Once upon a time, long before you were born, soccer was played on fields (made of grass) that popped up here and there–next to schools, in public parks, maybe in a field surrounded by trees. (I know!) Now the fields are made of crumb-rubber infilled synthetic turf–“blades” of grass-shaped polypropylene or polyethylene attached to a backing material, upon which is poured two to three pounds of ground-up tires per square foot. And you often find these fields in soccer complexes, some of which sell naming rights (Scheels All Sports paid the small sum of $625K for the rights at Overland Park Soccer Complex), all of which prominently feature multiple fields divided by vinyl-coated chain link fences, sometimes elaborate concessions operations, and dedicated spots for medal-awarding and picture-taking, because ultimately if there are no losers, the soccer will have just been for helping players develop and possibly for fun. (I know!) Should you find yourself in one of these complexes, puzzling over what to do with the five hours between the last game and the finals (your prayers that your child’s team will miss the finals so you don’t have to drive two hours home in the dark having failed because you are godless), try to find a park where you can sit on the grass in the sun, near a dam and some trees, and watch ducks do what can only be described as playing.
Should you find yourself lost somewhere southwest of Kansas City, seek direction at Garmin Olathe Soccer Complex, just east of Raven Crest and Eagle Crest and Woodland Manor, though good luck finding any ravens, eagles, or woodlands, and across the road from Corporate Ridge, where you will see no ridges but lots of corporate at Garmin International Product Support. Delight at the profanity hurled toward poorly paid referees from the spittle-flecked lips of the middle-aged and their apple-cheeked spawn. Look deep inside yourself and wonder where the impulse to walk the sidelines handing out copies of the Laws of the Game of association football comes from. Find nothing. Write bad poetry. See you next weekend.
This year has been a wash for my research. I’m not here to complain. It just has. I’ve been teaching new courses online, I’ve been advising grad students online, I’ve participated in conference panels online, I’ve been giving public lectures on Missouri literature and history online, I’ve been watching in horror as my computer slow-motion crashes during a public lecture online (do not recommend), I’ve been editing my book series (online), I’ve been reading submissions for journal editors (also online, everything’s online). I’ve been working. I just haven’t been writing my book. There are piles of notes and piles of books to be read and interviews and research to be done when we’re allowed to go back on the road, but for now I am halfway-up-the-rims-in-mud stuck on the writing.
I mention this neither for sympathy (thanks but there’s a few more serious things going on in the world that need your attention) nor for advice (please god no) but because while there are reasons for me to be stuck–semi-good reasons (hard to write a book on the history of university presses while higher ed implodes or more accurately is starved and dismantled and while it sometimes seems to me not so crucial for all of the current scholarship to see life between boards, I know, who put me in charge) and quite not-good reasons (I’ve always been like this)–there is a good reason for me to write this book. I was reminded of that this spring break morning by a post, “How to (Build Solidarity with University Presses So They Exist to) Publish Your Book: A Roundtable,” published today on the H-Net Book Channel’s Feeding the Elephant: A Forum for Scholarly Communications.
The post puts in print (thanks to MSU Press’s Catherine Cocks) the opening remarks of a roundtable I put together with SUNY Press’s Rebecca Colesworthy for MLA this past January, and it displays the dedication of the members of the roundtable to finding ways to continue to publish scholarly work in this increasingly difficult climate. One point that was made–that university presses need other people on campus to forge alliances with to ensure that they are properly appreciated and funded–reminded me of one big, good reason for me to write this book: to tell the story of university presses in order to show people who don’t work at university presses the importance of university presses not only to professors’ careers but to the entire enterprise of scholarship and to the societies that reap the benefits of that scholarship. So this is a thank you to the editors and publishers and forum-keepers for the kick in the pants.
As Tennyson never wrote, in spring a middle-aged man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of soccer poetry. Some new ones from yesterday (old ones are here: Sideline Poetry | The New Yorker):
(My in-house editor points out that those fields are actually in Kansas, which I knew, but my fingers forgot it when typing on my phone in the High Wind.) And here are a couple more from last week, on a theme. It helps for one of them if you know French, which I don’t:
Driving down the main street downtown the other day, the first warm and sunny day after a long run of very cold and very gray ones, I pulled up to a light behind a pickup truck and saw a smaller version of this sticker in the same spot on its rear windshield. And the light changed and I swore like a goddamn sailor, hung on his bumper like an idiot for a block, and then came back to whatever of my senses I still have left and took an early left turn to go home.
