Cut flowers

Cut flowers really look lovely, and they smell nice and they are great to have around.  But when they are detached from their roots, they eventually whither and die.  And that’s what’s happening to American culture.  Too many Americans are cut off from their roots—their American cultural roots—and the culture is starting to fade and whither.  Lest you think I am anti-American or harsh to my fellow Americans, let me say that the exact same thing is happening in Europe.  When I teach cultural studies and I mention Calvin, Descartes or Locke, I often meet blank faces.  When I ask where secular humanism comes from, I hear silence.

This source material isn’t easy to read, I know, but my students often don’t even know the names.  Calvin and Hobbes?  A comic strip.  Homer?  A donut-eating loser.

When did I become reactionary?  How did this happen?  I don’t think of myself as reactionary.  I like to think of myself as Leftist.  My cousin thinks I’m a bleeding heart liberal, I know.  But then that term liberal—the liberal arts.  I also believe that the liberal arts are still of value.  But the world has changed—knowledge of the liberal arts is not needed for success in the world.  Once again the liberal arts have become elitist.  Maybe for a bright shining moment in the 60s and early 70s there was a time when “everyday” folks could be a liberal arts major with no negative ramifications, but today, one must be wealthy, or willing to face a lifetime of low-paying jobs in order to truly delve into the liberal arts.  Oh, sure, I have a job as a college professor—an English professor.  But I make tens of thousands of dollars less per year than my colleagues in the sciences.  I make less than most public school teachers, and kids getting out of MBA programs often start off making more than I do—me, with my PhD and 18 years of teaching.

According to Liz Pulliam Weston, MSN Money Central’s contributing editor, “the Census Bureau’s figures show that someone with a liberal arts master’s degree earned just $5 a month more, on average, than someone with a bachelor’s in the same field ($3,460 compared to $3,455). In fact, the average liberal arts M.A. earned about $300 a month less than the average bachelor’s degree recipient.” (“Is Your Degree Worth $1 Million—or Worthless?”)

Some truth in humor: The graduate with a science degree asks, “Why does it work?” The graduate with an Engineering degree asks, “How does it work?” The graduate with an Accounting degree asks, “How much will it cost?” The graduate with a Liberal Arts degree asks, “Do you want fries with that?”

How many parents bemoan a child choosing a “useless” major like English?  Why did I want to weep when my bright, beautiful niece chose to major in English?  Then she added anthropology!  The scholar, the humanist with the fine liberal arts degree in me knows these choices will enrich her life and make her develop as a person.  The realist in me facing huge student loans says, “honey, be a lawyer!”

But as an English professor, I find myself “selling” English as a major to other people’s children.  In practical terms, it’s actually a very smart undergraduate choice.  Law schools love English major applicants and businesses love to hire English majors.  Why?  Because we can discuss Shakespeare and Fitzgerald?  Hardly!  Because we write well, know grammar and think logically.  But to go for an MA or PhD in English?  I tell my students, “Don’t even bother unless you have the fire in your belly.”  If I can talk them out of it, they shouldn’t attempt it at all.  It’s not a career choice; it’s a vocation—a calling to one’s spirit.

Do today’s young people even need all this liberal arts “stuff”?  Many young people, especially those who work with computers, IT and technology, have decided to skip traditional liberal arts degrees, with their need for a balanced curriculum, and have moved to schools that offer technical programs, streamlined to allow them to learn and be out in the “real world” making money in half the time needed for a traditional degree.  Is this inherently bad?  Part of me says, no, but other parts of me say yes.

Do people really need to know the roots of their culture?  Do they need to know the history and philosophy on which their society is based?  Today it’s common to say “I am proud to be an American.”  And I am.  I am proud to be an American, because I’m proud of what America stands for.   When younger people say “I am proud to be an American,” do they know why?  Or is it all just rhetoric they learned?

