Tag Archives: By Michelle Chin

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?

Watch Whose Streets You’re Walking On

Letter to the Editor

To the editor:

Re: Paris on Foot: 36 Miles, 6 Days and One Blistered Toe by David McAninch.

I see your writer feels special for dismissing the elite sites of central Paris in order to advocate for the underappreciated Parisian suburbs. I’m here to inform him that writing a travel article does not align him with the marginalized immigrant communities of his destination.

McAninch takes the trouble to meet with activists who advocate for the Parisian suburbs. He gets their advice on where to go and falls in love with their suggestions. He seems to think this makes him one of them. It doesn’t. Drooling over the ravishing architecture does not in fact address the needs of the poor communities in certain areas of la banlieue, which are composed mostly of immigrants often maligned by the news media as criminals. By leaving these issues unaddressed—issues that are at the heart of why tourists do not visit the periphery in the first place—he minimizes their weight and disguises deep prejudice as mere ignorance. In doing so, he hides the social unrest and tension between the elite of Paris and the marginalized suburbanites. And hiding that only allows it to fester.

In a word, he’s unintentionally supporting the exact people those activists are fighting against. He doesn’t put what they preach into practice or make any advancement for the communities. He merely treats la banlieue superficially: slumming so he can enjoy their wine and call himself their hero, but not doing anything heroic.

I think a main problem is his audience. The activists he mentions write in French, and they seem to attract a French audience—which may very well influence the suburban-central Paris relations. But McAninch is writing for the relatively elite audience of the New York Times. To these elites, who mostly do not live in France, the suburbs will become a bucket list destination that will make them feel more cultured or woke for finding the “real” Paris. Brushing up these educated egos will not bring the justice that’s needed.

I recognize your effort, Mr. McAninch. I’m just worried you’re hurting more people than you’re helping.

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.

Family Doesn’t Always Look Familiar

Blog Post

Two strange things happened when my mixed-race family went to Hawaii: 1) my dad was mistaken for a local and 2) someone assumed I was related to my mom.

To clarify, my dad is not from Hawaii. His sandals were completely sandless when we landed on the tiny island of Kauai. He is a Chinese man who has been living on the East Coast for nearly four decades. There’s nothing “hang loose” about his sedentary work life and newfound need for reading glasses.

As for the second strange thing, no one ever thinks my red-haired mother is biologically related to me. Look at me: I’ve got dark shiny hair and my Chinese father’s face. At least for mainland Americans, whose default is white, a lot of people don’t initially understand I’m related to my mom. When I was little, many thought I was adopted. When I was a teenager, many thought I was the kid of some Asian friend.

So, when these two things happened in Hawaii, I was a bit taken aback. Honestly, the moment I got off the plane, I felt like I’d flown into Neverland. There were so many people who looked like me. (Well, if I had a tan.) Around 25% of Hawaii residents are mixed-race–and on top of that, one of the most common combinations is white and Asian. I was shocked. I’d spent my whole life in a place where only 2.4% of the population is mixed-race. I never expected anyone to look like me or have a family that looked like mine.

I didn’t realize this at the time, but this was all about the power of familiarity. It was all about feeling, for the first time in my life, like I could be a part of the in-group based on how I looked. It was about feeling for the first time like my dad belonged with the people around him more than my mom did. He was the one, with his tan skin and sun spots, who looked like the right color.

It’s not a secret that mainland Americans are obsessed with the matching game that is guessing strangers’ ethnicities and cultures based on how they look. The list of guesses I’ve gotten grows all the time. From Latina to Japanese to even that one time someone in Boston thought I was Hawaiian, racial and cultural assumptions affect every interaction I have. It’s all based on how I look to other people. Have we ever stopped to think that how we look is entirely incidental to who we are? Sure, sometimes people appear to embody images that many may associate with other cultures, but this impression relies on the false belief that race, culture, and phenotype are all one and the same. This is simply not the case. To assume this is to minimize the complexity of the human experience; it wrongly pretends to understand and predict the various interminglings of biology and society.

My dad’s culture isn’t Hawaiian, but that didn’t stop a newspaper reporter from assuming he was a resident and interviewing him as one at a local farmer’s market. My dad simply looked the part of a local Asian man in a worn aloha shirt shopping for groceries. And so, he was accepted as one.

My culture isn’t Hawaiian either, but it is evidently much more common in Hawaii for a white parent to have an Asian looking child than it is in the continental States. My mom and I were a familiar pairing. The store woman treated us as the mother and daughter that we are because of how familiar we looked to her. She understood us–not because we had a shared culture, but because we looked like what she was used to.

Basing our acceptance and understanding of each other on how we look is damaging and potentially misleading. Not only can we be easily fooled, like that newspaper reporter who ended up writing partially fake news about my dad’s residence, but we may also end up sabotaging our understanding of others based on shallow physical features. The flip side of my mom and me finally being recognized as what we are is that for the rest of my life it’s been the opposite. My mom deliberately refers to me in public as her daughter so storekeepers and others recognize our relationship.

How can humankind ever get to the point where everyone extends a genuine social acceptance regardless of phenotype? The thing is, this ideal is what it is–a happy intention too lost in the conceptual to amount to any real action. Even when we do try to act on our convictions, superficial assumptions are so ingrained in how we see ourselves and the world that our efforts may seem fruitless. We may even feel powerless.

However, some things are in our power. We do have the power to ask ourselves, “Do I really understand this other person?” Even more, we have the power to choose to include someone, to go out and understand someone, and make person after person in this universe feel known. It is in these actions–minute though they may be–that real change occurs. So, go out and act.

I know Hawaii has many of its own struggles with race and culture and stereotypes, yet I am thankful to say it affirmed what my own family has taught me: not all unfamiliar things are strange, and people don’t have to look alike for us to like them anyway. They don’t even have to look alike to be family.