Space--Male Privilege--Gender Guilt(?)

Any jogger knows what to do when he sees a strange dog on the next block: cross to the other side of the street and walk. Similarly, when we are out at night, we know to stay under the streetlights and on well-walked places. We know these things because we have a developed understanding of space and how we behave within it--so much so that it seems intuitive. We don't often, however, know or recognize that we have this awareness. When we interact with space, we generally do so on auto-pilot, without really noticing what we are doing or even that we are doing anything.

My most recent research has centered on the ways in which we "read" space and how, thus, space is textualized in ways that both encourage and constrict movement, empowering some people in particular spaces while restricting others.

When presenting this research recently, a fellow graduate student asked me about the gender differences in the particular space I was researching. How do women view the space, and do they move differently through it? Because my own research focused more on class (a different form of Other), I really had no data to answer this question. But it was a great question; no doubt women perceive the space differently than men, and it's reasonable to suspect that these perceptions influence the way women move through and interact with the particular space.

Then, a few days ago, I caught myself doing something interesting. I was leaving campus rather late on a cold day, which means that there weren't many people walking around. As I walked across an empty parking lot heading back to my car, a woman got out of a car further down the lot but directly in my path. I did something very interesting without really thinking about it in the moment: I changed my path. 

As soon as I had done it, I realized what I had just done. I had diverted my path to keep from walking too close to a woman in an empty parking lot in the twilight of a cold day. I had done this because I realized that crossing the path of a relatively large man in a black coat in empty parking lot was going to make her very nervous. I would have never done this to avoid another man; to do so would have been a sign of weakness--the weaker primate making way for the stronger. This, on the other hand, was a curious bit of chivalry, one that had happened naturally and, I think, was borne out of my recent hyper-awareness of space.

The incident also made me realize that feeling comfortable in public spaces is yet another male privilege that I have enjoyed and also completely naturalized. I've seen scores of news stories and public information campaigns advising women on how to protect themselves from predators. Included on all of these lists is an awareness of space. Know who is around, know what kind of area you're in, look for escape routes, and on and on. I, however, have never been taught any of these things (except for some versions of this in the police academy, but these were taught in and on very different terms).

What this means is that I have been allowed to blithely move through space with little awareness of how my presence in that space effects others. This means that everywhere I've ever gone where there has been a women present, she has had to pay close attention to me and she has had to adjust her movements accordingly. I, on the other hand, have been free to disregard her presence or even fail to notice her presence at all.

I've asked my wife before what it's like to be a woman in public--does she live with the knowledge that every man she passes looks at her? Does this bother her? Does she eventually just get used to it? Again here, I am made aware that women have had to think about how to handle me, though I have never been taught to be aware of my effect on them.

I'm not exactly exactly sure what I'm suggesting? Am I saying that men should stop staring at women in the mall? Absolutely! Am I saying that we should divert our paths in empty parking lots to stay away from women, thus protecting them from being uncomfortable with us? I'm not sure. I am aware that such extreme chivalry might be another form of sexism, based on some ingrained assumption that woman is a frail species that I must protect, even from the psychological effects of my presence. At the very least, I'm asking to be made more aware and for other men also to be more aware of how we ourselves interact with and are part of space, and how that effects others--others of different races, classes, genders. That doesn't mean that we must carry guilt simply for being born as we were; it's not my fault that I was born a white male to a middle class family. It does mean, though, that I should be aware of what it means to others that I am what I am, and how my presence in a space necessarily influences that space.

Looks Like Mad: Imagery and Mediation

Last week, at a training class for public officials I attended, someone brought a newspaper which had a montage of four pictures (like the one above) of James Holmes, the accused gunman in the Aurora, CO movie theater massacre. Holmes's appearance in court had been the conversation du jour for the twenty-four hours or so before. The descriptions from the media of these images and video clips included words like "strange," "detached," "bizarre," and so on. These reports seemed to lead inevitably to speculation about whether or not these images suggested that Holmes was mentally insane or if he was, perhaps, acting in order to prepare for an insanity defense.

