Mushin-Sho

From Invisible Man:

The vet frowned: “It is an issue which I can confront only by evading it. An utterly stupid proposition, and these hands so lovingly trained to master a scalpel yearn to caress a trigger. I returned to save life and I was refused,” he said. “Ten men in masks drove me out from the city at midnight and beat me with whips for saving a human life. And I was forced to the utmost degradation because I possesed skilled hands and the belief that my knowledge could bring me dignity–not wealth, only dignity–and other men health!”

......”Hurry, the man is as insane as the rest,” Mr. Norton said.

Bill Maher on Bush:

“His visit to Argentina didn’t go as expected. Thousands of people rioting, flipping over cars, smashed store fronts, signs that said ‘Bush Go Home!’ which of course is nothing compared to what would have happened in Detroit if he showed up for Rosa Parks’ funeral.”

Also, amidst my internal warfare between anger, swear words and trying to form these sentences, it struck me that the Argentinian reaction is a part of the transnational activism that must be enacted. One.

“You lie once and you’re a liar. You lie a whole bunch, write them down in paragraph form and you’re an author.”—-Craig (roommate)—-keep going, mix lies with fear (perhaps the new technique of power), and you become the scariest man in the world.

... step of a long stuggle…

...one whose transnationalism has to be foregrounded if another step in and through global techniques of power can be made…

“Afro-Coloumbians forced from thier land because of violence.” (caption and photo from In These Times)

I would joke with some of my female friends, ‘if you want equality so bad, get your own damn door!’

The attractive woman standing on the bus had a jarring affect because she manifested that statement. Why weren’t the young healthy males getting up to offer her a seat? More importantly, why was I so disturbed by this observation?

Inherent in that quasi-chivalric thought is a kind of sexism that implies women are ‘dainty(er)’ and need to be accommodated as such. Had I gotten up, I would have reinforced that deeply ingrained thought. Moreover, I enact that same chivalric code when I open doors for women, allow them to go ahead of me etc…

Do these actions perpetuate the very gender roles that produce an unequal and unjust society? Although the severity of these actions may be minor, the ideas, beliefs and values behind them are very consequential.

I do not yet know how to resolve the Foucaudian paradox, however, have resolved myself to use the experiences as tools that can help open up internal prejudicial crates.

CUTE:

I sit restlessly on the always bumpy bus ride wishing I had my iPod so that I wouldn’t hear the two gossiping women next to me. I’m exhausted and annoyed. A few stops later, as the bus grows increasingly full, a very attractive young woman steps on to the bus but does not see an open seat and consigns herself to standing with her stop-mates.

I think of getting up to offer my seat but I don’t. I sit. I watch.

A few more stops go by. People are constantly exiting and boarding but as seats open up close to where she is standing they are immediately taken by others. Men. I am astounded.

I think, “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see that she is just standing there?” I can’t offer my seat because there are too many between us now, others who would take my seat before I could point it out to her.

So the cute girl stands.

Quick Note: My colleague pointed to the Foucault Reader that I had in my hand with a mixed expression of revulsion, intimidation and awe.

“It’s an even more interesting when you are reading it on a city bus amidst the most clearly designated victims of power,” I reply.

The techniques of power are seen, heard, smelled, felt and the bitterness of its reification shrivels the tongue.

A Reading of the Experience:

In a recent post to my 6010 class listserv, a colleague rejected the assumption that students do not carry any theoretical models/ frameworks when first entering the University. I agreed with her and found that assumption to be an extension of the “empty pail” model of education: Students come in as little empty buckets that are then filled to the brim with all the information the superheroes of academe have generated. The students then go to their workplace and slowly spill themselves until they retire, at which point they are put in a closet, the retirement home.

The bus man demonstrated why this model should be rejected. He had a clear theoretical framework through which he processed the events happening in his community. Seeing the lack of an African American presence in the re-shaping process of uptown Detroit clearly bothered him. However, more interestingly, this observed phenomenon was not one that went without critique. He noted the presence of a number of ethnic groups and complexified what could have been a naive binary (Blacks vs. not) into a more complex issue that begins to approach the long entrenched power relations in the country. “...even Africans…just not African Americans…”

Moreover, the bus man demonstrated a clear understanding of what discourse community he was operating in (at that moment) and how to position himself within it so that he may gain or manipulate power relations later. His comments to the bus driver, another charismatic man who is well aware of his position and its power relations, use not only a particular set of phonetic conventions but also a discourse that emphasizes reciprocity.

