Big Love and banning veils: On the (unintended?) consequences of criminalizing "(im)morality"

I recently decided to try Amazon Prime's instant video service and got into watching the HBO show, Big Love, a drama (at times a soap opera) featuring a polygamist Mormon family struggling to make their way in Utah's more mainstream, non-fundamentalist Mormon community. The show itself is interesting, and it has been both widely lauded and widely criticized. As one who is fairly uneducated in the specifics of Mormonism but who doesn't prescribe at all to any particular religious system, I found the portrayals of the religion itself to be fairly neutral. They did not come across to the uninitiated as any stranger or more extreme than any other religious believes, nor did their portrayal seem attributable to any deeper agenda. I was also able to think critically about the underlying or exacerbating contexts that shape the stereotypes as well as the experiences of the shows highly stigmatized focal group, members of the Fundamentalist Church of Latter Day Saimts (FLDS). 

What I found especially interesting were the social implications not of polygamy/plural marriage itself, not of the Mormon exclusion of the group that has re-defined itself as FLDS, but of the ways that the criminalization of polygamy may contribute to and perpetuate the very demonized aspects of these groups that were so prevalent in the show - incest, child sexual abuse, and a mafia-like mentality of control and dominance - and may in turn foster further criminality and place at increased risk those who are most vulnerable to begin with.

As a drugs researcher, I constantly think about the social impact of the criminalization of drugs in particular and morality in general. The perpetuation of stigma, the fear of arrest and incarceration, these things contribute to drug users' isolation from full participation in mainstream society (unless, of course, they are able to pass to a certain extent, which is another issue). In essence, criminalization pushes people into survival strategies that rely heavily upon insular communities in which social norms are not to be questioned and that foster the engagement of these communities and community members in illegal, often violent, activities. Furthermore, this isolation and involvement in an array of criminal activity positions communities and their members in close proximity to established criminal networks.

Fortunately, when it comes to drug use, there seems to be a growing conversation about the consequences of criminalization and the possibilities of legalization (though this latter part is largely limited to marijuana and perhaps my impression of a "movement" may simply be the result of a biased twitter feed). But I wonder if some of the lessons learned from the drug war vs. drug legalization debate may in fact be applied toward other legal prescriptions of individual morality.

*****

Anthropologists have long studied marriage and kinship patterns across cultures. In fact, these findings - that marriage norms (including who may be married to whom and how many people may enter into a marriage) differ considerably the world over and throughout history - have been at the core of anthropological challenges to the conservative claim that marriage is "between one man and one woman." And on this, the anthropologists are absolutely right. It is simply absurd to reify such a moral standard in ways that refuse to acknowledge the realities of the world in which we live - a world in which there is no single set standard for the ways (or reasons) that people commit to one another.

So what I have long thought about, not having a personal moral issue with polygamy itself, and what the show Big Love has really highlighted for me, is whether when we criminalize one behavior socially deemed "immoral" (typically victimless) are we actually putting people at increased risk and in fact cultivating an entire community of individuals whose daily lives are in turn based on and accepting of other, more dangerous or harmful behaviors (such as violence, rape, and child sexual abuse) in large part because of their isolation from (and consequent mistrust of) the mainstream society from which the very core of their lives - their primary relationships - must be kept secret.

For example, with several examples and multiple characters, Big Love highlights the many challenges faced by a career person torn between living openly in his/her marriages and maintaining not only respect of potential clients but also potential investors, employers, and even banking resources. To admit to living in a plural marriage was to limit one's opportunities in the mainstream business world; as such, engagement with other socially and economically marginalized groups (Native American tribes) or in fringe (certainly by mainstream Mormon standards) economies (gambling) was portrayed as one of few viable alternatives. These struggles were positioned beside the lives of those on the compound, where all were "out" but considerable violence and corruption were rampant and embeddedness in criminal networks was the norm. The show doesn't come out and argue that criminalization of polygamy may actually underlie many of the problem(s) we have seen over the years on these compounds, but it certainly sets the attentive audience up to ask the questions.

**********

In essence, the cases of illegal drugs and of plural marriage/polygamy/the FLDS in the United States suggest that when we decide, as a society, to use the legal system to restrict behaviors deemed immoral - not just behaviors that cause harm to others - we may create a system that a) isolates those who engage in these practices (many of whom may be vulnerable on multiple levels) from mainstream society and resources, placing them in increased danger and b) perpetuates underground and illegal economies that facilitate crimes against others, crimes of violence. In addition to drug use, similar arguments have been made with regard to the consequences of criminalizing sex work.

