A Tale of Two Workloads: Pedagogy and Research in Academia

If I haven’t shouted it from the rooftops enough, I am a graduate student, and have happily worn that title for 3 years. While I couldn’t imagine doing anything else, and am usually quite happy working in academia, there are some obstacles that I (and others) have faced. It can be pretty easy to complain about issues in the system while simultaneously feeling that we are too small, too insignificant, or too tired to navigate or confront those issues. 

It can also be daunting to face the number of issues that are present in academia: namely, systemic racism, sexism, treatment of adjuncts, and exploitative labor.

But I am breaking every writing rule ever and am not going to explicitly talk about any of the issues I just listed above. Though, almost inevitably, I will touch on exploitative labor since graduate students almost unanimously feel this phenomenon like we feel hunger (and maybe, perhaps, those two feelings are linked!). 

Instead, I’m going to be talking about an identity crisis. Not a personal identity crisis, as I’ve written about that to death, but an institutional identity crisis. Academics must wear many hats, which is unfortunate, because many of us cannot afford hats. As we continue throughout our careers, the hats get more complex: we move from part student, part teacher, to part teacher, part researcher, part committee member, part article reviewer, part advisor, part circus performer. 

I’m kidding. No one really teaches in academia. 

I know I am lucky to only have to wear two of these hats at the moment. I go to school, I cry over some article rejections, and I teach. Over the course of my graduate career, I have felt that I haven’t been able to fully embrace the 50/50 split between student-ing and teaching; it has more so felt like an either/or phenomenon. I had many moments during my first semester of grad school that I forgot I was a student and instead poured all of my energy into bestowing knowledge onto a group of 18 year olds who stared at me like I had five heads. Part of this stems from the fact that I know how to be a student—I’ve been one for 20 odd years, after all. Teaching was a wildly foreign practice, and I had to put hours of planning, re-planning, and freaking out to even begin to get it right. Even then, it was a rocky semester. 

But as teaching has gotten easier, I still find myself either primarily identifying as student or teacher at different times. And it largely depends on the tone of the program, of the faculty, and of the cohort.

Take Rhetoric and Composition for example. I got my Masters in this field, and it was intensely focused on pedagogy. This makes sense, given that the “composition” part of this program is all about teaching. I was lucky in that I could combine my teaching and research practices, and in fact, was encouraged to do so. I was supported and given the tools to develop as a teacher. I learned about active learning in concrete and enriching ways. On the flip side, it was difficult to devote attention to my research interests that existed outside of pedagogy. 

Fast forward 3 years, and I’m in my first year of a PhD in Communication Studies. While pedagogy certainly is a focus in the field, it is not the focus. So much of that first year is focused on learning how to write for journals in the field, preparing for conferences, and developing niche research interests. I have improved tremendously as a new media scholar, but have often felt my teaching slide to the wayside. 

It can be easy not to reflect on these dichotomies, as that is just how things are. You move through the program in the ways the faculty tell you to. You feed off of the priorities and energy of the program. A lot of times, you just try to get through the days to survive. But now I’m in an interesting space, as I am spending my summer teaching for an entirely different program where students are the sole focus, and I am also working on research for my PhD program. And, because of this, these two previously separate priorities are colliding. 

This has partly made for a very confusing, very intense summer. But there are also some lessons that I’m (slowly) learning that can promote equal attention to pedagogy and research. This is especially important for folks who maybe don’t have their heart solely set on a teaching university or a research 1 institution. 

Plus, even if you are set on primarily focusing on research, we owe it to our students to offer them meaningful time and growth in the classroom. 

So what are some ways we can navigate academia with (semi) equal focus on pedagogy and research? 

1. Bring your research into the classroom.

This is probably the easiest and most-used strategy. Especially in upper-division classes, we can start to introduce articles we’ve been reading to facilitate discussion. But it doesn’t necessarily have to stop with simply assigning articles. Even if you’re teaching a class that isn’t ready for or has very little to do with your research, you can still make a class come alive by showing your passion for what you do.

I’ve brought up feeding off energy a few times—while this can sound like some hippie-dippie bulls***, students can tell when we feel excited about or driven by something. I am currently teaching high school students, so while I can’t assign them scholarly articles on feminist rhetoric, I can talk about how much examining feminism on YouTube means to me. I can assign them a YouTube video I’ve been analyzing, and, more often than not, they will make observations that I never would have noticed on my own.

We need to challenge ourselves to give students more credit in regards to things they’ll be interested in. We also need to recognize that discussing the messy, human parts of being an academic in the classroom might actually work in our favor. During my freshman year of college, I took a science class—I wasn’t particularly interested in science, and dreaded being in a giant lecture hall. After a few weeks, I looked forward to coming to class, as the professor talked through the article writing, peer-review, and rejection process. He had a course blog where he wrote about both scientific and pedagogical issues. He talked about his team’s research in an exciting, accessible, and engaging way. 

A lot of us are pressed for time, so even if we don’t have time to create and run a course blog, we can still implement the principle of the blog: passion, reflection, and connection with students.

2. Collaborate with and learn from students

We might think about collaboration as more of an upper-level thing: graduate students collaborate with each other, or with faculty. I wouldn’t try to collaborate with a student on writing an article, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn from them. Since my research is centered around media, I might ask students to bring their experiences with Tik Tok, Instagram, and YouTube to class. As someone who has never downloaded and doesn’t understand Tik Tok, I know that I can learn a lot from the next generation of media-consumers. 

Even if you’re not studying something that is “young people”centric, you can still incorporate lessons that will be mutually educational. Our department head, for instance, studies space, place, and memory. He has an article about the rhetoric of Starbucks. Imagine how much analysis one could gain from student input: while researching a certain space, we might consider bringing students there and hearing their observations.

There’s nothing wrong with recognizing that you’re an expert in some areas: especially for women, that’s how we get taken seriously as researchers. But as teachers, we might leave room for learning from our students—not just because it makes them feel more open to discussion, but also because it’s genuinely helpful to our growth as scholars and as humans.

3.Collaborate with and learn from each other

A lot of productive discussion happens in the “in-between times”: between classes, when we’re shuffling to our desks, in the break room, in the café where we’re downing our 4th cup of coffee. Those “in between time” discussions can be an opportunity to talk research, pedagogy, or the art of balancing the two. You might ask a colleague how they’re applying active learning to a citation lesson. You might ask an advisor how they’re incorporating their research interests into class (that’s another thing: advising meetings don’t (and shouldn’t) have to be just about you). The point is, if you start to get intentional about those in-between conversations, you’ll be more likely to get candid and insightful answers. 

