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On Idealism: An Interview with Stephen C. Bold

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Stephen C. Bold runs into Clapp Library with briefcase in hand, as though he were coming straight from a lecture on French literature. He wears a button-up shirt and looks off into the distance when he talks. Clearly prone to reflection, he recounts his career, childhood, and ideas on the importance of cultural exchange. If he became a professor of French literature at Boston College 30 years ago, it wasn’t on purpose. Driven by his idealism—resulting partly from the culture of the 1960s, the influence of his parents, and his own instincts—he was drawn into a lifelong pursuit of the humanities. He suspects his penchant for foreign language and culture originated early in his life, during his childhood in Germany and Holland, where he would interpret for his American parents. By the time he chose to pursue a Ph.D at New York University, it was only natural to immerse himself in Francophone studies, particularly in the works of Blaise Pascal.

For Professor Bold, Pascal is not merely an interesting writer and historical figure; he also sees in Pascal a reflection of his own desire to be broad and not to limit himself too much. Bold explains it this way: “Pascal was a kind of Renaissance man in a way. He wrote about religion—that’s what he’s most known for—but he was also an experimental scientist, and a mathematician, and a talented writer. I was in some ways attracted to that kind of broad base of the world”. This is the kind of idealism that motivates Bold—it is an open-arms approach to the world. He loves all the ways in which he can understand the great questions of the past, present, and future through his studies.

However, in all of Bold’s pursuit of breadth, he sees where his studies have been narrow. Over the years, he has encountered many different definitions of multiculturalism, and he concedes that if he wanted to be very multicultural, he missed the mark. He is very aware that his studies of Pascal focus on “a dead white European man”. This has stretched his cultural understanding, and he believes in the power of genuinely pursuing any culture other than one’s own. But when asked if he considers himself a cultural advocate, he only timidly says yes–he knows he has mostly focused on another Western, first-world country.

However, he still champions the idea of multiculturalism. He recalls returning from studying abroad in Montpellier and being asked by a friend if he was glad to be home. “I was glad to be home, but I was also glad to be away,” he replied. In his refusal to idealize his own culture and his appreciation of other norms and ways of living, Bold stands as an advocate for cultural exchange and appreciation.

As Bold continues to speak, multiculturalism again rises to the surface. After speaking of his trip to China, he immediately shares a lesson: “I strongly believe that we all need to see the way other people live and put ourselves in the position of not being at home all the time and of respecting the different ways of life and also the different assumptions and the different life experiences.” This conviction merges with many aspects of his life, including his parenting. He proudly states that his sons feel like they are “‘citizens of the world” and “have a broad outlook” due to their experience travelling and being biracial.

Bold himself calls this the best lesson of his life: to get out of one’s own head and experience in order to grow through listening to others and taking risks. Although he feels he hasn’t taken enough risks in a conventional sense, having followed the path that many have before him, he does feel that sharing ideas is putting oneself on the line. He has surely done that every day of his career as a professor.

As our conversation ends, Bold takes a risk and shares one last idea. He is concerned for the future of the world, particularly for social institutions. He is afraid that his idealism—that which has driven his whole life—is not shared by today’s society. Asking questions and being curious and not placing numbers and practicality over bigger issues–these values are not so common now among the younger generations and at institutions of learning, as language and literature programs are devalued. He hopes things will turn around, even if he does not find it a hopeful time. But he does have a dream: that we could all somehow find a family of nice people on the other side of the earth, spend a few weeks with them and find out as much about them as possible. If everyone could fall in love with a family from another culture, that would make the world a lot better.

Even as Professor Bold shares his concerns, his idealism persists. It seems to be a fundamental part of his character. When he speaks and stares off into the distance, he must be envisioning another world. In that world, he wouldn’t need to be a cultural advocate, because the exchange of ideas and traditions would be commonplace. And he could sit back and enjoy the family that he loves—both the one here and the one across the world.

Take Better Care: Is Self-Care Truly The Ideal?

