Salvation On Sand Mountain

My grandmother, the most wonderful woman to ever live, passed away at the beginning of this school year. Her funeral was the first time I had sung "Mansion Over A Hilltop" since I was in my mid teens. It used to be a hymn that I would sing every Sunday. Even though it had been half a decade since I had heard this song, I still knew every note and lyric. It was just something that was ingrained into you.

Now, the difference between when I used to sing this hymn and when Elvis sings it is pretty big. The church I attended from birth to 17 was a Church of Christ. The CoC does not believe in the use of instruments in musical prayer. This is because if the Bible doesn't specifically say that you should do something, then you just shouldn't do it at all. This was one of my church's practices that I just could not wrap my head around. Jesus never said, "Come forward and feed thine cat!", but I still choose to put food in my cat's bowl every morning.

There are a few observations and memories I can discuss in regards to my religious experience. Most of this will be boring. One of these things is awesome. The boring facts will tell you that my mother was Catholic and my father was a heathen. Alright, he wasn't a heather, he went to a Church of Christ with his family growing up. He then hit a wild rebellious streak, met my mom, got married, and now wears sweater vests to work every day and swears he never did anything improper a day in his life. Neither of my parents were very satisfied with their early religious upbringing, so my mother started taking us to Church of Christ services and my father started working on Sundays. Our church was (and still is) a congregation of educated, middle class, white people, with traditional families. Services include very monotone readings out of the Bible, sermons that are mild mannered, and singing with no instrumental background.

Here's the awesome part. The clearest memories of my religious upbringing are of what took place after church services were over. Sundays meant Kentucky Fried Chicken and Car Talk. After service we would turn on Car Talk, a fantastic NPR show, and drive-thru order some disgusting fried chicken. It was the best part of Sundays. (Sidenote: I became a vegetarian after I stopped attending church regularly. I'll let you figure out how those things are related.)

My religious upbringing was boring and miserable. There was absolutely no liveliness to keep a teenage engaged. I would say this had a wooly mammoth sized impact on my current non-identity when it comes to religion. However, I get the feeling that had I attended The Church of Jesus with Signs Following, I would probably be more connected to my religion; or I would be dead.

Snake handeling services with The Church of Jesus with Signs Following could not be more different from my religious experience. Where The Church of Jesus with Signs Following encourages its members to yell, make prophecies, and do absolutely unsafe things, my church was putting people to sleep. It is unreal to me that people would gather together in a religious space and behave that way. Mumble out a "hallelujah" in a Church of Christ in Missouri and you will be shushed. While there are millions of ways in which to contrast my religious upbringing with The Church of Jesus with Signs Following, I am more impressed by the similarities.

Our church, too, was rocked by a scandal. While we prayed for resolution and believed in the rightness of our leadership, we, the congregation, suffered. I see this with The Church of Jesus with Signs Following, as well. Their numbers dwindled and their reputation was shot. They had to seek outside of their congregation to find someone to lead services or had members not well versed in public speaking leading services. This, also, happened in my experience. In fact, the way in which The Church of Jesus with Signs Following reacted to its scandal reminds me all too well of the way in which I witnessed adults behaving and structural changes in my own experience. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if after their church services, Uncle Ully Lynn and Sister Bobbie Sue picked up some fried chicken while listening to Car Talk.

The Saints and The Roughnecks

Revisiting The Stanford Prison Experiment

I first learned about the Stanford Prison Experiment when I was in high school. My Advance Placement Psychology teacher shared the video, "Revisiting The Standford Prison Experiment" and then challenged our teenage brains to think about how our school experience was linked to this experiment. In hindsight this was probably not the best idea. The last thing an overflowing school needs is a student uprising based off of an over zealous teacher's lesson plans. Regardless, it is an experiment that tends to stick with you.

I remember thinking then, as I do now, that I was so entirely repulsed by the behavior of the experimenters.  I wondered why they let these students engage in violent behavior or be tortured and no one stopped for a second to question if they were causing harm. Zimbardo describes when he realized that he was causing others to suffer as a moment that could only occur when someone from the outside, in this case his current lady friend, related their perspective. I have always found this to be completely unacceptable.

I understand that this study is supposed to be used as a key example of how people can become so engrossed in a certain reality or situation that they are unable to see past their current circumstances. However, I have an extremely difficult time applying this principle to Zimbardo and the other experimenters. It is expected that researches and, especially, teachers are able to remove themselves from situations in order to be effective leaders. This is not a new concept and I find it hard to believe that Zimbardo had never been taught to remove himself from bias and convolution, especially in the process of research.

