Man-Child

Photo by Sybren A. Stüvel

Today I heard what makes a grown man cry: “six layer protection”- specifically the lack of such protection, which is presumably some type of software for computer systems. Why would not having this protection, indeed, all six layers of it, cause this man (actually he was more of a man-child, maybe 19 years old) to sob, whimper, or otherwise blubber pathetically? Let me provide a bit of the conversation I happened to hear prior to his dramatic confession.

I was waiting in the shuttle bus shack this morning at the lower parking lots at UAF with several other students, all of whom were silent, save the man-child, who was engaged in a lively information sharing conversation with another student, who I'll refer to as “The Professional”. The Professional is the type of guy you would call if your Super Nintendo or Sega Saturn stopped working; slovenly, obese, and brilliant- a true electronics savant. Their conversation consisted of The Professional asking the man-child several questions about the progress and location of a certain video, which was a demo for an unnamed project. Did the man-child find the video? He had completely forgotten about it. Which computer was it on, desktop or laptop? It was on the laptop, but according to the man-child it needed to be “remotely transferred and installed”, apparently to another system. Then came the bombshell: The Professional asked if this other system had “six layer protection”.
“If it doesn't, I'll cry. I'll break down and cry.”  Up until then I had either stared at my notebook or out the window, but upon hearing the man-child's frank admission I glanced up, bemused, then frantically attempted to scribble down what I just heard.

This changed things. What I presumed was a somewhat benign conversation about a demo video for a school project must have been vastly more significant than I could have possibly imagined. Was this a national security issue? It must have been as I couldn't imagine another scenario that could cause an almost-grown man-child to cry over something that sounded like it was off a Taco Bell menu. My suspicions grew when The Professional, who had stared quietly at the man-child after his confession, reached into his duffle bag, pulled out a USB flash drive, and handed it to the man-child after cautioning him to "make sure it's legal". Now I was convinced; the flash drive had to contain some type of encrypted data that was vital to national security. But what was it? I suddenly realized that I had been listening to some sort of code language the entire time; “demo video” and “laptop” obviously referred to whatever was on the flash drive.  Making sure "it was legal" must have meant that the man-child was authorized to use deadly force to protect the flash drive.  Unfortunately, at that time the shuttle arrived and we all filed aboard. In an attempt to ascertain the secrets on the flash drive I went so far as to sit in the seat directly in front of The Professional, who was sitting next to the man-child (in hindsight this may have been too obvious, as the bus was nearly empty). My continued presence must have spooked them because they spoke in hushed tones for the rest of the ride to the Eielson building.

Because I was only able to hear part of their conversation, I had no choice but to construe what I thought was the most likely context for a conversation that contained vague computer references and almost-grown men who could be moved to tears by the unavailability of a software program. In reality, I'm sure they were simply discussing a school project, yet without proper context, why not believe they were working for the government? It certainly made waiting for the shuttle a bit more interesting!

Going Native

As I read “Going Native” by Francine Prose I was struck by the concept of “transculturals”, as she put it, those who don't feel as though they've truly settled in their culture of upbringing and find a deep connection with a foreign culture. Transculturalism is a concept that I haven't considered before, other than scoffing at those who seem to be trying too hard, like the 4^th grade boys mentioned in the beginning of the Prose's essay. I've felt at home in my typical middle-class Alaskan culture for most of my life so to seriously consider that there are those who truly yearn for another cultural setting seems distant and unexplored.

Prose does an excellent job of analyzing the meaning behind those who self-identify both sympathetically and fancifully with different cultures. Those who self-identify with other cultures on an experiential level are often those who feel a shared burden of disenfranchisement or social ills with the other culture and choose to express themselves within the context of that culture. Prose uses the example of poor, working class Irish children who find encouragement, and perhaps a sense of identity, in performing soul music and who find identification “with the poverty, alienation, and disenfranchisement of African-Americans.”

In my personal experience I've found such identification with blues music and performers, which historically has been a musical outlet for oppressed African-Americans who told their stories of economic and racial discrimination through song. Though I am not an African-American and have lived a rather comfortable life, when life is bad and I am depressed I find comfort in listening to the blues; when the performer bemoans the loss of a special loved one or of some personal betrayal,“that's right, brother” springs from my lips and I shake my head knowingly in shared misery. The performers problems become my problems, his “woe is me” becomes mine as well and offers a bit of comfort, knowing that I'm not the only one with problems.

As mentioned earlier, those who self-identify with other cultures, past and present, on a fanciful level, seem to be the ones who are not so much disenfranchised but rather have lost their sense of purpose within their culture and seek meaning from the ideals of past cultures, such as Native Americans, or traditional Irish culture, both of which have been characterized as simple, hard working, purposeful, and communal. These cultural characterizations offer individuals a chance to be part of something greater than themselves, where ideals such as pride and honor are worth fighting and dying for. I find it amusing, and a bit ironic, that while I am half “white” and half Native American, there are certainly thousands of white people who share a deeper kinship with Native American culture and history than I do; I was born and raised in Alaska but my tribal ancestors are from Taos, New Mexico.

As I compared the two types of people mentioned in Prose's essay I found it interesting that regardless of whether individuals share common experiences or just idealize the principles of a given culture, there seemed to be a common thread of desire for identity outside of “self”. In addition to shared identity, skin color, often an indicator of race and culture, means little to those who are “transcultural”, which challenges the assumption that skin color equates to cultural heritage.

