Here’s the link to my project on Genius for anyone who feels like looking. Feel free to throw in some annotations!
Here’s the link to my project on Genius for anyone who feels like looking. Feel free to throw in some annotations!
For those in the class (or anyone stumbling upon this blog), Jenna and Lauren posted a description of their final assignment and access points for the assignment on their ZineCat blog. Thanks!
**(Apologies for the lengthy post, but I’m hoping to make up for 1-2 blog posts here)**
After the completion of our Ivanhoe projects, I’m most struck by the questioning of how can players engage in conversations of experiences towards a particular game when an individual player’s cultural experience determines how they can identify with the notion of escapism as we embodied different places and characters in our Ivanhoe platforms. Aside from the idea of escapism as a mental mode of disengaging with one’s reality, escapism can also be understood as fantasy, meaning an escape to radical and dystopian virtual realities that can be wishfully and longingly applied to our societal sense of what is or could be real. Essentially this would be the inverse to games such as Southpark and GTA that capitalize on the presumed experience of a singular type of player and draw on addressing issues in popular American culture at the expense of stereotyping marginalized groups. Specifically, I turn to a rare AAA title developed by Hangar 13—Mafia 3 (https://mafiagame.com/), that invites players to play through the experience of a Black Vietnam war veteran set in 1968, New Bordeux (fictional New Orleans). Everything about the themes and setting of this game engrosses the player in the racial setting and landscape of the time period, drawing heavily from the likes of James Baldwin and Jim Brown to inform the political voices of the time. From uncomfortable moments such as being racially profiled by police while open roaming in the game, to moments of social justice when main protagonist Lincoln Clay straps a corrupt (white supremacist) politician’s body to a statue of Andrew Jackson to send a message to the Italian mob, while extreme in dramatism and violence, offer an immersive experience that can draw people from many different experiences to engage in what Mary Flanagan describes as “subversion”. Subversion as a creative act can be thought as an example of a game that can stimulate conversations that question the reality of our political structures in a meaningful way, I would argue is a form of escapism. Despite this, certain aspects are draining from the perspective of people who live through the many real-world instances of racial inequality. While being reminded of the racism in American culture may be counter to the idea of escapism, how can we find more balance in using games to challenge our sense of societal reality while honoring the accuracy of history?
Considering that the majority of the dialogue I’m concerned has been been studying centers around diversity and representation of characters in video games, I found Ian Bogost’s article for the Atlantic to be a rather fresh and stimulating viewpoint. I actually get the sense that Bogost’s work seems to somewhat resent the pervasiveness of identity politics in the modern-day video game debate. He seems to think that the reason why identity politics has become such a potent force in the conversation is that it is rooted in a selfish obsession for personal identification and representation. Now, while he evidently has a decent awareness and concern for the ubiquity of social issues and inequality, I think he is still coming from a place of privilege in perhaps not understanding how valuable representation can be for typically underrepresented groups. And perhaps he takes for granted that he’s had to wrestle less with his own personal identification. Thus, it seems unfair that he perceives gamers desire for self-identification as a strictly a selfish indulgence. That said, his argument is still a valid one worth reflecting upon. The notion that we must have characters in games in order to achieve diversity and sophistication is one that should be challenged, and I really enjoyed working with my team to think out of the box in turning places into characters in our Quicksand game. The representations of systems and circumstances over individuals can be an incredibly formidable tool in both understanding complex issues of social justice as well as attempting to separate ourselves from our need for personal identification. There is something hauntingly powerful at the thought of abdicating our individual desires in the interest of systems bigger than ourselves. Again, while I think Bogost does occupy a relatively privileged space, his point that it is a luxury to worry about self-representation when there are grander and powerfully destructive forces at work—climate change, wealth inequality, automation, etc. –is a fair critique. Maybe he’s right, that while we are focused on self-expression, and playing a game of identities, billionaires are off playing the game of systems. Given the current state of things in today’s world, we have reason to worry. As Bogost points out, the threat of automation, privatization, surveillance, etc., are all very real. It might be uncomfortable to hear, but there is definitely truth in that to strive for a more promising future, we may need to address the systems themselves rather than the faces of its operators. Otherwise, we will continue to be the Sims “meandering aimlessly in the streets of power broker’s cities.”
I was also thinking about “ragdoll” physics and how video games might desensitize gamers to violence, and specifically death, so I looked more in detail at Phillips’s article on “Headshots, Twitch Responses and the Desensitization of Performed Violence”, who was referenced in one of Jeff’s readings as a DH scholar in game studies at Georgetown University! Ragdoll physics, as Phillips says, simulates the moment of death and allow for the deceased character to be animated and manipulated to provide “a theoretically endless supply of unique death animations” (4). This animation changes the way we kill in video games, so that it becomes less about simply killing the target and fulfilling some goal of the game, and more about the entertainment of killing another character or creature. The deceased character loses any agency over its body and is subject to the ragdoll physics of the game world, which often means the body can be manipulated by forces of the game or other players. This creates a shocking disparity between the game world and the real world. While it would be highly offensive and disrespectful to manipulate a real-life body, in the game world it is not only possible but encouraged, like practices such as “teabagging” that Phillips mentions.
