It is Sunday morning and I wake up to a flurry of text messages and Facebook notifications. My wife texts, “Have you seen the news?” I open Facebook and find dozens of posts about the horrific event that took place overnight at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando, Fla. By the time I am reading about it, news outlets are reporting that around 50 people are dead and more than 50 others are injured. One lone shooter has been identified, a man possibly motivated by a kiss he witnessed between two men a few days before in Miami.
I am living in a studio apartment in the French Quarter in New Orleans, just a few blocks from the site of what had previously been considered the most deadly mass murder of LGBTQ folks in the United States. During the 1973 arson attack on the UpStairs Lounge, a gay bar, 32 people were killed. I am staying on the same block of Dauphine St. where a man who was perceived as gay, Joseph Balog, was stabbed to death in 1993. The history of queer-antagonistic violence is just below the surface in this neighborhood of gay bars and rainbow flags.
I am in New Orleans conducting research on sissy bounce, a term used to describe the cluster of queer rappers and performers who have seemingly taken over the local homegrown hip-hop genre. I will spend a few weeks interviewing artists, visiting archives, speaking with locals and, yes, attending bounce nights at local clubs. As a queer woman in a city that has frequently been described to me by locals as “dangerous,” working among a community of artists who have experienced violence and tragedy firsthand and going to bars late at night without any companions, I knew my spouse was already worried about my safety.
Because we live in a rape culture and because I was raised to not travel alone or drink too much or wear anything too revealing or do anything to put myself in a position where I could be targeted -- some of which are things that my fieldwork requires of me -- I sometimes worry about my safety. A friend who lives in New Orleans recently told me, “This city is full of lucky motherfuckers. You’re lucky, until you’re not.”
Anytime I go out into the field, I text updates to my wife back home.
11:56 p.m.: Waiting for Uber now
12:00 a.m.: On my way to the club
12:04 a.m.: At the club, waiting in line
2:50 a.m.: Waiting for Uber now
2:56 a.m.: In the car now
3:02 a.m.: In the apartment now
3:08 a.m.: Good night
The constant checking in reminds me that I have people who care about me, but it also reminds me of both my limitations as a queer woman scholar and my privileges as a white person moving through spaces populated by different groups of people.
I flash back to a conference that I attended between my first and second years as a Ph.D. student. After a long day of papers, I am at dinner with a group of ethnomusicologists, all of them women, when the topic of safety and gender comes up. A number of senior scholars I’m very excited to spend time with are at the table, and they share stories of close calls and dangerous situations that, because they are women, they endured while conducting fieldwork. These range from unwanted flirting to being shut out of performances to being cornered and threatened by unknown men.
The conversation shifts to experiences that took place not in the course of research but in familiar spaces, such as childhood homes and college campuses, including sexual assault. We are all stunned by the how common such experiences are across generations. Incidents occurred at home, abroad, in the 1980s, in the 1990s, a few years ago. It doesn’t really matter. Being a woman scholar is dangerous. Being a woman is dangerous.
Back to present day. I read article after article about the attack on the Orlando gay club, which took place during Latin night, where mostly queer and trans Latinx folks and other QTPOC -- queer and trans people of color -- are the victims. I think about the time that I spent in the archives during the previous week, poring over decades’ worth of gay, then gay and lesbian, then finally LGBT newsletters and periodicals, desperately searching for stories that were not about white cisgender men. Looking for faces that were not white. Looking for history that was not white. It’s not to be found in these archives.
I also think about a few days before, when I go alone to a black LGBT club with no sign out front in a “rough” neighborhood. (My local friend later asks me incredulously, “You went there? Alone!”) The DJ plays nonstop bounce tracks for appreciative dancers.
In response to my explanation that I’m going to bounce night, my Uber driver tells me that New Orleans is a very dangerous city. I wonder if he really thinks it is dangerous, if he thinks black people are dangerous, or if he thinks bounce music is dangerous. This seems to be a familiar trope among the white people I encounter. At the club, I sit alone at the bar, nodding along to the beat. No one speaks to me, except to apologize when they bump into me. I am grateful to be among other queer people and hope I am not intruding with my whiteness into a space that is not meant for me.
I remember when I was a college student in my home state of Michigan and how important gay bars became for me during those formative years while I was coming out. I think of nights spent on the dance floor, the joy at being in a whole building full of other queer folks. How freeing that was. How safe I felt, despite the drinking, despite the hookup culture around me, despite the part of town the bar was in. The gay bar made me brave. Brave enough to dance late into the night.