Two Leaves on Black

"Two Leaves on Black" by Barry J. McWayne 1943-2010

I've chosen to highlight the photograph “Two Leaves on Black” by Barry J. McWayne, former curator of the fine art collection at the University of Alaska Museum of the North. Barry was a longtime Alaskan photographer who died suddenly in the summer of 2010; I'd previously heard of Barry but hadn't seen any of his work prior to my visit to the museum.

Two Leaves on Black immediately caught my eye, as I was captured by its cleanliness and simplicity in contrast to the many different pieces of art in the gallery, indeed, if I were to choose one word to describe this photograph, I would choose “contrast”. If one desires to highlight any particular subject there are few better ways than to place the subject against a non-reflective black background, the contrast has the intended effect of bringing the subject directly to the forefront of the viewer. “Two Leaves on Black” does just this; captured in greyscale the two subjects stand in stark contrast to the black background.

The two subjects are centered side by side, which doesn't always work in photography, but in this case it works well, as it draws the eye directly to the subjects and then gives the eye the task of differentiating between the two; balance is provided by featuring leaves of two different sizes, and though the tips of the leaves are equal in height, the body of the leaf on the left is smaller and appears to be deferential to the leaf on the right, whose body is fuller, which provides a sense of completion to the photograph, almost like a puzzle piece that has found its place. The smaller body of the left leaf and the full body of the right leaf draws the eye from the upper left to the lower right of the frame, providing a nice diagonal path that leads into the rest of the picture and also covers both subjects while the eye is guided over them. I love how composition is thought through to make a truly great photograph.

Texture is rich within the two subjects, the cell structure and veins of the leaves speak to its organic makeup, indeed, it almost resembles the surface of ones skin yet through its shape and form it remains distinctly arboreal. Leading lines abound in this photograph, starting from the stems of the leaves, the eye is drawn up towards the middle of the leaves by the main vein, then allowed to wander up each individual vein to explore the texture and different shades of grey within the leaves which gives the viewer a sense of place.

Capturing the subjects in greyscale removes the distraction of color and allows the viewer to focus on the other visual components of the photograph; as mentioned before- the texture, form, shape, and lines; however, in addition to these qualities, the greyscale tones also gives the leaves a burnished look as the tone transitions from light to dark which adds body to the photograph and prevents it from appearing flat; the dappling of the tones also gives the subjects the appearance of being sunlit, as they would be if they were still on a tree. This is a great photograph- simple, yet its composition speaks volumes. I'm glad to have enjoyed it.

We Are All Refugees



Photo by Flickr user Takver provided for use under a Creative Commons Licence



I've heard of David Sedaris but have never ready any of his work; however, from reading various references in news magazines as well as a feature post on the popular blog Stuff White People Like, I've gotten the idea that he's supposedly witty, in a smarmy kind of way, and commands a very devoted fan base, kinda like Dave Berry, or Scott McCrea. With my head full of presuppositions and expectations waiting to be met, I put my kids to bed, put myself to bed, and dove into Sedaris's essay Me Talk Pretty One Day.

I must admit that when I saw this title on the class syllabus I was amused by how unrefined it sounded; I could just imagine a poor dullard doing his best to convey his hearts desire to wax eloquent and yet barely managing to stammer out “Me...talk...pretty one day”, as if what was lost in linguistic sophistication could be made up through sheer vocal conviction.  But who hasn't sounded like my proverbial dullard, particularly when trying to speak a foreign language? This is the theme of Sedaris's essay, which details his experience of attending a French language school in Paris, and the unconventional method of instruction his teacher employed to foster an increasing understanding of the French language.

In the essay Sedaris reveals that, while he assumed that the many different nationalities of students represented in his class were much more advanced then he in French, his teacher became the great equalizer, berating and insulting each pitiful (as she saw it) attempt at French speaking by her students, regardless of nationality. I truly enjoyed the manner in which Sedaris correlated his experience as a French student to that of a refugee, one who is a stranger in a strange land, devoid of true comfort and linguistic identity; this concept was masterfully illustrated towards the end of the essay when he stated that the following snippet of conversation was one often heard in refugee camps: “Sometimes me cry alone at night.”. Never mind the response to his statement, I started laughing as soon as I read that part; every presupposition I've held of what it means to be a refugee was immediately attributed, if you will, to Sedaris as well, with excellent comedic effect. Does it not open up the essay in a new light to view Sedaris as a type of refugee? I think it does, which provides a much needed tension within the story; the refugee, the tyrannical teacher, his loss of hope, and then the triumph of redemption when it dawns on him that he can actually understand the streams of insults coming from his teacher.

The moral of Sedaris's essay is to listen and not be so hasty to speak, take time to listen and absorb what is being spoken to you, regardless of its content. As Sedaris points out, this will not necessarily mean that one will immediately become fluent in whichever foreign language one is studying, but rather that this one small step is an important one towards that goal. If one cannot understand the language, what good would it be to simply learn to phonics without an understanding of how it all fits together? How Sedaris accomplishes his point is both funny and clever, and allows the reader to self identify through shared experiences of attempting a different language, be it a foreign language, vernacular specific to a particular trade, or just the latest slang. In my perspective, we are all refugees.