Much more than in other professions, we are very reflective in academia, and we do have difficult conversations. But oftentimes, those conversations are quite performative and stilted, just by sheer nature of arranging meetings, having guest speakers, etc. The in-between conversations are a chance for us to get real with each other and hear about a variety of strategies without adding so much external pressure or expectations. 

There are obviously far more strategies we can implement to balance research and pedagogy, but this is just a starting point to get the conversation going. Academia is hard, and no one is expecting anyone to be perfect at everything. But we might find that merging research and teaching is mutually beneficial and can enrich our little intellectual corners.

Can Authenticity Be Resistive? Or, Lessons From the Internet's Favorite 33 Year-Old Lady

Authenticity online is a tricky beast.

With the growth and normalization of Internet influencers, values associated with digital entertainment have changed drastically. While we might watch a movie or TV show to laugh, cry or stare in awe at Chris Pratt's abs, there's an added layer to video sharing platforms like Twitch, Tik-Tok, or YouTube: not only do we want to be entertained, but we want to connect, to relate, and to identify with the figure on the screen.

Basically, we want to be one of our favorite YouTubers' 100,000 best friends.

We see influencers capitalize on these seemingly intimate relationships time and time again. Just a few days ago, I stumbled upon Jaclyn Hill's video titled "Get Ready With Me + Opening Up (Vulnerable)," only to hear her repeatedly say things like "oh my gosh you guys, I can't wait to tell you this," and "I love you soooo much; thank you for believing in me," all of which was summed up with an announcement that she was coming out with a new product in a few weeks.

Transparent? Yes. More common than we'd like to think? Also yes.

Why this pandering and audience manipulation? #Capitalism.

In YouTube's early days, connections with viewers seemed more a result of influencers' desires to express their interests and create content they couldn't in their "real lives." OG YouTubers talk about using the platform as a means to share skits and jokes with friends. From YouTube's inception to 2010, there was no such thing as "YouTube famous." You couldn't get rich from posting videos online. Quite frankly, you couldn't make any money from posting videos online. Then Google bought YouTube and was all "hey, people really like watching people talk on the Internet—let's bring in some advertisers and make millions!" That change, paired with the increased traction content creators gained, resulted in YouTube becoming a profession, rather than a hobby.

As Connie Glynn articulately noted in "The Death of the YouTuber" (a video that has since been taken down), viewers often deem the "golden age of YouTube" as the time before monetization of content: when online figures used video production to express themselves, to share their passions, and to create content when they felt creatively inspired, rather than pressured.

Flash forward a few years, and authenticity became a massive commodity on YouTube. What initially drew viewers to the platform became a metric for advertisers and algorithms to determine popularity and marketability. Some influencers purported "being real" with their audience, yet that realness became more curated, more calculated. It was almost as though you could apply a formula to someone's online personality. Creating a sense of intimacy with viewers resulted in subscriptions. Using self-disclosure, including negative emotions, meant more likes. The more saturated YouTube became with new voices, the more content creators had to use these strategies to make the algorithm work in their favor.

Except Jenna Marbles. Viewers around the world comment on her genuine authenticity, her refusal to "sell out," and a certain realness that's difficult to find on the Internet these days.

So, being the obsessed fan curious researcher I am, I set out to find out why, in the midst of all these YouTubers who claim authenticity, Jenna Marbles is consistently seen as "the most authentic."

If you are new to the YouTube world and don't know who Jenna Marbles is (real name Jenna Mourey), allow me to explain. Jenna Marbles, coined "The Queen of YouTube," has been around the Internet-verse for ten years. She first gained popularity by putting out a video called "How To Trick People Into Thinking You're Good Looking," which racked up over 60 million views.

Since then, Mourey released primarily satirical videos such as "What Girls Do In the Car," "How To Trick People Into Thinking You're Rich," and "Drunk Makeup Tutorial." She gained a massive following in this time, and remained popular, even as other people took to making videos online. While Mourey's content evolved slightly over the years, viewers could consistently look to her for gendered parodies and rants. Until 2017, that is.

Starting with a video titled "Shaving My Eyebrows," Mourey's channel turned into "Jenna's Selfish Time, Where I Just Do What Makes Me Laugh." In later reflections about 2017, Mourey stated that this was a much needed personal change. It was a risk to so drastically change her content, yet oddly enough, Mourey not only maintained her devoted subscriber-base, she gained more followers, all of whom made comments like, "Jenna doesn't believe in clickbait," "she's been staying true since day one," and "I feel like Jenna is just living her life and don’t give an f about drama and I love it."

So what makes Jenna Marbles different from other seemingly authentic YouTubers?

Her authenticity is resistive.

Resistive authenticity is a term that I just made up, but it's informed by people who are much smarter and much more scholarly than me. Basically, resistive authenticity is a form of digital self-presentation marked by differentiation, implicit critique of platform practices, and explicit critique of corporatization. Jenna Marbles is a perfect example of resistive authenticity, but it's also important to look past one of the top YouTubers for forms of authenticity that shake up YouTube and challenge its money-hungry, corporatized direction. But more on that later.

Mourey's most marked demonstration of resistive authenticity is actually a feminist one, as told by badass women like Cheryl Glenn and Krista Ratcliff. Differentiation is consciously identifying oneself as different from the surrounding members of a community they're part of. It originated by women noticing that their worlds were dominated by old white dudes who purported to know the secrets of the universe, and said, "hey maybe, just maybe, there's a different perspective that's like, just as valid."

Perhaps Mourey's differentiation is less explicit than that, but it's resistive in inferring that she won't consider herself an "in group member" of a huge media conglomerate that emphasizes numbers and money. She will exist on the platform, she will even make money from the platform, but she won't identify as a YouTuber in the 2020 sense.

Let's take "Making My Dog a Bed Out of Soap," for instance. Shockingly, soap carving is an existing genre on YouTube (although there is nary a "soap carving for dogs" video). However, early into the video, Mourey says, "this isn’t all pleasant like those soap carving videos on YouTube. This is violent. This is real life." I'm sure the irony is not lost on us that Mourey's video is, indeed, a soap carving video on YouTube, but her distinction shows that she won't project a flawless, unattainable life, despite that being the standard for DIY content.

The phrase "this is real life" makes us see Mourey as the viewer struggling alongside an airbrushed, perfected tutorial, only for it to fail. Mourey isn't the "better version" of ourselves that we constantly strive to become—if only we bought another sponsored crafting tool, or watched another ad, or watched 20 more soap carving videos. She is the messy, imperfect version of us. She's the work in progress, the self that other YouTubers edit out. And she's having so much fun doing it.