Is Zimbardo's explanation of his inability to address the safety of his subjects acceptable? I would have to argue that Zimbardo deserves to be knocked down a peg on the experimental recognition scale. Other studies that traumatized subjects and put them in a lot less physical danger, like Milgram's shock tests, and are villainized. Why do we praise Zimbardo as being a genius for recognizing his own inhumanity? Personally, I'd like to see the teaching of the Standford Prison Experiment altered to show fault on all levels. Recognizing his inability to effectively lead does not excuse Zimbardo for his behavior.

Emotion Work and Feeling Rules

Arlie Russell Hochschild discusses emotional work and deep acting in the article "Emotion Work and Feeling Rules". Emotion work, according to Hochschild is "the act of trying to change in degree or quality an emotion of feeling." Let me tell you about a woman who is a stellar example of emotional work. Her name is Betty Draper. Betty is a fictional character on a completely ridiculous television show. Betty Draper is a a horrible shrew on the inside and as the show goes on more and more of her inner wicked witch starts to come out. On this particular occasion Betty has found herself unable to deal with her multitudes of problems. (Children who act out, a cheating husband who also secretly conspires with her therapist about what Betty is saying, and neighbors with loud birds.) Betty's attempts to deep act, or force herself to feel as if she is happy in her soul-sucking role as a housewife, have failed. Despite how hard Betty worked at her emotional work of keeping up with the way people expect her to feel and behave, she's going to just lose it and start shooting the neighbor's stupid stinkin' birds.

Some days I want to be like Betty Draper, even though she's a miserable woman. Betty Draper is a character who is so genuinely unable to continue the emotional work of being a standard housewife that she does things like, oh, shooting the neighbor's stupid birds. Betty Draper has been deep acting for so long that her brain just can't take it anymore. All the times she's tried to convince herself that she should feel a certain way has just eaten away at her little brain.

While this may seem like an unstable thing to aspire to, I envy her in this moment. I think everyone has the deep desire, every now and then, to pull a Betty Draper and just do exactly what their urges tell them to do, even though the consequences could be dire. I mean, wouldn't it be just fantastic to just unleash your inner "crazy"? Wouldn't it be nice to just shoot the neighbor's stupid birds?

“Symbols and the Creation of Reality”

Behold, the symbols of my reality.

I play roller derby. Derby is often times associated with symbols of violence, aggression, physical harm, sexual deviance, inappropriateness, and debauchery. Derby is a sport that symbolizes chaos and disorder in the view of general society. In my constructed reality derby symbolizes athleticism, friendship, diversity, and community. I often times have to explain how derby “really is” to others. I feel as if I have to convert them to my version of reality. The example given in the article of walking back to your dorm (I hate that word, by the way) and being unsure of who is behind you applies here. Derby is perceived to be a mugger, when in reality it’s just a good friend trying to catch up with you.

I also feel that my dislike of the word “dorm” applies to this concept of symbols, language, and perception. A dorm is perceived as being a building where college students live. A dorm is probably dirty, a dorm is rarely loved, a dorm is just for sleeping. A residence hall, however, is a place where communities are built, friendships are made, and people look out for your academics and general health. That’s why you’ll never find someone from Student Affairs calling a hall a “dorm”. In general realities “dorm” is just a term, in our reality it’s a dirty, dirty little word.

Doesn’t everyone have words that are equally misinterpreted according to their social reality?

September 11, “Commemorating America’s Involvement in Vietnam” – Wagner-Pacifici and Schwartz

To be completely honest, the only thing September 11th makes me want to do is to completely shut off all access to other people. Turn the television off, close the laptop, and ignore Twitter. I don’t anticipate writing about 9/11 as being an elating task. I imagine I won’t want to finish writing this at all.

I will, relatively briefly, describe how I remember 9/11/2001. I was 12 and in middle school. I carried a Five Star zip binder because we weren’t allowed to carry backpacks around school. I had a very exact way that I folded notes to later be passed in hallway. I was just starting to figure out what characteristics I had to possess in order to be more like my more popular peers and less like my socially awkward friends from elementary school. I read really terrible books and spent a ridiculous amount of time on AOL Instant Messenger.

I have very vague memories of a day that I’m supposed to “Never Forget”. No one turned on the TVs so we could see what was happening on the news. No one sat down and explained why all of the adults were so absent minded. No one told us what was happening or why it was important. School went on as normal, with the exception of a few extra phone calls between classrooms and whole lot of “independent study” time. At the end of the day I got on the bus and was teased just like every other afternoon on the yellow tin can of death. I had picked up throughout the day that something was bothering the adults that they weren’t completely disclosing, but wasn’t something always bothering the adults?