So it’s clear I wasn’t in the mood to see something like this this week. (And if you aren’t familiar, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you: this should do it.) By this week, the failure of the efforts of the GOP to overturn the results of the presidential election through their mobilization of an armed and intentionally lied-to mob–cheered on by the immensely dishonest and irresponsible junior senator from my state–was feeling less and less encouraging. The Senate didn’t convict, the lies continue, and state houses seem emboldened, pushing the worse, most blatantly racist kind of vote-suppressing legislation (along with a raft of other awful legislation on everything from guns to school vouchers to reproductive care).
For many people, including me, one of the more difficult things to deal with about what happened January 6 and what’s been happening since is how much it drives home the hard fact that it’s not just Trump & Co. As we watched participants in the attack on the Capitol be identified and arrested, we saw that many of them didn’t seem to be fringe extremists, long-bearded survivalists with massive personal armories and militia t shirts. They were retired policemen. They worked regular jobs. They filmed themselves storming up the steps of the Capitol selling their services in real estate. Some of them were state legislators who were totally cool with being seen attacking their own nation’s capitol. One from my state missed his own swearing-in so he could be there.
It’s tempting to blame this all on the decades of Fox News and Rush Limbaugh (who’s gone, but whose giant malevolent head still sits in my state capitol) and other people telling them that it’s okay to say the racist part out loud now, and to say that the toxic Steves, Miller and Bannon (apologies to any Steves I might be forgetting) are just capitalizing on their work. But one very obvious but sometimes forgotten thing the demoralizing aftermath of January 6 should remind us of is that it goes way farther back than Limbaugh leaving sports radio and Murdoch wanting to trash yet another country’s public square.
I gave a talk the other night through my local library on the subject of viewing the history of Missouri through the work of its writers and in relation to the history of the country. I’m teaching a course on it now, so I’m thinking more than I would ever have imagined I would about these histories, and it is some fucked-up, sobering shit. It’s not anything whose broad outlines you don’t already know, but talking for almost an hour about novels and poems that tell stories about the things people have had to put up with because other people want what they’ve got, or don’t want to let them get anything, or are afraid they’re going to take what they already have, or just want their labor for nothing, and feel morally and even divinely sanctioned to act accordingly–it really drives it home.
It’s been like this here since the people who weren’t from here came here. The state legislators trying to keep this history from being taught in the schools don’t want to hear it and don’t want anybody else to say it, and of course it makes complete sense: it’s only a historical hop, skip, and jump from the first slavers to Limbaugh, to the guy who brought the confederate flag into the Capitol not very many weeks ago, to the guy who decided he would put that sticker on his truck. To the state rep who wants tax dollars to pay for some kids’ private schools so they don’t have to go to school with certain other peoples’ kids. To the US Senator who is happy to claw his way to the top on the backs of those other people and with a boost from the people who are happy to see them stepped on, somehow never noticing that his foot’s on their backs too.
I’ve got nothing good to say about all of this. I’m just constantly trying to keep myself from swearing about it.
I’m posting my remarks (including things I forgot to say) from tonight’s session at the Modern Language Association annual convention in memory of Doug Steward, Associate Director of MLA Programs and Director of the Association of Departments of English.
Hi, everyone, and thank you for asking me to take part in this, and thank you, Roldan, for sharing with us. It’s nice to see you all even if I wish it were for some other reason. I have a couple of words I want to share, which I will read at you, because this is MLA.