But the other day another policy was upheld, one that is perhaps about a different kind of morality but one that has the potential, it seems, to place those it ostensibly (and perhaps a bit condescendingly) claims to protect (through the preservation of France's moral values and cultural norms) at greater risk. In 2010, France banned the wearing of face-covering Muslim veils, such as the niqab or the burka, in public. French authorities have claimed the ban was put in place in large part to preserve French culture, which seems to be quite concerned with the notion that Muslim men are forcing their wives to wear such veils. Another concern relates more to issues of security and identifiability, though this is less discussed. The ban was recently upheld by a European court, which defended France's right to prioritize its own cultural values over "freedom of religion." (As an anthropologist living in the US during a time when corporations have been given religious imperative over the rights and health of women, I find all of this especially interesting, but that's all beyond the scope of the current post!)

Here's the thing...to some extent, I can actually understand both sides of the argument - the French have decided to prioritize an aspect of their culture that authorities and decision-makers and many citizens believe fosters gender equality in the face of a religion that many believe squelches it. Muslim women who believe wearing such veils are part of their religious expression, their relationship to God, and who are neither pressured nor coerced into wearing it, find such a ban to be a huge infringement upon their rights. It is an emotionally and politically loaded debate and one that is perhaps endlessly fascinating and lacking a straightforward, all-pleasing solution.

But ultimately, I must admit that this isn't my primary concern. My concern is for the few women who are coerced or manipulated or downright forced to wear a full veil, something that would suggest a relationship power differential that places them at increased risk for abuse among other things. Banning the veil places these women, who were likely isolated living in France anyway, at even greater risk than they would have been at previously. They will be further isolated if leaving their home is conditional upon wearing an article of clothing that is banned, leaving them three choices: a) go out in the banned garment and hazard getting caught, b) face the consequences of going out without the banned garment, against their husband's wishes, or c) don't go out. This may not only further limit their opportunities to establish their own relationships with women who have different experiences and perspectives, but perhaps more realistically and problematically could hinder their abilities to fulfill their roles in the family. Will these women's movements, as well as their networks, be further restricted? My concern is that the French have said, in essence: We believe that the niqab and the burka are signs of gender inequality and domestic violence (or risk for it). Therefore, we will pass a policy that will perpetuate the isolation of the women who wear it, whether or not they choose to do so. 

While I certainly argue that these examples point to a need to continually and critically evaluate the potential consequences of new and existing policies, this is by no means an attempt to turn a blind eye to the actual issues associated with many of these examples or to filter everything through rose colored lenses. Rather, is is a contemplation of the complexity of our actions, and of the need to consider how what we do as a society, how we build a legal system, what it looks like, what we choose to put in it and where, all of these things in turn impact not only the real yet often intangible or unimaginable social structure but also the daily experiences of real live human beings...often in ways we didn't anticipate and certainly don't desire. 

Food as culture: The devaluing of convenience

Food is a funny thing. The ways we eat and the foods we eat tell us a lot about cultures. Not only do these things differ between cultures, but they also give us insights into who belongs to various groups within a given culture. Units on food and nutrition are always popular among my undergraduate classes, and there are certainly times I've wondered why I didn't pursue a career path that had more to do with food. After all, I have always been fascinated by what is considered food, rules about eating, etc. I've written a bit on the question of what constitutes foods in different cultures previously; but what I'm really interested in right now has to do with what we can learn about a culture by thinking about how foods are made and how food, as a priority, fits in with broader cultural systems of meaning. And how shifts in eating may be reflections of or responses to larger cultural shifts.

*****

My summer of 2013 was pretty exquisite. In addition to my standard summers' fare of road trips to stunning canyons and cliff faces, 2013 was sprinkled with an abundance of work-related and for-pleasure travel in the US and Europe, something I was quite exuberant about...except for one thing - my panic about the potential challenge of finding gluten free foods while on many of these trips. I've never been the bravest eater when it comes to meats, but other than that, I've always been willing and able to try just about any food at least once. Since I quit eating gluten due to a sensitivity (I've never been diagnosed with anything but was sick for years until I gave it up), though, I've had to become a much more tentative eater. Unfortunately, this has made one of my other favorite pastimes (besides eating), travel, far more stressful.

Last summer, it was a several day stop-off in Paris to visit with my father that worried me the most. Every time I've visited France in the past decade, I've felt awful the entire time, and in recent years it had been getting progressively worse. I had initially assumed that this had much to do with the abundance of butter and heavy creams present in French cuisine. Thus, since eating loads of French food in Paris has both considerable cultural and personal (my father LOVES French food!) significance and happens constantly, I had for years dreaded these visits. This trip, my first (to France) since figuring out my gluten sensitivity, promised to be no different, and I started stressing about it as soon as I bought my ticket.

See, the thing is, while when I travel with my husband or on my own, I know that I can easily seek out restaurants that will either have "natural" gluten free options (e.g., Thai food is super easy for me to eat) or that are readily accommodating (e.g., have labeled menus), these things are just not options when dining with my dad. He opts for heavy European (especially French) food whenever eating out and, when in France, especially enjoys his traditional meals in brasseries and higher end, but older school restaurants. And, of course, his breakfasts come from the bakery on his block. From pretty much all perspectives, I really admire this about my dad. I love that he is so excited about French food and about food in general...but with my (non-voluntary) diet restrictions I was worried.