I read on Facebook pleas for increased gun control legislation in light of this most recent tragedy. I read posts by Native American and indigenous folks and their allies reminding us all that this was not the worst mass shooting in United States history. I read compassionate calls not to resort to Islamophobia in our grief or anger. I read the erasure of race in this conversation by both conservative and liberal politicians -- and even (though perhaps not surprisingly) by members of LGBT communities.
I also consider the alarming number of mass shootings that have taken place on college campuses in the last few years. I question my safety in these spaces where I spend so much of my time, but this is not a new concern, given the prevalence of rape and sexual assault on campuses. I will be applying for academic jobs in the fall, and I wonder whether or not I want to apply to positions in states that are enacting anti-LGBTQ legislation that targets trans people in public spaces, states where concealed weapons will be allowed on college campuses, states where the tenure system is being dismantled by anti-working class governments, or any number of places that seem to not want me or want to keep me safe. I wonder what jobs will be left if I limit my search by location. Where exactly could I feel safe?
Then I realize that the spaces that have meant the most to me as a queer academic have lost any feeling of safety. And then I ask myself what impact this loss of safety has had on my scholarship.
I come back to my current research and think about the act of dancing as queer resistance and survival. I think about my informants here in New Orleans who stress the relationship between dancing and bounce music. When you hear that beat, you can’t help but move. Many people, especially LGBTQ people of color, view bounce as a catalyst for dancing, which is a necessary form of self-care. Dancing can be a way to work through and shed the stress that accumulates from moving through a world that does not seem to want you. This is what I did as a college student in Michigan. This is what the patrons of Pulse were doing on that fateful June night.
In light of that realization, I resolve to continue my work here in New Orleans and do my best to amplify the voices of the most marginalized in our communities. I acknowledge both the access I have been granted and the limitations that have been imposed on me, and decide to work with, through and around them when possible.
I promise to continue dancing.
Lauron Kehrer is a Ph.D. candidate in musicology at the Eastman School of Music, University of Rochester. Her current work focuses on the intersections of race, gender and sexuality in contemporary American hip-hop.
This month has opened with another two-step in the national campaign. Donald Trump throws out a blunt allegation, and the news media and political class rise in sputtering indignation. Trump has questioned the fitness of Judge Gonzalo Curiel to preside over the Trump University lawsuit. Judge Curiel has Mexican-American parents, and Trump believes his plans to build a wall on the border with Mexico bias the judge's decision making. An NPR story on the matter cites Trump referring to Judge Curiel in a speech in San Diego as “a hater of Donald Trump, a hater.” On CNN, he accused the judge of issuing “very unfair rulings, rulings that people can’t even believe.”
Response has ranged from dismay to outrage on both left and right. John Kasich thinks Trump should “apologize to Judge Curiel and try to unite this country.” At Slate, Dahlia Lithwick, always a reliable voice against Republican villainy, opens, “No truly sane person can defend Donald Trump's vile, racist slander against Gonzalo Curiel.”
Anyone who has worked in academe for a measure of time has to wonder at the shock and ire of these critics. What's the big deal? We have heard the premise of Trump's gripe repeated so many times that it has become a standard part of the stagecraft of public and private debate. No concept has undergone more dismantling in the last half century than objectivity. And no criticism against objectivity has had greater popular impact than the one that says judgment is inevitably swayed by racial/ethnic/gender/sexual factors.
That line of thinking is the sole legal basis for affirmative action in college admissions, for instance. In her 2003 decision in Grutter v. Bollinger, U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor acknowledged "one's own, unique experience of being a racial minority in a society, like our own, in which race unfortunately still matters." The racial diversification of the student body, the court ruled, means the diversification of experiences, which enhances the education of everyone. College and universities may practice discrimination because of the reality of racially conditioned minds.
The grounds for that assumption reach back to the Marx and Freud, among others, especially to their critique of the liberal dream of cognitive freedom. The dream allowed that, with enough education and a cosmopolitan disposition, you could transcend your circumstances and reach an unbiased viewpoint. Familial, tribal and national interests would fade, identitarian limits (racial, etc.) would fall away, and a universal human eye would be achieved.
