Technology

I didn’t get my first computer with internet until 1996 when I entered my PhD program at Denver University. I remember making the purchase at the university bookstore and confidently declaring that I would walk the monitor, CPU and accompanying parts to my apartment on the edge of campus. I had to make two or three trips…the weight of the machine was truly overwhelming. By the time I entered my first full-time position in 2001, computer technology had changed significantly and cellular telephones were in the hands of a large majority of my students. I persisted with my bulky desktop and dial-up modem through those first few years of teaching with the M on my keyboard eventually giving out making my notes from lectures interesting and sometimes laugh-out loud funny. While at St. Cloud State University, I used the YMCA that was mid-way between my house and the university campus. One day I noticed a sign that said no cameras were permitted in the locker rooms. I mentioned this to a group of students and wondered out loud if people would really have spy cameras like 007 because otherwise wouldn’t we see the camera in their hands. This was the first time in a long line of gentle supportive questions from students. “Dr. B., don’t you know that cell phones have cameras?” they asked in soothing voices. I wouldn’t get a cellphone of my own until 2006 (after a couple of years at Western New Mexico University) and only then because my students were moving away from emails and overwhelmingly communicating through text messages. One day before class a couple of students caught me in my office as I was increasingly becoming frustrated with text messaging…again with that familiar gentle voice they asked, “Dr. B., don’t you have all of us saved in your contacts?” “What?” I asked with complete disbelief. “Dr. B, you can put us in by name and then you don’t have to remember our phone numbers.” I was in shock.  “We’ll come back after class and put in all the contacts and show you how to use them.” My students gave me this same kind of gentle teaching again and again. When I left for my Fulbright to Mexico in 2018 all my students beg me to have an Instagram account where they could see what I was doing and where I was. I was thoroughly hesitant. “You’d only have to post once a day, Dr. B.” “Once a day?” I challenged, trying to sound less anxious than I felt. “Don’t you want us to enjoy this experience with you?” they resoundingly challenged me back. I couldn’t argue. The next day they helped me open up an Instagram account and showed me how it worked. I kept my promise and posted a picture every day for a year. I haven’t posted since. 

On October 4^th Facebook, Instagram, and WhatsApp all went offline for six hours or so. On the following Wednesday night, my students and I talked about the reality of social media and their lives. While some felt lost by not having these ready connections to the outside world, others realized their reliance and/or addiction to social media and opened up Twitter accounts (which was not affected by the outage). We had a great critical conversation about social media and the seeming continual presence of technology in our lives. As per usual, they turned my questions for them, back to me. “How did you feel, Dr. B?” “Relieved.” I sighed. While I honestly love connecting with everyone through email and text, I feel an overwhelming amount of pressure to respond, be connected, and use technology. I told them of my love of newspapers and books. While I appreciate the ability to have access to countless books and articles on my iPad, I really do miss holding paper in my hand.  

At the same time, I possess an immense amount of respect for my students who have embraced technology. And thanks to them, I am not a complete technological dinosaur because of their calm encouragement. And, in turn they continually surprise me as they confess that they’d much rather have time with family and friends than Facebook. 

What have I learned from my students?

Introduction

For the last twenty plus years I have had the extraordinary opportunity to be a professor in a university setting. While I was educated at private schools and had some adjunct teaching experiences in this type of setting, my vast experience has been in public universities—St Cloud State University, Western New Mexico University, and the University of Veracruz. The large part of my teaching experience has been in sociology and within sociology, courses on social inequality (gender, race, class, sexuality) and sociological theory have been my specialty. While I have loved my advisees in my major, I have also thoroughly enjoyed the general education courses I have been able to teach because I get to meet students from a wide variety of majors. I had an amazing graduate school education and astounding mentors. Even though they tried to prepare me for the reality of full-time teaching, I had no idea of the true impact teaching would have on my life. This blog series is dedicated to those students who have filled my days, challenged my thinking, and showed me their world. Some students I no longer know by name though remember them fondly, while others have become part of my circle of friends, mentees, and loved ones. All have taught me more than they perhaps realize. 

When Distant Love Is Close and Then Gone

Both of our parents immigrated from England to Canada in the 1960s. Though my cousin, Micheal, had a memory of meeting me as an infant after my family settled in the United States, we wouldn’t meet again until my mid-forties.  

My extended family is scattered throughout seven countries over three continents. Micheal’s family settled in Eastern Canada while my family traversed the U.S. and landed in the Midwest. Growing up not knowing members of my family felt normal. While I had childhood friends who saw their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins regularly, immigrant families, like mine, often find one another which meant I also had friends whose families lived in far-away places. Christmas, Thanksgiving, and other major holidays were either spent as a nuclear family or with friends, who were also alone. Not having big family gatherings didn’t feel especially odd. I never learned to long for or need something that wasn’t there. Strangely, this also meant I didn’t know that I was missing anything.

That was until Micheal and I met again as adults.  

To this day, I don’t know why I decided to travel with my parents to Micheal’s parents 50^th wedding anniversary in St. Catharines, Ontario in June 2014. Afterall, I had only met my aunt and uncle a few times and I didn’t know Micheal or his sister. Micheal is technically my first cousin once removed and his mum is my first cousin as a niece to my dad. I call her and her husband aunt and uncle since they are my parent’s contemporaries. 

My folks and I arrived at the bed and breakfast arranged for us and phoned to let them know. Micheal, my aunt said, would be waiting for us outside their condominium to help us park. I remember asking my mum if she would recognize Micheal. As it turned out, there was no need for this question. I knew so very little of my cousin and yet, upon seeing him, everything about Micheal was instantly familiar to me.

In anticipation of my visit, Micheal planned a special outing for us—a walk along the pier and the celebrated Lakeside Park Carousel. Leading up to that afternoon, he insisted several times that I ride the carousel as much as I want and not to worry because tickets would be his treat. This was the beginning of my love for Micheal’s delightful sense of humor—as it turns out, carousel tickets were only five cents each. His knowing, playful smile confirmed for me my place in his world.

