Youth Power in Precarious Times: Interview with Melissa Brough (Part One)

When I first came to USC more than 11 years ago, one of the first students I met was Melissa Brough, who challenged me to rethink some core assumptions about participatory culture by calling my attention to critical writings from Latin America. Through the years since, she has continued to hold my feet to the fire. She wrote a brilliant dissertation growing out of the field work she had done with various youth initiatives in Medellín, Colombia. She managed to deftly thread the needle with a committee which included myself, Manuel Castells, Sarah Banet-Weiser and others. She wrote a really provocative overview of various forms of fan activism with Sangita Shresthova for Transformative Works and Cultures.

And now she has published her first book coming out of this research, Youth Power in Precarious Times: Rethinking Civic Participation. This work merges a deep theoretical engagement with multiple traditions of writing about participation with some substantive observations from the field considering why these theories matter in terms of their application to the problems confronting the Global South. Any of us writing about participatory culture, learning, and politics need to engage seriously with this book. This interview will give you a preview of what you will find there.

From the start, you have described your project in terms of an effort to bridge between debates concerning participation as it has been framed in the “global north” and the “global north.” What can you tell us about the historic debates around participation, particularly youth participation, in Latin America?

 

In 2000 I spent a summer working with the Chiapas Media Project (CMP), a video project in Southern Mexico that helped train indigenous communities to produce their own videos, often in association with the Zapatista movement. The CMP was just shifting from linear to non-linear digital editing at that time, and I had the great privilege of teaching their indigenous filmmakers how to edit in Final Cut Pro. In the process, they taught me about a totally different style of video production than what I’d been taught in school; one that prioritized the needs of the community through a collectivist, collaborative process of video making. I ended up writing my undergraduate thesis about this project, and in so doing was introduced to decades of literature and case studies in participatory communication. So my first exposure to the idea of participatory media was not Web 2.0; it was participatory media as it had been practiced for decades across Latin America.  

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 (Photo thanks to Chiapas Media Project)

 

Latin American theorists, practitioners and researchers of community participation have really been at the forefront of this topic for decades, at least as far back as the Bolivian miners’ network of radio stations founded in 1949, which were initiated, owned, and operated by and for local community members to share information. Since then, many cases of participatory media, theater, etc. have been documented across Latin America and beyond; see, for example, Making Waves: Stories of Participatory Communication for Social Change. The field of Development Studies has done a better job to date of incorporating this body of knowledge and practice than have Media or Communication Studies. This is in part because Development Studies is primarily focused (for better or worse) on the so-called global South, whereas these other fields of study are typically very Western and Northern-centric. One of my motivations for doing this study was to try to push back against the dominant flow of information and scholarship from the global North to the global South and draw attention to these rich histories of participatory media, culture, and communication that most of the scholars in the U.S. were not aware of or acknowledging at the time.

 

Colombia in particular has been a nexus of participatory communication and other participatory projects for decades. I discuss this in Chapter 2 and elsewhere in my book, but Clemencia Rodriguez’s book Citizens’ Media Against Armed Conflict: Disrupting Violence in Colombia is another fascinating study of the rich fabric of citizens’ media and their wide range participatory practices in Colombia. (Note that both Rodriguez and I use the term “citizen” broadly, not confined to the legal status conferred by nation-states.) Pilar Riaño’s edited volume Women in Grassroots Communication: Furthering Social Change was also influential for me, along with the work of Paulo Freire, Robert Huesca, Alfonso Gumucio Dagron, Orlando Fals Borda, and many others. (For interested readers, several relevant texts are gathered in the Communication for Social Change Anthology compiled by Alfonso Gumucio Dagron and Thomas Tufte.) Freire, a Brazilian educator and philosopher most well known for his book Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1970), is widely considered one of the most important theorists of participation of the 20th century. He described participation as being “an exercise in voice, in having voice, in involvement, in decision making at certain levels of power... a right of citizenship.” His work continues to influence participatory projects in Latin America and beyond. 

 

In terms of youth participation in particular, two of my favorite Latin American scholars are Rossana Reguillo (especially Culturas Juveniles) and Ángela Garcés Montoya (especially Nos-otros los Jóvenes). They both take the cultural and political work of young people seriously, and illuminate how power is struggled over and wielded through symbolic, cultural forms. But I learned the most by observing and collaborating with youth activists and artists in Medellín. It was their work, and their thinking, that led me to the insights offered in my book. 

 

 

As you note, “While some scholars suggest that participation has been rendered a nearly useless concept with its widespread proliferation and should perhaps be abandoned, this book contends that it is crucial to recuperate its analytical and practical utility in order to work towards more equitable, just societies.” Explain. Why do you see participation as an especially valuable concept in this context? What work needs to be done to reclaim and redefine it?

 

In many ways, participation in public life seems more critical but also more complicated than ever. Traditional civic and political institutions have been largely discredited, particularly among younger generations who do not see their identities and needs reflected in these institutions, and who enact their political will in non-traditional ways (much of which you and your team has been documenting for some time now). This disconnection between young people and traditional institutions has been well documented in many parts of the globe, including in Latin America. The dynamic of disconnection has been further exacerbated by a fragmented mediascape and the variously construed phenomenon of “fake news”.

 

With the rise of Web 2.0 discourses of participation in the global North went from being relatively fringe and often counter-hegemonic to being fully mainstreamed and commercialized. There are so many examples of this; one I find particularly relevant and darkly amusing is Flock Associates’ description of Mountain Dew’s “Dewmocracy” participatory marketing campaign. (Here’s a taste: “We proposed that the brand give the people their due [Dew?]—it was to be the ultimate Dewmocracy... with the ultimate goal of creating an elixir that will restore choice to the people. [Online game] players worked together to design the color, flavor, and feel of their elixir that will ultimately become the next Mountain Dew product... The people’s voices were heard... [bringing] forth on this continent a new Dew, conceived in liberty.”) It’s no wonder that the commercialization of the rhetoric of participation left a bitter taste in the mouths of those who had been advocating for more participatory democracy for decades; if the rhetoric of participation can be so easily and completely co-opted to sell soda, how useful is the concept anymore? And yet the de-popularization and delegitimization of traditional government and civic institutions -- and, crucially, the press -- is clearly benefiting only a very small number of traditional power holders. 


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Participation never has been and never will be perfect. Participation is messy. Practitioners and researchers in international development have perhaps best documented both the promises and perils of participatory practices for community building, development, and empowerment. They’ve shown inefficiencies, inequalities, and corruption in processes of participation that were meant to promote democratic practices (see, for example, Cooke & Kothari’s collection, Participation: The New Tyranny?); I found instances of all of these in Medellín. You obviously cannot have a democracy without participation; but participation does not a democracy make. One of the arguments of my book is that it’s time to reclaim and redefine participation so that it can be demanded, enacted, grappled with, and improved. In this book I focus specifically on participation in civic and political life and define participatory public culture as one with “significant opportunities for horizontal decision making, based in practices of dialogic communication with low barriers to participation, through which issues of public consequence are negotiated. A participatory public culture is one in which the voices, interests, and participation of non-hegemonic groups are valued.” This definition articulates some of the key characteristics of a public culture that offers meaningful opportunities for participation. While I believe this definition is more specific and therefore more useful than the vague and sweeping ways in which participation is often talked about in the current moment, I also believe that participation is a concept that must continuously be interrogated, refined, and redefined to better account for how relations of power are enacted in and through it, and to take contextual and historical factors into account. 

 

One of the biggest lessons I learned from the case of Medellín is that if we think about and support participation ecologically, from grassroots youth activists to civil society organizations to local and state government and beyond -- and, crucially, the relationships between these -- we have a better chance of nurturing a functional, vibrant, and democratic public life. This is why I make the case for polycultural civics. Borrowing the concept from agriculture, polyculture (vs. monoculture) refers to the practice of cultivating different crops in the same space in a way that is mutually beneficial and enhances the overall ecosystem. I adapt it here to think about participation as a resource that can be cultivated in different ways at multiple levels, from the grassroots to institutions -- and to emphasize that the relationships between these are crucial. 

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What happened in Medellín from 2004-2011 is that many actors in the “ecosystem” of Medellín’s public life began working together in mutually beneficial relationships, even if sometimes their agendas were in conflict or competition. For example, the municipal government created a participatory budgeting process that enabled citizens age 14 and above to participate in the allocation of 5% of the city’s annual budget. The process was not perfect, and went through several iterations. People and organizations competed for the resources. Yet, at the time of my research, the outcomes of the participatory budgeting process for communities throughout the city were largely positive -- particularly so for youth (as young as age 14), who were quite active in the process. 

That is not to say the participatory budgeting process wasn’t flawed and susceptible to manipulation by corrupt actors -- it certainly was. And it only accounted for a small percentage of the city’s overall budget. But the predominant impact of this ecosystem of participation was to increase the opportunities for citizens (especially youth, women, and other groups who were traditionally marginalized from city politics) to participate meaningfully in public life. In the process, citizens learned how to engage actively and effectively in the development and governance of their communities. It was an especially powerful civic and political education for youth, who were learning by doing. At the same time, the local government gained greater legitimacy locally and internationally. This was a polycultural relationship. And within it, the concept of participation was defined, contested, debated, and refined in the process. This is an example of how participation is contextually and historically contingent; it is shaped within particular contexts, practices, relationships, and histories.   

 So one of our key tasks is to be historically and contextually specific when we talk about participation -- with special attention to who gets to participate, how, who is defining the terms of participation, who benefits from the participation, who wields power within (and after) the process of participation, and what is the labor involved in participating. I’m writing this just weeks away from the U.S. presidential election, the day after the New York Times released information about Donald Trump’s tax returns. I am reminded to add the question, who doesn’t participate?, and what are the costs of that to an ostensibly democratic society? 

 

 

 Melissa Brough is Assistant Professor of Communication & Technology in the Department of Communication Studies at California State University Northridge. Her research focuses on the relationships between digital communication, civic/political engagement and social change. Much of her work considers the role of communication technology in the social, cultural, and political lives of youth from historically disenfranchised groups. Her research has been published in Social Media + Society, Mobile Media and Communication, the International Journal of Communication, and the Johns Hopkins Guide to Digital Media, among others. Her first book, Youth Participation in Precarious Times: The Power of Polycultural Civics (2020), is now available from Duke University Press.

For more information, and to order the book directly from Duke University Press at a 30% discount please visit Youth Power in Precarious Times: Reimagining Civic Participation and enter the coupon code E20BROGH at checkout.






 

 





What Science Fiction Media Gets Wrong About Facial Recognition

This is the final in a series of blog posts created by students in my PhD seminar on Public Intellectuals. I hope you have enjoyed the range of new voices and perspectives this series brought to this space.

What Science Fiction Media Gets Wrong About Facial Recognition

by Mehitabel Glenhaber

If you’re a theater-goer in the 21st century, you know how the AI surveillance dystopia story goes. The government has robotic eyes everywhere, tracking your every move with security cameras, and drones. Nothing escapes the watchful gaze of an computer system, which monitors your identity with face recognition and retina scans. Shady government agents sit in control rooms full of shiny blue screens, vigilantly watching thousands of video feeds. Tom Cruise, probably, is a fugitive on the run, but all the odds are against him. 

 

Every day, it seems that our world gets a little closer to this dystopia that we see so often on the screen. Police departments all around the US have deals with clearview.ai, a startup that sells face recognition software trained on personal photos posted to social media. HireVue hucksters face-recognition algorithms to help companies decide who to hire, based on whose face a computer thinks looks trustworthy. Software companies and computer science labs try to convince us that computer systems can determine someone’s health, emotional status, or even sexual orientation, just from one picture of them. 

 

In fact, in the past couple years, we’ve seen an explosion of articles comparing the current state of tech to famous sci-fi dystopias: 1984, Minority Report, Blade RunnerTerminator, and Robocop. This makes sense, because sci-fi can be a useful tool for making sense of the role of technology in our society and understanding the risks and stakes of AI based surveillance systems. Sci-fi can predict, or even influence the development of real-world tech. For instance, when face recognition technology showed up in the James Bond film A View To Kill in 1985, Robert Wallace, the then Director of Technical Services Staff at the CIA, claims to have gotten a phone call from the higher-ups asking “do you have one of those?” and then “How long will it take you to make it?” An acquaintance of mine who works at a tech startup in San Francisco once told me a story about their office screening the dystopian film Hyper-Reality. The next day, they got a message from their boss which read “I wonder if we can turn this nightmarish vision into a fun reality! :)” When real-world tech developers are treating dystopias as inspiration boards, maybe it’s not crazy to try and use these films to understand where the world is headed. 

