Metanarrative Hunter (Coming this fall to E!)

Three of my favorite articles from this semester were also three that gave me the best sense of the Early Republican culture. There might be more detailed threads to trace through the three articles, but I will refrain from trying to tie these articles together in this space. Rather, I will discuss why I found these articles interesting and what I learned from reading each one.

The first article, "Seduced Innocence, To the Editor of the Philadelphia Monthly Magazine," was found using the search term seduced for class on September 13. Published in The Philadelphia Monthly Magazine in February 1798, this tale is about how a young, moral woman was tricked into giving up her virtue through false marriage. Besides being an intriguing story, the article was interesting for a number of other reasons. First, the author blamed men for all the troubles in the world instead of using women as the stereotypical fall gal. Second, it must have scared the bejezus out of fathers that a man could potentially trick their daughters into a fake marriage and cause them to stray from a virtuous path. Based on the reaction of the "bride" (she repeatedly fainted, followed by behavior labeled as "almost frantic"), this article showed me how serious this virtue thing really was. Whether or not the story was true, it is obvious what the author intended: to scare fathers into keeping a watchful eye over their daughters, regardless of how nice any of her suitors may be.

The second article was found using the search terms treaty and Tripoli for the October 4 class. The article, "Treaty with Tripoli" is not so much an article, but a reprinting of said treaty by order of the President. Appearing in the July 11, 1797 edition of The New Star; a Republican Miscellaneous, Literary Paper, this "article" lays out the Treaty of Tripoli in its entirety. Everything from the provisions for all parties to those who signed the document from both sides. One interesting aspect of this "article" is the fact that the treaty was printed at the request of the President to better enforce the treaty. Another curious little characteristic of this treaty is Article 11, which states, "As the government of the United States of America is not in any way found on the Christian Religion, as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion or tranquility of Musselmen; and as the said States have never entered into any war of act of hostility against any Mahometan nation, it is declared by the parties, that no pretext arising from religious opinions shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries." Well, now isn't that interesting. I think you'd be hard pressed to see things like that now in the United States. Finding this treaty opened up my ideas of what constituted diplomacy American identity at the end of the eighteenth century in the United States.

The third article I discuss here was found using the search term Mohammedan for the October 18 class. "Proposed Union of Unitarians & Mohammedans" was published on October 24, 1827 in the Western Luminary. The article is an argument for "cooperation" between Unitarians and Muslims, but the scare quotes are there for a reason. The author's view of unification was really the Unitarian absorption of Muslims and the "correcting" of the Quran to reflect the truth found in the Bible. This union apparently was an event that occurred in England during the reign of Charles II and has been reported (in the article) as true by academics. At first glance, I thought this would be a unique article discussing a cooperative movement between two religions; however, I quickly realized that the cooperation was non-existent and that this article is perhaps an attack on Unitarians by aligning them with Islam.

There aren't many (if any) discernible connections between these three articles (at least none that I could find); however, what I can gather from placing these three side-by-side calls into question the language in the treaty. The first and third articles seem to be so strongly based on religious and moral ideals that are so deeply intertwined in Early Republic society, that the treaty's treatment of religion is curious. If those Barbary pirates that signed the treaty knew anything about the United States, they might have questioned Article 11 (at least I would). The comparison of these three articles only raises more questions, but that is a good thing. I cherish those moments when I come to conclusions that immediately lead to more questions.

Thems Fightin' Words Nowadays

Could you imagine if a politician said what John Adams said? I refer to that nice little bit about how Democracy tricks people, kidnaps them, imprisons them in a brothel, drugs and rapes them, all in an attempt to steal their virtue: "Democracy is Lovelace and the people are Clarissa." Wow. Now most people (and by most people I mean the average person incapable of independent thought who takes everything at face value and blows everything out of proportion)—if they even understood the reference—would freak out: "What? Democracy is bad? Roar, I'm mad. Huff. Puff. Huff and Puff!" I know that much has been said about the common misconception that the United States is a Democracy, so I will avoid repeating the discussion here. What I want to draw attention to is the strong allusion that Adams draws. I struggle to even try to find a contemporary example to substitute for Lovelace and Clarissa that won't get me in trouble, but I think the point is not lost in the original. How carefully would a politician have to word such an allusion today? In our reading throughout this semester, I constantly compared our current moment with the Early Republic and found so many strong connections. There were similarities that we have often discussed in class, but this is one different that I find curious. How much would a current politician have to preface a statement like that? Perhaps one would explain the differences between a Democracy and a Republic, then rattle off a list of focus-group-tested disclaimers that establish the "American-ness" of the politician, followed by an explanation of Clarissa (the audience is most certainly lost at this point, unless the politician has a staff that is able to conjure up a more contemporary example), and finally the bomb is dropped. Unfortunately, all that careful planning is moot since the sound bite that gets played over and over is (and used in opposition ads): "Democracy is Lovelace and the people are Clarissa." No disclaimers this time.