Over those three days, I saw Micheal care for his niece and nephew. Though he had only been a part of their life since his sister’s marriage a few years earlier, Micheal knew all their likes and dislikes and was bonded with them as if from birth. He asked questions about my siblings, niece, and nephews as though he had just seen them last month. He told me stories of our shared aunts, uncles, and cousins and of his trips to England and Scotland to visit. And on the day of the party, I saw him move easily from table to table animated and laughing. 

Over the next year, Micheal and I texted on a regular basis. I learned about his coin collection, his work of over 20 years, and his health. Many of his texts came while he was waiting for treatment. He asked if he could come to New Mexico to visit me. Of course, I said, even though I knew the extensive arrangements needed for a trip like that. Micheal’s dad secured space for him at the local dialysis clinic. His sister would fly with him and then their folks, who would drive from Ontario, would meet them at the airport and drive them the over two hours to my town.

Micheal stayed with me at my house. We talked late into the night, explored the surrounding area, and laughed and laughed. During his five days with me, he had to have dialysis twice and tired easily. I was beginning to see the bigger health challenges he faced as well as understand how others sometimes treated him as less than a whole person. Micheal walked with a cane and pronounced limp. He also spoke with a prolonged stutter. Both were results of years of treatments from epilepsy and other prenatal complications. Despite this, Micheal did not know a stranger, nor did he doubt humanity’s genuine goodness. As for me, Micheal continued to enfold me into his world as though I had always been there. 

Some might characterize our relationship as people making up for lost time. And though we shared an intimacy that might have taken others years to develop, we were never in a rush. Micheal never asked for nor needed a back story. This meant there was no awkward, complicated conversation about my sexuality or gender. Who I am was a given, and for Micheal, not something that needed discussing. I was completely normal and important to Micheal–a feeling so very rare in my over 25 years out of the closet. In turn, he spoke of his challenges as though I had been there for each of the major health scares in his life. The years we didn’t know each other didn’t exist.

Each winter Micheal invited me, with that knowing smile, to Toronto on the day of the first snowstorm. He knew my life in New Mexico and subsequent move to Mexico was as much about the warm weather as it was about my work. I could see his laughing eyes as he included beach umbrellas and wave emojis in his text messages often accompanied with a feigned apology for “interrupting my drinks on the beach.” We settled into a familiar routine of weekly texts and occasional phone calls.

COVID-19, for me, has been marked by relationship with Micheal. At the beginning of the lock down, Micheal texted to ask if he could call me after a procedure he was having. He had to have a catheter surgically inserted to assist with his now five-day a week dialysis. A few weeks later he asked if I could help him find a particular U.S. coin he didn’t have—a tricky feat from Mexico and during the pandemic. To this day I wonder if he asked the favor in order to give me something to do and keep me from thinking about the isolation I was feeling as a result of quarantine in another country. In July, my pup, Scotia, who Micheal cheekily called Trouble, was diagnosed with kidney failure…an irony that was not lost on us. In August, Micheal texted to say he would call in a couple of hours with great news. A kidney was on its way from Vancouver to Toronto and he would have the transplant the following day. Micheal included me in every step. Lockdown meant he only could have one visitor a day for an hour. He was allowed his cell phone in intensive care, and we talked nearly every day. I asked him to tell me stories of our relations and with great care he told me again who was who in the great family tree often incorporating humorous anecdotes so as to include me in the history. We began to make plans for post-pandemic and post-dialysis travel. Micheal wanted to visit my folks and go on a cruise in Alaska–two magical trips. I could imagine Micheal sitting in my parents’ garden and telling us all about his transplant simply as if it had been a visit to the doctor, because for Micheal not only had medical care become a part of his life, he also never saw himself as a victim nor elicited sympathy from others. While Alaska would be a more difficult journey, being free from dialysis deserved this kind of celebration. I began to make plans. In November, my pup died. The days following Micheal was more attentive towards me than normal. One day when I was feeling particularly sad, Micheal responded, “You can always text or call me.” In that moment I found myself believing Micheal and I would grow old together.

Christmas day we celebrated with a video call. And then came his birthday in February—our last communication, though I had no forewarning. A week or two was not that uncommon to not hear from him…and so I reached out after a couple of weeks expecting an immediate response as usual. I didn’t get one. Three days later his sister called me from Micheal’s phone. Micheal died March 26, 2021, from an infection surrounding his new kidney.

I miss Micheal. I miss his unconditional acceptance, his texts, and his stories. I couldn’t have said this six years ago. I didn’t know then what it meant to have distant family so close. And now that I have had Micheal in my life, I don’t know what to do without it. 

Both of our parents immigrated from England to Canada in the 1960s. Though my cousin, Micheal, had a memory of meeting me as an infant after my family settled in the United States, we wouldn’t meet again until my mid-forties.  

My extended family is scattered throughout seven countries over three continents. Micheal’s family settled in Eastern Canada while my family traversed the U.S. and landed in the Midwest. Growing up not knowing members of my family felt normal. While I had childhood friends who saw their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins regularly, immigrant families, like mine, often find one another which meant I also had friends whose families lived in far-away places. Christmas, Thanksgiving, and other major holidays were either spent as a nuclear family or with friends, who were also alone. Not having big family gatherings didn’t feel especially odd. I never learned to long for or need something that wasn’t there. Strangely, this also meant I didn’t know that I was missing anything.

That was until Micheal and I met again as adults.  

To this day, I don’t know why I decided to travel with my parents to Micheal’s parents 50^th wedding anniversary in St. Catharines, Ontario in June 2014. Afterall, I had only met my aunt and uncle a few times and I didn’t know Micheal or his sister. Micheal is technically my first cousin once removed and his mum is my first cousin as a niece to my dad. I call her and her husband aunt and uncle since they are my parent’s contemporaries. 

