That girl vs. this girl . . . from Hillary

Inspired by my friend and colleague's recent blog post and a visit from a long-time friend, I want to revisit the concept of the changing or evolving "self"both personally and, of course, anthropologically. First, let's take a quick glance at the personal, using the same template Hillary used - "That girl vs. this girl" a ten-item comparison of myself ten years ago to myself today.

That girl . . . 
1) Lived and worked on a horse farm in beautiful rural central Virginia.
2) Was undeniably restless and set to embark on 6+ more years of vagabondish wandering adventures, both stateside and abroad. She didn't ever want to live anywhere for more than a year.
3) Rolled her own cigarettes, wore Carhartt insulated overalls daily, and didn't bat an eye at spending a week's salary on a pair of shoes.
4) Had a BA in Anthropology but wasn't sure what kind of career path she wanted to follow.
5) Wrote poetry while walking, mucking out stalls, or riding through pastures; then performed the poems at open mic nights.
6) Hated the holidays and always asked to work during them so she wouldn't have to deal; she was often called a "grinch" for this.
7) Had no interest in children but buckets of affection and maternal instinct toward dogs, horses, snakes and other non-human creatures.
8) Got tattoos to mark changes in life and self.
9) Still thought she could save the world, or at least other people.
10) Surrounded herself with brilliant, creative, thoughtful people who challenged her to grow and experience new things.

This girl . . .
1) Has been living in the same town for almost 6 years (the longest she's lived anywhere since she was 9 years old!) and just bought a house with her husband.
2) Hasn't smoked a cigarette in at least 4 years and doesn't miss it at all.
3) Gets tattoos because they are beautiful.
4) Is happily directing that maternal instinct toward the funniest, sweetest dog ever.
5) Dropped out of nursing school and abandoned a funded PhD in medical anthropology, but wound up with a master's, a PhD, and career that she loves.
6) Still has a ton to learn about everything, and is grateful to be surrounded by people and critters who are wonderful teachers.
7) Is generally not all that restless. But when she gets "itchy feet" she annoys her partner by endlessly shopping for airline tickets and reading about possible adventure destinations.
8) Climbs rocks (this could never have been predicted), rides her badass horse, and knits in her spare time or to relieve stress.
9) Is still not really a big fan of holidays...or her birthday...except Tour de Fat. Tour de Fat is the greatest!
10) Has lived in 9 states and 3 non-US countries, and has finally figured out that, for her, home isn't a place, it's a person.

An anthropology of change

This little blog was a fun enough exercise in personal reflection, which seems appropriate this time of year and given some major milestones I've experienced in the last year. But it also makes me think about the concept of change in American culture, a concept that I vividly remember writing about on my MA exam back in 2007 (I think it was 2007 anyway). 

In American culture, we are certainly fixated on the individual. We are obsessed with individual rights (both in good and bad ways), we have great admiration for individual creativity and can appreciate out of the box thinking, and we view the self as something that changes over time, that we can expand and grow and improve. Reflections such as "that girl vs this girl" are fun, for sure, but they are also culturally meaningful. This isn't a reflection on experiences, but an examination of who I "was" versus who I "am". And, as an American, I embrace this fully. I think it's good to think about the ways I have changed - both for the better and, although maybe less fun to think about, for the worse. People always say we become more rigid, less willing to change as we get older. I think this exercise in reflection may be a great way to check in ten years down the road. But I wonder, what, really is "self"?

There are some scholars out there who have talked extensively about the concept of "self" and how this self may or may not be seen as maleable in different cultures. The concept of a maleable or changeable self has actually been suggested to put a person at risk for eating disorders or make plastic surgery more culturally acceptable. On the other side of this, cultures that see the self as core, unchanging, a given, may actually be protective against some of these things. What part of the "self" must be malleable to make a particular individual (and all those who share a culture with her) vulnerable to an eating disorder? Some have talked about a linking of the socioeconomic self (one's status) to the physical self. Some have talked about cultural ideas about normal or abnormal behaviors and how, once new norms are internalized, one's sense of self has changed. But I have rarely seen an anthropologist explicitly define this word that we throw around so often.

