Girl Fight

A friend of mine recently brought this blog post to my attention and I had some… colorful things to say about it.  Since I am a blogger and firmly believe that a vital function of the internet is to abet and continue important conversations, I would like to voice some of my more coherent thoughts.

A few of these points are very valid.  Point one, for instance, is something that I struggle with every day… but not in the way described by tenureshewrote.  In academia, a lot of our work is done via e-mail.  In a globalized field, the internet makes possible projects and conversations which otherwise would be very difficult.  That said, figuring out the proper e-mail salutation is fraught with peril; do I address this person as “Doctor” or “Professor”?  I’m on first name basis with important person X, but since e-mail is a written medium does that mean I should address her more formally?  In contacting a department admin, what is the proper e-mail salutation to give respect but not seem condescending?  I see my students struggle with this as well; my department runs on a first-name basis and, accordingly, to them I am “Danielle”.  Their e-mail salutations are always deferential, but often edge into the reverential (for the record, they usually go with “Professor Rosvally” especially if they are winding up to deliver bad news).  Defaulting to the most respectful title available is always a safe bet.

I have two large-scale issues with this list: the first being that it oversteps the boundary

side-note: check out this rainbow I saw on Friday!

side-note: check out this rainbow I saw on Friday!

between “personal” and “professional”.  There are a few borderline cases of this (see: item six which, for me, brings into question whether everything held in the workplace is automatically a professional function… I tend to think yes but an argument could certainly be launched in the other direction).  There are a few that are blatant attempts to dictate life choices (items nine and eight specifically).  Chore division at home has absolutely nothing to do with the workplace and, frankly, is no one’s business but the homemakers.  Including items like this in a list directed at the workplace not only further blurs the already-hazy boundaries between an academic’s “home” and “work” life, but it also encourages an attitude about the lifestyle.  As an academic, it is difficult to turn off at the end of the day.  I work from home a great deal, set my own hours for the most part, and since we live in a digital world my e-mail is always by my side via my smart phone.  Ensuring that I am not constantly “on duty” is already a mammoth task without the kind of bleed-over this list exhibits.

 

The second large-scale issue I find with the list is that most of its points fall into the doctrine of “don’t be a jerk”.  Point four, for instance, violates every rule of professionalism in anyone’s book no matter what profession you happen to be in.  It is not appropriate to have sexually-charged conversations at your workplace/with your co-workers.  Point fourteen is just a good general life rule.  These things are not items which male academics must particularly be aware of so much as codes of decent living.  They have nothing to do with a chosen vocation or sexual equality but rather should be a part of living a do-unto-others lifestyle.

In addition to the large-scale troubles I find here, there are a few specific points that I take real issue with.  Point seventeen, for instance, takes a good concept too far.  Yes, equal opportunity is important in the workplace, but telling male academics to be careful whom they include when they go for after-work drinks because this is a valuable networking opportunity crosses a line.

First of all.  As an academic, part of my job is to network.  By encouraging my male colleagues to extend special invitations to me which they wouldn’t otherwise extend potentially puts me in the situation of being around a group of people who have already judged me as inferior and, thereby, do not want to speak with me.  If I can’t get that invitation to drinks on my own merit as a scholar/person rather than by some hidden code of my gender, then I don’t really want it.  And I absolutely don’t want an invite simply because a group of male coworkers needs a token Girl with them at Guy’s night.

By treating the work of female academics as precious or special, we create a scenario where that work becomes different from the work of our male colleagues.  The value of my scholarship has nothing to do with my gender (or the color of my skin, or my sexual orientation for that matter).  I don’t believe it’s right to treat my paper any differently from that of a man simply on the basis of field demographics.  By giving this kind of special attention to the fact that I might be a woman in a predominately male field, it in turn creates that kind of special attention.  Why should the gender of panel-speakers matter if they are equally qualified experts?  The best people for the job should be given the job (even if, in this case, “the job” is likely a volunteer service to the industry).  When last I checked, hiring an employee based on gender discrimination was very illegal, why should this be any different?

It is true that the academy is facing a disproportionately large number of women in professional service positions.  This is a problem for several reasons; two of the largest are: 1) These positions are generally volunteer-based and pile atop any paid position the holder also has.  This means that female academics are unfairly burdened with more work for less pay.  2) These positions take a great deal of time and care that otherwise could go towards research (which essentially means that men in the profession have more time to conduct research on the kinds of projects that tend to weigh heavier in job and tenure applications than even high-end professional service).  This demographic tangle means, at its core, that female academics may have fewer hiring and promotion opportunities because they do the kinds of service that are required to keep important functions of the academy running.  Gender dynamics in the ivory tower is a complicated issue and untangling it isn’t as simple as weeding out benevolent sexism or “mansplaining”.

