Read now (quickly, Samuel!) here’s the truth: Samuel I’m asking you myself humbly asking this is a disaster final request no regrets i don’t like doing this Samuel, are you up? embarrassing mistake truly sorry bad news 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.
or McSweeney’s didn’t want this, so here it is for free
Being on Twitter while in online meeting: Zoomscrolling
Being on Twitter, skeptically: Humescrolling
Reading influencers on Twitter, anxiously: Bloomscrolling
Grumbling to yourself about violations of outmoded writing conventions on Twitter: Whomscrolling
Wondering what ever happened to Action Park while on Twitter: Flumescrolling
Eating edamame while on Twitter: Legumescrolling
Scanning Twitter for apocryphal stories of famous meetings: Presumescrolling
Being on Twitter on the high seas: Spumescrolling
Looking on Twitter for references to Márquez and Cortázar: Boomscrolling
Reading Twitter through eye gunk: Rheumscrolling
Spending time on gothic Twitter: Gloomscrolling
Reading Twitter on your phone while walking around Dublin all day in a Homeric sort of way: also Bloomscrolling
Reading wedding Twitter: Groomscrolling
Thinking about high fashion while on Twitter: Klumscrolling
Looking for God on Twitter while also identifying yourself: Blumescrolling
Having your hopes for the future crushed by reading on Twitter about the actions of the attorney general and the president to steal the election until you can longer even blink or wash or feed yourself: the user experience
I have just recorded my first video to insert into my first module for my first online class, which starts next week, and I’m waiting for it to be transcribed so it can have closed captions, and I’m almost finished uploading all of my readings and setting up all of the discussions and assignments and Zoom backgrounds and I remember back in grad school when I was so proud of myself for learning HTML enough to make a very bad web page and this is not what I signed up for.
I am fortunate that I am in a situation where I can teach online this semester, so I’m not complaining; I was on leave last semester and so this is my first go at all of this. And there’s a part of it that’s kind of fun, figuring out the technology, as long as you don’t stop to think about whether doing all of this online instruction–which is unfortunately necessary now and which all campuses should be doing but for various reasons good and mostly not so good are trying not to, at least for a few days–will make it easier for administrations to move more forcefully online once it’s no longer necessary.
But I didn’t come here on the Saturday before classes start to talk about how universities have/should have responded to This Unprecedented Time. I only came here to say good luck to everyone teaching online and off this semester, to remind you to stay safe, to have fun with your Zoom backgrounds, and to remember that a free thinker is Satan’s slave, so let’s get out there and send him a few more.
A Twitter exchange on John Williams’s Stoner today included a mention of my reading a bit of the novel aloud at a conference a couple of years ago, and it got me thinking about conferences and teaching and my habit of getting choked up in both settings reading things aloud or talking about affecting subjects. I’m never not able to keep teaching or to finish my paper, though there have been times that I’ve had to struggle to pull it together, turning and facing the wall or staring out the window for a moment. It’s a thing that’s always always happened to me as an academic, and though it’s hardly unique to me, I’ve had many academic mentors and colleagues for whom such a display would be unthinkable.
But the point of these moments is that they’re not really about thinking, and this Stoner exchange has gotten me thinking just now about their place in my work, and in the work of academics generally, and especially in my teaching, particularly in my teaching next semester, which is going to be entirely online because my department generously allowed me that option. I haven’t figured out how much my classes will be synchronous and how much not, but even when we can all see each other’s faces on our screens, I’m wondering whether those moments will happen. I believe you can learn and teach online, though like most of us it’s not my ideal, but if you teach smallish discussion-based classes, so much happens that I’m worried can’t happen if we’re not sharing the same physical space and (how’s this for an awkward figure of speech) breathing the same air. So what I’m worrying about now–because someone helped me remember the sadly beautiful moment at the end of an English professor’s life when he remembers the overwhelming feeling of joy and terror that the work of reading and thinking and talking had brought him–is whether I and my students will be able to be overcome by words and ideas together.
This is more a reflection than a cry for help, as far as I can tell, but I’ll take help if people have some.