As part of my work for the Committee on Academic Freedom and Professional Rights and Responsibilities, which I chaired last year and off of which I’ve now cycled, I put together a roundtable for this year’s convention titled “There’s No Such Thing as a Free Library: Access to Research Resources and Academic Freedom.” It’s not really my field, so I initially had a hard time finding people for it, and ended up writing to the committee to see if anybody had any suggestions. Doug—who I knew, if my CV is to be believed, for more than ten years, from a long evening at the bar after the first day of the first ADE Summer Seminar I attended (and the bar part is not on my CV, just to be clear), and with whom I had the pleasure of hanging out at (and after) ten years of summer seminars (where I got to run DGS and DUS preseminar workshops largely because of Doug, though David, if you had anything to do with it, thanks), MLA conventions, and CAFPRR meetings–suggested himself. At the time, I thought of Doug’s doing this as a sign of his deep interest in our committee’s work and also as just him doing me a solid, as we used to say; looking back now on it now, I still think of it in these ways, but I also think of it as indicative of the care with which he approached the institutions, ideas, and people that mattered to him.
I could talk tonight about how that care manifested itself in many areas in which Doug and I intersected—from official things like ADE, where I noticed from my first workshop that his interest lay in helping people running departments do the best they could for their departments not to make them fancier or higher-powered but to make them work better for the people who worked and studied in them, to semi-official things like his quietly making sure a mention of my sons’ band’s album stayed in the minutes of a meeting, to non-official occasions like his inviting me out for dinner (and what turned out to be multiple pitchers of margaritas) with the friend he came out to in college, which meant a lot to me, to our commiseration about the state of the state of Missouri, him as an expat in New York City, me as a transplant from New York City—but instead I’ll just say a word or two about CAFPRR.
From conversations, emails, and meetings, I learned that Doug’s interest in academic freedom and professional rights and responsibilities lay in protecting academic freedom not so individuals could tweet abuse at public officials (not that there’s anything wrong with that) but so the right to freely fulfill their responsibilities—to study and publish and teach—could be protected for all, especially the most vulnerable. He insisted, in a piece in the ADFL Bulletin, that academic freedom was not an individual right but a corporate responsibility—the responsibility of the faculty as a body, one it couldn’t fulfill if it didn’t recognize and support the work of all members equally. In a long piece in the ADE Bulletin from 2007, he wrote movingly about the humanities and especially the study of languages as what he called “the privileged space of academic freedom’s defense and definition,” and I’d like, with your indulgence, to read a (luminous, even) bit from the end of that piece:
“In the age of genocide and terrorism the notion that nothing human could be alien to us as humanists in the world’s sole superpower could not be more relevant. This relevance is exactly what many in the humanities have wanted to engage when they have been accused of impertinent politicking in the classroom: to ask if language can be more adequate to the truth; to ask if history has been recounted truthfully; to discern the alien as human; to learn the language and culture of the other; to explore the history of the inhuman/e in the human/e; to demand an expansion of human rights; to interrogate the border rather than the human being at the border; to discover what rhetorics of language and image mobilize a border around who counts as human; to question who is patrolling the border and with what ends. These questions can only be impious.”
This is the kind of care that Doug showed in his work with our committee and in his concern for the nature of the work we were defending, and it’s something we should all try to remember in the work that we do. There’s a thing that Jewish people say to those who have lost loved ones–“may his memory be a blessing”–that I’m not usually comfortable using myself because I’m not a big blessing person, but it seems appropriate tonight. May his memory be a blessing.
Today something’s happening that’s not like anything that’s happened in my lifetime. Today we try to get a would-be strongman out of office, knowing he’ll do anything to stay there. He’ll invalidate every ballot, he’ll lie and cheat and this time, instead of a Brooks Brothers Rioter, he’s got a different kind of angry white man, in body armor and an AR-15 instead of a polo shirt*. He’s turned the White House into a bunker. Will he come out shooting or will things end the way they did for a different man in a different bunker? And what will happen to what actually matters–the rest of us, out here?
Today we’re waiting to see what’s going to happen. Today we’re waiting to hear the answer to the eternal question How Low Can They Go. Today we’re listening to Jimmy Cliff, waiting for the tide to flow. We’re not waiting to get into heaven, though following the Latin, we are at the border of something. We’re not ducking under a lowering bar, but we will need to be limber, following the root of that limbo, flexible enough to take what’s coming without breaking. And following the root of limber–a cart that attached to artillery for towing– we may need to be ready for a fight.
