This Sex Which Is Not One

In “This Sex Which Is Not One” (an essay in the book of the same title), Luce Irigaray critiques the masculine conception of feminine/female sexuality and proposes descriptions that come from a woman. Irigaray explains that within female sexuality, an opposition is set up “between ‘masculine’ clitoral activity and ‘feminine’ vaginal passivity” in which “the clitoris is conceived as a little penis” and “the vagina is valued for the ‘lodging’ it offers the male organ” (23). In this masculine definition of the feminine, feminine pleasure/sexuality is thought of in terms of the masculine in a definition that reproduces in it the very opposition that subordinates it. “Women’s erogenous zones,” Irigaray continues, “never amount to anything but a clitoris-sex that is not comparable to the noble phallic organ, or a hole-envelope that serves to sheathe and massage the penis in intercourse: a non-sex, or a masculine organ turned back upon itself, self-embracing” (23). In a libidinal economy, then, in which masculine pleasure/sexuality occupies the center and in which it dictates the terms, over and above the feminine being derived from, reduced to, and misrepresented as a version of the masculine, the feminine, in reproducing/serving the masculine, is judged as something that does not quite measure up to it.

While Irigaray concedes that woman can appropriate the male sex organ (the penis[1]) along with the libidinal economy centered around it (the phallic economy), Irigaray explains that should woman do so, what she derives out of it is “quite foreign to her own pleasure, unless it remains within the dominant phallic economy” (24). That is to say, the pleasure that woman derives from the phallic economy can be considered not foreign to woman only if woman really comes to identify her pleasure as the pleasures assigned to her by that economy, by masculine conceptions, which, as Irigaray implies above, is a misrepresentation/reduction of the feminine. This suggests that for Irigaray, feminine/female pleasure is not defined or exhausted by the masculine/feminine clitoris/vagina opposition that the (masculine) phallic economy designates to it. Thus something, in effect, is always lost to woman as she attempts to appropriate the phallic. Moreover, feminine/female sexuality/pleasure, Irigaray makes clear, is something other than the masculine, something that she describes as “not one.”

Contrasting it with man’s autoeroticism that “needs an instrument: his hand, a woman’s body, language . . .,” Irigaray describes that “for woman, she touches herself in and of herself without any need for mediation, and before there is any way to distinguish activity from passivity [which, Irigaray assumes, are distinctions imposed by the masculine thought and libidinal economy]” (24). “Woman ‘touches herself’ all the time,” Irigaray writes, “and moreover no one can forbid her to do so, for her genitals are formed of two lips in continuous contact” (24). By virtue of the biological constitution of her genitals, in other words, woman has a radically different pleasure/sexuality from man, one characterized by self-sufficient, immediate touching—of each other, which also means: of itself (as Irigaray writes, “within herself, she is already two [hence each other]—but not divisible into one(s) [hence itself]—that caress each other” (24)).

“This [immediate] autoeroticism [sufficient in itself],” Irigaray narrates, “is disrupted by a violent break-in: the brutal separation of the two lips by a violating penis” (24). This, Irigaray continues, “distracts and deflects the woman from [. . .] ‘self-caressing,’” from her “own pleasure,” which disappears in this intrusion, “the encounter with the totally other [i.e. the penis] always signifying [the] death [of itself],” its repression (24). Irigaray can be asked here: True, to some extent woman’s own pleasure does indeed disappear in this experience. But does she not derive another pleasure from the inclusion (what Irigaray calls “intrusion”) of the penis in the picture? And can not woman always, once the penis is gone, return to practicing self-caressing, in Irigaray’s terms, “her own” pleasure? Then again, Irigaray can rejoinder: But it’s not the same! Woman’s pleasure is changed. The penis has violated her and from that violation, she cannot derive the same satisfaction from self-touching, her original pleasure, her own pleasure. Hence “death.” To which, it can be further asked: But so what? To begin with, do we necessarily want woman to return to her own pleasure?[2] Doesn’t—would not—woman want an other (the penis)? She has a new pleasure (and an old one she can return to, although not with the same satisfaction)—good (for her) (and for him), no?

Which is precisely what Irigaray tackles next. She writes,

“Woman, in this [masculine] sexual imaginary, is only a more or less obliging prop for the enactment of man’s fantasies. That she may find pleasure there in that role, by proxy, is possible, even certain. But such pleasure is above all a masochistic prostitution of her body to a desire that is not her own, and it leaves her in a familiar state of dependency upon man. Not knowing what she wants, ready for anything, even asking for more, so long as he will “take” her as his “object” when he seeks his own pleasure. Thus she will not say what she herself wants; moreover, she does not know, or no longer knows, what she wants.” (25)

The pleasure that woman derives from the intrusion of the penis, in other words, is a pleasure derived from and located in a libidinal economy (“sexual imaginary” in Irigaray’s words) in which she “is only a more or less obliging prop” for man. That is to say, while woman is able to and does in fact derive pleasure in the masculine/phallic libidinal economy, that economy (the arrangement of sexual relations, i.e. the penis penetrates the vagina) puts woman not only as subordinate to but as an object of man, something that man (the subject) uses to gain pleasure. After all, in that economy, the pertinent criterion is whether the penis comes. Hence “such pleasure [which woman derives from the phallic economy] is above all a masochistic prostitution of her body to a desire that is not her own” (25). Who cares if woman is satisfied, if she satisfies herself, in the process by which—as long as—the penis comes? The libidinal economy centered on the penis/man “neglects to spell out what it implies as to the value of [woman’s] own desire” since that desire that arises from feminine sexuality is simply not important to, is perhaps not even pertinent in, that economy (27). Whatever pleasure woman derives from the phallic economy (described above as “new pleasure”) is thus merely a side effect of the process by which man gains pleasure. It is thus a pleasure that, in a very real sense, is not woman’s own.

This, Irigaray deduces, “leaves [woman] in a familiar state of dependency upon man” (25). Irigaray is first of all talking here about libidinal dependency: whether or not woman’s sexual desire is fulfilled, whether or not she derives pleasure—this consideration is now, with the onset of the new pleasure brought by the penis, dependent on whether man comes.[3] This is one sense of Irigaray’s term “this sex which is not one”: in the phallic economy, woman (and/or her sexual organ) is not counted, her pleasure does not count (26). Then again, it can be asked: What is the alternative? Should woman refuse the penis altogether? What are the consequences of this, both in terms of the pleasure that woman derives from the penis and in terms of (the) reproduction (of society—i.e. of men and women)? Would it be possible to have a libidinal economy in which the penis and the vagina are linked without it being phallucentric, or is phallucentrism a necessary consequence of the penis penetrating the vagina?[4]

Stephen’s Strategic Move in the Plot to Change His World(s)

[Johann Heinrich Füssli's Odysseus in Front of Scylla and Charybdis (1794-1796)]

In the previous essay, I proposed a basic structure of plot and, with the help of Prince, noted that in plots, events are arranged so as to evince causality from one event to another such that the events are taken to be coherent and to belong together in a unity. I then synthesized Prince’s assertion that change is the common feature of different types of plot with Dolezel’s explanation that conflict is what in fiction brings about change, with the resolution of the conflict and the effects of that resolution (on the character, the situation, and/or the ideas or feelings) as the change brought about (since the plot begins with the conflict/s developing). Halfway through James Joyce’s Ulysses, in “Scylla and Charybdis,” Stephen, one of the two main characters of the novel, makes a key move motivated to actualize/realize what he desires in an attempt to change the arrangement of and resolve the conflicts between his worlds. The result of this strategic move has serious consequences to his later actions, notably his response to Bloom, the other main character, towards the end of the novel, which is what I focus on in the previous essay. Stephen’s key move in “Scylla and Charybdis,” in other words, is strategic in the resolution of his plot, the result of which definitively determining what his world looks like.