 

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Keiichi Matsuda’s nightmarish vision in Hyper-Reality, which I hope doesn’t become any kind of reality

 

But dystopian sci-fi can also mislead us about the future, or put our fears in the wrong places. Sci-fi narratives produced by Hollywood often give us a narrow picture: they show us only one set of dystopian tropes, and explore how members of only particular groups might be affected. In my own research, I look at depictions of facial recognition in science fiction film. There’s a lot of things that these films got right about the reality we live in now: Facial recognition everywhere is a huge violation of privacy. AI systems are scary because they’re inhumanly rigid, and they don’t care about you personally. Facial recognition is becoming a frightening tool for oppressive governments. But there’s also a few big things that these films get wrong – ways the tropes in these films don’t capture the whole picture. So let’s go into a few of them!

 

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Yes! Even the Pixar film Coco has face recognition in it!

 

#1 – Who owns facial recognition?

 

When facial recognition in sci-fi films is used by humans, and not autonomous robots, it’s almost always used by a totalitarian, oppressive government that and uses it to surveill its citizens. Whether it’s John Anderton in Minority Reporttrying to hide from the precognitive police without his retina print giving him away, or Robocop using his cyborg memory to identify mugshots of a suspect, it’s usually government law enforcement using the technology in these films. 

 

Government control of face recognition is very real concern in the world today! A lot of the people we see adopting facial recognition are official law enforcement officials: it’s now used by the TSA in airports, in local police departments, and by ICE to hunt down and deport undocumented immigrants. But a lot of what makes facial recognition so frightening in the real world, that these films often leave out, is that facial recognition software is produced by privately owned companies. These companies are getting rich off of government surveillance – in the article I linked above, for instance, ICE payed clearview.ai $224,000 dollars for their services. Being privately owned also means that, even when these companies sell their services to the government, their software is proprietary – it’s often a secret black box that even government agencies can’t take a peek inside. While sci-fi films prepared us well to imagine a world where facial recognition is used by a restrictive government to oppress the population, we also have to be prepared for the opposite possibility: that corporations are playing fast and loose with this technology, with a dangerous lack of regulation. 

 

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To it’s credit, Robocop does actually get into some of what is so scary about private contractors selling tech to law enforcement – that it lets private corporations decide who laws get enforced on, and who they don’t. 

 

 

#2 – What is facial recognition being used for? 

 

In Hollywood films, facial recognition is almost always being used to identify individuals, for security purposes. Sometimes the technology is part of a high-tech, retina-scan activated lock, like we’ve seen in Star Trek: Wrath of Khanor The Avengers franchise. Or sometimes it’s part of a sinister omnipresent surveillance network. In all these cases though, the point of facial recognition is to use an image of one person’s face to confirm that person’s identity. You’ve gotta admit, a camera zooming in and sketching a red box around a character’s face or eyeball, and their name rolling in monospace ticker tape on the screen is a great visual. But this one particular use-case doesn’t cover all the ways that facial recognition is being used today. We don’t see uses of facial recognition that happen on the secret back-end of websites, or in research labs. 

 

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Captain Kirk accessing top-secret information with a retina scan in The Wrath Of Khan (1982) was a genre establishing scene which wowed many fans in the 1980s and established the trope of facial recognition being used on high-tech safes. 

 

Most patents for facial recognition these days aren’t actually about identifying individuals or creating security systems, they’re about using facial recognition to classify people: letting AI use faces to decide who’s a good hire and who isn’t, who’s a criminal and who isn’t. A group of computer scientists in 2017 even created a facial recognition algorithm which can supposedly identify if someone is gay or not – just based on their face. Facial recognition systems are also used to classify and judge behavior. Recently, there’s been a lot of controversy around remote proctoring softwares like Proctorio and ProctorU, which schools have been requiring students to subject themselves to in order to take remote tests during the covid-19 pandemic. And the Tokyo metro even uses a facial recognition system to grade employees smiles.

 

Facial recognition is also integrated into a variety of other places: when Twitter crops the previews of photos your post, when snapchat filters put bunny ears on your face, when deepfakes algorithms replace a face in a video with another face. If we only focus on the narrow view of facial recognition used a system to identify individuals, we risk missing the full breadth of ways this technology is used, and the possible benefits or dangers associated with each of those uses. While films might give us the sense that facial recognition is easy to define and ban, the reality is that the boundaries of this technology are not clear, and it’s a more complicated question. 

 

#3  - How accurate is facial recognition?

 

On the silver screen, the scary thing about facial recognition technology, and AI in general, is that they are inescapably accurate. The Terminator, in Judgment Day (2009), is terrifying because he’s coming to get you, there’s no way to fool him – his robot eyes can identify you from half a mile away. In films about facial recognition, we never see the AI mess up – or, when it does, it’s only because characters went to extreme lengths to avoid it. In Minority Report, the only way that John Anderton can avoid being identified by a futuristic retina-scanning system is to literally remove his own eyeballs.

 

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You can run, but you can’t hide.  

 

However, when I read what technology studies scholars are writing about facial recognition, the thing that really scares me about it is that it messes up all the time. As Joy Buolamwini’s work shows, face recognition systems are actually terrible at telling black people apart. Some facial recognition systems don’t even recognize black faces as faces. Os Keyeshas also written about how facial recognition systems have no idea how to deal with queer and trans people, and constantly misgender them. Facial recognition systems are only as good as the data they’re trained on – and if mostly cis white male programmers use their own faces to test these systems, we end up with systems which are awful at identifying everyone else. 

 

Like all AI systems, facial recognition systems can encode the biases of their creators. We already know that AI systems for filtering through candidate’s resumes discriminate against female candidates and people of color. And we already know that predictive policing algorithms perpetuate bias against black and latinx folks. So we shouldn’t expect facial recognition systems to be any better. The remote proctoring softwares I mentioned above have already created problems for neuroatypical students with autism or ADHD, or even women with long hair, since it interprets these student’s natural tics as cheating behaviors. Films about facial recognition are certainly right that AI systems are frighteningly inflexible – there’s no way to reason with them, and they can’t be sympathetic to your personal situation. But instead of worrying about our lives being governed by deadly accurate machines, maybe we should be more worried about the alternative dystopia where these systems are wrong all the time, but we continue to put faith in them. 

 

#4 – Who is the target of facial recognition? 

 

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Seriously? This movie’s supposed to be set in Washington DC?? A city that is currently 45.5% black??

 

In Hollywood surveillance dystopia films, the lone rebel protagonist on the run from an oppressive government is almost always a straight white man. This is not particularly unusual or unexpected – most Hollywood studio executives are straight white men, and they tend to make movies about straight white men. But in addition to just being bad representation, films which only tell this kind of story perpetuate an unfortunate trend in surveillance studies of straight white men only caring about surveillance when they can see themselves as the victims of it. 

 

Surveillance studies has, historically, not talked about race – which is pretty inexcusable, given that race is such a big factor in who gets surveilled. Influential writers in surveillance studies have often been white men, and have often regarded surveillance dystopias such as “the panopticon” or 1984 as a hypothetical scary future which might affect them. But something that they’ve ignored is that the kind of constant scrutiny, judgment, and oppression which are 1984 or Minority Report to white men are just current lived realities for people of color. People of color are already watched in stores, and have credit score checks run on them all the time. They are hassled by the police constantly, and are murdered by cops at a much higher rate than white people. Queer folks, also, especially queer and trans people of color, constantly have their gender presentation scrutinized, and judged, and are also often the subjects of police violence. As Brian Merchant writes, dystopian literature can “allo[w] white viewers to cosplay as the oppressed, without actually interrogating in any meaningful way what oppression might actually entail or who gets oppressed and why.”

 

Given everything I’ve said in the last section about how algorithms in general discriminate against black people, women, and queer folks, how facial recognition systems already fail when it comes to these groups, we should be very worried about what wider adoption of facial recognition technologies is going to mean for these groups in particular. But we don’t see them being subject to facial recognition technology in movies. I can’t think of any films where an algorithm falsely identifies a black person as a criminal or denies a trans character access to healthcare. But in the real world, if we’re headed towards a surveillance dystopia, straight white men probably won’t be the main victims of it. 

 

A comment I get a lot from my (often relatively privileged) friends when I try to warn them about the dangers of face recognition and surveillance is “sure, it sounds bad, but I guess I just don’t care that much about my own data, it doesn’t personally creep me out to know the government’s spying on me.” This individualistic view of data privacy makes a lot of sense in a world where movies tell you that the main thing that’d be scary about surveillance is if you personally had to go on the run from a surveillance state. But if you’re reading this, especially if you’re a straight white man, I want to say to you: don’t be scared of facial recognition collecting data on you because of what it’s going to do to you. Be scared of it collecting data on you because of how that data’s going to be used against your queer, black, or latinx neighbors.

 

As I said before, sci-fi can be a useful tool for envisioning and understanding how new technologies might affect our society. These films are completely correct that face recognition systems can be worryingly cold and inflexible, and can be employed by governments as tools of oppression. But images from these films might also blind us to another possible dystopia we could be headed towards:  one where we put extreme faith in corporations which make huge amounts of money employing faulty and biased algorithms which discriminate against people of color, women, and trans people in all sectors of society. I don’t know exactly what a film which captured all these complexities of the problem would look like – though I’m still holding out for the 21st century north-by-northwest-esque thriller about a person who has to go on the run after they’re mis-classified as a Most Wanted criminal by a facial recognition algorithm. But until films like this exist, we need to think about how these existing films might create blind spots for us, even as they warn us about dystopia. 

 

Transgressive Queer Space-Making in London

This is another in a series of blog posts by the students in my PhD seminar on public intellectuals.

Transgressive queer space-making in London

by Jody Liu

Prior to my time abroad in London, UK, I had spent my formative years attending parties of some of the greatest techno legends: Jeff Mills, Juan Atkins, Kevin Saunderson. Through these shows, I forged connections with music producers and djs, radio show hosts and music label owners, and event organizers both in Detroit and internationally. As a result, I came into a familiar network in London as I was settling into an unfamiliar city.

As I immersed myself in the underground electronic music scene, I connected with several queer people of color who hosted cultural events in music, dance, and the arts. Almost every weekend, I made the trek from my small rear-garden flat to various parts of the city: Elephant & Castle, Hackney Wick, Peckham, Tottenham Hale. Somehow, I had the energy to stay out until 5 or 6 in the morning. I would get home just as the birds were starting to chirp and people were heading to early shifts. The nights out nourished me, in some ways; there was something about striking up conversations with strangers in the smoking area, smiling across the dancefloor at each other, everyone moving in rhythm. Slowly, I began to recognize people as we found each other in different spaces week after week. This ritual of coming together and dispersing, of connecting--however momentarily--before returning to our everyday lives, made these places all the more special. For many queer individuals, these places provided respite in an otherwise hostile world. 

This personal connection to London’s music subculture led to my interest in how and why these spaces of community were disappearing. As an urban planning student, I wanted to understand how the profession could engage more critically with queer issues. But more importantly, how could urban planning support these rapidly-disappearing spaces that were so vital to marginalized queer communities?

Through our conversations, I began to understand how queer organizers and friends were navigating the disappearance of queer spaces across London, and more generally, the decline of LGBTQ+ neighborhoods. For a while now, they had found peers outside of established gay neighborhoods. They felt excluded from the image-conscious, consumption-focused venues for various reasons. Instead, they have relied on ephemeral, decentralized, and virtual spaces to sustain themselves. Through their actions, these individuals and organizations were both resisting and staking claim on a heteronormative and patriarchal envrionment.

In this blog post, I illustrate how changes in planning priorities have intensified the closure of queer venues across the world, using London as a case study. Furthermore, I describe how my interviewees have been mobilizing in different ways to assert their right to the city. The post concludes with a discussion on the need to continue fighting for lgbtq+ justice alongside the struggle for racial, labor, and gender equity. 

Declining venues, declined gayborhoods 

Researchers at the University College London found that between 2006 to 2017, the number of LGBTQ+ venues in London had decreased from 125 to 53. This loss in venues is situated within an overall decline in the nightlife scene, with a 44% closure in UK nightclubs (2005-2015), 35% in grassroots London venues (2007-2016), and 25% in UK pubs (2001-2016). The loss of both LGBTQ+ and non-LGBTQ+ specific venues can be attributed to shifts in urban redevelopment under the Margaret Thatcher administration. The neoliberalization of urban planning in that era, which shifted towards more market-led regeneration, continues to have reverberting effects in London’s property market and development.

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This approach is evidenced in the growth-first logic that the Greater London Authority (GLA) has pushed for in regeneration schemes. (The Greater London Authority is the governance body that oversees administration across London’s 33 boroughs, including strategic planning.) Most recently, the banking crisis in 2008 and the ensuing period of economic instability further cemented the age of austerity. To bring in revenue for the city, the GLA loosened planning regulations to capture “flows of global investment” (Imrie et al., 2009) through increasing permitted developments. The focus on economic growth pushed requirements for social sustainability to the wayside, thus exacerbating the issue of community venue loss. 

