Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Reflections: Chauncy's "Gay New York"

There is but one required class in the 1-year Master of Arts Program in the Social Sciences (MAPSS) at UChicago. Namely, "Perspectives in Social Sciences Analysis." "Perspectives" intends to survey the nine different approaches - NOT disciplines - of the social sciences. These discipline-spanning perspectives have distinctive theoretical features, analogies, pioneers and lineages, and the like. They include historical narrative, rational choice, Marxism, structural functionalism, etc. By presenting this lay of the land, the program indoctrinates us with its particular, highly Chicagoan, meta-method and meta-perspective. More on this later.

For now, I want to comment on some features of one of the course readings: the first two chapters of George Chauncey's Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World 1890-1940 (1995).

Chauncey's premise is disarmingly simple: contrary to popular belief, male gay culture was not only visible during the period of survey, it was conspicuous. As far as this is the argument of the book, it is easily corroborated. Chauncey draws from multifarious and reliable sources to make his case and follows each chapter with a list of annotated sources indicating the nature and origin of the evidence. Allowing that all truth is subjective, embedded, and imperfect, Chauncey's historical narrative seems to be as capable of approaching truth or verisimilitude (truthlikeness) as well as any other method. Which I guess is my endorsement of historical narrative, albeit superlative historical narrative.

Chauncey begins his book with the visible culture of gay New York at the turn of the century. He hastens to add, however, that this was only the tip of the iceberg, the flamboyant and bold vanguard of revolution. Indeed the queerdom of underground New York was a verdant landscape featuring exhibitionists and those that more substantially valued their privacy. Interestingly, he makes the claim that "the closet" was somewhere gays were not.

Naturally, there is a lot of complexity to this metropolitan network. Class, ethnicity, and geography cleave powerfully through it. Gays are described categorically as "perverts" and "degenerates" by media outlets and mentally branded as such by the status quo. The Bowery bunch (the Bowery wasn't the limit, just the locus, of flamboyant nightclub and saloon activity) adopted, appropriated, and fashioned a complex "fairy" identity grounded largely in "effeminate" or "feminesque" "semiotics (or system of identifying signs)."

Chauncey writes, "they [Gay men] undertook artificial means to cultivate the shape, density, carriage, and texture of their bodies" (p.54). They also adopted important sartorial markers, such as red neckties, garish colors, flair, and cosmetics. It is worth noting that all of these symbolic and stereotypical signs were mutable - Chauncey writes about "the extraordinary plasticity of gender assignment" (p. 56). All in all, the sum of overt gay male differentiation amounts to identity formation of an "intermediate sex" type. For this reason, gay men were often called "inverts." This identity formation was itself composed of stereotypes which were used, for different purposes, by both gay males and their antagonists.

It is worth noting that gay appropriations came from feminine forms and norms, but not just the forms and norms of any feminine. The "fairies" adopted the dress, attitude, and actions of prostitutes and "tough women." Unconventional women. Overtly sexual women. Go-getters, risk takers, lovers. Like Mae West. Writes Chauncey: "The faries' style, then, was not so much an imitation of women as a group but a provocative exaggeration of the appearance and deameanor ascribed more specifically to prostitutes" (p. 61). As gay men assumed physical aspects of this identity, they molded a recognizable culture and oriented that culture geographically within working class districts of New York City. Chauncey makes the case that working class (white, obviously) social forces met the "fairy" phenomenon with modal ambivalence, although certainly not respect.

Of course, that still leaves room for more radical reactions. Gay men were targets of desire and violence. They were unambiguously marginal citizens, just like the prostitutes and "odd" tough women from whom they had appropriated so much of their identity (not to mention craft: much of the gay sex world - just like the heterosexual sex world - orbited around sex for hire). This meant that gay men were often objectified, brutalized, and robbed by more conventional men, gangs, and street youths some of whose homo-erotic habits might have been self-perceived as 'sporting' or 'releasing.' Gay men had little legal recourse because they were seen as "outlaws," who wouldn't want to bring official scrutiny to their "degeneracy."

Chauncey, however, sinks not into gloom over the inherently "contested" nature of gay New York. Instead his work is a revelry in the culture and collectivity of 50 years of gay life. His work is prominent for excavating and unpacking this doubly underground and obscured time period in gay history.  It is lovely to get lost in the rich detail of his narrative. Subsequent challenges to homosexuality would come in the 20th century.

"To use the modern idiom," Chauncey writes, "the state built a closet in the 1930s and forced gay people to hide in it."

