Chamber Musc and Roller Skating

Last weekend we had the second event in an Arts mentoring program that involves UVa undergraduates and elementary school children from underserved communities.  I asked the undergrads to reflect on the two events and promised I’d do it too in the form of my blog.  Sorry kids, I haven’t had time to reflect in any responsible way. Below is a little talk I had to give at the banquet for the tiny grant that allowed me to start the program last year.  (This is also part of the put things out somewhere that take reflect some thought, took too much time and will never be publishable…) In effect, we are calling this a second pilot year.  And when I say , I really do mean WE.  One of the things that’s more and more clear to me is that community engagement requires team work and collaboration.  So this year it’s not just me; it’s my friend and brilliant co-conspirator Julie Carrucio from Student Affairs, Rachel Savoy who taught my son’s third grade class last year and is amazing with the kids, and a team of three stunning grad students, Emily Gale, Liza Sapir and Lauren Hauser.  If you’re counting, that’s a lot of woman power—five women for twenty seven little kids and twenty seven college students.

The talk was written predominantly for donors, so it is somewhat sugar coated. The program is gritty in good and bad ways.  And those donors weren’t entirely thrilled with it when I proposed it.   The grant is one that gives faculty a small amount of money to spend on interacting with their students. It’s an “honor” of the  kind of my husband says I specialize in—no money or professional capital but more work.  And I’m inherently mistrustful of a grant that comes with a requirement to go to two semiformal dinners, the second of which your spouse is not invited to. But it did give the resources to start something cool.

These last two photos are courtesy of John Mason

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Last week we had an orientation session for the second year of the arts mentor program. This year twenty-seven students will pair up with 27 underserved kids for a variety of arts events.  The students were eager to reminisce about fun and funny moments from last year. They told about relay races on the lawn with third graders outrunning college students and me landing in the mud in an unseemly mess of undergrads and kids.   And they recounted with pride an African American third grader who had not heard of Shakespeare but after we saw A Midsummer Nights Dream in Stanton he went to school the next day and drew a cartoon rendition of the first act. We also remembered a bus ride from the Westhaven Community to the UVa Art Museum; where neither the kids nor the UVa students had ever been. As we drove on Rugby Road a fourth grader said “Watch out it’s really dangerous; college kids get murdered here all the time.” We all laughed uncomfortably and a music student whispered that one of his friends had told him to be careful on Hardy Drive because people get murdered there. 

            The students’ memories reflect some of what this program allowed me to do that’s different from what I already do as a music professor.  In music departments we tend to interact with our students frequently anyway; we all make and experience music with our students, and you just can’t teach about sound without intimate engagement. I was most moved by learning with the students just how difficult community engagement can be. We were all forced out of our comfort zones but were in it together. And I was moved by learning with them how to move from righteous indignation to actually doing something.

            Perhaps the most valuable thing about the program for me and the students came from those moments when we failed.  When you do something new and you take risks; like taking seventeen kids who have never been to a theater where there is not a single other African American person in the audience and every other child, including my two who were with us, has a Shakespeare coloring book and a fancy dress; it’s tricky in all kinds of ways… Our students, like most of us, are used to doing well and used to coming up with innovative projects that work.  But they also need to see that doing some kinds of work is very hard and uncomfortable and that it doesn’t always succeed.  And it turns out that doing uncomfortable things that don’t go as planned is about as bonding as it gets.

            To go back to last week’s orientation. One student said that in many ways the project had made her sad.  It wasn’t seeing children living in poverty.  The students who want participate in a program like this know all about that.  For her it was the fact that so many of her friends simply didn’t know the community we live in.  The undergrads had a poignant experience that they will take with them when they leave Grounds and that without the Mead foundation could not have happened.  None of us are naive enough to think that making and experiencing Art can fix the problems, but we all found the Arts to be a powerful way to feel the dissonances and consonances between communities.

Call The Dad!

The Mother of All Grizzlies (Dahlia Lithwick) -->

I admit it; I signed Manuel up to serve as parent of the week in Sunday School, and when he, with proper warning to the teachers and school director, had to withdraw, I, the mother, did NOT step in and do it.  Note that we asked other parents until we found a substitute. Liz, who also has a kid in the class, substituted for us while her husband John got up at 3:30am to take their older daughter to a horse show. I hear the class did a killer performance of Samson and Delilah.  Rebecca played Samson, and Jonathan played a fairy (middle school may be tough for them), and Liz says she enjoyed observing the children in their natural habitat. I’m struck, however, by the multiple emails from teachers, administrators, and other parents that went around about this near parenting-atrocity, almost all of which were addressed to me and insinuated my inadequacies as a parent. This is the usual pattern—when they say parent volunteers they assume mother and blame the mother even if the father did whatever it is they are blaming about.