Whatever happens today, and in the next few days, eventually we’re going to need to be flexible enough to not keep fighting, to recognize that we’ve been driven apart by people who don’t care about the wreckage they left behind. We’ve got some time to search our souls. Let’s not give them the satisfaction of being the wreckage.
Torn from the subject lines
Read now (quickly, Samuel!)
here’s the truth:
Samuel I’m asking you myself
this is a disaster
i don’t like doing this
Samuel, are you up?
Samuel, I need you
Yesterday, five days before the election, I drove my son to his high school soccer game in Hannibal, Missouri, a river town about two hours northeast of Columbia. We headed due north from Columbia through some extremely flat land, all corn, that after a while became the gently rolling hills that once prompted a professor in Iowa to say to my visiting textbook editor wife, “You all farm on hills down there.”
As we were drove, we talked about politics, which my son has great interest in, though more in government and political philosophy than the politicking side, but even if he didn’t, he couldn’t escape knowing about it in the house he’s grown up in. At one point in the flat early stretch, sparsely dotted with farm houses, silos, and tractors, I said something about how growing up in country like that, I could imagine how big cities and protests and the diversity of parts of America not like that could seem alien and even scary, a feeling the president and his party use to their advantage every day in the way they stoke the fires of resentment and rage about blue states and Democrat-run cities, about looters and rioters and people who want to destroy their way of life.
We saw a bunch of political signs as we drove, with plenty of signs for local candidates; there were more for Biden than we thought we’d see, including some that read Farmers for Biden. As we expected, though, there were more Trump signs, increasing in proportion to the Biden signs the closer we got to Hannibal and coming to include giant Trump flags on the backs of trucks and stuck right in the ground. Some of the giant stiff yard signs, even farther north, were Biden signs, or once had been–somebody had cut out the BIDEN on a few of them, leaving neat rectangular holes above the smaller PRESIDENT. We didn’t see similar editing work done on any Trump signs.
I’m writing this morning about our trip because what we experienced when we got there was pretty unsettling, and I’m finding it hard not to see it now through the cut-out holes in those signs and through the fact of the difference between the towns the teams were from. Having moved to central Missouri from New York City some sixteen years ago, I’ll never get quite used to having my college town be seen as the big city in other, smaller towns I visit, but the reception the boys and their parents got was clearly colored by that perception. I’ve given some talks at local libraries and historical societies in some very small towns, and have always been warmly received, and even though we weren’t going to have time to hang out in Hannibal, I was looking forward to being there because of the whole Mark Twain’s Hometown thing. So I wasn’t prepared for the Soccer Families of Hannibal.
I won’t get into the game itself, because I can’t imagine anything people want to read less than a parent’s account of the criminally bad refereeing (it was, really) at his kid’s high school soccer game, or the muttering about my usual not standing up for the anthem (nobody needs to read about that either), but I do want to talk about the anger on the sidelines. I’ve written about the things you hear on soccer sidelines before, and maybe if my fingers hadn’t been frozen I would have turned the things I heard last night into more found soccer poetry, but they weren’t the sort of gently appalling things I’d heard at my sons’ youth games: they were angry. Really angry. And it wasn’t things like the line judge repeatedly telling a man that he was going to have to leave if he didn’t stop yelling at him. Every team has those parents, and ours had a few things to say last night. It was the parents hanging over the fence yelling to their goalkeeper about the boy who was about to take one of the tied-game-deciding penalty kicks against him (ostensibly to the goalie, anyway). Over the course of the game, the Soccer Families of Hannibal imagined a number of fouls against their boys and grew increasingly enraged in their reactions to these mostly uncalled (because mostly imaginary) fouls. They yelled that their boys were going to have to fight back on the field. They yelled that they were going to have to fight for them after the game. A teen girl yelled twice–at the ref? at the few representatives of the Soccer Families of Columbia who’d made the trip, wary of the virus bus?–“We’ll just have to take care of it after the game, then!”
