What does it take to rob someone of their humanity?
Violence, hate, and fear.
Last week a wave of violence washed through Baghdad, Beirut, and Paris. Attacks orchestrated by Daesh -- the so-called Islamic State -- left hundreds dead, hundreds more injured, and millions in mourning. This only the latest salvo from the group which is terrorizing populations in the Middle East and, increasingly, Afghanistan.
Immediately in the wake of the Paris attack I felt fear. Not fear of Muslims, but a fear of the blame that would be laid at the feet of a religion, fear at the way some would use the attacks, especially the attack on Paris, to proclaim how right they were to tell us that Muslims can't be 'Western' and can't be integrated into non-Muslim majority countries.
How right they were that the 'Muslim tide' washing ashore on Europe would eat the continent and all it stands for alive.
I felt fear for my friends and colleagues and the activists I follow, worried they would also become casualties of these most recent attacks.
Terrorism is defined as 'the use of violence and intimidation in the pursuit of political aims.' It is not simply about wreaking destruction or murdering innocent people -- terrorist acts are designed to sow fear and mistrust. They are designed not so much as a show of power as they are designed to fracture the society in which the terrorist acts take place.
Already, some European countries are planning to close their borders to the refugees who are fleeing Daesh and other violence in the Middle East and North Africa, the nations afraid more violence will come to Europe with the refugees. In the United States several states have told President Obama they will not accept Syrian refugees in light of the terrorist attack on Paris.
As borders begin closing, so too, do minds. Over the weekend a Canadian mosque was set on fire and a Sikh temple had stones thrown through its windows. A few days before the attack on Paris a Muslim woman in London was shoved in front of a train. Many individuals who are Muslim or who look as though they might be fear being out in public.
Twitter was full of hate speech directed at Muslims after the attack Friday, many calling for the 'eradication' of Muslim communities. Other users of the social media site called for Muslims to denounce the violence, apparently not seeing the countless tweets and messages not only denouncing the violence but also expressing support for the victims, their families, and the residents of Paris and citizens of France as well.
And of course there was Donald Trump's now infamous tweet and the response of the French ambassador to the United States.
The Paris attacks prompted a refocusing of the Democratic presidential debate the next day, with moderators weaving in questions focused on foreign policy when, originally, the debate was meant to focus on domestic issues.
I read an interesting article the day after the attacks, asking that we avoid the kind of blatant politicization of the tragedy that we are slowly beginning to see unfold (or not so slowly in the case of Trump or Ann Coulter's tweet asking how to say 'Dreamers' in French) not only on the right, but also on the left as well.
There are plenty on the soi-disant left also using the massacre as a pristine stage on which to exhibit their one-person morality plays. What if the attackers had been white; wouldn’t we all be talking about mental health? Don’t you know that non-Muslims commit atrocities too? Why do you care about this, and not about all the other tragedies going on elsewhere in the world? Can’t you see that all these bodies only exist to prove that I was right about everything all along?
I largely agree with the foundation of the article -- that tragedies should not become political footballs, that we should be focusing on the humanity of the victims. As author Sam Kriss writes, 'Insisting on the humanity of the victims is also a political act, and as tragedy is spun into civilizational conflict or an excuse to victimize those who are already victims, it’s a very necessary one. '
At the same time, there are people whose entire lives, their entire identities, have been politicized. People who are asked over and over and over again to condemn horrific acts committed in the name of their religion. People who, because they are Muslim or because their families recently immigrated or because they have Arabic names or beards or wear a turban or hijab, are not allowed to set aside politics because they are suspect.
They are always suspect.
What is it to live like that? What is it like to grow up Canadian or American or German or French, to watch football and go to school, to get into hiphop and to fall in love with Monty Python and yet be told over and over and over again it will never be enough? You will never be enough because of your name or your religion?
I agree we must avoid the politicization of the tragedy, but how do we do that when, already, those in power are calling for military action? How do we do that as France bombs Raqqa and Belgian and French authorities conduct raids rounding up individuals suspected of being terrorists? How do we do that when wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and Syria have worked to hasten the destabilization of the region?
I don't know.
For seven years I've been part of a project working to counter the stereotyping of Muslims. For every moment when it feels as though things are changing something happens to show just how much further we have to go.
I think compassion and empathy are the keys. Compassion not only for the victims in Paris or Beirut or Baghdad but also compassion for all those who are suffering as victims of Daesh. Compassion for the refugees who are fleeing a reality where violence is an every day threat. Perhaps having wide open borders isn't the solution, but I would argue neither is sealing off borders completely.