Readers of Inside Higher Ed don't need a rehearsal of how that objectivity collapsed. Hegel historicized it, Marx materialized it, Freud psychoanalyzed it. Forever after, the liberal mind was considered a pretense -- an effort to transcend history, class or psychic repression. Race/class/gender/sexuality critics of the 1980s and ’90s gave these grand undoings an identity twist, an easy step to take in the wake of civil rights, women's lib and the Gay Liberation Front.
Many years ago, in a speech at a law conference, Sonia Sotomayor gave the identity theory a clear and simple expression that is now one of the canons of our age: “Our gender and national origins may and will make a difference in our judging. Personal experiences affect the facts that judges choose to see …. I wonder whether by ignoring our differences as women or men of color we do a disservice both to the law and society.”
Donald Trump has done nothing more than to accept Justice Sotomayor’s point. But he has broken a taboo. For identity arguments are not equal opportunity. You can raise the objectivity problem when a white man is in power, but you may not do so when a woman or person of color is in power. In other words, Trump has crossed one of the prohibitions that sustain the identity regime. He dares to challenge a man of color on the grounds of his color; also, he reveals the double standards of those who routinely challenge white men on the grounds of their color (and sex).
The dismay on the right comes less from taboo sources than from a philosophical and a tactical source. First, conservatives don’t like identity politics. As Ian Tuttle put it in National Review, Trump’s charge “plays into the left’s identity-politics game, in which one’s heritage or sex determines whether one can render a fair judgment.” Second, Republican politicians fear the “racist” tag because they believe it leads to lost votes. The left has put them fully on the defensive on the issue, and their handlers tell them that the Hispanic bloc is crucial to success in 2016 and beyond.
My prediction is that this controversy will pass like all the rest. Trump’s supporters know that the right’s standard response to identity politics -- to refuse them -- hasn’t slowed their progress one bit. Group thinking and the bad-straight-white-male image have never enjoyed so much popularity. I believed in 1992 that nobody but a transient subset of humanities professors would pay attention to identity theory after the fashion went away, but I was wrong. The feminism and neopragmatism and critical race theory and queer theory that assailed objectivity and dominated the seminar room have settled into dogma in the press, the courtroom, the art world, the White House. The counterculture is now the hegemony.
Trump is an intervention in that spread. He breaks the rules, breaches decorum, says the unsayable. He is precisely the transgressive figure that critical theory in the ’90s exalted. If they were principled in their assumptions, academic theorists wouldn’t join the universal denunciation of Donald Trump by the elite and the establishment. They would situate him in a framework of taboo and totem, interdiction, madness and civilization, or the scapegoat. I’m pretty sure that if Foucault were alive today, he would have been fascinated and amused by the phenomenon of the Republican primary winner -- and utterly bored by the other side.
Mark Bauerlein is professor of English at Emory University and co-editor (with Adam Bellow) of The State of the American Mind (Templeton, 2015).
Higher education is glutted with courses, many of which are marginal or associated with arcane, duplicative or outdated subjects. That is at the heart of tuition increases, student debt, budget shortfalls, legislative distrust, poor adjunct pay and too few tenured or tenure-eligible professors at typical colleges and universities.
Last year Forbes reported that more than half of American professors are part time or not tenure eligible. Contingent faculty members are hired to facilitate the ever-expanding curricula. Because they typically are not empowered to take leadership roles in departments, the service workload of continuing professors has increased, affecting research, advising and instruction.
Professors can debate the causes of budget shortfalls at their institutions. There is plenty of blame to go around.
An influential opinion piece in The New York Times Sunday Review, “The Real Reason College Tuition Costs So Much,” notes that public investment in higher education, when adjusted for inflation, is vastly higher than 1960s levels when government funding was deemed generous.
According to the op-ed, any argument about a lack of public support for higher education “flies directly in the face of the facts.” Rather, the piece cites the increase in administrative positions coupled with seven-figure salaries for presidents as the real reasons for budgetary deficits triggering higher tuition.
The Atlantic Monthly ended 2015 with a special report titled “Hope and Despair: What Is the Future of Higher Education?” It included interviews with leading scholars and advocates for higher education who spoke about the usual impediments: lack of public funding, declining student competencies and overemphasis on preparing graduates for the workforce.
In the wake of such an environment, the report noted, colleges resort to “an array of cost-saving measures, relying increasingly on adjunct faculty and student-tuition increases.”
Not once was curriculum mentioned, nor how it impacts the budget.
Many colleges and universities have adopted budget models called by many names, including responsibility-centered management or resource management models. Those practices are often tied to curricular development, allocating funds based on student credit-hour generation rather than on the number of majors.