I am proud to be an American because I believe in America’s ideals.  I believe that I come from a “Republic of Virtue” based on the highest ideals of Christian humanism, where freedom, justice, equality, honor, liberty and responsibility are exalted, cherished and protected.  (OK, I know, these are the ideals. Reality is often different from the Ideal, but I’m a realistic idealist, what can I tell you?  At least we are trying.)

I believe that even when America, and Americans, fall short of the mark, which happens far too often, it is important that at least there is a high mark for which we are reaching.

So, all this has me worried.  I come from a country full of cut flowers.  I sound terribly reactionary and conservative, but I say anyway, not enough people take the time to learn about our culture.  I have a pretty broad view of what makes a culture, though, so don’t give up on me yet.  I’ve also become one of those annoying people who ask “what do they teach kids these days?” And I want to fix that—hey, that’s me—think big.  To that end, I’m working on a project right now—a book length exploration of why Americans today are the people they are, or aim to be.  And what you see here is the preliminary musing about that.  This blog is my trial balloon.  I’ll be posting things here in the coming months as I work on this project just to see what people say.

A-Maying Redux

It’s May Day again, four years since I wrote the column below. Since that first Valborg’s I’ve pretty much skipped it. By the following year, we were always busy with something else. But this year I’ve moved to a different part of Sweden, Linköping, where I teach, and when a colleague invited me to the evening bonfire and choir performance, I said why not? Beats grading.

Linköping is a lot bigger than my old village—100,000 vs. 850—so this was a much grander affair than the one I first attended. This one was held on the banks of the Stång River, which runs near the edge of town. A choir sang, canoes came up the river with torches to light the bonfire and the evening was capped by a rather beautiful fireworks display. I was surprised by the sheer number of people there. It was short (though the partying of the young people went on for hours from what I could hear from my flat), but well worth going out in the cold to see. Global warming or not, it was still gloves and scarves weather. Hopefully, one of these days I’ll have some photos to post. I tried to take a shot of the silhouette of Linköping Cathedral, black against the setting sun’s glorious oranges and purples.

On the way back to the car, my Scottish colleague, her Swedish partner and I were discussing fireworks displays. Swedes seem to love them, trotting them out for New Year’s Eve, Valborg and special occasions. In America, we save them for the Fourth of July and trips to Disney (both Disneyland and Disney World have nightly displays). And I’m still torn when watching them—I love the color and light and display of power, but they still remind me of Fallujah and all the other battles and bombings where people get killed. There’s something frightening about fireworks, and I’m not the only one who thought so last night. In between booms we could hear terrified children wailing and howling dogs.

There’s something right about celebrating the Fourth with fireworks. That’s what independence meant for us—a war that cost over 2000 lives and thousands of injured soldiers. And we’re still rightly proud of those soldiers and what they accomplished. Those numbers don’t sound very high, do they? Especially in today’s terms. But there only about four million Americans back then, and at least some of them were actually loyal to the Crown.

But liberty is worth dying for, isn’t it? Freedom? I ask my Swedish students this question in American cultural studies class, and all answer “yes”. But then you can see my, and their, problem. There are some things worth fighting for and even worth dying for, but no one likes war, especially not Swedish students for whom war is an out-dated tool of foreign policy.

You can see why I avoid fireworks—they make me think too much. All I wanted to do was go out and see an old Swedish custom and I end up having a 24-hour moral battle with myself about war!

Happy Spring! Happy May!

Margarette’s Going A-Maying

Originally published May 2003

Unless you’ve sat through an “Intro to British Lit” course, you probably don’t get the reference in the title. It’s to Robert Herrick’s 17^th century poem, “Corinna’s Going A-Maying.” In the poem, the narrator beseeches Corinna to get up early on May Day (May first) in order to enjoy both the fun of the day and the beautiful flowers. Herrick, an Anglican priest, bids Corinna to hurry through her morning prayers so that she can run out to the fields and bring in the May.