The events in “Scylla and Charybdis” are immediately shadowed by a brief exchange in a previous episode, “Aeolus,” in which a seemingly minor detail is passed on to Stephen, which itself is situated in the larger context of the previous happenings of that day. “Aeolus” takes place in an editorial office in which the general reception of Stephen is amicable, the editor in fact encouraging Stephen, a poet, to write something for the paper (“You can do it!”) (111). Earlier that day Stephen had just decided to make a change in his actual situation as he cannot stand anymore living with Mulligan, who offends him, even if (perhaps more so because) unintentionally, and who, Stephen had just found out, plans to prostitute him, as it were, to the Englishman Haines, the Oxford student and son of a colonial officer who wants to collect the folklores of Stephen’s native Ireland. The world of his feelings suffering in his actual world and his world of morality or values sensing that there is an injustice being done in it, Stephen becomes motivated to change that actual world into something other, something characterized not by injustice and pain but by what he desires, the contents of his wish world. The offer he receives in “Aeolus” from the editor thus presents him with something material in his actual world that can help him actualize or realize—make material as well—some things in his wish world.[1]

What exactly are the desires that make up Stephen’s wish world? The primary one, to put it simply, is the desire to be a poet. This primary desire is of course associated with other desires that converge toward and support it: the desire to learn and refine his skills as a poet, the desire to be in a material setting conducive to his creative work, the desire for his creative work to be a source of income (such that, among other things, he can mend the financial mess he is currently in and improve his material conditions, which in turn would provide him a conducive setting to do his creative work). Mulligan’s actions in Stephen’s actual world and his power in Stephen’s material situation strengthen and serve as a lever for Stephen to actualize his wish world. Moreover, the desires or aspirations of another’s wish world, Haines’, give Stephen’s primary desire a more concrete form. Haines’ wish world, as mentioned above, affects Stephen’s emotional and moral worlds. These emotional and moral worlds remind Stephen that he desires not only to be a poet but, specifically, to be an Irish poet, i.e. to be the one to do the work that Haines intends. Stephen is motivated to do this especially since what in Stephen would be valuable work, resulting to a desirable possible future world, cannot but be, in the alternative possible future world that Haines presents, part of an imperial project, a world not appealing to, in fact desired to be thwarted by, Stephen. The material situation of his actual world thus have a direct bearing on Stephen’s wish world, conditioning and specifying it, just as his emotional and moral worlds affect his wish world. In turn, Stephen’s wish world is aimed directly at changing things in his actual world, which would also change how he feels (his emotional world) and his sense of the morality of the situation (his world of values).

There is, in other words, a feedback loop between Stephen’s actual and wish worlds in which causality or effectivity goes both ways. Equally important, however, is the discrepancy between them. Not only are their modal statuses different—the actual world is already there, a “real” thing, is in fact the situation in which Stephen is; the wish world is desired to be actualized, made “real,” but uncertain if in fact it would be—their contents are, in important ways, opposites: the actualization of Stephen’s wish world, him being a poet, would change, in fact cancel many things, in his actual world. There is thus a conflict between Stephen’s two worlds in which, moreover, Stephen prefers one over the other: the wish world (in which his primary desire is fulfilled) over the actual world (in which his desire is seemingly out of reach and, moreover, he is miserable). This conflictual relationship between Stephen’s wish and actual worlds (and the influence or mediation of other worlds as well, such as the emotional and the moral worlds) configures his world (all the worlds taken together, arranged in a configuration). His definitive choice of the wish world over the actual world provides him with a specific goal, pointing him to a definite direction, motivating him to particular actions set on changing that configuration (wish world made “real,” his present actual world made obsolete). If, through his motivated action, Stephen is successful, then the contents of his worlds and their order of preference would be changed (e.g. the wish world would not be as significant, the actual world would be acceptable) and a new configuration, a new world, would be opened up.

“Ithaca”: Plot Resolution With Conflict Unresolved

[Claude Lorrain's The Return of Odysseus (1644)]

In “Ithaca,” the last time that Bloom and Stephen are seen in action in James Joyce’s Ulysses, the novel’s two main characters do not accomplish the resolution of their conflicts. It is thus in doubt whether the plot has, by the end of the novel, reached the stage of the resolution. Plot refers to what happens in a work of fiction, constituting, in Gerald Prince’s terms, “the main incidents of a narrative” (A Dictionary of Narratology 73). A strict delineation of plot would divide it into five main parts: exposition (the setting of and some background to the story), complication (the development of conflict), climax (the high point of conflict, usually involving confrontation or risky action), dénouement (the falling-off of events towards some more stable state, a state with less conflict), and resolution (after which something is changed—either because a desire is fulfilled, a decision is made, some conflicts are resolved, or they are not). This delineation makes apparent that the resolution of conflicts is but one possible feature of the plot resolution, a feature that is in fact subsumed under the larger, more important, event: change. As such, while, by the end of Ulysses, Bloom does not resolve his conflicts, it does not necessarily mean that there is no resolution. On the contrary, in “Ithaca,” something definitive happens to Bloom’s relation to Stephen that, while conflicts are left unresolved, the plot nonetheless reaches a resolution.[1]

Plot can be given the seemingly rigid structure[2] laid out above because plot, in fact, has a structure targeted towards a particular aim. In contrast to chatter, plot is not simply any sequence of events whose telling is justified by its entertainment value.[3] In contrast to story, the arrangement of events in a plot is justified not by chronology.[4] A main element of fiction (something imagined), there is an artificiality to plot[5] in the way that events are arranged in it so as to highlight causality from one event to another, providing some unity to the work of fiction from the beginning (in which things, potentially conflictual, are “exposed”) to the end (in which things are “resolved”). Hence, beyond being composed of incidents, beyond being “a narrative [or a narration or a telling] of events,” plot, as Prince defines it more precisely, is “the [deliberate] arrangement of [those] incidents” (73). Plot, that is to say, is the events it is made of arranged in a particular way so as to show that the said events are causal—that one event leads to the next—in a process that gives the plot, by demonstrating continuity, its unity (showing that its events belong together) and coherence (showing that the events are arranged in a logical way, i.e. in a way in which one follows another[6]) (73).