My folks and I arrived at the bed and breakfast arranged for us and phoned to let them know. Micheal, my aunt said, would be waiting for us outside their condominium to help us park. I remember asking my mum if she would recognize Micheal. As it turned out, there was no need for this question. I knew so very little of my cousin and yet, upon seeing him, everything about Micheal was instantly familiar to me.

In anticipation of my visit, Micheal planned a special outing for us—a walk along the pier and the celebrated Lakeside Park Carousel. Leading up to that afternoon, he insisted several times that I ride the carousel as much as I want and not to worry because tickets would be his treat. This was the beginning of my love for Micheal’s delightful sense of humor—as it turns out, carousel tickets were only five cents each. His knowing, playful smile confirmed for me my place in his world.

Over those three days, I saw Micheal care for his niece and nephew. Though he had only been a part of their life since his sister’s marriage a few years earlier, Micheal knew all their likes and dislikes and was bonded with them as if from birth. He asked questions about my siblings, niece, and nephews as though he had just seen them last month. He told me stories of our shared aunts, uncles, and cousins and of his trips to England and Scotland to visit. And on the day of the party, I saw him move easily from table to table animated and laughing. 

Over the next year, Micheal and I texted on a regular basis. I learned about his coin collection, his work of over 20 years, and his health. Many of his texts came while he was waiting for treatment. He asked if he could come to New Mexico to visit me. Of course, I said, even though I knew the extensive arrangements needed for a trip like that. Micheal’s dad secured space for him at the local dialysis clinic. His sister would fly with him and then their folks, who would drive from Ontario, would meet them at the airport and drive them the over two hours to my town.

Micheal stayed with me at my house. We talked late into the night, explored the surrounding area, and laughed and laughed. During his five days with me, he had to have dialysis twice and tired easily. I was beginning to see the bigger health challenges he faced as well as understand how others sometimes treated him as less than a whole person. Micheal walked with a cane and pronounced limp. He also spoke with a prolonged stutter. Both were results of years of treatments from epilepsy and other prenatal complications. Despite this, Micheal did not know a stranger, nor did he doubt humanity’s genuine goodness. As for me, Micheal continued to enfold me into his world as though I had always been there. 

Some might characterize our relationship as people making up for lost time. And though we shared an intimacy that might have taken others years to develop, we were never in a rush. Micheal never asked for nor needed a back story. This meant there was no awkward, complicated conversation about my sexuality or gender. Who I am was a given, and for Micheal, not something that needed discussing. I was completely normal and important to Micheal–a feeling so very rare in my over 25 years out of the closet. In turn, he spoke of his challenges as though I had been there for each of the major health scares in his life. The years we didn’t know each other didn’t exist.

Each winter Micheal invited me, with that knowing smile, to Toronto on the day of the first snowstorm. He knew my life in New Mexico and subsequent move to Mexico was as much about the warm weather as it was about my work. I could see his laughing eyes as he included beach umbrellas and wave emojis in his text messages often accompanied with a feigned apology for “interrupting my drinks on the beach.” We settled into a familiar routine of weekly texts and occasional phone calls.

COVID-19, for me, has been marked by relationship with Micheal. At the beginning of the lock down, Micheal texted to ask if he could call me after a procedure he was having. He had to have a catheter surgically inserted to assist with his now five-day a week dialysis. A few weeks later he asked if I could help him find a particular U.S. coin he didn’t have—a tricky feat from Mexico and during the pandemic. To this day I wonder if he asked the favor in order to give me something to do and keep me from thinking about the isolation I was feeling as a result of quarantine in another country. In July, my pup, Scotia, who Micheal cheekily called Trouble, was diagnosed with kidney failure…an irony that was not lost on us. In August, Micheal texted to say he would call in a couple of hours with great news. A kidney was on its way from Vancouver to Toronto and he would have the transplant the following day. Micheal included me in every step. Lockdown meant he only could have one visitor a day for an hour. He was allowed his cell phone in intensive care, and we talked nearly every day. I asked him to tell me stories of our relations and with great care he told me again who was who in the great family tree often incorporating humorous anecdotes so as to include me in the history. We began to make plans for post-pandemic and post-dialysis travel. Micheal wanted to visit my folks and go on a cruise in Alaska–two magical trips. I could imagine Micheal sitting in my parents’ garden and telling us all about his transplant simply as if it had been a visit to the doctor, because for Micheal not only had medical care become a part of his life, he also never saw himself as a victim nor elicited sympathy from others. While Alaska would be a more difficult journey, being free from dialysis deserved this kind of celebration. I began to make plans. In November, my pup died. The days following Micheal was more attentive towards me than normal. One day when I was feeling particularly sad, Micheal responded, “You can always text or call me.” In that moment I found myself believing Micheal and I would grow old together.

Christmas day we celebrated with a video call. And then came his birthday in February—our last communication, though I had no forewarning. A week or two was not that uncommon to not hear from him…and so I reached out after a couple of weeks expecting an immediate response as usual. I didn’t get one. Three days later his sister called me from Micheal’s phone. Micheal died March 26, 2021, from an infection surrounding his new kidney.

I miss Micheal. I miss his unconditional acceptance, his texts, and his stories. I couldn’t have said this six years ago. I didn’t know then what it meant to have distant family so close. And now that I have had Micheal in my life, I don’t know what to do without it. 

Can institutions save us? Can we save institutions?

One sociologist from the early 20^th century, Max Weber, argued that the modern world is characterized by bureaucracy. He stated that rational bureaucracy was like an iron cage that we could not escape. As a young graduate student, this idea grabbed me and I resonated with it intellectually. I justified his ideas through contemporary examples, corresponding to the well-studied student I thought I was. In the role of professor, I attempted to make the idea of bureaucracy come alive by showing students how they are restricted by the rules and practices of the university and sports. I also explained how institutions had become the way our present day society has managed the needs of our population—such as healthcare, education, and government. And further, I demonstrated how each institution not only has its own bureaucracy but also that institutional bureaucracies can actually be in conflict with one another. What’s more, in the U.S., many institutions have adopted a neoliberal economic model as part of their decision-making protocol, which puts profit above the ideals the institution was originally designed to serve. 