And when I turn the lens upon my own above reflection, and examine my own changing "self", I am forced to ask, who am I really? For example, as a young person, I had ideas about myself and engaged in certain behaviors that felt core, central to who I "truly" was. Wanderlust was an enormous part of this self. I moved often, I adored the excitement of learning a new neighborhood, culture, language, and making new friends who were perhaps nothing like and possibly wouldn't even like my friends from past lives/adventures. But, as my little reflection shows, wandering is no longer a part of my life. The desire to wander still comes in waves, but it is controllable, "wanderlust" is not necessarily inherently linked to "wandering". So is my true "self" the desire? Or is it behavior? In my research, active methamphetamine users are constantly fighting to avoid the many labels ascribed to them: tweaker, addict, meth head, etc. They may say, "I'm addicted" but most don't view their drug use as a core part of their selves. 12-step programs sort of do though. They view "addict" as an unchangeable part of the self and "drug use" as the changeable part. So again, it seems that in any consideration of the concept of self, or of behavior, or of change, it is worthwhile to explore what we mean by self, and which parts are malleable or not. 

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)?

Putting a roof over one's head

I have finally reached the point in my life when I have surrendered to the idea of home ownership. The purchase hasn't happened yet, but the process and the search have begun. In America in particular, there is a very powerful significance to purchasing a home. It symbolizes adulthood, domestication, and success. The idea that one has not truly done well in life unless one owns a home is by no means unique to the US, but it is certainly very deep-seated here. In much of continental Europe, for example, one can be considered a respectable, successful adult and still rent the roof over her head. In the US, renting has often been left to the young, the transient, the very urban, and the poor or otherwise socially marginalized. Some have gone as far as to say that the attempt to extend the "American Dream" of homeownership to folks of limited economic means contributed to the housing crisis we saw several years ago. (More likely, it's to do with lending to people based on their projected rather than actual incomes, but that's another discussion altogether!). What we do know is that, in the US, it is the cultural norm for an "adult", especially one living outside of the major cities, to aspire to homeownership.

As I go through this rite of passage myself, my research actively reminds me of the fact that, in the US, despite our cultural preference for homeownership, this is simply not a reality for many. Most of the participants in my current research rent their homes, if they have one. Many, at some point during the study, have become (or been to start with) homeless. For most, this means they couchsurf, staying for several weeks or nights with friends who do, for now, have a roof. Several, however, are on the streets, which means that most nights they must fend for themselves to find a place to sleep. This may be in a tent along the river or in a hidden field, on an acquaintance's front porch, or in a shelter. On really cold nights, it often just means walking walking walking.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend and research participant died. She died in a park, maybe because of the cold, maybe because of a medical condition, but she went that night because for some reason, she didn't have a place to stay. It broke my heart, and continues to do so every time I think of her or the very many and very sad friends she left behind. I know for many of the homeless (I'm talking about those who are homeless involuntarily, not the Travelers who pass through town every summer) in my community, especially if they have lost cars or friends with homes, one of the top goals of a day's hustle is often to scrounge up enough for a hotel room for the night. This is especially true when shelters don't have enough beds, winters are cold, and local authorities have been giving out lots of tickets for camping.

Much of the social science literature on homelessness in the US looks at major urban environments, where people rely on (semi)permanent camps. Whether people's roofs are campers or cars or tents or boxes or just the underpass, these camps provide a sense of stability that is blatantly absent from so many other areas of their lives. These settings provide the backdrop to well established systems of reciprocity, mutual assistance to facilitate daily survival, safety in numbers, familiarity and social support. I can't help but wonder how the lack of permanent camp in my town undermines these social needs. The world is home to many many nomadic people, to people who wander by choice, out of need, and because it is simply what they do. But, most of these cultural groups move together - home moves with them. In my little community, many of the folks who don't have their own homes come together during the day but they must scatter at night. Sometimes, I hear about couples who camp together - for the safety and companionship - but rarely any other groups or pairings. "Home" for these folks changes nightly and is for a single occupant.