The Hannibal team won the game on penalty kicks, an outcome that seemed to matter a lot to the winners and their fist-pumping parents. It’s hard (and maybe ungenerous) not to wonder whether their joy was informed by their beating the kids from the big city, though apparently the players were talking about it during the game. It’s harder not to wonder whether their rage has some connection to the signage and the season, to the America they’re told we’re living in now, to the deeper affect these things are tapping into, the aggrieved whiteness that people keep trying to excuse as economic anxiety. If my fingers hadn’t been frozen and I’d really wanted to push my luck, I’d have taken pictures of the angry faces and posted them here, and we could have all seen what we want to see in them. What I’m seeing this morning, as I remember them, is the thing I most fear about next Tuesday and next Tuesday’s aftermath: angry white people playing victim, looking for ways to take care of it after the game.
As I write this, my desktops (literal and digital) are covered with work–Lacy M. Johnson’s memoir Trespasses, from which the essay my Writing about Literature students are reading for Friday, “White Trash Primer,” is drawn; my notes from Jonathan Culler’s chapter “Identity, Identification, and the Subject” in Literary Theory for Wednesday’s class; a video I made for my Careers and English class about their assignment, making what their book (You Majored in What?) calls “possibility maps”; Joan Didion’s novel Democracy, which we’re reading in my graduate seminar this week; a couple of histories of scholarly publishing; a copy of the book I’m helping lead a reading group on tonight, Walter Johnson’s The Broken Heart of America: St. Louis and the Violent History of the United States.
As I write this, Twitter is crawling with disinformation about the debate (hidden hearing devices, drugs, and dementia) that chaos agents are pouring into the wide-open brains of my compatriots, Facebook fills with anxiety about submitting absentee ballots and the relative merits of phone-banking, text-banking, and sending postcards, and on Instagram, pictures of things people are petting, growing, eating, selling, and contemplating instead of the election unspool.
As I write this, my brain is a stew of my work and my social media feeds and my news media consumption, bubbling over a flame that’s set too high, and everything is starting to melt together, though I doubt the flavors will meld. (And because I’m reading Didion, it seems I have no choice but to overemploy anaphora and enumeratio. The tortured metaphors and vague, creeping dread I come by more honestly.)
I alternate between having nothing to say about anything and wanting to share this feeling of all the stories coming together–the stories of America’s white underclass trying to understand what’s happened to it, the stories of settler violence and racial capitalism, the shrinking future my students face, the value of hard thinking and the attacks against it everywhere. And in the background of all this is the voice of a truly freaked-out Michael Beschloss from a few days ago, in the clip above, saying “This is not a drill.”
As Walter Johnson writes, the story of this country full of stories is the story of empire and racial capitalism. As his history of St. Louis points out, it is a story of rich white people making promises to poor white people in order to get them to help push native people and black people out of the way so they can make themselves more money. What was simple when St. Louis was the headquarters of westward expansion and native removal got more complicated as it became the headquarters of freedom suits, munitions manufacture and “urban renewal,” but in many ways it’s the same old story.
And it’s the story of what’s happening right now. Rich white people are making promises to other white people, many poor, and the interests of the former are being served by their convincing the latter that their interests coincide (they don’t), an act–the convincing–made easier in a climate in which a man who doesn’t read anything longer than a chyron can become president and white supremacy is the argument that puts the Q in QED. It’s enough to break your heart.
“White Trash Primer” ends:
Your English professor says you have POTENTIAL and you hold this real close to your heart when you’re walking up to get your diploma and sixteen of your cousins and your aunts and uncles and grandparents on both sides and your two sisters are hooting and hollering from the stands and your mama blows an air horn and your daddy yells your name so loud and true it’s like he’s calling you to come up from the creek bottom. And you hear him calling for some time.
In the video lecture I put up on Canvas for my students to watch before they read “White Trash Primer,” I told them to think about what the title means and what it means to write an essay in the second person, warned them about the sexual violence in the middle, reminded them to try to make connections between the essay and the theories of identity we’ve just read. I also told them it’s okay to cry when you read nonfiction, because the ending can really get you. Maybe it’s just me and the stew in my brain, but rereading it before the video, it really got me. It got me because I want good things to still seem possible, I want a future where the country’s governing institutions–sometimes the only things protecting possibility for everyone who isn’t a rich white man–haven’t been destroyed. Because I need America to listen for once to the people who do the reading. We all need it.