I strongly suggest checking out Chauncey's book. Stay tuned: he will be releasing a volume two, covering 1940-the present, shortly.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Memo

This is an inter-departmental fiat demanding research-based academic writing. The egregious deficiency of such writing on this publication is unconscionable, especially considering the author's lofty academic-intellectual aspirations. Sloth is the only explanation for this pathetic state of affairs. Indeed, the author is aware of the pedagogical benefit of critical commentary on, engagement with, and expansion of the ideas and arguments of others. Fortuitously for you friend followers, he has entered a soul-crushing M.A. program where critical engagement will be most integral to success. That program will make him refashion his approach to this blog and to writing in general.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Niggardly feminism

Before anybody gets the wrong idea, niggardly, as defined by the free dictionary (my favorite dictionary), means 1. stingy and 2. meager. In this case, I'm talking about the tightfisted type.

Second, fear not the feminism. It's not only an unavoidable, ubiquitous social presence, it's more maligned and mischaracterized than it deserves to be. Shed your stereotypes and caricatures and take me on for size: an unabashed modern feminist - with a penis.

Instead of delivering a feminist manifesto, which would be asinine on account of this being a blog, not a book, I will examine one case which I think is relevant: dating etiquette and paying for meals and drinks.

Nobody would deny that it has long been socially normal for the man to play the aggressive role in the courtship process, and for the woman to play the complimentary passive role. In line with these general and relative roles, the man has long been the one to 'treat' the woman, especially to dinner or drinks. That is, the man is the predominant payer. This fits in to an old matrix of social norms based on a certain gendered social, professional, and familial roles. Although this matrix has been eroding and changing, its effects are still palpable.

One more point: the feminist analysis and prescription for change, like all other social prescriptions (e.g., civil rights, human rights), is explicitly idealistic. While such prescriptions can and should be grounded in positive observation of current conditions, they are guided by normative judgments and a vision of an ideal or improved social order. Feminisms seek a more optimal world by changing manifestations of gender roles. To believe in an idealistic feminism, one must believe that there are gender roles (everybody believes this) and concede that they are sub-optimally (unjustly) organized on inadequate or fallacious grounds (this is controversial).

So, to get to the case in question: Who takes out whom? Who pays for dinner? Who pays for drinks? Why? What are the implications of this?

The first question is prickly. Women can be quite as audacious as men. And indeed there my be little to no gender divergence on this question given the state of things, at least, in the northeast United States, people and relationships being as physically (sexually) motivated, as informal, and as promiscuous as they are. But I will dare to suggest that most women would prefer to be asked out while most men would prefer, or at least feel a social pressure, to ask out. I'll leave it at that.

The second two questions or, "Who pays?", have three possible answers: (1) chicks, (2) dudes, (3) they pay equally. Although some statistics would be nice at this point, I think we can safely assume that the answer is (2). This is not controversial. The controversial question is: should things be different?

Some people would say, "Who cares?" Even an avowed feminist friend of mine took this tack, with the time-honored "pick your battles" rationalization. Other people talk about biological determinants of historically entrenched gender roles - real and inherent physiological and purported psychological differences between men and women. I believe there is a kernel of truth to this argument, but that it is dangerously versatile. I've heard it deployed by progressive feminists and reactionary misogynists alike. In the case of dating etiquette, it has no traction. Another group of people talk about their personal experience and feelings, and whether or not they like or dislike playing into these roles. This is opaque ground. Often such slippery language obscures or replaces the exploration of more selfish, candid motivation.

Personally, I think the dude buyer paradigm is a quaint and anachronistic throwback. I think it's unjustified given the independence, education, and potential of modern women. It's an impediment to "progress," to a rationally organized social-romantic interaction, to - GASP! - greater equality.

This is where idealism enters. It's not that 'absolute equality' is a goal, or even plausible (parse this post for my view on the 'absolute' or 'pure'), it's just that we can do better. And I think that better, in this case, means acting according to reason - i.e., equivalent payment or proportional payment - instead of following the well-trod, gendered, and unexamined path of traditional patriarchy.

However, it would be unfair of me if I criticized other people's opinions - the alleged opaque ones - without examining myself under the microscope. Am I merely trying to get out of having to pay for stuff? Am I just a stingy cop-out short-cutting loafer schmuck? What is this niggardly feminism?

I reject that label. I swear I'm not ungenerous or tightfisted - even if I am a student of economics, with optimization and opportunity cost constantly on the brain; even if I am personally poor; even if my parents pay my bills (Thanks Mom and Dad!). No, I just think that there's something screwy when one gender with only marginally more economic success - inconsequential in certain (limited) circumstances - is the predominant payer. Women play into this when they actively tempt or passively accept drinks from moneyed men at bars, absent any interest or intention to further the relationship. This is not beating the system, it's floozies exploiting patsies.