During a break in our class, one of my fellow attendees showed me the front page, pointed out the photos, and said something like, "look at him. Do you think he's crazy?" Always one for pedantry, I said "well, I think that the editors of this paper were able to choose four photos that made him look crazy." I then added, "I think these photos say more about how the editors wish for us to see Holmes than they do about Holmes himself." I don't intend to argue about whether or not Holmes is mentally ill (to tell you the truth, I don't watch the news much and don't have any interest in engaging in those kinds of discussions anyway), but rather I want to use the conversation to discuss the reliance on  imagery as evidence, and to interrogate it a bit.

What's interesting to me about the discussion in my training class, and with similar discussions in the media, is that we (viewers/discussants) were being asked to decide whether or not Holmes was mentally ill based on the evidence of how he "looks" in photos selected for us by editors, rather than on the immensely anti-social nature of the crimes of which he's accused. Our impressions about the way he "looks" seems to carry more rhetorical weight with regard to the question of his sanity than does his actual behavior.In a way, we were being asked whether or not the way he looks might serve to explain, or even excuse the way he actually behaved.

For me, this is a testament to the power of visual evidence on our culture. We readily assume that visual evidence, in the form of photographs and especially in the form of video, is an unimpeachable and unmediated form of proof. After all, if we can see something, we can assess it's truth ourselves. If one wanted to prove a particular person broke into a store, for instance, a copy of the surveillance tape settles is. We know the actions of police in the Rodney King assault were abusive because we saw the assault on tape. And with the proliferation of cameras in modern public space in the forms of camcorders, media crews, police car dash cams, traffic light cameras, surveillance cameras, and cell phones, we have been acculturated  into the understanding that anything can be recorded, and recordings tell us the truth. Seeing is, as we say, believing.

We, therefore, tend to accept visual proof of any concept, event, or phenomenon as unmediated truth. Thus, we fail to interrogate visual imagery in any significant way (except maybe to argue about whether or not an image was staged or Photoshopped). We must learn to be careful, though, when considering visual evidence, just as we would be with any other kind of evidence. We must learn to ask who recorded this image. What was their purpose in doing so; what did they include and what might they have left out; how was it edited and why was it edited this way; what is the context of this image? These kinds of questions help us to determine just what a visual image is actually evidence of. They allow us to determine how much of the truth a visual image actually shows us. It is not enough simply accept that, because we see an image, we are privy to the whole truth of any situation.

One of the readers I have used to teach composition contains an interview by textbook authors David Rosenwasser, and Jill Stephen with photographer Joseph Elliott. In this interview, Elliott makes reference to a distinction he makes between artistic photographers as "Stagers and Recorders." Recorders, like Andreas Gursky, attempt to capture reality as they see it in front of them. Their photographs are somewhat journalistic--one might say "slice of life." Stagers, such as Gregory Crewdson on the other hand, well, stage their photographs. They plan them ahead, set lighting, build sets, use posing actors, and so on.

Stagers, according to Elliott, see themselves as "more honest" than Recorders because they are willing to show their hand in their photographs. Elliott explains, "any photographer is clearly implicated by the process of taking photographs." He goes on to say, "a photographer is inevitably selecting what to shoot and thus what not to shoot, and he or she is always framing the shot in various ways." In other words, the photographer necessarily acts as a mediator between the subject and the viewer, simply by choosing what to photograph. For instance, in the examples I've provided in the hyperlinks above, Crewdson's photographs are obviously staged in order to capture his artistic vision. But even Gursky, a Recorder, has framed the photo in order to capture a certain geometry, chosen a time of day that best suited the lighting he wished to capture, chose from some number of prints that which best fit his aesthetic sense of composition, and so on. So, though his photo may provide a "slice of life," it is necessarily a carefully chosen slice.