As a result, queer spaces have evolved as a reaction to, and recovery from, such neoliberal regeneration practices. Mayor Sadiq Khan, who intends to improve cultural sustainability under his leadership, has been supporting these efforts. For example, the government has established the LGBTQ+ Venues Charter and a Culture at Risk office to safeguard the loss of these venues.  However, it remains to be seen whether these initiatives will reflect the diverse needs of the queer community. 

Alternative making of queer space

My interviewees reflected the aforementioned ambivalence towards government initiatives through our conversations. One respondent explained, “This is a good first step towards protecting these venues. But I am worried most of their efforts will focus on Soho… which, to be honest, I haven’t frequented much at all since first coming out”. Other interviewees shared similar sentiments, expanding on how different aspects of their identities affected their experiences within Soho. 

Soho is perhaps the most recognizable gay neighborhood, or “gayborhood”, in the UK. It’s a neighborhood of with rich LGBTQ+ history, having hosted clandestine queer social clubs in the 1920s (when homosexuality was still criminalized in the UK). In 2005, it was the heart of a campaign against the Westminster City Council. LGBTQ+ businesses challenged and won the right to continue displaying the Pride flag on their premises, which the council had ordered them to remove as a violation of planning regulations. 

Despite this history of LGBTQ+ struggles, many of the interviewees actually expressed a disconnect with Soho. While Soho venues were the backdrop to some of their first “coming out” memories, they no longer found it relevant to their everyday lives. As one interviewee shared, the commercialization of the neighborhood made the venues feel unapproachable. He explained how, as a queer person from an immigrant and working-class background, he felt uncomfortable in spaces that catered largely to wealthy, white gay males. He shared, “I have both been fetishized as an ‘object’ of desire, and looked down upon”. The cognitive dissonance contributed towards the interviewees’ ambivalence regarding the venue charter. They believed the charter will mostly support the spaces that already have more resources and political support. 


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Their experiences trouble the gay neighborhood-as-liberation model, which was first termed by sociologist Manuel Castells’ seminal work on the Castro district in San Francisco. In describing the Castro, Castells argued the transformation of the marginalized gay ghetto into a deliberatedly constructed neighborhood was a trajectory through which gay and lesbians could attain legitimation in the city. Geographer Jack Gieseking, however, argues this “liberation” model buys into a neoliberal approach--one which depends on gentrification and displacement of other marginalized communities to secure a better life for gays and lesbians. The model seeks assimilation into the American Dream of homeownership, rather than drawing a critical connection between the struggles of queer people to other marginalized groups in the United States. In other words, the gay neighborhood-as-liberation model aspires to problematic heteronormative and capitalist ideals. As a result, the interviewees have found different ways of sustaining themselves and resisting their erasure from the city through alternative spatial practices.


Emerging queer space: the Queer Picnic and Femmes of Color Open Brunch

In contrast to the static nature of Soho, interviewees often had to stake claim on heteronormative or homonormative spaces to construct a place for themselves. As a result, these spaces are often ephemeral, fragmented, and virtual. Through seemingly mundane acts of socializing, mingling, and eating together, queer people of color actively challenge the public gaze and perceptions of what being queer means.

In June 2017, I attended the Queer Picnic in southeast London, which attracted over 300+ people from across the city. People of diverse gender identities, ethnicities, abilities, and generations gathered and proudly affirmed their existence in a large public park. On its Facebook, the event page asked: “Are you tired of the stress of navigating London as a queer person of color or even as a queer white person? Do you love being with other queers but feel that Pride [Parade] is just a bit too corporate/assimilationist/white/expensive/policed or triggering?”. This statement unearthed a broader discontent within the (minority) queer community with wider LGBTQ+ culture. Interviewees felt mainstream LGBTQ+ culture has become depoliticized and corporatized as particular queer identities (i.e. white, cis-gendered, gay men) have become more accepted. Similarly, the Femmes of Color Open Brunch also described itself as an alternative to Pride. By positioning themselves in this way, it reflects the problem that Hannah Dee argues, “London Pride – once a militant demonstration in commemoration of the Stonewall riots – has become a corporate-sponsored event far removed from any challenge to the ongoing injustices that we face”. 

An attendee described feeling a sense of ease at the picnic; the organizers had been very intentional in creating an inclusive space. Unlike the Soho bars and clubs, which necessitated purchasing drinks or paying an entry fee, these do-it-yourself events were free or had a sliding payscale. The organizers also paid attention to people’s abilities, making sure the space was in an accessible section of the park. Another attendee mentioned how, due to social anxiety, crowded clubs or intimate bars were out of the question for him. He preferred the relaxed atmosphere of the park, which allowed for conversations to take place. In contrast, clubs often blasted loud music that made conversation difficult -- unless you wanted to shout at each other repeatedly. Additionally, the organizers had put together a taxi fund beforehand. While this may seem like a small detail, it made a world of difference. This fund ensured that people who felt uncomfortable using public transit could still attend the picnic without worrying about cost. These actions of care and community prefigures a future of more inclusive spatial practices, where queer people of all identities could feel safe and accepted. 


A new LGBTQ+ community center

This desire for more inclusive space outside of nightlife has galvanized a crowd-funding campaign for a new LGBTQ+ community center in London.

Back in 1985, the Labour-run Greater London Council had established the London Lesbian and Gay Centre. As Christobel Hastings at VICE explores, the Centre provided a respite during a time when queer people faced workplace discrimination, harassment, and arrests; it also provided office space for various queer organizations. The center was short-lived, however. Just after 5 years, the centre closed due to political infighting, financial losses, and the withdrawal of grant funding by the incoming Conservative government. 

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While the center was set up as a workers’ cooperative, and purportedly ran on a decentralized structure, the Centre nevertheless ran into issues. In a Vice article, former visitors and volunteers recounted issues with representation (with most of the workforce being white and college educated) and conflicts between queer identities (and certain groups being “policed”). Despite these shortcomings, however, the Lesbian and Gay Centre nevertheless presented a model for what an anti-capitalist, community-driven space could be. 

Since then, London has been without a dedicated LGBTQ+ community center. Plans were made in 2007 for a community center in Soho, but a narrow vision for the center (i.e. white and gay male-focused) created a rift within the City of Westminster Council; ultimately, the plans were not realized.  In late 2017, as I was wrapping up my research project, a new initiative was underway in East London. A group of volunteers held open meetings, consultations, conversations, and workshops to envision a new LGBTQ+ centre. Collectively, the center will be a nonprofit multi-purpose, multi-generational space offering clinic and therapy spaces for service providers; a garden; an informational hub; and a workspace for individuals and campaigning groups. As of June 2018, they have raised about £102,000 and are working to secure a physical space. 

The future of queer spaces

The interviews revealed the paradoxical ways in which a queer space can be a site of inclusion for some, and one of exclusion and anxiety for others. In particular, more established neighborhood of Soho felt particularly alienating for the queer people of color I interviewed. Instead, they preferred and produced more decentralized spaces across the city. Such a diffused network of spaces disappear as quickly as they come into being. Queer spaces are made both by queer bodies and through queer practices; that is, spaces become queer through the presence of queer bodies, as well as through deliberate queer actions. The local library becomes a queer space as a gay, Black man learns about what it means to hold his Blackness and gayness from James Baldwin. The local beauty store becomes a queer space as an Iraqi of nonbinary identity buys make-up they’ll later use in a photoshoot centering trans and queer of color identities. Burgess Park became a queer space when the organizers planned the picnic, then people of all non-normative gender identities and sexual orientations gathered there. Thus, queer space can come into being through everyday actions and through deliberative planning. 

However, this does not mean queer minorities are against establishing more permanent and welcoming spaces. Some of the organizers expressed how having to constantly look for new venues to host events can be tiresome. What it does mean, however, is that queer spaces should not be understood as fixed and static; nor should the existense of a gayborhood be understood to mean queer rights have been fully realized. Rather, the fleeting and precarious nature of queer minority-led spaces signifies the political, economic, racial, and gender injustices they continue to face. It serves as a reminder that queer liberation is a continuous fight, one that necessitates us to act outside the confines of capitalism. ⧫

Jody Liu is a doctoral student in urban planning and policy at the Price School of Public Policy, University of Southern California. Her work explores how queer communities center healing and mutual care to contest racial capitalism and carceral feminism across digital and physical geographies.

Jamming the Olympic Rings: Anti-Olympics Art Across Space and Time

This is another in a series of blog posts written by the PhD students in my Public Intellectuals Seminar.

Jamming the Olympic Rings: Anti-Olympics Art Across Space and Time

by Cerianne Robertson

I can still recite so many of their names. The names of the gymnasts from Romania, Russia, China, and the United States who tumbled their way into my heart in 2000, the year of the Sydney Olympics. I was nine years old. The perfect age to be enchanted by a sport. The way I saw it, those young women defied gravity and embodied power, all under the majestic icon of the interlocked Olympic rings. I was hooked. At my own gymnastics practice that week I imagined dismounting my bar routine onto a mat emblazoned with the five rings, saluting the adoring crowd. Those rings meant dreams. Those rings meant excellence. 

This is just what the International Olympic Committee (IOC) wants, of course. In 2019 the organization published an article claiming that people around the world associate the five rings with concepts like "global," "diversity," "heritage and tradition," "inspirational," "optimistic," "inclusive," "excellence," and "friendship.” The IOC touted its logo as “one of the world’s most widely recognized symbols.” 

Nine-year-old me was a sucker for that branding.

Twenty years later, the rings mean something very different for me. I first encountered anti-Olympics graphics while reporting in Rio de Janeiro for RioOnWatch, a platform that monitored urban transformations as the Brazilian city prepared to host the 2016 Olympics. As the city evicted an estimated 77,000 people and as police violence against the low-income, predominantly Black residents of favelas spiked, I encountered comics like the one drawn by Brazilian artist Carlos Latuff below. The red Olympic ring turns into blood gushing from a man’s body as a police helicopter flies overhead, a reminder that police killings in the state of Rio de Janeiro doubled in the three months before the 2016 Olympics compared to the same period in the previous year. 

 

“The gold, silver, and bronze are over but the lead continues!” Image by Carlos Latuff (Rio 2016).

“The gold, silver, and bronze are over but the lead continues!” Image by Carlos Latuff (Rio 2016).

From mass demonstrations across Brazil to grassroots campaigns in Boston, an increasingly critical global public discourse has linked sports mega-events to public debt, evictions, real estate speculation and gentrification, spikes in police brutality and surveillance, environmental destruction, and corruption. Over the course of the past decade an unprecedented number of cities have dropped their bids to host the Olympics Games.  

As part of my PhD research on contested narratives about Olympics host cities, I’ve been collecting, archiving, and analyzing art and graphics produced by anti-Olympics activists or Olympics watchdog groups. I’ve compiled many of these images in an informal archive on Flickr. (And I’ve stored many more on my computer as I find excuse after excuse to procrastinate on uploading them.) It turns out Carlos Latuff is only one of many artists — spanning across continents and over the course of decades — who have transformed the Olympics rings in order to critique the Games. Images from Vancouver, for instance, paired the Olympic rings with Indigenous iconography, accompanied by text reminding viewers that the 2010 Games were taking place on unceded Indigenous land. Another poster embedded the five rings into the tires of a tractor clearing a tree, a reference to deforestation to make way for ski runs in Vancouver. 

Left: Image from antiolympicartscouncil.tumblr.com/ (Vancouver 2010). Right: Image by Zig Zag (Vancouver 2010).

Left: Image from antiolympicartscouncil.tumblr.com/ (Vancouver 2010). Right: Image by Zig Zag (Vancouver 2010).

The employment of the rings in these images suggests that the IOC is right that the Olympic rings are globally recognizable, but that the question of what values are associated with that symbol is highly contested.

As I started to see more and more hijackings of the Olympics rings by anti-Olympics activists, I started to wonder what patterns we might find in the way the rings are appropriated. I also wondered what role these visual subversions could play in challenging the powerful global network of elites that make up or support the IOC. 

Policing and the rings

Policing, surveillance, and incarceration collectively constitute the most common theme captured in the visual subversions of the Olympic rings that I’ve collected thus far. In several of the images I’ve encountered, the rings are reimagined as handcuffs, like in these examples from Vancouver 2010 and Beijing 2008.

Left: Image from no2010.com (Vancouver 2010). Right: Image from the Center for the Study of Political Graphics (Beijing 2008).

Left: Image from no2010.com (Vancouver 2010). Right: Image from the Center for the Study of Political Graphics (Beijing 2008).

The rings have also often been redrawn as barbed wire fencing, as in these examples from LA 1984 and Rio 2016.

 Left: Image from the Center for the Study of Political Graphics (LA 1984). Right: Image from the Rio de Janeiro Popular Committee of the World Cup and Olympics (Rio 2016).