Generally, my take-away from the tenureshewrote list is that we need to encourage, above all, a doctrine of be a good person.  Presumably we all got into this gig to be educators and, in some small fashion, to shape the future by way of our students.  If we ever want to function in a society where sexism is no longer newsworthy, we have to be the kinds of people who don’t see sexism as newsworthy.  Most of all, we need to treat each other with respect regardless of gender, not because of gender.

Ibsen’s Tallest Hour

Last night I had the good fortune to witness a piece of theatre history.

Since its workshop in 2002 at the New York Theatre Workshop, Mabou Mines Dollhouse has created quite a splash in the theatre community; and with good reason.  Mabou Mines has taken a mainstay of classic (though dated) theatre and through an incredible sense of social propriety (or lack thereof), humor, and metatheatricality, created an entirely new experience.  This isn’t an easy thing to do with something as well-worn as Ibsen (and certainly not with something as well-worn as Ibsen’s most famous play), but I think Mabou Mines has definitively proven that they’re not afraid of tradition, nor to take a risk on a project which could flop or soar.

Nine years of touring all over the world and five international theatre awards

Cuter Majestic Theatre.... GORGEOUS!

later, the production has landed in Boston at ArtsEmerson for its final run before it is put to rest.

Honestly I’m not entirely certain where to begin talking about this.  If you’ve been following the press at all, you’ll know that the biggest splash it’s made has been in the casting of Amazonian women against dwarfish men (no, really, they’re dwarves) and the choice to set the play entirely within what is literally Nora’s dollhouse; a Christmas present for her children.  The furniture and props are all sized for the show’s male actors and the women spend a great deal of the evening on their hands and knees or otherwise stooping to accommodate this.

What the big press points don’t tell you is the next step deeper: all of the actors speak in Swedish-chef-like Norwegian accents which vary in thickness from the play’s beginning to its end.  The play’s first scene is barely decipherable as English (and I’m pretty sure that Helene’s lines are complete Swedish chefed).  Maude Mitchell as Nora Helmer gives the performance of a lifetime, but I’ll get to her in a moment.  For now, let’s just say that her voice would be more at home within a Disney Princess Barbie than a real woman.

Nora and Torvald

But this is just the beginning of the play’s concession to the ridiculous.  Lee Breuer brings the melodrama back to Ibsen (as, I think, one really must to have Ibsen play before a modern audience).  As soon as you are comfortable with one bit (i.e. the accents), Breuer hits you with something else.  I don’t want to give too much away, but suffice to say that by the final curtain it’s as though the designers have thrown up their hands and said “Aw hell, just have everything!”.

Breuer knows how to train an audience.  The adjustment time allotted for each individual conceit shrinks throughout the progress of the play.  What this mean is that the first act (really a compression of Act I and Act II in Ibsen’s source text) drags on for its second half, then hits you upside the head with a sledgehammer about two thirds in, and leaves you with a version of the infamous tarantella scene that I’m not sure we’ll ever see matched in theatre again (be warned: they use strobe lights).  The second act comes on fast and hard and just doesn’t stop until an operatic ending which (like I said) pulls out any stops that may or may not have been left (I’m still deciding which).

Don’t worry, they’ve kept the requisite door slam.  You can’t have A Doll’s House without the door slam.

Last night there was an added complication in that Kristopher Medina, the actor who usually plays Krogstad, played Torvald Helmer.  Medina is a towering 4’6” (as opposed to Mark Povinelli who usually plays Torvald and is 3’9”).  This made Torvald the tallest man on the stage.  In a show which obviously makes continual nods at height and size as symbols of power, I wonder how differently it would have read if Krogstad had been the more physically imposing of the two men.  As it was, it was nearly ridiculous to think of Nic Novicki (Krogstad’s understudy who went on for him last night and who stands at a statuesque 3’10”) doing physical harm to Torvald.  Why should Nora fear for her husband’s safety as she does?  Was it simply a matter of her continuing to be a silly little girl?  In any case, I think the original casting would have changed the story… I’m simply wondering to what degree.