So here’s a question that betrays my socioeconomic status—I’m talking about families where at least one parent has a well paying job and where you don’t get fired from that job for taking a couple of hours out of the day to attend a school function or take a kid to the doctor (and, furthermore, you have health insurance so you can take your kid to the doctor). It’s 2012; can we not all realize that men do some these things and that they can be expected and asked to it? Even my own Dad made the occasional appearance in the classroom in the 70’s. Ok, he taught us how to fill out income tax forms, and I think Richard Taylor tried to figure out at the age of 10 how not to pay taxes.  (Sorry to out you here Richard, but it’s a story my Dad loves to tell…..) In other words Dads in the classroom are not new.

As a side note, UVa is crawling with men who can’t attend meetings during the day because of ‘child-care’, and we even have paternity leaves. But Dads seem rarely to be asked explicitly to do anything and, in fact, are given giant medals for showing up at all All moms know that the consequences of pleading childcare or school function work out differently for him than for a her, but often even the most sensitive of new-age dads aren’t aware of this fact.

Now I’m the first to call all men idiots, and much of what I say along these lines is not fit even for a blog but has gotten my running group through hundreds of miles.  When I want to set up playdates or organize logistics I don’t even bother dealing with most Dads because I know they can’t keep it straight and do not possess the brain cells to read even their family calendars.  And, it’s true that, like most of my friends, I do the bulk of the “volunteer” things that come with being a parent.  I go to the PTO, show up in the classroom, organize their extracurricular activates, deal with doctors, etc. And when I go out of town I leave elaborate handouts for everyone in the family hoping that everyone gets where they need to go. But my husband does his bit. I figure that if he can manage a really big science grant he ought to be capable of chaperoning a field trip or volunteering in a class.  And if my cell phone is off he even talks the school about a problem with the kids.  Most of the time he rises to the occasion..  The problem is not ONLY that Dads don’t do things; the problem is that no one expects them to do anything.  And the irony is that if Mom’s take time out of their work to do something at their kids school, it’s often frowned upon, whereas a Dad’s getting involved gives that Dad extra credit.  (And as a mortifying personal aside my boy/girl twins model this pattern to a T.  Who do you think walks the little one to his class and checks on him at lunch more often?)

The problem here is that in so many spheres things that might be called volunteer, extracurricular, or emergency-cover activities relegated to women. When it became possible for women to join the army or be a supreme court justice, they should also have given men the right to show up at their kids school without it seeming radical, and they should have given women who work inside and outside of the home the right to say no to various activities without any bad-mom-stigma.  Yesterday I woke up with a vague memory of Justice Ginsburg talking about her son’s school never calling her husband when there was a problem. I remembered it because my friend Dahlia Lithwick, whose husband is a mighty fine parent of the week, wrote about it in a way that stuck with me.

I have to admit I’d forgotten most of the characteristically brilliant points about  Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s delivering a speech meant to be given by her husband. I remember the last paragraph and I’ll just quote it here.  It’s Dahlia quoting Ginsburg. "One day, I was particularly weary," she explained, and so when the school called, she said, "This child has two parents. I suggest you alternate calls, and it's his father's turn." She said calls from the school came much less frequently after that, because the school was" much less inclined to take a man away from his job." Ruth Bader Ginsburg doesn't growl and doesn't issue threats, and she rarely eats small forest dwellers. But she is still the mother of all grizzlies to me.”

Music and Politics Riff

I don’t know about other professors, but these days I do the bulk of my work in short talks that will never be published.  As one hits the saggy days of middle age and mid-career, the calendar fills up with little riffs.  “Can you talk for a few minutes on Opera and Emotion?” “Can you say something about Venice?”  “How about a pre-concert lecture on a little known and in fact very boring piece Brahms wrote when he was 15?” It’s the academic equivalent of, “Hey I’m getting married in a few weeks.  Can you just play this very specific tune for me that you’ve never even heard?”  Often these gigs turn out to be really fun; ideas for the sake of ideas. You don’t really need a rock solid argument or footnotes, and the prose can be a little more creative, i.e, fuzzy.  And often these sorts of gigs present the opportunity to talk to those outside my usual minuscule musicological circle.  But still they take at least ten times as much time as you thought they would and usually, for me, involve massive amounts of cursing and swearing which is sometimes repeated by my six year old. (and some of that behavior from my otherwise supportive husband).  After each one I tell myself that I’ll say no to everything for the next decade. I then say a snappy no to one miniscule task only to say yes to ten things a few days later. 

            I thought this blog might be a good home for some of these nuggets.  So here’s the first one:  Over the summer one of our grad students asked if I’d participate in a round table on music and politics for a Technosonics New Music concert. It sounded cool and seemed like it should be easy, especially after a summer where, among other things, my children and I played in the Transparency Band while protesting on the lawn at UVa. Along the way I found myself reading, Plato, Nietzche, and Du Bois.  I listened to Louis Andreissan’s De Staat, based on the parts of Plato’s Republic where the master outlaws various sounds.  And I listened to some great local hip hop.  Much of the trippy little field trip I went on in my head to write this thing didn’t make it into the five minute talk and the talk won’t make it into print...  But here it is anyway.