Asimov Would Like Me to Say: "That's funny ..."

For those of you unfamiliar with the Isaac Asimov quote I reference in the title of this post, I will repeat it for you here: "The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' (I found it!) but 'That's funny ..." The following quote from Dobson's and Zagarell's chapter "Women Writing in the Early Republic" provoked a "that's funny" response from me: "[T]he proliferation of magazines specifically addressing female 'domestic' concerns provided opportunities in writing and editing that could take individual women out of the domestic arena" (374). This post is as far from a Eureka moment as one can get—and I'm definitely not heralding anything worthwhile (yet)—but this quote raised some interesting (at least for me) questions about gender roles and authorship. In our reading from last class, we saw how male authorship was defined by masculine values such as earning a living and supporting a growing family. Writing was not a worthy way for a man to spend his time, because he was ignoring his social role; however and I could be grossly misinterpreting our reading for today female authorship appears to have kept women from performing their prescribed social roles as well. I believe someone during the course of last class inquired about whether or not it was okay for a man to write about masculine topics such as participating in the market and earning money. I don't remember the exact answer, but I believe it was determined that regardless of topic, it was unacceptable for Early Republican men to be authors. Why would women be encourage to write to the detriment of their social roles, while men were punished for doing the same thing. I don't want to pull out a "double-standard" card, but i find this incredibly interesting; additionally, do not interpret my questions or anything in this blog as support for Early Republican ideas regarding gender roles. I don't want to say that women had it easy, nor do I say that men were some sort of victim (you shouldn't read until you find the victim anyway, it's a bad habit). Again, there could be something in this week's reading that I completely missed that discusses or expands upon this idea, but I wonder if these contrasting definitions of authorship along gender lines will warrant more attention in our discussion in class. I don't mean to say that a discussion of female authorship will only make sense in context of a discussion of male authorship, but perhaps we will have a better understanding of both if we talk about them together. Lots of disclaimers here...

It's Like the Night Before Christmas, but with Evolution

Twas the day before class and all through the house, not a creature was stirring because no one was home and my cat was asleep. After attending my first conference and presenting a paper using Literary Darwinism on a panel of the same focus, I sat down to read while visions of Darwinian fitness tests danced in my head. Okay, so it's nothing like "A Visit from St. Nicholas," but I thought I would try since it officially becomes Christmastime after Halloween. I really did present a paper, and I really couldn't shake those Darwinian thoughts. This inability to clear my mind probably explains why I was drawn to two specific characteristics of authorship that seemed to dissuade early American men from picking up the pen. It struck me as interesting that two of the major reasons why the role of the early American male author was shunned dealt with ideas of reproduction and survival.

Based on my reading of my reading of David Leverenz's chapter, "Men Writing in the Early Republic," male authorship was seen as an obstacle to sexual reproduction. Leverenz discusses Washington Irving and Nathaniel Hawthorne as examples of that view that male authorship impedes the propagation of one's genetic material: "Irving ... felt a lifelong lack of manliness because he had not married and established a family .... Hawthorne spent twelve years writing solitary tales about the dangers of being a solitary man" (Leverenz 354). A Darwinian reading of those two statements could spawn a nice little paper about the evolutionary role of art as developing cultural values and whatnot, but I'll refrain from going off on a tangent (mostly because it is way too big of an egg to crack for the purposes of this blog and my intellect). An unsuccessful male author (I use the words successful and unsuccessful here as indicators of financial stability) was unable to fulfill his genetic "destiny" so to speak; not only did he spend too much time writing and not copulating, but if the male author did manage to father offspring, he couldn't earn enough money to properly provide for his family. Even if a male author was successful, he still spent too much time writing and not enough time expanding the gene pool or participating in maintaining the physical welfare of society.

Despite these evolutionary tendencies, it should be noted that men still tried to become authors. Authorship must have had some important (dare I say instinctual?) role in human society that must be fulfilled. We all have our reasons for why art is vital, and I would be the last person to say that any one of these reasons is invalid, but the question remains: Why? Why keep pursuing this profession if it goes against one's own thoughts, beliefs, and tendencies? We've discussed this question (or at least a version of it in class), and I am still curious to get closer to the root of the developing role of authorship in the Early Republic. Yeah, I'm sorry for the title. I lured you in with visions of sugar-plums and I gave you an adjective noun of adjective plural noun. Boom! This post just got META! Thanks John Barth!

