition. Unless the Yellowstone supervolcano erupts, then we’ll have to find someplace else for you to explore.

I just don’t know what will happen. But, although so much of it is down to chance, or down to national policy in some cases, at least right now I can choose when I’m ready for you. We can choose, because that’s what responsible adults do. I’ll have you when I want you. When we want you. When we’re in a better situation to provide all of this for you.

We are the ones who decide, not some congressman, not even the president. Not some stranger or some family friend gushing “Now it’s your turn! When are you going to start a family?” This is why I use contraceptives. This is why I defend other women’s rights to choose. This, all of this, is what goes through my head in a huge, 5-second flash right before I ask, “Doctor, would you help me pick the right contraceptive?” It is not easily boiled down to “So you want us to subsidize your sex life?” Or, “Why should I pay for you to be a slut?” In fact, because I use the pill, you don’t have to subsidize my house, my grocery-shopping, or my child’s healthcare. And studies show I get a similar reduction of cancer risk, too. It's a big win-win.

Now, I am lucky. I have never gone without health coverage. I haven’t had to pay full price for expensive implants because that’s all that works. I have never relied on a community clinic or Planned Parenthood for screenings, prescriptions, or procedures. I also want those organizations to be around for others, women and men, so that they can stop and think about all of the above. So they can say “not yet.” And yes, even so they can say “not this time.” Because the choice to take birth control pills, to use an emergency contraceptive, or to have an abortion, is a choice that is made by a woman with the help of her partner, her family, her doctor, her clergyman if she has one and wants to include them.

To be pro-choice is not to be pro-abortion. It is pro-women, pro-men, pro-family, pro-human. There is so much involved in creating a life that is out of my control, that I do not believe I am somehow meddling with God’s plan for me by choosing when. He’ll still have plenty to work with; you read all that above.

Here’s a questionnaire to sum up:

1. Do you have a uterus?
2. Have you had a child?
3. Have you lost a child?
4. Do you have an MD?
5. Do you have a PhD in a relevant field, such as psychology?
6. Do you have a wife, girlfriend, sister, daughter, or friend who has come to you for help and advice concerning reproduction?
7. Are you a member of the clergy who has been approached by a woman for help and advice?

If you answered yes to any of these, you are in the class of people needed to discuss reproductive rights in a sane, civil manner. In my case, there are two, count ‘em, two men only who have a say. Ok, three if my future doctor is male. If you answered no to all of these, I encourage you to listen to a member of that class for their expert testimony and their experiences before you choose where you stand.

roll with the punches

One of my most influential teachers taught me to "roll with the punches," to react and adapt when things don't go as planned. I've been struggling for the past few years or so to stick to that lesson.

When it was 8th grade, and half the photographs for my PACE slideshow didn't develop, rolling with the punches was a breeze. I continued with my planned project, drawing the scenes that didn't work out on overhead film, which my teacher then shrunk to match the other slides in scale. I remember my show, Super Spatula, getting all the laughs it was supposed to despite the odd juxtaposition of slide image and drawn image.

When I embarked on my accidental academic career, I noticed a sharp decline in my rolling ability. And this year was the worst yet. I have been mulling over the contents of a weird faculty retreat that made me question my teaching habits and my role at this institution. During the retreat, we watched a video about the shift to 21st century ideas of education, and I couldn't help but feel powerless in the internet age.

What is the role of a lecturer in a world where everyone googles and cites Wikipedia as a reference?

Why does it matter, though? If people come to my class, that means they want more than Wikipedia, right? Wrong. Over and over again, I find indications that all students want from me is the bare minimum. They want to hear what they already know and think. They want to see what they've already seen. And they want to use Wikipedia or even blogspot as a serious academic reference.

I even questioned myself when I found an interesting link about cave art, which I teach at the beginning of the semester. But the link was for io9.com, a site I'm not familiar with and hesitant to put on my class website. It seems like part of my job is now to teach students how to filter the serious material from all the internet chaff, when they do not want that particular skill.