As I reflect on the last six months and the rising numbers of  COVID-19 cases and deaths, the flailing and uneven economy, the demands from Black Lives Matter demonstrations, atrocities in ICE facilities, and exponentially growing wildfires, I see the devastation and uncertainty institutions have created simply because their own bureaucracies have gotten in their way. In other words, institutions continue to insist on their own viability and indispensability despite results that suggest otherwise.  

For example, Black Lives Matter demonstrations have called for a defunding of police with the added request that cities, towns, and counties put those funds into services that might more readily address the needs of the population—such as community psychologists and mental health experts, social workers, subsidized daycare, and community building resources such as recreation centers, public health clinics, job resource centers, etc. While there has been some positive responses from city councils, overwhelming the response has been to insist modern policing and the current institution and system of bureaucracy works and works well. 

In addition, universities have scrambled to maintain their institutions has they have always been—just with online classes. Among the many things COVID-19 has revealed is the stunted ability of higher education to respond in an appropriate timely, student and community centered response. While I have read some reflective essays on what education means in the era of COVID-19, I have not seen a concerted effort to re-imagine universities and education that would significantly change the way education is done. In many cases, the overwhelming economic shortfall has been put on the shoulders of students, faculty and staff at the same time university municipal communities are suffering. Meanwhile top administrators continue to receive unprecedented salaries. Students are being asked to police their own and being punished when they don’t; yet, simultaneously, universities are insisting that sports competitions continue.

At the same time, universities are responding to the Black Lives Matter movement. On average I see four to five jobs a day for diversity and inclusion vice-presidents, deans, or directors. Many would urge me to celebrate the commitment of universities to diversity and inclusion. So far, I am struck by the steadfastness the institution has to its own current model of bureaucracy and the belief that hiring an individual will undo decades of racist, sexist, classist, and homophobic practices. Is it possible that if we change aspects of an institution, it can save us? Or are we seeking to save institutions so that they can serve us more justly?

Permit me to use a personal example. Part of all faculty responsibility in higher education is service through committee work and other educational endeavors outside of the classroom. It is true that in many universities faculty are well-protected. Nevertheless, this protection exists because of the commitment of the faculty and their work in institutional governance. In my years 18 years in U.S. higher education, I came to fully believe in faculty governance and devoted untold hours to this endeavor. I worked to protect LGBTQ+ faculty, female faculty, immigrant faculty, untenured faculty and to change policy and procedure so that faculty could focus on the educational endeavor without concern for their own welfare in the institution. I placed my faith in the belief that the system could change.

More than a year ago, I left a tenured position where I had seniority and could address the injustices within the university without endangering my station. What I came to realize is that whenever the faculty were not vigilant the system reverted to its normal practices. It was as though the door to just relationships was being held open by us and whenever we had a changing of the guards (or summer recess), the door slammed shut and the work we had done vanished. I left my position naively believing this problem was unique to my institution despite being a student of Max Weber’s ideas. 

With this experience of faculty governance, directing The Center for Gender Equity, and years of teaching what are often called diversity classes, many have suggested I would be perfect for the newly created positions in higher education such as Associate Dean of Diversity and Inclusion, Vice-president of Diversity, or Chief Diversity Officer. I agreed. However, after one recent interview, I was faced with examining the interview process and my desire for the job. Alongside my internal searching regarding whether institutions can save us or we can save institutions, Joe Biden named his vice-presidential candidate. In reading an article about Kamala Harris, her words struck me, “I have chosen to work within institutions for change.” As the poets and mystics say, I took pause.  

I recalled an interconnected idea of Weber’s–the charismatic leader. Through the work of charismatic leaders,societies and institutions can change. Charismatic leaders, Weber claimed, achieve their authority because their followers give it to them—followers believe the leader has the special skills, abilities, or ideas to create something different. Charismatic leaders often say something like, “You have heard it said that ________, but I tell you it can be _______.” Obvious historical examples of charismatic leaders include Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., César Chávez, and Nelson Mandela. Weber suggested that during the lifetime of charismatic leaders change was possible, but upon the death of these leaders, their authority also died and the changes that had occurred get absorbed into the bureaucracy once again.  

In short, I now find myself, a sociologist who has studied social change, unsure of where to place my energies and my faith. As I reflect on our last six months this question haunts me: Is our only hope to live within institutions that cage us?

Not Taking Ourselves Too Seriously

According to Freud our id is a powerful force—that basic part of our personality that seeks instant gratification. Ego, for Freud, is the balance between the id and the superego—our collective moral conscious or society’s ‘control.’ In everyday language we use ego to describe individuals who think too much of themselves or place themselves as the center of concern as in “She/he has a big ego.” With respect to Freud, I am going to adopt the more common usage of ego here.

The task of not taking ourselves too seriously means we recognize when our ego is getting too big and is hindering our ability to make decisions with others in mind. Some easy examples come in the form of traffic or grocery store lines. When I am driving and find myself exasperated with the car in front of me, I have a choice. I can either believe that my time and activities are more important than the motorist ahead, or (as I often choose) I can picture a child’s sick goldfish in an open bowl strapped in the front seat as they make their way to the veterinary’s office. I usually begin to giggle when I think this is the reason for the speed of the driver. In other words, I can check my ego and ask why do I imagine the person in front of me is going slow only to make me upset? Why have I exaggerated my own self-importance? Or in the grocery store, if I find myself aggravated by the line and other customers, I can check myself and realize I am the source of my own irritation because I have inflated my own needs. When I know I am causing my own frustration, I can offer for others to go in front of me. Immediately I feel a shift in myself as I change my focus from myself to others.