But something totally unexpected happened on this trip. The first night that we went out to eat, we simply explained my limitations to the server and asked if the particular sauce that came on the fish I'd ordered would be safe. He looked at us almost in confusion..."I don't know why this sauce would have flour in it, but I'll ask the chef." (In my head, I thought, flour is hidden in everything!) This happened numerous times and each time I was safe - no hidden flour, no hidden gluten, and when galettes were made from buckwheat, they were made from just that, with no wheat flour added. As it turned out, eating gluten free in Paris was easy so long as I skipped the obvious - no baguette, no croissant, no pastry, so the only tragic thing about being gluten free in Paris was not having the time to check out any of the city's gluten free patisseries or restaurants (this is the one I really wanted to visit!).

As my dad and I reflected on the ease with which I was able to avoid gluten, he recalled a related experience he'd had with his wife. A pescetarian, S is careful to avoid soups in many restaurants because of the likelihood that they use chicken or beef stock. In the US, she always asks and about 50% of the time veggie soup is made with veggie stock but the rest of the time it's got some sort of animal base to that broth (maybe this is worse because of their Texas residence?). Anyway, apparently whenever she asks this same question in Paris - "Excuse me, but is this veggie soup made with chicken/beef stock?" - she gets a similar response to the one I received when asking about flour/gluten, only perhaps even more startled..."Of course not! Why on earth would we make vegetable soup with meat stock? That would make it a different soup!"

Hmm...they are, of course, correct. It would change the character and the flavor and the texture of the food, things that, in French cuisine, are of the utmost import. French cuisine remains, for the most part, embedded in an ethic of slow, from scratch, and deliberate. That is, unless the flour is adding something beyond thickness (i.e., a roux), it doesn't go in.

All of this really got me thinking about the American diet and eating gluten free and how this journey in eating has made me more aware of some peculiarities of food in this country and how they've been shifting in recent years. When I cook at home, it's remarkably easy to cook gluten free. I have loads of options - some leaving out grain altogether, some choosing to eat gluten free grains, some choosing gluten free versions of traditionally wheat-based products - when I cook for myself, and find that, most often, I prefer to leave the grain out or eat something like rice or quinoa. When I make soups and sauces, I have no need for flour and on the very rare occasion that I need to thicken something, I use cornstarch. I admittedly do tend to avoid cooking the types of foods that require a roux or similar, but I never cooked that way anyway so I haven't noticed the difference.

It's going out (especially outside of the bubble that Fort Collins can be) or trying to eat processed foods (not something I do very often, fortunately) that can be tricky. Because the hard thing about avoiding gluten in the American diet isn't in avoiding pasta or bread, it's that gluten has a tendency to make its way into everything. It's a short-cut, both for time and money it seems. Apparently, some folks even bind hamburgers with flour. Sometimes, in American versions of Indian or Thai restaurants, curries are thickened with it (not something I found in Thailand or Malaysia, where curries tended to be thin or thickened with rice flour). It just shows up in everything. And this seems to be a trend in American eating that I find remarkably telling.

Like much of life in the US, in recent decades, it seems that our food is often based on convenience and cost rather than flavor or authenticity or quality or freshness of ingredients. Through an anthropological lens, the value placed upon convenience in our society is of considerable importance. The need for convenient food is something that is an indicator of the so-called Protestant work ethic. As in, "I work 80 hours a week, so I need food that is easy." The emphasis on cheap production is a reflection of a society that places great value on profit motive, but also one that sees considerable wealth disparities. Whereas, in France, it is perfectly acceptable to take hours mid-day to eat a meal, in the US, we too often eat lunch at our desks and pride ourselves on it. In a country that has a history of placing much greater value on consumption of goods rather than experiences, the art of dining and the value of food are of little relevance (to many).

Part of why this stands out so clearly to me right now is that, lately, it seems like things may be shifting. Yes, we Americans still seem to be especially prone to fad diets with little sense of cultural food identity (at least compared to many other places), and yes, we still often choose convenience over quality; but, the multitude of varying philosophies about food and lifestyle that abound these days are rooted in ethics of going back to whole foods, cooking from scratch, and connecting to the source(s) of one's food. It seems that, increasingly, regardless of the particular diet fad one has directed his/her attention toward - that is, whether one eats vegan and only buys from the farmer's market or is paleo and only gets foods direct from farmers and ranchers - there is an increasingly mainstream movement toward knowing what that food is, knowing not only how to prepare it, but maybe even how to raise it.

And, of course, this all makes me wonder whether perhaps there are changes afoot. Are people trading hours at a desk for hours in a garden, tracking elk, or behind a stove, shifting the relative cultural value of work and that of food? I hope so. As, if given the choice, it seems to me that convenience is overrated.