In pagan England, May Day was a special day to celebrate fertility, and even in Herrick’s day, many of the rites associated with the day hark back to that original meaning. Dancing around the maypole, which symbolized, well, you can figure it out, is still done in parts of England and America. In his poem, Herrick’s narrator tells Corinna that while she has been lazy sleeping in, many a couple has become engaged, and many a “green gown” has been given, from rolling in the grass, we can infer. Many a kissing game has been played, and many jokes have already been told of locks being picked this evening!

Bringing in the May meant that the young unmarried men and women went out to the fields and brought back armfuls of blooming whitethorn branches, budding tree branches and masses of flowers. These were then used to decorate all the houses in the village or town so that the fertility of the fields is spread about. Of course, while out in the fields picking those flowers, the young men and women had a brief moment of unchaperoned freedom where kisses could be shared. Not quite the wild sex rites of the pagan days, but better than nothing, which is mostly what 17^th century young people managed in the kissing line.

I have dim memories from my now-distant childhood of making construction paper baskets to fill with flowers and then hang on the doorknob on May Day. The practice was dying even then, but perhaps in some remote places, they still bring in the May.

But I’ve been thinking of this poem a lot in the past few days. Being an English teacher, things like that happen to me, but also, I was going to experience my first Swedish May Day. Well, actually, what I was experiencing happened the night before May Day. The last night of April is called Valborgmässoafton, or Walpurgis night.

Walpurgis night was traditionally the night German witches gathered on the Blocksberg, a mountain in Northeastern Germany. Like so much of German culture, this holiday made its way to Sweden (though as some Swedes have told me, it’s the Swedish culture and language that have made their way to Germany, though I can’t find any real authorities who say this!).

But now it’s the night when Swedes greet the coming spring. Now, this being Sweden, there’s no opportunity to bring in masses of flowers and leafy boughs. And it’s certainly far too cold to be playing kissing games in the fields. There are just now some tulips, daffodils and straggling forsythia blooming out there, and almost all of the trees are still bare. But this is the night when we can finally say that there won’t be any more snow! Probably. If we’re lucky.

Swedes celebrate with large bonfires, often with a speech by a local authority and then followed by songs welcoming spring sung by a local men’s choir. The night is topped off with fireworks.

Our local village was having a bonfire at the football field down the road from our house, and the football club would be selling snacks as a fund-raiser. I was game, and to make it even more fun, our neighbors invited us for a traditional “grill party” or barbecue before the fire.

Of course, it rained all week, so people were worried. Then on the 30^th it stopped! But it was cold, just above freezing, and there was a fierce wind. Because of this, the grill was moved to the oven, but we had a lovely dinner. Then it was off to the bonfire! The wind had died down, and the temperatures nudged up a bit, but I was still wearing a winter coat. The crowd was amazing. It seemed as if every one of the town’s 1200 or so residents came out for the fire. Some of the kids were having impromptu football games while others goofed off around the bonfire. One of the people who stopped to chat said that this was the only time during the year that they actually saw people from the village, and it was like a huge cocktail party – just circulate and chat.

Cocktail party might be an apt description for the teens. I’m told that this is a day of copious alcohol consumption for people in their older teens and early twenties. There was none of that in our town, mainly because the drinking set would find a bigger, more interesting bonfire to visit.

We were also spared the speech, and we skipped the choir. I was looking forward to one, but our town is too small. At 9:30, when it was finally dark, the fireworks started. I’m not the biggest firework fan, and all I could think while watching is that I’ve seen far too many fireworks displays on CNN over the past few weeks. It made me think of bombing and shelling, and I didn’t like it. No one mentions the war at all anymore, at least not non-media types. I think we’re all burned out, but I seem to have been the only one saddened by the fireworks. After the display ended, we returned to the neighbors’ for a night cap, and then for us old fuddy duddies, Walpurgis night was over.

It was strange when I walked the dog this morning. Things looked different. I don’t know if it was a coincidence or some kind of Walpurgis night magic, but I swear, when we went out this morning, hedges that had been bare twigs yesterday were obviously green this morning. The barren farm fields that surround our village were covered in a green haze; and the trees were suddenly in bud. Coincidence or magic, I don’t care. It finally looks like spring, and I’m thrilled!