This concept has application when considering non-artistic images (those which we may use as evidence) as well. A newspaper photographer, a crime scene detective, or a cell phone user photographing a police officer on a traffic stop all, like an photographer/artist, chooses what to photograph, and by necessary extension, what not to photograph. There is always something going on in the margins, outside the frame. The photographer is always deciding that this is the thing he wants to photograph, and this is when. Even the most objective photographer is choosing what to photograph and when to snap the shutter, and in this way mediates the "truth" that the image captures.

This holds true of video as well. This is an important point because we give video an even greater evidentiary weight than we do still images. After all, videos are real time. If I want to test whether or not the photo editor who put together the four photos of James Holmes had fairly represented his demeanor for the whole of his court appearance, I might watch watch the video of the entire proceeding.

But in video, as in still photos, mediation occurs simply in the act of pointing the camera alone. Then, the act of editing the video adds another very important level of mediation. For instance, look at the effect editing had on the video below.

This is a very chilling example of the ways in which editors of video can more or less create truth that may or may not fairly represent the "reality" that the camera filmed. Of course, most camera operators and editors are not so unfair as the editor of this video, but the process of mediation remains the same even when editors truly wish to present images fairly. She still must edit a video based on what she believes is important, based on how she interprets the event.

Even an unedited video is subject to the limitations of framing, camera angle, video quality and so on. For instance, the cameras from a police dash cam might lead to an entirely different understanding of an event when viewed from one camera angle than when viewed from another. What if you were asked to decide whether or not the shooting filmed in these hyperlinks was justified based on the first video alone? You would believe you had seen the event as it really unfolded. After all, you saw it happen--from the officers own camera. The first video seems to clearly show officers shooting a man who was simply walking away. But of course, when you watch the second video, the limitation of the first becomes clear.

It is, therefore, important when judging the value of an image to ask why this photographer took this particular image at this particular time and in this particular way. Was this taken by a journalist who wishes to sell copies? An advocate of some particular cause hoping to make a certain emotional impression? Might this photographer have left something out, and if so, what and to what effect? What context might we be missing when viewing the images alone?

By positing these questions, I don't mean to turn readers into conspiracy theorists, assuming that photographers are trying to trick us. The point is that all photographers, videographers, and editors must make decisions about what the viewer will see and how they will see it, simply by the limited nature of what they are able to show. Furthermore, the choices choices are rhetorical. They take specific images, at specific times, and for specific reasons. An image is not an unmediated and inherently subjective window into truth, but rather a limited and controlled argument. Visual images are certainly very powerful pieces of evidence, but they must be treated as what they are--pieces.

Remember this next time you're presented with an image that is said to be indisputable truth of something.

The Joyful/Happy Dichotomy and Symantic Theology

In our Wednesday night Bible class, we are looking at a video series based on the Dallas Willard book The Divine Conspiracy. In the series, Willard is "interviewed" about his concepts by author and preacher John Ortberg. At one point in the conversation, Ortberg asks Willard about a statement in his book in which Willard describes looking at a beautiful beach in South Africa, realizing that God sees every beautiful thing in his creation at once, and suddenly feeling very happy for God. Ortberg points out that we don't often think about God as "happy," maybe joyful, but not happy. Willard replies by saying "what else would you expect joy to look like?" He goes on to suggest that perhaps joy and happiness aren't the same thing (a common modern Christian teaching) but that God is certainly happy with what he has made, even if there are parts of it (humans) that don't behave as he would like them to.

Of course, this opened the door for me to rant about how much I hate the teaching that "joy and happiness are not the same thing." We ran out of time and I didn't get to explain it (which I intend to do here), so I opened a can of worms that we didn't get to explore. I only got to explain that I can't stand this oft repeated Christian phraseology because it doesn't mean anything. These two words are in fact synonymous and our separation of "joy" and "happiness" into separate concepts is a semantic trick. Here's why I think so.