Note how both the man and bus driver understand this discourse and accommodate each other accordingly: the driver stops before the intersection as asked and is rewarded by the promise(?) “....I take care of you…” The man understands that such a pledge is not only a part of discourse convention but also, simultaneously, one that makes him closer to the driver and implies that he too holds power and may be of assistance in the future, albeit in an entirely different arena.

Our students, especially at WSU, are operating within multiple discourses and multiple levels of those discourses, all of which will be exercised within a very short period. A few minutes, a few hours, certainly within a week.

The “problem” happens when discourses clash, when students are unable to adapt themselves to an environment that requires an entirely different discourse. Rather than trying to “rid them” of those skills that allow them to participate in non-academic environments (which of course is not at all possible) we should help them better understand the conventions of their chosen field, which, most often, is not in Academia.

Most importantly, it seems to me that helping them understand more explicitly, why they need to participate in various discourses, and how that will influence their futures (economically, socially etc) is the most important task we face. Academic “standard English” language is, of course, only one of the balls they will have to juggle.

Background:

Due to some medical problems I am not allowed to drive and consequently have to ride the bus to get anywhere not near my home on campus. Although a bit fearful and cautious at first, this experience is proving to be incredibly interesting because it is extending those things I love about WSU to a more intimate or ‘real’ level. I first hated this university because it did not resemble anything I had imagined college life to be, but once I began my wok with texts theorizing class and power relations campus became a living, if sheltered, example of my work. Now, the highest aspirations of social justice collided with all the reservations, assumptions and subconscious prejudice that I carried unknowingly.

Despite the psuedo creative twist, this is a real experience.

(I use ‘black’ and ‘white’ for impact not insult)

SMART:

I board a surprisingly full Smart Bus and seat myself next to an elderly white woman casually flipping through a fashion magazine; ads for Gucci and Feragamo catch my glance. However, within a moment, a garrulous and charismatic black man takes my attention.

He asks his wheelchaired mother if she is doing ok. She replies tartly but he reassures her that he is only concerned. He continues on with a conversation that began before I got there and the young woman he addresses seems to feign interest.
“Pay attention to what’s round you…you’ll see what I’m talkin’ bout,” he says, then explains the sights passing the bus windows. “There used to be houses here but they tore em down for the parking lot. That building right there (pointing to a dilapidated store) is gonna be next.”

I continue listening to get an insight into the sad and routine sights on Woodward and

“But we ain’t gota say in it. We ain’t invested in it. There are all these people comin’ n’ from the outside and doin’ this. The Whites, the Koreans, the Japanese,” he continues looking briefly at me, “...the towel heads and camel jockeys….shit, even Africans….just not African Americans (emphasis on Americans)...”

“Shit,” he continues, “I got outa (X) prison 5 years ago and this shits been happen’ since.”

The young woman nods acknowledging his observations. I smile for a moment then suddenly realize that he used ‘towel head’ only after he saw me and am suddenly disturbed by the term’s malicious use. I put my attention to my book and ignore him for a while.

An older woman with a cane steps on the bus and another woman stands up to offer her seat. I begin to zip up my bag so that the unselfish woman may have my seat, but I am too late. The commentator has already offered his seat, stands, and leans against the pole right in front of me.

“Excuse me,” he says looking down after accidentally making contact with my shoe. “I don’ wanna to step on your toes.”

“All good,” I reply and turn my head back into my book attempting to free my still caught attention. He playfully flirts with the woman to whom he gave his seat and amuses my fellow passengers and I with his lines. Something silver is slipped into his back pocket and I assume the worst. I think of how to neutralize him from my position and any chokes or holds available to me to take him under control.

He brings it out again, takes a sip, and slips it back into his pocket. Gin.

9-mile and Woodward. In the 2-4-8 now.

The bus stops before the intersection rather than after upon his request. He unbuckles his mother from the various belts holding her wheelchair in place, rolls her out part way, lifts the chair (with her in it) to adjust angles and accommodate her casted broken leg and pushes her out.

“Good lookin out baby. You take care of me and I take care of you,” he says to the bus driver, slapping and clasping his hand.

“Aight baby, peace.”