Signs of New York

When we were in China, I took photos of particularly amazing English-language signs. Some signs here in New York have also caught my eye. These particularly signs are usually unique, amateur slips of paper posted in public spaces. The signs tend to express outrage, make a moral appeal, or convey complex directions. Here are a few examples with more to come.






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No place like home?

Grading student papers in which they gather census data on their home zip code (or alternative of their choice) and compare with the areas studied in the ethnographies we are reading – and reminded of something that I take to be a distinguishing factor between types of places and their people:

I grew up in and have almost always lived in places that are self-consciously distinct and the home to people who know that their lives are not “typical” in at least a couple of important ways. I normalized the distinctness of locale, so I was shocked the first time I heard someone say that their home community was “just like any other place” and, to be honest, I didn’t even know what that meant (not enough car trips, big box establishments, and television as a child, I guess). Still shocks me a bit when I see it in writing – the possibility that a collusion of media images, school curricula, economic and cultural segregation, selective travel, and inattention to national and global affairs results in a reality that is constructed in such a way as to give people the impression that everyone else’s lives are just like their own.

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The sociological context of urban ethnography

Yesterday at the 2014 American Sociological Association Annual meeting, Wisconsin Sociology Professor Alice Goffman ran the disciplinary gauntlet in the form of an author meets critics session focused on her new book, On the Run: Fugitive Life in an American City. Goffman has received a great deal of press for her work (e.g. here), and there has been, especially in the wake of the attention, expressions of hostility to On the Run. Critics have raised questions about the validity of the research, Goffman’s ethnographic focus on the most stereotypically “ghetto” of the residents of the neighborhood where she did her fieldwork, issues of research ethics, and the white and privileged position from which the book and its warrant seem to be emanating.  A large crowd turned out for the event, many attendees were looking for the opportunity to criticize the book and its author. The hostility was undeniable.

I would like to suggest that we dispense with the emphasis on Goffman – both laudatory and virulent – and look to the discipline to understand why On the Run is the book it is.

Ethnographers in sociology face some unique challenges when it comes to publishing. My experience is that ethnographic work does not easily lend itself to the standard article format and my sense is that ethnographic work is underrepresented in the journals relative to the number of people doing such work – especially if you separate empirical pieces using ethnographic data and theoretical and methodological treatises written by ethnographers. Ethnographers gravitate toward the book format. (NOTE: this is all unsubstantiated. I’ll see what I can do, but not today).

When I was shopping my manuscript to the presses, I was told quite directly by a very esteemed publisher of urban ethnography and community studies that my work was not sexy enough for his press. Where was the biographical construction of “characters” that would hook the reader? Where was the ethnographic detail that would take the readers on a vicarious journey into the world of those characters? In other words, to put it in a somewhat inflammatory manner, where was my account of the exotic others that inhabited my field site, and how was I going to make their presumed strangeness familiar to my readers? I tried to push back. According to C.Wright Mills, sociologists seek to make the familiar strange by exposing the way everyday social life is shaped by the operation of recurring social processes and interrelated social institutions. I hadn’t conducted an ethnography of Muslim, Somali, immigrants in Lewiston, Maine, or the white Mainers that reacted with hostility to immigrant newcomers. My ethnography observed local processes of community inclusion and exclusion that referenced extra-local forces as they unfolded in a pretty ordinary place filled primarily with honest and hard-working people who by and large wanted the same thing – comfort, security, self-determination, and the hope of a bright future for their children and grandchildren. Ultimately, I was fortunate to find an editor who appreciated my approach.

What Rios (2011) refers to as the “jungle book trope” is a huge problem in contemporary sociology. How many books must we read in which the punch line is that there is a moral order to life in the ghetto (Hannerz 1969, and on and on), that black children don’t want to fail (Harris 2011), that “dead beat dads” do care for their children (Edin and Nelson 2013), that Muslim immigrant mothers want to help their children develop identites that balance what they believe is the best of their religion and home culture with all that they appreciate about American life, and that their children, like many children, struggle with determining their own balance between tradition and the present, parental guidance and individuality, faith and secularism (McGown 1999)? The first lesson that should have taken long ago is that “other” people are people, too. Let’s move on. (Note: I do not attend to criticize the sociologists who are writing these books, merely to say that we should be beyond needing books that draw that conclusion. We need to push for a change in approach.)