In popular Christianity, we have developed and taught the idea that joy and happiness are separate things. We base this on the [well grounded] assumption that "happiness" is an emotion and thus contingent upon circumstance. This is true, as far as I can tell. The issue, then, is what we do with the concept of joy. What is our working definition of this concept? The answer to the question "what is joy?" is always much more nebulous. It's apparently something more permanent, based on our relationship with God, and much deeper than fickle emotions. Thus, we can have "joy" even when we are not "happy." I am not at all satisfied with this definition. It's meaningless. And so, in my opinion, is a realistic distinction between these words. So where does such a distinction come from?

Our problem with equating "joy" with "happiness," and our subsequent desire to invent a distinction between the terms comes from our cognitive dissonance regarding versus like James 1:2. Here, James writes to the Jewish Christians scattered throughout the empire and tells them, "consider is pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know the testing of your faith develops perseverance." Paul writes some similar things in his letters. We look at versus like this one, where we are being told to be joyful about trials, mistreatment, and suffering, and such commandments don't make sense to us. How could God expect us to be "happy" about suffering? So, rather than acknowledge that God asks us to do things which are hard, we invent this dichotomy. He tells us, not to be "happy," but to have "joy," and these are different things--even if we can't quite really describe how they're different.

In fact, this dichotomous understanding of these two concepts does not extend into any other context. That is to say, in none of our conversations, save for this topic alone, do we use these two words as if they are different things. When we refer to a joyous occasion, we are always talking about a happy occasion. We mean a wedding, not a funeral. When we think of "making a joyful noise," no one thinks about Barber's Adagio for Strings. Even scripture does not bear out this separation of concepts. John compares his feelings about the beginning of Jesus's ministry to a friend who is "full of joy when he hears the bridegroom's voice" (John 3.29). When the pregnant Mary enters Elizabeth's house, an unborn John "leaps for joy" (Luke 1.44). The Book of Acts describes Samaria as being full of "great joy" (8.8) at the healing of paralytics and cripples. All of these examples describe happiness. Such examples go on and on. So, even within the New Testament, happiness and joy are usually synonymous.

In fact, if we think about the people who we think of as being "filled with joy," we think of the people who always have a smile or encouraging word--in other words, people who appear to be happy, even when bad things are going on in their lives. So, happiness may not be joy, necessarily, but happiness is indeed the mark of joy.

The explanation for James's teaching, to me, is that indeed Christians can be happy, even in the midst of tribulation. Certainly, this seems unnatural and maybe even unfair. But remember that everything about Christianity asks us to behave differently than how the world would expect us to. But how can such a thing be possible? Emotions are natural reactions, and cannot therefore be inherently wrong. How can we be commanded to be "happy" about terrible things?

I think the answer, perhaps, lies in the person of Paul, a person who often talks about joy in hardship. In the Second Letter to the Corinthian church, Paul says to the church:

I have great confidence in you; I take great pride in you. I am greatly encouraged: in all our troubles, my joy knows no bounds. For when we came into Macedonia, this body of ours had no rest, but we were harassed at every turn--conflicts on the outside, fears within. But God, who comforts the downcast, comforted us by the coming of Titus, and not only by his coming but also by the comfort you had given him. He told us about your longing for me, your deep sorrow, your ardent concern for me, so that my joy was greater than ever. (2 Cor 7.4-7)

When Paul tells them that "in all our troubles, my joy knows no bounds," I do not think he intends to say that he is happy about his troubles, But I do think he intends to say that even during these troubles he remains happy. He is indeed referring to his emotional state. He goes on to explain how such a thing can be possible. Certainly, nothing about being harassed, being involved in conflicts, and being afraid makes one "happy." But, when the church at Corinth heard about this problems, their love for him spurred them into action. First they loved Titus. Then they sent Titus with ovations of love for Paul. Paul learned that they hurt for him, longed for him, loved him. And their expressions of love made his "joy greater than ever." I do believe that when Paul refers to "joy" here, he is expressing a feeling of happiness--the emotional stuff that's supposed to be separate and different than "joy." See, the trials themselves did not make Paul happy, but in the midst of these trials, Paul found something to be happy about.