When I was asked to participate in a panel on music and politics I thought it would be easy. Any musician ought to be able to riff on music and politics; I thought. After all, I grew up singing protest songs and fell in love with Rage Against the Machine in their early years. My scholarly work centers on early modern Italy where every bit of cultural expression was about promoting some political end. In seventeenth century Rome the reigning Barberini suffered through a plague, a war and a lot of bad press generated by the conviction of Galileo as a heretic. They handled it by arranging a grand procession, an Opera, and other events that displayed their greatness, conflated them with gods, and used musical performance to reinforce the dominance of church and dynast.

But as I began to prepare my comments it got complicated and intimidating.    There’s a tendency towards a level of abstraction that defies any practical application and eschews real bodies. It’s easy to talk about the kind of politics of music in Barberini Rome where music was used in the Machiavellian performance of power. But it’s excruciating to think through politics of music, sound, and noise as they play out on real bodies in real places and especially in this place where politics always comes back to race. This is a place built by Thomas Jefferson, a man whose commitment to liberty went hand and hand with the subjugation of black women and men. That would be the TJ who imagined blacks as incapable of creating real music. This is a place where, despite a lot of talk about diversity and equity, music is shockingly segregated; classical music concerts frequently have not a single African American person in the audience. It is hard to think about why in this very building undergraduates are still told that Beethoven’s ninth symphony is a universally great piece of music but if you ask most children living in poverty who Beethoven is they likely wont know because no one has bothered to tell them. And many of them will have never experienced live music outside of school programs which are dwindling by the year.

This will seem like an odd modulation, but I’m going to retreat for a moment to Plato. He explicitly connected music and politics. What’s important is that he understood that music had a physical power to do stuff. He outlawed sounds that he thought would damage the morals of listeners. He muted sounds understood as dissonant and clamorous and thus made what is now understood as a distinction between music and noise. For Plato passion-inflaming music incited massive injustice, conflict and an explosion of laws that futilely attempt to control the masses: “they have inspired the multitude with lawlessness and boldness, and made them fancy that they could judge for themselves about melody and song.”  

Jacques Attali puts Plato’s ideas into a modern capitalist context when he explains the process of marking music off from noise as a matter of consolidating community. “Listening to music is listening to all noise realizing that its appropriation and control is a reflection of power, that it is essentially political. More than colors and forms it is sounds and their arrangements that fashion societies. With noise is born disorder and its opposite, the world.”

In this country it has most often been the sounds of African Americans that get marked as noise. Plato’s words sound a lot like those of critics of jazz and hip hop. Saidiya Hartman and Stephanie Bests write that “Black noise represents the kinds of political aspirations that are inaudible and illegible within the prevailing formulas of political rationality.” Or to put it differently, music cannot be separated from race. Certainly, not in this city where the legacy of slavery, jim crow, segregation, and massive resistance still reverberates through the public schools, the housing market and music making of all sorts.  

And yet despite the fact that to use Harman’s terms Black Noise represents inaudible politics Jazz and Hip Hop have been read as sonic embodiments of democratic theory. Many African American critics have explicitly linked musical forms and cultures to politics. Ralph Ellison famously posited jazz as the soundtrack to democratic ideals. And Cornel West explains, “ The interplay of individuality and unity is not one of uniformity and unanimity imposed from above but rather of conflict among diverse groupings that reach a dynamic consensus subject to questioning and criticism. As with a soloist in a jazz quartet, quintet or band, individuality is promoted in order to sustain and increase the creative tension with the group--a tension that yields higher levels of performance to achieve the aim of the collective project.” Writing about hiphop, Imani Perry explains  that “ideologically, hip hop allows for open discourse; Anything might be said, or for that matter contradicted. The reunion marks a democratic space in which expression is more important than the monitoring of the acceptable, a space, rather that suppresses the silencing impulse extant in various segments of America popular culture, both within and outside black communities.” To be sure the politics of jazz and hip hop are complicated and where some hear democratic ideals, others hear misogyny and commercialism; claims that can not be dismissed. But that tension reminds us that the distinction between democratic and repressive politics is as fuzzy and conditioned as that of music and noise. And all of these critics are talking about the experience of making and feeling the music.

Perry uses Hip Hop to think about racial inequality as reflecting the tension between what we say and what we do or put differently the space between the abstraction and the reality. To begin with, many African Americans in Charlottesville have never set foot in this building. No matter how many free events we offer, many people will never feel comfortable enough to come on these grounds which are still often referred to as a plantation. And this building constructed in 1898 closed off the lawn and in the process blocked off a small African American community known as Canada. That name marked a geography of political alternatives that began with a free Black woman named “Kitty” Foster who purchased land for a house in 1833.

