Re-viewing

Remember seeing the picture of two profiles that could morph into a picture of a vase if you just looked a little differently? Or the one of the old woman and young woman, merged into one ... until you identify each of them individually? If you've run into these, maybe in Intro Psych, you may have heard them described as examples of reversible figure-ground relationships—what you see, what is figure and what is ground, can shift when you change your focus to a different bit of the picture or change your orientation relative to it. The picture doesn’t change. Your perspective does. You do.

       

                

So, here's my own recent encounter with a reversible figure/ground moment: 

Walking happily along a favorite trail I spotted this stump with a huge hole straight through it, so cleanly through that you could see the contours of the field behind it. I saw it from a distance, and was stopped in my tracks by the improbable perfection of this hole.

So I moved closer, wanting to see how it was done, this huge, precise hole …

and then closer yet ...

Not a hole at all, but the blunt end of a sawed-off branch, pointing straight at me. I've seen this stump a few times since. Each time, I'm first struck by the surprising hole, clean through. Only when I get closer, shift my perspective, do I remember that it's something else entirely.

Recently, I’ve had some of these moments on a totally different plane—not so much perceptual as conceptual and emotional shifts, in my experiences related to difference, oppression, diversity, and privilege.

A couple of weeks ago, we went to see the movie "I Am not Your Negro." The movie traces the experience of  James Baldwin, the noted African American author, speaker, and sometimes activist, as he decides to re-enter the fray—the Civil Rights movement—abandoning for a time his self-exile/ex-pat status in Paris (and sometime Turkey), where he went to escape the racism of his birth nation. I knew of Baldwin's work before, both because of its significance as literature and because of its meaning to the African American and LGBT communities.  But to be honest, I've never read  his work, not even the novel that I know gave voice to many queer folks' experience, Giovanni's Room. 

Joshua Dysart, in an IMDb review, writes of this movie, “a large part of this film consists of clips from Hollywood's rough history of reducing or falsifying the black American experience, often with Baldwin's own criticisms laid on top of them, weighing the clips down, eviscerating them. There are hard juxtapositions here as well, such as the innocence of Doris Day pressed up against the reality of lynched black men and women swaying in trees. By contextualizing these images in new and fresh ways the film is able to paint an impressionistic portrait of American denial.”

American denial. The shoe fits. I used to love Doris Day (and Sidney Poitier, the “good” Black whose acceptance proved we weren’t racist). I used to not think about—not even know about—lynchings.

The film, Dysart continues, “also ties itself to the moment. Images of Ferguson, photographs of unarmed black children left dead in the streets by police, video of Rodney King being brutalized beyond any justification, all of it means that Baldwin's words ring timeless, his call to action not remotely diffused by our distance from him and his time.”

If you have seen the film, you’re likely with me at this point, recalling those scenes and the awful discomfort they stirred. The self-righteous outrage, of course, but also the memory of when these things happened, and how I, personally, watched from afar, horrified in principle, but not moving. American denial.

Among the most compelling moments in the film came during interviews by then-famous talk-show host Dick Cavett. At one point, Cavett invites Baldwin to sort of absolve the US of the continuing sins of racism, appealing to a common argument: Sure there's still work to be done, but we've come a long way, right? Baldwin refuses the bait, noting instead how far we have not come, how much American society/culture continues to use Black people as an object of projection: whatever is bad among us, we attribute to Black people. Cavett is  caught noticeably off guard by this response, frozen except for his eyes, which glance nervously around like he's looking for help—or an exit. It's here that Baldwin utters the line that rang in my head as the credits rolled: “What white people have to do, is try and find out in their own hearts why it was necessary to have a n****r in the first place. Because I'm not a n****er. I'm a man, but if you think I'm a n****r, it means you need it. . . . If I'm not a n****r here and you invented him — you, the white people, invented him — then you've got to find out why…"

When I heard it, my breathing stopped the way my steps did when I saw the sawed-off branch that had seemed so clearly a hole, clean through. Racism isn’t just an absence—of understanding, of empathy—It’s not just a hole. It’s the sawed-off stump of our own need for something, someone to contain all of the things we fear, all of the things we hate in ourselves. And I’m talking here not just about individuals—those other “others” whom I can dislike and disown because they have bigoted ideas. I’m talking about each of us, and all of us as a collective. A society that has invented, in Baldwin’s words, others to hold our own disowned shadows—the Red heathens, the Yellow demons, the Black n****rs, the Brown “rapists and murderers.”