It’s also the day that saw Donald Trump attack his political opponents at the National Prayer Breakfast and give a bizarre, despair-inducing speech in the East Wing of the White House. In case you missed it, he called his opponents, including leaders of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the House of Representatives and a sitting Senator, “scum” and “sleazebags” and whined about how poorly he had been treated. He invited the audience to stand up and testify to his greatness. Some day we’ll learn the pharmacological details. It’s also the day we learned that the Attorney General now has the right to approve any investigations into anyone running for office. And we heard that the debunked conspiracy theory Trump tried to bribe Ukraine’s president to legitimate–an effort the Senate just yesterday acquitted him of being thrown out of office for–was being pursued for investigation by his supporters. It’s the day, then, that we learned that despite the efforts of good women and men to save us, it’s entirely possible that this administration could continue for another four years. At least.
It’s been enough to make me feel like maybe we’ve lost.
Bob Marley and Donald Trump don’t belong in the same universe, much less the same post. I hate even thinking of them on the same day. But around 3 or 4 this afternoon, after spending so much time on Twitter being angry and appalled that someone I know only on Twitter told me nicely to go outside, I remembered something. I wrote some encyclopedia entries when I was in grad school to supplement my teaching, and in reading for one I wrote on Bob Marley, I learned something he said after an attempt was made on his life. The attack happened two days before a free unity concert organized by Jamaica’s prime minister, and it was thought to be intended to keep him from appearing at the concert. Injured, Marley played anyway. When asked why, he said, “The people who are trying to make this world worse aren’t taking a day off. How can I?”
To borrow another line of Marley’s, from his “So Much Things to Say,” “Remember that, when the rain fall/ It don’t fall on one man’s housetop.” It’s raining. The people who are trying to make the world worse are busy. No days off.
I just watched the president* deliver his statement about the recent exchange of hostilities between Iran and the US while taxiing on an O’Hare runway on the way to the annual meeting of the Modern Language Association. It was something. Now I’m in the air and I can’t stop seeing it play over in my head. During my layover, I had been preoccupied with the conference–a panelist on the roundtables I organized had to pull out at the last second, I still have to figure out who I’m going to be talking to for the book series I edit, I don’t know how I’m supposed to stay awake for 9 p.m. dinners at my advanced age. But this press conference pulled me back into the whirlpool of war worry I’d briefly avoided (skirting that Charybdis for the Scylla of conference scheduling?). It also made me really, really angry.
It wasn’t just that the man enough people somehow thought was qualified to lead the country was so alarmingly out of it, even more unable to read a teleprompter (let alone to breathe) than usual. It wasn’t just that he seemed like he might have accidentally revealed classified intelligence about new weapons (which I somehow misheard as semisonic rather than hypersonic, reminding me of one of my all-time least favorite songs). More than anything, it was the dig about the missiles used in Iran’s attack being paid for by the previous administration that stuck in my craw.
It stuck in my craw because there are times that it seems that the most important of all the things that make the president* so bad at his job and so bad for the country isn’t his greed, power-hunger, venality, or ignorance, it’s his joyful divisiveness. He’s a divider, not a uniter. The jab at his predecessor in today’s statement is of a piece with everything we know about him from his past as inheritor of his father’s racist renting practices, as rabid accuser of the Central Park Five, as birther, from his campaign’s being built on xenophobia, Islamophobia, and the culture war divides that split this country., and from his behavior as president.
I’m not so naive that I don’t know the US has a long and very distinguished career of division, from its displacements of the many natives who were here before to the deportation of the many we should be welcoming today. The 1619 Project’s partly rhetorical move to install 1619 alongside 1776 is nothing if not a reminder of that. But it also has a long history of being better, or trying to be–alongside the history of institutions, conflicts, and policies built on supremacy, on America First and fuck everybody else (including Americans some in power would rather not count as Americans), there is a history of people working against those things. And there are millions of people like me who are hungry for leaders (and voters) who want to be part of that second history, who believe in the old cliches about a national project in which we are united. (I think it’s one of the reasons so many are wary of the primary’s moments of tensions, in addition to the more practical immediate concerns of what it will mean come the general.)