That’s the distinction between what we say and what we do. It’s easy to say we are working towards equal access to the arts, but it’s really hard to put it into practice. It’s hard to think about why a sound ordinance that has mostly gotten press for keeping down frat noise on rugby road is also used to silence some of the venues in town that are actually working towards promoting hip hop. It’s hard work to think about why the free music programs in the public schools remain largely white and affluent. And it’s even harder work to change it.

Let us TEACH!

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I’ve been off the blog bandwagon for a bit.   In part because after spending last summer blogging about being an Earth Mother in remote rural China it seemed like most of what I’d write would be boring.  But I’m going to try again. This entry is inspired by a conversation with my kids in the flame van on Friday night while I was on the verge of a bad infection and so not my usual perky self.

Eli: mommy are you in college?

Me: no

Eli: mommy you DO go to UVa.

Me: no I don’t

Rebecca: Eli she doesn’t go to UVa she works there but she’s pissed off all the time.

Eli: what’s pissed off?

Jonathan: yea what’s pissed off. 

Eli: pissing is peeing.

Manuel: Pissed off is a not nice way to say you are mad. Peeved seems to be more polite, but I don’t understand why.

And it went down hill from there.   But here’s the thing.  My daughter is right. I am pissed off all the time; in fact every time I open my email I develop a new string of curses.  Certain minions of the deans can set me off just when I see their name in my inbox.  These are people who apparently have been hired since the summer and every few days summon all of us to some sort of town hall meeting or issue a command that ends in more results. And if one more person writes back to a request telling me they are too busy I might just start bringing a water gun to grounds—WE ARE ALL BUSY. I don’t think I’m alone in thinking that this fall has pretty much bit the big one at UVa.  To be perfectly crass, we had a great moment of solidarity and saved the President’s ass on a national stage, and it seemed like it might even set us up as a model for protecting public education.  But, instead, it may even be worse than before.  About every two weeks a new command is issued from on high, some portion of the faculty becomes agitated and before, action is taken, another command comes down.  Meanwhile the gender climate is worse then ever as far as I can tell.  I’m pretty sure my female grad students will enter more difficult world than I did; at least when I came out of grad school music departments felt that they had to hire qualified women.  I’ve taken to bringing undergrads and grad students to meetings just so I don’t have to be the only woman in the room. Oh, and despite the fact that I’ve long understood that I don’t command the respect of my male colleagues, I wasn’t actually groped until this year.

Part of the problem is that since the summer we’ve all been talking about what is wrong with higher education, what is wrong with UVa, what we need to do to enter the 21^st century, and what we need to do to fix and save public education.  We are reforming the curriculum, the administrative structure, the library, development, etc… We are restructuring and restrategizing, but:  Some stuff we do WORKS JUST FINE and has been working JUST FINE for a couple of hundred years. In fact, it works REALLY WELL. Our students still get a great education for a comparatively low cost.  And for the record, Darden, the Med School, the Law School, etc. all depend on students’ learning the basics in college.  Even online learning assumes student can read, absorb information, and synthesize information.  I’m not saying we don’t need to fix lots of things; I protested for living wage last spring, we do need to figure out what to do with digital media, we need to continue to push hard on diversity, and we continue to make the education we offer more accessible.  And I am all for new innovations; I’ve spent the better part of the last two years banging my head against a wall about arts and community engagement at UVa and in Charlottesville.  There is plenty of work to do. But I repeat we do some stuff well. 

This sense of we do some stuff well and it’s really cool that we get to do it smacked me in the face last week.  Wednesday afternoon I went to the Woodson Institute for African African American Studies to attend their Meet the Fellows afternoon.  That’s where the Woodson Fellows introduce themselves and their projects.  For about 90 minutes I listened to a group of pre-doc and post doc fellows talk about a stunning array of projects from the religious practices of a religion I’d never heard of to an ethnography of gay black communities in neighborhoods I grew up hanging out in.  All of these people are, in theory, young enough to be my children, all of them gave fabulous presentations, and all of them even in these lean times get the privilege of two years to simply do their academic work.  And if some of these projects are half as good as they sound they may well change the way many of us think in profound ways.  In other words, we still have moments where it’s all about ideas and it’s all about giving young people the space to develop the ideas that may just make a difference. 

Thursday I walked to school and watched a group of students very carefully and deliberately laying out hundreds of empty backpacks on the lawn. It was a striking sight, and I later learned that it was a piece of public art geared towards suicide prevention and awareness.  It stopped me in my tracks.  I don’t think there’s a single person in higher education who hasn’t been touched by student suicide. And if you haven’t, then you haven’t probably paid enough attention to your friends and students.  It happens every year at every college. And here in the midst of everything else on a gorgeous Friday before fall break our students asked us to think about that for a moment.  I watched all day from my office windows as students walked by, read personal stories, and stopped to take it in. Way to go kids!  I listened as they talked about those stories. And BOV, you need to hear this:  the way they took all in had nothing to do with strategic dynamism.  It had everything to do with being in a place that gave them the luxury to think and to practice empathy.