Prince[7] lists three main types of plot: “plots of action involving a change in the protagonist’s situation [. . .], plots of character involving a change in the protagonist’s moral character [. . .], and plots of thought involving a change in the protagonist’s thought and feeling” (73). In all three cases, change is the defining feature of plot, what, in effect, it delivers by the resolution stage.[8] Another narratologist, Lubomir Dolezel, makes the connection with another feature commonly found in plot. “Conflict,” Dolezel writes, “is the most common mode of interacting,” referring to multiple persons in a fictional world, although the statement certainly also applies to how a person relates to himself (with his different worlds, his many desires, his variable moods, etc.) (Heterocosmica 107). More importantly, Dolezel[9] explains the pervasiveness of conflict by asserting a “positive function” for it; that is, by asserting that conflict has something to do with, is perhaps what leads to, “the formation and change of interpersonal relations and social structures” (107). If conflicts within a person are also recognized as conflict, i.e. as having the same modal status as multi-person conflicts, then by extension it can be said that conflict also leads to changes in a person’s, e.g. the protagonist’s, situation, moral character, and/or thought and feeling (107). Conflict is thus according to this narratological model what in fiction leads to change. Being as change is the primary function or targeted outcome of plot, it is no surprise, then, that conflict, instrumental in bringing about change, is a pervasive presence in plot. Going hand in hand,[10] conflict and change are the primary features of plot.[11]

In Ulysses, Bloom, the main character, reaches the resolution stage of the plot in the second to the final episode of the novel, “Ithaca.” Many conflicts structure Bloom’s world(s), regarding both the multi-person dynamics he is in with other people and the multiple worlds his one person desires to create or is created by other forces for him—both of which are, needless to say, related. These conflicts are (in)formed by the life that Bloom lives, the actual situation that he finds himself in. Earlier in life, Bloom lost a son, Rudy, in a tragedy that he attributes to the distasteful way that Rudy was conceived, a sexual act Bloom shared with Molly, his wife, that was aroused by the libidinous acts of pigs on the street. Ever since then, Bloom had had problems getting it up for Molly, which has caused unspoken strains in their marriage and their exploration of other sexual possibilities separately and clandestinely, although accompanied by suspicions of the other.

On the level of multiple persons, then, Bloom is in conflict with Molly, whom he cannot satisfy sexually and who, because he is married to her, prevents him from fully exploring other sexual possibilities at the same time that it causes him pain and jealousy to think that she is doing or thinking similar extramarital things. He is also in conflict with the son he desires but who, because he is not there, cannot fulfill his desire, prevents his desire from being fulfilled. (These are the situations of Bloom’s actual world, determined by things that “really” happened in it and by what he knows or thinks he knows about it, in which he is motivated by his desires in or out of it). Bloom’s desire for the son, it must be noted, is over-determined since in more general terms it is also the desire for the father-son relationship that Bloom lost abruptly when his own father killed himself (another actual world situation), another tragedy that strengthens Bloom’s desire for a son (a world wished). This desire for the son is, more importantly, also connected to the desire for sexual satisfaction (the other desire in Bloom’s wish world) because if only the son had not died, then presumably Bloom wouldn’t have problems getting it up with and for Molly, which would not only resolve Bloom’s desire for sexual satisfaction but also remove the conflict it is currently in with the marriage since in that case (in that possible world), Bloom would be having the sexual satisfaction in the marriage, with Molly (in a different actual world).

As hinted at by the possible-worlds explanations in parentheses, on another level the conflicts are really within Bloom himself, between the multiple worlds that he, despite being only one person, lives: his actual or “real” situation that delimits what is in his world and moreover conditions what can happen to it; his knowledge of the nature and conditions of that actual world, his knowledge world that helps him determine how to act in the actual world; and the wishes and/or desires formed from those two worlds, the wish world that, in turn, can change the actual world, influenced by what he knows or thinks he knows about it. More precisely, the conflicts of the multi-person world (usually between different, multiple characters) create and correspond to conflicts in the one-person world (between the different worlds, even different forces within one of the worlds,[12] even different personalities, of one person).[13] The relation between the two does not end there, however. As Dolezel explains, as the conflicts at the multi-person level specify the conditions of the world that the character has to deal with, as the character thinks about these conflicts within his own person and determines how to resolve the different inner worlds they have created, the character is motivated to a particular course of action (100-5, 63-70). Thus from the multi-world conflicts of the one-person world, conflicts that were created by multi-person conflicts, the character goes back to the multi-person world motivated to find a resolution to those multi-person conflicts.

Fictionality and Reality in “Aeolus”

[Alexander Yakovlev's Aeolus]

Perhaps the most striking feature of the “Aeolus” episode of James Joyce’s Ulysses is the presentation of headlines. Phrases such as “IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS,” “HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT,” “MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED,” “A COLLISION ENSUES,” “EXIT BLOOM,” and “CLEVER, VERY” are set off from the rest of the text, centered at the top of what look like different sections, and written in all capital letters, appearing as headlines. These headlines herald, as it were, the actual narration at the same time that the events narrated (or the things described) are divided from each other by these phrases that serve as section subheadings or titles. Because of the different, even obtrusive, character of this literary device, the narration is disrupted as the reader’s attention is turned to the artificiality of the fiction. Later, however, as the device becomes a part of the convention of the narration (especially since the device has a relation to the content), the reader is immersed back to the “reality” of the fiction.

The first thing that the headlines do is to disorient the reader. Up until this point, even as Ulysses features unconventional stylistic devices,[1] these features are well incorporated into the narration that the reader maintains a sense of the “reality” of the narration. When the reader encounters stream of consciousness, for example, these streams of thought, usually triggered by something in the actual situation of the character, are connected to the character whose thoughts they are, such that the reader understands that, in employing stream of consciousness, the narrator is simply following the thoughts of the character, revealing them to the reader. The reader thus sees the logic for the stylistic device and s/he remains immersed in the narration, intuiting that the unconventional feature (the stream of consciousness) is part of what really happens in the situation (i.e. the characters do have these streams of thought as they go about in their actual situation). The reader does receive the added benefit that s/he is privy to these thoughts in a way that s/he is not in real life, but because it is incorporated well enough in the narration, because s/he sees the logic in it, the reader accepts the narration, with its artificial device, as something “real,” at least within the bounds of the world of the fictional text. Thus the reader, even while encountering a device that couldn’t possibly be present in real life, has, for the most part, a smooth reading experience.

Unlike (or more so than) in stream of consciousness, the presentation of headlines in “Aeolus” disrupts the narration. The headlines divide the episode up into small sections, thereby separating events (and even elements of an event) from each other, disturbing their flow. While the streams of thought do also slow down the narration of the immediate situation in which the characters are, the headlines literally separate the reader from the narration as s/he has to read these headings before s/he reads the actual narration, in effect forcing on him/her a mandatory, albeit brief, pause. The content of these headings, then, further disrupt continuity as some sort of summary, if not commentary, is provided—added—by these titles, before the event in the division or subsection is even narrated and rather than the narration simply proceeding by itself, without metafictional intervention.