 Left: Image from the Center for the Study of Political Graphics (LA 1984). Right: Image from the Rio de Janeiro Popular Committee of the World Cup and Olympics (Rio 2016).

This art also reflects a concern with surveillance, with the rings turned into lenses through which state (or corporate) power might watch and monitor. 

Left: Image by Zig Zag (Vancouver 2010). Right: Image from Random Blowe blog’s Anti Olympic Poster Competition (London 2012).

Left: Image by Zig Zag (Vancouver 2010). Right: Image from Random Blowe blog’s Anti Olympic Poster Competition (London 2012).

These themes may seem surprising to some Olympics fans, but probably won’t surprise anyone who has actually lived near Olympics infrastructure, where security is usually designed to be spectacularly visible. These themes will be even less surprising to folks from racialized and/or marginalized communities who are often targeted in police ‘crackdowns’ ahead of the Games to make the area more ‘secure’ for visitors (and more desirable for global corporate sponsors). Ahead of the Olympics, host cities typically expand their police forces (both in terms of personnel and weapons) and call on armed forces, multinational private security firms, and global intelligence networks to support operations during the Games. Meanwhile protests and activism that might be tolerated under normal circumstances are restricted and criminalized throughout the ‘state of exception’ of the Olympic Games. 

 It is no wonder then that counter-Olympics artists opt to subvert the positive values the IOC wants to associate with the rings and associate them instead with more nefarious imagery, including symbols of oppression and state violence.

Challenging sacred and supreme authority

If you check out how the IOC talks about the rings, it’s easy to see why they make such a juicy target for activists and critics. It’s not just their malleable shape that lends itself to transformation. It’s also about the symbolic weight the IOC itself has bestowed on these five linked circles.  

One page of the IOC’s website is dedicated entirely to the rings, describing them as “the visual ambassador of Olympism for billions of people.” That’s quite a weighty role. Another IOC webpage explains: 

The Olympic Movement is the concerted, organised, universal and permanent action, carried out under the supreme authority of the IOC, of all individuals and entities who are inspired by the values of Olympism…. Its symbol is five interlaced rings. The goal of the Olympic Movement is to contribute to building a peaceful and better world by educating youth through sport …

 Here, the IOC declares itself the “supreme authority” over its “movement.” Someone unfamiliar with the IOC might imagine that this is a bizarre but ultimately harmless exaggeration. But the IOC’s claim to “supreme authority” reflects the iron-fisted control with which it has protected its trademarks (including the rings), enforced its corporate sponsors’ exclusive marketing rights, and even insisted that host countries adjust their laws in order to restrict protests related to the sports event. 

The combination of the IOC’s insistence on authority and its simple narrative of building a peaceful world call for a consideration of Nick Mirzoeff’s concept of visuality. Visuality is “that narrative that concentrates on the formation of a coherent and intelligible picture of modernity that allowed for centralized and/or autocratic leadership,” Mirzoeff writes in The Right to Look(p. 23). He adds that visuality is “that authority to tell us to move on” (p. 2), the way a police officer might tell us “there’s nothing to see here” (p. 1). The Olympic media event is a struggle over where to look: the producers and corporate sponsors of the event insist that everyone should watch the official content they generate. 

Anti-Olympic art refuses those instructions. It subverts the rings and associates them with evictions, policing, marginalization, and corporate greed, among other manifestations of power and inequality, insisting on what Mirzoeff calls the “right to look.” Rather than focusing on the subjects included in the TV version of the Olympics — often wealthier, whiter people who can afford tickets — anti-Olympic art puts on a spotlight on those who are excluded from the sports event and caught up in larger processes of exclusion related to the Olympics, including Black, brown, and unhoused targets of police sweeps in LA, Indigenous communities in Vancouver, and favela residents in Rio, among others. 

By linking the rings and the Olympics to other institutions like real estate developers, police, corporations, and autocratic governments that are more visibly political than the IOC, anti-Olympic art disputes the IOC’s claims that it just “place[s] sport at the service of humanity” from a position of political neutrality. It not only critiques the “supreme authority” (the IOC), but by appropriating the IOC’s primary symbol it enacts a challenge to that authority, producing a reality in which the IOC does not reign “supreme” over its claimed property. 

Anti-Olympic art makes visible the struggle and contradiction that exists around the Olympics. Each visual subversion of the rings chips away at their supposed sanctity. 

The power of ‘no’

All of these examples can be considered culture jamming, which Mark Dery defines as to “appropriate, rework, and disseminate cultural symbols in order to contest meaning and challenge dominant forms of power.” Culture jamming often targets corporations and consumer culture. Some recent writings on culture jamming have criticized this form (see below) of hijacking corporate or institutional imagery, arguing that it offers a negative critique but doesn’t offer solutions, alternatives, or ways for people to engage.

Artist: Klaus Staek. Image from the Center for the Study of Political Graphics.

Artist: Klaus Staek. Image from the Center for the Study of Political Graphics.

What’s interesting from the images I’ve been able to collect is that, yes, they’re incredibly negative. They are part of campaigns that say “no” to the Olympics. Literally. The rings are appropriated into the letter “o” of “no” or “fuck off” (“foda-se,” in Portuguese), or transformed into prohibition signs.

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Embracing negation extends beyond the rings imagery, too. The recent campaign against the 2024 Olympics bid in Hamburg, Germany is a particularly great example. The official logo for the Olympic bid was this “Fire and Flame” symbol below:

Image from Hamburg 2024 committee (Hamburg 2024 bid).

Image from Hamburg 2024 committee (Hamburg 2024 bid).

And since the official image of the pro-Olympics campaign was fire, guess what the anti-Olympics group adopted as their logo?

Image from NOlympia Hamburg (Hamburg 2024 bid).

Image from NOlympia Hamburg (Hamburg 2024 bid).

A fire extinguisher. (And occasionally a watering can.) They fully embraced the idea of being the “anti” campaign. And this campaign was successful! Hamburg withdrew its Olympic bid after 52% percent of residents voted against hosting in a referendum in 2015, proving that a campaign based on saying no to something can be a winning strategy with concrete results in a struggle against a coalition of powerful global elites. Part of why saying ‘no’ to the Olympics can be generative — even if it doesn’t appear proactive or offer clear proposals — is that it is often asserted in the context of a ‘right to the city’ framework. Anti-Olympic campaigns have insisted that cities’ residents should have power over the decisions that affect their lives and urban environment. They’ve argued that preparing to host an Olympics opens the way for multinational actors to exploit the city for profit and for local elites to build a more exclusive space — the opposite of ‘right to the city’ demands. 

In cases where cities have actually held referenda to vote on hosting the Olympics, this argument has been pretty successful. Since 2013, at least five cities have held referenda in which a majority voted against the bid (versus one referendum in which residents of Oslo initially voted in favor of hosting, before the city ultimately dropped its bid anyway after public opinion soured on the idea). Another six cities have dropped their bids due to a lack of support. 

In voting against an Olympic bid, a city’s residents are saying “no” to a club of powerful actors including multinational corporations, local business and government leaders, media conglomerates, international security consultants, sports federations, and that highly profitable non-profit headquartered in a château in Switzerland: the IOC. This rejection thus imagines and enacts new possibilities in which a city’s residents are more empowered and global networks of capital have to respect local residents’ wishes. 

Final thoughts

From this study of anti-Olympic art, I believe these subversive graphics play two main roles in contesting the power of the Olympic Movement. They disrupt the IOC’s simple narratives and threaten its (fragile) claims to authority, insisting instead on the “right to look” elsewhere. By rejecting top-down visuality, the graphics also imagine and enact new alternative possibilities in which a city’s residents have more local power relative to global networks of capital.

Now when I see the five rings looming over sports events, I see them as a frame ready for millions of global viewers to attach their interpretations. I’m sure there are still many nine-year-olds for whom those rings provoke excitement and awe. I’m sure there are folks of all ages who feel that way. But there’s a growing and increasingly vocal group of people around the world who associate the rings with oppression and an abuse of power, including nine-year-olds who have been displaced from their homes in the name of the Olympics. There’s a growing group of people who are eager to disrupt the five rings’ claims to peace and humanity. For all it can legally declare its ownership rights over those five circles, the IOC does not — and cannot — own those rings. 

Academic references 

Dery, M. (2017). Culture jamming: Hacking, slashing, and sniping in the empire of signs. In M. Delaure, & M. Fink (eds.), Culture jamming: Activism and the art of cultural resistance. New York, NY: New York University Press.

Mirzoeff, N. (2011). The right to look: A counterhistory of visuality. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Cerianne Robertson is a PhD student at the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism. She researches the news media narratives, discourses, and practices that sustain power relations, as well as the opportunities available to disrupt and change them. Her research often focuses on the stories we tell about cities and sports mega-events. Cerianne previously worked as the Editor and Media Monitoring Coordinator for RioOnWatch.org, a Rio de Janeiro-based media platform that aimed to amplify favela resident perspectives and monitor urban transformations in the build-up to the 2016 Olympics. She is currently a participant in NOlympics LA.

Thinking Through Voice: Sound, Identity and Race

This is another in a series of blog posts written by PhD students in my Public Intellectuals class.

“Thinking through voice: Sound, identity, and race”

Edward B. Kang 

 

If you’re like me, the pandemic-induced migration of social life to Zoom (the face-to-face parts at least) has really shed light on how jarring it is to hear random disruptions (silences) in speech. To be fair, my Internet connection sucks, but the effects of it were tolerable until now. It’s truly frustrating when I have to text my colleagues to ask what was just said, or to avoid being annoying, just listen through a patchy conversation in which my Internet sporadically glitches at just the right moments to make the discussion just the right level of incomprehensible. But beyond the frustrating disconnects that interrupt my ability to listen to others, I’m also made hyper cognizant about how my voicemight sound when I’m speaking on Zoom. I mean it probably goes both ways, right? Perhaps somewhat resonant with, but of course not nearly as enduring as, the way one is socially conditioned to feel self-conscious if s/he has a heavy accent or a distinct vocal timbre, my unstable Internet connection oddly manifests as a kind of temporary but still relevant and embodied ailment that mediates my voice in Zoom space.   

 

I want to take some time here to thinkabout voice and all of the different things it stands for. As a budding scholar broadly interested in technological mediations of the voice and their manifestations in various sociocultural contexts from Voice ID, voice biometrics/analytics, interactive virtual assistants etc., I often force myself (and also pressured by the structure of academia itself) to locate specific sites in which my “intersection” of “voice/sound, identity, and technology” materialize, so I can analyze them for the purposes of producing a CV-worthy paper or a chapter for my doctoral dissertation. As rigorous and enlightening as this institutionalized method of critical and structured thinking can be, it can also take away from the practice of just thinking for thinking’s sake. Without having to “delineate my disciplinary boundaries,” “carefully lay out the limitations of my thinking,” “detail the methodological advantages of my objects of analyses,” “make interventions in current scholarly debates,” or write with the unavoidable factor of pleasing journal reviewers in mind, I want to take some time here to just thinkabout voice. Not “examine the ways, in which” or “drawing from the frameworks of.” Just think. 

 

Voice is messy. And it can mean a lot of different things to different people in different contexts. We talk about “fighting for a voice,” by which we mean something along the lines of staking a claim to our political identities. A right to express our personhood. We “read other voices” as cues to interiority or as registers of well-being: “she said this, but I think she actually meant this.” “I can hear it in her voice.” We all have “inner” voices to think. Some of us have “outer” voices to speak. Someone might be the “voice of a community,” as an individual representing a collective. We also treat voice, in its most physical sense, as a kind of “sound object”, if you will. Something to be liked, circulated, compared, and bought, even. For vocalists, voice is something that can be trained, refined and, to some, maybe even perfected. It’s also the means by which they make a living. Think about the ways some talents are evaluated on the hit television show, The Voice. As William Cheng, Associate Professor of Musicology at Dartmouth University, observes in his book, Loving Music Till It Hurts, the contestants’ impressive singing voices become technologies of super-humanization or as romanticized correctives for those with disabilities. Voices deemed impressive can be deifying. But those deemed not can be crippling. 

 



“The Blind Auditions: Dylan Marguccio sings ‘I Want You Back’ | The Voice Australia 2020”

 

As an ethnic and racial minority in America, I’m often told I don’t sound Asian. Without immediately denigrating these comments as ignorant, I’m inclined to say that the prevalence of these kinds of encounters for ethnic minorities acrossNorth America (actually probably across the world) really does speak to a larger cultural imagination (one that we are all responsible for) that affixes voice to identity. We talk about voices that are appropriatefor radio or opera. We often understand dialects as ways of categorization and identification. But also, in terms of ownership and authenticity. What do we make of Awkwafina’s “blaccent?” 