99.44% Pure!

For some reason a link came up to this video and I always get sentimental about Ivory soap because my namesake, Peter Dimitroff Simes was an Ivory soap cutter for most of his life (In addition to making me think about my ancestors, it raises a really probing question about soap). Great-grandpa Peter came to the United States from Bulgaria (rumor has it that he deserted the Bulgarian army just before WWI, because they marched the soldiers off to battle with swords and no guns; he also ran into his father for the last time while deserting, but that's another story) around 1918, settled in lovely Cincinnati, Ohio, and got a job at Proctor & Gamble cutting ivory soap. He worked there until he died in 1962; his death certificate even states "soap cutter" as his profession (I know because I've seen it!).

Peter D. Simes c. 1935 (left to right), great-uncle Peter Herman Simes, great-aunt Bernadette Simes, great-grandma Christina Simes (née Bunthoff), and great-uncle Frank as a toddler.

If you want to blame someone for having to interact with me on a weekly basis in this class, then blame Ivory soap (or Proctor & Gamble by extension), because that soap-cutting job led to my grandfather becoming a dentist; a career which helped him send my father to school; my father the engineer then helped me get to where I'm at today. Don't blame them, blame Ivory. However, you can't stay mad at it for long because after all, it floats!

Ivory Soap bar c. 1940s. There is a chance (albeit slim) that great-grandpa Peter cut this bar of soap.

On Sibylline Leaves, Political Saturnalia, and Death

Today I have a lot of random thoughts that popped up as I read for today. Most of what follows could best be classified as unfinished thoughts (if you're nice). After reading Andie Tucher's chapter "Periodical Press: Newspapers, Magazines, and Reviews," a few things caught my eye. First, I feel less bad about the "press" that Americans are delighted to read about today, because apparently it's always been pretty bad. It seems that the American public has always concerned itself with all that they should not waste their time reading, and that brings me comfort. I wonder if I'm having my generational moment when I claim that things were better in the good old days. When I was younger kids read more and paid more attention to texts. Did they really? Has my experience with books altered the way I view the differences between the generations. Unfortunately, I think that it has kept me from trying to understand how young people read now and prohibited me from trying to find the good in what is happening today with regards to literacy. As books and printed pages gradually become "Sibylline leaves" (as fellow Ohioan Dr. Daniel Drake recalls), does the quality of what we read diminish or has it simply transformed into something new? Regardless, I am confident that something good will come of this transition, and I only hope that I am part of what happens next.

Watch out Martin! It's the W.H.H. Express!

I feel better about the state of politics today, because nothing has changed. Again, I will claim that what is really exceptional about the United States is the fact that we are still here and we made it through the muck of the nineteenth century. I like how selling "the sizzle, not the steak" began with the election of 1840 and has become the dominant means of getting a candidate elected today. I think the Sizzler should have jumped in on this somehow and started a cheeky advertising campaign talking about how they are more than just the sizzle. Wait, nevermind ... Sizzler does just sell the sizzle. In order for them to sell the steak, they would actually need to sell something identifiable as steak. As dire as the news cycle makes everything seem, I think that it is simply the status quo. As much as the status quo displeases me, it has managed to get us through to this point. I'm not about to uproot two hundred years of mediocre tradition to try something new, because it would probably mean that I would have to work more.

Now on to a fun topic: death. It seems that Tucher describes the lifespan of periodicals much as one would a living organism: "By 1820, Tennessee and Kentucky had given birth to some one hundred thirty newspapers between them, of which fewer than thirty were still living" (396). She goes on to state to discuss the hard knocks of magazine life: "[B]y the end of the century, out of perhaps a hundred attempts, only two had lived as long as eight years. Most had died within a year of their founding" (397). I'll blame this observation on ignorance. Tucher could just be using the correct vocabulary when discussing this topic, but even if she is, there could be something gleaned from this usage. What does it say about us if we refer to our printed materials as living beings? What does that say about us if we don't? Does that idea transfer over to electronic media? Sadly, there seem to be more questions than answers when it comes to this idea of print as a living entity (at least for me).

Mad Tom

Devil: "Pull away, Pull away my son, don't fear, I'll give you all my assistance." Thomas Jefferson: "Oh, I fear it is stronger rooted than I expected but with the assistance of my old friend and a little more brandy, I'll bring it down."