At the root of everything, if we want to really create change, if we are committed to creating spaces of understanding, is empathy.
It is not enough to feel sorrow for the suffering we see, we must work to understand the lives of those suffering. We must cultivate the ability to see the world through the eyes of another, to not so blind ourselves with our own beliefs that there is no room for anything else.
That's what Daesh does, blinds itself so completely to the lives of others that they cease to be human.
If we follow suit, if we close ourselves off politically and emotionally to the suffering of others, then Daesh wins. Their desire is to fracture us, to make us see anyone who is different as an enemy. So even if they never again commit a terrorist attack on Western soil, if their actions help contribute to a politics of fear and suspicion and that politics becomes our default, they win.
Paul Krugman said it perfectly when he wrapped up the column 'Fearing Fear Itself':
Again, the goal of terrorists is to inspire terror, because that’s all they’re capable of. And the most important thing our societies can do in response is to refuse to give in to fear.
I refuse to give into fear.
I, instead, focus on the stories of compassion that came out of the violence last week. Stories of Parisians opening their homes to strangers who were stranded by the attacks. Stories of Parisians offering to travel with Muslims, or those who might be mistaken as Muslim, who feared traveling alone. Stories of rallies showing support for the Muslim community.
Or of imams leading the singing of 'La Marseillaise' near the Bataclan where so many died Friday night.
I will focus on how the hashtag #MuslimsAreNotTerrorists trended on Twitter, as both Muslims and non-Muslims worked to counter the narrative that the the violence seen in Paris and Beirut and Baghdad last week was the obvious result of someone's choosing to follow the teachings of Islam.
Compassion and empathy are how we move forward. Hopefully embracing those two concepts will help us craft a politics which allows tragedies to remain tragedies and which promotes understanding.
What a terrible tragedy if violence in the City of Love helps produce a hegemonic Politics of Hate.
If you Google the definition of the word 'migrant' the first entry has nothing to do with human beings. Instead, the Google result shows that definition 1, generally understood as the primary definition, is 'an animal that migrates.' Definition 2 is the adjective, 'tending to migrate or having migrated.'
The people who are immigrating to Europe are not animals, though Hungary's prime minister Viktor Orban might treat them as though they are.
The people who have been crossing the Mediterranean, the people who have drowned in the sea, those trapped in Hungary now that the nation refuses them transit, they are not threats. They are not enemies. They are not wild beasts to be feared though, again, Orban suggests that Hungarians and Europeans are afraid of them.
They are people who are seeking refuge from violence, war, conflict, and what seems to be unending sorrow and death.
They are human beings who have lost hope and who are looking for help.
Deutsche Welle, the German international broadcaster, has been running a live blog with updates on the situation in Europe. It's sometimes frustrating reading.
Mixed in with discussions of what every day Europeans are doing to help, announcements from officials on who will be allowed in, who will be allowed succor, and stories of refugees finding their way to Germany are stories of chaos at train stations, are stories of refugees blocked from boarding trains, and Hungary's Viktor Orban blaming Germany, and its openness to the refugees, for the crisis Europe faces.
The death of little Aylan Kurdi, the 3-year-old whose body washed up on a Turkish beach, has caught the attention of so many. News outlets in the United States are turning the tragedy of his drowning into the hook on which they hang their stories about the crisis in Europe.
The death of a toddler should not be the thing that makes us care. It should not be the thing that causes us to feel empathy for these refugees.
If you've been following news out of the Middle East, where so many of the refugees come from, you've seen images of cities destroyed, communities ripped apart, families shredded. You've consumed stories of such vast destruction it is, at times, almost incomprehensible.
We should have been feeling empathy for those suffering through such tragedy long ago.
I am frustrated. I am frustrated by what has felt like a lack of attention to this situation and the crisis that has been brewing for some time. I'm frustrated that the drowning of a toddler and the images of his body on the beach seem to have been the thing to make American media begin to see the refugees as human beings, not as some mass of unwashed bodies overtaking Europe's shores.
Still, there are headlines about 'squalid' camps going up in Budapest and about how this influx of immigrants might challenge European identity.
To use words like 'migrate' to describe the plight of these refugees is to suggest they had some sort of choice in the matter. It suggests that one day they woke up and thought, 'You know, Europe sure seems like a good place to be, let's go steal jobs and resources from Europeans.'
When your choices are possible starvation, likely injury and death on one hand and safety and refuge on the other, how is there even a choice? How do you not jump in a boat and pray you make it to land if it means you and your family might go to sleep at night not fearing your home, your village, your community, all you love might be gone when you wake the next morning?