In complete opposition to the adults at school who preferred we remain clueless, my mother, the Queen of Too Much Information, assumed that I knew every detail she had already absorbed. Upon reaching home I walked upstairs and noticed that my mother was sitting with my then 15-year-old brother on his bed watching the news. My mother barely removed her head from the news to anxiously say, “You’re home! Are you alright?” After a long day of being 12, I turned to her tersely and said, “Well, yeah. It’s not like a bomb went off or anything.” She looked at me like I had just dropped the f-bomb in front of her for the first time. It didn’t take but a few seconds for me to walk away so I could get on AIM and talk about how freaking cute Will Seaver was. I had things to do.

I was completely clueless at to what September 11th was or what it meant. As it was happening all of the adults around me were too concerned about what it meant to them to think about what it would mean to some kid with terrible prepubescent acne. I have had to almost completely construct my “memory” of 9/11 based off of information I received later from the news, textbooks, blogs, and teachers. I believe that this is so frustrating for me because there are two very different memories of that day for me to choose from. The first is an overly patriotic construction of deep remembrance. This construct wants me to post my Facebook status about how deep my sorrow is and stay home and watch TLC for hours. The other option is to be bitter and discuss how ridiculous the War on Terror is, spend hours reading articles on the internet, and to write long diatribes on Facebook in response to my friends’ statues.

I choose to remain totally ambivalent. How ambivalent must you be to survive in America?

No one will agree on how 9/11 should be remembered. It’s a piece of history that so many of us have to share that it will constantly be debated and argued. Everyone will attempt to back up their arguments with their own belief in being wholly correct. No one will be completely satisfied. This, however, is not a new thing for us. It’s easy to compare 9/11 to the remembrance of the Vietnam War. Both events are things that everyone will argue about and have deep connections to. They will both remain this giant thing sitting there at your dinner table, invited or not. We as a whole will also look on both events as being these giant tragedies in American history and choose to remember them the way we think we’re supposed to.

The Vietnam War Memorial was supposed to create a solemn sense of remembrance of the people over the government. However, the American people visit and search out individual names, place flags at the base, and create their own idea of how the war should be remembered. The ceremony surrounding the memorial was elaborate and patriotic and not at all what the creator of the memorial had intended. The problem was that Americans have a general belief that to honor and commemorate they must do so with large displays. The bigger the better; the larger the display the more we care.

This relates back to 9/11 rather blatantly. The media shoves “Nineelevina” in our faces every year. They have to discuss it because to not address the issue is unpatriotic and just plain wrong. Each piece of the American media wants to show that their flag flies the highest. Who shows the most survivor specials? Who puts on the biggest parade? Who does the most in depth coverage? Who’s Facebook page had the most chain-mail style status posted in one day?

Both events are things that we should always remember, but we have no idea why. Do we just feel these proud American feelings because we’re told we’re supposed to?

“Islands of Meaning” – Eviatar Zerubavel

The first thing I have to do with this article is provide a little bit of credit and little bit of criticism. First off, credit is due to Zerubavel for using a unique metaphor to describe the concepts of schemas, accommodation, and assimilation. This is generally an over-worked concept and it’s nice to be provided with a unique explanation. However, this is an over-worked concept and reading about it, uniqueness aside, is a little brain numbing.

However, relating the concept of schemas to language usage really grabbed my attention. I am a firm believer in the power of language. My mother taught high school English for 33 years. We read banned books at bedtime. In short, my mom is kind of a bad ass. One of the most bad assed things she taught us, however, was how language can completely construct a world. I believe that language makes “the real world” possible.

Zerubavel discusses language as being socially constructed based off of our desire to assign labels. Unfortunately, Zerubavel has a largely negative view of schemas and sees language as a puppet that aids schemas in their evil plot. Zerubavel says, “Since it is the very basis of social reality, we often forget that language rests on mere convention and regard such mental entities, which are our own creation, as if they were real…”

While I can understand the angst towards schemas, as they do make it possible to group things together unfairly, I would argue against Zerubavel’s view. Schemas, like language, can be used for both good and evil. The user must be very careful in their selections of language and categories. Instead of telling humans the way they have been thinking about the world is a negative thing, encourage the reader to make informed choices. Just because something is a “mental entity”, does that mean it can’t be real?