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Anyone cruising the academic blogs these days has likely seen this meme (see here and here,) on class and privilege. Well, of course, having nothing important to say about my life right now, I thought I’d try the exercise. As you can probably tell, the higher your percentage, the more “privilege” you enjoyed growing up.
From What Privileges Do You Have?, based on an exercise about class and privilege developed by Will Barratt, Meagan Cahill, Angie Carlen, Minnette Huck, Drew Lurker, Stacy Ploskonka at Illinois State University. If you participate in this blog game, they ask that you PLEASE acknowledge their copyright.)
Bold the true statements.
1. Father went to college For an hour, but dropped out because he didn’t understand a word of it. No joke.
2. Father finished college
3. Mother went to college
4. Mother finished college
5. Have any relative who is an attorney, physician, or professor Um…which of these professions does not belong here? (hint: my current one!)
6. Were the same or higher class than your high school teachers.
7. Had more than 50 books in your childhood home.
8. Had more than 500 books in your childhood home.
9. Were read children’s books by a parent Given the previous two it should be clear. Not a chance.
10. Had lessons of any kind before you turned 18 Acting, dance, speech. Speech?
11. Had more than two kinds of lessons before you turned 18 see above
12. The people in the media who dress and talk like me are portrayed positively. People who dressed and talked like me, sure. People who looked like me (“ethnic”), no.
13. Had a credit card with your name on it before you turned 18
14. Your parents (or a trust) paid for the majority of your college costs My dad paid my rent and utility costs each month, but nothing towards tuition, books, other living expenses, so I’m not sure what to do with this one. The monthy “stipend” was because I was going to school, and because I have ovaries (it’s a Chicano/Machismo thing). I’ll boldface it, if only because $500/month would’ve seriously paid for tuition and then some. Thanks Pops.
15. Your parents (or a trust) paid for all of your college costs
16. Went to a private high school
17. Went to summer camp
18. Had a private tutor before you turned 18
19. Family vacations involved staying at hotels
20. Your clothing was all bought new before you turned 18
21. Your parents bought you a car that was not a hand-me-down from them
22. There was original art in your house when you were a child
23. You and your family lived in a single-family house
24. Your parent(s) owned their own house or apartment before you left home
25. You had your own room as a child
26. You had a phone in your room before you turned 18
27. Participated in a SAT/ACT prep course
28. Had your own TV in your room in high school Yeah, but it only got about three channels. I used it for “white noise” effect.
29. Owned a mutual fund or IRA in high school or college
30. Flew anywhere on a commercial airline before you turned 16
31. Went on a cruise with your family
32. Went on more than one cruise with your family
33. Your parents took you to museums and art galleries as you grew up I recall one trip to the Natural History museum with my dad. But art galleries? Heck no.
34. You were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family
18 / 34 =53%
What I gather from other blogs, 53% puts me slightly over the “privilege” bottom line, which means I’m more likely to possess the “skills sets” fundamental for academic success, whatever that means. But I’m not buying it. It seems to me, the obvious economic privilege notwithstanding (and I should add that my dad is no longer enjoying the lifestyle of big bucks that marked the Reaganite 80s for many), I sorely lacked other markers of privilege that I would argue are far more in keeping with academic success. I didn’t lead a life of cultural privilege, that’s for sure (amount of books in your childhood home, amount of visits to the museums and art galleries, amount of “lessons” before age 18). Sure, I enjoyed economic privilege all right. I grew up with a housekeeper (we had “the help”); I went on multiple cruises; I did Europe before high-school; I got a brand-spankin’ new car the summer I turned 16; and yes, I even had a gas card (OMG, how fuckin’ L.A. is that?). Yet, when in Europe did I appreciate the great museums, the deep cultural histories? Not really. I was the annoying American teenage girl you might’ve heard snickering behind Michelangelo’s David. (“He’s naked!“) . In Paris, I opted to shop on Champs-Elysees and decidedly skipped the Musee du Louvre (I was 14, a hardcore “Duranie” and, like, so didn’t care about art.). Any regrets now that I make a living teaching and writing about art and culture? Oh dear, you betcha.
Not all is lost in regret, though. A mother now myself, I can at least have a say in what forms of “privilege” dear Bump enjoys. If he were to complete this meme in eighteen years from now, he’d score a bit higher than I did (god willing), but mainly because Mr. Grubs and I do intend to spoil him, but certainly not with gas cards, lavish cruises, and a new car. No, we’ll spoil him with books (between the two of us we own more than 400 hundred books, and these don’t include Bump’s impressive young collection). We’ll most certainly take those Sunday strolls to the museums and galleries. And he’ll definitely enjoy some extracurricular activities that work the ken (chess club anyone?) and the bod (little league!). Mr. Grubs has already made it very clear, too, that Bump will have private tutors if he needs them (Comment-va-tu, cher Bump?), and there will be no shortage of art camps to give mum and dad some much-needed R&R of their own. In other words, he’ll certainly be able to boldface the first eleven items and then some but not on account of any lavish economic privilege that’s for sure. And that’s what it comes down to: “class” is more than money. It’s all tied up with one’s sense of place, sensibility, and (am I actually going to say it?) “Culture.” Dear Bumpy might not have an IRA (good lord, what a thought) and we’re certainly not bound for private schools, but this kid will know his Whitman, Cubists, and, if Mr. Grubby has any say, the key figures of French surrealism.