I’d say at this point a shockingly small portion of my day goes to teaching and scholarship. If I could publish my emails the second book would be long done by now. Indeed, the only thing causing teaching to take a front seat again this semester is that for some dumb reason I assumed I’d taught an early music survey at some point in my career and assumed I could teach it in my sleep.  I did zippo to prepare. As it turns out, I’m teaching tunes I haven’t thought about since grad school.  And sometimes it’s pretty intoxicating.  In a week where I, like my colleagues, have been asked to come up with revenue generating masters programs, rethink the undergraduate distribution requirements, justify why we need a music librarian, and come up with new technological initiatives it’s a pleasure to just teach the old fashioned way.  For example, go into class with a copy of a letter that the 16^th century courtesan Veronica Franco wrote to a mother who wanted to make her daughter a courtesan and ask the undergrads why she’d so vehemently oppose her own profession. And watch the students become completely enthralled with the details of a document.  And, turn off the ipod, itunes, power point,  and put an Archadelt Madrigal in front of a group of  17 music majors and figure out they can make music out of it and they can love it.  And they can from that experience start wonder about what it was like to learn music in the 16^th century.  So I guess what I’m saying is, “Dammit BOV, President Sullivan, and Dean Everyone; leave us alone and let us do our jobs!”

Day 16

It’s become cliché at UVa to say “I’ve never been prouder of UVa then I am now.” But I’ll say it. And I’ll say I’ve never had more fun on the lawn then playing Twisted Sister with my colleagues, friends, children and students.  I mean, seriously, Twisted Sister and Thomas Jefferson in the same epistemological space.  Ok Dragon lady you may need to handle your so called “philosophical differences” by firing someone and summarily going around any process of civility and governance.  But here’s to a few grad students namely Emily Gale (melodica) and Chris Peck (piccolo) who managed to take philosophical divide, historical difference, and everything else and make music with a message. “We’re not gonna take it….”  The group featured everything from a kick ass trumpet section (thanks John and Emily) and a quite literally puny melody section of ten and under on violin and flute.  It’s true that the puny melody instruments were essentially inaudible, but it’s all about the effect.  And yes, the Good Old Song was lovely too… (Well it was lovely except for the part where the five year old was hanging on me “whews’s MY INSTWAMENT!!!!!  BECCA TOOK my INSTWAMENT. I’m in THIS BAND) I’m pretty sure that I heard Mr. Thomas Jefferson himself, Peter Onuf, call TJ the philosopher of LOVE which means that “stop in the name of love” was also fabulously appropriate.

I’ll take Twisted Sister and Donna Summers over TJ any day—can we please put that genie back in the box?  TJ said and did some great things.  I personally love the fact that he said books are capital. Take that Board of Visitors…. He made his University largely to educate citizens for the business of citizenship a privilege many of us who were on the lawn yesterday would not have had.  Remember that to him African Americans didn’t even qualify as people much less citizens.  Even with this TJ cycnicism, one of my favorite moments at yesterday’s rally on the lawn was my colleague and friend, the above mentioned  Peter Onuf, saying that as far as he knows he’s the only one around here authorized to speak for Thomas Jefferson and that what TJ would be saying is “This is what I envisioned for my academical villiage.” And who knew that Professor Onuf was such a rabble rouser?

I was really glad to see Susan Fraiman speaking, not just because what she said was to my mind characteristically spot on and brilliantly articulated.  But because we need to hear from women, and we need to see women on the front lines.  Gender is by no means the central issue at play here, but it’s a part of it. Sure the BOV could have fired a man and sure Dragon Lady is a woman.  But it would have been a hell of a lot harder to do this to a man.  Here’s a teachable moment young women, women can be sexist and misogynist too.  It’s escaped no one’s noticed that the so called issues with Preisdent Sullivan’s leadership come in part from the idea that she moves by consensus building and by consulting.  These are supposedly feminine leadership qualities. And in my personal experience of being in two meetings with President Sullivan she really did seem to listen, take things in, and think about it.  Remember she’s a scholar and a thinker.

 But the gender issues are also far more visceral than leadership traits. I’m not alone in saying that at some level Terri Sullivan may not look like a University of Virginia President to the BOV.  At a roundtable with Tim Kaine a few women not affiliated with UVa said “she looks like a mother….”  And like so much about this whole ousting, this visceral issue is fully in keeping with UVa’s culture.  I’ve never been at an institution with less respect for women.   It is extremely hard to be taken seriously here.  I have some friends and colleagues whom I think of as patriarchal arm candy. That means I need their tall white man selves to get stuff done around here.  I am regularly completely disregarded and ignored.  I was rejected from a University committee because I was supposedly not senior enough but the replacement was male and junior to me; that means seniority implies certain anatomical structures.   If Terry Sullivan doesn’t look like a University of Virginia President. I don’t look like a University of Virginia Professor.  And we look super different, which makes me wonder what kind of woman looks like they belong in power here.  I’m hoping for better by the time my kids get to college.