These examples may seem rather simplistic and rooted in common sense, good manners, or self-improvement. After all, aren’t we just talking about being patient? In part, but it is also the ability to generate compassion for others and the ability to wonder about ourselves and ask why are we getting so bent out of shape in the moment? Why is our ego growing in this moment? Or why are we taking ourselves so seriously?

Years ago, one of my professors at Duke University, Frederick Herzog (1925-1995), became my role model for checking my ego. Dr. Herzog spent his life fighting for racial equality, dissolving class inequality, and critically examining neo-colonialism. Often in the evening after a seminar, Dr. Herzog would call various students to double-check the notes he had taken from the class discussion. He kept meticulous records not as a way to keep tabs on us, but in order to prepare for our next class. He would tell us that it was imperative he know where he needed to grow and learn. In other words, he didn’t take himself too seriously as to control the outcome of the class or be an authoritarian among us.

I want to be clear. I am not suggesting we not be outraged at social injustice or that we not fight for equal rights. We must be very clear about our values. At the same time, we can recognize when our own egos get in the way and we forget to practice compassion.

During my studies at Duke, I was invited to be a student panelist when Gustavo Gutierrez OP, renowned Liberation Theologian from Lima, Peru, gave a keynote address. In response to a question or comment Gutierrez explored the idea that even though in the early 1990s we were advancing on gender equality and were thinking critically about history and our current practice, we must be aware that others in the future may ask why we did not do more.

His observations still reverberate in me.

What does all this mean as the nightly anti-racism demonstrations in Portland, OR continue and U.S. deaths from COVID-19 reach 1000 for several consecutive days? Or a male U.S. representative calls a female representative derogatory names on the steps of the U.S. capitol? More than ever I think we are being asked to not take ourselves too seriously. We have the opportunity to examine ourselves in this particular moment, to know the vulnerable among us and to allow our values to lead us. “The struggle,” Dr. Herzog told me, “needs for you to recognize your place in it.”

Love

Two African American female thinkers who are often claimed as early feminist sociologists, Anna Julia Cooper (1858-1964) and Ida B. Wells-Barnett (1858-1964), spent their lives analyzing and explaining how the subordination and discrimination of people work. My point is not to reduce their thinking into simplistic terms. Rather I want to lift up one crucial aspect they helped solidify within social stratification analysis—the process of othering. In the English language, we can recognize when we are othering when we use the pronouns they or them to reference a collective whole. We often create this collective to put distance between what we are ourselves doing (or believe ourselves to be) and those whom we are referencing. As an example: “I don’t understand why they (referring to migrants and immigrants) don’t speak English; after all this is America.” What we have done with this statement is other…we have created a homogenous group (even if it isn’t really homogenous) and made the individuals within the group so unlike ourselves that the rules we apply to ourselves we believe don’t apply to the group we have created. What do I mean by rules? This includes real laws that are created to treat groups differently, regulations within organization which do the same, and social and cultural practices.

Let’s deconstruct the above statement that others migrants and immigrants. I offer this as an example…but this deconstruction can be done with any statement we think might be othering speech.

First, we need to always examine the power we access when we make a statement. For instance, I can acknowledge that I would make this statement from a position as a U.S. citizen, who is white and who was raised in an English speaking home. All these aspects converge to give me a place of privilege and power when evaluating how others should speak.

Second, we should also check our history and geography. In the U.S. there is no official national language. English is the most common language and one in which the legal, economic and educational worlds operate, but at the federal level there is no official language. States have adopted official languages. In Hawaii and Alaska, though, English is not the only official language. In New Mexico, Spanish has had special status since their state constitution passed in 1912. Also, when we use America to only reference the United States, we express ignorance regarding our continental positioning. America is not a country nor American a nationality. U.S. passports state United States of America as the nationality for carriers of this passport. If we insist on using America or American as a cultural reference than understanding how a cultural practice distances and separates is vital. It makes sense that other countries within North, Central and South America may also claim the use of American, yet we don’t often acknowledge this.

Third, we need to question what we erase when we make an othering statement. In terms of language, what am I dismissing or wiping away when I insist one language is used? Culture and the ability for people to express and know themselves disappears as language is lost. In short, we erase people. We also erase distinctive stories. Many migrants pursue new situations as adults because of poverty, war, violence, hunger, and abuse. Other immigrants grow up in the U.S. When we make statements that homogenize we don’t give voice to these varied experiences nor the conditions that lead to migration and immigration.

Fourth, we need to be honest and recognize we apply othering statements in ways we would never apply to ourselves. In short, there are other rules that apply to us. In regards to language, I take Spanish language classes as a way to improve myself but may insist others take English in order to meet my mandate. As a white native English speaker I am praised because I am working towards being bilingual in Spanish and yet when native Spanish speakers become bilingual in English we show little acknowledgement of the accomplishment and often focus on ridiculous things like pronunciation (‘accents’) and noun-verb agreement even though we understand all that is being communicated. When I travel to other places, I may be appalled that others are not forgiving of me when I bungle the language of my destination. Or, as in the case of Mexico, many people migrate to Mexico and never learn Spanish and create enclaves where English or German are spoken. In other words, we insist others do something we ourselves do not need to do.

Fifth, what are we afraid of? As we loop back to the first point of privilege, are we afraid of losing power, control, or first access to resources because we gain by the rules we have created?

We often make othering statements that have to do with cultural practices like hairstyles, clothing, family formation and living arrangements, etc. A lot of othering speech is directed at the poor, people of color, women, single mothers, and immigrants. Power and privilege are crucial to understanding how a statement others.

What does all of this have to with love? Everything. And what does all this have to with the COVID-19 pandemic and the Black Lives Matter movement? Everything. Anna Julia Cooper and Ida B. Wells-Barnett not only critiqued racial and gender discrimination, they also believed and wrote as though we are all moral agents with the capacity to speak out and to act on issues facing us. Isn’t part of being moral agents acting on our capacity to love and to measure that love in demonstrable action that reduces or eliminates inequality?