Heavy, huh? No wonder Cavett was stunned into (at least temporary) silence. So was I. As we were driving home, talking about the film, my partner said that Baldwin was her first anti-racism teacher. I can see why. I've added Giovanni’s Room to my iPad library so I can catch up with the 1950s on my next trip, just 60 years late.

Shortly after that, we attended an event at History Colorado, organized by the Japanese American Citizens League. The occasion was the 75th annual Day of Remembrance commemorating Executive Order  #9066, issued on February 19, 1942, just weeks after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, launching the US into WWII. Order 9066 opened the way for a program of mass eviction that would eventually see about 120,000 people of Japanese ancestry—at least 70,000 of them US citizens—moved from their homes, their jobs and businesses, and their lives along the west coast and imprisoned in concentration camps elsewhere in the US. The ostensible rationale was, of course, that they might prove a danger to the war effort, since any Japanese attack would likely come from the west. Disregarded in this rationale was the fact that only a small proportion of Japanese residents of Hawaii—fewer than 2000 of the 150,000+ living there at the time—were similarly incarcerated, despite Pearl Harbor. Not to mention that infants and people with 1/16 Japanese ancestry were included (remember the “one drop” rule for who was considered Black?). In reality, no person of Japanese ancestry was ever convicted of espionage, treason, or sabotage during the war.

The camps were scattered around the West, mostly in desert or cold mountainous regions. One, called Amache, was in Colorado, in the south eastern plains, near the town of Granada. Not far from Sand Creek, the site of one of post-Civil War America's most horrific massacres of indigenous people (about which I’ve written here before). The Colorado connection tugs at me. It reminds me of this state’s checkered past in matters of racism—the Indian Wars and Sand Creek in the late 1800s, the dominance of the Ku Klux Klan in Colorado politics during the 1920s, Amache in the mid-1940s. It belies my idyllic image of this gorgeous, complicated state, seen in my early years through the eyes of a child born and raised here, sheltered and privileged, oblivious to it all.

The Day of Remembrance, like “I’m not your Negro,” was full of moments of insight and disarming new awareness. A few of these stand out in retrospect. One was when the organizers were making introductions. After recognizing a few dignitaries, they asked, “If anyone here is a survivor of the camps, would you please raise your hand?” Maybe 20 hands went up—I can’t be sure, because my eyes filled with tears. Here, right here in this room, I thought, are people who were forced to leave everything behind—everything, that is, but one suitcase—and climb on buses to nowhere. They survived, and here they are, sitting scattered among us. Still here, still in America. After all that. Later, after the keynote speaker (who was very interesting in a detached, academic sort of way; not exactly what I was wanting at that point), they opened the floor to people’s stories.

Not surprisingly, I guess, there were many stories of the racism that preceded the war—taunting, harassment, overt discrimination in employment and housing, inability to own land, limitations on educational opportunities and professions open to people of Asian descent. So reminiscent of more familiar tales of racism in my own lifetime—especially directed at African Americans—recently 'managed’ by non-discrimination laws and increased social censure for such attitudes and behaviors. Until, that is, the presidential campaign that made it all OK again.

Then there was the story of a man whose family had lived in Peru. The US government went to Peru to pick them up, and transferred them to a camp in Texas (where, incidentally, there were also German and Italian detainees). And the now-90-year-old woman who recalled the kindness of friends and allies who had made it possible for her to go to college. And the woman, an ally, who helped her friend, a Japanese American, whose recently deceased mother had been in the camps, to take care of her mom’s possessions after mom’s death. They found money hidden all around the house and multiple bank accounts, each with a substantial amount of money. Breadcrumbs pointing to lingering fear of being taken away. Again. Though it had been 70 years.

There was no dearth of explicit parallels drawn between those years and today—particularly for people of color, especially immigrants. The threat of profiling, the possibility (however remote it may seem) of similar Executive Orders, similar restrictions, evictions, even camps. The fear of the police, who are helpers to the privileged, but sources of danger to the targeted. And American denial writ large. 

The museum has an excellent online exhibit about Order 9066 and the Japanese Internment. I recommend the whole thing, but especially check out the propaganda video on “Japanese relocation,” obviously designed to convince Americans (non-Japanese, non-German, non-Italian, non-Jewish, etc. Americans) that not only were these camps a good idea, but the people being moved to them were delighted to go. It’s chilling. American denial.