I can't help but wonder, if people hadn't had to go their separate ways that night, whether our friend might have lived. Maybe someone - other than her loyal and now heartbroken dog - would have been looking out for her. I can't help but wonder what we are saying, as a culture and a society, when we ticket a person for not having a home.

Last spring, I had the pleasure of meeting and chatting with Dr. Miriam Boeri at a conference. Another drug researcher, we had great talks about controlled use, addiction, and options for treatment. Dr. Boeri talked extensively and enthusiastically about the potential benefits of a Housing First model in reducing the consequences of addiction (and often in reducing addiction itself). In this country, we so often think of homelessness as the consequence of something - addiction, criminality - that we forget that it is often the cause of something - addiction (one friend told me she never drank until she became homeless, but she needs something to kill the time; another told me that as long as she uses drugs she'll always have a place to crash off the streets), criminality (after all, it's a crime to be homeless in many communities!). According to most of the local models for ending homelessness that I've seen, we work backwards, trying to make people "worthy" of having a home - we clean them up or find them jobs and encourage them to pull themselves up, save money, and move into a place with a permanent roof. This model certainly works for some, but many are left out in the cold so to speak. The Housing First model suggests that if we offer housing first, other things are more likely to fall into place - for example, substance use treatment is more effective.

And this is when the anthropologist in me kicks in again, wondering whether having housing is simply a structural benefit. Does a roof of one's own simply make a person less dependent on systems of reciprocity that keep them embedded in what epidemiologists would call "risk" networks? I think there is something to this, but it is incomplet. Many of the folks I know who have housing use it to give back to individuals within those very "risk" networks who have helped them out in the past. So, while I think there is a pragmatic structural benefit to providing housing first, I think there may be more to it than that. I wonder if it isn't also about subjectivity. Perhaps the very demoralization - both imposed and internalized stigma - associated with being homeless in the US has such a profound impact as to undermine agency to make changes in other aspects of life. Perhaps the home has become so central to our own sense of self-worth that, regardless of one's other attributes, to be homeless is the most severe cultural abomination.

The anthropologist who didn't want to change

When I act as an anthropologist, that is, when I do my job, I go into the field as a child. Even though my research participants are mostly American-born and living in America, I must be willing to ask what may feel like stupid questions to clarify things I don't understand. This means I spend a lot of time watching so I can learn the rules before interacting. It means I may make lots of mistakes and it means I am seeking to experience and understand a different way of living, a different way of experiencing the ever-elusive "normal".

Interestingly, in research, this outsider status (however precarious as a researcher in my own "back yard") gives me the latitude to make mistakes without offending and to ask questions without ego. This leniency toward the ignorant outsider has been confirmed for me in casual travels abroad, where if I made a mistake, it was often chalked up as harmless and the rule I had violated was clearly explained. In our work, anthropologists are excellent at being quiet observers and inquisitive children. We are by necessity chameleons and must be willing to operate frequently outside our comfort zones. This perspective of being an outsider trying to experience the world as an insider is what gives our research its richness. But I wonder if am I the only one who struggles with this in real life.

In recent years, I have dealt very very personally with walking this line. I have sought to maintain my own personal space and identity and to live according to the cultural rules that have defined much of my life. However, when I (ad)ventured into a situation in which personal cultures clashed, cultural relativism was suddenly worthless. It didn't matter that, after a while, I could map the differences between respective backgrounds (and subsequent expectations) or that I had been able to turn a reflexive eye upon my own culture, had come to think critically about my own rules. I found myself not wanting to change; at times, in fact, I was aggressively resistant to it.