The Swiss had a similar rite to bid goodbye to winter, but as they are so much further south, it happened much earlier. Around the equinox in late March, it was time to burn the effigy of old man winter. We got involved through my son’s school. He and his school mates would build a larger than life effigy of old man winter, and then on the appointed day, parents got to join the march to the burning place. Four local schools met with their men, and this being an urban group, they prepared the bonfire in a cement roller-blading pit at a nearby park.

There was singing and a bit of circle dancing around old man winter, then whoosh! Up went the paper-stuffed men. This was followed by bread with jam and butter with a glass of juice for the children and wine for the adults. We thought about it a lot this year, and missed it, but last night’s bonfire was almost as much fun.

Of course, this morning is May Day, a national holiday here in Sweden. As in almost all of Europe, this is Labor Day. This was something new to me when I moved to Switzerland, but seeing as my husband has spent almost his entire adult life in the labor movement, on the local, national and international level, it was something we celebrated.

In Switzerland, we went on huge workers’ marches. Through the streets of Geneva we’d go, ending up at a large park where there was entertainment and food and beer stands. The day ended with sausages and beer, and with that kind of ending, I’m game. It was fun, though, as there would be time to visit with his work friends and always some kind of diversion when a political group decided to make an outrageous statement.

This year, here in Sweden, we are missing that. But in our municipality’s seat, the annual labor movement march run by the Social Democratic Party was being turned into a peace march followed by a speech by the county governor. After the speeches there was a family day planned with a petting zoo, flea market, horse rides, a puppet show and fun stuff like that. We decided to go on the peace march and then have fun.

But the rain that had stayed away yesterday was back. We decided that it wasn’t too bad, so after tying a bright red scarf around the dog’s neck to spiff him up for his first march, we were ready to go. On the way there, the skies opened up. It poured. By the time we reached the gathering spot, it seemed to let up. But as we sat in the car, looking at the brave group of marchers, we realized that no, it was still pretty much pouring. We decided to skip the march and drive to the end spot. It wasn’t a long march planned; the municipality’s seat is really just a small town. Within ten minutes, there were the marchers.

Then came the speech. This is what it sounded like, the condensed version:

Yadda yadda yadda yadda Saddam Hussein. Yadda yadda yadda yadda Saddam Hussein. Yadda yadda yadda yadda. Yadda yadda yadda yadda Dag Hammarskjöld. Yadda yadda yadda yadda certainly, Yadda yadda yadda yadda, Thank you!

Later my husband told me that it basically said that now with the end of the Soviet Union, the balance of power was no longer balanced. The US had too much power. We (the people at the speech, but on a larger scale the Swedes and the rest of the world) could not allow the US to be the world’s police anymore, as that results in perpetual war. Instead, we must allow the UN to be the world’s police, as it should be. The governor also mentioned that it was a member of the Social Democrat party from Sweden who worked alongside America’s President Wilson to encourage the formation of the League of Nations, so Swedes must remember their stake in the project of the UN.

Sometimes I think it’s good that I don’t understand the speeches. I might agree with the governor of some level, but then again, I might just have a few words to say to him!

After the speech, there was coffee and buns in old-fashioned house turned coffee shop and singing by a men’s choir! I was thrilled to hear them. I love a good choir, and there’s something so restful about men’s voices. Maybe it has something to do with the lower pitch, but I enjoyed that part very much. Didn’t understand a word, of course, but with music, it doesn’t matter as much.

After this it was still pouring rain, so we decided to take our sodden dog and go home. It managed to rain all day, as it has for two of the past five May Days that we’ve celebrated in Europe.

Perhaps I didn’t manage a “green gown” or an armful of flowers, but Margarette went a-Maying this year. While the English teacher in me thought of fertility rites, the spectator in me saw a big bonfire that reminded me of burning our high school rivals in effigy before the traditional Brewster-Carmel football games. Not quite the same thing at all!