Journey of a Palimpsestic Historian

Gap year

I am about to start what I am going to refer to as a gap year. I will graduate with my Master’s in a week and will hopefully start a PhD program in the fall of 2014. This means that I have this really random year kind of limbo year. We had originally planned on being in Africa this year so that I could work on learning a third language. Due to events beyond our control that is not happening. While my better half seems to have his year figured out and well planned mine leaves me simultaneously filled with anxiety and extreme excitement.

This next year makes me anxious for the following reasons: (1) I am not going to have a solid job—though I will have a number of cobbled together jobs. (2) we (my also grad student husband and I) are thinking about having a child—meaning I would enter a PhD program with a very young child…or wait another year before starting (3) Even when i know that amazing stuff is on the horizon endings always make me anxious—mostly because I always walk away from a really breathtaking beloved community that I value a great deal.

That said, I am going to be doing a number of super exciting things such as: (1) teaching history at the university level. (2) Beginning to learn Arabic. (3) doing some continuing work with mentors and thinking about my philosophy on teaching and education—getting more time in the classroom. (4) merging my loves of history and WEST (women’s and ethnic studies). (5) getting to think about designing two very different classes that have never been taught at the university where I work/go to school. (6) continuing to work on my engagement with my creative side through photography and poetry. (7) participate in some excellent classes that are going to fill some gaps.

Clearly there are more exciting things than angst filled things, but the things on the first list are kind of big…

Since I passed my oral defense in early May people have been asking me how excited I am to be finished. I think they are always confused by my answer that I am feeling a number of emotions and that in many ways I am conflicted.

Poetry Project

Part of my final project for one of my classes was, based on the theory explored in the class, to construct poems about experiences I have had, perhaps through reading or in personal life. Part of this was founded on using poetry to think about articulating academic/non-academic ideas together in poetry. The second part of the assignment was to turn the first set of poems (base poems) into very loose forms of Tanka and Pantoum. This assignment arose from reading the following article:

Furman, Rich, Cynthia Lietz, and Carole L. Langer. “The Research Poem in International Social Work: Innovations in Qualitative Methodology.” International Journal of Qualitative Methods 5, no. 3 (2006): 2-8.

So, here is the series:

Identity

People look at him and assume he is African American—placing him in a box

then he opens his mouth and I watch peoples eyes glaze over

they automatically assume that they can’t understand what he is saying

His accent paired with his skin color codes him as not belonging

Then we add his ever-lengthening dreadlocks and he is suddenly Jamaican.

I cringe as the questions and statements begin and want to protect him

From their ethnocentric racist curiosity as I watch them try to “figure him out”:

            “Are you Jamaican?”

            “Is Cameroon near Jamaica?”

            “Black people speak French?”

            “Why are your people always at war?”

            “Do they wear clothes there? Do you live in trees, tents?”

            “Apartheid was really bad—glad it is over.”

            “What is it like having running water here?”

            “How can you know math better than I do if you are from Africa?”

            “Can you tell me about the African tradition?”

            “Can you speak in clicks for me?”

            “Can I just call you Henry? I can’t pronounce Henri.” 

A sense of entitlement abounds—we have to figure out what box he fits in

I wonder, sometimes silently, sometimes aloud, “in what world are these questions okay?”

When it comes out that he is a mathematician the looks

Of disbelief increase tenfold—how can that be possible?

Apparently Cameroon—which, by the way, is not near Jamaica—is a black hole

Lacking culture, language, education, and civilization; it is backwards, retrograde,

Something to be studied and he should represent:

The Babute,

Cameroon,

Central Africa,

The African continent,

All black non-Americans

A sense of entitlement abounds—we have to figure out what box he fits in,

for our own comfort.

—————————————————————————————

Identity: A Tanka (1)

His accent and skin

Code him as an outsider

Have to squish him in a box

“Are you Jamaican?”

“Can I just call you Henry?”

Identity: A Tanka (2)

“Black people speak French?”

Entitled to classify,

they search for the perfect box

He must represent

His people, country, continent

—————————————————————————— 

Identity: A Pantoum

His accent paired with his skin color codes him as not belonging

Apparently Cameroon—which, by the way, is not near Jamaica—is a black hole

“How can you know math better than I do if you are from Africa?”

I watch them try to “figure him out”, a sense of entitlement abounds

He should represent his race, culture, country, and continent

Their eyes glaze over, as they hear is his accent

I want to protect him from their ethnocentric racist curiosity

His accent paired with his skin color codes him as not belonging

Apparently Cameroon—which, by the way, is not near Jamaica—is a black hole

Place him in a convenient box, to make themselves feel better

I watch them try to “figure him out”, a sense of entitlement abounds

“Apartheid was really bad—glad it is over; can you speak in clicks?”

Their eyes glaze over, as they hear is his accent

He should represent his race, culture, country, and continent

Place him in a convenient box, to make themselves feel better

I want to protect him from their ethnocentric racist curiosity

Historical statement

Part of preparing for my oral examinations was defining myself as a historian. I am really bad at this, mostly because I have a hard time confining myself to one box. As a strong believer in intersectionality I would prefer to use a number of approaches to study a number of things. AFter weeks of stressing about this—I think I was more worried about this than I was about the rest of the defense—I came up with the following:

My goal as a historian is to examine the workings of privilege and oppression within the colonial setting. I struggle to classify my historical approach, however I would say that I use post-colonialism, postmodernism, and social history in an intersectional fashion using lenses of violence, race, class, and gender, to explore the construction of exclusionary identity and the silencing of voices and experiences.