Another way that Mourey resists platform practices is through implicit critique via satire. We don't exactly look to Jenna Marbles's channel for serious, intellectual discussion about YouTube's corporatized direction. But, by that same token, we shouldn't overlook the subtle jokes that challenge expectations and norms for the modern-day YouTuber. These satirical jabs at YouTube point out problematic aspects of the platform without being aggressive or confrontational.

One of Mourey's newest tropes is telling her viewers to "unsubscribe below," or to "smash that unsubscribe button." This is in direct response to YouTubers' persistent reminders to subscribe, like, and share their videos. Viewer engagement is key in YouTube's algorithm, yet Mourey resists this kind of self-promotion. If anything, she's more like that person in high school who accidentally became popular and is all, "I'd really rather not be crowned prom queen—I'd just like to spend a weekend in my pajamas binge watching Survivor."

In "Taking a Nap for 20 Million Subscribers," Mourey says, "thank you so much for subscribing to my channel. I don't know why people continue to do so, especially when I tell you not to." This is perhaps an extreme example, and she certainly has the privilege to build her audience as she sees fit, but it's still worth noting that Mourey's practices are antithetical to the likes of Logan and Jake Paul, who seem to promote their channel and merchandise every two seconds.

Speaking of merch, Jenna Marbles doesn't have any. This is partly resistive unto itself, as merch is one of the most prominent ways that YouTubers make money. Mourey's refusal to produce merch is a clear statement that YouTubers' sole purpose need not be financial gain. The satirical piece of this refusal is in "Reacting to People Who Have Smash or Passed Me." In this video, someone "passed" Mourey because she was "2008 hot." In response to this response (how meta!), Mourey wrote in her video description, "here's the imaginary link to my 2008 tee-shirts." The link directs the viewer to a video of a 10-hour loop of a boy singing the intro to "Mad World." Mourey could have easily made thousands of dollars from selling tee-shirts, but instead satirized the notion of branding personal descriptors.

While Mourey's main channel focuses on implicit critique, her podcast titled "The Jenna and Julien Podcast" includes explicit critique of YouTube, which is along the lines of publicly criticizing your employer (like that one time I posted "The Communist Manifesto" in a Wegmans break room). YouTube has enforced restrictive demonetization policies which largely target small, minority YouTubers, particularly those in the LGBTQ+ community. Mourey has used her podcast as a platform to call out a platform that punishes diverse voices and rewards white dudes who film dead people in forests. As Mourey has said, it's scary to "bite the hand that feeds you," but it's encouraging to see a top-tier YouTuber using her influence to call for company change.

The thing is, we may look to Jenna Marbles as the emblem of authenticity on YouTube—she was my inspiration for resistive authenticity after all—but she is not the only YouTuber who challenges what we've come to know as Authenticity TM. She's in a position where she's more noticed than others, and she can jumpstart a turn towards resistive authenticity, but it's up to us to acknowledge and promote other resistive YouTubers. YouTube's algorithm won't do that work for us. We can't passively consume resistive tactics. We can, however, seek out other authentic YouTubers with different identities, world views, and stories.

Communicating Rhetoric: Rhet/Comp, Comm Studies, and What We Can Learn From Each

I am addicted to school. As someone who has been in school about 4 years too long, I can readily admit that I want to stay in the warmth and safety of the academy for as long as possible. There was an embarrassing number of moments during my Master's program that I forgot I was working towards graduation, and just wanted to bebop around until someone told me I couldn't be there anymore.

And yet, dear reader, I found a loophole: a PhD program—at the same wonderful university, in the same wonderful town...hurrah!

...And in a different discipline.

Both degrees were, as a former art teacher would say, "happy accidents." I applied for the Master's in English because I was having a post-graduation crisis, figured I liked school well enough, and heard that rhet/comp had the most jobs in English. I had the best two years of my life. I applied for the PhD in Comm Studies because my outside committee member told me my scholarship fit, and that they had EVEN MORE jobs. I just finished my first semester, and while I am mentally exhausted and ready to be in my pajamas for three straight weeks, I can safely say I have found a home (and a career) in Comm Studies.

I have written some variation of "how to survive grad school" for two years, most of which comes down to "do your work while still remaining human, get some sleep, and eat your veggies." What I haven't talked about is choosing the grad program you will have to subsequently survive.

I've noticed two patterns this semester: people want to know what the switch from English to Comm is like, and there seems to be a subtle, unspoken suspicion across fields. Both patterns never really made much sense to me, as it felt like the two disciplines weren't that different (especially coming from Rhet/Comp), and that the departments could facilitate some productive collaborations. So, like any scholar, I did some reflecting, read some syllabi, and compiled notes about each discipline. And while I do think there could be some rich collaborations between departments, I have noticed quite a few differences. Had I undergone a more traditional graduate program search, I would have liked to get this kind of information, so I thought I would share.

But first, a disclaimer: I can only speak to my specific experiences at CSU, and am aware that other programs run quite differently. That being said, I have looked through numerous syllabi across universities in both Rhet/Comp and Comm Studies, and have identified some overarching trends. Furthermore, I'm not trying to disparage either program, or deem one superior. I have faced obstacles and had positive experiences in both departments, and am aware of the wildly subjective nature of the graduate school experience.

Okay, now that we've gotten out of the way, I will address both content and departmental differences, and what we can learn from each.

CONTENT

Rhetoric and Composition is a bit of an anomaly because of the constant balance between theory (rhetoric) and pedagogy (composition). While this balance will largely be informed by the individual professor, I have noticed a lot of emphasis being placed on composition. It is common to tie theoretical discussions to the question "how can we use this information to better reach our students?". I have read about cultural difference in both disciplines, but in rhet/comp, this notion of difference connects to understandings of multiliteracies. Essentially, one group may value the oral tradition over writing, so maybe we should rethink how we as educators teach writing. We reflect on our own positionalities in order to identify biases in our pedagogy, and use our writing processes as models from which to teach our students. 

Theories of composition are usually categorized into the 3 camps of expressivism, cognitivism (AKA "formalism"), and social constructionism. I won't bore you too much with unnecessary detail (or spoilers!), but expressivism essentially argues that writing is the discovery of the author's truth, and is solely about the author. Cognitivism, on the other hand, argues that writing is comprised of mechanical meaning-making. It takes a narrow look at the written product itself, with no regard for either the author's intent, or the audience's reception. Social constructionism, the most "in vogue" theory to date, pulls from Lloyd Bitzer's rhetorical situation and emphasizes the various ideologies both the author and the reader hold going into a text. The social constructionist views writing as a social activity that is largely motivated by social change.

The Rhetorical Situation

We can see just how much theory influences pedagogy, as we frequently use the above model in College Composition. As an instructor, I often joked that my students would be dreaming of triangles and circles by the end of the semester. I know I certainly did. 