Let’s talk about Maude Mitchell for a moment.  If she had just showed up, done this performance, then disappeared into the ether, I would be insanely jealous of her talent.  More than that, Mitchell is actually the co-adaptor with Breuer, has spoken at several conferences and festivals (both academic and otherwise) around the world, and is currently working on a book entitled “Playing Nora: ‘The Door Slam Heard Round the World,’” which contains thirty interviews with actresses who have performed the role of Nora.  Not only is she immensely talented, but clearly also brilliantly smart.  It’s just not fair!

In Breuer’s world of toys and games, Mitchell becomes a (literally) toy of a woman.  She speaks in aforementioned hushed Disney Barbie Swedish Chef language.  She croons more like a bird than a person.  She crawls on her hands and knees the entire production and somehow makes that graceful.  When she does stand to her full stature, she spins and whirls like a top.  She makes sounds and plucks at the garments of the men like an endearing squirrel.  She is, in every sense of the word, a doll.

There’s only one problem with this.  If Nora is a doll, then how can she be sympathetic?  Both myself and my companion last night agreed that we left the theatre perhaps not enamored of Torvald, but at least with some understanding of his attitudes and actions.  They were rational.  They made sense.  Nora, as a doll, couldn’t possibly exist in a world outside of her doll’s house.  Someone had to take care of her.

Moreover, I found myself unconvinced that Mitchell’s Nora would be able to deal with the Krogstad business which the script demands of her.  I found myself dubious at best at her ability to raise children, but the presence of a handy dandy nursemaid (who seemed quite capable… especially at stealing scenes) allayed that particular inconsistency.

In addition, I wondered what it was (precisely) that I was seeing.  Since the entire play takes place inside the doll’s house, what was the world like outside the doll’s house?  Were the characters as they were only within the doll’s house and did they mystically become something different outside?  Was this really a world where all the men are short of stature and women are nothing more than pretty little animals attending to them?  Did the doll’s house somehow show us the essence of a human being Richard III style and clear our minds of all accessory which may prevent us from seeing the truth of what was going on?

I left the theatre unsure what to say and on the whole I’m mostly still processing what it was I saw last night.  I’m left with more questions than answers… but I think that’s what Breuer wanted.

You should make every effort to go see this show, but only if you are invested in theatre, have read A Doll’s House before, and aren’t offended by Satyrs with giant phallic costume pieces.  It runs through Sunday at ArtsEmerson and then the show retires forever.  This is most definitely something that we’ll be talking about for many years to come.

