Wednesday, April 22, 2020

on being exasperated by people you fundamentally agree with

I'm writing an essay right now about the role of NGOs in social transformation. Overall I am going to argue that they can help effect it, in ways that are smaller than they sometimes claim but are nevertheless meaningful. One of the points I'd like to bring up as a critique of the role of NGOs is that of the racism that is inherent in much of development. This critique is decades old. A book I read last year, Escobar's Encountering Development, argues forcefully that development discourse constructs white societies as the norm against which black and brown societies are found wanting. This is painting with a pretty broad brush, and it doesn't give black and brown societies enough credit for subverting and repurposing the white/liberal/Enlightenment-normative perspective that underpins a lot of development thinking. But he's not all the way or even mostly wrong, it's a super important point. Anyway his book is almost 30 years old and so I was looking around for some more recent reflections. One I found is by a Liberian-American (seems she went to high school in DC, actually) academic currently at Oxford, writing about race as an unspoken but pervasive presence in development. Fantastic! Could not agree more that race and racism are conspicuously absent from the field and that, as she puts it late in the paper, development agencies need more "radical rabble-rousers" to shake things up.

The problem is that the paper suuuuucks. It's sloppy, poorly written, ignores relevant literature, and makes lazy, dubious claims. Instead of nodding along and making notes to draw on later, as I'd hoped to do, I found myself compulsively picking it apart. For example, referring to how white people are still pretty much in charge in development:

Pailey claims that “one need only take a cursory look at the traditional institutions of global development (for example, the World Bank, International Monetary Fund, World Trade Organization, United Nations Development Programme), their NGO proxies and international development or development studies departments even in the most non-mainstream institutions, such as SOAS, Sussex or Open University, to see this reality confirmed” (Pailey 2019: 7). But a cursory glance reveals that six out of UNDP’s top nine leaders are non-white, as are over half of UN agency heads overall. The same goes for the WTO, which lists 41 councilors and members of key committees, of whom 24 are non-white. Of the world’s four “most powerful” NGOs, according to Foreign Policy magazine (Anonymous 2008): six of eight directors of BRAC, which was founded and is headquartered in Bangladesh, are non-white; 13 of World Vision’s 25 directors are non-white; only three of Oxfam’s 12 directors are non-white but its CEO is from Sri Lanka. Admittedly, the Gates Foundation exemplifies Pailey’s point a bit better. That is not even to say that she's wrong in her overall point, just that the evidence she casually tosses in to support it doesn't hold up to scrutiny. Later in that paper, she calls for development organizations to “[elevate] radical rabble-rousers who challenge and dismantle the status quo,” not just “[recruit] people of color … to fill tokenistic diversity and equality quotas” (14). But who is to say when such recruitment is tokenistic; by what standard is a hire judged to be radical enough? I suppose that, to paraphrase Potter Stewart, she knows it when she sees it. 
That's all got citations and stuff because I cut and pasted it from my own essay. Anyway I'm not going to end up using most or maybe any of it. Her paper is just so...amateurish. I don't come away feeling like I've learned anything. She sets out to argue that critical development studies and critical race theory could learn from each other, which is an interesting premise. But her analysis is below the level I would expect from myself -- a master's student with a shaky, if improving, grasp of the literature -- on a course paper. She just lays out a half-baked description of each, points to some places where each admits to blind spots that could be filled by the other, and leaves it at that. I would be embarrassed to submit something that poorly argued and poorly written for class, much less publication.

In conclusion, it is exasperating to find someone who is making a point, from a prominent place, that I think is important but swinging a pickaxe at her own foundation while she tries to put the walls up.

Friday, April 17, 2020

guitar part 2

Here are my self-assigned songs to pass grade 1 of the Justin Guitar course.

  1. Ain't No Sunshine
  2. Three Little Birds
  3. Bad Moon Rising
  4. Knocking on Heaven's Door
  5. Born in the USA
When I can play each of those songs all the way through without messing up too badly, and have played at least one of them for SRB and/or the fam, it'll be time for grade 2. I've passed all the little milestones Justin suggests, now just need to keep practicing chord changes and actually learn a few songs well enough.

Also started trying to learn Norwegian Wood, which done properly is more advanced than I thought, but which will give me something different to work on while I drill the stuff I've already learned.

Friday, April 10, 2020

guitar

I'm actually going to stick with it this time, I think. 33 years old. Never too late. The trick, it turns out, was to find an online course that's actually a course. Specifically, the beginner course by a guy named Justin something or other, whose website is called Justin Guitar. Extraordinary stuff, a global treasure: well-structured, progressive curriculum with what must be hundreds of hours of extremely clear videos that break everything down into very digestible parts. So, instead of getting discouraged and lost amid the infinitude of tutorials on YouTube, I'm making steady, almost day-to-day progress.