I refuse to use the word 'migrant' in relation to what's happening in Europe because this is not a choice -- this is a last desperate act of traumatized people.
There is also the issue of the racist and colonialist connotations associated with the word migrant.
If you think that word doesn't have racist undertones (or overtones) I want you to think of the people who are classified as 'migrants' in media and in political discourse. Who gets branded a 'migrant' and who is allowed to move about the world and gets labeled as, simply, 'mobile?'
The people who are stuck in transit in Hungary, and those that are being given shelter in Germany and Iceland and other countries, are not a threat that has washed up unexpectedly upon Europe's southern shores.
These refugees are the very embodiment of humanitarian crisis.
They are human beings and I refuse to refer to them as or see them as anything other than that.
So, a few things you should know upfront -- I do not drive nor do I have a state ID. My forms of ID include a Passport (insert cliche about academics here) and my university ID. This becomes important later.
Have you ever been broke? I ask as a once uberbroke graduate student.
Holidays can be stressful when you are broke. One winter I decided to become a Mechanical Turk worker to make some extra money. I thought it would be an easy way to pad out my savings account and have some pocket money for gifts.
I first learned about Mechanical Turk at a research talk. A scholar was talking about what it was and the labor issues that it might pose. I signed up for MTurk at first just to explore it and then starting turking because it seemed an easy way to make extra money.
If you are unfamiliar, Mechanical Turk is a "crowdsourcing" space where people can have individuals online do work for them. Work could be taking surveys, transcribing videos, or marking all the immoral things in a film.
It is work which can be mind-numbing and incredibly time consuming.
It is also work that you get paid next to nothing to do. You have to be quick on the draw if you want to get one of the jobs that pays a seemingly decent amount. During my time as a Turk I saw some jobs going for as much as $15, but most seem to be for pennies on the dollar. Because I was turking in order to add extra money to my bank account, not to live, I could be choosy about which jobs I accepted. I refused to do any job that paid less than a quarter. Jobs could take anywhere from a minute to 30 minutes; I think most of the jobs I choose took about fifteen minutes to complete.
I'd turk in the little downtime I had. While I had dinner in the oven or late at night when I could no longer focus well enough to work on my research but wasn't quite ready to go to bed. I sometimes did jobs with the TV on, although I did turn off all distracting media when the job required it.
In the two months I turked I made about $86 dollars.
That's after submitting 94 HITs -- a hit is a job in Mechanical Turk. None of my HITs were rejected -- the job poster can reject your work if they believe it's subpar quality -- or that number would be much less.
It's still sitting there, in my account. This is where the ID issue comes in because I don't have a driver's license linked to my banking account and, therefore, can't get the money deposited there. I could have that money transferred to an Amazon gift card, which I think I'm going to do now that I'm writing this, but when I ran into the money transfer issue I stopped turking. (The issue of sending pay to an Amazon gift card feels dodgy, especially if a turker doesn't have a bank account. Their only option is to spend the money they make in an Amazon platform in another Amazon platform.)
Honestly, though, that was just an convenient excuse. I was mentally spent after those two months. Looking for jobs was stressful. You could qualify for some really high paying tasks if you committed to going through extra training -- some of which could take hours and which you did not get paid for. I did not do any extra training.
During the research talk I attended about MTurk, scholar Bonnie Nardi pointed out that the space does attract people like me -- people who are looking to just make a little extra money, but that there are people who are trying to carve out a living from MTurk.
It can all feel very predatory. There is no MTurk without the labor, there is no MTurk without people who need the money they can make on the HITs. And, yet, they are treated as little more than cogs in a machine. The interface is stark. The space is impersonal. Staring at a computer screen, watching for a high paying hit can be stressful. Doing task after task can be mentally exhausting.
You are operating very much on your own, receiving little feedback although job posters can rate you, which helps you get better jobs.
It has been a useful tool for researchers seeking to create more generalizable populations for their studies, but I wonder how many researchers have tried MTurk as a worker? How many of them understand what it's like to be on the other side of the screen?
I'm glad I don't have to rely on turker pay to make ends meet, but there are a lot of people who do. I don't think MTurk is necessarily awful, but it can feel as though designers and researchers have forgotten that real, flesh and blood human beings are submitting all those HITs.
VIDEO: Turking for a Living
My Experience as an Amazon Mechanical Turk (MTurk) Worker
Mechanical Turk Workers: Secret Cogs in the Internet Marketplace
Amazon's Mechanical Turk workers want to be treated like humans
My Brief and Curious Life as a Mechanical Turk
All I wanted, growing up, was to know where I belonged. I wanted to plant my flag in an identity, stand on a desk, let loose a barbaric yawp and cry, "Yes, this is who I am!"
