My heart will go out . . .

When public tragedy strikes, it understandably sets people on edge, highlighting the vulnerability of safe places and insulated populations. Events like the Newtown massacre and today's bombings at the Boston marathon set my Facebook page twittering with heartfelt outreach, with the sending of thoughts and prayers, and with people fearfully finding themselves able to relate to the circumstances and the victims. I hate to admit it, but since the Aurora shooting, I am frightened of going into movie theaters, especially for popular, high-profile films. And I feel for those who were affected and continue to be. We have seen too many sad events both in the US and abroad in recent years.

But, each time I am faced with people's anger and philosophical questions that stem from these incidents, I find myself reflecting upon why we, as a society, are not infuriated and heartbroken every single day. Because, the fact of the matter is, we live in a world where the the tragedies are rampant and the inequities are astronomical. As Americans, we live in a country where the wealth gaps are among some of the largest in the world; where we have accepted the fact that some people will die because they cannot find, or afford, safe, appropriate shelter; where some of our cities have some of the highest gun murder rates in the world (America's 10 Deadliest Cities; Gun Violence in US Cities). In Baltimore, in the past 30 days, 22 people were murdered; all of these people were Black; all but three were men. My guess is that most were poor. In Detroit, a city that gets roughly 3,000 fires annually, firefighters seem to disproportionately (compared to other cities) risk their lives entering dilapidated and ostensibly vacant structures in an effort to save the have-nots who have too likely taken refuge within. Yet we do not seem to regard these systemic, structurally-rooted, forms of violence as violence, we do not view them as a call to reproach the system or challenge the culture.

I certainly grieve for the many victims of these highly-publicized incidents; I am sad for those who lost their lives, for those who lost their loved ones, for those who lost their sense of security; but my outrage runs much deeper, and finds its roots at the many daily tragedies we just accept. I am baffled, not by the occasional "crazy" or the periodic sociopath (or group of sociopaths), but by a country that so systematically oppresses entire groups of people, that abandons them and blames them and deems them "undeserving", not only of our tax dollars, but of our tears. I am angry because at the end of the day, it feels like nobody cares enough about those people to question society. We, as a culture, have expanded this "deserving vs undeserving poor" mentality to "deserving vs undeserving" period . . . "innocents" are deserving of our grief, they're the reason for reflection. The poor, the oppressed, we can sweep them under the rug again and again and again. I'd like to think we're just so numb to it now, that it's been too painful, so we can't react to (structural as well as physical) violence on such a scale, with such regularity. But I don't think that's it. I think, at the end of the day, we just don't care as much about those folks.

Many people will make the argument that an awful lot of these people were not "innocent", that they were embedded in systems that create and perpetuate violence. Others may cite moral transgressions or "weaknesses" as justification. But we cannot fool ourselves or construct ourselves as innocent by denying our own complicity in such systems. With very few exceptions, we - even the most oppressed, even the well-meaning, among us - are part of the problem, if for no other reason than we all work harder to get by (to succeed even) within the structure when perhaps we should be dismantling it (thank you to Paulo Freire for this image of the oppressive oppressed).

And this is, of course, where I get bogged down. As an anthropologist, I seek to understand: I ask myself, has my home culture has always been this way, so callously favoring the wealthy? I seek to understand the larger structural systems that have set us all up in opposition to one another, that seem to require some to suffer so others can succeed. I ask whether xenophobia is a cultural or a human phenomenon. But when I try to think just as me, just as a person, not as an academic, I don't know if I care why. I want to know what we are going to do about it. Then, feeling too vulnerable and ineffective, I bring my inner-academic back out and wonder, is it possible to effect meaningful (and desirable) change without answering these other questions? And that I don't know. For now, I know only this, and I will choose to reflect upon it every day, not just when the media decides something awful has happened: My heart will go out to the poor, to the suffering, to the daily murdered or beaten or frightened, to those who find themselves oppressed, exploited and excluded. I will think of them every single day. And maybe one day I will have an answer.

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.

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.