|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| I need that pressure, that deadline, that oh-so-close-but-just-in-the-nick-of-time feeling to get me motivated to do unpleasant academic business--namely, grant proposals and conference papers. Hard deadlines are not as numerous for me being in grad school, just mainly the big ones: qualifying papers and methods requirement. But even then, actual protocol in the department is generalizable in one simple gesture accompanied by a gutteral sound: a shurg and an "ehh" or "whatever." Ever since the wedding from last week, I've been playing this game of catch up with course work and the grant proposal that I haven't been writing but that I knew was lingering somewhere. For coursework, my seminars had me reading another difficult reading about theorizing culture and me presenting in the other seminar. The reading for the first seminar wasn't that bad, it just took me an eternity to finish the twenty-some odd pages. Basically, locating culture is difficult since it is in this liminal, in-between space between the observer/interpellator and the agent of focus. As for the presentation, that got placed on the backburner on the weekend since I had to fill out the grant application. It's a real long-shot, I proof read it once, shown it to no faculty or anyone else. I didn't know writing six pages of what I think I want to study and my own life would be so time consuming. I always find writing a self-relfecting story the most difficult because I don't want to sound like the pretentious prick who knows everything and deserves special privilege. But that's what the grant was about, privileging one segment of the population over others. The presentation was worst-case scenario: me trying to rehash the articles that I did not read as closely as I should have. Prof. Smiles helped me out with her her stories and her direction of how the presentation should have been structured, however somehow the clock ran out of time and that was over. Of the all the chaos, I did grasp her own article that she assigned and I offered no critiques of it whatsoever; surprisingly, she offered some shortcomings of her own work. Meanwhile, in applying for that grant and putting-in a half-assed effort, I had to ask for letters of recommendations from faculty. I hate that part: begging, waiting for confirmation/rejection, and then not knowing what they wrote. I asked my old undergrad advisor, she said yes and then suggested that I apply to a conference held next year in Texas and then mentioned to form a panel if possible. On top of contacting faculty, now I have to contact random strangers to see if our topics match or if they don't, how well one can bullsh*t the panel topic to somehow tie in all the panelists. I think I know why academics are (usually) comfortable talking about themselves: because they have to apply for these grants which probably demands personal statements and apply to conferences which force them to network and continually reintroduce and explain themselves. The sad part about that is what if you, the applicant for the grant or the conference, begin to the believe the garbage you submit. Then you might begin to believe in your written descriptions of your inflated-egoistic self. which I find most disturbing. | | |
| Plane ticket in hand, I was able to escape Pleasantville for the (extended) weekend. With wedding bells ringing for one of my cousins, I had to miss colloquium of the first mock job talk of the academic year. I wasn't able to see the end result of something that I had a small part in, but at least I got to leave home temporarily. Taking the red-eye flight, we arrived just before 6am. The flight was fine, I just couldn't sleep. For me, home is not a conducive place to work. Productivity escaped me, the readings for Prof Smiles and my other seminar were put on the back burner. The next day was the wedding in the 'burbs of the City. Maman being Maman, we were running late to the wedding ceremony. We just snuck in before the ceremony finished. The whole complex had a greenhouse-like ceiling, allowing sunlight even from a rainy day to permeate the room. The room was intimate where you can see everyone and everyone could see you. The minister, cracking jokes, proceeded and the couple was wed. Upon exiting, the wedding party followed. Then the family saw my family and then the problems of remembering who was who with what name began. Immediately after, hors d'oeurves were served next door. I remembered the bride's family (duh) and what they looked like and a few others, but everyone else either looked familiar or similar. Some of the uncles and aunties looked exactly the way I remembered them, unfortunately I could only remember a handful of their names. I had to pester one of my other cousins to ask what so-and-so's name was that I would later jumble up. They apparently remember my name, I had to go with a generic "uncle/auntie" title. Apparently, I have nephews and nieces, making me feel really old. Maman said that one of the uncles had extensive contacts in the motherland since he was a "big shot." I didn't know how to talk to him, so when the party ended, I talked to him to ask if he knew anyone back there and snuck in a business card. He was very reserved. However his wife was very open and optimistic and said yes, they knew people. Networking at a wedding, yuck. Meanwhile, Maman was looking to sneak over to the dance floor with the other aunties. The ceremony ended at 6, but saying goodbyes extended our stay at the reception. Leaving the reception in the torrential rain, sneaking out was a slow process with the flooding and the detours directed by the GPS. I'd fly out the next day, getting through security relatively fast, and eventually sneak in back to campus to quickly get back into work. Monday was fast approaching on me and little time to catch up. | | |
| In this society, mothers have a few special days to laud their existence and importance. Mothers' Day is a day to celebrate motherhood and is primarily dedicated to those women who are parents, naturally. This holiday in May is all their own, not shared with fathers (Fathers' Day) or grandparents (Grandparents' Day) or trees (Arbor Day). Additionally, many families celebrate the birthdays of these mothers. Birthdays, just like Mothers' Day, place the celebrant as the center of attention, to be praised, thanked, and celebrated. Birthdays are celebrations that typically you don't have to share with another person (unless you decide to have a joint-party). For those who celebrate an annual gift-giving holiday sometime in the winter, that is a holiday which often times the entire family celebrates. At least for my Mom, she has another day of celebration: my birthday. Why are birthdays in this society centered around the person born? I didn't do any of the work involved--from planning to execution. I see my birthday as the complement to Mothers' Day. Thus, my Mom has four holidays where I have to produce some sign of loveappitude (love, appreciation, and gratitude). If Mom was an egalitarian person, perhaps she would throw me a bone and "donate" one of her holidays to back to the calendar with the rest of the non-holiday bunch. But Mom isn't and her soft power--primarily nagging and inflicting guilt--are very effective. So, thank you, Hallmark, for making my wallet go on a diet; and thank you, materlialism, for equating gift-giving with loveappitude.