Culture, food, and the edible animal

Anthropologists spend a lot of time and energy thinking about the foods and food-related rituals and meanings of cultures the world over. In Mary Douglas' influential "Abominations of Leviticus", she explored the religion-based categorization of foods as edible and inedible. Marvin Harris' "The Riddle of the Sacred Cow" examines the Hindu prohibition against eating cows from a materialist perspective, arguing the myriad ways cows are more valuable to the society alive than as food. These canonic anthropological texts are decades old, but what has recently emerged as "Europe's Horse Meat Scandal" has once again highlighted the role of culture in defining what constitutes an edible animal, not just among anthropologists, but in popular media. And, of course, as an anthropologist and a horse girl, I just had to write about it.

I grew up riding horses. I love them. Love them. I have devoted years of my life to riding and caring for these magical creatures, working with them, and trying to rehab/rehome/and otherwise save them. I do not eat them though I try very hard to understand, and be ok with the fact, that others do.

           

So, several years ago, shortly after visiting some family friends in Switzerland, my father had the irrepressible need to share what he found to be a very funny experience. At dinner one evening, he asked the family's 9 year old daughter, "Do you like horses?"to which she responded, "Mmm, yum" while rubbing her belly. As my father tells it, he about fell out of his chair laughing as he pictured my response had I been there.

My father has spent a decent portion of his young adult and adult life living in France and has himself eaten horse so he did not find this statement or the behavior shocking, though given the context of his personal life (me!), he was certainly surprised in a "young girls like to ride horses not eat them!" kind of way. As much as I prefer to be culturally respectful when I travel, I cannot see myself voluntarily eating a horse (though there is some speculation that I have unknowingly done so at some point...) and when I've lived in places where horse meat was common, I've always found it moderately upsetting.

But here's the thing. I'm an anthropologist. It's my job to think about how culture has shaped the way we (people, so this includes me!) think about and define everything, including what we eat. So, intellectually, I get it. I understand why other cultures eat horse meat and I find it rather surprising when the Huffington Post tags articles on the topic with comments like "Gross!". I'm not a vegan - or even a vegetarian these days - but I do believe the critique that once we have made the decision to kill a living creature for our own sustenance, does it really matter which animal we kill? is worth while. Because this is where culture comes in. It is culture that defines which animals are edible and which ones are not. For example, this is why Americans are notoriously squeamish about foods that may be perfectly ordinary in other places - think escargot (snails) or crustaceans with their heads on and eyes intact. Whether based on religion, material/economic importance, or historical sentiment, culture guides the foods we should and should not consume.

Yet here's the thing that gets me every time. I know all of this and it still doesn't matter. I won't eat horse any more readily than I would eat dog, and while I know there is some personal sentiment involved, I don't think it's just about my personal attachment to these animals. After all, I can't imagine myself eating cat either, although I don't much care for cats in general and have never had a close relationship with one. In parts of South America, people eat guinea pigs. I have never had a guinea pig as a pet, but to me they simply don't constitute food. I don't find the prospect of eating bugs emotionally upsetting but I do find it stomach turning.

Part of what is so interesting about the European "horse meat scandal" is the fact that horse's role in Europe and Canada is quite similar to its role in the US. In all these places horses are used in work, and primarily for recreational purposes - whether as pets or sport horses. However, perhaps - and I'm no expert on this so I'm certainly open to alternative suggestions - the meaning of the horse still differs slightly in these varied contexts. The horse, in American culture, holds a special, almost mythical place that I'm not sure it holds in European or even Canadian societies. In the US, the horse dominates our lore about the Native American (becoming an integral part of both "noble savage" and "dominating white man" discourses). The horse is a vehicle for hero stories on race tracks and in movies about race tracks (the fact that these animals' realities rarely reach mythic standards is a totally separate issue). The horse represents the American West. Our relationship with horses comes to represent our relationship with nature and as such, the relationship between nature and culture (see Elizabeth Atwood Lawrence's Rodeo: An Anthropologist Looks at the Wild and the Tame). Thus, in addition to my personal relationship with the animal, all of these cultural factors shape a broader, shared cultural meaning of the horse that I draw upon when deciding how I feel about its consumption. As an anthropologist, I can intellectualize my culture all I want, but I cannot completely remove myself from it.

Is there a culture of negotiation?

The first time I went to Morocco, I was 22 years old. It was spring, I had been living in New York for about six months, and I was itching for some sun and the promise of a new life (i.e., one that didn't involve an hour-long commute to three part time jobs just to scrape by while living in a condemned building). Morocco had been suggested to me as a possible graduate research destination so I decided to check it out. That first trip to Morocco lasted only a week but changed my life forever and set me on an entirely new path that meandered but ultimately led to my current circumstances.