 



“Crazy Rich Asians: Rachel Chu and Peik Lin Goh scenes” 

 

Voice, as we know it, is raced, gendered, spatialized, and classed. It’s possible to have a voice in one sense but be completely devoid of it in another. It’s possible to have a voice that doesn’t “fit” you. It’s possible to useyour voice. It’s possible to have it taken away. Voice is not singular, but multiple. 

 

Thinking about voice is complicated precisely because of this multiplicity. When a bank asks me to set up a Voice ID as part of a more secure two-factor authentication method, which part of my voice is it using as the ID? I don’t think it’s measuring my ability to express my personhood. I’m pretty sure those “without” much of a voice in this sense, can still technically set up a Voice ID at Charles Schwab. In fact, it’s been reported that prisons across the United States are coercing inmates to enroll into their voice biometric identification systems in order to maintain phone access. Let’s add “voice as object of control or surveillance” to the list as well. 

 

It’s also probably not trying to identify hidden meanings that might be gleaned through the wayI say something. If anything, a reliable Voice ID should be able to match me with my voice regardless of whether I’m feeling down or excited, sick or well, right? That gets a little trickier because the actual tonality and the timbral qualities of our voices do change based on our emotions and health. And vocal timbre isactually one of the aspects of voice that gets factored into constructing a Voice ID. But the question is, how does it account for that inevitable variability inherent to vocal expression? Without getting into too much detail of how voiceprint technologies operate, I’ll just say that as a doctoral student researcher who’s been looking at patents of these kinds of technologies, they technically can’t, which is (1) why they are almost always used as supplementsand not alternatives to passphrases and (2) why there are numerous cases of expert impersonators deceiving these Voice ID systems. 

 

“Dialect Coach Guesses Who Is Faking An American Accent” 

 

Expert impersonators, voice actors, accent coaches, and even singers share a relationship to voice that really foregrounds that link we make between voice and identity. For one, they simultaneously riff on the singularity of voice as well as its collectivity. The fascination that follows a good vocal impersonation is based on the idea that we understand individual voices as just that – individual. And yet the perceptual similarity of the impersonation also questions that individuality. We’re confronted with a performance that questions the intimate relationship we have with our voices. If my voice is unique, why does that person sound exactly like me? Where do we locate the uniqueness of voice? 

 

Accent coaches operate in a similar way. Without going into too much detail about the different ways that accents and dialects are positioned as sociocultural markers (Basil Bernstein or William Labov can tell you more about that elsewhere), we generally understand that they are often used to gauge other kinds of information about speakers. They are often linked to identity in ways that position the speakers as part of larger collectives (a Brooklyn accent, an Indian accent, an Oxford accent etc.) through which we try to gather additional sociocultural information. 

 

And yet, the idea that we are able to gather such information by listening to accent or dialect is confounded by individuals who have learned to code switch effortlessly. I, for one, did not have the slightest clue that Alfred Enoch, who played Wes Gibbins on the American television series, How to Get Away with Murder, was a British actor until I watched this interview (and then I remembered he was Dean Thomas in theHarry Potterfilms). 

 




“Alfred Enoch Shows Off His British and American Accents” 

 

I find Enoch’s effortless switch from a British accent to an American one impressive, and based on the clip, I’d say the audience and the hosts seem to agree. But we need to remember that discussions around accent, dialect, and code switching inevitably also necessitate conversations around authenticity, ownership, and power. Where does one draw the line between code switching and cultural appropriation? At their most fundamental levels, both practices involve the adoption of different dialects or ways of speaking/voicing that presumably deviate from the way individuals might “originally” talk. Why do discussions around Eminem or Awkwafina’s cultural appropriation of the “blaccent” seem appropriate? And yet why does it seem odd to accuse Key & Peele of culturally appropriating White Americanness in this clip below? 

 

“Key & Peele – White-Sounding Black Guys” 

 

As Keegan Michael-Key and Jordan Peele “dial down their blackness” and speak in a way that “sounds whiter than Mitt Romney in a snowstorm,” they say they’re doing so with the hopes of not intimidating anybody, thus hinging their joke on a politics of respectability that tells Black Americans to police their own “intimidating” voices. More generally, this concept of respectability politics refers to a moralistic discourse that polices individuals from marginalized or minority groups to adhere to constructed standards of hegemonic “respectability.” In the context of language, this means that specific vernaculars are suppressed and replaced with what is generally understood to be a more “standard” – i.e. white – dialect. W.E.B Dubois in The Souls of Black Folkreferred to this “double consciousness” among Black Americans as the position in which one is forced to look and evaluate at one’s self through the eyes of others. This performance in the clip below by Keegan Michael-Key and Barack Obama also riffs on this same idea. Here Michael-Key is not only Obama’s anger translator, but also his vernacular code switcher. 

 



“President Obama’s Anger Translator at White House Correspondent’s Dinner” 

 

If we understand that Black Americans code switch in this way, as part of a larger system of oppression that necessitates a politics of respectability as a method of survival, how does this play into its separation from the flip side of that discourse in cultural appropriation? Perhaps we can try to unpack that difference by attending to the ways that Black Americans negotiate social pressures to conform to a standardized English at the moment in which they code-switch back. Ida Harris, writer and assistant editor for Blavity, talks about the shame she feels when she finds herself abandoning her “native tongue – African American Vernacular English,” in order to assimilate into the role of an instructor in a classroom. As a means of dealing with that shame, she references Derrick Harriel, Associate Professor of English and African American Studies at the University of Mississippi, suggesting that “the ability to code switch back into our Black selves is another way we subsist, feel whole and in some regard redeemed.” 

 

Individuals who need to code-switch intowhat is standard American English (as opposed to those who just speak it) can, in this way, be seen to have an intimate relationship with the dialect that they switch backto. There is a sense of inwardness or affinity that only those who are burdened with the social pressure to code-switch share at the moment they return to their native dialect. At least, I know that that’s the case for me. It feels awkward (even strangely elitist or at least pretentious) to speak to other Korean people in English. It’s a space only available to us. Let’s cherish it. So, in addition to the exploitation, fetishization of culture as “exotica,” and the overall alienation that characterizes cultural appropriation, maybe on a more personal level, there’s also a sense of infringement on that intimate space of momentary redemption. When Jordan Peele says, “you never want to be the whitest sounding Black guy in a room,” it makes sense to me too.

 

But I also want to ask, without negating the above-mentioned dispossessions that follow cultural appropriation, what does policing the boundaries of those spaces of intimacy under the righteous duty to undo cultural appropriation, necessarily achieve? In simpler words, what does the negativity associated with cultural appropriation miss about the fundamental multiplicity of culture, and thus also the voices associated with them? Marxist intellectual and past Professor of International Studies at Trinity College, Vijay Prashad, in Everybody was Kung-Fu Fighting: Afro-Asian Connections and the Myth of Cultural Puritymakes the provocative suggestion that although as a defense tactic, laying claim to certain cultures and lineages may protect minority groups from the cruelties of racism, as a strategy for freedom, it only reifies culture as a separate and distinct artifact, thus taking away from the grander project of collective liberty which requires that we see all cultures as fundamentally interlinked. As Robin Kelley, Professor of American History at UCLA, asserted in 1999 for ColorLines Magazine, “All of us, and I mean ALL of us, are the inheritors of European, African, Native American, and even Asian pasts, even if we can’t exactly trace our blood lines to all of these continents.” 

 

I’ve tried to trace this multiplicity of voice/identity/culture by sifting through the different ways it is sounded, taken, claimed, and replicated. And yet, I must admit it still weirdly makes sense to think of voice as something intimate and unique. And despite the inherent variability that arises even within an individual’s voice through emotion, age, culture, physical environment, and health, the idea of a voiceprint or Voice ID, which positions our voice as an invariant biometric identifier, is strangely seductive. Voice, like culture, oddly feels like something I can own as part of my identity.

 

Thinking about the voice is, in this way, an incessantly undulating and polymorphic process. It requires acknowledging the enormously variegated channels, abstract and concrete, through which it takes form and occupies our political, social, and cultural lives. It requires us to negotiate those irresistibly tempting understandings of voice as unique markers of identity with the equally accurate and critical perspectives that tells us voice, identity, and culture are never fixed but always rearranging according to the specific relations from which they emerge. This unruliness is precisely what makes voice such a difficult object/phenomenon/concept – thing– to study. But understood differently, this conceptual intractability is also what allows me to use it as the malleable mouthpiece through which I explore and comment on the multiplicity of culture, society, and politics writ large. It’s what allows me to link Schwab’s Voice ID to Key & Peele. Barack Obama to The Voice. And respectability politics to glitchy Zoom calls. 

 

As Nina Sun Eidsheim, Professor of Musicology at UCLA, reminds us, we must resist the temptation to knowsound, and instead find ways to engage with it as a complex system of knowledge in and of itself. 

Edward B. Kang is a PhD student at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism and Assistant Editor for the International Journal of Communication. His research concerns the social and cultural dimensions of digital technologies with a specific focus on the relationship between surveillance, race, and identity. Currently, he is interested in exploring the broader cultural imaginations around voice embedded into the operational logics of voiceprint technologies (voice biometrics, voice analytics). Apart from his own research, he has served as a committee member for Annenberg's annual Communication and Cultural Studies graduate student conference Critical Mediations, as well as led Music Production workshops for Annenberg's Critical Media Project with California Humanities.











Love-Letters and Thing-Bads: Video Essays and 'Intellectual' Self-Presentation

This is another in a series of blog posts written by PhD students in my Public Intellectuals seminar.

Love Letters and Thing-Bad’s: Video Essays and “Intellectual” Self-Presentation 

Steven Proudfoot


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"Maybe there's even a lesson to be learned in this awful, awful way. What else am I going to do? This is my brand, I think? So, let's give talking dog movies the true rigor of academic analysis they've long been sorely in need of."

 – Jack Saint, The Political Implications of Talking Dog Movies

Let’s talk about tone. I am an academic (grad student), writing on a blog platform created by a Big Name Scholar, writing about YouTubers doing various kinds of analysis. Naturally,I will talk a lot differently here than if I was trying to write an article for a publication. The medium and intended audience could make the same argument look completely different, argued in different ways. For example, I can say “fuck” outside of a relevant quote here, just for fun. Take that, Ivory Tower.

Using this space and freedom of tone, I want to talk about academia and video essays. More pointedly, I want to talk about some YouTubers’ sometimes mixed relationship to academia and how many benefit from defining themselves in contrast to it. The few I highlight here don’t take an anti-intellectual stance, but present as post-academic dropouts or debt-burdened graduates who are qualified to talk the talk but will tell it to you straight without lecturing you like an academic. By reflecting on how we present ourselves as academics and subsequently considering some things they do to maintain an “authentic” self-presentation that we can’t. Particularly, I’ll highlight how they take advantage of this post-academic positioning with patterns like using alcohol as a visual tone-setter and simply using humor in place of academic distance to make passionate visual love letters to their favorite things or arguments of why something is bad where it could have been good (often called the “thing bad” format).

While it is important to foreground these techniques in an academic context, I’ll be focusing on the work happening on YouTube. Even though YouTube is sometimes a long way from the ivory tower, there’s a lot we can learn from it about subtle and intentional techniques of self-presentation.

As a quick disclaimer: for this post, I’ll mostly be discussing the work of four video essayists on YouTube: Lindsay Ellis, Jack Saint, KaptainKristian, and ContraPoints. Notably, not all of these fit within the same niche. Some of these channels do deep dives into seemingly innocuous topics while others are very up front with the fact that their work is activism. Some of them switch between those attitudes. The first three channels are mostly about media analysis while ContraPoints works more on general societal issues. Each of these creators have videos that have excellent arguments and analysis, and they also all have videos or arguments that aren’t so great and fall into some holes. Sometimes they have bad takes. Sometimes they present things in ways that are worrying, but ultimately aren’t in bad faith. I don’t think that the accuracy or consistency of their claims are important for the conversation I’m trying to have here. I’m not going to go into any of these YouTuber’s arguments or talk about why they’re wrong or right, but more look at how they talk about things and the surrounding context that drives it.

Negotiating with the Ivory Tower

            Now that I’ve specified that I’m going to talk about YouTubers specifically, I’m going to talk about academia instead. Oops. Before talking about the weirder informal stuff that YouTube video essayists tend to do, it’s important to emphasize that these don’t only exist on YouTube.

            While more formal, video essays do exist in academia. Relatively speaking, they’re rare, but there’s a movement within media studies to make a space for this format within a serious academic sphere. There are now journals like [in]Transitionentirely for videographic essays. These journals are home to some well-crafted and compelling work ranging from editing film into montagesthat make a statement to essays that use visual evidence to short documentaries.