So, what do I give Mom? Each year, Mothers' Day happens in the middle of the year with the remaining three holidays scrunched together in the tail-end of the year. I'm running out of photos that I typically cobble together and repackage in various medium--albums, posters, collages. That's been done. But Mom's tastes are too expensive for my budget. When Mom visited me in France for Turkey Day on year, we went to the Galleries Layfayette to visit Louis Vuitton. Spending hours at the boutique and seeing the exorbitant prices and the hordes of tourists who were primarily from Eastern Europe and from Asia, our ideas of fun were not congruent. I can't afford that nor would I want to splurg on that. So what tangible item do I give a person that I can't afford? And how do I vary the gifts between now and Xmas? Blaming "culture" will not resolve my double problem of a lack of money and a lack of ideas; but blaming our skimpy salaries is very therapeutic.
[Sidenote: I decided to buy Mom a bouquet of flowers < http://products.proflowers.com/flowers/JoyfulBouquet-41213?viewpos=12&trackingpgroup=iri&ref=organicgglbrand&pagesplit= > and some perfume from Yves Saint Laurent < http://www.yslbeautyus.com/womens-fragrance/c36/index.html >. Apparently, there is a hierarchy of perfume: eau de toillette, eau de cologne, and eau de parfum. I opted for the more concentrated choice - eau de parfum. So I bought four different versions that I think she never tried before but I hope she'll like at least one of them: Opium, Elle (Her or She in English), Nu, and Cinema. Secretly, I'm hoping that she doesn't enjoy the Opium perfume too much for I'd be mortified if I got Mom hooked on Opium.]
| | |
| No longer a first-year, second-year of grad school has been a lot more bearable and enjoyable. Getting the rules of the game (of grad school) down, check. Figuring out what seminars to take and which crazy faculty to avoid, check. Knowing people the in the department and the school in generally, check. Last year, I had vague memories of some of the grad students from recruitment upon arrival in late September. Lugging those malettas and trying to find my new apartment were troublesome. Getting used to "reading" academic literature was at times painful. Trying to remember how to write a paper quickly was arduous. This year, there was no big move, skimming literature replaced reading it, and I accepted that I can't write papers in a timely manner anymore, so instead I have to plan to write earlier. The summer here on campus was peaceful, virtually stress-less, and devoid of people. Once the first day of classes rolled around, people were to be seen, greeted, and feted. This feels like returning back to France for the second time: the novelty of crossing over the Pond is gone, but the familiarity of landing at CDG-Roissy and knowing how to navigate the SNCF and métro took precedence. My return to France was also easier: I knew what to expect of the culture (the joie de vie), the language (the grossiétés), and the food (la cuisine exceptionnelle). In Haute-Normandie, I knew how to make a joke and how generally the French function; in Tours, I was still learning the language and learning the hard way that not having a mobile (cell) phone is detrimental to having a social life. Here at school as a second-year, I can look back and smirk at the mistakes and missteps along with the good times, and somehow see them as a humorous time. Seminars are simply repositories of time that can be useful (which is a rarity), but instead are just talking-shops with bull-sh*t wafting in the air. TAing is an exercise in patience and fortitude--its real challenge is to make it interesting and end quickly for yourself. Faculty interaction is the lingering real challenge; how do you get along with these idiot savants? As a second-year, I'm under the radar: the faculty and the grad students are directing attention at the first-years; the faculty are trying to boot out the upperclassmen asap; meanwhile, we just have to produce a glorified term paper eventually. The nebulous unknown of grad school has dissipated, no eyes are on me. Less burdened than last year, more focused this year (I hope).
| | |
| Field work has had its moments, such as seeing people involved in community work and having their reasons why they continually serve their community. However, not all those allegedly involved in the community are actually involved. I strolled into the offices of an organization purported to be the go-to-organizations of all organizations involved with the community. I spoke with a person who described herself as a vice-president of the organization. She suggested to come back next week and then encouraged me to speak to the random people in the building. The following week, I saw the same woman who told me that the officers were busy talking about a funding raising activity regarding a beauty pageant (typical). The VP wasn't willing to talk about her organization. I asked her flat out if she was busy and she quipped with a "yes" as she laid back in her chair. She was busy watching the door and was too busy not to answer questions about the organization she was involved in. A gentleman that was beside her, possibly a friend or a spouse, verbally prodded her to simply talk to me about the organization or at least get someone in the meeting to meet with me. She chastised him, saying that their work regarding the fund raising pageant was important. I was angry because she didn't bother to tell me that the officers were busy at this time and she didn't want to speak about the organization. Flash forward the following week, I came back to the same place. I sat there, she acknowledges me and tells me that a general meeting with some of the members would be a little late. A gentleman strolls in, happily greets the VP and talk and discuss. The VP, with glee in her voice, tells the new guy about the new, artificial flowers that she got for the organization. Ten minutes later, the new guy acknowledges me; I give him my meager credentials and he invites me to the office that I wasn't allowed to enter last week. We begin talking and I realize that he embodies all the stereotypes about the politics that happens among fellow countrymen: corrupt and shady. The gentleman wouldn't tell me the purpose of the organization, why he and his friends ran for the executive board, and their platform. He was quick to criticize the evicted e-board, but he couldn't tell me about the plans for their term in office. He then asked me for ideas for the organization to get more people involved. I wanted to call them out. They seemed to only look for the title, the fame and all the publicity, but there is questionable motives. Despite its name, that organization, or at least the leadership, was inutile and dirtying the name of the countrymen they supposedly represent. | | |
|