Op-Ed

“Self-care is not selfish.” Since I first stepped onto the Wellesley College campus in the Fall of 2015, I have encountered this phrase everywhere I go. I’ve seen it in Orientation programming and on dining hall posters–I’ve even heard it from the mouths of my friends. Eventually, I began to say it myself. As a Resident Assistant, I talked endlessly about how to maintain a certain level of self-care, handing out advice and posting literal “how-to” sheets, as if there were some kind of magical formula. “Hey, you! Yeah, great, take care of yourself! Go take a nap”, one of my own posters basically read. How nice and encouraging.

And this obsession with superficial self-care is not just a Wellesley phenomenon. It’s recognized by numerous sources on the national level, including US News, Psychology Today, and Forbes. I agree that the practices the “self-care” mantra promotes are important. Everyone needs to take care of themselves in order to survive.

But here’s the catch: Self-care as an ideal mode of living is premised on an intrinsic mistrust of the community around you. Go take care of yourself, because no one else is going to do it! That will obviously make you feel loved.

This messaging becomes even more problematic when its source is a system of power. For example, when it comes from the college administration itself, the liability for students’ wellbeing is then shifted onto the students. Does the administration really believe that it’s enough to want the best for their students while not following through with serious action? Or is the college just too ill-equipped to be effective or even strategic in the first place? The school is basically telling students that they have to deal with their issues on their own, except it’s packaged in such a friendly manner that it hides the institution’s unwillingness to take responsibility for its students. This self-protective approach is exposed by the shallowness of #wellness events on campus. Have you ever had all your problems taken care of by going to a night of bingo? I sure haven’t.

It’s an unacceptable societal problem that the only care you’re receiving is from yourself. When life gets hard, you won’t necessarily be able to keep it up. Maybe you’ve done it–pulled yourself up by your bootstraps. If so, you probably don’t see it as such a happy, low-stress feat. It’s heavily taxing, because if we were meant to solve all our problems on our own, we wouldn’t be living in communities from the start.

I think a lot of this extreme focus on the self comes from living in our supremely individualistic society. Specifically in college, I feel like I’m constantly confronting the American ideal of lone ranger independence. A white American friend of mine from the Midwest told me how there’s no way her grandma is ever going to live with her parents–it’s a retirement village or nothing. What! Coming from a family with members who immigrated in later waves, I could never say these words to my parents, and they could never ever say them to theirs. In less individualistic non-American cultures, telling people to self-care is inherently selfish–on the part of the person doing the well wishing. It’s basically saying this community you have will cheer you on, but you’re the one who has to land the routine. However, if you love them enough to give them (unsolicited) advice, why aren’t you doing the routine with them?

Also, the meaning of self-care originally referred to therapy for people who either weren’t being sufficiently cared for or were so dependent that they needed to feel some autonomy. It’s about surviving. Not thriving. As Slate points out in an article on the history of the term, self-care was historically given as medical advice to dependent patients, a coping mechanism for those in trauma-related professions, and later as a resistance effort for marginalized groups. Nowadays it’s being tossed around casually, as for example in on-campus postering–“Self-care and Face Masks”, “How to Self-Care During Exams”, “Take Care of Yourself and Pet a Puppy”. These are fun things! But for me, it’s never been these events that have gotten me through. It’s the people around me who have actively made sacrifices to care for me, who have sat with me until 3 AM, who have never given up on me even when I gave up on myself.

I believe that in order to truly thrive we need to support and pour life into one another. That’s the world I want to live in–one where a college orientation doesn’t have to emphasize self-care, because it already consists of a community of people who will radically love each other without being instructed to do so. One where no one is using curt hashtags and administration waivers to shirk the responsibility of actually caring for one another, because the needs of the administration and the students no longer diverge. Instead, we’re all members of humanity, and we no longer need to rely on our singular abilities. With everyone working together, we can all help each other take better care.

On Hope: A Review of Women Without Men

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

“Women Without Men” (2009) is a radical push to expose the severe gender inequality in 1953 Tehran, but the esoteric scenes and surrealist moments of the film keep it from fully making its point. Directed by Shirin Neshat and based on the novel by Shahrnush Parsipur, the film follows the stories of four women as they navigate a society rampant with sexism. Faezeh is a traditional young woman who will do anything to marry her friend’s abusive brother Amir. She is an example of how women are raised to perpetuate the systems that oppress them. Zarin is a prostitute who desperately needs to escape her brothel; her situation testifies to the violent dehumanization of women in financial need. Fahkri is a disillusioned middle-aged woman who longs to leave her husband. She’s not afraid to question and challenge society’s idealized view of marriage. Then there’s Munis, a young woman fascinated by the political realm around her. She alone packs the punch of the movie’s underlying theme: that patriarchal society leaves no hope for women, and that it is time to fight for gender equality and a better future.