            As is natural for publishing in an academic space like this, the tone of these videos then to be more serious than those on YouTube. The simple fact that there is academic space to publish work like this is worth taking a moment to call out. This work of making a serious space for this sort of work in academia where “alternate” formats have been not commonly accepted is being done by a number of academics like Drew Morton and Jason Mittell and this movement is growing. While there has been acceptance of academic video essays as far back as the early 2000’s, it’s important to emphasize that this wasn’t always widely accepted. 

            In general, academia is slow to change from what it has always been doing. While we are on a path towards academia at large acknowledging serious video essays occupying the same space as written work, it will be a slow process of getting there. Any academic who has tried to use a different medium than articles or has tried interdisciplinary work is likely familiar with the phrase “when you only have a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” The line quickly makes a point that lies at the heart of many people’s pushes to do any number of new or not-yet-normal things within academia: sometimes it’s best to do things outside of the box because it fits the problem better. Because sometimes it’s a screw and just whapping that thing with a hammer will probably end up clumsy and worse off than it could have been.

            Except, sometimes it’s really hard to see that a screw isn’t a nail. Sometimes, it’s even harder to pick up the screwdriver when you do see it. Even if you do use a hammer and a screwdriver both to make some really cool shit, sometimes it doesn’t matter because the publications build their reputation and livelihood on talking really, really well about hitting nails with hammers. The Journal of Hammer Studies might think that’s great work, really cool, really cutting edge. But it’s not what they do, they don’t want to publish it themselves. Doing different-than-normal things in academia is always a question of finding and negotiating space. So, when something like [in]Transition comes along and makes a space for this for a different tool, that is radical and important work.

            Talking in metaphor like this makes it seem light and like if you just stop and think, it’s actually quite logical and, after all, why don’t we all just do it. While I believe in these ideas, it’s worth mentioning that it’s not simple to just do things like that. People often have good reasons for working the way they do and making space for new modalities, methods, and interdisciplinary work is hard. Even if you do find space to do this kind of work, it can also be a question of if a hiring committee is even able to properly consider, assess and “count” less traditional types of work if they don’t have an expert among them already. Even though my own identity as a scholar is built around trying to mix psychology and humanistic work on games and fandom, I’ve only ever written from one or the other field without actually using both. It’s a problem I spend most of my time thinking about, yet I’ve done very little to actually do anything about it.

            Simply engaging with all of this broad umbrella of work is an active process of negotiating your own existence within an ivory tower stuck in its ways. While these spaces exist now, they’re not always well known yet and a budding video essayist might miss the chance to give their work a real platform inside the academy. 

            So what happens when those negotiations fail and someone falls through yet-to-be-filled gaps? What of those who, instead of taking up the fight for a space inside the academy, said “fuck this” and went to talk to a different audience? 

Post-Academic Intellectuals

            Youtubers. Sometimes, YouTubers happen. YouTubers with academic training doing analysis on a similar level to what you could see in any number of fields in a different way with a different set of rules. They’re using different tools in different ways to approach similar topics as many academics, and they’re doing it well. And that idea that they learned how to talk the talk and then left because they’re not going to deal with the system and debt is a big part of how some YouTubers present themselves. 

Admittedly, I am, in part, focusing on these four creators because of how they position themselves in relation to academia. Lindsay Ellis has an MFA in Film from USC, Jack Saint has an MA in English Lit, kaptainkristian dropped out of undergraduate film school, and Natalie Wynn (creator of ContraPoints) dropped out of a PhD in Philosophy at Northwestern University. This sample of four channels isn’t necessarily representative of all of FilmTube or the wider “BreadTube.” There are great series in these spaces like FilmJoy’s Movies with Mikeyor hbomberguy’s “Measured Response” by people who don’t have a fancy piece of paper declaring some kind of expert training.

While none of them are openly hostile to academia and don’t yell for people to stop going to school, they pretty universally present their academic credentials as something that they wouldn’t recommend or are helping others avoid. Lindsay Ellis’ merchandise page on DFTBAintroduces herself as a video essayist with degrees from NYU and USC, noting that “She conveys the knowledge she gained at these great institutions so her viewers won’t be burdened with student debt like she is.” Kaptainkristian dropped out of film school when he “realized everything they were teaching was available online” (Liptak, 2016).

Are they right? 

Well, yes and no. You can’t get everything online, but , a course is more than the articles you’re assigned to read, but sometimes it isn’t worth it to go into academia to get it. If I were to list everything wrong with academia, this would be a book not a blog post, so I’ll be brief here. In short, sometimes it’s not a great idea to be in academia. The academic job market is depressingly sparse, and it’s gotten worse since the global pandemic. Sometimes it isn’t worth going into debt to do this. It can work for those who find their passion here, but it’s not universally good. Often, dropping out isn’t the bad choice or failure of someone who wasn’t good enough to finish. Often, it can just be a good decision for your career and mental health.

So, academia…. Bad?




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Sometimes, yeah. But more importantly, these YouTubers present themselves as aware of this state of academia-bad and it frames nearly all of what they do. By establishing credentials and then subsequently distancing themselves from it, they show expertise without being a lame professor who would lecture you about something. They can take a shot straight from a bottle of vodka and tell you some shitabout everything wrong with Jon Snow’s characterization in Game of Thrones.


Watch from starting timestamp (20:29) to 21:10 for a brief example of this tone.

And that works. I often find myself procrastinating reading theory by listening to these people talk about different theories in entertaining ways. Put simply, reading most theory is a lot less fun than watching a ContraPoints video about why Autogynephilia (a transphobic theory on why trans people are trans) is blatantly wrong as she provides her own experience, perspective, and analysis of the relevant texts.


Watch from starting timestamp (10:58) to 13:21 for snippet of this. 

Instead of existing within the highly regulated, toxic environment of academia and writing articles, they now exist within the moderately regulated, toxic environment of YouTube and make video essays with similar content. Here, you can say “fuck” and call people cucks. Take that, Ivory tower.

To be serious though, while these video essays have certain freedoms of expression that you don’t have in an academic context, like swearing and drinking on camera, there’s still informal rules and citational practices. As an example, if you want to make a case about what the ideology of the apocalypse is in Mad Max, you’re expected to bring your citations instead of just talking about what you thought. See this clip of Jack Saint’s video for an example of providing an argument, citation, joke, then video clips of the text to back it up (timestamp 28:22 to 29:46). 



While you can of course talk in these spaces without citing Hegel, there is clear expectation of having done your homework instead of simply showing up excited to talk about the idea. Even when no academic sources are used, like in the above Game of Thrones video, creator commentary, pieces of a show or movie, or other similar sources are presented to back up what they’re saying. 

Whether its about a thing they like or why thing-bad, these argumentative video essays are compelling, in part, because you tell that they genuinely care about the content. Because someone frustrated with how good Jon Snow couldhave been developed better and yet wasn’t is a lot more compelling than an article explaining how character development works or a professor lecturing about the concept. Someone who finds the use of color pallet in the Watchmencomics compelling and their use in the 2009 movie is more interesting when they lean in to show you the panels and the shots in question instead of describing them in text. 



In this example (from 1:53 to 2:12), his argument is essentially: Lookat how cool this is and how flat the film’s reproduction was. And, yeah, he’s right, those comics looked really damn cool. This video captures a feeling that runs throughout kaptainkristian’s work. Looking at his YouTube channel description, you’ll find only three words: visual love letters. He’s clearly a nerd who is excited to show you some really cool shit. Whether he’s talking about the color in Watchmen, the animation in Who Framed Roger Rabbit, or rhyming for two straight minutes to talk about Dr. Seuss, these videos are clear projects of passion. And that passion is infectious.



That impression is no mistake, nor probably unrelated to his success. In a way similar to how academics are compelled to present as emotionally distanced, cooly rational, and calmly argumentative, YouTubers of various genres have been rewarded for presenting a sense of authenticity. Lindsay Ellis, has an insightful essay on “Manufactured Authenticity” in which she uses How to Cake It with Yolanda Gamppand some others as case studies in how presenting as informal and authentic tends to go hand in hand with audience growth as well as talking to her friend and fellow YouTuber Hank Green about how they perceive these ideas impacting their own channels. Critically, I don’t think that this drive to seem authentic is presented as condemnation, but as an impact of the medium they are on. No one is really immune to it. 

There’s quite a lot that these creators do that very intentionally presents themselves as genuine, authentic, or passionate and shapes the way they present their points. While kap might show this by rhyming for two minutes, there’s more subtle ways this shows up. One way that a number of YouTubers do this, including both Lindsay Ellis herself and Natalie Wynn (creator of contrapoints), is using alcohol as a visual tool. 

In a lot of videos, Lindsay will either take a shot straight from a bottle of liquor before getting into something she presents as particularly eye-roll-worthy or will drink a glass of wine after saying something bad that a movie or director did. For example, in same the video as linked above, she drinks various kinds of beers and liquors throughout “The Last of the Game of Thrones Hot Takes.”The copious amounts of empty beer bottles and cans in the background that progressively grows almost every time it cuts back to her in is likely not an accident. Natalie, when talking about getting “cancelled” on twitter, is persistently drinking in a bathtub. 

(First minute)

They both seem to use this as a way to signal that they’re tired of or exasperated with the topic and that they will need to drink to really get through talking about it. Drinking here is signposting that they’re going to tell you like it is without having to say that outright. In reality, they aren’t saying this in a moment of probably-a-bit-buzzed rambling: they’ve taken months to prepare scripts and carefully controlled every element of the presentation, including that impression.

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Humor itself can do essentially the same thing. Saying something funny instead of “in this essay I will…” is a great way to set the tone for a video that does a longform argument anyways. The ContraPoints video on The West is a great example of this.


 

(From starting timestamp 1:29 to 2:00) 

She ends her intro here with saying what one should do to talk about this topic, then instead dismisses it with the 16-corndogs/dicks joke right before doing what she just dismissed anyways. Which is a lot more engaging than ending your thesis paragraph in an educational essay with “in this essay I will operationalize The West.” Similarly, Jack Saint opens his talking dogs movies video by pointing out how absurd it would be to do a video about it and plays on the humor of applying serious “rigorous analysis” to a topic that sounds extremely not-serious immediately before he does it anyways. All of these four channels do things like this because sarcasm and humor works. It helps make their arguments actually seem genuine and entertaining instead of feeling like a lecture. 

Pointing out how these creators intentionally use these strategies to present themselves as more authentic isn’t to say that it’s all artifice. While there is a lot going on to help build that impression, it’s clear that these people genuinely care about the things they’re talking about. Instead, I want to use this to draw attention to this format and how it’s not only been shaped by the influences of YouTube, but by presenting as an intellectual without seeming like they’re lecturing. By doing things like this that academic pointedly can’t, they can lean on academic authority without falling into its patterns. The details of how they present themselves are carefully crafted to maintain this image. 

So what? Why should I care?

Thinking about how we, as academics and “public intellectuals,” do something similar in articles but in the opposite emotional direction can be instructive in thinking about what spaces we create with our work and the personas we develop simply by inhabiting that space. By shaping to the norms of our medium, we’re letting it shape who we present ourselves as. In most journals, that means presenting as emotionally distant and expositing knowledge.

Naturally, there is also passion in academia. There is writing that comes off as personal and authentic, but sometimes it’s quite hard for that to survive the peer review process. Similarly, academics like bell hooks have talked about how passion is an essential element of teaching (hooks, 1993). Personally, a lot of my favorite classes have been ones where the professor is passionate about the topic. Yet, the norms of this system typically push towards not presenting that passion.

They’re approaching a similar nail as we are, then they’re hitting it with a different tool in a different way and doing so with passion. They’re being intentional about presenting themselves as emotionally present and in conversation. They’re writing love letters (and thing-bads) to be shared instead of lectures and articles to be published. 

We too could just try to be more authentic and be intentional about how we present that authenticity. Underneath the layers of authority and “academic rigor,” many academics are simply passionate about what they study and will endlessly ramble lovingly about the topic they’re fascinated with if prompted. All my friends certainly know that I wouldn’t shut up about video essays for weeks before I wrote this.

I don’t think you have to drop out and start a YouTube channel, but I do implore you to consider maybe folding something you’re working on into a love letter instead of hammering it into an article. 

 Referenced videos and links to these aforementioned creators’ platforms:

[in]Transition

    http://mediacommons.org/intransition/

Watching the Pain of Others by Chloé Galibert-Laîné
     http://mediacommons.org/intransition/watching-pain-others

Who Ever Heard…? By Matthew Thomas Payne

      http://mediacommons.org/intransition/who-ever-heard%E2%80%A6

 

ContraPoints 

    https://www.youtube.com/c/ContraPoints/videos

    https://twitter.com/ContraPoints

Autogynephilia | ContraPoints 

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6czRFLs5JQo

The West | ContraPoints 

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyaftqCORT4

Canceling | ContraPoints

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjMPJVmXxV8

Cringe | ContraPoints

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRBsaJPkt2Q

 

Lindsay Ellis 

    https://www.youtube.com/c/LindsayEllisVids/videos 

    https://twitter.com/thelindsayellis

    Her book, Axiom’s Endhttps://read.macmillan.com/lp/axioms-end/

    Aforementioned merch page: https://store.dftba.com/collections/lindsay-ellis

YouTube: Manufacturing Authenticity (For Fun and Profit!) - Lindsay Ellis

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FJEtCvb2Kw

RENT - Look Pretty and Do As Little as Possible: A Video Essay

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0qfFbtIj5w&t=2369s

The Last of the Game of Thrones Hot Takes

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BGr0NRx3TKU
Is Titanic Good, Actually?