When Values Lead Us

The COVID-19 crisis and the most recent killing of a black male, George Floyd, by police reveal many things. They show the underbelly of our society. For example, in the first days of lockdown people over purchased items so that there was not enough for those of us who do not have the means to bulk buy. We have seen disproportionate numbers of people of color in the U.S. affected by the pandemic and the economic recession. And, we have seen violent demonstrations largely by white residents against health and safety standards, such as wearing masks and social distancing, go unpunished; meanwhile, the call for the National Guard to control and punish protests against racism. What is all of this about? Values.

Values are a society’s guiding principles that tell us what is desirable and important. Generally speaking, a society agrees on its values. In a multicultural society like the U.S., lots of different cultural values exist, but dominant values ascend, becoming the overall standard. Conflicting values can exist and values can and do change.

Values, in my mind, are absolutely essential to understand because we don’t act without them They drive our behavior. We reinforce values by creating norms or expectations of behaviors that embody the values.  Not all values are equal. We know what values are dominant by what behaviors or people are punished and which or who are rewarded.

When I teach about the U.S. here in Mexico, one of the things I do with students is set up a conversation about U.S. cultural values. I ask the students to tell me what they have learned from mass media about U.S. cultural values. Every time I do this, students in Mexico tell me that they believe individualism is a strong U.S. cultural value. I ask them how they know this and their reply is basically that the individual is protected before a group. Secondly, they tell me that they think consumption is a value in the U.S. as evidenced by events such as Black Friday and name brands. Thirdly, they also want to talk about racism. In other words, the students understand what the U.S. finds desirable and important by the behavior that they see. So, throughout the COVID-19 crisis and the most recent police killing, we see our values on display because we can view our actions and observe which ones have gone unpunished.

There have been many news articles, Tweets, and Facebook posts suggesting that the current crises can be our turning point as a society. I agree. But we cannot turn, if we don’t understand what it is we value. And in turn specify behavior that reflects those new values.

Let me demonstrate. When I teach social inequality, students often become resigned and say, “Dr. B., poverty is too great. How can we ever change it?” My response always is, “We must change our values.”  My example for them: let’s say that right here in our community we value (desire that) every child get more than enough healthy food. Or we could say it more clearly—no child in our community will go to bed hungry, ever. We first need to examine why hunger exists. Maybe there are not enough living wage jobs in our community and families are forced to choose between food and other essentials. Or maybe families cannot afford childcare and children are left to fend for themselves for the day. Or maybe grocery stores are too far away and some of the cheapest things in them are also the least healthy. Or maybe we allow for fast-food to be served in our public schools which minimizes healthy food availability. In other words, these reasons are our actions that point to what we value. If we don’t change what causes hungry children in our community then we don’t actually value all children getting more than enough healthy food. We have allowed the behaviors to persist.

Sociologically speaking cultures have both ideal and real values. Real values are those that we see put into practice and can be observed by our behavior. Ideal values are those that may be spoken but cannot be measured in our actions. In the U.S., we have ideal values that often are in conflict or contradiction with our real values—such as equality. We purport equality as a value and suggest that one way this value is manifested is through our democratic practices. I would argue that COVID-19 and the most recent killing of George Floyd by police reveal equality as an ideal value that we have taken very few steps to fulfill. Until we are willing to be honest about what we are doing as a society and to critically evaluate our behavior as indicators of what we truly value, these present moments (COVID-19 and demonstrable racism) will be moments among so many others where those with the least to lose choose to sacrifice those who have less access and power, rather than actualize values that could change the course of history.

 

Disaster Capitalism

My suggestion to discuss capitalism is often met with a look of “that is one of those topics we have agreed NOT to talk about: politics, religion, and money!” Sometimes when I have conversations with people outside of the classroom about capitalism I am immediately labeled a socialist (or communist) and others say I am purporting a conspiracy theory. I am used to these reactions. What these reactions tell me most is that as individuals, even though we live in a democracy, we often give over our rights to the government and by default any who the government listens to or makes deals with. My working definition of democracy goes much farther than the right to vote. Democracy, for me, includes holding our public officials accountable (even those we voted for!) and the right to question policies and demonstrate how they may harm some and privilege others. And, for me, this includes the right to protest. I am a pacifist and so that means peacefully without violence. So, I believe that discussing capitalism is our democratic right…because this is the system in which our government largely believes goods and services should be provided to its citizenry. I say in large part because we also have elements of socialism in which goods and services are provided to us. Don’t be alarmed, most capitalist countries have these. Public roads, public parks, public schools, and public universities, to name a few, are largely provided for us (principally with equal access) by the government, meaning our taxes. In other words we don’t have pay additional fees (or we pay very little) to access them.

In 1956, as we were entering and augmenting the Cold War, C. Wright Mills, American sociologist, coined the term power elite in which he described what he saw as three main powers working together in the United States to make decisions that affect the rest of us: government, military, and corporations. Simply put, Mills purported that each of the entities made decisions that would benefit the others in some way and that by doing this they maintained decision making power. How does this work?  Let’s use the example of war—the U.S. government declares war. The military needs weaponry. A private corporation ‘wins’ a governmental contract to manufacture goods the military needs. Who pays for the goods? The U.S. Government. Who decides what is needed? The U.S. military. Who gets the profit from the sale? The private corporation, like Lockheed Martin. Sometimes the U.S. government also pays for the research for the product manufactured—as in universities do the research which is partially funded by foundations or U.S. grants and partially funded by the state where the University resides, like New Mexico tech that developed depleted uranium. This is an added benefit to corporations who don’t then pay the full cost of research and development.