Right after we meet Munis, we see that Tehran is in uproar. In order to secure an Iranian government that is sympathetic to their oil interests, the CIA and British intelligence have successfully enacted a coup to overthrow the democratically appointed Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh. The streets are filled with turmoil, including anti-coup protests which capture Munis’ attention. However, Munis’ harsh older brother Amir condemns her interest in anything but marriage, threatening to break her legs if she leaves the house. This first interaction between these two characters follows the opening scene where Munis makes herself fall off a building to her death. This juxtaposition is not an accident. The two scenes set the stage for the depiction of oppressive systems that the film will later explore.

In the surreal portrayal of her suicide, it’s clear that Munis is hopeless to the point of death. As she fades into the sky, her voice says, “Now I’ll have silence, silence, and nothing,” then she hauntingly adds that the only way to obtain freedom is to escape from the world. Since this opening scene is paired with the next one, her brother subjecting her to his commands and threatening her if she does not comply, we understand that he is the cause of her suicide. Neshat seems to be saying that as long as society condones men’s control over women, the women are doomed. Their fate is utterly hopeless.

The film shows Munis’ surreal suicide three times, marking the beginning, middle, and end. It also punctuates every other scene of the movie, recurring as a constant reminder of Munis’ destiny. In an interview, Director Neshat elaborates on how Munis provides structure for the story:

Munis represented a political character, a woman who believed in social justice and political activism without being ideological. And also by her being dead, in a way in her spirit and being, she connected the story of the country and the woman together, so she became the narrator.

By saying this, the director gives Munis’ story and voice more external authority than those of any other character, because it is she who stands as a bridge between the political climate and the personal experiences of the characters. In these ways, Munis drives the film. We always return to her perspective, as well as to her death.

The film’s intense focus on death is the principal reason this film seems bereft of hope. What is left but nihilistic surrealism? The answer: the very existence of the film. Elsewhere in her interview, Neshat speaks of the courage it took to make and distribute such a movie. Not only was the original book banned in Iran, but many of the people involved with the story were banned from their homeland as well. The writer spent five years in jail. Many cast and crew members hired to work on the movie were prohibited from being involved. However, the movie is still in circulation, even if illegally, and in response Neshat exclaims: “I couldn’t be more delighted that there is a piracy of distribution.”

The impetus to produce such a film, and the effort of distributing it, whether under the table or openly, are moves for the exposure of unjust systems. The film refuses to let these problems exist without confronting them and shares with the world just how destructive they can be. By using a movie as a tool for social reform, the creators are combining the audience’s desire for entertainment and and society’s need for justice–an effective and accessible way to mobilize for action.

On the other hand, the film is often ambiguous and opaque. Many may watch it and leave without a clear sense of its meaning. The surrealistic elements and magical realism make the plot hard to follow and the message difficult to decipher–even Munis’ triple death, the repeated centerpiece of the movie, makes no logical sense. Between a faceless man and unrealistic shifts in color–from almost monochrome shots to vibrant garden scenes–viewers are hard pressed to say exactly what happens. Arguments for social justice may be lost in such esoteric scenes. Perhaps these abstract features allow the film to cram in more meaning, but the challenge of unpacking that meaning may mitigate the benefit.

Neshat and her team may feel truly passionate about their political achievement, and the risks they took to create it are admirable. However, the means they employ blur their mission and leave viewers confused. The movie may have paid tribute to the magical realism of the novel, but was it worth keeping such convoluted metaphors?

Where yogurt cultures meet South Asian culture

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor:
Re “For South Asian Cooks, Yogurt Starter Is an Heirloom” (Food, Feb. 27):

Growing up in a Pakistani-American household, I found that my childhood summers
were synonymous with ripe, juicy mangoes, falooda kulfi (rose-flavored ice cream), and, of
course, fresh homemade dahi (yogurt). Priya Krishna is right when she says that homemade yogurt is a staple in many South Asian households, and that continued use of the same starter culture enables yogurt makers to preserve their heritage right in their own refrigerator. Yet homemade yogurt is not merely an heirloom of the past. It’s also a palpable link connecting the younger generations of South Asian Americans to their native cultures.