This is a complex field to briefly explain, but I'll briefly explain it anyway. To overly simplify, rhet/comp is about writing: teaching writing, examining the writing process, writing about writing. So, in a sense, I am writing about writing about writing. 

Okay, enough. For the visual learners out there, I have compiled some key words that I feel best exemplify the field as a whole:

Some key scholars that (in my opinion) best represent rhet/comp are Mary Louise Pratt, Lloyd Bitzer, Linda Flower, and Peter Elbow.

Communication studies is far more broad than rhet/comp, so I will give another disclaimer by stating that I'm coming at this largely from a media and rhetoric studies standpoint. There is a lot more internal debate among comm studies scholars about the "right way" to study a text because of the competing methodologies—all of which has led me into a scholarly existential crisis because what is a PhD program without one of those?

Like rhet/comp, comm studies has divided itself into 3 "camps" (when in doubt, go by the rule of 3): media studies, rhetoric, and relational/organizational communication. Media (studying industry) and rhetoric (studying text) are often in conversation with each other, whereas relational/org is off doing its own thing. The latter focuses on social scientific research, which I know approximately zero things about. But I hear they're doing some nifty things with AI and mindfulness in relationships, which is pretty darn cool. These camps often inform our identities as researchers, rather than instructors.

I've never been much of a revolutionary person, but comm studies has made me far more aware of social justice issues and the dangers of capitalism. Thus far, there have been Marxist undertones (or overtones) in each class I've taken. I have been reflective in both fields, but the content of said reflection has been wildly different. In rhet/comp, I reflected on who I was as an academic, writer, and instructor. In comm studies, I'm reflective about who I am as a consumer—both of media, and of material goods. 

Media studies places emphasis on industry, audience reception, and modes of production. While audience comes up in both fields, the emphasis here is how an audience receives media, rather than how we write to audiences. While I have yet to take a rhetoric class in the department, it seems to focus more on the text itself. Some emphases in rhetoric include speech communication; political rhetoric; and space, place, and memory. 

Prominent scholars in comm studies include John Fiske, Michel Foucault, Stuart Hall, and Kenneth Burke. 

PROGRAM

Unlike the content, program differences vary wildly depending on the program that you choose. But to make these observations a teeny bit more fair, I have included patterns I've noticed between Penn State's (my undergrad university) and CSU's English departments. With comm studies, you'll just have to take my word for it, like any good researcher. 

Rhet/comp is highly specialized. Not just from literature, english ed, TEFL, and creative writing, but internally as well. The professors will often cultivate their scholarly identities from deep knowledge of 2-3 subjects. Core classes might look extremely different depending on who's teaching them. The program is also tiny. Depending on how many GTA's are funded in the entire English department, there might be 5-7 folks in rhet/comp. In my own cohort, there were 3 GTAs and 2 part-time students. While I interacted with all 19 GTAs from English during my pedagogy course, I largely stuck with those from my specialty, and others did the same. 

CSU does not offer a PhD program in English, so in that sense, it was kind of nice not to have that perceived hierarchy among students. 

One thing that I really appreciated about rhet/comp (at least rhet/comp at CSU) was its openness and accommodating nature to non-traditional students. While the program was rigorous, the schedule intentionally accommodated working parents and non-local commuters. One downside of that openness to part-time non-GTAs was potential alienation when discussion the application of theory to pedagogy. Having spoken with those who applied for but did not get GTA positions, I know that created a fair amount of discomfort and feelings of competition.

Because the program was so small, I got a chance to really get to know my cohort, as well as the professors. Departmental culture was relatively casual, so I was on a first-name basis with all of my professors, and felt that they knew me deeply as a person (read: I overshared. A lot). We often had wine and cheese at a professor's house at the end of each semester, or coffee with another professor who prioritized breaking boundaries between "expert" and "novice." 

Just as comm studies is broader in content, it is bigger in size. One of the biggest draws of CSU's comm studies program is its interdisciplinary nature, so there are very few lines drawn between grad students. We all share the same office, take the same core classes, and are all GTAs (during our first year, we all teach public speaking, but then PhD students move on to teach other classes). We are introduced to and encouraged to get to know all of the faculty. The head of the department frequents the offices with a bowl of candy, which I feel is a perfect visualization of the culture of comm studies. 

Because we are all GTAs, there is less potential for feelings of alienation. At the same time, there is a clear sense that we are full-time. We teach when the department needs us to teach, and we take our core classes whenever they are offered. We take 5 classes our first semester, and are expected to attend most, if not all, departmental events. As such, it is difficult to accommodate non-traditional students. Most of us are between the ages of 22-27. 

One of the starkest differences between programs is the sociality, part of which comes from the age range and our full-time status. This is a highly social program. We have a group chat, yearly traditions, and frequent gatherings. Many of us know we won't get any work done in the office, but go there to catch up with friends (much to the chagrin of the instructors who are grading 90+ papers). Where the formality begins, however, is with the faculty. While the faculty are lovely, supportive folks who are happy to chat scholarship over coffee, the boundaries are far more firm. You address everyone as "Dr." until invited otherwise. You do not share personal information. They are not your therapists. They want to see you succeed, but if you come crying to class because your boyfriend dumped you (who me? Never!), they will recommend that you go to the counseling center. 

Both programs are exceptional at laying out a wide variety of career options, and supporting students regardless of the path they choose. I have seen great strides to make alt-ac options known, and to offer stories about working at different kinds of colleges and universities. It sometimes gets a little depressing to hear about the horrors of adjuncting, but knowing that they won't sugarcoat anything, we can see positive information as all the more promising. 

There are far more observations I've made (and will likely make in the next 3.5 years), so a part II may be on the horizon. Both departments have helped me grow exponentially as a teacher and a scholar, and have solidifed my love of academia. In terms of choosing a program, my biggest piece of advice would be to talk to the people in the department—not just the admissions counselors and the faculty, but the students as well. You can tell a lot about a department simply by walking into the graduate student office. 

Regardless of the discipline you choose, grad school is a surreal, wonderful, painful growing experience. Chances are when you graduate, you'll look back and go "did I really do that?" but also, "hell yeah, I did that!" It is a special kind of hell and nirvana all wrapped into one. But mostly, like life, it's what you make of it. 

Until next time, folks.

Duped: Double Lives, False Identities, and the Con Man I Almost Married (A Review)

Abby Ellin’s Duped: Double Lives, False Identities, and the Con Man I Almost Married is not the book I expected to pick up next, as I knew it would undoubtedly promote paranoia and suspicion in relationships (it did). At the time, however, I was dealing with some romantic suspicion and distrust of my own, and hoped the book would help me with my internal dilemma.

As it turns out, the guy in question wasn’t deceptive—apparently, there’s a difference between an identity thief/regular thief and someone you’re just not that into. Who knew?