I hesitate (perhaps because of ego?) to say this was quite ethnocentric. I didn't, and still don't, think my way is better, but it became a symbol of me, a scrap that I felt I could hold on to in the face of a life that was swirling around me, often feeling out of my own control. Ironically, central to this very identity - that of an anthropologist - is a view of myself as adaptable and open minded.

All of this has made me wonder: Is this a struggle faced by all anthropologists? As anthropologists, is it fair to expect ourselves to be as accepting and as flexible in reality as we are in work? In fact, do we spend so much time changing, adapting, accepting, in our professional lives that change becomes overwhelming in our personal ones? Do we spend so much time distancing ourselves from judging the differences between cultures that we fail to truly empathize with, or even understand, people's personal connections to their cultural "truths"?

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.

Ritual, Anonymity, and Coping with Loss

One of the few cultural practices that is likely to be a human universal is the ritual coping with death. When I was an undergraduate in Anthropology at UCLA, I was struck by Renato Rosaldo's description of grief and ritual headhunting among the Ilongot, a tribe in the Philippines. Headhunting offered a ritualized and, up until the 1970s, socially permissible means of coping with grief over the death of a loved one. Rosaldo spoke at length in his writings of his struggles to get a truly "emic"perspective on headhunting and the particular emotion that the ritual was intended to cope with. He noted that it was not until his wife, Michelle, died in the field that he truly understood, experienced, this emotion. Other anthropologists write of rituals and emotional norms relating to death, from rites that celebrate the life to those that help the lost person carry on in the bodies and spirits of those who survive, to cultural rules for mourning. While there is vast diversity in the ways humans employ culture to cope with death, we all seem to turn to ritual.

Yesterday was one of the saddest days I have faced in a very long time. It was the first time that, as an adult, I said a permanent goodbye to someone I knew and it was the first time in my life I said this permanent goodbye to someone young, healthy, and happy. Paul was probably one of the kindest people I've ever met. I didn't know him well, but his energy was contagious. The first time I met him, at my partner's first station out of the fire academy, I remember him talking about his wife. And when he talked about his wife, he lit up the room, even though it was something simple, something probably even mundane. He was just one of those people who inspired the people around him to make the most of life and to appreciate every moment. Because that is how he lived his life. Thus, even though I didn't know him well, I find myself more affected by his death than I have been by the loss of any person in my past. This is the first time I was able to experience my own culture's death rites - the funeral, the burial - from a truly emic perspective, and I must admit that I was grateful for the rhythms and structure of ritual.

Although I'm an anthropologist and I love thinking about and analyzing ritual, I often whine about it when I encounter it in my own life. I don't usually like the relative anonymity of it, the fact that ritual often depersonalizes an entire experience. This is probably why the weddings I find the most moving are those in which people add pieces of themselves. But, in this case, the personal quickly became too much. The hymns, the incense, the readings, those were the things that helped me cope while still providing a way to say goodbye. Yes, these things depersonalized much of the ceremony, but they also made it possible to get through. They allowed us to catch our breath, to mourn together, and to acknowledge the permanence of this passing without collapsing into the grief of the individual and the family he left behind. The eulogies were beautiful, each of them from the heart, each of them honoring the wonderful man while expressing their sadness. But the eulogies were also exhausting, emotional enough that had they been the bulk of the ceremony, it would have overwhelmed.

I have never appreciated ritual quite like I did yesterday. I have always turned to my intellectualization of it, picked it apart, fussed over the idea that we so often participate in it without knowing or caring why, letting it take away that cherished notion of the individual that my American heart holds in such high regard. But it is perhaps the very anonymity of ritual allows us to cope with loss in a shared way, as a community. Mind you, it doesn't take the place of private, emotion-filled mourning and it doesn't completely remove the heartache from the ceremony. Rather, it helps keep things manageable while people come together to say goodbye. I can only hope it made room for us to move forward, taking inspiration from his life, standing by his family, celebrating who he was, without getting entirely lost in the void he left behind.

RIP Paul, you will be missed and you will always be loved.

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.