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hW4U_lfgPac

 

kaptainkristian

    https://www.youtube.com/c/kaptainkristian/videos

    https://twitter.com/kaptainkristian

    An article about him that I pulled a quote from: https://www.theverge.com/2016/8/1/12318900/kaptain-kristian-video-blogger-interview

Watchmen - Adapting The Unadaptable

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5oltd-Jsi2I

 

Jack Saint

    https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCdQKvqmHKe_8fv4Rwe7ag9Q

    https://twitter.com/LackingSaint

The Political Implications Of Talking Dog Movies | Jack Saint

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fq8AYICXVUs

 

FilmJoy, home of Movies with Mikey 

https://www.youtube.com/c/filmjoy/videos

 

hbomberguy
    https://www.youtube.com/c/hbomberguy/videos

Steven Proudfoot is a Ph.D student at USC’s Annenberg School of Communication and Journalism. He studies video games and fandom, especially where they intersect in fields of psychology and cultural studies.

The Ghost on the Phone

This is the fourth in a series of blog posts created by the PhD students in my Public Intellectuals seminar.

The Ghost in the Phone

By Simogne Hudson

October 2, 2020

 

I got my first cell phone when I was twelve: a Nokia 3310 (pictured here). After begging for a cell phone for years, my parents finally got me one a few years after their divorce (I remember, in my tween mind, feeling conflicted over my excitement at the phone and the knowledge of why I had it -- so my parents wouldn’t need to communicate directly with each other). As was usual at that time, the affordances of the phone were pretty limited. I don’t even think I had texting; it was for emergencies only. Nevertheless, the glee of a first cell phone in one’s hands will surely be relatable to anyone reading this.

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            Years later, I upgraded to my first flip phone, which was (if my memory serves me correctly) a Samsung Gusto (also pictured). Many phones followed, including QWERTY slider phones, Blackberries, and iPhones. One thing that’s remained consistent, however, is my phone number. I have had the same phone number for almost fifteen years now, which gives me an odd sense of satisfaction given the never-ending flux that defines the technology industry. At the risk of coming off cyborg-like, I feel like the phone number is a part of me. However, phone numbers are not actually so individual:they get recycled,maybe even more so than the physical cell phones they’re attached to, which most often end up at the dump.

My phone number was inherited from somebody else, a man by the name of Bradley Holsclaw.

            For most people, the question of their new number’s previous owner would never come up. But in the first few weeks of calling this phone number my own, I started receiving calls of a particular sort that persist to this day. For years, I simply looked at the calls as a minor annoyance, ignoring them and writing off any voicemails as spam. A few years ago, when I started thinking more critically about technology (an interest that then blossomed into my PhD research), I got increasingly more curious about where these calls were coming from and who they were for. So I started listening. 

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            My first step was to figure out who these calls were intended for, which was more difficult than one might imagine. Those who were technologically active prior to the iPhone era will likely be able to distinguish the difference in audio quality between then and now. However, after some sustained and attentive listening, I was able to catch the intended recipient’s name: Bradley Holsclaw.

The calls came from debt collectors, an industry I was unfamiliar with until I began this detective work. The short of it: debt becomes “delinquent,” debt collection agencies can hire debt collectors, or sell the debt to debt buyers,both of which result in these types of calls. 

 

Over the last few years I’ve begun archiving the voicemails -- you can listen to them here.

 

            At this point in my investigation, two things were clear to me: someone named Bradley used to have my phone number, and Bradley owes somebody a lot of money. So, I looked Bradley up on Google. What I found in that search has stayed with me ever since:

 

SE Portland man dies a day after devastating house fire

Posted Jan. 28, 2008

 

A man died today, a day after inhaling smoke and suffering burns in a fire that gutted a home in Southeast Portland.

 

Firefighters arrived at the home in the 4400 block of Southeast 65th Avenue just after 7:45 a.m. Sunday as smoke poured out of the eaves.

 

Two men in the home at the time were not harmed, said Kim Kosmas, a Portland Fire Bureau spokeswoman. But the third roommate, identified as 28-year-old Bradley Holsclaw, died of his injuries the next morning.

 

The home, valued at $330,000, was a total loss, Kosmas said. And the fire's cause may remain unknown because of the extent of the damage.

 

(The Oregonian)

 

Bradley, the former owner of my phone number, died in a house fire only a few weeks before I received my cell phone.

 

Put differently, I have a haunted phone number.

Firetruck.png

 

Roof.png






(East PDX News)

 

In technology discourse, we often talk about death as it relates to the objects themselves. Concepts like planned obsolescence, hyper-consumerism, and innovation dominate, and user vitality takes a backseat to its technological counterpart. A phone without a charged battery is “dead,” they are released in “generations,” and earlier models are referred to, with a sense of owners’ misfortune, as “old.”

I don’t claim to exist outside of this construct; as I stated earlier on in this post I have personally participated in the rapid consumption of cell phones. Seeing these photos, though, and reading these articles, brought my thinking back into the human-embodied elements of life and death that technology exists alongside. Instead of huffing about the annoyance that is automated debt collection calls, I am now shaken each time I get a call and remember the traces -- the ghost -- that lives inside of my phone.

            The intersection of technology and ghosts is one that, while I think undertheorized on an academic level, comes up consistently in popular media. Take for example the South Korean film Phone (2002):

 

Soon after Ji-won gets a new cell phone, her friend’s young daughter, Yeong-ju, puts it to her ear and immediately begins screaming in terror. When other strange things start happening in connection with the phone, Ji-Won does some investigating and discovers that of the people before her who had the same number, almost all of them died suddenly under unusual circumstances. As Yeong-ju’s behavior becomes increasingly alarming, Ji-won digs deeper into the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the number’s first owner, a high school girl named Jin-hie. (Horror News Net)

 

Media like this depart from utopian ideas about technology and what it can do for us. Instead, they point out the fears that surround technology, specifically in how, in its operational opacity, can take on a life of its own. How can we read the “life cycle” of a technological object (whether via material form of a cell phone or immaterial form of a number) to look for themes of the uncanny or the haunted?

In thinking about how the traces of Bradley manifest in my phone number, I also have to ask about the significance of the signs. Given that his ghost is coming through not in direct communication, but refracted through the communication of debt collectors, I would argue that what is exposed is another particular (and troubling) aspect of technology and haunting: he only exists in my life because of his debts. In other words, Bradley’s existence in the technological plane of reality is informed, and catalyzed, by harmful capitalist practices of the debt chase: when somebody dies, their debt does not go away. Instead of being exposed by Ghost Hunters (a la the A&E program Ghost Hunters), or, in a more expected fashion, eulogized and memorialized by his family, he is instead kept alive through debt.

I suppose in some odd way I’m honored to have inherited Bradley’s phone number. In all of my detective work I’ve never been able to track down family members or anything more detailed than the two news articles referenced in this post. In his 1919 writing on the uncanny, Sigmund Freud articulates that terror comes from the idea of the “double.” Might the double here be the phone-body connection? In that case, it would certainly seem like the possession I feel is at least in part because I’ve replaced the latter half of that connection, and I’m now faced with a reflection that is not my own.

Many phones and one number after Bradley’s death, I feel a certain amount of responsibility to continue his legacy, even if only by keeping this phone number for as long as I possibly can. What if the next owner didn’t realize the significance of (what I’ve now termed) the Bradley calls? The East PDX News article includes a photo of a “rain-soaked makeshift shrine” for Bradley.

Garden.png

            My only hope is that my shrine, which is really just my phone’s voicemail folder, might do something to carry on his memory (no matter how insignificant). 

 

 

 

The Problem with the "Main Character" Meme

This is the third in a series of blog posts written by students in my Public Intellectuals: Theory and Practice seminar.

Alexandria Arrieta

The Problem with the “Main Character” Meme

On May 26, a TikTok user named Ashley Ward posted a video of herself lying on a towel at the beach with this voiceover:

You have to start romanticizing your life. You have to start thinking of yourself as the main character because if you don’t, life will continue to pass you by and all the little things that make it so beautiful will continue to go unnoticed. So take a second, and look around, and realize that it is a blessing to be here right now.

Main character video by Ashley Ward posted on May 26

Main character video by Ashley Ward posted on May 26

It is a pretty simple, even trite idea, but being the “main character” in life is something that feels particularly resonant right now for teenagers and young adults who are missing out on some of the basic milestones of growing up, such as prom, graduation, and fooling around with friends. They may feel as though their agency and their youth have been taken away as they are forced to awkwardly navigate many of those experiences through Zoom or worse, alongside their parents. As a result, users like Ward started to create content about what it means to be the “main character” in May. Many latched onto Ward’s audio and used it to soundtrack TikTok videos of themselves and their friends going on camping trips, running on beaches during sunset, driving late at night and (of course) editing them with retro film filters. Beyond that, a whole “main character” discourse emerged over the summer on TikTok through various types of memes and comments, and it actually reveals a lot about the ways in which teens are modeled what it means to “come of age” through media, and specifically, through whiteness. 

Over the past decade, both major studio films like The Fault in Our Stars (2014) and Love, Simon (2018) and critically acclaimed indie pieces like Lady Bird (2018), Boyhood (2014), Booksmart (2019), and Call Me By Your Name (2017) have presented coming of age narratives focused on white protagonists navigating identity, sexuality and purpose in the transition from adolescence into adulthood.

Amanda Mary Anna in her YouTube video "dressing like the main character in a coming of age movie" posted on July 16

Amanda Mary Anna in her YouTube video "dressing like the main character in a coming of age movie" posted on July 16

These films, especially those made by indie production companies like A24, provided key references as the main character meme spread on TikTok, YouTube and Spotify over the summer.

Emma Topp in her YouTube video "HOW TO ROMANTICIZE YOUR LIFE || main character energy" posted on August 18

Emma Topp in her YouTube video "HOW TO ROMANTICIZE YOUR LIFE || main character energy" posted on August 18

In her YouTube video entitled “becoming the main character of your life,” Claire Bergen explains, “You basically just need to essentially live your life as if you are a character in a movie or a tv show or a book because everyone’s always jealous of the lives of these characters but you can literally have that life if you wish to and I believe that to my core. It’s important to do things for yourself, do things that feed your soul, do what you want to when you want to.” She then proceeds to reference the show Outer Banksas a model of adventurous risk-taking. Many of these main character videos on YouTube begin with a general explanation of the concept and proceed to model “main character energy” through a makeup and outfit tutorial, drawing from the costume design of specific coming of age films as references. It is in these moments where the meme seems to intersect the most with activities of tv and film fandom through casual cosplay. But other than that, much of the discourse involves a general pop cultural engagement with narrative studies and understanding of character.

TikTok video posted by @arijelkins on July 6

TikTok video posted by @arijelkins on July 6

Perhaps the most important reference that teens have drawn from these coming of age films is the particular sonic landscapes they present through soundtracks full of artists from indie and alt rock genres. Early in the development of this main character meme on TikTok, users started to make videos about the songs that make them feel like main characters, and many of them used bands that often appear in these films, such as M83 and Grouplove. There is even a growing number of playlists on Spotify and YouTube called “main character” that are dominated by white artists and bands, such as Lorde, Wallows, COIN, and Dayglow—acts that have situated many of their music videos in suburban streets and neighborhoods. These playlists often have thousands of followers, and one of them “main. character.” by David Welch (which I found out about on TikTok) has almost 100,000 followers. There are a few artists of color that I’ve noticed on these playlists, such as Labrinth (who made the soundtrack for Euphoria) and Frank Ocean, but it’s important to note that genres like hip-hop are largely absent from these playlists and are not part of this particular sonic landscape for coming of age.

Spotify curators created a popular main character playlist that has over 100,000 followers featuring primarily indie and alt rock music bands and artists

Spotify curators created a popular main character playlist that has over 100,000 followers featuring primarily indie and alt rock music bands and artists

As a researcher who studies the relationship between Internet memes and popular music, I was initially interested in this particular meme because instead of merely propelling individual songs into virality (as TikTok often does), the main character meme has resulted in imaginative worldbuilding through playlist curation. As I was sifting through playlists, I also remembered that about a year ago my friend Brandon, a nineteen year old that I know through volunteering, suggested that I follow his Spotify playlist “Life’s an Indie Film, Vol. I,” which featured a lot of the same songs that were highlighted this year through the main character meme. When I asked him why he made his playlist, he said, “It’s just songs I loved that matched me and who I was in those moments when I was going through something or doing something like sneaking out late at night with friends [...] almost like a time capsule.” He also explained that he became annoyed when this type of playlisting became part of the main character meme because it felt like it had lost its meaning.