Invisible Bullets

The title of this entry refers to Stephen Greenblatt's seminal essay of the same name (not this) in which Greenblatt discusses the Theory of Subversion and Containment (shout out to my Shakespeare classmates from last spring!). As I was reading Richard D. Brown's chapter "The Revolution's Legacy for the History of the Book," I was struck by the following passage:

Yet a republic of letters in which the radical works of Paine and of Mary Wollstonecraft ... circulated freely posed risks to liberty and threatened social stability, in the opinion of many gentlemen. It was imperative to create a correctly informed citizenry, and to this end prominent figures in the governing class set about creating new education institutions. (68, emphasis mine)

A light bulb that (for the most part) barely flickers and produces just enough light for neurons to find each other in the dark, suddenly gave off so much light that it was impossible for me to think about anything else. I was blinded by subversion and containment. As we've read (in Starr, Davidson, Gross, and now Brown), the dissemination of information and knowledge through the ever-increasing access to texts enabled the population of the Early Republic: "Ultimately, the Revolution's most powerful legacies were the uncapping of social aspirations and the opening of the republic of letters to diverse voices" (70); additionally, Brown states that this newly educated population, "not only brought government into the open buy also expanded participation in the public sphere" (59). There are some great benefits of this early print republic; education and literacy is tough to argue against. However, Brown touches on some ugly aspects of the formation of an American ideology (and by extension the formation of any ideology used to construct a national identity).

Brown states that, "the political upheaval of the Revolution subverted, without entirely supplanting, the social and cultural hierarchy that had sustained a significant measure of aristocracy and patriarchy in the colonial era" (60, emphasis mine). The general public was given access to knowledge and the ability to keep their representatives in check, which fostered a change from the colonies to the Republic. Step one: subvert ... check. However, the places where this knowledge was disseminated were set up by the same individuals who the the public was supposed to keep an eye on. Step two: contained ... check. The very idea that the Founders wanted to create a republic of letters is subversion and containment. Give the people access to something they were previously denied, but make sure that it's what we want them to know. I understand the Founders' intentions, but understanding of something without acknowledgement for the consequences is dangerous.

Now it's time for the I'm not un-American disclaimer: I'm not a proponent of anarchy and I see how subversion and containment was deemed necessary to facilitate a national identity and create unity among the states; however, it is always important to note that the foundations of the United States are not constructed of pure concrete. Sometimes, the builders had to spread the lime thin so there are parts that aren't as strong as they would have liked; in recognizing this, my positive view of the United States does not wain. Rather, I feel better for having a more complete understanding of this nation's history and the ability to recognize it's faults without tearing down for which it stands.I like to think that perhaps the Founders (at least some of them) really did have the citizens' interest in mind and cared about them.

Hey CNN!

I got your new motto right here: "From realms far distant and from Climes unknown, we make the Knowledge of [Hu]Mankind your own" (qtd. in Gross 6). How awesome would the news cycle be if every thirty minutes, James Earl Jones recited the quote listed above? On a more serious note, my feelings regarding our reading for today echo some of my fellow classmates, in that there is a lot here that we have seen before. However, there is some information that we haven't come across yet. I wonder how much all of our opinions regarding the reading will change once we get into the book; in other words, how much does the fact that what we read for today is an introduction to an extensive collection of essays (that cover a variety of different topics and perspectives) play into our beliefs. Of course there is going to be some overlap, but I think that Robert A. Gross does a substantially better job at presenting a more well-rounded approach to print culture of the Early Republic than Cathy N. Davidson or Paul Starr. Not that Davidson or Starr are without their merits, but by nature of what he has to accomplish in his introduction, Gross points to a number of different ideas that are ignored or slightly discussed by Davidson and Starr.

The first of these is geography and its role in shaping print culture in the United States. Whereas Starr claims that what developed was the result of American Exceptionalism, Gross cites the need to send information quickly across the expansive tracts of land now part of the burgeoning nation. The South is not treated as a stupid sibling of the North and Gross provides a logical and acceptable explanation for the lack of print culture below the Mason-Dixon. The sparsely populated South simply did not have the infrastructure present to facilitate the transmission of goods; moreover, it was not profitable for Norther booksellers to attempt to sell print goods to Southern readers. For Gross, it appears that geography was at the center of the print explosion that occurred during the Early Republic. Geography also serves to explain how decentralized the American printing industry became when compared to the British; this is a characteristic that (if I remember correctly, and I probably don't) Starr and Davidson fail to explain in an great detail.