I never really got that. Still, as an adult, I don't feel as though I have an identity I am fully grounded in. Well, except for Appalachian. But that's a regional and cultural identity -- as a child what I longed for was a clear racial or ethnic identity of my own. One that linked me to a group of people I could call my people; a group of people with whom I shared a history and a story.
I am a mixed race American. I am the "Changing Face of America" according to National Geographic.
I am lost. Or, at least, have felt that way.
My mother is white as white can be. A tiny woman with fluffy blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles. My father is not. Though his father was of white and Native American background, his mother came from India -- her mother a black Spaniard and her father an Anglo-Indian.
If you throw a dart at a world map there is a fairly good chance you will land on a country from which some of my ancestors sprang. (My mother's parents were of Welsh-French and German-Irish backgrounds.)
Who am I? (Not Jean Valjean.)
I have never identified as white. I don't really understand what that necessarily means, but I don't feel white. Whenever we had to take standardized tests in school and the question of race came up I checked every box except Pacific Islander. In high school I started making my own box -- multiracial, I labeled it. When one teacher told me I had to fill in the race boxes that were there I told her I wouldn't because they didn't reflect who I am.
I have four brothers. I think all of them identify as white. (If I am wrong, brothers, please correct me.) I never really understood how they could plant their flags there so firmly. I know I look white. I know that I pass as white. I know that, for some, I am white.
But I'm not. I've always hated that I've passed.
Passing as white, people assuming I am white, completely erases half of who I am. It erases my father and his family. It reduces me to something I simply am not. It is frustrating and sometimes infuriating.
You can imagine my response when I read about the controversy surrounding Cameron Crowe's Aloha.
For those of you in the dark, Crowe decide to cast the talented, and white, Emma Stone as Allison Ng in the film. Ng is a character who is supposed to be 1/2 white, 1/4 Hawaiian, and 1/4 Chinese.
Stone meets half the requirements for the role.
Crowe apologized, basically saying he thought it was okay to cast Stone because the role was based on a real life woman who, like me, was frustrated by her ability to pass.
So, sure, the logical thing is to cast a white woman in that role. Why not embody the frustrations of multiracial individuals by casting a white actor to portray those frustrations on screen?
It's not like there are any actresses of mixed heritage who could have brought the character of Allison Ng to life. *ahem* Olivia Munn, Natassia Malthe, Berenice Malohe, Amber Midthunder, Kristin Keuk, Sandrine Holt, Chloe Bennet ... I could do this all day.
Maybe some people see this as a trite thing, a thing that doesn't really matter. "It's just a movie," they might say.
Sure. Sure, you can think that. But doing so ignores the systemic whitewashing Hollywood has perpetuated for years when it comes to the casting of characters of color in films. It ignores the erasure of the experiences of people of color from much of popular media. It ignores the flow of power and influence that perpetuates the marginalization of people of color and women in the entertainment industry.
This isn't just about politics.
Media representation matters. It helps us understand who we are and who we are not. It helps us anchor ourselves more fully in our world. Seeing ourselves reflected in popular media in a way that feels true to our lives helps us feel we belong where we are.
Casting a white actress to play someone of mixed race tells those of us who are multiracial that our experiences don't matter. That our lives don't matter. That our experiences can be whitewashed and that, maybe, we should be whitewashed, too.
There are two huge ginkgo trees at the heart of the old part of Indiana University's campus. They're my favorite trees in all of Bloomington. I look forward to the brief period each fall when the trees blaze gold, the ground beneath them littered with the pretty fan-shaped leaves.
I walked under them today after I left the graduate school, in my hand copies of the signature pages I submitted as part of the finalization of my PhD.
Almost immediately I began to tear up.
I've been here for seven years -- two for my Masters degree; five for my PhD. The time has flown and crawled at the same time. When I started graduate school I was still in my twenties; now, I wake up each morning and consider the new strands of silver in my hair and the crow's feet that are beginning to form at the corners of my eyes.
Graduate school is no picnic, which is no secret. The thing is, though, that no one can really ever understand the toll it will take on you. Each of us shoulders our various burdens differently. We all juggle various priorities and, at times, find ourselves at the bottom of a mountain of commitments, promises, and deadlines we can never fathom summiting.
Some of us never do.
Those of us who finish the climb often find ourselves mentally, emotionally, and, yes, even physically exhausted by the process.
But we made it.