But importantly, another, very different part of this experience was my awareness that this huge room was full to overflowing, and some large proportion of people there were not apparently of Japanese descent. Allies. The room was not sprinkled, but splotched with allies. One of the best moments in the Women’s March—and, by the way, one of the most empowering moments in my partner’s video about responding to this political moment—was the recognition that many, many people really do believe we’re all in this together. 

This morning, I heard a radio show in which one of the guests, who is Jewish, pointed to the oft-repeated caution in the Jewish community: never again. And that means, he said, never again. We must stand up right from the beginning so that what happened in Germany can never happen again, to anyone. I saw a sign in photos from one of the Women’s Marches—in D.C., I think. It evoked the famous Martin Niemoller quote, written after the Holocaust:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out— 
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— 
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

but this sign had a contemporary twist:

First they came for the Muslims

and we said, not this time, f***ers!

It was really heartening to see that, almost 4 months after the election, 6 weeks since the inauguration, it is still possible to fill a large room with people who are genuinely interested in and standing with marginalized groups of which they are not a member. 

That, my friends, fills me with hope. Which is hugely different from the emptiness I would feel, the despair at history repeating itself, if I didn’t notice this joyful part.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2017. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Why we need the people mover

I haven’t written for a while—too busy—so I’m hoping that grants me license for a long-ish post this time. I hope, because this qualifies as long-ish. Here's a colorful photo to entice you to read on.

I’ve written before about this idea of life as a “people mover.” We all get on at birth, and the contraption moves us inexorably forward, sprinkling us with experiences along the way, until we rotate off the end, to be replaced by the next wave of people. This seems absolutely right and appropriate, as well as inevitable. At some point, it’s our turn to get out of the way … as it will be everyone’s turn, with time.

I’ve recently had another—and different—encounter with that sense of how life moves. It’s been made up of many and diverse pieces. But they all have, to my mind, a common message: the people mover is essential for us all. 

Here’s a smattering of the experiences that got me thinking about this:

• The quarterly newsletter for the LGBTQ section of my professional association just published its last edition. Henceforth, folks will rely on the website to keep in touch with what’s happening in the organization. Certain long-standing features will be lost, and the news will no longer reach folks who don’t use the Internet. To be honest, I’m sort of sorry for the change. I like the newsletter and read it regularly. Besides, the editor is a friend who has spent a lot of time and love on this. Still, this is the direction of news media of all sorts. And the folks who are now in leadership positions come from the Internet generation … and that will remain the case in the foreseeable future. Those of us who would cling to (or cherish, pick you own word) the old format need to let go. We need to let the folks behind us take charge.
• There was a column in the New York Times this morning about the drastic changes that are occurring in higher education. (The title, “Innovation Imperative: Change Everything” sort of summarizes everything I’m trying to say here.) The emergence of MOOCs (massive online open courses) that allow anyone, anywhere to log into a college course and take it–for free!—combined with the rapid growth of online courses run by individual universities (for credit and for a fee) as regular parts of their curriculum are already changing what “education” means. Sure, you lose some things, as some of us are quick to point out—the camaraderie of fellow students, the invaluable person-to-person interactions between students and faculty, the sheer joy of out-of-class conversations that bring knowledge alive, libraries with real books, and more. But look at how many people are able to have access to education who otherwise could not. And consider the breadth of courses anyone can take—courses on any topic, taught by people from around the world, at any time of day or night. Those of us who insist that just one form of education counts as Real Education need to let go. We need to let the meaning of education grow and morph with the aims and passions of the folks behind us.
• I recently read a Time magazine column by Randi Zuckerberg, sister of the founder of Facebook. Her point is more complicated than this, but basically, she argues that her generation—i.e., the folks behind us on the people mover—has grown up with a much different understanding of privacy than that held by previous generations. Specifically, she suggests that the line between our private and our public lives has blurred in this social media-soaked generation. More than blurred; she thinks the division has basically vanished. And she’s fine with that. She argues that people will be “three-dimensional personalities whose lives, interests, hobbies, and passions are documented and on display.” Many of us who grew up in the era before such public display of our lives was so prominent may resist this shift (as I do. Certain friends continue to prod me to get on facebook). Yet, we need to realize that our vision of “privacy” is different, is passé, is (I hate to use the word about myself) old-fashioned—not a value judgment; just an observation. Personally, I still insist that sharing my personal life with friends is not the same as sharing it with thousands, and I still prefer the former. But, resist though we may, our harrumphing has had no effect in stopping this shift thus far. And it won’t. Time to get out of the way.