Part of what Mills was arguing is that during the Cold War, the development and manufacturing of nuclear warheads benefited the power elite far more than it benefited the average citizen. And yet, there was very little protest and when individuals did protest they were labeled communists, gay, or one of the most vilest of terms commie pinko fag. In addition, Mills solicited us to action as part of our democratic right and privilege to protest practices and policies that did not benefit the majority of us.

What does this have to do with disaster capitalism? In 2007 Canadian public scholar, Naomi Klein, wrote Shock Doctrine in which she outlines the ideas of disaster capitalism. Essentially she argues that when a crisis occurs there is an opportunity for private industry in collaboration with the government to gain more profit. How does this happen? Essentially during a crisis we are emotionally and physically distracted and do not have enough energy, time, etc. to mount an effective resistance. And sometimes the policies implemented punish us if we do. For instance, the Patriot Act changed border procedure upon reentering the U.S and at various U.S. Border Patrol check points along routes that run parallel to the U.S.-Mexican border. As a U.S. citizen I was opposed to these changes; yet, written into law was punishment if I did not follow Border Patrol directions. I distinctly remember one particular evening of harassment crossing from Ciudad Juarez into El Paso, TX.  When I recounted the experience to my sister, she sagely suggested that I not stage my protest while trying to cross the border alone. Unfortunately, I had to agree. Yet, determining when and where to protest most effectively is often difficult.

So, as we move through the COVID-19 crisis what are we paying attention to? As I noted in my previous blog I think we need to be mindful of the most vulnerable among us and to look to policies and procedures that further put the vulnerable at risk. I’d like to add to that…we need to also examine if entities (in Mills’ words—the power elite) are using this crisis as a means to prey upon our distraction and formulate policy that disproportionately benefit them at a cost to the U.S. public (and potentially others).

How do we do this? I suggest that we always need to have our values lead us. I will address this in my next blog.

The Most Vulnerable Among Us

As I noted in my last blog, “Is This Our First Chance to Get It Right?”, the LGBTQ community did a good job of caring for one another and for collectively fighting for rights during the HIV/AIDS crisis in the United States. Yet, this fight often further marginalized some of the most vulnerable members of the community and others who were also affected by HIV, such as LGBTQ people of color, transwomen, and intravenous drug users. My point here is not to tell the history of HIV/AIDS in the U.S. but rather to think about how a national crisis, health crisis, etc. gives us an opportunity to see ourselves clearly and to examine what it is we are doing and how we can change.

When social inequalities exist before a crisis hits, much of the reaction to the crisis will reproduce those inequalities. This reproduction occurs because the policies and procedures used to respond are formed in institutions which structure society and are shaped by ideologies.

The most vulnerable among us are often made invisible in society. Those of us with privilege (and power) do not automatically encounter the most vulnerable because the structure hides and justifies the inequalities. In the U.S. we are often taught the American Dream which claims that anyone who is willing to work hard can make it in the U.S. and can indeed achieve extreme wealth. Folks like Bill Gates and Oprah Winfrey are held up as modern-day examples of the American Dream coming true. If it were really all down to hard work, though, we would see farm workers who pick most of our fruit and vegetables in the U.S. living in mansions because tending, weeding, and picking hundreds of bushels a day while hunched over in the blazing sun has to be one of the most strenuous types of work. Or we would see public school teachers who labor 60+ hours a week during the school year and log uncounted hours in the summer make more in a year than what one professional basketball player makes while sitting on the bench for one game.

All of this is to say, we sometimes have to purposefully look for those who are the most vulnerable among us. And, then we need to ask why are they the most vulnerable?  In other words, what structural policies are in place (supported by ideologies, like the American Dream, racism, sexism, homophobia, etc.) that make access to society’s resources (schooling, housing, medical care, jobs, etc.) easier for some and more difficult for others.

As we read the news regarding COVID-19, we can see how some social groups are disproportionately being affected by the virus. For instance, the Navajo (in New Mexico and Arizona), African Americans, Latinos, and the elderly. Some might say in regard to the elderly, “Well, they are more vulnerable because of age; their immune systems are weaker.” Yet, as a social scientist, I suggest we look outside of the individual and see what social forces exist that mold the various conditions which the elderly, the Navajo, African Americans, Latinos have to face. The pandemic then exacerbates these conditions and lays bare the inequalities—if we dare examine them and ourselves.

In sociological terms, we have a maldistribution of society’s resources and furthermore, the pathways to obtain those resources are not equally accessible by everyone. Ideologies, like the American Dream, racism, sexism, etc., justify the inequalities and make them appear as a natural consequence of our own effort or lack thereof. Furthermore, if we are some of those with resources the ideology and social system not only makes it easier for us to obtain more but also our confidence in the system can be reinforced. We then may not simply come to expect this access and quantity, we may likewise use our ‘success’ as a measure of others never seeing how the system helped us.

So, what does this mean during the COVID-19 crisis? Without a doubt we need to examine policies and procedures AND our ideologies.  In the following couple of blogs I will address disaster capitalism and our values as examples before moving onto the topic of love and not taking ourselves too seriously.

Below I have posted a piece that I wrote for another outlet regarding one vulnerable group that has not been discussed in the news. It’s a bit more heady, but I hope you’ll read it.

LGBTQ+ Youth: Some of the Most Vulnerable Among Us

On March 22, 2020 Animal Politico reported that 15 LGBTQ+ young people in Mexico were kicked out of their homes in the last 10 days (Arteta 2020). Eleven days earlier, 100 U.S. LGBTQ+ organizations released an open letter to the media “outlining how COVID-19 may pose an increased risk to the LGBTQ+ population and laying out specific steps to minimize any disparity” (National LGBT Cancer Network 2020). Absent in this letter is the added risk that LGBTQ+ youth face during the COVID-19 crisis. With the shelter in place order, LGBTQ+ youth face extreme challenges not faced by other populations. Specifically, LGBTQ+ youth may either face expulsion from their homes because of lack of acceptance by family or lockdown in a home where they are not supported—or worse bullied, physically assaulted, or cut off from support systems. In recent decades around the globe, the LGBTQ+ community has experienced gains in civil rights from legalization of same-sex marriage, open participation in the military, and protection from targeted violence. Additionally, schools across the U.S. have implemented anti-bullying campaigns and adopted inclusive actions. However, LGBTQ+ folks still encounter inequalities that not only persist during the COVID-19 pandemic but that may be amplified–putting the most vulnerable members of the community at increased risk.