One of element of Moroccan culture that dominates daily life - whether one is a tourist, a foreign/exchange student, or a Moroccan - is the art of negotiation, or bargaining. The extent and meaning of this process clearly differs according to one's position in the culture, but is one that all must navigate at some point.

My most memorable experience of bargaining (until recently days) came on that first visit to Morocco. I really wanted to buy a carpet but I had no guide book and no clue what one was worth. Furthermore, I didn't know how to judge quality. So, after a day of wandering the Medina in Marrakech, I wandered into one of the many shops determined to bargain and find myself a good deal on a reasonable carpet.

In my experience, bargaining over tourist goods in Morocco typically takes place over lovely tea (aka Moroccan Whiskey - this China green tea, mint and sugar keeps one hydrated and happy and is one of my favorite smells ever!). Buyer and seller chat, smoke cigarettes, and to a certain extent, size one another up. The bargaining is sometimes entirely verbal, other times written (I've heard this referred to as the "Berber way") and there is a general expectation from the perspective of each party that an item will in fact be purchased. I learned this the hard way that first time I tried to buy a run in Morocco. My ignorance put me in the position of offering such a low price that I offended my (seedy) carpet salesman, yet he had nothing available within my meagre budget. In fact, this expectation that a transaction would take place led the salesman, presumably prompted by my solo status and lack of a wedding ring, to (think it was appropriate to) suggest I provide sexual favors in exchange for the carpet I liked. So, I did the unthinkable - I left the store without buying a thing.

During this particular transaction (odd and anticlimactic as it was) and many more successful ones over the years, I developed my own bargaining style. It's no-frills and seems well-suited in less touristy parts of Morocco than those places where the actual process of bargaining is as important as the ultimate purchase. I won't bargain excessively and I don't try to rip people off. I identify what I think is a fair price (range?) and work within this.

Living in a country where bargaining is simply not part of my normal day-to-day existence, I have been a bit taken aback by the expectation, bordering on mandate, that one will bargain over a house. It seems to me it is potentially to the detriment of the entire transaction. Just the other day, my partner and I made an offer on our first home purchase. This process has involved extensive searching - of neighborhoods and of our own souls and priorities. While we wanted to make just one offer on our prospective home, because that offer was below the asking price, we were advised to go a bit lower, making room for the bargaining process. So, we offered less than we are willing to spend simply for the purpose of giving the sellers a chance to counter, and hoping that the counter will fall within our pre-determined limits. We will have to be willing to walk away if it doesn't, like I did that first time I bargained in Morocco, or the many times since.

All of this has me thinking about the process of bargaining and its cultural meaning in context. I'm not certain if there is an inherent significance of bargaining in Morocco outside of the strange tourist economy where it dominates. But I do find it very culturally interesting in the context of the process of purchasing a home in the US.

Buying a home, as I have learned in recent weeks, is an extremely emotional and taxing process, certainly for the buyer and I can only imagine for the seller. Bargaining only adds to this. Buyers must commit emotionally to calling a place home just to make the offer, yet their offer must be one that is acceptable to the seller. If it's not, they will have to find another place to call home. Sellers, in turn, may take offer amounts personally, becoming genuinely offended if buyers point out needed or desired changes to the home as purchase conditions or simply offer less than what the sellers believe the home is worth. It is this emotion that makes bargaining about home prices possible (after all, why not just average three appraisals and make that the set, fixed price?). Perhaps this emotion and the subsequent bargaining even allow home prices to keep increasing.

Interestingly, while bargaining emphasizes the emotionality and subjectivity of the home buying process, efforts are made to minimize direct emotional connection (or any contact at all) between the buyers and sellers. Although I think the transaction would go much faster were my partner and I able to sit down with our prospective sellers, we will likely never meet, never even speak to, the couple who currently own the home we are hoping to purchase. Rather, we deal with an army of realtors, brokers, and other professionals who stand between us, ensuring that this separation is maintained.

I'd love to hear from folks who have purchased homes in the US or other countries - What do you think of the process? Is bargaining/negotiation part of the process in other places? Are buyer and seller separated? Is all of this hoopla just about creating and supporting an industry (as I'm beginning to suspect)?

Constructions of Family Bonds

Last fall I taught Introduction to Cultural Anthropology for the first time and it was enlightening. Granted, I'm quite glad to be done with teaching, at least for the time being, but this return to basics was both academically and personally cathartic, transforming, inspiring.

One of the most profound lessons we learn in early courses in cultural anthropology derives from the analysis of family structure across cultures around the world. On a personal level this is an element of cultural difference that I have always struggled with, although I adore the diversity academically. I bet most of us are good at seeing the "faults" in our own family, but may be better at pointing them out in others. For example, cultures have varied ways of defining who can and cannot marry (and I'm not talking about just gender variations or status categories, I'm talking about who is defined as what type of family before a wedding). Patrilineal versus matrilineal societies trace inheritance as well as authority according to different family lines (though almost exclusively, the power still tends to reside with males). In some societies, an individual's ties to his or her blood relatives are viewed as the most important; in others, ties to one's significant other and subsequent nuclear family are expected to take priority. When there is a clash in cultural ideologies around these fundamental expectations and cultural norms, as I imagine is rather common in countries with great cultural diversity, there is plenty of space and plenty of fuel for conflict and heartache.