The second lesson that requires learning is that quite frequently the “other” is not so much a real thing as a creation resulting from the pressure that sociologists face to depict as ideal types various distinct “characters” or exotic ways of life – be they Anderson’s (2000) composite “street” kids or a typical evening of bottle service at an elite night club (Mears 2014). I attended one session at the 2014 annual meeting in which an ethnographer shared research conducted in a very wealthy private school attended by exceedingly privileged children. In the Q&A a couple members of the audience pointed out that they had observed in other school settings the didactic practices that the ethnographer claimed were particular to this school for the elites. Was this really a case of some unique thing, “the elite school,” and, if so, what is it that made it distinct? The researcher replied that the elite school was a different kind of thing because, although other schools may focus on creative production, student self-determination, and using the first names of teachers, this school had a 24 (or was it 240?) -acre campus and took their school trips to China. The disgusted snorts in the room following this revelation cemented it – distinct, inexplicable, and (in this case) despicable “other” created. Whatever the elite school is, it was clear we should all agree that the school was nothing like ours and its parents and students were nothing like us. (Note: Again, I think the problem a collective one inherent in our approach to the sociological enterprise, ethnographic work in particular.)

As sociologists, we are charged with the explication of social processes, institutional contexts and structures, cultural systems – some of us may consider these things as they become interiorized as goals, intentions, habitus, values, etc, while others may choose to focus on social life as it exists exterior to individuals. How does one establish the end-boundary of a process or a context? With all due respect to Weber, must we continue to parse the richness of social life into types? In the biological sciences pure taxonomy fell out of favor because it was imprecise as a science and had yielded about as much insight into the natural world as it could (Dobbs 2005). Let us hope that we recognize the limited efficacy of this approach when it comes to understanding the operation of the social world.

Alice Goffman is not the problem. The discipline is.

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Sometimes I love it in New York. I feel capable and competent and energized. I feel like my kids are having amazing experiences. I feel like this is exactly the right place for me.

Sometimes I am tired and overwhelmed. I feel that everything and everyone is so superficial and insignificant. I feel uncultured, uncouth, poorly dressed, and in possession of a naïveté that can never be remedied. I feel lonely, too, because, although I have met many wonderful people, I can’t really say that I know anyone here, or that anyone knows me.

At such times I am ready to head home to Montpelier where I will take a long walk in the woods while my ears acclimate to the silence (for those of you who don’t know – the first day or so back there is this strange sound – the sound of silence, which literally rings in your ears), have some meaningful conversations with my neighbors, then go home to put on my most comfortable and least fashionable clothes and make a loaf of bread and a big pot of lentil soup, from scratch.

That’s how I am feeling today. I think a lot of it is just that I took on a bit too much last week and this week, and I am tired. But I think, also, there is something else – all the things you cannot talk about, and the useless words you are supposed to use to fill the empty space.

Things you can talk about:

  1. The weather.
  2. Liking people’s hair, clothes, accessories, and general appearance.
  3. School, problems with school administration at the District level, and what middle and high schools everyone is planning to send their kids to.
  4. Where you are going over vacation.

Things you cannot talk about:

  1. Politics
  2. Business (money or class inequality)
  3. Race
  4. Religion
  5. Anything particularly personal or meaningful (a couple of times when I first arrived here I asked questions that were too personal and got the standard response: “I’d rather not say.”).

As I am so busy, I am often fine with the way we are tongue-tied here. All the same, on a good day the superficiality of everyday small talk is torture for my introverted self. In place of chit-cat, I generally prefer to sit quietly with other people, sipping some tea or some wine, sharing thoughts intermittently and seeing if a conversation arises. Given my social awkwardness (awkward for everyone else, that is, as I said, I am fine with those silences) and considering that very, very few NYC conversations move beyond the world of small talk, it is almost a wonder that I engage in any dialogue at all.


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Save the Battery Park Turkey

A new creature has taken up residence in Battery Park. A couple of times over the past few weeks I have observed a lone turkey (a hen, I think) in Battery Park. Battie often hangs around in the closed playground adjacent to the Staten Island Ferry or on the lawn just West of the playground and carousel construction areas.


As you can see in the picture, the bird has clearly learned to stay undercover to avoid the thousands of tourists, commuting New Yorkers, and dozens of dogs that are off-leash in the area each morning and evening. Battie is hidden under a table in a part of the park that, due to construction, is closed and fenced.