There have been others encounters, but I’ll stop there. In each case, I was struck with the sense that this game is passing me by, and it's right for me to let someone else play.

Now, I’m not saying that I no longer want to be engaged in “the game.” Nor am I saying that its passing me by is a bad thing. On the contrary. My daily aim is to do what I can to stay engaged, to learn at least some of the skills that the new game asks of me—enough to have fun, even if I don't master it. Enough to avoid sinking into a curmudgeonly critique of everything that represents “kids these days.” But my daily aim is also to welcome life as it is, not as I’d like to bludgeon it into being. The simple truth is that I am nearing the end of the people mover, and the folks coming along behind me don’t look, think, act, or dream in just the way I have. And they are, surely for better and for worse, the ones who get to choose the game these days. 

It’s a difference in perspective. I view these changes as a shift away from how I’ve known the world. The people behind me view them as a shift toward the world they will define and inhabit. I figure it’s their turn. Besides, in some sense, the task of absorbing change over a lifetime becomes daunting. There comes a point when I, for one, am happy to let them take my place. Some might call this giving up, giving in. I call it reality testing. Acceptance, in the Buddhist sense.   

But here is one shift that I genuinely wish I could be around for—although I am quite aware that some folks (perhaps many in my generation) have the opposite reaction to this change. It’s the demographic shift that is happening in this country, the political and psychological shifts that this change invites, and the promise of more to come.

I grew up in southeast Denver in a very white, very middle to lower-middle class neighborhood. I knew nothing about race or ethnicity (other than some blatant stereotypes that floated around my family and my social circle), was oblivious to class (ditto), and to religious diversity (ditto again)—and the same can be said for ability status, gender identity, sexual orientation, ageism, you name it. Gradually, thanks to a decent education and encounters with thoughtful and socially conscious folks, I began to get a clue about these issues—the many prejudices we/I carry, the dynamics that underlie them, and their human costs.

And now—just when I’m starting to “get it,” just when what we’re currently calling “diversity” is becoming the norm rather than the exception (“minority” will soon refer to white folks in this country)—I’m approaching the end of the ride. And behind me are all these folks I never knew, all the learning I won’t be exposed to. Now, I don’t want to sound Pollyanna about this massive social change. I am very aware that many struggles lie ahead. Many folks in this country remain wed to old notions about who is worthy and who is not. But opportunities abound for us, as individuals, to begin the process of undoing some of that, at least in ourselves.

For example, in recent weeks, I have attended the following events, each of which gave me a glimpse of a world that I don’t know well. Glimpses, it’s true. But every piece adds to the puzzle I never saw earlier in my life.

• We went to the Longmont museum to see their Day of the Dead exhibit. (Pictures of some of the altars in that exhibit are scattered through this blog.) I’ve vaguely known about this celebration (and it is a celebration) for years, but very little. This display consisted largely of alters created by local folks—individuals and groups—to honor particular individuals they knew, historical figures, the ancestors of group members, just a whole range of people. I learned about some of the traditional elements that go into an altar and the meanings they carry. Since then, this holiday has been highlighted in the New York Times and is the basis of a feature event at the Denver Botanic Gardens. Who knew …
• We saw the play “Just Like Us,” which is about a group of Latina girls, friends from childhood, who face very different options when they reach college age. Those who are not documented encounter a whole range of limitations—college admission, scholarships, jobs—and other people in their lives face even more dire consequences—deportation and likely permanent separation from their families, persistent fear of the police. I was somewhat aware of this issue because this is a topic I’ve explored some at conferences and such. But still, some of this, I never knew …
• We went to a play called “G.I.M.P. Nation,” put on by a small theater company (Phamly Theater Company) in The Laundry, a small theater in an out-of-the way corner of Denver. The actors all had a disability of some sort (visual impairment, early-onset Parkinson’s, Crohn’s disease, hearing impairment, radial club hand, and others). The play was an in-your-face challenge to temporarily able-bodied people to recognize their biases based on ability status and the human costs it exacts. Again, I have thought and learned some about this due to experiences in my own life, but this play brought new insights—e.g., how easily we patronize people with disabilities, when, that is, we’re not outright dismissing them.
• We saw the play “Book of Mormon.” My partner and I have done some research that involved becoming quite familiar with the LDS (Mormon) faith, so the content of the play was mostly familiar. What fascinated me about it was the play’s effort (successful, in my estimation) to be witty about Mormonism without its feeling hostile or denigrating. I realize that people who are themselves Mormon might feel differently. But I feel pretty protective of the LDS Church because of my close connection with it over years and my sense that the church is an easy target for derision in our culture. But despite this defensiveness, I found the play surprisingly respectful. The key message was that the packaging of beliefs is less important than the beliefs—and the core values of the LDS Church are like those of other faiths. It turns out that maybe people can be educated through comedy to recognize that. Who knew …
• And then, there was CU’s all-day symposium on LGBTQ issues, followed a week later by the annual student-led drag show. Now LGBTQ topics are an area where I feel quite in touch. It’s harder to surprise me in this domain because my partner and I think and talk about this stuff a lot, and we’re both quite involved in various aspects of the LGBTQ community. Still, several parts of the symposium were eye-opening moments for me. First, there was a panel of administrators from each of the three CU campuses, all trying to convince everyone how wonderful their work in this area is and how much more wonderful it will soon be. The surprising part of this was their very presence at the symposium and their clear determination to persuade us that they genuinely love LGBTQ folks. Imagine that happening a decade ago! The next enlightening moment was the student panel. Historically, panels of queer folks (especially youths) involve a string of people taking turns telling their coming out stories—usually focusing on how bad it was. But in this group, not one of the five panelists did a coming out story. Instead, they conveyed a great deal of comfort with their own identities—and a willingness to challenge individuals and systems that failed to honor those identities. Imagine that a decade ago! And then, a drag show that draws scores (maybe hundreds) of people to watch, a show laced with trans youth joining the LGBQ performers—all in a major university performance space and with the university’s blessing. Who’d have thought …