Add high schoolers to this mix, and it all ends in tears, literally. I cried because I felt so humiliated after the grand high school experiment exploded in my face. Suffice it to say that at the end of the day, some people just expect an A for being there, and if you aren't on board with that, they'll question your professionalism.

Not rolling at all now. Some might peg me as a digital media-loving millennial, but I really do feel like an analog dinosaur next to my students. I speak an entirely different language and cannot connect to them, no matter which sites I link to or which videos I play for them.

cool kids

I'm not sure what it means, that I feel most at ease when bantering back and forth with an older generation of academics in our little corner of the institution. And I do mean that...the adjunct work space is in a hidden-away corner of the institution. They aren't really my peers: several Baby-Boomers with grandchildren, mostly Gen X with kids in middle to high school. I'm one of the oddballs. I know there are more of us, but they don't seem to hang out in the corner.

And the weird thing is that I'm okay with that. I don't really want to be reminded of my own generation anymore. Neither those of us who are "making it," nor those of us who suffer from underemployment. I'm insanely jealous of the thirty-somethings with jobs, and hearing about unemployment makes me ill. It seems the more I read about possibly pursuing a PhD and making this academic thing more of a career than just paying the bills, the more I believe it is a terrible idea. And not in the Hollywood, bad-decisions-lead-to-happy-endings sort of way.

My generation seems to be lost. Or at least I am. Of the two "Xennials" writing in this bittersweet article in Good magazine, I side with the admitted "malcontent" born in 1983. I'm right there with you, pal.

But I don't want to hang out with you.

There has to be some name for it--if not, I could come up with one all my own--this compulsion to seek out people who are different, to be lost in the heterogeneous crowd. I always felt better walking around the city by myself. Having a friend along on roadtrips always made it more stressful. Conversing casually with strangers is infinitely easier than opening up to closer acquaintances.

My fear is that the strangers in the adjunct corner aren't strangers anymore. They ask me about Dad, and I share what's going on in my life outside work. I ask them about their wives and kids and travel plans. Horror of horrors! It's wrong, isn't it? Shouldn't I socialize with people who are in the same life stage as I am? What life stage is that, exactly? Chronically stuck. Circling the drain. Failed to launch.

I just had the thought that my musings about the adjunct corner do not qualify as cultural clash. Maybe I'm not so different from the other teachers, despite decades of life in between. That just makes my lack of those "signifiers of success" that much more painful. How did I get into a Gen X mindset without all the Gen X bells and whistles? Where is my mortgage? Where is my white picket fence? Shouldn't I have those before I am qualified to sigh heavily at the snotty Millennials that fill the hallways and roll through the campus stop signs?

The knowledge that many of my peers have over thirty years of secondary teaching experience or doctorates or families seems suspended long enough for me to derive actual pleasure from hanging out in the corner. There is the IT guy whose phone sounds like the Star Trek (TNG) comm, and the geology professor who yells at the nursing faculty for using the community Xerox machine. Granted, those nursing gals do tend to cause several paper jams.

There are the math professors--all former high school teachers--who tease me over my far too subjective discipline of choice. They tease everyone else, too, so it's no big deal. One has to keep his desk super clean because of an immune deficiency, but he makes it entertaining, writing "No Adjuncts Allowed" or piling furniture in front of the desk to prevent the next English professor from sitting down. The mock battle over territory is a welcome respite from fearing the dull stares of students in the next hour.

There is the political science professor that I could probably talk to for hours on end if we didn't have work to do. And she's Republican. That's how deep I'm in this. I get along with people who I would expect to look at my liberal self with conservative scorn. I'm the only art history nerd in the adjunct corner, yet I fit in.

This fitting in is a very strange sensation, mind you, considering my experiences as a student. Before I stood in front of a whiteboard to earn money, I was an outcast. Now, I imagine we are the cool kids of the faculty. Too cool for our own offices. We can't be bothered to hold regular office hours. Health insurance is so over. Our clique is not impenetrable...full-time staff and tenured faculty are welcome to stop by. I don't even mind seeing students in the grocery store anymore. This is naturally what happens when geeks and nerds become cool.