>Out of Tune, Sir

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So I’ve been reading.  A lot.  Since I’m not in classes, I’ve been using my usual “for-class reading” time to instead get a jump on that looming exam.  This entry, however, is not about reading.  It’s not about literature.  Heck, it’s not even about theatre.
I don’t tend to think of myself as a feminist and at times I even consider myself an anti-feminist.  However, in the past year or so, I’ve realized that I actually have fairly strong convictions about gender relations.  I don’t like to categorize these convictions which is why I’ve spent so long avoiding the “feminist” label, and I don’t generally like to talk about them either because I do have such a hard time categorizing them.
However.  Something happened to me last night that has set me on a downward spiral of righteous estrogen rage and I feel like I need to share it.
A couple buddies and I are what you may call karaoke connoisseurs.  Several times a week, we head out to follow a local karaoke DJ (who we’ve since made friends with) about her rounds.  Throughout this process, we’ve met her other regulars as well as bartenders, managers, waiters, and just random people.  We tend to bring the thunder with our karaoke; all of us are theatre people of one variety of another so karaoke is a really our excuse to perform.  We rehearse.  We plan.  We dance.  It turns into a quasi-impromptu show on a semi-regular basis and tends to draw a large crowd of onlookers anywhere we go.  This, in turn, means that the venues love us.  We increase their customer base and we keep things fun for everyone (oh and we’re polite and good tippers). 
Last night we were out in a classier area of New Jersey at what we jokingly refer to as “the local dive bar”.  It’s actually a fairly upscale pub/restaurant with an art gallery in the back.  I don’t know why they decided to incorporate karaoke into all of this, I guess they figured that on Wednesdays their clientele wasn’t exactly going to suffer…. Even from some of the horror-stories-with-a-mic that we’ve seen.
So we were sitting at the bar, drinking, singing, and having an over-all good night out, when an (obviously) very drunk guy sidles up next to me.  He had all the capacity for subtlety of a brick wall.  When I noticed that he was edging closer, I edged away.  This continued comically until I realized I had nowhere else to edge, and turned my back to him.  Apparently this wasn’t enough of a signal as he tapped me on the shoulder and asked if he could buy me a drink.  Now let me get one thing straight.  I’m not opposed to someone buying me a drink the same way I’m not opposed to someone opening doors for me or holding my chair out so that I can be seated.  I like old-fashioned things and I like gentlemen.  However, if someone respectfully offers to buy me a drink, and I respectfully decline, in my opinion that should be the end of things.  I’m not Caesar with the crown, I have nothing to prove by saying “no” multiple times before giving in, a word to the wise: in cases like these “no” really means “no”.
Here is where the rage began.  After saying “no” very kindly and thanking him for the offer before trying to turn back to my friends, he caught me by the arm and said “why not?”  Okay, he was drunk, apparently kindness wasn’t what he was looking for.  At this point I felt utterly justified in using a bit more force to make my point.  I said, as bluntly as I could without being mean, “Because I don’t want you to buy me a drink.” before turning to my crowd.
At this point, one of the guys in my crew came over to valiantly rescue me from the situation.  He put his arm around me and starting emitting “she’s mine” signals like they were going out of style.  This particular friend is a long-time buddy of mine so the signals happened to be mostly fabricated (his girl friend was also sitting right there at the time and fully endorsed his assistance in my plight).  After about ten minutes of this, aforementioned creep grabbed his coat and made a pit-stop at the men’s room (where, incidentally, due to the acoustics of the restaurant you can hear everything anyone says at my end of the bar as though those people were standing right next to you so I’m certain he heard the resulting conversation that I had with the bartender, my friends and the other regulars who, also due to funny acoustics, had had a front-row seat for the entire exchange even over the Japanese guy fulfilling racial stereotypes loudly next to us and were thoroughly amused by the entire situation) before leaving the bar.
So here’s what bugs me.  Why is it that my word isn’t good enough for Mister Crown Royal?  Why is it that I have to justify my kindly-stated denial of his offer in such a way as to please him before he will leave me alone?  Why isn’t my honest opinion enough to get the jerk away from me, but instead I need a man to step in to validate my refusal?  The age of the little house-wife is long past, women have the vote and can perform any job a man can perform, why is my clear language not strong enough for mister testosterone? 
I think what bothers me about it is the unstated implication that A) I, as a woman, don’t know what’s good for me and thereby my word can’t be trusted and B) my worth in the situation is less than that of a man because it takes a man’s presence to shake the other man.  We don’t live in the jungle.  I’m not anyone’s territory.  I shouldn’t have to be treated like a member of some dominant male’s pack to keep another rogue from stalking around and trying to perform drunken mating dances in my face.  Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful to my friend for interceding on my behalf (and would ask any male friend to do the same in that situation), but the fact that he (or anyone else) has to really grinds my gears.  I, as a single woman, should not have to worry about going out and getting a drink with friends without being harassed by men who won’t leave me alone simply because there is not another man there to claim me.
What is it about our society that encourages this pushy kind of behavior?  If I had been a man and he a woman, would it have taken another woman to bail me out or would he just have accepted that I was being straightforward, honest, and really did not want his company?  Do we teach the men of our world to act this way because women lie, or because they don’t really know what they want?  How chauvinistic have we, as a society become?  And what are we teaching our children about gender roles when they can watch this sort of thing play out on TV in any given sit-com?  Are confident, strong women doomed to be the butt of the joke because clearly they can’t say no and clearly they just aren’t aware of their own feelings enough to understand why they can’t say no?  And what makes a guy cocky enough to think he’s something special anyway?  It’s the same machismo mentality that makes men think gay guys are going to root them out of any room somehow and hit on them to make them uncomfortable…. No, you are not God’s gift to man (or woman).  Get over yourself.
In any event, I’m seriously considering writing a pamphlet about this to hand to the next drunken loser who attempts to shove his unwanted advances in my empty beverage glass.  Take this, read it, understand it, and then maybe we’ll have something to talk about. 
…But only if you’re cute.