I walked in IU's graduate commencement recently. Even though it was hot and at times incredibly uncomfortable it was the happiest I've been in an exceedingly long time.
I made it.
Since then it's been a rush of grading final projects (I taught a section of a media ethics class this semester) and dissertation revisions. There's also the issue of getting my family's move from Bloomington back to Ohio in order. (I was born in Ohio and did my undergraduate work at Ohio University.)
I haven't had much time to ponder leaving here; to consider my actual removal from this place.
Walking under those gingkos this morning it hit me -- I won't see them go gold this fall. I won't find myself one morning, gazing up into the branches, lost in the yellow light.
Tears welled up. As I continued my walk down the red brick path and through Sample Gates I let the tears come.
I remember at one point, when I was in the midst of prepping for my qualifying exams, asking on Facebook if there was "crying in graduate school."
Yes, was the general consensus. Sometimes there was a lot of crying in graduate school.
Seven years I've been here. Seven years of stress and anxiety. Seven years of chasing funding and hoping to have cobbled enough work together for the year.
It's time to move on. And I am. In the fall I start a faculty position in Miami University's Department of Media, Journalism, and Film. I'm excited to start this chapter of my life; excited to meet my students and get to know my new colleagues.
But there is sorrow at the parting. Indiana University-Bloomington is a beautiful school. When I've been my most overwhelmed or taut I've found solace in the quiet, wooded spaces to be found all over campus. I've had the opportunity to work with world class researchers here who not only taught me skills and theory, but also helped me discover my own identity as a scholar.
Bloomington is also where my daughter has spent most of her childhood. She accompanied me to graduate classes when I was a student and then, later, served as an assistant in the classes I taught. She's seen me up late at night working on a project and she watched me walk across the stage and shake hands with the university president at commencement.
This university, this town, has been a place of growth for the both of us. We've chased squirrels through the woods, looked for fish in the "river," watched pumpkins get thrown out of windows in the name of science, and glimpsed the surface of the sun in the Kirkwood Observatory.
I'm ready to go. My tears were not out of nostalgia. Sadness, yes; who isn't a little saddened by the turning of time?
It would be a lie, though, to not admit that some of those tears were in relief. Relief that I, that my family, made it.
'So fill to me the parting glass; goodnight and joy be with you all.'
Maine is one of my favorite places. My best friend and I drove to Acadia National Park to celebrate turning 30 several years ago and when it came time to leave neither of us was really ready to pack up.
It had been a difficult few years leading up to our trip and it was the first time either of us had really stopped to breathe.
This summer I won't be driving to Maine, instead I'll be packing my things up to move to Ohio where I will begin teaching at Miami University in the fall. There will be no endless vistas for me, but there will be a leaning out not unlike that I experienced in Acadia.
My friends and I are calling this summer a number of different things: The Summer of Radical Self Care, The Summer of Leaning the F*ck Out, there was maybe something involving unicorns I don't remember.
It's a very necessary leaning out, for all of us. We've all been leaning in so hard and so long we probably should have portable flying buttresses to help keep us propped up at this point.
We are all, I should mention, women. Which is important if you've been following at all the conversation around this idea that women need to "lean in" to their careers to achieve much of anything.
What maybe some people don't understand, and what the author of the book Lean In seems to ignore, is that women already are leaning in -- we lean in to everything. Our jobs, our studies if we're students, our relationships, our children if we have them, our friendships, our communities.
Women lean into everything because we have always been expected to do so.
When it comes to careers that leaning in has been necessary, because for every mentor you have that is willing to help build you up you have scores of others chomping at your heels, trying to drag you down or looking to belittle your contributions.
I am emerging from graduate school. An endeavor that I have loved. I have always loved being in school and knew, when I was still working on my bachelor's degree what seems like a thousand years ago, that I was going to pursue a PhD at some point.
My experience during my studies has been largely one of support, fellowship, and a real feeling that I am engaged in the life of the mind. But there have certainly been moments when classmates have come after me not necessarily because of my contributions but because I am a women. There have been interactions with individuals that were at the very least disrespectful and at the worst unethical, due in part to my being a woman.
Graduate school, academia, is all about leaning in. Leaning so hard and so deep into your work that you get it done, you wipe the floor with the jerks, and you get out.
At the end, as you celebrate, you can't help feeling a little chewed up.
Those of us who get as far as I have and my mentors who are in ensconced in academia have done nothing but lean in our entire lives.
We don't have to be told to lean in. Or work harder. Or sacrifice. Or whatever else you might say to us as we pursue our careers and our lives.