I'm way too comfortable with this. Where is the angst? Wait, I just remembered I'll never be able to retire. Oh, and my part-time socializing eclipses even my closest relationships that are in dire need of repair. There we go, angst recovered!

I want you to agree with me

I think it is essential for all Americans human beings to experience what it feels like to be a member of the majority and the minority. In every conflict, I try to place my feelings and observations on that scale: am I going along with the crowd or am I being contrary again? This scaling determines whether I post an article to my facebook, or write about an issue here. What I'm really asking myself is, is it safe to let others know what I'm thinking?

The majority means comfort and safety. We tend to be so confident when we just know that most of those around us share our beliefs or opinions. Because I like that sense of safety, I feel the need to agree; I crave agreement as much as my poor self craves approval. Take the current issue going on with the OSU band. I have a lot of friends who are band alumni, and when you consider the larger band program that includes more than football games, I am one of them. This makes me want to say "I stand with Jon" and change my profile picture. To do so would bring me a sense of unity with old friends and even strangers.

So why haven't I done it? As much as I crave agreement and belonging, I look at the issue from a different perspective. That perspective puts me in the minority. The minority, unlike its counterpart, means risk and adversity. Voicing a minority opinion is risky because it can bring about "flame wars" on the internet or even end friendships. That's what I'm afraid of, now. There's a nagging voice in my head that says, "Jon may be a nice guy, but these allegations are quite serious and should not be taken lightly." I can say that I think the university acted rashly and purely for the sake of appearances by firing the director, yet I keep thinking about the students involved more than I think of him. How would I feel, if it seemed that band leadership didn't take my personal safety seriously? How would I feel, if a fellow student assaulted me but justice was never done? My positive memories of the band do not outweigh the harassment any one band member may have experienced. It is those thoughts that prevent me from "standing with Jon" as much as I feel that termination was an overreaction.

I should be clear that even our perceptions of majority and minority are flawed. If I were just some random citizen with no connection to the band, I might not feel like my opinion put me in the minority. I suppose I'm using the two terms in a more qualitative way than a quantitative one, since I haven't actually taken a poll of how many people think A as opposed to B. The reality is that I am closely connected to the band and its culture, so my instinct tells me to hush up.

And it's the hushing up part that bugs me. My instinct doesn't seem so different from the sensationalized picture of secrecy that the media is painting. Go with the flow. Don't you have a sense of humor? Lighten up. If you don't like it, you can leave.

Since when was belonging to a family or community or organization predicated on agreeing on every single thing? It reminds me of the article I read about the #JewsAndArabsRefuseToBeEnemies campaign. In the article, Gutman describes how friends are scared of posting with the hashtag for fear of reprisal in their respective communities. If I take my own feelings about the band and ratchet them up by, say, a thousand, I think I'm still underestimating the anxiety these people are feeling. For them it is not just "Hey, my friends think this, when I think that," but it seems to get at the heart of their cultural and religious identities. On top of that, as the article emphasizes, this "minority" message they would send if not for fear is a peaceful one!

So back to my hunch about experiencing both positions, majority and minority. If you always go with the crowd, you never know that inner struggle. And if you always choose the contrary side, you never feel that sense of belonging. Both are important for understanding where the other guy is coming from. If I let myself think that my friends are denigrating women who allege sexual harassment, the situation only gets worse. If Israelis perpetuate the idea that to criticize the occupation is a yes vote for Hamas, then peace is still light-years away. This idea that "If you're not with us, you're against us," needs to go away.

Essentially, I'm still enough of an idealist to believe that as long as we can imagine life in the other guy's shoes, we'll be kind, thoughtful, and just people. We would be slow to judge and slow to anger, because it takes time to consider both sides of an issue in a thoughtful way. Many a hasty comment or post would be avoided!