So while this story didn't confirm my worst suspicions, I'm still glad I read it. It at least reinforced the idea that I should trust my instincts and not be on robbery-watch with the person I'm supposed to love and trust with all my heart.

In this text, Ellin shares the story of meeting “The Commander,” allegedly a Navy SEAL officer. She is swept up by his stories of going on super secret missions in Afghanistan, of having meetings with Obama, and of saving soldiers’ lives. After a speedy engagement with the Commander, Ellis finds out that her fiancé has been lying the entire time—while he was a doctor and did work for the FBI, he was never a Navy SEAL and used his past marriages and relationships to get illegal prescriptions for Vicodin, an addiction that he kept secret among everyone he knew. Interspersed with Ellin’s narrative is research about deceit, motivations behind compulsive liars, and anecdotes that illustrate both the variety and commonality of lying.

Truthfully, I found the story of the Commander kind of boring. He was charming, and the story provided a stable foundation for Ellin’s research, but it was difficult to be invested in their relationship. Perhaps I am a broken reader and care little for the main stories in a book, but there seemed to be little care in fleshing out the Commander’s character, or Ellin’s reasons for being interested in him. Yes, I can relate to Ellin’s justification that she was lonely, she didn’t want to disrupt stability. Ellin’s internal reflections perfectly mirror those of us who have so badly wanted to settle into relationships that we always knew were off: “I was most alone in the wrong relationship….I wanted this relationship to work” (13), and “I was so lonely. Wasn’t the whole point of having a partner to help fill the void?....I tried to be happy. But I wasn’t. And I hated myself for it. I don’t know if my loneliness stirred up my doubts or if my doubts ignited my loneliness, but my sense that the Commander was ‘truth challenged’ increased. I worried that my commitment issues were getting the best of me, and I needed to work through them. But I couldn’t” (20). This agony can invite empathy from the reader, but from a literary standpoint, this dissatisfaction and distrust in Ellin’s relationship also dulled the shock value when she found out that her “meh” fiancé was a con artist. It seemed as though she wanted to get rid of him in the first place, as she explicitly noted just how dull the Commander was.

Despite the lazy portrayal of Ellin’s relationship with the Commander, we see far more nuance in other stories of deception and truth-exaggeration. With these stories, Ellin paints a more sympathetic and well-rounded picture of those who bend the rules. My personal favorite story was that of Peter Young, a man on the run who freed thousands of mink and foxes from fur farms. He changed his identity several times, never had a stable job, and was eventually caught by the police. Ellin acknowledges that part of Young wanted to be on the run due to the drama, the thrilling adrenaline. But he also deceived in order to help free animals from harm. Ellin notes:


"On the one hand, Young was an entitled rich kid who didn’t want to work especially hard and happily took from others. He vandalized. He ruined the livelihoods of many, many people. He lied and misrepresented himself. But the rebellious side of me was entirely behind him….Young fervidly believed in what he was doing. I was also jealous. Oh, to have such loyalty to a cause greater than myself! I’ve longed to believe in something—anything—unconditionally, to be so passionate about a person or cause that I’d be willing to risk jail for it. I envied his conviction, the same way I envy people who believe in Jesus or Allah or amethysts" (57).

Here’s where we get into the most interesting part: we might separate ourselves from con artists, but in reality, we are all deceiving and living double lives, at least to a certain extent. Reflecting on this reality may be uncomfortable, but Ellin makes this point in a non-judgmental yet informative way. We live in an age where we perceive others as “having it all,” and feel pressure to do the same by presenting multiple selves. We aren’t lying per se...more like embellishing. But just like Ellin, we lie when we want to present a marketable self, an extroverted self, or a self who just can’t get enough NASCAR dates. We compartmentalize these selves, and our actions as we transition between them.


A more surprising claim about manipulating reality was that it helps some combat depression. While I initially saw this as a bit of a stretch, it becomes more logical as you consider the reasons why: “impostership ‘represents a defense against depression….As long as [you can] maintain it and work at it then [you don’t] have to think of [yourself] as a depressed and lonely person. A double life is just the way to cover up the turmoil’” (73). Here we see the compassionate depiction of those who lie in a way that fell short with the Commander’s story. We may not forgive those who manipulate and con their way through life, but we can start to build an understanding that these acts can come from pain, rather than malice. They may, as is in Young’s case, be well-intentioned.

Less enticing was Ellin’s implied message that dating simply isn’t worth the fear of being duped. A fair conclusion after being lied to twice, but it also reinforces paranoia that may not be healthy for those of us who are perhaps...more suspicious than the average person. Treading carefully in a new relationship is wise, but avoiding dating altogether may be a bit extreme (for some. This is a separate discussion from those who are simply uninterested in dating). It’s true that betrayal from love can make it feel like your insides have been ripped out, and research shows that PTSD caused by loved ones is far worse than PTSD from natural disasters; in short, love is agonizing. Many of us lie more than we’d care to admit to our partners. But I almost wish that Ellin would pair the couples who broke due to deception with those who worked through it to illustrate the line between pure, con-man level deception and manipulation of reality that we all fall subject to.

This text also had some contradiction that seemed a fault of Ellin’s editor: most prominent was Ellin’s claim that “people show you who they are in the first two minutes you meet them: two seconds, if you believe Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink” (31). A few pages later, she states, “when you meet somebody for the first time, you’re not meeting them. You’re meeting their representative” (44). It could be that Ellin is comparing research, or other authors’ claims, but she does not make that clear, as she fails to further explore the competing arguments and land on a unique conclusion.

Despite the minor flaws of this text—namely that I am terrified to ever download Bumble again—it was an engaging read. Ellin’s voice is informal, each chapter is gripping, and there are some new ideas I didn’t know about (like rape by deception: if you have consensual sex with someone who is lying about their identity, that becomes rape). This book could have been better organized, as I felt like we were flipping between the Commander story and other anecdotes for no particular reason. However, it’s clear that Ellin is passionate about this topic, and she has conducted some fascinating research about deception. If you’re okay with some paranoia and won’t conclude that your friend is feigning cancer just to move in with and control you, I would recommend that you read this book. You might just learn something—not just about those around you, but the less comfortable parts of yourself.

Religion for Atheists: A Review

I had mixed feelings when picking up Alain de Botton’s Religion for Atheists. While I certainly am among the target demographic, I suspected that this might be something along the lines of “Religion for Dummies.” While I have integrated some concepts from Eastern religions into my life, I still hold some skepticism (and, frankly, ignorance) about the Christian faith. Reading this book was largely an attempt to challenge my preconceived notions about Christianity, especially after my tainted perception upon watching notoriously outrageous YouTube channels like Girl Defined and Paul and Morgan.