This Huffington Post story tells of a mother's wedding gift for her son. She essentially collected trinkets from his childhood, put them into the giftable form of a lamp base, and gave him the lamp at his rehearsal dinner. I first read this story on facebook and my personal response was something along the lines of "ICK! What must the poor wife think? Where are the boundaries in this family? How inappropriate for a wedding!" I then of course read the comments (because usually that's the most entertaining, though sometimes frustrating, part of having most of my non-radio news sources posting on my facebook page) and found that there were very few neutral or, "I can see how it would be a great gift, but it's not for me", comments. Nope, people either loved it or hated it. And this, of course, speaks on some level to our expectations not just about weddings, but more importantly, about what they represent.

If we borrow from Victor Turner and others and view the wedding as a rite of passage in which the individual moves through a series of social statuses - separating from the role as single person/son/daughter, standing in a liminal space of almost married, reintegrating with society as a married person - it is clear that one's social status changes. We don't really need this model for this to make sense as there are all kinds of rituals that remind us to varying degrees every time we attend a wedding. I would say most people recognize this in similar ways, but the ways that one's status changes and what it means for other family relationships is going to vary from one culture (and, arguably, one family) to another.

This gift thus represented (perhaps unintentionally) a particular interaction with these cultural expectations, and of course the meaning of this is as subject to interpretation as the rest of it. I'm going to venture a guess that, to the mother giving the gift and perhaps to her son, this gift was meant to celebrate his childhood, a phase of life which marriage officially ends. Perhaps she also saw it as a way of sharing that childhood with his new wife, though obviously I can't be sure. But here is what my response told me about my own worldview and view of weddings and families. I see a wedding as a time to celebrate the new social role and the embarkment on a new life. I see the focus of a wedding as the bond between the individuals getting married, not the bonds with other family members. This does not mean I think family and friends aren't part of that, but that I view the bond between the couple as the primary bond and all the others as secondary. Therefore, I found the mother's gift unnerving, and if I had been the bride, I probably would have found it offensive. It highlighted the bond between mother and son rather than the bond between husband and wife. As such, while it may have been a thoughtful graduation gift or appropriate for some other milestone, it seemed highly inappropriate as a wed
ding gift.

Now keep in mind, this is not a judgment of the gift or the family structure itself, but a reflection on what my own response to that family structure teaches me about myself. My own family history as well as my cultural background, as a white, middle-class American, emphasizes the significant-other bond. This doesn't mean it neglects the parent-child bond, but that it expects it to change when the child reaches adulthood - what's that term, cut the apron strings?

The funny thing is, we all, to some extent or another, expect each other to follow similar rules about these relationships but because culture is something we often don't explicitly recognize as such (that's kind of the point, after all!), they may lead to awkward situations, hurt feelings, and even conflict. I was recently at a wedding where the couple was staying with the bride's family before and after the wedding. They had traveled far, were on a budget, and enjoyed the family time that was often limited to other times of the year. But a friend was appalled that their wedding night would be spent with parents/in-laws so got them a room at a hotel in town. The gesture was based in love, but also in culture.

I've found all these events a great reminder that when I feel baffled, offended, put off, or overwhelmed by someone else's actions and decisions (including but obviously not limited to those that are family-based), it is a good opportunity to reflect on my own culture, both personal and societal, and how it has influenced my response. I hope that by doing this, by trying to write it down and share my anthropology of the familiar with others, I will grow as an anthropologist and, perhaps more importantly, as a person.

You are what you eat: Food & Identity

If you grew up in the US, the expression "you are what you eat" probably has specific connotations for you, most of which relate to the physical and health related "consequences" or "benefits" of following a certain diet. Namely, if you eat cupcakes and french fries, you are likely pudgy if not downright obese; if you eat salads and grilled (insert lean protein here), you are svelte and (thus) "desirable". I am certain I heard the expression as well as other wonders like "a moment at the lips, a lifetime on the hips" from my grandmother or my father when I made the grievous error of becoming chubby in my pre-pre-teens. But as I grow older I am learning that my home country and I have a much more complex relationship with food than this basic interpretation of the common phrase "you are what you eat" would suggest.