I feel so sorry for this poor bird that is so clearly out of place – a sad and lonely animal that generally flies very little, and usually lives in a flock. How did it come to Battery Park? Is there a wildlife service that can trap it and relocate it to a larger natural area with other turkeys?

Update: Apparently Battie is actually named Zelda, and she is a long time resident of the area and Manhattan’s only turkey:

So, it appears my pleas to have her moved will fall on deaf ears. Instead, perhaps we could bring her a mate?

Update 10/14/14:

Zelda, the Battery Park Turkey, was struck and killed by a car a couple of weeks ago.  (


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Fast = Good

Reestablishing the infrastrucure of everyday life is one of the most annoying things about moving. In my experience, it takes about a year in a place before you have settled in with friendships (if any), weekly routine, apartment layout, grocery options, fitness activities, dog-walking routes, childcare providers, extracurricular activities, and go-to restaurants. There are always some things that you lament losing, but you learn to appreciate the new things you’ve never had anywhere else. You also form interesting cross-cultural insights. Over the years I have shared many such insights on this blog. Here’s an NYC insight for you.

Fast = Good

Today I had to go to the dentist. It’s my 3rd visit to that dentist and the thing that takes me by surprise each time is how quickly I am in and out of the chair. It all happens so fast that the dentist is out in the hallway and the assistants are cleaning up, and I have to say, “So are we done for today?” because it just doesn’t seem plausible.

And then, the thing is, that, given how quickly it all went, I find that I am making a baseline assumption that they must not have done a careful and thorough job. All of my other dentists in all of the other places I have been seemed to take so much time, chatting, going over my x-rays in detail, taking great care to make sure that my gums are in tip-top shape, sanding down my new fillings so that they fit my bite perfectly. Today, I had a cavity excavated and filled so quickly that I thought he might just be finishing the drilling part. What shoddy work, I thought to myself, maybe I will just pay out of pocket to keep seeing my dentist back in Vermont.

Later in the day I got online to locate an endodontist that takes my insurance. As I was reading reviews and recommendations, I noted that one of the most sought after endodontists was praised again and again for the speed at which she worked. That led me to go back and look at the comments on my dentist and I found the same thing – people praising the fact that they were in and out of the chair so quickly that they didn’t even have to skip their early evening yoga, etc. And then I thought about how I consciously plan my routes around Manhattan so as to limit the amount of time I will be trapped slow-walking behind tourists, and how when the kids and I are walking and slow people are in front of us I say “frogger” and the three of us disband so we can individually weave around the slowpokes, and how it is almost physically painful when I first get back to Montpelier and I go to buy groceries and the cashier takes soooo long that I resort to deep breathing to maintain a pleasant demeanor.

Fast = Good. Does this mean my dentist is a keeper? Not necessarily. But it does mean that I need to think twice before I associate speed with shoddy work.

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This New York Life

Many years ago I took a trip to Paris to visit my brother. When I was visiting the Louvre, I came across a school field-trip – about twenty 5- or 6-year-olds. There were doing a scavenger hunt, looking for objects in the paintings in one of the galleries in the museum of impressionism. I remember smiling as a couple of kids matched the image on their sheet with Pommes et oranges. A masterpiece. A game. How amazing it is, I thought to myself, that the mundane backdrop of these children’s lives is this painting, this museum, and this city with all of the richness it offers.

This morning I was a parent chaperone for Mei-mei’s first grade trip to the MoMA. The children observed only 3 paintings while at the museum. We started with Christina’s World:


The children interpreted the painting with the guide, and then did a worksheet in which they attributed words to Christina.

Then it was The Sleeping Gypsy.


The kids interpreted that painting as well, and noted the move away from the realism of Wyeth.

Then The Hunter (Catalan Landscape). An entirely abstract piece.


The kids were absolutely focused on the paintings they were studying. As they sat in a circle on the floor in front of The Sleeping Gypsy, they engaged their guide in a lengthy discussion of the piece. Just a few feet behind them and to the left, situated alone on a small wall in the center of the gallery, hung The Starry Night.


As the children walked away from The Sleeping Gypsy, I caught Mei-mei’s attention. It seemed a waste to not even see it. I nodded my head toward the painting. She knows The Starry Night quite well from her art curriculum back in Montpelier. She smiled and gave me a thumbs up as, through the crowds, she glanced at the masterpiece.

How amazing it is, I thought to myself, that the mundane backdrop of my children’s lives is this painting, this museum, and this city with all of the richness it offers.

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