Unfortunately, the president* isn’t one of those people. In a moment when much of the nation he was elected to serve and the larger world was scared shitless at what might happen next, he could have–as most presidents before him would–reassured us. Instead, he rattled his saber, bragged about the size of his guns, ignored the effects on the people who live outside our borders just like he ignores so many within them, and, because he just couldn’t resist, blamed the whole thing on the man who made fun of him one night at a comedy fundraiser. It went by so fast you could almost miss it. If you did, here’s what he said: “The missiles fired last night at us and our allies were paid for with the funds made available by the last administration.” Never mind that (as he’s been reminded countless times when returning to the subject of this money) it wasn’t a gift, or that there’s no evidence whatever that that money paid for those missiles: the point is to insinuate that the Democrats are on the bad guys’ side.
Two days ago Nikki Haley made a similar move. After our armed forces, without any consultation within our government or with whatever allies we might still have, killed a military leader of another country, some wondered whether it had been a good idea. Many national Democratic figures condemned the attack, but not because they thought the victim was a swell guy. Following the same playbook as her president and working toward the same blatantly political end, she said the people running the opposition party and the people running to oppose the president* in the next election were “mourning” his death. See, it’s not just that people disagree with the president: they’re the enemy, they’re not real Americans, they’re evil. It’s from the same playbook out of which Trump pulled his Let’s make Jewishness a nationality move a month ago, and it’s angering for the same reason. The only people who really matter are Trumps. White Christians are the other real Americans, his actions and words say, so he’ll look out for them a little while slipping their wallets out of their pockets as he gives them a manly clap on the shoulder. Everybody else is suspect. The people getting the shoulder claps are happy to hear it, because they think they’re part of the us and not the them. Somehow this shyster and his party of shysters has fooled them into believing it.
I’m somewhere over the Northern plains right now, somebody I don’t know is asleep on my shoulder, there’s a kid two rows up crying in stereo with the kid two rows behind me, and I’m so lonesome I could cry, because that’s how the president* wants me to feel. We all need to be looking over our shoulders at each other, statements like this morning’s tell us, because we’re not in this together. If we can’t stay here, as the song goes, where are we supposed to go home to. If the American project is shuttering its doors, what the hell happens next?
Donald Trump will sign an executive order tomorrow making Judaism a nationality rather than a religion. In doing this, he will make it possible for the federal government to withhold funding from universities who allow the BDS movement to be represented on their campuses. If this seems like a non sequitur, to supporters it’s not: if Jews are a nationality and not a religion, the argument goes, they can be protected under civil rights legislation, and since these supporters believe or at least argue that criticizing Israel’s policy toward the people living in its occupied territories is anti-Semitic, then that criticism becomes a violation of civil rights and so punishable by the withdrawal of federal funding to the institutions that allow that criticism to happen.
The New York Times headline–“Trump to Sign Order Targeting Anti-Semitism on College Campuses”–elides the leap the administration is taking in this order. With the stroke of a fat black Sharpie, Trump will, as if by magic, make individual Jews not coreligionists but members of the same nationality. The magic is that this is of course not the case–it ignores the diaspora of a couple of thousand years or so ago, some of it voluntary, some not so much. And it ignores the fate of the Jews since then, so often seen and treated as less than citizens, or natives, or sons and daughters of the countries in which they lived.
I’m an American Jew. I was born and raised in New Jersey. I live in Missouri. My family tree has roots in Eastern and Western Europe, mostly the Eastern Europe whose national borders shifted and collapsed around them. It doesn’t have roots in Israel or some other imagined or historical nation. It has a branch in Israel–my aunt and uncle and two cousins made aliyah, or moved to Israel from the diaspora, in this case from New Jersey, in the early 1970s. I don’t support the occupation of the territories and I didn’t support BDS when it came before the delegate assembly of the Modern Language Association, my professional organization, for academic freedom reasons. It’s a complicated issue for me, as it is for many American Jews, and not because we’re anti-Semitic or, as they used to say more often back in the day, self-hating Jews. I’m an atheist and I love my mother’s brisket and a few weeks ago I introduced an undergraduate I took to a conference in Chicago to matzah brei and he was underwhelmed, as was I. These things are complicated.
There’s a lot to be said about the academic freedom question, as there is about so much of this. But I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling every day like the fate of the only country I’ve ever lived in–a country that has a horrific historical track record but that I’m naive enough to believe can do better–hangs on the fate of an ignorant hate-filled grifter. I’m tired of seeing the way Trump and the people he keeps around him treat people who have been feeling their entire lives what I’m feeling today–like I’m not at home. I’m just fucking tired.
