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Political Activism and the Academy
“To act … and not to be acted upon” (2 Nephi 2:26). One of my favorite essays on the field of Brazilian Studies bears an unusual and entertaining title: “Brazilianists, God Bless ‘Em! What in the World is to be Done?”1 Written by Richard Morse, one of the most eminent scholars of Brazilian culture and history during the twentieth century, the speech in question was given at the time of his retirement, a sort of farewell address to the academic community. In the paper, Morse reflects on the role of the academic in society and he concludes with a provocation: “The central function of scholarship and universities is, after all, curatorial and not revolutionary—nor even, alas, intellectual. Any tidbit, once gathered and classified, has its interest some time for someone. … We need to be on the lookout for occasional prophets coming along in our seminars. We’ll recognize them because they’ll be impatient with meticulous demonstration and more concerned with pointing and exhibiting; they’ll take paradox as acceptable statement rather than as a resolvable issue; they’ll have discounted the precept of freshman English manuals to connect all assertions by straight lines. We needn’t do much about these prophets or place them in the hydroponic soil of a greenhouse. We need merely flick off the academic seat-belt sign and allow them to move about the cabin. Which takes confidence on our part and, of course, assumes that we’re airborne. (But please, no smoking in the lavatories.)”2 Here, Morse highlights the role of the scholar as a teacher and a steward of knowledge. He asserts that the role of the professor is one of preparing the rising generation to grapple with the...
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A Field Guide of Birds and Grace
SANDPIPER; Calidris himantopus. Voice: A single whu. The last time I saw a sandpiper I was in San Diego, sitting on the beach fully clothed and watching those nervous, light-footed birds skitter across the sand. Their legs move so fast they seem to levitate just above the ground, hovering without the use of wings, defined by quickness and brevity and indecision. That trip, I played bocce ball, picked up broken, spotted shells and stones, and climbed down cliffs to the cold, salty Pacific foam. At night, floodlights poured over the beach like second and third diaphanous moons while my boyfriend and I made rudimentary shadow animals and danced. I ate expensive fish with his mom, like the end of a strange dream. Sandpipers are bustling little prayers, lacking any sort of magnificence, like small hand-written thank-you notes or post-its left on the fridge as reminders to buy butter, cardamom, brown sugar. I want to hold a sandpiper’s quivering body in my hands and whisper that I envy its hollow bones and speckled eggs and obsidian eyes. The sandpiper is a grace note, not graceful, but a half second hesitation between intentionality and improvisation, a lukewarm grace. AUSTRALIAN BUDGERIGAR; Melopsittacus undulates. Voice: Chattering, chirping. I used to hold parakeets on my fingers and shoulders, and feel the weight of their grace seeping into my body. When I put my finger against their down-covered, cloudlike bellies, they would lift one reptilian-esque foot onto it, then the other, and speak to me in their clicking languages, mysterious messages earnestly spoken to my unfamiliar ears. My ears which they would gnaw on with their hooked beaks, making a meal out of the decaying...
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Old Myths and Current Realities in the Futures of Humanities Majors
In late April of 1992, with finals week at BYU in our rear-view mirror, four college friends and I set out on a great American road trip built around visits to national landmarks (Mt. Rushmore and the Gateway Arch), church history sites (Jackson County and Nauvoo), and Major League Baseball games (Nolan Ryan pitching for the Rangers at Comiskey Park and a 11-inning marathon between the Cards and Expos in a freezing Busch Stadium). Oddly enough, amid a jam-packed itinerary, one of the trip’s most memorable experiences came while waiting for a table at Gino’s East Pizza in Chicago, where we befriended a group ahead of us in line who were in town for a gerontology conference. All roughly our parents’ age, these gerontologists were true evangelists for their field. Upon discovering we were in college, they promptly set out to convince us that any right-thinking university student would do well to position him or herself to capitalize on the imminent mass-retirements of America’s baby boomers. After a few minutes, one particularly zealous member of their group began grilling us about our chosen majors, assigning a grade for how well prepared each of us would be for an economy soon to revolve around elder care. Much to his delight, the first four he interrogated proved golden investigators: an aspiring orthopedic surgeon (A+), ophthalmologist (A+), physical therapist (A), and pharmacist (B+, but correctable to an A if he dropped his major in art). Alas, however, he then came to me, a wannabe literature professor who had somehow thought it a good idea to spend much of this testosterone-filled road trip reading Pride and Prejudice in the back of the van....
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The Finitude of Winter
I was lied to as a child. In my elementary school classroom, my teacher displayed on the wall a large wheel with twelve smaller circles orbiting the center, each representing a month of the year. They were separated in groups of three, each group comprising a season accordingly: • Summer: June, July, August • Autumn: September, October, November • Winter: December, January, February • Spring: March, April, May I blame this chart for my consistent detestation of March. By the end of February every year, I mistakenly believe that spring is just around the corner. I get up each morning, hoping for the chance that there might not be frost on my window, that I might not have to worry about sliding around on the ice in my light-as-Styrofoam car, and that my ears might not hurt as they slowly thaw when I enter the JSFB; yet day after day, I am always disappointed. Thankfully, in the past year or so, BYU’s semester schedule has finally mitigated my expectations to some degree. I now view the months laid out in the following manner: • Summer: May, June, July, August • Autumn: September, October, November, half of December • Winter: the happy half of December, and the brutal eternity that is January, February, March, March (I’m putting this one in twice since it seems twice as long), and April 1-28 • Spring: April 29-30 Okay, am I being a bit dramatic? I’ll acquiesce enough to say “maybe.” I really do not know what to do with this time of year. It’s not even that I simply dislike the cold; the cold months before January seem fine. In fact, since October,...
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Events
Book Discussion with Kathleen Fitzpatrick
When: Friday, Feb 15, 2019
Where: 4010 JFSB
more event details ->
MARS Guest Lecture: Amy Hollywood
When: Wednesday, Feb 20, 2019
Where: 4010 JFSB
more event details ->
Colloquium: Experiential Humanities Research Group
When: Thursday, Feb 21, 2019
Where: 4010 JFSB
more event details ->
Humanities Center Blog
Political Activism and the Academy
“To act … and not to be acted upon” (2 Nephi 2:26).
One of my favorite essays on the field of Brazilian Studies bears an unusual and entertaining title: “Brazilianists, God Bless ‘Em! What in the ...
continue reading ->
A Field Guide of Birds and Grace
SANDPIPER; Calidris himantopus.
Voice: A single whu.
The last time I saw a sandpiper I was in San Diego, sitting on the beach fully clothed and watching those nervous, light-footed birds skitter across the sand. Their legs move ...
continue reading ->
Old Myths and Current Realities in the Futures of Humanities Majors
In late April of 1992, with finals week at BYU in our rear-view mirror, four college friends and I set out on a great American road trip built around visits to national landmarks (Mt. Rushmore ...
continue reading ->
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