So, as you can no doubt tell, I’m of two minds about this whole topic of moving off the end of the people mover, about feeling like it’s time to get out of the way. I do feel that the case in many areas, and then there are the things I want to hang out for. Out of the way, of course, but still engaged.

Let me finish with this one other observation. It makes good sense that we resist our rotation off the end. It makes sense for us personally—who wants to become “irrelevant,” “old fashioned”? Who wants to disappear from the scene? (I really do get it, on a gut level. Notice the sub-title of this blog: “Resisting Gone.”). And it makes sense on a larger scale. The people behind us really do have the right/obligation to shape the world they will inhabit. And yet, there are some things that each of us won’t easily let go. For me, it’s the richness of what this society will be in a few decades.

But there’s more to this resistance. Most of us really, honestly believe that we (still!) have something important to contribute. Surely the experience of a lifetime brings some knowledge, some wisdom that could be helpful. But personally, when I invest too much certainty in the belief that I am indispensable, I try to remember that every generation has surely felt that way. Every generation has warned of the loss of their wisdom and experience … of themselves, actually. And yet, the world moves on without them. And it will without us.

This weekend, we went to piano/flute recital at an art museum in Denver. One of the pieces they played was “Oblivion” by Astor Piazolla. As they played, I closed my eyes and found myself drifting in a canoe down a wide, slow-moving river, lined here and there with dark trees shrouded in mist. Probably because of the title of the piece, my sense was that I was drifting toward oblivion. It was a peaceful feeling, and I carried it away from the recital.

I think I’ll save the image for moments when I forget that the people mover is a good thing.

  

Grass

I just got back from my weeklong course in astrophysics, which I am dying to write about. I actually have several things I need to discuss—the surprisingly strange experience of spending a week at “The Chautauqua,” the origin and nature of the universe(s), and questions of Being and Nothingness. While I’m working on those, I thought I'd slide back into blogging with a photo blog, one that has been forming itself over the past few weeks. It started like this …

A few weeks ago—after the heavy rains and before the scorching heat—my partner and I were taking our regular early Sunday morning walk and commented on how tall the grass was getting. It was lovely, green and dense, promising a gorgeous summer scene in our local open space. Then, over the next several days … which stretched into weeks … I started paying attention to how complicated “the grass” really is. The result is this blog, which honors the many growing things that combine to form “the grass” along my daily walks.

First, I started to realize how many types of grass make up "the grass" (not even counting the kind whose possession recently became legal in Colorado and Washington State). For instance ...

 

  

                             

              

 

Then, there are all the friends of the grasses that live in its midst, some easy to spot and others more shy … 

      

        

    

It turns out that “the grass” has a whole lot more to say than I first realized. Since I started thinking about how to portray its complexity, I’ve been seeing it in a new way. I don’t think I’ll ever say “the grass” again without thinking about the texture and variety that get hidden by those words.

If I were a philosopher, I’d find a commentary on life and living here.