Wallows is an alt rock band that often appears on main character playlists

Wallows is an alt rock band that often appears on main character playlists

But it seems that a key difference between the way in which Brandon and others engaged in playlisting indie film music in 2018 and 2019 and how it played out this year is that while Brandon was working to capture memories from his teen years, many TikTokers were attempting to create memories that they never got to experience due to COVID-19. The main character idea was not simply focused on nostalgic reflection mediated through film references, but instead, became a call to reassert agency over a year of lost experiences. As platforms like TikTok increasingly center content creation around a matching process between video and audio, young users are becoming particularly fluent in soundtracking. At times, it feels as if the Internet has raised the next generation of skilled music supervisors, and at other moments, it seems as if they are simply reiterating past creative choices and tropes from popular films—even as these films reify racial stereotypes and lack of representation.

As TikTokers started to create videos about the qualifications for being the main character, such as childhood trauma and having parents that are divorced, user @nabazillion created a video that highlighted that whiteness seems to be a central characteristic.

TikTok video posted by @nabazillion on May 25

TikTok video posted by @nabazillion on May 25

Though some users in the comments celebrated the fact that they were not eliminated from qualifying as main characters, others recognized that @nabazillion’s video was actually a commentary about lack of representation in the coming of age genre. It’s a severe issue—only 34.3 percent of speaking roles in the top 100 films of 2019 were given to people of color (Smith et al, 2020, p. 2)—and it’s also something that prior generations of people of color have had to navigate in different ways. In their editorial piece that calls readers to rethink the politics of representation by “looking away” from whiteness, J. Reid Miller, Richard T. Rodríguez, Celine Parreñas Shimizu (2018) write, “Thinking about the 1980s movies of our American teenhood, we recognize how we were forced to be white in our spectatorships and fantasies—you have to be white to be in this!” (p. 240). 

In her YouTube video, Amanda Mary Anna, a NYU film student, says, “When I think about the main character what comes to mind is the quirky, skinny, white ingénue in a low budget coming of age film set in suburbia, not McMansions and strip malls suburbia but like cute, quaint houses and like sunflower fields suburbia, you know what I’m talking about.” After declaring that she is “here to be the black Lady Bird,” she provides a tutorial on how to dress and model the adventurous and free-spirited behavior of the character. Both Amanda Mary Anna and users in the comments expressed the desire for more coming of age films featuring black protagonists that are not set in inner-city contexts or focused on racial trauma:

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Hannah V.png

The first comment is interesting not simply because it’s an expression of a desire for black coming of age stories set in suburban spaces, but also because a suburban setting feels like a particular prerequisite for entry into this genre. It is also important to note that films like The Hate U Give (2018), which features a black adolescent protagonist dealing with racial violence and police brutality, were not commonly referenced in this meme because they did not function as compelling sites of escapism. It’s not that coming of age films about people of color don’t exist—they are beginning to become more common, especially with newer Netflix originals like Never Have I Ever (2020) or To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)— but the meme tended to circulate a particular, narrow vision of adolescence modeled by films in which white protagonists don’t need to worry about the daily reality of systemic racism but are able to explore other aspects of identity formation.

This year, as police brutality against black lives has reached a critical boiling point and COVID-19 has revealed entrenched socioeconomic inequality along racial lines as Latinx and black communities have been disproportionately impacted by the virus, it is important to consider how this genre of film has too often reinforced “coming of age” as a privilege of whiteness. And by this I’m not simply referring to growing up, but rather, the privilege of having the space to engage in exploration, rebellion and play in the process with little ramifications. Related to this is the way in which suburban spaces have been imagined and invoked within political discourse this year. On one hand, President Donald Trump has made incessant appeals to his white voter base by stoking fear that the suburbs are at risk due to the encroachment of low-income housing and Obama-era policies bent on breaking down suburban racial segregation. On the other, when Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez was asked in July what cities would look like if the police were to be defunded, her response was that they would look like a suburb. The way that we conceptualize cities and invoke the imagery of the suburb, beyond existing as a bastion of white flight and racial segregation, has a significant impact on civic imagination and spatial figurations of community. 

The “main character” meme has grown and developed in some interesting ways within the last month or so. Many TikTok users have taken to the comment sections of comedic videos to identify “main character energy” when someone in a video behaves with freedom and an extreme lack of self-consciousness about what others think and have applied the term much more liberally to individuals from different generations. Others made fun of the trite nature of Olivia Ward’s audio by using it in videos of animals defecating.

TikTok video posted by @eshelton3 on August 14

TikTok video posted by @eshelton3 on August 14

The song “Heather” by Conan Gray became a sleeper hit as it captured the particular despair of being a side character. In the song, Gray writes about how the person he is in love with is in love with Heather, a seemingly perfect girl that everyone is jealous of. The song has inspired the creation of over a million videos, and in many of them, teens identify the “heathers” of their families and their schools or post vintage photos of their moms who they believe were the “heathers” of their time.

Much of the research I have done in the past has focused on how music memes can work to dismantle racialized genre borders in the music industry, but this is an example of the opposite. Memes, as digital items that can be rapidly spread or imitated, have the potential to quickly reinforce these borders as well, especially when they are not created in a comedic mode or for the purposes of trolling. As teens grappled with and mourned the experiences that they missed out on this year, they largely perpetuated narrow representations in pop culture of what those moments should entail through the main character meme. In the process, they often worked to reify “coming of age” as a process that is intertwined with systems of race and privilege.

References:

Reid Miller, J., Rodríguez, R. T., & Shimizu, C. P. (2018). The Unwatchability of Whiteness: A New Imperative of Representation. Asian Diasporic Visual Cultures and the Americas4(3), 235–243. https://doi.org/10.1163/23523085-00403001

Smith, D. S. L., & Pieper, D. K. (2020). Inequality in 1,300 Popular Films: xamining Portrayals of Gender, Race/Ethnicity, LGBTQ & Disability from 2007 to 2019. USC Annenberg Inclusion Initiative, 42.

Alexandria Arrieta is a doctoral student in Communication at the University of Southern California. She researches the relationship between popular music and Internet memes and also focuses on issues related to gender and race in the music industry. Arrieta is an independent music artist and producer who has toured across the west coast.

Stop Stressing Graduate Students About Tenure

This is the second in a series of blog posts developed by students in my PhD seminar, Public Intellectuals: Theory and Practice.

Stop Stressing Graduate Students about Tenure 

By: Jordan Harper 

Faculty are responsible for and take pride in many things: teaching, research, service, and stressing graduate students out about tenure. The realities of the academy actually make the latter unnecessary. 

The academy is changing and has been for a while. Data from the American Association of University Professors (AAUP) show that three-quarters of all faculty positions exist off the tenure-track. That is, non-tenure-track faculty (i.e., part-time, full-time contingent and adjunct faculty). Pressuring graduate students to think about tenure in just about everything they do is a carceral logic that impacts their intellectual curiosity and overall experience in graduate education. It is unhelpful to burden graduate students with the thought of tenure when the reality of the academy is that very few, if any at this point in time, will even land a tenure-track job, or, even have a desire to go into the academy at all. Conversations about tenure are distracting and burdensome. 

Before we go any further, let us first observe how tenure is talked about before graduate students even become fully aware of what it actually means to ‘get’ tenure. I present to you, tenure, as discussed on Big Bang Theory

 


In the clip, tenure is discussed as a flashy, highly sought after reward that will not impact “output,” gives you job security and freedom, and may even make your mother proud, that is if she can even comprehend what tenure truly is. One of the guys, Sheldon, even goes as far as to allude that, even after achieving tenure, he will still have to live with a roommate. This slight comment illustrates that the Ph.D. and tenure is not a ticket to financial freedom and ease, but instead serves as more of a personal achievement and a recognition that your work in theacademyis promising and worthwhile. Another guy in the clip, Leonard, informs Penny that he, in fact, does not have to schmooze up to anyone to be awarded tenure. This is not true. In fact, your career leading up to tenure is all about schmoozing.

 

Graduate students, especially, exist in marginal and vulnerable positions. They feel all the pressure to conform and fold into what the academy desires of them (i.e., publications, conference presentations, research) and even adjust their research interests to what will get them published and land them a job. As gatekeepers of the academy, faculty often call attention to tenure every chance they get and some feel that it is their responsibility to do so. The tenure conversation deeply impacts vulnerable graduate students by lowering them into a rabbit hole of reevaluation: reevaluating their relationships with the academy, with their personal research interests, with social media, with television, with themselves. Graduate students then internalize the position of a tenure-track professor by falling into the idea that they must publish or perish, reach for only the top journals that exist behind a paywall, and put their mental health on the line and work, work, work. 

 

Tenure talk also stirs graduate students away from engaging with public audiences. It is no secret that research published in top-tier journals is the golden ticket to tenure, especially at a Research I institution. So, graduate students will often feel the pressure to shift all of their energy to the top journals in their respective fields, even if it takes over a year for the article to get published. Graduate students only talk to other academics when publishing in these journals and miss vital opportunities to share that research and information with broader audiences. Partly because of the ongoing tenure conversations, graduate students do not even think about ways to translate their research to public audiences by way of op-eds, blog posts, or resource guides. Here, key opportunities are missed to broaden a graduate students’ network and reach. And, if a tenure-track position is out of their reach or becomes a distant desire, all they have on their CV’s is an article citation that shows their allegiance to academia and to no one else. 

 

Another tale as old as time is that graduate students are in no position to conduct ‘cutting edge,’ ‘radical,’ or ‘critical’ research. Graduate students are frequently reminded of tenure when they do so and are often encouraged to wait until they receive the job security that comes with tenure to produce such research. What happened to the purpose of graduate education? To advance and construct new knowledge? Unfortunately, the purpose of graduate education gets lost in the conversation of tenure. When students are indoctrinated with the thought and concept of tenure, they tend to police their actions and the product(s) they consume, locking themselves into a carceral state that stifles their creativity and agency.  

 

I, for one, am not solely looking at academic jobs or tenure-track jobs. In fact, I am aware of the current job outlook for tenure-track faculty and am fully aware of the fact that tenure is diminishing before our eyes. Therefore, in all the work I do, I am reminded of two things: why I’m doing a Ph.D. and the fact that I do not necessarily need to enter academia after completing my program. I’m doing a Ph.D. because I’m genuinely curious about a multitude of things regarding higher education—leadership, non-tenure-track faculty, graduate admissions/education, hiring. And I know that my curiosity about all things higher education will lead me wherever I am meant to be. I am also aware of my commitment to public work and public scholarship and how that may later come in tension with a tenure-track faculty position. My commitment to public work is something I hold close and allows me to drown out conflicting messages about publishing or perishing and the need to publish in top-tier journals. In fact, I am more interested in publishing in open-access journals and more public forums so my work can land in the hands of those who need it most. I want my work to start conversations. If my work is only published in top-tier journals and journals behind paywalls, then that means only other academics with institutional access to these journals can start conversations. And even then, it’s probably only to cite me in the introduction of a paper or at most, a literature review. These commitments I hold cause me to think beyond tenure. In fact, I very seldom think about tenure. I think about the vital need for the work I produce, where it can go for others to read widely, and how to have subsequent conversations with the people who read and engage with my work. Tenure is truly the last thing on my mind. And I acknowledge that this is a privilege and a luxury, but I think it is a mindset for other graduate students to adopt and actively think about to push against the carceral state graduate students’ are put in when they are bogged down with the reminder of tenure and what you have to lose or give up in order to achieve it. 

 

So many graduate students lose their soul well before landing a tenure-track job. And that is, in part, due to the conversations they have with other faculty regarding what they should or should not be doing during their time as graduate students. Instead of pressuring graduate students to think about tenure and how their work will affect their ability to be awarded tenure, the message should be more about authenticity; to thine own self be true. Graduate students should be able to pursue any line of inquiry they want without the pressure of tenure looming over their heads. They should be able to honor their personal commitments in an academic space. Also, graduate students do not need a reminder of tenure in every academic space; it’s stressful, unnecessary, and lowkey traumatic. The message for faculty is clear: stop stressing graduate students about tenure. And the message for graduate students is even more straightforward: express yourself and do work that you’re passionate about during your time as a graduate student. We’ll cross that [tenure] bridge if and when we get there. 

Jordan Harper is a research assistant at the Pullias Center for Higher Education and a PhD student in the Urban Education Policy program at USC Rossier School of Education. His research interests are focused on higher education leadership, non-tenure-track faculty, graduate admissions, and graduate education.


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