The final thoughts I had about the rally is that this is much bigger than UVa and liberal arts education.  I’d fight tooth and nail for both of those things; I’m after all in a department that’s so obscure it doesn’t even rate as obscure.  But I care even more about the philosophical belief in the right to public education for every kid. And that’s under attack. I spend a lot of time working in the community to expose underserved kids to UVa so that they think of college as a place where they belong.  That means we cannot lose sight of the fact that Access UVa may matter more than any of the rest of it.  If a few rich and powerful people can torpedo an institution like UVa, think of what they can to do less prestigious public universities or public schools serving predominantly children living in poverty.  No matter what happens on Tuesday, we the UVa community have an opportunity to be heard on a local and national level.  Let’s make sure that we remember we’re not just fighting for our own institution now.  I’m pretty sure that no matter what happens tomorrow I’ll still have a job and my privileged children will still get a good college education. I’m much more depressed about what may happen to the kids I take on Arts field trips.

Day 13

Like everyone at UVa, I’ve spent the last thirteen days completely immersed in the debacle here, glued to email, the web, my iPhone etc…   At least three of my colleagues across the University have confessed to sleeping with their smart phones and checking their email when they get up in the night to go to the bathroom.  Countless others have learned to follow Twitter and some have even Tweeted themselves.  One of my students said on facebook that it’s getting to be like Law and Order around here; every five minutes something important happens.   It’s a miraculous moment; a revolution of the kind I never would have predicted and I’m proud of my colleagues who have done the hard organizing and thinking work.  I’ve been cynical about this place since I was a high schools student and found it too full of republicans and floral dresses.

Let’s be clear that it’s a revolution in part because the tenured faculty among us have job security.  I assume that I am not alone in thinking that despite the governor’s veiled threat about everyone stopping the frenzy that no one is going to start firing tenured faculty any time soon. That means we can yell and scream. And we don’t have any where we have to be at 3 p on a Tuesday, i.e., we have the flexibility to get shit done at the last minute. I’m not by any means saying that we sit on our duffs over the summer; in fact the BOV has now cost me about two good weeks of work; that’s a conference paper to be sure, a chunk of a book that was to get done this week, and a grant proposal for an arts outreach project. In lawyer terms that’s a lot of billable hours.  But I still have tenure.  And I’m well aware that if tenured faculty have felt that the University often treats us as if we ought to feel privileged to work here general faculty, staff, and wage earners have this even worse and do not have the same freedom to speak out.

 Dragon lady may have thought that by waiting until after graduation and raising forty million dollars at reunions that she would avoid student outcry and that the faculty might not notice. She failed to account for the fact that the students are fabulously mobile and that even the faculty all have smart phones (except my husband and best friend who call me regularly for updates when they are staking out the Rotunda at ungodly hours of the night); I followed it from a cafe in Berlin and, unlike the governor, managed to weigh in from abroad when necessary.

I’ve spent enough time in the community this year to be, at some level, mistrustful of what may at face value seem like such an overeducated revolution.  And at root I’m mad about what this says about public education, liberal arts education, the value of ideas and creativity.  But I’m also thinking that in all of this Access UVa, (financial aid) has a giant target on its back.  I’ve spent a good deal of time this year working to expose underserved kids to UVa; to help them think of the Lawn as accessible to them.  It won’t be without financial aid.  And community engagement of any kind likely doesn’t seem especially revenue generating to the powers at be.  They are, of course, short sighted in this; it’s good business to partner with the community.  And if the corporatization of education can mess with Mr. Jefferson’s elitist institution think of what it can do to underserved kids.

So Governor, I am extremely anxious to get back to work here; to spend less time on twitter and face book and more time writing my book,  planning a field trip to The Magic Flute for a group of underserved kids, and focusing on my children without worrying about whether they will have the kind of education I want them to have.  And I want to use some of that supposed time flexibility to hang out with them. But I’m afraid that no matter what happens on Tuesday we’ve not looking at business as usual.  It’s not just healing; it’s that even if Terri is reinstated the revolution such as it is will have lots more work to do.  We are on the cusp of a new UVa, one where the faculty actually buy into the idea that this is our university and that’s a big change.