In my house, the fridge would hold my mother’s homemade dahi only in the summertime
because yogurt made from scratch does not set during the colder months of the year. With that yogurt, my mother would whip up a number of other dahi-based dishes using traditional Pakistani recipes. As a result, our summer evenings would be accompanied by lassi, a tangy yogurt drink, or papdi chaat, a snack made of chopped vegetables topped with yogurt, aromatic spices, and crispy fried dough.

Homemade yogurt opened up doors for me to experience other culinary traditions and
regional delicacies from Pakistan. Eating it with my family was a way for me to connect with a homeland that I had not lived in but could still feel a profound connection to, because of the dishes my mother put on the table.

Light Art

Feature Report

Have you ever found yourself entranced by the lighting in a piece of art? What if the art was the lighting itself?

James Turrell premiered Perfectly Clear in 1991. The luminous installation is the centerpiece of Turrell’s exhibition, Into The Light, currently on display at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art. Perfectly Clear does not take on the traditional form of a painting or a sculpture; instead, it encompasses an entire room.

At first, the installation seems to simply be comprised of three white walls and a white peanut gallery, where the next group of visitors queue up. But during each 15-minute session, the three white walls begin to glow in various bright colors so that the white peanut gallery reflects the complementary color. For example, if the main three walls glow green, the peanut gallery turns a striking magenta. This would take some light science to explain, but essentially spectators are enveloped in seemingly endless color that changes at pre-programmed  intervals. After these dramatic color shifts, strobe lights flash. Many in the room may choose to place their hands over their eyes, yet find that the light shines through.

James Turrell’s “Perfectly Clear”, Photo by Florian Holzherr

Patrons have enjoyed this dazzling experience for almost three decades, and the museum clearly takes great care to ensure its enduring quality. Visitors must promptly file out after the show to minimize any chance of disturbing the installation.

What makes Turrell’s strobe lights and visceral colors purposely distinct from everyday bright lighting–from, say, the light of our phones?

Such lustrous displays of lighting are not limited to the realm of fine art. Incredibles 2, better described as popular culture than highbrow art, also contains the use of strobe lights. So did my ninth-grade dance. Although some may argue that mainstream movies can in fact be fine art, there’s no disputing that my ninth-grade dance was definitely not.

However, what’s special about Turrell’s installation is the singularity of the lighting and the emphasis on the colors themselves. Light is commonly used to illuminate other elements, but in Perfectly Clear, it is the only element. Spectators are strictly fixated on the brightness of the color. This singularity forces them to question the importance of illumination in itself, inhabiting a space in one’s mind usually reserved for the object of illumination. It says: stop looking at the mountains and rivers; gaze right into the eye of the “sun”. Except in this case, the sun is a much more manageable human-made glow. And it will not blind you. Probably.

The experience is like walking around in someone’s consciousness. Where nothing exists but what you bring inside yourself. Where a sense of space and time collapse onto one another. It is dreamlike. It may involve an even greater sense of escape than do actual dreams, which often incorporate too many pieces of everyday life to be classified as true escape. Turrell provides a way for viewers to momentarily leave the mundane and focus on pure light.

In a 2008 interview with designboom, a daily web magazine focused on international industrial design, architecture, and art, Turrell reflected on his general artistic style. Here he revealed his creative intentions behind his use of light as a medium:

for me, light is nutrition, almost like food. and I’m concerned with the light inside people. when you close your eyes or dream, you see a different light than with your eyes open. we usually use light to illuminate the things around us. but I am interested in the very personal, inner light.

Turrell hopes to allow participants in his art the chance to find a light that exists beyond everyday life. He suggests that the physical light he works with will bring out a sort of inner illumination. Although no one can confirm that he universally provides this experience, this accurately describes how I felt while viewing Perfectly Clear. Since I walked into the exhibit before knowing his intentions and still experienced what he intended, this shows his mastery in realizing such a conceptual and idealistic relationship to light. Because I cannot live through others’ experiences of his art, I am left to wonder: did his art capture the outer light and transfer it inside me? Or did his art draw on the light that was already inside me to create the outer light? Whichever holds more truth, it is perfectly clear that his light art leaves many of its beholders in wonder.