Ain't nothing in this life that's free.

My major point is this: there's nothing wrong with treating your significant other or some sexy stranger to a drink, dinner, movie, or whatever. There is something wrong when it's a one-way street.

What the fuck should I make for dinner?

A friend turned me on to this site (click image) which is both hilarious and useful.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Chi town

Yes, I have cornrows.

Three weeks ago, I moved from the sunny exurbs of Philadelphia to the windy south side of Chicago. After escapades, explorations, and the accumulation of mundane habits, some reflection is called for.

The weather here has been clement. There was heat, to be sure. And sweat. But by and large it's been balmy, swelter undermined by brisk breeze. Chicagoans take advantage of the happy climate: biking, running, and walking along Lake Shore Drive, sailing, swimming, frolicking about. I met an Ohioan runner hanging from a tree who eulogized the lakeside; he claimed Cleveland's is overbuilt and underutilized. Consensus is that Chicago's pretty and well planned for play and commerce. At least, during the summer.

Second, there is this business of mid-western hospitality. I'm predisposed to view this thesis with some skepticism. It goes against my assumption that people are pretty generous and pleasant nearly everywhere.

I recall positing to Pedro Cuperman - eminent Argentine scholar of language and literature at S.U. - that, "People are like pretty nice everywhere, man." I then attempted to get out an anecdote about some Turkish farmers inviting my family and I, and our interpreter and bus driver, into their home for fresh natural honey, bread, and tea; we had picked them up in our van. Before I could articulate the details, Cuperman shot me down with an ad hominem of sorts - my claim was mud on the grounds that my family and I are Caucasian bourgeois chumps. And I'm a man-cherub. His point was that other people sometimes have distinctly less rosy realities. He's right.

Race affects grades of positive or negative responses. It depends on the place and person. In my limited, prosperous, educated, and white experience, Chicago people have been hospitable, helpful, and garrulous, be they white, black, or brown. I could illustrate with a yarn or two, but I'll desist. Let me mention, though, that the by chance twice-met Bahá'í cyclist who invited me over one evening for a barbecue party, spiritual chat, and music session is definitely the tops. She and her friends were heroically welcoming.

I were different, so would be my experiences and impressions.

I've been all over the city. I'm making it mine or myself it or something like that.

Cars are great for exploration and destination-achieving. My parents had one and so did a guest. They helped me penetrate Pilsen (lil' Mexico) twice. The best way to see things, however, is from the ground: engulfed in the delicious effluvium of the city, trodding the pavement, part of the masses, with edifices towering around. Walking is effective when combined with public transit (gotta love the El). Together these have helped me cross many a neighborhood, hitting destinations such as Myopic Books, Gramaphone Records, the Bahá'í place of worship, Sultan's Market, and all of Hyde Park. I also run around a fair bit. The bike is my standby most of the time. But I did take an accidental 50 mile ride which smarted of betrayal. The water in Wilmette (a northern suburb) freezes bone marrow in mid-September.

A former new acquaintance now seemingly new friend raised the issue of identity the other day. He pondered identity shifts and re-inventions. Grad school, he postulated, is a good time to do such things. Then he asserted that it wasn't quite his bag - he had found himself pretty well content with himself already.

I think I might very well have found a pretty stable me, a long-term me, but I'm not sure - I'm open to new things. I think. I hope. But instead of identity reformation or reinvention, it has been more interesting recently to adjust superficialities and then record people's book-by-the-cover appraisals.

For example, my friend gave me cornrows the other day: flat, tight, beautiful braids which hug my dome like furry snakes. This allowed my face to emerge from the lion's mane and reassert its prominence. I'm told the braids - aka Chi rows - made me more fierce and stylish looking. And when I removed them (to be ambushed by immediate hypochondriac terror at ultra post-cornrow hair loss) I suddenly became or appeared to become more approachable, friendly, amiable. In short, I went from sharp and fearsome to soft and cuddly. My imagined personality, it turns out, had taken on the physical characteristics of my hairdo! And hairdo determinism being in my power, I can now tweak my perceived personality as much as my hair allows.

In Chicago, I'm a superhairo.

Even more importantly, I'm happy.

Thursday, September 09, 2010

Mind body dialectic - postscript

In a previous post - "Mind body dialectic" - I hypothesized that mental acuity and physical athleticism might not be as different as they seem. Yet "Working out" occurs at the gym, not the library. And while studying might seem like a cognitive equivalent, it is aimed at the capture of a small set of data, not the holistic healthiness and fitness which is the objective of gym antics. My fear continues to be that mental fitness is undervalued because of the way it is typically perceived. Or rather, the way it isn't perceived.