To some extent, the headlines differ from each other in the function that they fulfill in their respective sections. “IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS” provides the setting of its section using a figurative phrase (the setting is then literally named in the section itself with the phrase, “before Nelson’s pillar”) (7.1, 7.3). “WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT” provides the full name and some background of the character described by other people in the section (7.38). “HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT” and “MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED” are succinct summations of part of what happens in their respective sections (machines and human beings at work to produce a newspaper issue; an exclamation by Myles Crawford recalling a battle for no ostensible reason), arguably not the most important events in both sections (7.84, 7.358). “? ? ?” opens a section with many questions (7.512). “YOU CAN DO IT!” prefigures an utterance that will be made in its section, which is arguably the most important moment in that section (7.614). “CLEVER, VERY” does the same thing as “YOU CAN DO IT!” but without the same significance (7.674). “LET US HOPE” is related to the conversation of the characters in its section, but is not directly uttered by any character, giving the sense that perhaps it is the narrator uttering it, in participation in the conversation (7.905). “K.M.A.” and “K.M.R.I.A.” are abbreviations of statements made in their respective sections (7.980, 7.990). “A DISTANT VOICE” indirectly refers to Bloom, the major character of the novel, who is not physically present in the section, but who is on the phone (7.657).

Even with minor differences, these headlines, as becomes apparent in the description of what they do, perform similar functions. In having a direct relation to what happens in their respective sections, these headlines—either by naming something or someone important in the section (directly as in “WILLIAM BRAYDEN”; indirectly as in “A DISTANT VOICE”); or by providing some sort of summary as to what happens in the section (perhaps even trying to briefly explain what the section is about); or by prefiguring what will happen or be said in the section—provide some sort of introduction to the sections. Sometimes these headlines refer to an only seemingly important detail in the section (e.g. the background of events, as in the production of the newspaper in “HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT”) rather than the more significant moments in it (e.g. Bloom trying to get back the money owed him (7.113-7.119)). In these instances, these headlines, far from simply providing a straightforward introduction, serve as a kind of distraction that takes away the reader’s attention from the more significant events, perhaps testing him/her.

There is also sometimes a disjunct between the headline as title and the event in the section. In “MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED,” for example, it is not really clear why Myles makes the exclamation about the North Cork militia, or how memorable its battles were.[2] In these instances, the headline introduces through a commentary (in this case an ironic one) on, rather than a summation of, the event in the section. Nonetheless, at the basic level, these headlines do still perform some function of introduction, acquainting the reader to the narration coming ahead. Thus, even as, as mentioned above, the form imposed by the headlines on the episode (i.e. as a narration divided into sections) and their content force on the reader a mandatory, albeit brief, pause, at the same time the reader is given an introduction to the section by virtue of its title that is indicative in some way (not always in the same way). In other words, the headlines have a double effect: they make the reader pause—precisely in order to prepare him/her for the chunks of narration coming his/her way. The presentation of headlines, an unconventional literary device, thus both stops the narration and propels it on.

“Proteus”: Plotless One-Person Fictional World?

[A rendering of the sea-god Proteus by Andrea Alciato]

After Stephen Dedalus is introduced in the first two episodes of James Joyce’s Ulysses, hardly anything happens in “Proteus,” the third episode. After the reader is acquainted with Stephen’s character (a struggling and aspiring artist), his job (teaching privileged boys), his living situation (in a tower with a not disinterested friend), and the people around him (Mulligan, Haines, Mr. Deasy, his dead mother), in “Proteus” the reader finds Stephen walking at the beach, alone. It is as if the tension between the characters, the conflicts that have been building up, and Stephen’s aspirations are put on hold to make room for his observations and reflections. This slows down the development of the plot, even disrupting (in addition to delaying) the narrative by it being preoccupied with things that do not seem to contribute much to earlier developments. This is only seemingly true, however. “Proteus” serves a very important function in the narrative: in it, Stephen is able to come to a decision that is much needed to move the plot along.

“Proteus” feels different from the previous two episodes largely because in its fictional world, there is only one person.[1] With only one person, there are no other characters that Stephen can converse and interact with. Thus there are no dialogues, important features of the text that, among other things, reveal information (both the obvious and the hidden[2]), create tension (by virtue not only of the content of what is said, but also its tone, its phrasing, previous statements made, the position of the speaker,[3] etc.), and serve as motivation for further action[4]—all things that dialogues do in the previous episodes, contributing to the plot. More generally, with only one person, there are no other figures who can have all sorts of relations with Stephen (conversationally, but also physically)—to challenge him, support him, stimulate him, do something with him, do something to him, to whom he would do something—thereby severely limiting action and what happens in the episode. Thus it is not clear what (and how) the “Proteus” episode contributes to the plot being developed in the novel as a whole. This is unnerving since the episode is, presumably for a reason, an integral part of the novel.

Narrative fiction does many things, but whether it illuminates the character/s (the “protagonist”), sheds light on some part of the world or aspect of life (by elaborating a “theme”), or experiments with the medium of narration itself (such as by shifting points of view or using words innovatively), it does this through the prime literary device at its disposal, the plot. Defined as the successive stages of a development (exposition, complication, climax, dénouement, resolution) or the realization of a drive (the character has a desire that motivates him/her to action) by way of conflicts, after which something has changed, plot is, as it were, the structure of narrative. Whatever else narrative fiction does, plot is the device by which it attempts to do that, the plot being its defining feature: the “plan” around which the narrative’s events are organized, the springboard for the fiction’s desired effects, what moves the narration on (thereby making possible that something is narrated), what makes it a narrative in the first place.

Plot is precisely what “Proteus,” by featuring a world with only one person, seems to be missing, in which case it does not seem to have the device that connects it to the rest of the novel and by which it can contribute to its overall effect. This is, however, only seemingly true. While there are no other pertinent characters physically present with Stephen in his actual setting in “Proteus,” they are nonetheless there, present in his mind. These absent characters emerge insistently in Stephen’s mind and they are encountered through memories and reflections sometimes triggered by observations (of the immediate environment), the most pervasive features of the episode. These characters in the mind, then, enable Stephen to deal with the conflicts already introduced in the previous episodes and, in some cases, allow him, if only internally, to resolve them, as though the characters were really present. Even with no other persons, then, there are other characters in Stephen’s mind, there are conflicts, and there are (Stephen’s) desires. Hence, even with only one person in its fictional world, “Proteus” still has plot. Moreover, the remembrance of statements made by the other characters and Stephen’s own varied thoughts serve, as it were, as the dialogue.

The plot of “Proteus” is less conspicuous than in previous episodes, but it can still be followed, usually through revelatory thoughts that from time to time come out to disrupt Stephen’s train of thought. The episode begins with philosophical cogitation that seems to come out of nowhere, but which is in fact logically connected to the plot. At the end of the first paragraph of this cogitation, Stephen is led to think, “Shut your eyes and see,” which is perhaps indicative of what Stephen is trying to do in this episode (3.9). Offended and betrayed by Mulligan, insulted and commanded by Mr. Deasy, feeling indignation towards Haines (events that were recounted in the first two episodes), and haunted by his mother whose last wish he did not fulfill, there is a sense in which Stephen walks at the beach to escape from it all, to “shut his eyes” from it, as it were. The escape, however, is only temporary, as Stephen himself knows: when he opens his eyes, the world is “there all the time without [him]: and ever shall be, world without end” (3.27-3.28). Nonetheless, he still needs this respite, the shutting of the eyes, precisely in order to “see,” i.e. to be able to think and come to some decision as to what to do with the situation (the same world that he will again see once he opens his eyes). This is precisely what Stephen does in the episode: he shuts himself from his world (hence action is replaced by reflections, memories, observations) to come up with some decision as to what to do with it (the progress of which is indicated by the revelatory thoughts that from time to time emerge).