The idea that food (and consumption more generally) is closely linked to cultural and psychological constructs such as identity is nothing new or novel on my part (in fact, an entire chapter of my dissertation centers around the idea that being a user of a particular type of drug is an identity option). However, the extent to which Americans seem to seek out a unique identity through consumption, including food choices and diet, has become especially interesting to me lately. It all started a couple of years ago when, on my very American 70 mile commute to class I was listening to Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dilemma. Early in the book, Pollan introduces what he sees as a phenomenon unique to the US - an obsession, not with a national cuisine, but with diets, with ways of eating, many (but not all) of which are passing fads. He goes on to argue that diets would not be so successful in countries with a stronger national food identity - in France, for example, the Atkins diet would never take root because what type of French person would give up croissants or a proper baguette? But, he argues, in the US, because of the fact that we lack a food identity, such diets thrive (perhaps one could test this by looking at their prevalence in regions of the country with strong regional food identities, though it seems difficult to separate other regional differences from cuisine...).

For example, though I'm not a "dieter" per se, throughout my life, I have moved through various dietary categories, spending significant time as a vegan (a little over a year), vegetarian (many years on and off, beginning in my early teens), pescetarian (the past six years until recently), and struggling-to-be-responsible/conscientious-omnivore (the latest). A number of things happened in the past six months or so that drove me to this latest, which means I have begun to eat certain (i.e., 100% grass fed/pasture raised, local-when-possible) non-fish meats for the first time in almost a decade. And funny enough, although my body has dealt wonderfully with the transition, my mind and my heart have found it to be a bumpier road.

First, much of my identity over the past many years has related to my status as a vege- or pesce-tarian. Many (and for a while the majority) of my friends had similar eating habits. It often made travel (especially if I wanted to be a "good anthropologist" and experience local foods) difficult, and actually, this was what originally brought me back to fish after years without any meat. But it was a part of who I was, and although I didn't think of myself as an animal rights vegetarian (I do after all wear leather), since starting to eat poultry and grazing animals again I have begun to feel a certain type of guilt.

I have though long and hard (perhaps excessively) about this decision and it was ultimately my desire (stated so eloquently by Ted Kerasote in his book Blood Ties) to do as little harm as possible with my diet that actually led me back to meat. I began to rethink what I meant by harm (which I had once only conceptualized in terms of the specific animals I would or would not eat) and, living in the wide open spaces (grazing lands) of the American West, consuming ethically and humanely raised local animal products began to seem more responsible than stuffing my body with processed soy, which had become one of my only major protein sources.

So, intellectually, I feel ok about my newfound consumption patterns. But emotionally, I'm not quite there yet. I don't know if I am truly mourning the creatures I am about to eat when I tearfully thank them during preparation (this really does keep happening, especially with whole poultry), or if I am mourning the person I was for so many years. I don't know if I am feeling guilty and full of self-loathing or if I am truly appreciating the fact that I am taking a life to feed myself. And why is that life less valuable than my own or my dog's? In my brain, I know it's culture that has taught me what animals are acceptable to eat or not (after all, in some countries, my dog could be the meal), but that doesn't mean I haven't internalized it.

I'm still grappling with this and quite possibly will be for some time, as it seems harder and harder to feel truly good about anything I eat. Perhaps this is in itself a reflection of the state of a culture, of the idea that American society has come to a point where we have so little core cultural identity, we are so divided, that all of our choices, especially those relative to consumption patterns, become markers of various subgroups.

Curaçao 2: Stop f-ing staring at me! Traveling (and living) under the male gaze

The island of Curaçao is really rather fascinating and, of course, full of contradictions. It is one of the three islands of the Dutch Caribbean so in many ways the Dutch-influenced foods don't make much sense in the steady 80 degree+ weather. But due to rocky soil and low rainfall, the local cuisine is lacking in the standard tropical fruits one often thinks of when imaging island dining. The little country has its own economic base, sort of, in the Venezuelan oil refineries, making tourism a secondary economy. This means that, while there is certainly a strong tourist infrastructure in the form of beachside bars/restaurants, dive schools & resorts and lovely hotels set in renovated colonial buildings, it is easy to walk the streets - even the markets - in peace. Even the process of buying fruit and veggies at the floating market was straightforward. As a woman traveling alone, I always appreciate a place where I can walk without being hollered at or followed (as much as I love Morocco, this was something that was endlessly annoying, even after months and especially in towns with more tourists). I've always envied the ease with which my male travel friends can move about a new place, never feeling dissected or undressed just for existing in their own bodies. Unfortunately, despite initial appearances, Curaçao proved no better (or worse, I suppose) for the self-conscious female traveler than any other destination.

I honed my international travel wardrobe sensibilities in Morocco in my early twenties, trying on cultural relativism as a way of life and appreciating the skin-covering, flowing clothes for their considerable comfort combined with sun-protection. So, when I travel outside of the United States now (outside of winter, of course!), I typically pack the following - jeans or pants; t-shirts; knee-length or longer skirts or dresses; light-weight long-sleeved shoulder coverings - and mix and match as needed. There persists an element of the issue of cultural relativism, of respecting local dress codes and culture, including more recently, beliefs about tattoos (which I often try to cover when outside of the US or Europe). In parts of western Europe - I'm mostly thinking of a particular summer in Paris - I find that the increased coverage is helpful, but not foolproof, in preventing obnoxious men from yelling from their vehicles. This has served me well in multiple countries and is not too far off from how I normally dress anyway so it's generally easy. 