The Parisian Myth

Blog Post

In the United States, many Americans perpetuate a belief about the French. The belief is that French people are rude, particularly to Americans.

In discussions I’ve had about travelling in France over the years, I have often heard the same points repeated—that the person liked la province (the non-Paris part of France), but didn’t like Paris because the people were rude. And that while people were nicer in the countryside and the smaller southern cities, they were still often rude.

But during my own travels in France, I discovered that this American belief about the French was really a myth. While traveling in France with a good friend to celebrate my high school graduation, I was lucky enough to spend two weeks in Paris exploring, and then a few more weeks in the south of France moving between different small towns and cities. There is no doubt in my mind that the two of us stood out as American. We were eighteen-year-old “Yankees” with seven years of French lessons from non-native teachers, good grammar and vocabulary but woeful American accents when we spoke French. But even without hearing us speak, any French person could have seen we were American. My best friend wore one of those travellers’ wallets that go under your clothes, but he put too much stuff in it so it bulged visibly through his shirts. We didn’t know how to work the credit card machines in the big H&M in Paris—watching the Parisians in front of us check out only left us mystified—and we were completely lost as to what we were doing wrong in the grocery store checkout lane. As a result, I thought that the French people we met would receive us coldly.

But people were consistently nice to us, both in Paris and outside of it.

In Paris, when I needed to buy a new pair of sunglasses, we ducked into a shop to do so and my high school French teacher’s warnings about the proper etiquette for behavior in shops in France came back to me. Despite this, I expected a cold shoulder, so I was surprised when the employee helped us happily, asked what I was looking for, and made suggestions for glasses that might look good on me. Another day, in a small town in Provence when my friend wanted to visit an art gallery, the gallery owner was delighted to talk to us, wrote a list of other places we should visit in the town, and gave us his business card. When we were lost in Paris, passersby helped us.

To be sure, not every French person we met was unfailingly nice, but far more of them were than I had been led to expect while talking about France with friends and acquaintances.

I should acknowledge that I did witness French people acting more coldly to other Americans, but the root cause seemed relatively clear. To start with, the effort that the visitor put into using French made a significant difference in the way that visitor was received. My companion and I used French as much as possible, and although our French wasn’t the best, our effort seemed to make a difference with many people we encountered. In fact, I would argue that people were much more tolerant of our passable French than many Americans are of people with comparable English ability in America. While I know that not everyone has the option or opportunity to learn French, even foreigners we saw who only said bonjour and merci were received more openly than the many Americans we saw who didn’t use French at all.

My suggestion to non-French speakers and other American readers who think French people in general or Parisians in particular are rude is to think about how you respond to tourists who may not speak English while traveling in the United States. You would probably be frustrated or rude. So expecting the French to be perfectly nice to us when we haven’t made the effort to respect their culture in their country is an unfair double standard. And even if they are rude to us, my experiences gave me reason to think that this rudeness is a result of the lack of respect that many Americans show to them while traveling there. It’s evident while traveling in France that sometimes it’s not enough to say thank you or hello in French and that some people will still treat Americans less nicely than those from other countries. Maybe we do culturally deserve this because of American tourist behavioral norms; still the many individuals that are putting in the effort don’t. It’s a complicated issue that won’t be solved overnight, but each person that makes an effort makes a bit of a difference. Instead of complaining about French people’s rudeness, we should ask how we, as Americans, can respect French people in such a way as to deserve their goodwill.

This problem isn’t just about American tourist behavior in France, it’s about American and global tourist culture as a whole. While traveling abroad, it’s easy to get caught up in the experience of being in another country and not think about the people that live and work there, and I think this needs to change. The myth of French rudeness is just a microcosm of larger problems about tourist culture, centered on American tourist culture while visiting other countries. I think the heart of this issue is just taking greater care while traveling, considering how you’re affecting the people who live there, and working on mutual respect, because the more respectful we are while visiting, the more progress can be made in the way Americans are viewed around the world.