What is Philosophy, Benjamin?

Walter Benjamin begins The Origin of German Tragic Drama with an “epistemo-critical prologue” in which, before he presents his idea of the baroque, he articulates his conception of philosophy, the activity by which he represents ideas and conceptualizes phenomena (such as the baroque).[1] Benjamin does this by charting a dichotomy, in which he situates philosophy clearly on one side. Philosophy, Benjamin clarifies, is “not [. . .] a guide to the acquisition of knowledge” but is “the representation of truth” (28). While mathematics tends towards the “elimination of the problem of representation” (thereby renouncing “that area of truth towards which language is directed”), “philosophical writing [presumably having to do with language. . .] must continually confront the question of representation” (27). Unlike the concept of the system that, in a syncretic fashion, connects “separate kinds of knowledge” (thereby acquiring universalism)[2] to catch a truth that comes from outside, (28), philosophy “in its finished form [. . .] assume[s] the quality of doctrine” (27), which has “didactic authority” (28). Philosophy, in other words, is for Benjamin the activity that, through language, represents truth, in an immanent process in which it gains the status of doctrine (something that in itself has authority, without the need for external verification).

Benjamin illustrates these principles at work through the treatise (“without which truth is inconceivable” (28)), what can be thought of as the beginnings of a doctrine, philosophy commencing its work. The treatise, Benjamin describes, lacks the authority of the doctrine (since it is still in development) at the same time that it dispenses with mathematical proof (since mathematics is not philosophy’s method) (28). “The only element of an intention [. . . that the treatise has, Benjamin explains,] is the authoritative quotation” (28).[3] True to philosophy, the “method [of the treatise] is essentially representation,” which, Benjamin elaborates, is “a digression,” a method that lacks “uninterrupted purposeful structure” (28). The “process of thinking” involved in the treatise, in other words, is one that “makes new beginnings, returning in a roundabout way to its original object” (28). Benjamin also calls this method contemplation, which is characterized by the “continual pausing for breath,” as the philosopher “pursu[es] different levels of meaning in its examination of one single object [in which the philosophical activity . . .] receives both the incentive to begin again and the justification for its irregular rhythm” (28).[4] The aim of this “contemplative mode of representation [. . .] is not to carry the reader away and inspire him with enthusiasm” but to “force[. . .] the reader to pause and reflect” in a detached manner (29). [Marx, of course, criticizes precisely such contemplative philosophy as complicit with the state (of things).]

The things or tools that philosophy works with are what Benjamin call ideas (29). To clarify what they are, he distinguishes truth, which “bodie[s] forth in the dance of represented ideas,” from knowledge (29). Knowledge, Benjamin describes, “is determined by the fact that it must be taken possession of” (29). As such, its method is not representation but the acquisition of the object targeted to be known (29). Knowledge acquires its object when the knower gets to know individual phenomena, collecting knowledge about them (30). These individual phenomena, Benjamin notes, are not unified in themselves. To be fully known, then, a secondary process is called for in which the knower “derive[s . . .] a coherence [. . . of these separate phenomena] in the consciousness” (30). Knowledge, in other words, requires a secondary process (the conscious derivation of coherence) in addition to the direct knowing (or perception) of individual objects. Because of this, the unity gained by knowledge, Benjamin evaluates, is not immediate. It is moreover only a conceptual unity, where “the concept is a spontaneous product of the intellect” (30) and not of the experience that precedes that intellectualizing (perhaps even rationalizing) process (characterized as this primary experience is by individual (and not unified) phenomena). [Husserl is charting the same mechanism when he makes the call to go back to phenomena, except Husserl’s “phenomena” does not relate to knowledge but to direct experience; Benjamin, of course, makes a very different move from Husserl when, rather than staying with phenomena, he connects them to ideas, as explained below.]

In contrast, Benjamin defines truth as “self-representation,” describing it as deriving “from an essence” (30). Benjamin explains that “all essences exist in complete and immaculate independence, not only from [reality], but especially, from each other” (37). Unlike individual phenomena (what knowledge works with), then, essences are unified and complete in themselves. Being more specific, Benjamin states that truth deals with ideas, which “are simply given to be reflected upon” (30). As such, ideas, unlike concepts, have a “unity of essence,” where essences have “supreme metaphysical significance” (30). It is, Benjamin clarifies, the “harmonious relationship between such essences [i.e. ideas. . . that] constitutes truth” (37). Because of the essential nature of its materials/components, then, “unity is present in truth as a direct and essential attribute” (30). Representation is thus immanent to truth and while “knowledge is open to question, [. . .] truth is not” (30). It is precisely this—truth, not knowledge—that for Benjamin philosophy is concerned with. [Thus in a way Benjamin aims to overthrow the tradition begun by Descartes that made epistemology the first philosophy.]

Reading Plato, Benjamin then presents “truth—the realm of ideas—as the essential content of beauty” (30) (emphasis added).[5] Benjamin clarifies that “truth is not a process of exposure which destroys the secret [of beauty], but a revelation which does justice to it” by being “the guarantor of the existence of beauty” (31). By content, then, Benjamin does not mean something exposed. Rather, it is something “revealed in a process which might be described metaphorically as the burning up of the husk as it enters the realm of ideas, that is to say a destruction of the work in which its external form achieves its most brilliant degree of illumination,” i.e. the revelation (truth) that leads to illumination (beauty) (31). This to Benjamin demonstrates even more so how truth is not the object of knowledge, that philosophical truth is not scientific truth, and that philosophical truth “applie[s] to the world of ideas instead of empirical reality” (32).

Materiality of Discourses on Decolonization

[The Pintura of Chimalhuacán-Atoyac, an Amerindian "map"]

Walter Mignolo’s The Darker Side of the Renaissance explores different practices of representation/expression (literature, history, cartography) and the way in which in their respective registers (language, memory, space) they have been shaped and utilized by the imperial power (Europe, Spain in particular) for its colonizing project (of the Americas).[1] Mignolo makes no gesture to deny that some material world exists outside of these discourses (discourses here simply meaning processes that produce representations such as a literary work, a historical record, a map). Rather than straightforward correspondence between the discourse (which produce entities related to what Saussure calls the sign) and the material world (Saussure’s referent; “reality”), however, Mignolo questions such notion of objective truth.[2] He points instead to the political motivation and implication of such discourses, arguing that the construction of representations and the shape that they take constitute a significant part of the process of colonization (i.e. these discourses forward the imperial power’s political interests). In effect, the colonizer does not merely take over physical space (the territory) and assert its power by physical force (e.g. by the execution of insurgent elements in the colonized population); part and parcel of the colonizing project is the discursive imposition of representations. This is the way in which discourses of colonization, which manifest materially (in the text, the map), have a material effect (as “tools” for colonization).