We've been doing it before we knew it was a thing to do.
And things have suffered at times for it.
'For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.'
That opposite reaction this summer is to lean out as far as I can, as far as we can, so that when the new academic year rolls around we can plunge back into the thick of it with the enthusiasm and love of learning that pushed us down this path in the first place.
So, please, do not tell me to 'lean in' or anything like it. I will be leaning into something this summer that I have neglected for far too long.
When my daughter was tiny I lived in constant fear I was going to mess up in some major way. I worried that the nights she spent loudly crying because teeth were coming in would cause my neighbors to call the police. I worried about what she might say in preschool. I worried that someone would see the scrapes and bruises that come with being a toddler as abuse.
I lived in fear someone would swoop in and take my child away.
Which, in hindsight, was utterly ridiculous. My child is, and has always been, a happy-go-lucky little person who is clearly well-loved.
I'm not sure where my paranoia came from. Maybe my reporting. A number of the stories I covered when my daughter was little were about child neglect or child welfare. There were at least three child deaths that made the news while I was working in Birmingham while my kid was a baby. The state was coming out from under federal oversight of its child welfare department. Covering that story I spoke with a number of social workers who were frustrated by what they saw as a lack of resources and an overload of cases.
I think, when you are immersed in horror stories, it's hard not to internalize them. Hard not to allow them to frame how you approach the world.
While being a reporter is immensely rewarding and I miss being out in the field almost every day, I do not miss the rotating list of unreasonable worries.
Why am I thinking about this? Well, because the current "free range" kid debate is drudging up old frustrations and fears.
In case you haven't been following the news, a Maryland couple are being investigated because they let their 10-year-old and 6-year-old walk a mile to a park and play there with no parental oversight. (It should be noted, in order to get to the park they had walk by, and cross, a busy roadway.)
The parents decided to let their children do this after running a number of smaller "tests" to see if the kids would respond responsibly to their freedom. The first time the couple faced neglect charges a cop saw the kids walking home and gave them a ride the rest of the way. The couple's most recent run-in with authorities comes after a "concerned" neighbor called the cops when the children were seen out on their own again.
Can we acknowledge how ridiculous this is? Especially when there are children who are being abused by loved ones or guardians, children whose parents do not feed them or clothe them or send them to school, children who are isolated and unloved?
My 11-year-old sometimes scooters to elementary school. It's not quite a mile away. Is someone going to call the cops on me for that? Sometimes my kid plays outside unattended. I have windows open so I can hear her running amok, but amok I let her run.
What exactly are we doing when we investigate parents who seem to be simply trying to give their children freedom to be kids?
One thing's for sure -- calling authorities on "free range" families ties up resources that could be better used in other ways. It also smacks of a kind of a paternalistic behavior on the part of "concerned" neighbors who seem to believe they know better than the parents of these children.
What bothers me most about all of this is the faux concern that seems to permeate so much of it.
Last summer a South Carolina mother was arrested after leaving her 9-year-old daughter alone to play in a park while she went to work at a nearby McDonald's.
Again, someone "concerned" about the child's well-being alerted authorities.
The child was not being abused, was not injured, was not scrounging in the park for food. She was simply doing what children do ... playing.
But, like the two Maryland kids, she was doing so alone.
Tonight, while flipping around for something to watch on TV, I came across a Simpsons episode I hadn't seen in a long time. In the episode (Sweet Homediddly-Dum-Doodily), Bart, Lisa, and Maggie are fostered with the Flanders family after Bart comes down with lice, Lisa loses her shoes to bullies, and children's services workers find the Simpson home a shambles after Homer has surprised Marge with an ultimately not-so-relaxing trip to the spa.
An absurd series of events -- lice, bullying followed by walking through mud, Maggie found lapping at the dog's water bowl -- leads to the kids being taken from the home and Homer and Marge forced to enroll in a parenting class. (One Homer probably needs.)
The episode is just so incredibly sad as both Homer and Marge pine for their children, cared for 10-feet-away by Homer's nemesis Ned Flanders.
All three of these stories, one fiction; two non-fiction, are tied together by the idea of surveillance. In the case of the Simpsons it's surveillance of school officials that triggers surveillance of social workers; in the non-fiction stories the surveillance is triggered by the "concern" of people who think they know better than the parents in the situations.
It's all just so frustrating and, frankly, infuriating.
I keep thinking about The Atlantic's 2014 story about overprotected kids. The kids in the story live in the U.K. and are playing in what seems to be a junkyard. They swing on frayed tire swings, play with metal, and even have the opportunity to play with fire.