Day after the fall

I’ve been off blogging for the last few months.  But at this point since the only useful thing I’ve done in days is follow news about the UVa presidential debacle on various social media and media sites, I thought I might as well bring it back.  We’re living in a bubble here—the kind where you have to remind yourself to feed your children and to check the news for other things. Note to UVa peeps, Egypt and Pakastan are following apart and you can’t say vagina in Michigan anymore.  I am too tired to be coherent.  But here’s a sense of how my day went.  

1.I woke up and sleepily grabbed the phone and to see that university as we know it had indeed gone down. When I finally went to bed around 1 and had heard from friends at the rotunda that various BOV members and administrators were yelling at each other I held out some hope that something might change.

2.While walking kids to school I got stopped by a cop and scolded because "my boy" was too far ahead of me on third street and you never know what can happen in the big city.  Thankfully the cville police had two forensic police cars tracking Eli on third street.

3.  I continued my  vigil in front of email, facebook etc...   I did this last night for my husband and BFF who had taken their tenured selves back to the rotunda to bear witness to last nights event.  Both have “stupid phones” meaning they had no access to information. Mostly I was able to report on the weather (boring) and on the US field Hockey scrimmage at UVa.  

4. I walked to cville coffe to meet Tim Kaine. Ever since we have given $25 contributions to Obama, the Democratic party has been calling multiple times a day.  They invited me five times to meet the former governor at a round table today for area women. Finally on Friday I decided I actually had some questions for the man. I arrived early because it's actually only a five minute walk.  The Kaine staffers were all aflutter because they heard rumors that UVa faculty were going to flood the joint. It’s clear to me now that the visually impaired musician is an underutilized genre of spy.  The staff closed the shades, called field officers, and then called the governor with phrases like, "stay the course", 'stay on issue", "uva faculty are angry".  “There’s really nothing we can do about this.  The governor marched in and introduces himself sweetly to the twenty or so women seated prepared to dialogue on education and economy He addressed the "situation" at uva by reading remarks directed to the press.  He then took questions but studiously avoids calling on me; an actual UVa faculty member. He called on everyone around me. I had to leave after an hour to pick up the kids.

5. Despite being cited as an unfit mother this morning, I picked up FIVE kids from camp and almost left with an extra two.

6. At the pool instead of reading twitter or cooling off, I spent most of the time convincing one child or another to go to swim lessons with phrases like "this is not a democracy, it's the BoV, go...." I was glad that there were no press at the pool who would have seen at least a few faculty members in bathing suits obsessively checking phones and shooing kids back into the water. The vice rector’s resignation flew through the pool like no one's business.

7. I got a phone call from husband who said he’d be  Board of Architectural Review for the entire night because, before they discuss drainage on our driveway, they have to discuss the hotel on Main St. I wasn’t able to receive his message at first because my nine year old daughter was weeping over the fact that her brother bought her a strawberry ring pop and not a watermelon one. The Architectural Board meeting was a particular scheduling problem because I had promised some kids I’d take them out for ice cream. Their family does not have a phone, and I do not have car, so to get the message to them that ice cream would be postponed until tomorrow I had to take seven people with me.

8. When I got home I accidentally dumped an entire bag of delicious trail mix on floor of the kitchen and refused to clean it up in protest.  Like all protests this week, it got me nothing, but my kids did give me a no confidence vote.  To earn back their confidence I actually ordered take out from two different restaurants.

9. Now I’m reading Cav Daily tweets….

Coach

I wish I’d had a camera when Rebecca met Joanne Boyle, the UVa Women’s Basketball Coach.  The coach stands over six feet tall and sports spiked heels and stunning designer clothing; for this game it was a floor length skit.  Rebecca’s reaction was complete open-mouthed shock and awe and silence. She has since spent a fair bit of time wearing high heels and proclaiming herself Basketball Coach. This reaction, of course, did not fit so well my fantasies of the guest coach experience showing her tall, athletic, and powerful women…

At the end of last semester a very tall woman in my music 101 class handed me a piece of paper which I tossed in my backpack and lost track of.  I read it a few weeks later and realized it was an invitation to be Basketball Coach for the Day. It seemed clear that every Division One basketball team needs a legally blind coach on the bench.  This seemed like it would be the closest to a ball sport I’ll ever come, and I’d never been to a basketball game. My hoop glory days were brief and consisted of, college Sunday morning feminist basketball which, after many months of patient coaching, yielded one successful (and uncontested) lay-up.   Let’s just say that one of the main reasons I run is that when I showed up for field hockey, Coach Noel took one look at me with a ball and a stick and sent me over to Coach Adkins and the cross country team.

My instructions were to show up for the afternoon shoot-around and evening game with a guest.  I had no clue what a shoot-around was but, because my actual date would be in school for said shoot-around.  Manuel was jealous that I picked Rebecca and not him as guest so I said Manuel could attend the pregame festivities. He loved it…  In typical UVa fashion the invite came with a dress code for the event; Cavalier clothing for the shoot-around and a suit for the game. I owned neither, but thanks to a few donations and after trying on suits from some very generous lawyer friends, I was appropriately outfitted. (And for the record I have plenty of fine-looking professional clothes but no business clothes!)  A shoot-around turns out to be a very easy practice and, not surprisingly, they do not let the shrimpy Guest Coach anywhere near the athletes.