The reason we as Christian should be able to find happiness even during struggles is that we are to see the world in fundamentally different ways than does the world. So we can indeed be "happy" when James tells us to be joyful of our trials. Because these trials means that God is planning to use us for something. And that's pretty cool--something to be actually emotionally moved by. Something to be happy about. And the love that our brothers and sisters show for us in our struggles is something to be happy about. Certainly, responding to trials with happiness is unnatural. Such responses take training. And I don't think this training comes from giving ourselves permission to be unhappy even while giving ourselves credit for being joyful. Instead, such training comes through intentionally looking at our trials and searching for what God is doing through them.

Inasmuch as we often use the word "joy" to mean something more like "peace" when we espouse the teaching I'm critiquing here, I am comfortable in saying that there may indeed be a slight difference in these concepts of "happiness" and "joy." When I say that I hate this teaching and that I think it's nonsense, I am admittedly being a bit hyperbolical. But it is true, and vitally important to understand, that if these are different things, than one is necessarily the fruit of the other. Those who possess joy will be happy, and they will often show happiness when the world would not expect them to, when they would in fact have permission to be unhappy. So, if joy and happiness are different, they nevertheless belong together.

What Toothbrushes Taught Me About Ways of Seeing

Since our boys were brand new, we have organized things by color in order to keep straight what belongs to which kid. The phrase "Blue is for Beckett," has been a mantra in our house for the last two and a half years. When they were newborns, we would dress Beckett in blue so that others knew which kid was which. Though we have pretty much dropped color coding their clothing (Beckett, as it turns out, likes much brighter colors), we still use this to organize items that they should not share.

Beckett's milk cup is still blue because Aodan needs lactose free milk, so the coloring helps us keep the two types of milk separate. We also keep their toothbrushes separated by color. Blue is for Beckett. But we recently learned that even this simple system is not fool-proof. Even something as seemingly straight forward as color scheme is, as it turns out, subject to interpretation.

I learned this when we were both in the bathroom at the same time while I was brushing the boys' teeth. Charissa said something like, "oh, you switched their tooth brushes. I guess it doesn't matter." Of course, I hadn't. I was using the blue toothbrush to brush Beckett's teeth, so I replied, "blue is for Beckett." I then learned that she thought the other toothbrush was the blue one. We had been using opposite toothbrushes the entire time we've had this set. She is not, by the way, color blind. Nor am I. But we saw these two toothbrushes very differently, obviously.

Every geeky kid with an existential streak will remember the moment when he began to wonder whether or not people really do see colors the same way. What if what I see as blue, you see as red? We would never know that what we saw was different because we would both always call what we were seeing blue. This is the kind of question that is interesting from a theoretical perspective but that really doesn't matter much. As long as we consistently call that color blue, it doesn't really matter what it looks like to us, we can still communicate about the color consistently. But what was happening here was something different.

When I asked Charissa what she saw when she looked at these toothbrushes, she said that the one on the left was a green toothbrush with blue trim, and the one on the right was a blue toothbrush with purple trim. This is because the bases and the very tops of these toothbrushes are green and blue, respectively.

But I see these completely differently. I see the long necks on these toothbrushes and the fats parts on the handles, so I see them as blue (on the left) and purple (on the right). So, though we both see the same colors, we define which color is predominant, and thus definitive, in different ways.

This hints at a fundamental difference in the way my wife and I see things. What I see as trim, or background noise, she sees as defining characteristics. From my perspective, it seems like she sees a negative image of the same world I see. What's unimportant to me, is definitive to her.

Of course, to what extent our way of seeing toothbrushes is analogous to our ways of seeing the rest of the world is not settled. But the lesson here is still an interesting one. My wife and I, despite sharing our lives together, and despite the fact that we agree on most things and have an extraordinary number of things in common, see the world through different eyes, and may perceive it completely differently.

And ultimately, we name things according to how we see them. We see things according to how we define their characteristics. So, which characteristics we see as important--as definitive--has everything to do with how we name the world.