Reading Gross, we get a larger sense of print culture in the Early Republic. Subjects such as children's literature, the progression of the novel, the rise of full-fledged publishers, the formation (or lack thereof) of a national identity, the role the telegraph played in the transformation of print culture, the rise of the penny press, and the influence of European culture on the American identity. All of these topics are discussed with more clarity by Gross than by either Davidson or Starr. With that said, I am sure that all of these topics are discussed in greater detail in the collection of essays that follows Gross's introduction, so he needed to at least touch on them to some extent in his introduction. However, I am already more interested to read on to discover whether or not I am correct than I have been with our previous readings.

The Ultimate Question of Literacy, Education, and the Reader

It occurs to me as I sit down to write this post, that all of my posts bare little resemblance to the title of this blog. The catalyst for my posts are conversations with classmates, discussions in class, and the reading. There is actually very little discussed about early national periodicals in this blog, but I can't make myself change the awesome design of this blog. Oh well, onward and upward. I seem to harp on change and the humanities (or something like it) in almost every post, so why should this time be different? As I read for my classes, plan lessons, and interact with students it becomes more evident that George Santayana is right: "Progress, far from consisting in change, depends on retentiveness. When change is absolute there remains no being to improve and no direction is set for possible improvement: and when experience is not retained ... infancy is perpetual." Ahh, yes. Everyone likes this quote. If you don't, your un-American. Just kidding, but only a little.

As we have discussed in class many times, the younger generations read differently than we do; they are capable of reading like us, but their literacy has adapted to their social needs. It seems that the early Republic went through something similar: "[T]he novel threatened not just to coexist with elite literature but to replace it, and its critics knew full well that changes in the primary reading of an increasingly greater number of people presaged far more than a faddish redeployment of leisure time" (Davidson 105). This new type of literacy threatens our discipline and with it the type of critical thinking we do about culture and the arts that gives depth to society and enables us to better understand who we are as a people.

Davidson goes on to discuss the quality of early Republic novels that (I think) corresponds to the new literacy emerging today: "[T]he early novel spoke to those not included in the established power structures of the early Republic and welcomed into the republic of letters citizens who had previously been invited, implicitly and explicitly, to stay out" (150). We are partly to blame for our current situation, in that we compartmentalized our discipline to such an extent that our knowledge was perceived by the outside world as esoteric. Esoteric is fine, but when your discipline acquires a label like that, it becomes difficult to survive. This misconception of our discipline keeps those new-literate generations at arms length. With our knowledge base out of reach, the new-literate will find the path of least resistance and most inclusion.

As literacy changes, we have refused to change with it. I'm not saying that we all have to stop reading Moby Dick and tweet ourselves to death; rather, I believe we need to become literate in the same way as our students. This is where Santayana comes in: retentiveness. If we allow a new type of literacy to completely supplant literacy as we knew it, then how can we hope to leave the world in a better position than when we found it? We must become multiliterate in order to transmit the knowledge (and the means to acquire it) to future generations. If we remain stubborn and stagnant, then all is lost and we leave future generations the grim prospect of rediscovering what we already know. We can get angry when someone calls into question the existence of our discipline and tell them that we're valuable; however, the time will come when we must justify our existence and simply telling someone won't do. We'll have to show them.

Look What I Made!

It's a girl! I'll never sleep well again.

Transubstantiations of the Reader

My initial reaction to the reading for this week was somewhat similar to what Klay said in his blog entry (at least it started out that way). I struggled to turn my reading experience into some sort of topic to write about in this blog. I find that as I do the reading for this class, I tend to pay attention more to myself than to the text; in other words, I give precedence to my stray thoughts and the manner in which I read instead of thinking critically about the text. Part of this stems from my rush to finish reading every week (an incessant battle I always lose every semester for some reason) and part from my weird tendency to make everything I do as efficient a process as possible. When I realize this as I read, I tend to try and refocus more on the text. Then, I tend to take for granted the scholarship I am reading. Not that I don't understand the argument that Cathy N. Davidson is making, but the actual act of making the scholarship tends to fade into the background.