While I have yet to stumble upon another person's thoughts or research on this topic (granted, I've done no research myself, which makes this amateur philosopher hour), one can read delicate corroboration of my thesis in this passage from an article in the New York Times - "Forget What You Know About Study Habits" by Benedict Carey:
Varying the type of material studied in a single sitting — alternating, for example, among vocabulary, reading and speaking in a new language — seems to leave a deeper impression on the brain than does concentrating on just one skill at a time. Musicians have known this for years, and their practice sessions often include a mix of scales, musical pieces and rhythmic work. Many athletes, too, routinely mix their workouts with strength, speed and skill drills.
The argument is clear: musical, academic, and physical training might operate in analogous or similar ways.

This is not too surprising. "Practice makes perfect" - a well-worn common-sense aphorism -is universal in application. That is, practicing any skill or activity - banging drums, whistling, reading, language acquisition, knockin' boots - implies improvement in the execution of that skill or activity. There are textures and particularities to each activity, of course, like degree of difficulty and incline of learning curve. But there are also more consistencies, for instance, we assume all learning curves to be asymptotic to some line we could call virtuosity.

Granted, skill-specific learning is not the same as achieving a generally fine-tuned and well-exercised mental or physical health. But the point is that perhaps there is more continuity between these modes of learning and these degrees and types of health and fitness than are self-evident or routinely understood.

Friday, September 03, 2010

Verbiage on breasts

Uncreative thought it may be to merely upload the work of others, I'm pretty sure I cannot go wrong with this article on - you guessed it - TITS! And then I'm sure you're drawn in by this subtly disturbingly sexy FURRY!

Anyway, I just found this passage - and the whole unabashed article-length-apotheosis to 'casabas' - too hilarious not to highlight it for you:
It all started for me on the sweaty macadam behind my Catholic school just days after Tricky Dick flashed his last peace sign. Suddenly, we were nose to nipples everywhere we turned. What had happened?
-Thomas Kelly, "A Few Words on Breasts"Esquire.
-For a phenomenal list of slang and literary descriptions of bosomhood, such as "[she had a] chest like a promontory" -Daphne Merkin, check out this link.

-For the NY Times article which set off this exploration: "For the A-Cup Crowd, Minimal Assets are a Plus" by Catherine Saint Louis.
(Note: Unfortunately, I cannot find the original, 1972 Nora Ephron Article, "A Few Words About Breasts.")
-For my own ruminations on the matter of breasts, self-esteem, and body image, see my article "Strut Your Stuff" published in SU's 360 Degrees Magazine, which can be downloaded here (in the 'Writing' folder).

Thursday, September 02, 2010

FB reg and rap

Somebody once said that greed is a fat demon with a small mouth. One could say the same thing about Facebook. It's remorseless, implacable, as addicting and pernicious as a drug. Of course, it is a drug. Like bottomless obsidian. Do I use it as a social crutch? Well, no. But that doesn't mean I'm not dependent on it. Seduced by its wiles, its convenience, and its ubiquity, I can't give up. I'm one of the die-hards, a true user. I suppose most people are, but...

I take it to the next level, a higher echelon,
like while you get all equestrian, I stampede you on my mastodon.
Dosing through the eye, I hit-it 'til my retina crinkle,
pupils dilating like pancakes, psychedelic dreams like Rip van Winkle.
The screen is a mirage, Zombie Wars populate,
lost in family-tree cultivars, I'm the number one reprobate.

[Zuckerberg's my fan, it's all part of the plan!!]

I perambulate the cyberspace with stamina,
droppin' wicked diction, breadcrumbs of discernment,
poking mothafucka's like I'm stabbin' ya.
(Feeel my wall post lacerations!)
What I do best is stalk benevolent, cruise the news feed like a stealth jet,
aloof but not hidin', not frettin' just checkin' in,
ridin' the hype until the moment is ripe.
Then I doseify! (yeah!), I like to get high!,
'til I can't decipher cyber from matter (O shit...),
space from face, book from bewitchment,
person from profile.

All of a sudden I'm feckless, (is this a test?)
Hip to nothing in this anti-social labyrinth,
No rest, no reprieve,
and ignant of my location -
Fickle-framed fantasy-land or home (whatever that is...).

...Facebook rule immediately in effect- one sign-in per day. I'll report back to the success of this campaign. Obviously, this campaign failed, now it's the future, I cancelled and resurrected the account. The future Facebook still has the gonads in a vice.