Then again, who am I kidding? Neither Mr. G nor I have any real power to steer the direction of his ‘tastes.’ We’ll do what we can, but look at him now. My kid is the one who grunts maniacally, toots with intention, and has this thing for climbing slides (it’s really quite strange, this Sisyphus thing of his). He’s behind about fifteen-twenty words and displays a general preferance for all things body over mind right now. (His friend Zach, for instance, can sing and construct sentences, while Bump runs laps around him during Toddler Time). They say you can tell a lot about what your child will be by watching them closely at this age. If this is true, then it would appear Bump is heading towards Jockdom (note: Mr. G was a jock but also a poet, so there’s hope yet). And I guess I’m OK with that too.
So, in thinking about this meme, I have to ask: you know that phenomenon where parents project their own fantasy childhood onto their young’uns? You think that’s me? Damn straight.
53% and doubtful,
Mrs. G
ME: Did you see the list of committee assignments Dept. Chair sent out?
Other New Hire (and a cool gal, I might add): Yeah.
ME: Can you believe I’m “Diversity Outreach Coordinator?” Um…what’s up with that?
ONH: Oh, I know. [Spouse] and I were wondering if that annoyed you, having to be “Captain Latina” and all.
It’s official: I, new-professor-with-hispanic-surname, am the Latino Student Union Faculty Advisor, the Latino Studies Minor Faculty Advisor, and the Diversity Outreach Coordinator for my department. I’m also on the Advisory Board for the American Cultural Studies program. Sounds intense, but you won’t find me complaining. While these ethno-admin roles might seem like a lot of work, they actually only translate into 2 meetings/year and extra office hours once each quarter for students who might (but often don’t) come with questions about The Minor, which doesn’t take effect until late 2008. So at the moment I find it worthy of a joke or two every now and then. Ah…the absurdities of identity politics. ONH’s spouse is also a new-professor-with-ethnic-surname, so at least I’m not alone. Until they-with-names-that-do-not-matter catch on to the fact that I do very little, service-wise, and assign me additional committee duties, I’m keeping mum. Why fix it if it ain’t broken? I know “it” might very well stand for a pervasive pattern in which academics-of-color are administratively “exploited” and expected to “represent” an ethnic group to which they, like me, feel no “authentic” cultural ties. Is it politically incorrect or an act of integrity to feel annoyed by having to represent la raza?
In the end, what do I care? Said exploitation isn’t happening in my little universe, so I’m not worrying about it. I know, I know. There are those who might say I should step up for “my” people, but I’ve got a kid to raise, a book to write, and classes to teach.
Sheesh.
“Kee Ya”
That’s Bump for “kitty cat,” what is officially his “real” first word (read: something other than mama or dada). Of course whenever he sees either of the cats he goes into this word-spouting frenzy, repeating ad nauseum “kee ya, kee ya, kee ya.” It’s really f.ing adorable.
As for the blogging moratorium, I can’t promise it won’t happen again. I can’t believe I used to whine about being too busy as a graduate student (and a childless one, at that). You don’t know busy until you’ve been a new mother and an assistant professor. And later I’ll explain how so-called “ethnic” academics carry a heavier load than their white counterparts. You know, people who are never expected to “represent.” Daycare, the fucking racket that it is, doesn’t fit into our budget yet, not full-time anyway, so Mr. G and I are on “flex time.” He watches Bump while I’m on campus, I do the same for him. Only I have to be on campus far more than Monsieur G, because my job is (on paper anyway) a full-time gig. What should be on paper is that it’s a “full-time plus” position. Once you factor in committee work, publishing demands, over-achieving undergrads, neurotic grads, and the hours of reading it takes to be both stellar teacher (we like to shoot for the stars) and a semi-decent writer (and sometimes the clouds), you begin to realize this job transcends (a euphemism to say the least) the 9-5 mentality. Granted, that’s partly its allure, but sometimes all I really want to do is come home, down a brewski, and watch All in the Family (which is currently running on TVLand weekly and which you really should watch if you were born in the 70s so you can see how different the world was when you were Bump’s age). Before this job, I could do this, with either a baby or a dissertation. Now, I’m all tapped out. And, people, we’ve only just begun…
I wouldn’t have it any other way because in the end I’m getting paid for work I love to do. And, no, I’m not trying to psyche myself out here. I really, really do love my job! I mean, seriously, how many people do you know get to wake up, spend time with their little bundle of joy and then waft off to work to read, discuss and write about their favorite books?
Whether or not I’ll actually get tenure is an entirely different story (and a subject likely to appear on this blog for a long time to come.)
So while I can’t promise another post any time soon (as if you were losing sleep over this), I invite you to stay tuned for a post that examines my pseudo-ethnic identity, the knotty nature of academic politics, and how a white man on campus might save my “brown” ass one day.
More soon,
Mrs G
What does an assistant professor of English with a concentration in U.S. Latina/o Literature, but with no ties to The Homeland, get for her second wedding anniversary?
The answer, mi amigo, is this:
The fine print towards the bottom reads:
“Currently there are nearly 30 million Hispanics in the United States. You need to communicate in Spanish if you’re…
- In the business community
- In the public sector
- An educator or a social worker
- Or posing as a professor of U.S. Latina/o Literature”
Thanks, Mr. G! I’m looking forward most of all to the “helpful drawings and amusing cartoons.”
Dead tired, de-caffeinated, and quite The Grump, I came to work today suddenly perked by the following note, left by a student in my summer class, on my office door:
I came by your office today to see if you had my final paper. Also, my uncle and I had a huge argument over the weekend. We watched that cyborg movie based on the book we read for class. I told my uncle that the bounty hunter was a cyborg and he said that he wasn’t. It was funny. He got really mad and we haven’t spoken since. I really should give him the cyborg article we read in class, don’t you think?