In other words, a department with fewer than 50 majors may have a bigger budget than another with 1,000 majors, all based on the number of credits amassed via curriculum.
These budget models became prevalent in the last decade, spawning a tsunami of courses across disciplines as units promoted trendy topics or duplicated other departments’ popular classes. Budget models were not supposed to inflate catalogs. Initially, the hope was more relevant courses would be embraced and low-enrolled courses eliminated.
However, administrators overlooked a fundamental problem: the faculty owns the curriculum.
As such, presidents, provosts, deans and even chairs can do little to stop departments proposing new courses, retaining outdated ones, mandating prerequisites and creating sequences, options and tracks.
Professors and the organizations that represent them will have difficulty amending budget models, addressing top-heavy administration, reducing salaries of presidents, urging corporations to stop agenda setting and rallying legislatures for more funding.
But they and faculty senates can and should do something about glutted curricula. Otherwise, they can count on:
Slim to no raises each year because of tight budgets.
The more new courses, the more people will be required to teach them.
Adjuncts will probably be working even harder for lower pay because that is the only way glutted curricula can be serviced.
Assistant and associate professors will be teaching more with extra service and conducting scholarship less, potentially affecting promotion.
Degree progress will slow, adding to student debt.
Below you will find recommendations for the faculty to fight curricular glut, the sheer scope of which indicates the power of the typical professoriate in matters associated with curricula:
Require paperwork within your unit documenting why any new course is needed, what it will cost (equipment, software, licenses, subscriptions, graduate assistants, etc.), how it will affect degree progress and whether it will add to colleagues’ workload.
Create or use universal course titles, such as “seminar” or “workshop,” allowing different subjects each semester without expanding curricula.
Eliminate outdated courses that may have been important in other eras but less so now. (Often classes remain long after professors who proposed them have retired.)
Delete any course with the word “intermediate” in the usual triptych of classes titled “beginning,” “intermediate” and “advanced.” (Or with suffixes 1, 2, 3, as in Economics 1, 2, 3.) Those are often artifacts of the quarter system. Make beginning and advanced classes more rigorous so the same content exists in two rather than three courses.
Require no more than two cornerstone classes (introductory course work) for first- and second-year students and two capstone courses for juniors and seniors. Make as many as possible of remaining courses electives that any of your own majors can take, accelerating degree progress.
Remove as many prerequisites as possible, especially ones associated with silos (courses promoting one viewpoint or topic). Silos undermine degree progress if students must take one course to qualify for another when no new particular skill is required.
End sequences and tracks. If a genre of courses doesn’t appear on a diploma, it may be a silo. (Example: American Colonial History on a history diploma.) Make those classes electives, and let students decide whether to take them. Better still, reduce the number of courses in the silo so that it no longer is one.
Generate student credit hours strategically by offering large nonmajor principles courses, saving small classes for majors. (Example: a 200-seat Principles of Poetry class rather than 10 poetry workshops for the same number of students.) You will produce the same number of credit hours while reducing sections. And if your principles classes are good enough, you’ll recruit new majors.
Assess each course annually in your department to see if it emphasizes competencies or advances innovation and degree progress. If not, revise or eliminate it.
Work with deans to change promotion and tenure requirements that encourage curricular development, which often inspires unneeded courses, and instead promote curricular enhancement. (Example: adding a digital aspect to an existing class is considered enhancement.)
Faculty senates can also help in the effort. They can:
Create a curriculum policy for every academic unit outlining what each department should and should not be teaching. (Example: journalism creates content for a mass audience. Communication studies does not.) Departments need to stop duplicating each other’s classes in the competition for seats. A senate policy designating pedagogical areas is a shared governance way of doing so.
Create a Faculty Senate curriculum council that requires strictly adhered-to paperwork before any new course is approved. (Example: mandate sign-off by the faculty of another department for any related course work in addition to an impact statement documenting how the proposed course will affect student degree progress, the teaching budget and colleagues’ workload.) The council can reject or sanction new courses according to the assigned pedagogical area (No. 1 above).
In the end, we can wish for an academic environment in which public support continues to underwrite existing practices. We can post invectives on social media about administrative hiring or salaries, believing our opinions will inspire change. We can blame political parties, entitled students, helicopter parents, corporate interference or any number of excuses or justifications for the state of affairs.
Or we can understand the impact of curriculum on innovation as well as on practically every aspect of the higher education budget, take responsibility and do something about it.