In the United States, LGBTQ+ youth are disproportionately represented among homeless youth. LGBTQ+ “youth comprise approximately 5% to 8% of the U.S. youth population but comprise at least 40% of the population of youth experiencing homelessness” (Robinson 2018: 383). LGBTQ+ homeless youth self-report parental disapproval as a significant reason for their homelessness (Robinson 2018, Ryan et al 2010, Asakura 2016). Conversely, family acceptance is also linked to higher rates of self-esteem and lower rates of suicide and substance abuse in LGBTQ+ young adults (Ohio University 2018, Ryan et al 2010, Asakura 2016, Nash et al 2016). For transgender youth specifically, “lower acceptance and higher indifference [are] significantly related to negative psychosocial outcomes” (Pariseau et al 2019: 274). The Human Rights Campaign reports that in a survey of 10,000 LGBTQ+ youth, 56% state they are out to their families. Yet, these LGBTQ+ youth identified non-accepting families as their primary problem. 33% stated that their family was not accepting and almost half said their family was the place “where they most often hear negative messages about being LGBT” (Human Rights Campaign 2012).

During this pandemic, we must assure this vulnerable population among us remains safe and healthy, and can continue to thrive beyond this current crisis.

Asakura (2016) outlines how LGBTQ+ youth have been able to build resilience or the ability to overcome or cope “more effectively with social marginalization and exclusion” (1). Particularly telling in Asakura’s research are the number of youth that experience “emotional pain inflicted by external adversities that routinely target LGBTQ youth, such as family rejection, violence and erasure of LGBTQ identities” (2016: 6). Among the key components for resiliency are involvement in safer spaces, meaningful relationships, and collective healing and action. Resiliency does not reside within a person but rather depends on resources that support LGBTQ+ youth. Moreover, there is a great cost to LGBTQ+ youth who must shoulder the burden of external adversities alone. Social integration and acceptance continue to be key components to societal members’ well-being (Durkheim [1897] 1997).

How can social support and resources to build integration and resiliency be mobilized for LGBTQ+ youth during a shelter in place order?

Prior to the COVID-19 pandemic, LGBTQ+ youth utilized online resources to find answers to their questions about sexual and gender identities, to connect with other LGBTQ+ youth, and to participate in supportive social media. In comparison to non-LGBTQ+ youth, LGBTQ+ youth are more likely to site online friends as providing support (Ybarra et al 2015). According to The Human Rights Campaign, 73% “of LGBT youth say they are more honest about themselves online than in the real world” (Human Rights Campaign 2012). Online resources have allowed LGBTQ+ youth to find acceptance and to participate in a virtual community (Nash et al 2015; Ybarra et al 2015). Virtual campaigns, such as “It Gets Better Global,” use YouTube as a means to deliver positive messages for LGBTQ+ youth. Correspondingly, many of the in-face opportunities for the larger LGBTQ+ community to celebrate together have turned to digital options: “the world’s biggest international Pride networks, Interpride and the European Pride Organisers Association, are organizing a “Global Pride” to be celebrated online on June 27” (Haynes 2020). This online alternative offers a wider array of folks the ability to participate, potentially including LGBTQ+ youth. Also, school and community LGBTQ+ youth groups could continue to meet virtually.

Yet, is the online option a panacea?

In one sense, it is clear that the online LGBTQ+ community offers respite and support for LGBTQ+ youth. However, we must ask ourselves—which LGBTQ+ youth? If we are speaking of the U.S. where 95% of teens “report they have a smartphone or access to one” (Anderson and Jiang 2018) and whose usage is not heavily moderated by adults in their home—though 61% of U.S. parents say they have monitored their children’s websites (Anderson 2016)—then perhaps the online community during the COVID-19 pandemic gives support and bolsters resiliency. Yet, if we are speaking globally, where 29% of youth do not have online access (UNICEF 2017), then relying on online resources is not sufficient. Furthermore, we know that online validation does not replace in person support in the lives of LGBTQ+ youth (Ybarra et al 2015, Nash et al 2015).

As social scientists we must continue to study the lives of LGBTQ+ youth; specifically, we must understand how this vulnerable population is affected by the shelter in place mandate and learn how to mitigate these risks in the future. Also, we can “share the burden carried by these youth” (Asakura 2016: 13). Besides ensuring that LGBTQ+ civil rights are protected during this crisis and that LGBTQ+ centers and hotlines are fully-funded, we can personally reach out to at least one LGBTQ+ youth in our lives and be their support.

References

Anderson, Monica. 2016. “Parents, Teens and Digital Monitoring.” Pew Research Center. Retrieved April

6, 2020 (https://www.pewresearch.org/internet/2016/01/07/parents-teens-and-digital-monitoring/).

Anderson, Monica and Jingjing Jiang. 2018. “Teens, Social Media & Technology 2018.” Pew Research

Center. Retrieved April 6, 2020 (https://www.pewresearch.org/internet/2018/05/31/teens-social-media-technology-2018/).

Arteta, Itxaro. 2020. “ONG detecta mayor expulsion de jóvenes LGBT+ de sus casas en contingencia por

Covid-19.” Animal Politico. Retrieved April 6, 2020 (https://www.animalpolitico.com/2020/03/ong-detecta-expulsion-jovenes-lgbt-covid-19/).

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Durkheim, Emile. ([1897] 1997). Suicide. New York, NY: Free Press.

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