The study of literature is truly one of humanity's greatest endeavors. In order to begin to understand the place of novels in the early Republic, Davidson must transcend the divisions of discipline and become an economist, a scholar of law, a sociologist, a historian, an archaeologist, a literary theorist, a translator, and a reader. Short of a Unified Field Theory, there are few disciplines that require knowledge of seemingly disparate fields of study. Every day we do this to varying degrees of severity; often we incorporate different disciplines into our areas of interest, but we all do it. The nature of our discipline is naturally interdisciplinary. We offer more than esoteric theories and interpretations of texts too hard for most to read. We offer a better understanding of who are as humans by looking at who we have been in order to help us become better. I'm preaching to the choir, I know. We can keep telling people this until we are blue in the face. Art is important, art is valuable, art is insert adjective, etc. We can all keep going and listing off what we think art is and why it should never assume a subordinate role in society, but we are better served if we show everyone why art is valuable. However, the methods by which the humanities operates (and has operated) should change along with the humans we propose to study. We must imbed ourselves in society and makes ourselves truly indispensable instead of simply saying that we are. The cultural capital we are trying to cash in is no longer accepted. We must adapt or die (figuratively speaking, of course).

Since We're Talking About It...

I have the canary-bird-in-the-coal-mine theory of the arts .... But I continue to think that artists—all artists—should be treasured as alarm systems.

                                                                                                                         Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Insert Cheesy American Patriotic Title Here

While reading Cathy N. Davidson's introduction to the expanded edition of Revolution and the Word: The Rise of the Novel in America, I am reminded about the benefits of my advanced education (I know I don't seemed advanced but I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night). I am reminded about how wonderful it is to have the opportunity to access the complex and rich history of the United States. I had no idea that "at least one hundred novels were produced in America between 1789 and 1820 (Davidson 3). This further complicates an increasingly complicated view of American history that I relish. I shudder when adults believe the jingoistic stories from elementary school, but not because I am "un-American;" rather, I relish the complicated and often abominable history of the United States. The very fact that I am allowed to access and create some sort of truth that the government doesn't officially endorse is amazing.

At times like this, I think back to my first semester of teaching at TCU; specifically, I think about one student. He was from China and seemed to enjoy talking about the drastic differences between Chinese and American universities. Although he never once disparaged his native country, it always appeared that he enjoyed the pleasures of living in America. During a discussion about paper topics, another student brought up the events surrounding the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989. After the class discussed that example, the student from China raised his hand and asked, "What are you talking about?" Some of my students quickly filled him in and he was stunned. You could see his mind racing as he tried to make sense of what he heard. He said something to the effect of, "I have never heard of such a thing, perhaps you are wrong." At this moment, one of the other students showed him pictures and the Wikipedia page for the event on an iPad. I felt bad for a number of reasons. First, the fact that such an integral part of his nation's history was kept secret from him. Second, the way he found out was unfortunate. It was like being the butt of a joke and finding out about it after everyone had their laugh. How such a revelation must decimate his view of China. I'm sure that if he brought it up upon returning home that either no one would know about it and he would be quickly silenced. Coming to such a realization about your nation can be liberating, but damaging at the same time.

That moment in my classroom helped me to appreciate how fortunate I am to be able to access those unfavorable moments in American history alongside those mythic stories of the Founding Fathers. I enjoy the ability to view multiple perspectives and take comfort that George Washington probably told lies and things weren't all peaches and cream at first (and still aren't). In my understanding of the word, what it means to be American isn't a rigid set of beliefs that transcend time; rather, it's the ability to be flexible and adapt with time and to view your nation's history with a critical gaze so that we might all learn from the good, the bad, and the ugly (I had to say that phrase because I saw Hang 'Em High last week).

Would this Post Fall Under Article I, Section 8, Clause 8? Probably Not, but I'm Writing It Anyway

Here is the above-mentioned clause: "The Congress shall have Power ... To promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to their respective Writings and Discoveries" (National Constitution Center). Useful arts? Hmm. I know I have trouble defining art, let alone what constitutes useful art. As I read Starr's discussion of the formation of copyright law in the early republic, I was initially troubled by the phrase useful arts. I'm not exactly sure how this phrase was defined in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century America, but it seems to be the root of evil that causes parents to respond to their children's decision to become English (or any other liberal art) majors: "English? What are you going to do with a degree in that?" Although the answer is obvious to us, I feel that we must justify ourselves to the public with alarming regularity.


The idea that a phrase such as useful arts exists is unnerving. Even though I don't hear this term thrown about today, the meaning I infer from the words is still very much alive today. I'm happy to say that copyright protection does not seem to rely on whether or not the art in question is useful (otherwise I don't think anyone would have read about a certain wizard); however, the stigma attached to those in literary studies during an age of technological wizardry is not justified. I'm not comparing English majors to a persecuted minority, but the fact that the two cultures are in constant competition is a blight on human civilization. Artistic creativity should not be perceived as standing in opposition to scientific creativity; likewise, the study of these two cultures should not stand at opposite ends of the spectrum. I do not claim that art should not have justification; on the contrary, I believe it should have a justification. Moreover, it should be justified in the same way that science is: it produces practical knowledge that directly benefits human civilization.