The kids are largely left to their own devices, although there are adults who watch over the children, though they rarely intervene. While the idea of my child playing with fire is terrifying (she is a firebug like her father), Atlantic writer Hanna Rosin suggests children might need to have those types of experiences.
By engaging in risky play, children are effectively subjecting themselves to a form of exposure therapy, in which they force themselves to do the thing they’re afraid of in order to overcome their fear. But if they never go through that process, the fear can turn into a phobia.
I certainly don't think every experience a child has needs to be risky, but I do think at some point children have to be given the freedom to roam and play without the constant hovering of parents.
I do not want my daughter shackled by fear of the world -- whether that is fear of accidents or of strangers in white vans. I want her to grow confident in her ability to navigate her surroundings.
That's what I'm concerned with.
It's easy to judge the parenting choices of others -- in fact, it can become a kind of parenting Olympics. All parents are guilty of it at times, I'm sure.
What I refuse to be guilty of is becoming another tool for surveillance.
I refuse to confuse concern with surveillance ... or punishment.
I recently helped organize a panel discussion at Indiana University about news media coverage and framing of Islam and Muslims. Our featured speaker was my friend Arsalan Iftikhar. You may know Arsalan as the Muslim American asked, live on air, whether he supported ISIS by CNN's Don Lemon.
The question proving the need for our panel discussion.
About 142 people, a combination of students, academics, and Bloomington community members, filled the room.
It was a great conversation. I'm proud we were about to pull it off. You can read about it on The Media Schools' website.
Here's a portion of my contribution to the discussion.
Pennington said that young Muslims on Tumblr are frustrated because, despite the fact many of them were born in the country in which they reside and they speak the native language, they feel excluded.
I woke up this morning and saw a story a friend had posted on Facebook. With it was this photo and I thought, "What a beautiful family."
And then I read the headline.
A little after 5 yesterday afternoon a 46-year-old man walked into the home where these three young people -- 23-year-old Deah Shaddy Barakat, 21-year-old Yusor Mohammad Abu-Salha, and 19-year-old Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha -- lived and shot and killed them.
Shooter Craig Stephens Hicks is an avowed atheist whose Facebook page is full of condemnation of all religion.
I don't think it was an accident Hicks chose a Muslim family to attack. Neither does Twitter. If you explore the hashtag #ChapelHillShooting -- the victims all lived in Chapel Hill, NC -- you'll find a community of individuals mourning the loss of bright, young lives.
They are also castigating the mainstream media for the lack of coverage of what clearly seems to be a hate crime.
On Monday I was part of a panel at Indiana University, where I am a PhD candidate, focused on media and Muslims. Our featured speaker, Arsalan Iftikhar, pointed out that there's no group Americans feel less comfortable with than Muslims. Another panelist, IU professor Nazif Shahrani, pointed out that's partly the result of the fact that academics, policymakers, lawmakers, and journalists all approach Islam and Muslims from a place of antagonism.
Before we know anything about Muslims we consider them a scary threat to everything "we" believe in.
Of course defining that "we" is becoming ever so much more problematic.
Look at that photo Deah, Yusor, and Razan. Do those three look like scary others to you? A frightening threat to all that America stands for?
Other photos showing up in new stories show Deah and Yusor (recently married) at a college football game. Razan blogged about art and photography.
They were also involved in charity, Deah reportedly volunteering with an organization that provides emergency dental care to Palestinian children.
Take a good look at that photo and any others you find. Do these three young people look scary to you?
Our society and media are complicit in their deaths. It is politically expedient for politicians, local and national, to talk about the threat of the "Islamization" of the West. There's a political industry, detailed in a book by Nathan Lean, which benefits from the manufacture and perpetuation of Islamophobia.
Piles of research have shown that news and entertainment media portrayals of Muslims are almost always negative. Those portrayals shape our understanding of what Islam is and who Muslims are. A study I co-authored showed some evidence of a linkage between media coverage of Muslims and anti-Muslim sentiment.
If you're looking for a recent example of this just look to FOX News's now infamous "Birmingham no-go zone" story as well as CNN's Anderson Cooper's repetition of this claim. That "story" is a fairy tale and yet it took far too long for FOX or Cooper to apologize.
(No one at FOX nor Cooper's program got fired over this and yet Brian Williams is out of a job because of a lie about covering the Iraq war?)
All of this, political discourse and media discourse, creates a social environment in which every Muslim is suspect because of their faith.
For the last year I've been conducting my dissertation research on the way young Muslims use Tumblr. The majority of my participants are Muslims who grew up in non-Muslim majority countries, mostly in the West.