One such discourse imposed by imperial power is European cartography, the development of which Mignolo charts in chapter 6 (“Putting the Americas on the Map: Cartography and the Colonization of Space”). Mignolo explains that the West mapped the world as divided into four parts in which, at the outset of its colonization, the Americas was represented as a “New World.” This representation equated knowledge by the West of a part of the world previously unknown to it with that part’s existence, as though prior to that knowledge, the Americas was an empty space that therefore had no perspective (coming as perspective does from people) and as though the perspective of the West corresponded to the actual shape of the world (259-62). Mignolo notes that all cultures fall into this centrism (262). If this is the case, it can be asked: why does Mignolo focus on the “hypothetical European observer,” critiquing only Eurocentrism (and not say, Amerindianism) (262)? What makes European centrism unique? Is it because the West at the time that Mignolo speaks of was in a position to do something with its perspective, i.e. to colonize the Americas, in a way that other powers that were also prone to centrism (e.g. Japan) did not?[3]

An implied assumption in Mignolo’s argument is that the European colonization of the Americas worked partly because of European cartography, that, as it were, representation is a tool for colonization. At the same time, however, (this may be what makes the European case unique) the success of their (material) colonization of the Americas allowed Europeans to disseminate their perspective—including to the colonized who come to adopt the colonizers’ maps not in the least because their land has become a part of the colonizers’ territory, thereby necessitating some synchronization of the representations of space—not to mention the forceful imposition by the colonizers of their representations, as, for example, in “the suppression [by the Spanish] of native graphic traditions and modes of communication” (303). Thus not only is discourse a part of the colonizing project; through colonization the discourses of the colonizers seem to gain more universality, if only because that discourse is incorporated into the representational framework of more people (the colonizers and the colonized).

After discussing European cartography, Mignolo turns to “the other side of the mountain” to provide an account of Amerindian representations of space—the same space represented by the Europeans, albeit differently—the presence of which testifies that there were, in fact, albeit silenced, Amerindian representations of space prior to and after the Europeans’ arrival in what the latter called the “New World” (296). Mignolo hints that he can do this with less certainty compared to his account of European representation since “Amerindian ‘maps’ are not as well documented as Spanish and European ones partly due to the fact that most of them were destroyed in the process of colonization,” which once again makes felt the effect of the material situation on discursive representations (296). Nonetheless, Mignolo is able to determine that Amerindian representations were, like the actual space they inhabited, hybrid ones in which both “ethnic spaces” of the Spanish and the Amerindian coexisted (307). This is the way in which Mignolo is able to make the distinction between the two discursive strategies of representation: the European empties space so that he can then organize it with himself occupying the center; while the Amerindian empties the center to show the two ethnic groups inhabiting the same (or a contiguous) space with each other (309).

At first it seems as though it is only the Europeans that are, through their representations, committing a political act, as though it is only their discourses that have a material effect. Emptying space, the Europeans are able to impose their own perspective and position themselves at the center of representations, thereby making felt, even in their representations (i.e. in addition to their setting up of a government, their military bases, etc.), their power. Amerindian mappings of space after the conquest, however, are also political. The Amerindians were faced with a (material) situation in which the colonizers occupied the center. Even as their hybrid representations do not attempt to push these colonizers out (since they represent both groups, including the colonizers), the latter are nonetheless de-centered, in a move that likely calls for an equality of status between the two groups (since in the representations no one is at the center; rather, both groups coexist in two ethnic spaces), in effect dethroning the colonizers from their position of power—undeniably a political move. The two representations have two different starting points (a space that was just discovered, targeted to be colonized; colonial rule in which the colonized “native” inhabitants of the land, occupy a subordinate position) and as such different tasks—and, it must be noted, different goals (colonization, with the hierarchy, usurpation, and oppression it implies; equality without necessarily demanding the colonizers to leave). Nonetheless, it cannot be denied that both discursive strategies are political: created by groups that have political interests (although politics may not be the only reason that they were created), the representations work towards (material) political goals.

Zone of Social Abandonment, Constructed, (In)Visible

[João Biehl and Catarina in Vita; image by Torben Eskerod from the book]

There is a place outside of Porto Alegre in Brazil where families leave behind “undesirable members” (14) (mostly sick) to wait for their death. It is called Vita, what João Biehl, in an ethnographic work, describes as a “zone of social abandonment.” Zones of social abandonment are sprouting in Brazil’s big cities to perform a function left over by other social institutions: the exclusion of certain elements (those who don’t produce, those who don’t vote (104)) from the body politic in the form of “social death.” (The) Social (production of) death(s) (14) is death in a very real sense since human beings in need of care (usually considered to be mentally ill) are left in these zones (due to the family’s lack of ability and/or willingness to care) to allow their death and since, upon entrance to these zones, these human beings become excluded—dead as far as it is concerned—from the social context in which they once were. Thus death, in Vita (nowhere to be seen on the map), is dealt to both the “biological entity [. . . and the] ‘social being grafted upon the physical individual’” (37)—creating ex-humans (52)—in what Biehl describes as “the end-station on the road of poverty” (2) and of the disintegration of social links (106-107).

Biehl puts in context the emergence of these zones. The declaration of health as a public right in Brazil (provided by the State) raised expectations (demanding social inclusion) even as it “collided with historically entrenched forms of medical authoritarianism” (47). “Decentralization and community- and family-centered approaches to primary care [was called for by health workers against psychiatric institutions] amid [not unrelated to the worldwide neoliberal wave] the rapid encroachment of private health care plans” (47). Faced with “high rates of migration and unemployment, the rise of a drug economy in the poorest outlying areas, and generalized violence,” “police forces [at the same time] increasingly engaged in erasing signs of misery, begging, and informal economies from the city, [and] pastoral and philanthropic institutions took up the role of caregiver, albeit selectively” (48). Tasked with growing burdens amid increased pressure, “families frequently [. . .] redefin[ed] their functional scope and value systems” (48), at times making the decision to abandon family members in need, thereby “making decisions about who shall die and who shall live and at what cost” (52). As a result, then, of “disciplinary sites of confinement, including traditionally structured families and institutional psychiatry, [. . .] breaking apart; [of] the social domain of the state [. . .] ever-shrinking; and [of] society increasingly operat[ing] through market dynamics” (41), zones like Vita have emerged in response to a new social need unfulfilled by institutions already in existence. “In the face of increasing economic and biomedical inequality and the breakdown of the family, human bodies [have thus been] routinely separated from their normal political status and abandoned to the most extreme misfortune, death-in-life” (38).

More interestingly, Biehl traces the subjectivity of Vita’s patients/inmates itself to its social causes (going so far as to suggest that their “conditions” are social constructs?). Catarina, Biehl’s main subject of study in the book, suggests that a shift in family relations amidst her medical treatment (she complains of “rheumatism,” in fact a paralysis) made possible her reconstruction as “mad” (8). This begs the question: Is she mad, then? Does she in fact have a mental condition that requires treatment in an institution, and, if she does, was it caused by a social dynamic (the shift in family dynamics, the use of pharmaceuticals) rather than a biological determinant (e.g. genetic predisposition)? Biehl points out that “the soundness or unsoundness of [Catarina’s] mind was the nature either presupposed by her kin and neighbors or mastered by pharmaceuticals and the scientific truth-value they bestow,” implying that what is considered normal/mad is a matter of norms, a social judgment (relying on common sense, later on taken to be scientific) (9). From this Biehl speculates that “familial and medical deliberations over Catarina’s mental state [none of which is objectively definitive (reliant as it is on current common sense)] and the actions that resulted made her life practically impossible” (9-10), leading her to Vita although there may in fact be no justification for it (she may not in fact be “mad,” or she was made mad) other than the family’s intention to leave her there (the “madness” labeled upon her serving as pretext).

