Lyrics under ‘More Info’, on the right on the YouTube site. “Tell me your story” indeed. (via Savage Minds)
Now THIS is great teaching:
(file under numeracy, data, visualization, anthropology, Nacirema, anthropology, argybargy)
As a long-time student of Nacirema and Naidanac cultures, I’m always on the lookout for examples of trenchant observation of those and other closely related societies. During the morning’s bathroom reading, currently Woolf’s Three Guineas (originally published in 1938), I found this passage and was, as they say, brought up short. No apologies for the length of the passage, and the whole delicious chapter is available via University of Adelaide:
Let us then by way of a very elementary beginning lay before you a photograph —a crudely coloured photograph— of your world as it appears to us who see it from the threshold of the private house; through the shadow of the veil that St Paul still lays upon our eyes; from the bridge which connects the private house with the world of public life.
Your world, then, the world of professional, of public life, seen from this angle undoubtedly looks queer. At first sight it is enormously impressive. Within quite a small space are crowded together St Paul’s, the Bank of England, the Mansion House, the massive if funereal battlements of the Law Courts; and on the other side, Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. There, we say to ourselves, pausing, in this moment of transition on the bridge, our fathers and brothers have spent their lives. All these hundreds of years they have been mounting those steps, passing in and out of those doors, ascending those pulpits, preaching, money- making, administering justice. It is from this world that the private house (somewhere, roughly speaking, in the West End) has derived its creeds, its laws, its clothes and carpets, its beef and mutton. And then, as is now permissible, cautiously pushing aside the swing doors of one of these temples, we enter on tiptoe and survey the scene in greater detail. The first sensation of colossal size, of majestic masonry is broken up into a myriad points of amazement mixed with interrogation. Your clothes in the first place make us gape with astonishment. How many, how splendid, how extremely ornate they are —the clothes worn by the educated man in his public capacity! Now you dress in violet; a jewelled crucifix swings on your breast; now your shoulders are covered with lace; now furred with ermine; now slung with many linked chains set with precious stones. Now you wear wigs on your heads; rows of graduated curls descend to your necks. Now your hats are boat-shaped, or cocked; now they mount in cones of black fur; now they are made of brass and scuttle shaped; now plumes of red, now of blue hair surmount them. Sometimes gowns cover your legs; sometimes gaiters. Tabards embroidered with lions and unicorns swing from your shoulders; metal objects cut in star shapes or in circles glitter and twinkle upon your breasts. Ribbons of all colours —blue, purple, crimson— cross from shoulder to shoulder. After the comparative simplicity of your dress at home, the splendour of your public attire is dazzling.
But far stranger are two other facts that gradually reveal themselves when our eyes have recovered from their first amazement. Not only are whole bodies of men dressed alike summer and winter —a strange characteristic to a sex which changes its clothes according to the season, and for reasons of private taste and comfort— but every button, rosette and stripe seems to have some symbolical meaning. Some have the right to wear plain buttons only; others rosettes; some may wear a single stripe; others three, four, five or six. And each curl or stripe is sewn on at precisely the right distance apart; it may be one inch for one man, one inch and a quarter for another. Rules again regulate the gold wire on the shoulders, the braid on the trousers, the cockades on the hats —but no single pair of eyes can observe all these distinctions, let alone account for them accurately.
Even stranger, however, than the symbolic splendour of your clothes are the ceremonies that take place when you wear them. Here you kneel; there you bow; here you advance in procession behind a man carrying a silver poker; here you mount a carved chair; here you appear to do homage to a piece of painted wood; here you abase yourselves before tables covered with richly worked tapestry. And whatever these ceremonies may mean you perform them always together, always in step, always in the uniform proper to the man and the occasion.
A decade or so ago I bought a print version of The Secret Museum of Mankind, a treasury of sorta-ethnographic curiosa of the sort that I lingered over as a boy (and perhaps their rampant exoticism was a big part of why I became an anthropologist– that and living down the street from Harvard’s Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, wherein I studied as an undergraduate). Boing Boing informs us that Ian Mackie has scanned the whole thing. He’s done a beautiful job of it, and pretty much any place you start will insure a therapeutic time-out from what you were supposed to be doing.
Anybody in the Ed Biz (and especially anybody interested in Anthropology) ought to be watching this space:
…but I see just 120 or so subscribers to the RSS feed.
I’m a bit out of the habit of following Jon Udell (divergent worlds I guess, he at Microsoft and I in splendid otium), but don’t miss today’s The Once and Future University and the Wesch video to which it points:
I continue to be GLAD that I’m not trying to deal with colleges and faculties and libraries anymore. Really glad.