What they all want is to be accepted for who they are. They feel the impact of negative stereotypes. They have people yell hateful things at them, they deal sometimes with anonymous Islamophobic Internet creeps, they struggle finding a space where they can be themselves.
All of themselves. German Muslim. American Muslim. British Muslim. Australian Muslim.
They understand they are seen as outsiders in the countries in which they grew up and in which they live. All they want is to be able to live full lives in which both of those aspects of their identities -- the national and the religious -- can exist together harmoniously.
To quote Martin Luther King Jr., they want to be judged for the "content of their character," which has been shaped both by religion and by where they live.
These aren't scary others.
And neither were Deah, Yusor, or Razan.
Nazif Shahrani at the panel Monday raised the point that we are going to be trapped in the current status quo when it comes to Muslim-non-Muslim understanding because "violence begets violence." And I would add that hate begets hate.
We should all be outraged about what happened yesterday in Chapel Hill. This hate crime should be a major story.
And yet I heard nothing about it yesterday. The first stories I saw about it this morning were in newspapers in the United Kingdom.
My one hope is that the attention the deaths of Deah, Yusor, and Razan is getting in social media will somehow shame the mainstream news media into covering this tragedy.
But part of me is worried what that coverage will look like given the news media's track record when it comes to covering stories about Muslims.
At some point media has to stop perpetuating stereotypes that fuel hate. I don't know if the Chapel Hill Shooting will be that point, but I certainly hope so.
(Since I finished writing this, a number of American media outlets have picked up the story. Now it remains to be seen how it's covered.)
I'm not sure if you've ever come home to a flooded house, but it is not the most delightful experience.
Last Thursday, after celebrating some good news and enjoying a rare day off together (we just puttered around a bookstore and Best Buy) my husband and I came home to an inch of water in the downstairs of our home. Luckily for us we were not the culprits in this mini-deluge -- our next door neighbors had turned off their heat before going home for winter break and a pipe burst.
Opening the door to standing water in my kitchen, I assumed our dishwasher had somehow exploded. Then I walked into our hallway. And then the living room.
Thursday, by the way, happened to be the coldest day of the winter so far. Thinking back on our discovery all that runs through my head is Kurtz muttering "The horror! The horror!"
Action Rosemary did not cry, instead she went into swoop mode and began pulling things out of closets, getting stuff shoved into garbage bags, figuring out what important things might be lost.
Most of our stuff sits on shelves off the floor so we've mostly lucked out. But there are a number of things that are gone.
Shoes. An area rug. Some guest bedding. All of it, largely, replaceable. The most dear thing ruined was a Christmas tree a much younger Sofia made years ago.
Sitting in two white fabric totes under my couch, however, were years worth of National Geographic magazines. In my kitchen are five fabric grocery bags I'd been working on finding a place for after rearranging the shelves in my living room.
Everything in the totes and the grocery bags was destroyed.
It's the books and the magazines that have upset me most, angered me most.
Growing up, reading was an adventure; an escape. A treat was going to the used bookstore and picking up old issues of National Geographic for 25 cents a pop and spending long afternoons pouring over the pages. I read so voraciously as a kid that I never had enough books.
Having those National Geographics under my couch made this apartment, made the transitory life of a graduate student, seem stable. They gave me a sense of comfort that I can't explain.
The books? Well, they're my brain. I have an incredibly terrible time letting go of books. Which is why I have seven bookshelves in my house and still not enough space for all the books I own. (Moving at the end of July is going to be terrible.)
We have renter's insurance. So the last several days, as we wait for the industrial fan and dehumidifier to dry out our house, we've been working on a list of things we lost -- not in the fire, Bastille -- but in our mini-flood.
I have been a grumpus about it.
It feels weird, to be making a list of things we own and attempting to assign monetary value to them. Some insurance person (who has been very nice) is going to look over our list and ultimately decide what had real value. Value worth reimbursing us for.
It's all valuable.
The blankets I've had for years. The pink and neon green sneakers hoofed me all over Germany and Brussels. The books are battered and torn from being dropped in the bath or read in the rain while waiting for the bus to campus. The Christmas tree artwork had somehow managed to survive several Christmases and a very rambunctious Sofia.
Nothing I lost has any real monetary value, at least not in the grand scheme of things. The value they hold is all related to what they helped me do, how they helped me pass the time, how they made me feel.
So, instead of making a list of things lost and their value I am drinking wine and counting my lucky stars that we only had an inch of water in our house.
And maybe plotting my revenge. No one destroys my National Geographics!