After hearing some of Catarina’s life story, Biehl tells her, “You seem to be suggesting that your family, the doctors, and the medications played an active role in making you ‘mad’” (95). Catarina’s life situation before Vita was indeed potent for “madness” (“objective”/scientific or imposed?). Married to an abusive womanizer who later on took their children away, financially taken advantage of by a brother-in-law, and neglected and disparaged by her brothers (92-98), Catarina was admitted to a psychiatric hospital based solely on a history of mental illness in the family (123) and the word (not even of a family member) of a family friend (126). In the hospital, she was given inadequate mental treatment (124) characterized by “highly stigmatizing diagnostics and routinized overmedication” without much differentiation between patients, in which the aim was “sedating [the patients], controlling [their] aggressiveness, and alleviating the supposed psychotic episode” (127), the patient’s resistance to which is taken as a sign that the diagnosis is correct and the treatment appropriate (128). Catarina keeps telling Biehl, her ethnographer, “When my thoughts agreed with my ex-husband and his family, everything was fine. [. . .] But when I disagreed with them, I was mad. It was like a side of me had to be forgotten. The side of wisdom” (79). It is likely that Catarina does in fact have a mental condition (probably mild, partly caused by her physical ailments, likely caused by complicated labor in childbirth (79)), but, aided by institutional medication, this was socially constructed by people she was intimately linked to into the madness that abandoned her to Vita, the “end-station” where she is made to await death.

Once in Vita, people like Catarina become invisible, excluded from the social body. An implied thesis in Biehl’s book is that if only these people were not forgotten, if only these people were visible, then they would be cared for, they wouldn’t suffer such fate, they wouldn’t already be (in life) dead. This is reminiscent of politics of representation (Badiou?) that argue that the reason that certain people are or can be oppressed is because they are invisible, that invisibility itself (e.g. no documents, no right to vote) is oppression. Catarina is in fact in some sense invisible: while she is seen by fellow inmates and is known (not only in her personality but also in her condition, if vaguely and uncertainly) by the administrators of Vita (in that sense, she does not totally lose her subjectivity), like the zone itself (not marked on the map) she is invisible to the outside world, including the family that abandoned her. (There are levels of (in)visibility, it seems.) The question is: would visibility do her and the zone itself (and its other patients) any good? I ask this question conscious of Foucault’s analysis of the ways in which those who exercise power accumulate knowledge of the subject (by virtue of his visibility to them) in order to use it to subject him (in fact is what makes this possible), the exercise of power yielding knowledge, which allows the (further) exercise of power, (further) production of knowledge . . . in the mechanism that he referred to as power/knowledge (see also his analysis of disciplinary power). If Catarina’s visibility would lend her to potential intervention (not unlike interventions by her family that led her to a psychiatric institution, and then Vita), is it what Biehl, her beloved ethnographer, should be calling for?

Long Hiatus Ended–to protest!

It has been a looong time since I last posted something here. Partly because I took a break (from writing, at least), partly because I had to move to my new settlement for the next few years (beautiful SoCal). To restart another period of (hopefully prolific) activity, I significantly revised the profile page of (mass)think! (the only work-related product of the summer, really). Think of it as, “What is (mass)think?” or better yet, “How to (mass)think?” the profile of an “approach” (attitude, methodology, purpose), as it were, which really is a record/reminder of the most important things I learned in grad school (so far).

I also want to take this opportunity to alert those who are concerned about quality and accessible public education in America that, in lieu of the present economic “crisis” (manufactured by them who are being bailed out while they were singing, “I can do this by myself! No government! No sociality!”), the University of California is being threatened to be privatized and turned into a business. A letter by UC Berkeley professor Catherine Cole provides a guide through the economic woes passed onto the excellent public university system (one of the best, if not the best, in the United States) and the administration’s tendentious response to it. UC San Francisco professor Stanton Glantz explains how UC and CSU budget policymaking works and assesses options and their consequences (looking at UM), pointing to the importance of the governor. UC Berkeley professor George Lakoff clarifies that privatization is the real issue. To take a stand against the destruction of public education in California, on September 24th, UC faculty, students, and staff from all ten campuses are planning a walkout.

Update (2009.09.21):

The show Subversity on campus radio KUCI has been providing coverage of the UC budget crisis and planned worker response to it. Dan Tsang points to an earlier report (2002) by economist Peter Donohue on a history of the UC refusing to improve workers’ pay despite its ability to do so (more from its own revenues than state appropriations) without harming educational programs. Donohue also clarifies the distinction between “restricted” and “unrestricted” funds, pointing out that “committed” funds are not legally or contractually binding and that unrestricted funds have increased over the years, some of which have been non-mandatorily transferred (i.e. hidden).

More up-to-date analysis is provided by UC Berkeley Professor Emeritus in Physics Charles Schwartz at University Probe. Schwartz points out that for the proposed 2009-2010 budget, students’ financial input (2.5 billion) to the UC core operating budget actually matches the funds that come from the state (2.6 billion). If this is how things were to work, then the university, Schwartz reasons, ought to be more student-oriented. Calling attention to the fact that the administration is “cutting Teaching Assistants, who are graduate students employed as the first line in serving the educational needs of undergraduate students,” noting that “the total cost to UC for all TA’s [. . .] is between $100 million and $200 million per year, [. . . which] are peanuts compared to the total $1.5 billion that undergraduate students are paying in Educational Fees,” Schwartz remarks that “there is something wrong here.” The “$1.5 billion in money that [the UC] get[s] from undergraduate students paying their Educational Fees should be used – as a first priority – to provide the quality undergraduate education that UC has been famous for [including the hiring of excellent faculty and TAs].  If there is a dire shortage in state funding, that may certainly have some painful consequences; but since students are paying so much for their own education, that money must be used to supply them that education.”

Remaking the University links to a series of videos from the UC Budget Crisis Teach-In at UC Berkeley on 2009.09.14.

Defend-UCI links to a document by senior faculty from UC Irvine providing a “more informed understanding” of the UC crisis, highlighting UC contributions to California; property taxes that are too low (thanks to Proposition 13 in 1978) and corporate taxes that were cut, making the state dependent on individual income tax; the Schwarzenegger-Dynes-Reed Compact that shifts education finance away from the state general fund onto private sources; the governor demanding radical shrinkage of the pubilc sector (vowing “no new taxes,” instead calling for “structural reform”). More directly pertinent to the UC, the document explains the most recent reduction (2008-2009) in state support from $3.2 to $2.4 billion and the state of fiscal emergency declared by UC President Yudof as he imposed salary cuts, office restructurings, service reductions, administrative consolidations (“the net result has been a substantial and accelerating decline in the quality of students’ educational experience—growing class sizes, fewer courses, greater difficulty enrolling in courses, fewer teaching assistants, less student access to labs”; “The University of California – the greatest public university in the world — usually hires dozens of faculty members each year. Most campuses have had to declare a hiring freeze”) and recommended a net 30% increase in student fees over the next year (“with the proposed increases in student fees, the UC is still cheaper than its peers, [. . . but] to fully recoup from tuition [w]hat is being cut in state support, students would have to pay twice as much as they do now”).