Religion for Atheists is divided into ten chapters, each of which introduces a new concept that can help guide everyone through life. Botton primarily focuses on Christianity and Judaism, as he (rightly so) argues that covering more religions would make for a very lengthy and confusing book. From the start, Botton states a clear thesis that “secularism is [not] wrong, but...we have too often secularized badly—inasmuch as, in the course of ridding ourselves of unfeasible ideas, we have unnecessarily surrendered some of the most useful and attractive parts of the faiths” (17). This seems like an interesting concept, though Botton goes on to argue all the facets in which secularism is, in fact, wrong. But more on that later.

Understanding the author’s background and perspective is always important (take that, new criticism!), and it’s even more vital to research the author in the context of this book. In my preliminary research, I discovered that Botton is a philosopher, went to Cambridge, began a PhD in French philosophy at Harvard, but later dropped out to become a full-time author. When trying to find out Botton’s religious affiliations, I came up short. Botton makes no mention of his religious identity in this book, which I feel is a massive overlook on his part.

The beginning of the text is innocent enough. Botton makes some overarching arguments that others corroborate: we often lack a sense of community, as we are absorbed in long work hours and social media. We rarely speak to our neighbors, and we attend dinners in public, it’s never to meet new people (unless, of course, it’s to professionally network). Beyond making the point that it’s good advice to “love thy neighbor,” Botton goes further in-depth to claim that “the book of Agape would direct diners to speak to one another for prescribed lengths of time on predefined topics” (46). While the enforced lengths and topics sound a bit like speed dating for friends, the overall idea is a positive one: religion encourages us to get out of our social shells, to be curious about others’ experiences, and to build new communities.

Among established communities, religious practices invite us maintain a sense of vulnerability and reflection about our social follies. The Jewish faith’s Day of Atonement is a time in which everyone must reflect on those they have hurt and subsequently apologize and ask for forgiveness. The word “sin” does appear in this holy day (a term that makes me deeply uncomfortable), but what makes the Day of Atonement so interesting is that the focus is on one specific sin, and offers a solution that is practical (it does not simply absolve someone for confessing) and does not punish the sinner.

For the most part, I wasn’t enthralled by Botton’s writing about this topic, and he only loosely ties this religious practice to atheists by saying we should all apologize for our past mistakes each quarter of a year. This would be an interesting practice for those who block out the past or rarely reflect on wrong-doings. Because this concept was new to me, I was delighted with this chapter. But Botton fails to connect with less introspective atheists, and leaves more questions than answers about how this secular atonement day would work. Unless he’s just saying atheists should, instead of being assholes, admit when they’ve done something wrong.

As the book progressed, Botton’s arguments seemed more of a stretch: what seems specific to religion in Botton’s mind is also present in therapy, mindfulness, and support networks. In some cases, the religious qualities that Botton advocates for might be better achieved through secular practices. Botton makes the point that looking at a saintly figurine can help us figure out what to do when we’re feeling stuck. The answer is inside us, Botton argues, but looking to a maternal figure helps us access that answer. The same thing happens with trained professionals who ask guiding questions to help us find the answers we’ve known all along. Yes, there is cost involved, but the sheer avoidance of these alternative methods of self-inquiry ultimately weakens Botton’s argument.

Then we have the chapter on education—oh boy, is this a treat. This chapter is essentially a 30 page confession that Botton has not stepped inside a classroom since the dark ages, and that his professors never once challenged him to think critically. He seems to have a personal vendetta against the humanities, and thinks that the only education worth having is one of self-reflection. His language is aggressive, his arguments are entirely unfounded, and he alienates a large demographic within the secular community: academics.

Universities, to Botton, simply churn out robots who spout meaningless knowledge and have no ethical or moral compass. Perhaps you might think that my religious and academic bias are tainting my view of Botton’s argument— “he can’t possibly be that shallow and ignorant,” you might say. But you would be wrong. He literally says things like “whatever rhetoric may be rehearsed in its prospectuses, the modern university appears to have precious little interest in teaching its students any emotional or ethical life skills, much less how to love their neighbors and leave the world happier that they found it” (105), “it would be a shocking affront to university etiquette to ask what Tess of the d’Urbervilles might usefully teach us about love, or to suggest that the novels of Henry James might be read with an eye to discovering parables about staying honest in a slippery mercantile world” (117), and “secular education will never succeed in reaching its potential until humanities lecturers are sent to be trained by African-American Pentecostal preachers” (131). These passages almost tread the line of satire, as they are so completely wrong. Botton’s perception that college courses consist of passive, lifeless students, an hour-long lecture with zero discussion or critical application, and tests that require rote memorization is so laughably off, that he damages his ethos beyond repair for the remainder of the book. This chapter is clear proof that Botton has little ground to argue that religion introduces practices that are impossible to find elsewhere. It’s alarming that despite his background in philosophy, Botton fails to bridge the connection between academic concepts and the human condition. He also seems to make these arguments based on the assumption that without a formal class or text that gave step-by-step instructions on how to be a good person, we’d all be flailing, murdering, thieving sacks of flesh.

The idea behind this book has a lot of potential, and, if executed properly, could have opened up the eyes of stubborn atheists who refuse to see the good in religious practices. Instead, this book is an attack on atheists that relies on old, unfounded arguments with gaping holes all over the place. Save yourself the drudgery of slogging through this book, and instead recognize that kindness, community, and morality are qualities we should all strive for, regardless of religion.

Small Fry: A Review

When I picked up Lisa Brennan-Jobs’s Small Fry, I expected a tell-all narrative about Steve Jobs. Hearing little more than “he was a jerk,” I was hungry for the details about his life, about his relationships with colleagues and families alike. I wanted to know the intricacies of a brilliant mind who was reputed to be so cruel, and to understand the underlying motives and ambiguities that fleshed out his character.

It turns out he was just kind of a jerk; surprisingly, Jobs is ultimately the least interesting person in the book. This is a text that quietly asks its readership to shift expectations from “confessions of an abused daughter” to musings about the complexities and pains of familial relationships. If and when the reader is open to such a change, the book becomes a profound and thought-provoking read.

We are first introduced to Jobs at the tail end of his life, as he tells his daughter from his deathbed that she smells like a toilet. This reverse chronological order is nothing new, although it does allow the reader to see that even in the most vulnerable of moments, Jobs continues to spout hateful comments. Most of the text continues this thread: Jobs is portrayed as a hateful, controlling monster, no matter the context. We might get the details of Jobs’s exact form of hate that we have been craving, but with that comes no nuance or suggestion of vulnerability in his character. Up until the very end of the book, Jobs is an archetype of the cruel, uninvolved father.