And at first, Curaçao seemed like it would be an easy place to wear tank tops and t-shirts without the shoulder coverings. After all, local women were dressed in tighter clothing than I and the other tourists (mostly Dutch) I encountered were often sunburned in their post-beach minidresses or swimsuit coverups. So, my first evening on the island, I headed from my hotel across the bridge to wander around one of the historic parts of Willemstad and find a waterfront spot to grab some food and a cocktail. I still don't know who the stares came from - whether they were other tourists or locals - or what motivated them - was it my half-sleeve of vegetables or the fact that I was maybe the only tourist in long pants or was it my being female? I will never know, but the stares were predatory and unapologetic and they were many. The thing is, I hate being stared at regardless of the motivation and it makes me slouch, cover up, and avoid eye contact (all highly effective in every country I've been in). So, I found myself for the duration of my short trip, especially in certain parts of town (none of this was an issue near the beaches and, while uncomfortable, I should make it clear that I never felt unsafe) reverting to this way of walking around. I carried my little linen long-sleeved shirt to throw on while walking around and only wore my shorts when on a tour. 

This experience, while relatively harmless in the grand scheme of things that could harm a person, is one that I can never quite reconcile with the type of woman, the type of feminist, and the type of anthropologist I'd like to be. I want to visit other places and respect other people and what they consider normal. When I lived in Austria, I remember being repeatedly taken aback by the fact people would stare unashamedly at you, especially on the U-bahn, but there was never anything behind it but perhaps curiosity and sometimes an assessment of the coolness (or lack thereof) of my footwear. But, after talking to a couple of Austrians and long-term expats, I quickly learned not to be self-conscious, that this was normal behavior and I wasn't being singled out. I imagine that when I find myself stared at in many of the ways that make me uncomfortable, it is similarly innocuous, and I am reacting from my American sensibility of "It's rude to stare", "Don't stare at people, that's rude". 

But there is something about a predatory male gaze - one that no woman alive can say she's never felt - that I find completely unnerving, completely terrifying. It's why, despite the relative safety of my quaint little town, I detest walking by groups of men. It is not flattering (though I am aware some women would say it is), it feels degrading and while my ability to cope with it varies from place to place, its occurrence seems to be pretty darn consistent, especially in the West (I don't recall ever feeling this way in Japan or Cambodia) and it is something that undermines my ability to fully enjoy my travels, especially in places where the "cultural norm" is to be scantily clad. That's part of what I find so interesting; in Morocco, I found that if I dressed appropriately, while I may get called after or stared at for being an obvious foreigner, there was no predation in it when I was dressed appropriately (had I not been, it may have been a different matter, but I can't speak to this). When I was in Paris a few summers later, however, I felt the need to cover myself nose to toes to feel comfortable.

I remember, shortly after that summer, I moved to Montreal. One evening I was walking with my new roommate and I was explaining how I'd come to almost always dress as I would have in Morocco, finding that, while I didn't always want to be so modest, it made me feel less of a target for the type of male attention that makes my skin crawl. We were talking about the idea that in so many cultures, including in the US and Canada, it is the responsibility of women to be covered if they don't want to be degraded by the male gaze, a fact that persists and still nags me as highly problematic. I can cope on some level with applying the type of cultural relativism that allows me to cover up in another country, but in my own country I feel entitled to challenge the norms. I should be able to walk around naked if I want to and not be the subject of sexualizing, predatory stares, but I'm not. In fact, we live in a world where women are taught that it is their responsibility to avoid rape (it's evident in policies designed to "protect" women as well as when women are repeatedly blamed for their own victimization). I live in a country where my research participants (active drug users) have often done more time for possession than their rapists and abusers for their crimes. 

Mind you, the fact that this same stare coming from someone who identifies as female has never bothered me serves as a reminder that the discomfort that accompanies the male gaze goes well beyond the experience of being sexualized - it's about power and it's about the violence against women (physical, structural, emotional) that is embedded in our everyday lives. Perhaps if we could eliminate the power gap this gaze would take on new meaning and cease to be another tool of violence. Plenty of others have engaged this conversation and have done so more eloquently, more forcefully, and with more biting humor than I, yet we seem incapable of actually changing the culture in any tangible or sustainable way. Perhaps if we continue the conversation insistently, pushing back whenever these dress code policies arise, encouraging young women to view themselves not as asexual but as more than sexual, encouraging young men to do the same. Meanwhile, I'll keep traveling and when I do so, will abide by local dress codes and do my best to be respectful of cultural norms. But maybe when I'm home I'll be the unapologetic one, I won't look down or slouch or cover up because I'm passing a group of boys or men. Maybe that's one step I can take?