Students from the Radical Student Union at UC Irvine publish the first ever UCI Disorientation Guide.

Contact the media (TV, radio, blog) and ask them to cover the 9/24 UC walkout! My letter to Democracy Now!:

On September 24th professors, students, and staff are planning a system-wide walkout at the ten UC campuses to protest state cuts on education funding and make the UC, one of the best and few truly public universities in America, to be more reliant on student fees. Berkeley professor George Lakoff makes clear that the issue really is the privatization of the public university (http://keepcaliforniaspromise.org/?p=77), with consequences reaching far beyond California. Berkeley professor Charles Schwartz points out that for the proposed 2009-2010 budget, students’ financial input (2.5 billion) to the UC core operating budget actually matches the funds that come from the state (2.6 billion) (http://bit.ly/1yeT5f). The Donohue report (2002) shows that the UC has a history of refusing to improve workers’ pay despite its ability to do so (more from its own revenues than state appropriations) without harming educational programs (http://bit.ly/388pIH). UC Irvine senior faculty describes the salary cuts, office restructurings, service reductions, administrative consolidations, and tuition hikes imposed by UC president Yudof (http://bit.ly/1bYi1). Berkeley professors offer a teach-in on the crisis (http://bit.ly/2qmR0H). The LA Times and mainstream media in general has not covered this story. It has been mentioned in the Pacifica Evening Radio News, but in-depth coverage and analysis is lacking. Given the groundbreaking tradition of Democracy Now to bring news from the progressive ground, I’m sure it would be easy to find the professors mentioned above and ask them to explain these issues–pertinent to the whole nation, specifically to public education, which is dying–in a public and national forum. September 24th is an important day, because if the protests fall flat, then the UC administration would take it as a signal that they can do whatever they want, without input and, more importantly, significant resistance from faculty, staff, and students, the true lifeblood of the university. Please consider this request; do your part in taking a stand against the destruction of public education.

In Between and Outside, Difference and Dialectics

[Some of the PhD programs I applied to wanted to know more about my person and how it has shaped the kind of work that I do. This is the statement of “personal history and philosophy” I wrote in addition to the “purpose of study.”]

I was born in cosmopolitan Manila, capital of the Philippines, between two so-called “ethnic communities.” I lived most of my life in that milieu referred to in official state records as “Filipino-Chinese,” lacking both the “nativeness” of the Filipino and the “elite” status of the Chinese. In grade school I remember being chosen as a speaker in an event celebrating Philippine independence and the revolutionary struggle against Spain. My history teacher had picked me to be the Filipino “representative” (to mirror the Filipino rebel leaders) because of my diligence and my brown skin. I will never forget, however, that I was not really what she was looking for. My small Chinese eyes, she remarked, betrayed me.

This uncanny position in between characterized many of my interactions in early life that I can only identify now. In college, for example, “native” “Filipinos” had the stereotype of the “Chinese” as good with numbers, obsessed with business, and dismissive (if not disdainful) of Filipino culture. My “native” classmates thought I was one of them. I could not speak Chinese, however, and I did better on minor classes in the humanities while struggling in business courses required by my major. At the same time, I could not understand some expressions my “Filipino” friends used and was not familiar with some typical activities. Interacting with both groups failed, as it were, to make me think of myself as belonging to either one—on the contrary only heightening the problems of identity I felt.

Ironically enough, this can perhaps be accounted for by the fact that there is virtually no identity politics in the Philippines. Even as it is a very diverse “nation-state,” for some reason, Filipinos don’t really talk about ethnic differences (at least not formally). When riding the jeep, for example, while it is commonplace to find two Filipinos who could not look any more different from each other, there is no way to talk about such things or to raise such issues (much less claim one as more “Filipino” than the other). People simply do not think about it, much less bother with it. After all, were differences to be pointed out, many fine grades of distinction would have to be considered: for example, between the Spanish-Filipinos (the mestizos), the Filipino-Americans (the Fil-Ams), and within the “truly” “native” “Filipinos” the many different tribes (originating from different regions) incorporated in that entity, not to mention the uncertain status of the Muslims (the Moros) in the south and the somewhat unassimilated but homegrown “Chinese” (and, mixed with the “native” Pinoys, the Chinoys). Not to be forgotten, of course, are the intermarriages and mixtures between these already mixed groups (like myself). Thus I grew up finding no sense (or use) in so-called “identity categories” at the same time that I felt sharply my own singular difference. This is partly to account for, I think, my aversion to large, fixed, exclusive categories and attraction to syncretic combinations, singular performances, and molecular differences.

The feeling I had of being in between—an outsider—did not merely have to do with ethnicity. I never did understand how my father, the son of Chinese immigrants and who could barely speak Tagalog (the dominant dialect that serves as the basis of the national language), was able to develop an “understanding” with my mother, a “Filipina” from the province of Pampanga for whom Tagalog was a second language and who could not speak Chinese. The moments I spent with my father were moments in which he was trying to learn Tagalog. He also passed away early in life and was not able to teach me Chinese. My mother, on the other hand, taught me my “first language,” Tagalog, although in conversations with family she herself used her own mother tongue, Kapampangan (from her province). In grade school, I encountered, of course, that other dominant language, English, an unofficial “official” language of the country in which I was for the most part educated (although not in the way that the rich were; hence my accent).

From very early on in life, then, I existed amidst many, shall we call, different “traditions.” Which one is my own?, I never really could tell. Other than identity, however, there were also issues of power, palpable to me from the very beginning. It struck me that, on the surface, one can be thought to be part of a dominant group (“He is part Chinese . . .”) yet, in reality, not have much power (my father did do a lot of business, as a traveling businessman of sorts). Similarly, one can indeed possess substantial power (“I speak fluent Tagalog, the major language of the country”), but, as I realized later, only within a certain context (“You’re abroad. What is your Tagalog worth now?”). In my experience, at least, I felt as though a shifter, occupying positions in the majority or the minority according to the time, place, and situation I was in.

Compounding this shifting position in power is the inability to fully identify with not only one’s “natural group,” as it were, based on one’s “inherent” characteristics, but also with the political ideologies or causes in which one believes. So-called “left-wing movements” in the Philippines, for example, demand of the state to curb economic inequality. This is partnered, however, with the conservative appeal to traditional “Filipino” values in response to the globalizing and modernizing pull of the West, which, due to some admiration I have for the West, prevents me from pledging full solidarity with the “national” leftist movement. The absence of men and the preponderance of women (my mom, aunts, sisters, cousins, nannies) in my life has also, despite my somewhat successful education in the performance of the “masculine” gender, affected my desires such that to an extent I feel the stirrings of feminine sexuality—which keeps me even more at odds with the movement I am supposed to belong. It seems as though there is always something that keeps me from identifying and belonging. Less a matter of choice than simply the way that my life has worked out, again and again I am relegated to the outside.