Much of the beginning lacks a cohesive thread. Jobs is largely absent from the beginning chapters, and instead we are inundated with seemingly unimportant backstory about Lisa’s parents. Lisa drives home the point that she and her mother were poor. Jobs is an ancillary character who has a lot of money, yet refuses to lend it to his ex and daughter. In fact, after nearly fifty pages of introduction, Lisa admits, “Steve. I knew so little about him” (48). Again, we see Jobs as cruel, as evidenced by his shameless ego: “‘Do you know who I am?....I’m your father. I’m one of the most important people you will ever know’” (13). There are references to Jobs’s work, but Lisa never dives into what it entails. Barring a couple of scenes, we don’t see Jobs at the office. Here begins the suggestion that this text isn’t really about Jobs; rather, his absence is a lens through which to see Lisa’s life.

Discovering the depth of characters is painfully slow in the beginning. The mother, too, is archetypal. She seems a stereotype of the unreliable artist flitting about with wild dreams and an empty bank account. She has an influx of boyfriends, wants to desperately to be a good mother, and in doing so, spends money she doesn’t have. Much of this section is factual, as though Lisa is so used to her mother’s flighty nature, she no longer reacts to it. Only later do we see a fuller version of Lisa’s mother.

Getting the initial sense that this book was largely an emotionless autobiography, I almost abandoned it. But I pressed on, mostly because I wanted to have another entry on Goodreads. As Lisa offers her own self-reflections, her writing comes alive, and the readers’ emotional investment in Lisa expands dramatically. These reflections are strong and poignant:

"I began to feel there was something gross and shameful about me, and also to know that it was too late to change it, that nothing could be done. I was different from other girls my age, and anyone good and pure could immediately sense this and would be repulsed. One indication was the photograph. Another was that I could not read. The last was that I was meticulous and self-conscious in a way I could tell the other girls were not. My desires were too strong and furious….I felt this quality in myself, and I was sure it must show when people saw me" (28).

Here we see a little girl in tremendous pain—not because of Jobs (Lisa knows no different from the absent father), and not solely about her poverty. Her pain comes from a feeling of being on the outside, of wanting so desperately to fit in, and of noticing a devastating alienation from her classmates. This is a nearly universal story, which begins to situate Lisa on the same level as her audience. Jobs has not yet told Lisa that she will never fit in—this isolation isn’t the outcome of a narcissistic billionaire. Instead, it’s the outcome of self-hatred that is all too common in young girls.


While Jobs’s actions are largely uninteresting, it is Lisa’s perceptions of her father that we cling onto. This dichotomy between reality and interpretation is a reminder that despite our best attempts to use facts, perceptions of our parents will always be skewed. Lisa sees Jobs’s use of commonplace phrases such as “let’s call it a day” as sophisticated and other-worldly. Lisa further explores a sense of the fantastical, surreal nature of Jobs’s life as she describes spending time in his home: “We existed outside regular time. The mornings with him, too, would have a timeless quality, more empty space and white light and silence—unlike the mornings with my mother, when we raced to dress in front of the heaters and ate toast in the car….Here there was no rush, no breathlessness” (101). These observations introduce the dichotomy between the competing worlds in Lisa’s life.

Lisa largely seems to be a reflection of her parents, but we do get a glimmer of her self-development and exploration, as she discusses an affinity with writing. She is proud of her teacher’s praise of her work, and notes the ease in finding the words to create a smooth, polished essay. In keeping with my appreciation for Lisa’s inner musings, I would have liked to see more of this exploration, as it deepens our understanding of the main character of the text.

Towards the middle of the book, we still see vivid descriptions of Jobs’s cruelty: he blatantly and unapologetically insults Lisa’s cousin as she loudly orders food at a restaurant and eats in a sloppy manner. Lisa recognizes her father’s emotional abuse, which makes it all the more frustrating—but not surprising—when she is still desperate for Jobs’s approval. Yet as Lisa sprinkles stories of her father’s selfishness and violence, she invites us into the far more complex, ambiguous, and (in my opinion) interesting world of her relationship with her mother. Again, she uses Jobs as a mirror in which to gaze at and critique the world where she is fully accepted. Everything with Jobs is tidy and cold; his interactions with Lisa’s mother showcase the disparate nature between the two worlds, alongside Lisa’s determination to take sides:

"Next to him, [my mother] looked ragged and disheveled. When she spoke, sobbing, she was hardly intelligible. Looking back, I’m ashamed to see that I just wanted her to act neat and quiet….I didn’t want my father to think I was anything like her….She seemed too dramatic. Crazy, even. I wanted her to feel less, express less" (212).

Lisa’s expression of shame felt towards her mother seems familiar to the dislike that Jobs expresses about Lisa. And while Lisa acknowledges her awareness about Jobs’s problematic behavior, she reflects that same casual cruelty towards her mother. As Lisa moves between houses, her desperate desire to be seen by her father deepens. Paradoxically, as Lisa so desperately wants warmth and affection in the Jobs household, she rejects it from the parent who has been around all along:

"The first two days as my mother’s felt excessively warm, almost cloying, as she followed me around, tending to me, cooking with what I’d recently understood to be an excess of oil, and profligate butter. I felt superior. I knew things she didn’t. I hated how needy she was, how vulnerable, wanting to be with me even when I said I was fine alone; I hated the fact that I was related to her, that because of her I was unable to belong in the other house….I wanted to be someone else, to be prettier, blonde, tall, worthy—but she seemed to love me, to like me, as I was. I doubted her taste" (289).

This, to me, is where the book becomes most alive and poignant. I may hold a certain degree of personal bias, as I find this passage eerily similar to my own life. This story is unique to Lisa, yet it also points to the universality of the strained mother-daughter relationship. We see an intricate, believable, and painful depiction of the violent swing between closeness and hatred. As daughters, we might see ourselves, yet as daughters, we open our eyes (perhaps for the first time) to the scarring impact this dynamic has on mothers who are loving, flawed, and trying very hard.

This passage also demonstrates the elegant maturity of Lisa: she could easily play the victim card and portray her mother as a bumbling idiot, but she recognizes her deficiencies, and doesn’t shy away from discussing her own cruelty—a cruelty that is uncomfortably similar to her father’s. Yet unlike the depictions of Jobs, this passage does not force the reader to detach from or feel disdain for Lisa; if anything, it further humanizes her, and encourages her readers to explore their own opposing desires and messy familial interactions.