>Talk Nerdy To Me

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Feminism is a topic that comes up a lot at Rutgers.  Our department was a pioneer in feminist criticism, many of the professors are feminist critics, and we house a thriving concentration in women/gender studies which ensures that many of the students are feminist critics as well. 
For me, feminism and feminist criticism is hard to talk about.  Mostly because I’m still unsure where I stand on the matter.  I used to think of myself as above the argument; so they’re women, who write stuff, why is everyone making such a big deal of it?  Then I realized that I was a part of the argument, I just struggled fruitlessly against it.  There are innate topics of discussion regarding women and literature, women in literature, and women talking about literature I just didn’t want to talk about them.  I slowly came to wonder why that was.  Though I’ve made some progress in answering this question for myself, it’s not enough that I can truly articulate fully my ideas on it.  Suffice to say that I tend to play every side of the field when women come up in classroom conversation.  This is mostly because I hate when a roomful of smart people agree on something… though I will admit that I like to see them twitch when I suggest that a biological imperative began the tradition of woman as home-maker and perhaps that tradition warrants some respect as a valid way to live one’s life.
In any case, we were discussing Wollstonecraft in Romantics last night and one of the girls made a comment to the following effect, “In Wollstonecraft’s time, men had to tell women they were beautiful because it was the only socially acceptable way to validate them”.
Well isn’t that just a mouthful?
I could hear my personal demons whispering behind my shoulders.  They had somehow picked the lock on their well-chained closet and, given strength by the aforementioned suggestion, had returned to haunt me.
I flashed back to a conversation I had had with an ex of mine.  He took great pride in the fact that all of his friends, upon meeting me, would clap him on the back and say “good job”.  Having recalled said meetings I realized that “meet” was a relative term.  We were ships in the night with nothing more than a handshake and a hello.  These people didn’t know me.  They had only seen me.  Their complements weren’t because of my ability to recite sonnets at whim, my wit as a conversationalist, my fabulous writing talents or my impeccable modesty, they were simply based upon a superficial visual appraisal.  His friends thought I was pretty and, thereby, a catch.  And that made him happy.
Whoa.  WHOA.  As much as I like to dress up, play with makeup, wear heels and look nice, as much as I like to play arm candy for any given evening at the theatre, as much as I joke that I’d happily be a trophy wife for the right millionaire, something about the situation did not sit well with me.  I couldn’t blame his friends, they were boys and well, boys will be boys.  But I did expect something more from him.  Some modicum of respect for not just how my hair looked, but what it hid.  Some nod towards how capable I am.  Some witty addition from him to the effect of “yea, and she can parse a sentence too!”
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that he didn’t acknowledge and respect my capabilities, it was just that he didn’t think it was important to complement them.  He would send me papers to edit, he would ask my opinion on poetry, but he wouldn’t tell his friends that I graduated NYU with Latin Honors.
This, I have found, is not an uncommon occurrence.  Complements given to women still run in the vein of visual appreciation rather than intellectual satisfaction.  We are much more likely to hear (and, in turn, say) “I love your outfit!” than “I love your prose!”.  Somehow, society expects this of us.  Especially as a woman, there is pressure to wear pretty dresses and heels so that some man can tell me I look nice when I’d much rather hear about how insightful I am.
A very dear friend of mine is currently teaching Freshman Comp at Rutgers.  When one of her friends found out that she had received the position, said friend’s immediate reaction was “You’re going to be the hottest professor ever!”.  My friend the professor explained to me the sour taste this left in her mouth.  Rather than complementing her capabilities as a teacher, her writing, or her thoughtfulness, it was instead all about how she looked. 
I’m not saying there’s no place for such things.  Every woman wants to hear that she’s pretty once in a while.  But those are snacks, unsubstantial and unsustaining.  They are as superficially pleasing as they are insightful. 
Moreover, “beauty” is an aesthetic judgment and ultimately random.  I can’t control my genetics.  I didn’t choose the way I look.  Maybe I chose how I augment these looks with clothing, shoes, makeup, accessories – but that is nominal.  Clothes don’t make the girl.  My mind?  That is something I work at.  Every day, every hour, I work hard to be smart.  I’d much rather hear about how that work has paid off than how some proteins randomly aligned themselves before I even had consciousness to care about it.
In short: tell the academic, big-brained woman in your life that she’s pretty sometimes, but if you really want to tell her something that will make her happy, tell her she’s smart.  Dote on the size of her medulla, not the amount of time she put in at the salon.  Paddle in her prose, not her choice in dresses that evening.  Most importantly, don’t just tell her that she’s a genius, tell her why you think she’s a genius.  It shows her that you actually care enough to look deeper than her skin.