Forbidding the thought that liberal arts has both qualitative and quantitative value is what leads people the world over to question the value of literature. A novel is as practical as a prescription drug; a poem is as useful as vulcanized rubber. Although novels and poems don't cure illnesses or help drivers to safely travel, the literary works can be as practical for their intellectual stimulation or cathartic properties. The arts are useful but not universally, in the same way that a pill for erectile dysfunction won't be useful for everyone. Advancements in science are not always universally beneficial. Literature is the same way. One novel that I might cherish is a paperweight for someone else. It is my hope that one day I will no longer have to justify the basic study of literature, much in the same way that a chemist doesn't have to justify the basic study of chemistry.

If at First You Don't Succeed, Just Don't Talk about It

Starr discusses the importance that the development of communications played in the transformation of American society from colony to nation. Towards the end of chapter three, Starr praises the advancements made as a direct result of the "American Revolution in Communications" that include the establishment of free speech, the Constitution itself, government-subsidized newspapers, an elaborate postal network, protection of postal privacy, a census, and an extended education system. As I read through chapters two and three, I noticed that Starr failed to discuss something that I feel would be necessary when talking about the relationship between the media and the American Revolution: The Articles of Confederation.

Despite discussing events leading up to, during, and following the ratification of the Articles, Starr mentions the document only once in passing: "Under the Articles of Confederation in 1785, the postmaster general had insisted that the Post Office had no obligation to carry newspapers, and after adoption of the Constitution it was unclear what policy the new government would take" (89). It seems that this statement alone calls for a discussion all its own since it had an effect on the development of the media in the early republic. Additionally, Starr does not state whether the Articles explicitly denied the ability for the Post Office to carry newspapers, or if it was the desire of the postmaster general.

An intellectual of Paul Starr's status failing to discuss the original governing document in detail (especially in context with a discussion of the Constitution) is negligent. Perhaps negligent might seem like too harsh a word, but I think it fits in this instance. Starr implies that the conception of government the early leaders of the United States came up with was superior, because Americans were naturally superior beings (thanks Tom). I am the first to venerate to achievements of our nation's founders (and what remarkable achievements they were!); however, I feel that with all the good that Starr praises, perhaps some more missteps should be discussed. If we are naturally superior, then why didn't those founders find a system of government that worked on the first try?

It seems that the Articles would play a prominent role in the creation of media in the early republic, at the very least because of the dissemination of ideas as a result of its ratification. The fact that the postmaster general attempted to suppress the flow of ideas by not carrying newspapers could be important; furthermore, Starr's omission reflects the impossibility of disseminating unbiased views on historical events. With that said, I could be completely wrong in my interpretation of Starr's work, especially since I have only read the first three chapters of the book. I for one would find the discussion much more interesting, but I like to complicate things sometimes.

What was it that Ben Franklin said?

"We talk the language we have always heard you speak."

Sam Adams, brewer and patriot

PS: I drink the beer I have always heard you made.

No, here's to you Sam.

An American Original

I have a wonderful cat named Rolo, who may or may not be in the process of evolving thumbs. I noticed on all our vet paperwork that our vet seems to think that Rolo is a "Russian Blue." I decided to discuss this with my vet by declaring that, "Rolo's mother did not immigrate (and brave the dangerous trip) to the United States so that her children would be called 'Russian Blue.' I think you should change his patient information to reflect his national status as 'American Blue.'" Looking at the picture below, no one will have any doubts that Rolo has fully integrated into American society. He is an example for us all.

Rolo putting choke hold on Curious George: "Who said you could be curious?!"

Post-Post Office or: How I Learned to Start Worrying and Appreciate the Post Office

In his book The Creation of the Media: Political Origins of Modern Communications Paul Starr discusses the importance of postal services as an element in the foundation of modern media and the dissemination of thought. Starr first mentions postal networks on page two, and for the rest of today's readings I couldn't shake the United States Post Office from my mind. As Starr discusses how the creation of the postal service enabled the growth and circulation of newspapers, I quickly began worrying about the decline of an institution that played an integral part in the formation of the United States. With every page, I became more and more concerned: "How could we let our postal service become unnecessary?" I began to wonder why the idea of the USPS wasn't emphasized more when I was growing up, and why the simple act of writing a letter and having it sent to whomever I wanted is not a simple act at all. It is amazing.