Three weeks in and I've learned all eight chords taught in the first "grade" of his beginner course: A, C, D, E, G, Am, Dm, and Em. I'm getting better at strumming, although that remains difficult. I've learned "Born in the USA" well enough to play along with the track (badly, and the A-D change is one of the easiest, but still) and I'm working on "Eleanor Rigby" (very hard because the transition from Em to C and back is big), "Hey Joe" (not as hard, although I can't play it very fast yet), "Bad Moon Rising," and "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." And shortly I'll start on "This Year's Love," by David Gray, which I didn't know but which Justin recommends as a good beginner song to practice in 6:8 time.  EDIT: Nope, screw that, I'm going with "Norwegian Wood." Harder but also a song I know and like. Also started learning a few riffs: the "Seven Nation Army" one, "Sunshine of Your Love," the bassline for "Coming Home" by Leon Bridges (great song). And a wee bit of ear training: I've almost figured out how to pick my way through "Happy Birthday."

Long story short, I'm excited about guitar in a way I've never felt before and didn't expect after a number of false starts over the last couple years. So far I've been borrowing SRB's beloved Brunswick dreadnought, but I'm considering getting my own beginner guitar. Not that we need another guitar in this house, I'm just so stoked. And I'm already dreaming about what I could learn once I've "graduated" from this course. Need to not completely drop the piano book I bought, either, since by all accounts learning music theory is much easier on piano than guitar. And if you want any further indication of how excited I am about all this, it's that I feel like I need to start learning music theory. No rush, I can still barely transition confidently between C and, well, almost any other chord. But something to keep doing. And while we're locked in, what better time to start a hobby in real earnest?

Bless you, Justin Sandercoe (remembered his name!). I'm only sad I didn't discover you years ago.

Monday, April 06, 2020

a dream about anthony bourdain

Last night I dreamed that I was watching "No Reservations," a scene in which Anthony Bourdain goes spearfishing. It was visually very dramatic: a throng of men holding spears over their heads and periodically throwing them down into the water, backlit by a brilliant orange-red sunset. All of a sudden, a spear flew from off-screen and hit one of the fisherman in the chest. He went down. And Anthony Bourdain intoned, "Sometimes, when you go spearfishing, you accidentally kill a guy." He'd killed the guy!

This is day 22 of self-isolation for me. I spent the first week -- before the official social distancing rules came into effect -- voluntarily staying home because of what seems to have been a light cold. Then everything shut down. Things got much easier once I no longer felt sick. The weather has been sunny for the most part and it's starting to get warm, so I've been running and going for walks. Short grocery shops are a near-daily event because we almost always need something that they didn't have in stock the last time one of us went. About a week ago Sainsbury's marked places to stand and wait on the sidewalk so they could keep it to 15 customers inside the store at any one time.

Schoolwork proceedeth apace. We were supposed to have an in-person exam last Monday, which was replaced by a take-home essay task. Much easier and less stressful! I also made a bunch of progress on one of my term papers last week, after finishing the exam faster than I thought I would. The other term paper is now creaking back into gear. It's hard to do them in parallel, partly because the topics and readings are so overlapping, and partly because momentum seems to matter for me when I'm working on something intellectually engaging. That was rarely a problem at work because most tasks are so collaborative, so I had no choice but to work in fits and starts while waiting for input or feedback. Anyway I have to keep myself on task with both: It would be bad to suddenly find myself without enough time to do a good enough job on the one on which I haven't made as much progress. Shared outline for the first one with the professor today, so I've been kind of able to switch my brain off about it.

As I think many people are discovering, it has been nice to reconnect remotely with some people whom I otherwise might not have called or might not have called me. I organized a game of Beyond Balderdash with some friends from Michigan/Chile/DC last weekend that was really fun. And SRB and I have both now organized little events within our apartment building: she gave a concert the Sunday before last, and yesterday I ran a pub quiz. It'll be interesting to see how much these new kinds of engagements stick after everything starts to return to normal.

Enough for now, back to work. 

Friday, April 03, 2020

the mirror and the light (1)

Pages 249-250, with line breaks added every 10 (sometimes 11) syllables, a break when it shifts from third to second/first person, and a few words removed (marked in brackets). Blogger's formatting functions suck so I used periods to space out the end of verse one and beginning of verse two, which together form a 10-syllable line. Just to see what it looks like in verse form.

She's still got it.

Don't look back, he had told the king, yet he
too is guilty of retrospection as
the light fades, in that hour in winter or summer
before they bring in the candles, when earth
and sky melt, when the fluttering heart of
the bird on the bough calms and slows, and the
night-walking animals stir and stretch and
rouse, and the eyes of cats shine in the dark,
when color bleeds from sleeve and gown into
the darkening air; when the page grows dim
and letter forms elide and slip into other
conformations, so that as the page is
turned the old story slides from sight and a
strange and slippery confluence of ink
begins to flow.

........................ You look back into your
past and say, is this story mine; this land? Is
that flitting figure mine, that shape easing
itself through alleys, evader of the
curfew, fugitive from the day? Is this
my life, or my neighbor's conflated with
mine, or a life I have dreamed and prayed for;
is this my essence, twisting into a
taper's flame, or have I slipped the limits
of myself -- slipped into eternity, like
honey from a spoon? Have I dreamt myself,
undone myself, have I forgotten too
well[? M]y sins seek me out; even as I
slide into sleep, my past pads after me, paws
on the flagstones, pit-pat: water in a
basin of alabaster, cool in the
heat of the Florentine afternoon.