Rebecca and I acquired fancy “all access badges” which gave us the run of John Paul Jones Arena for game day.  She especially loved hers and informed someone who asked her if she was a ball girl that “I’m not a ball girl; I’m a guest coach.” She also enjoyed visiting her father, brother and friends in the nose bleed seats and announcing, “oh I have to get back to my seat.” We had a visiting scholar in the music department who graciously spent much of the game discussing and reading the heinous transformer book with Eli.  Our passes got us into the locker room for the pre game ritual.  And I use the word ritual purposefully to describe the whole experience. I found myself thinking the whole night about an article I read in a grad school ethnomusicology class about the ritual of football game and about Bruno Nettl’s Ethnomusicologist from Mars who visits a music department and provides an ethnographic analysis.   Like all competitive sports, women’s basketball games at UVa are complex social dramas complete with rituals and performances.

 When the abovementioned goddess coach enters the locker room the players applaud. Then, at various intervals during her pre game talk, they clap rhythmically.  With a few more participant observations one could make a pretty solid argument about the ritual of clapping as both enacting the coach as an almost deity and as pushing the players into moving as a collective body. It ends with an inspirational quote and a group prayer circle, which somehow we ended up in—holding hands and looking solemn. They do, in fact, pray for victory, which perplexed Rebecca. “that was kind of weird Mommy, do you think God really has time for UVa basketball…”  The ritual, in other words, involves divine presence, and Geertz would no doubt read it as a religious experience.  I’m with Rebecca on this one…

The most striking thing about a Division One big sports school is that revenue-generating sports exist on a different planet from most of the rest of the University. For one thing, everyone wears orange.  “they are all wearing cavaliers” my five year old told me.   My daughter’s stunned reaction to a 6’3 coach pretty much matched mine to my first music 101 class at UVa back in 2007.  When a block of eight football players walked in, my TA, Matt, and I were stunned—Medussa turned into stone style.  I’d never seen people that big in real life—their legs were the size of my waist and they barely fit in the chairs.   The JPJ experience is utterly removed from Central Grounds where the university works hard to reconstruct a Jeffersonian academic village.   In contrast to UVA brochures and websites, JPJ has no columns, no green space, and no diverse groups of students sitting under trees. Instead it’s all bright lights, expensive hotdogs, and noise…  The current construction project not withstanding, Central Grounds is constructed to block out external noise.  JPJ resounds not just with talking but with cheering and the marching band.  The band tells the audience when to pay attention, when something good has happened, and when to avert their eyes.

I assume the coach for the day project is meant to help engender warm feelings from faculty for the athletes.  It’s no secret on grounds that the business of student athletes is a complicated one.  Players generate millions of dollars but get very little for themselves.  Coaches make more money then the rest of us will see in a life-time. 

Many (of course, not all) athletes from revenue generating sports come to UVa far less prepared than their classmates.  Some of our teams have at least a few players who do not meet the NCAA standards—this is very low.  As a football coach once told me when I asked point blank if football players were less academically skilled than the average UVa student. “Well, they want us to beat Miami, and you don’t beat Miami with nice kids…”  The athletes get tutors, they get study halls, they get their own dining room (complete with their own nutritionist), and they get help picking classes that will meet their needs. And often, despite all of this, their grades are below the mean.  Music 101 regularly gets groups from teams, so I track it.

But here’s the thing.  The basketball staff member who ushered me around my various duties as guest coach made it clear that these women spend SIX HOURS a day on their training.  That’s six hours of physical activity.  Football players in Music 101 regularly came to class with arms in slings looking like they’d come home from battle.  They often had.  The bottom line is that we set them up to fail.  If they come to UVa underprepared, and they have a physically demanding nearly full time job, they are set up for academic trouble. 

All of that not withstanding, I loved the game!  I’m a sucker for ritual.  I love the marching band, I love watching the way everyone cheers.  I don’t enjoy sports on TV, I can never find the damn ball. Football games are usually cold, and the field is big so no matter where I sit I can’t see what’s going on.  The basketball court is small and intimate by stadium standards, and if you get to sit on the bench you are right in the thick of it.  I was totally sucked into the drama and into the pleasure of not knowing what would happen.  The kids loved the game and got to back on Saturday with courtside front row tickets given to us by another friend.  On the one hand the evening brought home the contrast between JPJ and central grounds.  While the kids and Manuel were in cavalier finery eating popcorn and watching hoops I was on the so called music-balcony of the newly restored Garret Hall playing a Scottish lament on my viola for a dead wife that TJ may or may not have listened to.   I was pretty jealous of the kids!