Identity

People look at him and assume he is African American—placing him in a box

then he opens his mouth and I watch peoples eyes glaze over

they automatically assume that they can’t understand what he is saying

His accent paired with his skin color codes him as not belonging

Then we add his ever-lengthening dreadlocks and he is suddenly Jamaican.

I cringe as the questions and statements begin and want to protect him

From their ethnocentric racist curiosity as I watch them try to “figure him out”:

            “Are you Jamaican?”

            “Is Cameroon near Jamaica?”

            “Black people speak French?”

            “Why are your people always at war?”

            “Do they wear clothes there? Do you live in trees, tents?”

            “Apartheid was really bad—glad it is over.”

            “What is it like having running water here?”

            “How can you know math better than I do if you are from Africa?”

            “Can you tell me about the African tradition?”

            “Can you speak in clicks for me?”

            “Can I just call you Henry? I can’t pronounce Henri.”

A sense of entitlement abounds—we have to figure out what box he fits in

I wonder, sometimes silently, sometimes aloud, “in what world are these questions okay?”

When it comes out that he is a mathematician the looks

Of disbelief increase tenfold—how can that be possible?

Apparently Cameroon—which, by the way, is not near Jamaica—is a black hole

Lacking culture, language, education, and civilization; it is backwards, retrograde,

Something to be studied and he should represent:

The Babute,

Cameroon,

Central Africa,

The African continent,

All black non-Americans

A sense of entitlement abounds—we have to figure out what box he fits in,

for our own comfort. 

Being brave

Extremely creative people have and continue to surround me; they are amazing writers, musicians, photographers, visual artists, dancers, and more who continually inspire me to see the world in different ways. I have never felt overly connected with my creativity, except through music which I felt some alienation from at the end of high school and have, as a result, drifted away from. I know that part of my hangup is feeling like I am not “qualified” [whatever that means] and so thinking that whatever I create is of lesser value or that I am just pretending [believe me when I say that I know academically this is ridiculous but that doesn’t change that I still feel it]. 

Over the last couple of years I have begun to feel like something really is missing, so I go out with my camera more regularly and take pictures that make me proud—not amazing, but fulfilling to me personally (though I did submit three to a show and they were chosen which was pretty empowering). Art class in high school was a disaster so I have stayed away from it, music was great and then it wasn’t, and don’t get me started on non-academic writing—and the judgement that I am afraid others are going to pass. While I have written several poems, before Friday very few people knew that.

This semester I am working with a professor (we’ll call her A) who said something in passing about creative works during our first encounter. For about six weeks I went back and forth about showing her my work. Finally I put the poem I am most proud of in her mailbox—making sure that (1) she would not see me before she read it or (2) happen to find it while I was with her. Long story short: she liked it and has been nudging/encouraging me to engage with my writing in a non-academic way (in addition to academic of course). So part of my final project for her class, a theory class I am taking as an elective, is creative—which simultaneously scares me to death and is extremely liberating. 

I am trying to embrace this creativity, be brave enough to share my creations, and not worry about what other people think. I have also found that writing—however it comes out—helps me deal with the trauma associated with my academic work. I have to keep writing for that reason alone. So, here is a poem I wrote the other night when I was jolted from sleep at 3 am and had so many words floating in my head that I knew I would not be able to sleep until I got them out. Once they were out I was not sure what to do with what became the poem below, but knew I needed to share, so I sent it to A—because it is her fault after all :)—and she responded with one of the most loving, encouraging, and empowering voicemails I have ever gotten and suggested that I start sharing it. She has also been encouraging me to embrace and nurture the creative side of me, which means that I have to actually have confidence in what I write and be brave enough to put it out there as my creation.

I recently lost one of my sisters-in-law who died very young and completely unexpectedly leaving a gaping hole in everything. This poem flowed out of me at 3 am. It is called Mikandé which is a traditional food in my husband’s family. I would be honored if people read it.

Mikandé 
for Brigitte who will always have a space at the table.

Around a table they sit
multiple generations of Babuté women
and the Nassara they embraced
engaged in rapid-fire conversation 
Vuté, French, and English converge

one chair sits empty
an unexpected loss
we save her a space

A pile of bright green banana leaves, 
the size of elephant ears
separated into threes
rest in the middle next to a pile 
of perfect lengths of twine

one chair sits empty
there’s a hole in our hearts
the circle gets larger

large mixing bowls of Mikandé
the ground raw gooeyness of pistache
mixed with spices I never knew existed, 
viande boucanée—le buffle on espère
and hardboiled eggs

one chair sits empty
there’s a hole in our hearts
the next generation joins the circle

Dollops of Mikandé lopped by the spoonful
onto three overlapping leaves
younger generations learn how to fold
this gooey concoction
so that none will be lost as it bakes

one chair sits empty
the hole never quite disappears
new women enter the circle

My Mikandé is never quite wrapped right
I didn’t learn young—it wasn’t my right of passage
along with the youngest I start again,
so none of the gooey concoction 
will be lost as it bakes

one chair sits empty
a testament to her life
marriage adds others to the circle

As we plop our beautifully
wrapped packages of Mikandé
into the pot, to bake over the fire
conversations circle in Vuté, French, and English
as we move to the next step

one chair sits empty
an unexpected loss
we save her a space 
and a package of Mikandé

so that is where I am at. I am hoping to use this blog to work on being brave artistically and general exploration of life.