Returning to the theme of alienation and isolation, Lisa uses the figure of her stepmother—Laurene—to explore her desire to approximate normalcy. While Lisa makes clear that both of her parents are far from normal, Laurene is the hero who understands how to be a person in the world. This part of the text gives the reader a clearer understanding of why Lisa wants to spend time in a house that has almost no furniture, a broken dishwasher, and a freezing bedroom. We sympathize with Lisa as she almost worships’ Laurene’s influence: “Laurene seemed to understand the division between strange and relatable in a way we did not….What a relief it was to have [her] with her knowledge of etiquette and protocol. Who knew people who did not frame birth certificates and put them on walls” (248). With this appreciation for etiquette and normalcy comes an implicit depiction of a cold, unwelcome house that holds no room for the free expression of people like Lisa.

Lisa uses her relation to Jobs to sell the book, but from early on, we recognize that this text is not about Jobs (a solid move, as writing solely about Jobs would make for a very boring, very predictable book). Lisa ultimately acknowledges the ubiquity of her story:

"Like me, most of the women I knew did not have fathers when they were growing up. Not having a father wasn’t unique, or even significant. My father’s significance was elsewhere. Instead or raising me, he was inventing world-changing machines; he was famous, mingling, accruing, driving stoned in the South of France" (275).

Rather than focus on the superficial relationship that Lisa had with her father (barring a few special moments they had skating and appreciating the beauty of nature), Lisa uses her positionality as the daughter of a celebrity to explore the complexity of relationships, the difficulty of differentiating yourself from your parents. She beautifully expresses the paradox of simultaneously appreciating and despising those who are closest. She challenges us to investigate the venomous, tangled mother-daughter relationship, and of painful, frustrating, and altogether human nature of those around us.

On Ethical Overwhelm

In attempts to be a person in the world, I have started to stop obsessing about myself  look less inward and follow the news. It's been easy enough to follow the 2020 elections, as I have an unhealthy obsession with debates and analysis of the ten million people who are running for president. As far as other issues have gone, I've taken to watching comedy shows like the Daily Show, Last Week Tonight, and the Late Show—both for a laugh, and to be somewhat connected to life outside of knitting and Stranger Things.

In keeping with my propensity for going to extremes, my reaction to John Oliver's video on warehouses was not moderate in any way.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9m7d07k22A

"This is horrifying!," I thought to myself, "I will never shop on Amazon ever again!"

I will, of course, shop on Amazon again, as evidenced by my ever-expanding Amazon wishlist: 

 

I was never ignorant enough to believe that Amazon's warehouse workers had luxury break rooms, 401ks, and comprehensive benefits—on some level, way in the back of my mind, I was aware that working conditions for these employees were less than ideal—although I was not aware just how un-ideal they truly were. But in the same way that you can look at a chicken breast and disassociate from the chicken that was pumped with steroids and antibiotics, it's easy to turn a blind eye when the problem isn't staring you in the face. It's no coincidence that I started getting far more interested in Medicare for All as I got closer and closer to my 26th birthday. 

Or, perhaps, you are brutally aware of the issue, but you've heard about 20 social causes in the past week, are working 3 jobs, and can't possibly imagine what you can do to stop the issue. The systemic change is too overwhelming to even begin to consider where you would start. Worse, you have such little time and so little money, you have to rely on Amazon for its convenient delivery and cheap cost while you work to feed 3 hungry children. 

I don't have 3 jobs or any children, but I will be working on a graduate stipend and limited time. It's easy to mindlessly "window shop" online, go, "ooh, cute!" and experience the euphoria of getting packages delivered to your door, or the excitement of tearing open the box (it's like never-ending Christmas!). Rather than spend half an hour driving to and back from Target, plus 20 extra minutes of chasing down several employees to help me find a fake plant that I don't really need, I've just found the perfect item in two minutes, and purchased it in two seconds. I never have to even consider the exploitation and abuse of the working class—instead, I can do classwork. 

So yes, there is a case for taking advantage of the convenience of online shopping. It's also true that we cannot dismantle a capitalist society by choosing to buy that plant at Goodwill. There will always be rich white dudes who are flying their dick-spaceships while their employees work 80 hours a week just to put rice and beans on the table. 

We can also make the argument that in the digital age, we are aware of so many wrongdoings and social injustices, that we can feel overwhelmed by social justice. With so many opportunities to make a difference, we may feel torn and tortured by the fact that we can't do it all, and thus do nothing. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJVqs_mhOA4

Migrant Children's Detention Facility 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_vqIGTKuQE

Undercover at Smithfield Foods

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hf-bLR668g

The Central Park Five: A Cautionary Tale of Injustice

One of the first things we can do is show up to vote for politicians whose platforms serve and advocate for underprivileged and minority groups, thus taking into account multiple social issues. Beyond that, though, how do we know which equally important causes to take on without feeling overwhelmed, or without shirking our own personal desires or needs? 

What I've started to realize is that everyday, personal desires aren't necessarily antithetical to political justice. When making personal goals, it's important to consider which social issues reflect those goals. For instance, I both want to spend less money and better get to know people and places of Fort Collins. An easy way to do this is to seek out yard sales and thrift stores. While this comes at the cost of time, it's one symbolic gesture rejecting exploitative companies and embracing locally-owned businesses. Also, it's more fun to say "this desk was used by a 90 year old woman who spent the last five years of her life composing an epic tome about her life during war, loss, and illness," rather than, "this was on sale for $65 and I spent ten hours trying to figure out how to put the damn thing together."

I would also like to get more involved in the beauty community. This might seem like a consumerist practice (mostly because it is), but this is also a perfect way to gather knowledge about ethical and humane companies. Finding brands that do not test on animals isn't something I would have done had I not taken a greater interest in makeup. And when I align my personal goal with a social cause, I can then disseminate that information to other makeup-lovers and take the conversation to a deeper level.

This one's a little bit trickier, as cost can be a huge factor, but I would like to eat healthier. Eating lots of red meat and dairy tends to make me feel lethargic and heavy, and I've tried the vegetarian thing on and off for about two years. I can never fully commit to being vegetarian, and it's even harder when I'm trying to do it on a budget. I've also found that without some amount of meat, I lose weight and energy fast. After teaching a food-themed composition course for two years, I am highly aware of the ethical implications of mass production of meat. So, in attempts to align the issue of slaughterhouses and my own personal mission, I will strive to eat less meat, and despite the slightly higher cost, will purchase ethically-sourced meat.

When we try to consume information about every single social injustice every, we get burnt out, overwhelmed, and exhausted. We may not feel personally invested in every single issue. We may feel so scattered and inundated with information, we can't properly commit to any cause. And then, in response, we might say, "I don't care about anything. What does that say about me?" When we flip the conversation to "I'm personally interested in_________. How might that inform the issues I could get involved in?" 

And for those working for corporate-owned businesses, feel free to post multiple copies of the Communist Manifesto on the break room walls. 

Namaste.