The telegraph networks live on in our wireless phone networks today; however, the postal service as it existed will one day be a thing of the past (barring any unforeseen collapse of contemporary society). I have to admit that I rarely send letters or even send packages through the postal service, so I am complicit in the degradation of the USPS. The use of email has become second nature and I wouldn’t dare forfeit the ability to correspond electronically; however, the spirit of that correspondence isn’t the same. It’s far easier to monitor electronic correspondence than it is to have someone sort through every letter and read its contents. I’m not disseminating anything that I need to be worried about, but the freedom inherent in sending a physical correspondence is irreplaceable.

As Starr moves beyond the introduction into his discussion of the beginnings of print and the first courier services in Europe (did anyone think of the muted post horn?), I was still drawn to the USPS and the affect it had on the development of the United States. I’m not trying to sound jingoistic, but government-sanctioned—yet free from censorship—postal service is genius. Not only was the flow of ideas facilitated that enabled the US to become a super power, but also the ramifications of such a service are widespread. Since the USPS helped the circulation of printed materials, it created a market for publications that wouldn’t have otherwise been created. I’m sure that there have been some awful publications that negatively affect the people’s perception of free speech; however, the positives that stem from easy access to printed materials far outweigh the negatives.
Even seemingly unrelated items are directly connected to the postal service. The privatization of printing and the freedom to disseminate publications set individuals on paths never conceived. Orville Wright was interested in printing and became fascinated with the mechanics of printing presses. He built his own printing press and began printing a variety of publications. It was this interest in printing presses and their complex mechanisms that eventually led to the development of heavier-than-air flying machines. This connection may seem like a stretch, but had the ability to freely print in the United States not existed, Orville Wright would not have had the initial experiences that helped him develop airplanes.

It is for this reason—among countless thousands—that I lament the decline of the USPS. It was instrumental in the growth of the United States and the diffusion of free thought. The postal service deserves a more elaborate sendoff than what it currently is receiving. I realize this now as I finish Starr’s first chapter, but I am not consoled by any ideas that might help the situation.

American Me

1. I am originally from Columbus, Ohio; however, as an Air Force brat I don't have a town to call my own. With that said, I'll describe two of my favorites. Columbus is at the same time a run-down factory town, architecturally interesting, historically fascinating (especially when it comes to my formative years), and ethnically diverse. It was where my parents were married and I was born (barely in that order). I learned to walk there and graced the city with my first words. Even the ugliest parts are beautiful to me and the prettiest areas transcend words. Edwards A.F.B., California is a hole in the wall in the middle of California's High Desert and serves as the inspiration for everything that interests me today (for the most part). If you didn't like the "new" release (there was only one screen) showing for the week at the local base theater, you drove for an hour to find another theater showing new releases. The isolation created a strong sense of community that disappeared when they tore down the tree-lined, lead-painted, and asbestos insulated atomic-age homes. The base is full of living history at every turn.

2. Like most of us, I am an avid reader who will read just about anything once. I tend to read far to quickly to remember what I read (which works for Michael Crichton books, but not for literary theory), but I am trying to work on that.

3. I am a terrible writer. I tend to be inspired in the eleventh hour which never lends itself to elaborate language or correct grammar. I think I might be concise.

4. I hope to learn more about periodicals, become a better reader and writer by being the opposite of numbers two and three above, nail my first presentation at my first conference, figure out exam topics, figure out life, and make myself a more enticing job candidate.

5. My worst class has to be M408D: Sequences, Series, and Multivariable Calculus only because it was run by the worst professor: Dr. ****. On seven (SEVEN!!!) separate occasions during the first ten weeks of the semester, Dr. **** spent one hour and twenty minutes proving theorems on the boards (that were not in the text, but crucial to understanding the course) only to discover that he made a mistake somewhere but didn't know where. Of the original 120 students who started the course, I was one of the brave 19 who stayed until the end with nothing to show but tears of calculus rage. Around this time, I began to dislike going to class.

6. The Richest Man in Babylon by George S. Clason, Giles Goat-Boy by John Barth, and Runaway Ralph by Beverly Cleary

7. The Articles of Confederation was the first constitution, George Washington was not the first president, the first thirteen states were Delaware, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, Connecticut, Georgia, Maryland, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virgina, and New York

8. Three things: It is difficult to offend me, I am a geek of epic proportions, and I like cats.