In his 2004 novel The Plot Against America, Philip Roth imagines what might have happened if anti-Semitism had gotten a foothold in the White House in the 1940s. He imagines an Office of American Absorption, which creates a program, called Just Folks, that sends Jewish boys to live with Christian families in the Midwest and South in order to Americanize them because, even though they were born in the US, their religion meant they weren’t real Americans. I don’t care if Trump and Jared Kushner, the ostensible mastermind behind this plan, think they’re doing the right thing or have convinced themselves that there’s a reason other than naked self-interest that’s motivating them. They’re not doing the right thing by campuses, by American Jews, or by America. They’re not doing the right thing by me or by any of the other people who were born here or came here to find a new home. We don’t need them telling us who we are. We’re Americans, which is a complicated thing to be these days, more for some of us than others, more recently for some of us than others, but it’s who we are, and we’re tired of this shit.
Last week I spent a couple of days in Columbia’s Rare Book and Manuscripts Library, flipping feverishly through the papers of the Association of University Presses for the book on the history of American university presses I’m working on. I’ve finally finished cataloging my pictures and have begun going back through them and trying to get down all of the thoughts I had about them mid-flip. A lot of what I found interesting was about the origins of the AUP. (Here ends any useful reference to Derrida’s book on the origins of psychoanalysis, alluded to in this post’s title.)
I want to know more about the formation and early stages of the AUP (formerly the AAUP, until 2017, when the constant confusion with the American Association of University Presses apparently became too much to bear) not just because every story needs a good beginning but because the formation of the association happens at the time that university press publishing in the US is starting to come into its own, to see itself as an industry, albeit one forever tied to the individual campuses where presses live and to the scholars they serve. At moments like these, the tensions that animate institutional histories are made visible.
Take this description, from writer Christopher Morley’s preface to the first joint catalogue (titled Shelfward Ho!), issued before the association was formed, of the motivation for this new project: “Thirteen university presses, pooling their interests, have here listed sixty-five of their most exciting recent issues and and set out for a serious invasion into Bœotia.” Framing a catalogue designed to get scholarly books before a wider audience as an attempt to invade Bœotia–the region of Greece that ancient Athenians used as shorthand for ignorance and dullness–is of course meant to be funny, but it is also potentially telling, at least as concerns the way university presses saw their place in the world.
Also telling is the consistent early jokiness seen in the self-references made by Chicago’s Donald Bean and other representatives of the future members of the AUP. Calling themselves “producers of highbrow tobaccos” and “bootleggers,” even producing a pamphlet for a 1932 meeting arguing for greater coordination among themselves and with commercial publishers called “The Story of Pure Tobacco,” seems evidence of an anxiety about their position, though whether it was about being businessmen with such an unpromising product, disseminators of scholarship working in the unscholarly world of commerce, or some combination of both, I’m not yet sure.
It certainly seems connected to the tensions between the book business and the business of scholarship that persisted through the twentieth century and today. When press subsidies are cut, when presses are threatened, when traditional monographs seem impossible to publish given pressures on presses to be self-
sustaining–whenever the question of what university presses are for and how should what they do be paid for–the old tensions embodied in “The Story of Pure Tobacco” are in play. The same is true when you look at the persistent lure of the crossover book, the title accessible and welcoming enough to Bœotians that they might shell out enough drachmai to support the publication of the light-selling scholarly monographs; the invasion into Bœotia is an attractive prospect, but it costs money to mount that kind of invasion, and it doesn’t always pay off. Likewise, the university press’s part in the ongoing contest over the value of the humanities has roots in these origins: beyond the esoteric knowledge produced for knowledge’s sake in the book-centric humanities disciplines, the argument over whether they have something to offer to the Bœotias surrounding the college towns and university-rich cities has become part of the argument for continuing to support them or for continuing to support them less and less.
Origin stories are funny things; you can sift through the past and find the parts of the story you want to tell. As I sift, I’m coming across evidence of ingenuity as well as of old boy chumminess, of a cooperative spirit against a landscape of haves and have nots, of the amount of time it took to do anything before email, and I don’t want to leave any of this out. I want to end up telling a complicated story about the history of university presses, one that does justice to the many different possible stories, the failures and the successes, the bleak crises and rosy futures, and in doing so to make my own argument for the value of the whole enterprise, in the form of a university press book.