Color and academia

A few years back, a faculty colleague, after expressing concern that his puppies would develop racist tendencies for lack of exposure to minorities, asked if he could bring the dogs to my house to play with my two sons, ages 1 and 3. My children — like their parents and unlike most everyone else at the college and in our town — are of the Negro persuasion.

That's the opening paragraph of Jerald Walker's witty, hopeful essay on color and academia:

Teaching, and Learning, Racial Sensitivity (Chronicle of Higher Education)

Overheard

In a hallway:

"It starts and ends in a mailbox. What can it symbolize?"

Literary criticism, I suspect.

All "Overheard" posts (via Pinboard)

Borders Books and Music in trouble

From an article in tomorrow's New York Times:

Struggling against both online and big-box retailers, the Borders Group, the bookseller, said Thursday that it had hired two investment banks to advise it on a potential sale and had turned to its largest shareholder for additional money.

Borders said that it would take other measures to shore up its capital, including suspending its quarterly dividend.

The announcement, made at 1:31 a.m. Thursday and accompanying a report on a slight drop in first-quarter earnings, reflected the chain’s continued troubles. Buffeted by a tougher environment and a tighter credit market that has made borrowing more expensive, Borders has been left with few options.

"This will be a challenging year for retailers due to continued uncertainty in the economic environment," Borders's chief executive, George L. Jones, said in a statement.

I've been wondering about Borders for several months now — the coupons seem to come with greater and greater frequency, while the shelves at my nearby branch offer fewer and fewer new books and the CD racks grow bare.

A song for spring

From Thomas Nashe (1567-c.1601):

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
   Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
   Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
   Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
      Spring, the sweet spring!

Pocket notebook sighting: The House on 92nd Street

Pens, pencils, file folders, and so on: in my house we call them "supplies." The House on 92nd Street (1945, directed by Henry Hathaway) may be the most supplies-centric movie ever made. As the tools of spies and G-Men alike, office supplies are a given, appearing in scene after scene after scene. But the way in which the camera lingers on these objects suggests an devotion verging on fanaticism. The pocket notebook in this scene, found among the effects of an accident victim, turns out to be crucial in uncovering a Nazi spy ring.



"Hey, Doc, look at this — it's all in German."



"Stuff about ships, I think."



"Something funny about this."

When I first wrote about The House on 92nd Street and the dowdy world, I was working in Windows XP and unable to save screenshots while playing a DVD. Now I'm in OS X, where it's simple. There'll be more from this film in future posts.

More notebook sightings
Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne
Moleskine sighting (in Extras)
Notebook sighting in Pickpocket
Pocket address-book sighting
A pocket notebook in The Palm Beach Story
Pocket notebook sighting (in Diary of a Country Priest)
Pocket notebook sightings in Rififi
Red-headed woman with reporter's notebook

More from The House on 92nd Street
Is there a pencil in The House?

Barack Obama and Ralph Ellison

From Barack Obama's speech in Philadelphia today:

I am the son of a black man from Kenya and a white woman from Kansas. I was raised with the help of a white grandfather who survived a Depression to serve in Patton's Army during World War II and a white grandmother who worked on a bomber assembly line at Fort Leavenworth while he was overseas. I've gone to some of the best schools in America and lived in one of the world's poorest nations. I am married to a black American who carries within her the blood of slaves and slaveowners — an inheritance we pass on to our two precious daughters. I have brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, uncles and cousins, of every race and every hue, scattered across three continents, and for as long as I live, I will never forget that in no other country on Earth is my story even possible.

It's a story that hasn't made me the most conventional candidate. But it is a story that has seared into my genetic makeup the idea that this nation is more than the sum of its parts — that out of many, we are truly one.

In other words, e pluribus unum.

It's an interesting time to be teaching Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man (1952), the story of an African-American man who tries to do the right thing, at college and in the shadowy Brotherhood. Ellison's narrator is a brilliant, compelling speaker who hires out his eloquence to an organization and pays heavily for finally speaking his own thoughts. At the end of his journey, he offers a powerful affirmation of the unity and multiplicity of American identity:

America is woven of many strands. I would recognize them and let it so remain. . . . Our fate is to become one, and yet many — This is not prophecy, but description.

An American culture that allows for difference — "one, and yet many" — is Ellison's alternative to the homogeneity of the melting pot, emblematized in the novel's magical "Optic White" paint, which absorbs darker liquids and renders them invisible. One, yet many; many, yet one: that's the possibility of a more perfect and more complex union.

Political tropes of the day

The campaign aides cited in this New York Times article do just fine. But watch the reporter overreach:

One aide wearily compared the campaign to a cross-country race whose finish line keeps creeping farther away. Another likened its current state to a game of chicken, where neither campaign can afford to slow down, lest the other side interpret it as a sign of weakness. But even enemies as bitter as the Germans and the French climbed out of the trenches during the Christmas truce of 1914 to sing carols together. (They went back to killing each other shortly afterward.)

Related post
Dying metaphors of the day

A few words from Buck Mulligan

"Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty."

Buck Mulligan, in James Joyce's Ulysses (1922)

I've taken these words out of context: Buck Mulligan is speaking of June 16, 1904, and he's parodying Horatio Lord Nelson.

But all that aside: Happy Saint Patrick's Day.

(The name Leddy is Irish.)

Related posts
Bloomsday
An Irish post

Dying metaphors of the day

From the main page of the New York Times online:

The Spitzer scandal, hot on the low heels of the Hillary heckling, is raising hackles.

If you're wondering, hackles are "erectile hairs along the neck and back especially of a dog."

Related post
Inept political metaphor of the day

DOTHETEST

A quick test of awareness: DOTHETEST.