When Phillips mentioned ragdoll physics, I immediately thought of the game Goat Simulator, which was a game that became very popular online because of its ragdoll physics, in that the goat you play as could be thrown around the map and manipulated countless ways. This was the appeal of the game, but that would certainly not hold true if transferred to reality. There seems to be a large disconnect between the game world and the actual world, and it begs the question of whether players can make sure their game actions don’t negatively impact their real-life decision making, and if game designers have a responsibility to keep a limit on what you can do inside a game universe (move-set). Ragdoll physics brings attention to just another way in which our experience inside a game does not, and should not, match up with our expectations and actions in the real world, and makes me wonder if gamers can keep the two realms reasonably separate, or if they are being desensitized to violence, race, gender, sexuality, and other representations of experience.
We spent a great amount of time this semester discussing annotation: its history, its intended and unintended uses, our individual approaches to annotation, and discussed *new* forms of social annotation. We were given the opportunity to play around with a social annotation tool and to use our in-class discussion and reading to inform our engagement with a text online, using that tool. We mastered the use of hypothes.is and created our own, and group, annotations on Melville’s Benito Cereno, which was fun and also a great learning experience. However, one lingering thought I have about this sequence of the course is that there were very few ground rules set. I appreciate the freedom for us to play and engage as we saw fit, but I am left with the feeling, for many reasons this semester, of a need for some baseline rules of etiquette and fair play. I would like to point to some resources that have assisted me with establishing my own personal policy on my approach to belonging in a classroom community and of a netiquette policy for the online work completed during the course.
I was interested to see if hypothes.is provided a guiding policy on how online discourse, using its social annotation tool, should be conducted, but I did not find anything satisfying. They do have space on their site dedicated to educational usage, but no mention of etiquette from what I could see: https://web.hypothes.is/education/ I turned to searching for a discussion on Twitter that mentioned best practices for online annotation, but instead of a guide focused on hypothes.is, I found a guide to “Twetiquette.” It appears that Twitter can be used as a model for how pedagogical tools should and can be used as long as “teachers…establish firm guidelines regarding proper online decorum and expectations for student interaction” (“Tweeting in the Classroom”)
Let me stop for a moment to contextualize why I’m a little hung up on this idea of establishing some ground rules for etiquette and online discourse. There were some tense moments during class this semester which I had not encountered fully in my other courses so far, nor had I anticipated that there would be “tense” or “tough” moments when we first met back at the end of August. I’ve been grappling with the interpersonal dynamics within a classroom setting, and trying to work out what has been going on, especially in a time of much public discourse about what is civil discourse. I recognize that we all come from different places with different perspectives, abilities, and motivations. This is what makes classroom discourse so exciting and interesting, but I personally really don’t enjoy conflict or tension and expect the classroom to be a civil place where everyone has an equal voice and those voices are respected, but I realize that’s the ideal, and it’s not what happens at all times. I’m very shy as a student and rarely share my thoughts unless called on to do so, and thus understand that naturally, some will have different approaches to class participation. I honestly still haven’t entirely unpacked the observations I’ve made this semester, but I know that I have spent a lot of time thinking about classroom dynamics, both as a student as an education professional who has to stand up in front of a classroom regularly.
I spend many hours of my professional life working out how to approach classroom content and dynamics and how to improve the content and dynamics with technology, but I rarely speak with students directly about classroom dynamics or ask for their feedback regarding the content they’d like to learn, nor do I rarely spend more than one class session with students (librarians are often only invited in to a course for the “one-shot” library instruction session where we’re tasked with providing and overview of a variety of library resources and services in the hour and fifteen minute class time). So, this semester got me thinking about how I’ve very infrequently been in a classroom situation where *rules* are established, and perhaps rules isn’t the right word, but I think it’s worth establishing a group policy on behavioral conduct both in class and online (since we used many collaborative tools online to engage with one another, not just face to face, and let’s face it, much of the work we do is online, so it might be important to establish an online behavioral standard for oneself). That’s where I’m at and why I’m writing this blog post, and to be clear, as an instructor, I have never done this much intentional groundwork for establishing a code of classroom conduct myself before, but I plan to implement this in my teaching practice going forward.
Since I couldn’t find what I was looking for on hypothes.is’s site in regards to online behavior conduct, and the use of Twitter is a somewhat established model, I took a look at what kind of resources the CUNY Graduate Center’s Teaching and Learning Center offered on establishing classroom etiquette, more broadly (not just online etiquette). I was happy to find the following which I’d like to share with everyone. “Discussion Strategies: Creating Policies for Classroom Discussion” was posted on the Visible Pedagogy @CUNY blog March 9, 2017. I got to this through the Teach @CUNY Handbook version 2.0, Chapter 3: In the Classroom. Many of the strategies suggested on this part of the Handbook have been used throughout this past semester, but I was most taken with the last section: Creating a Classroom Community. The classroom is definitely a community I very much appreciate being a member of, but I think educators need to regularly think about establishing ground rules for discussion behavior (in class and online). I’ll list the “examples of widely used ground rules” here (taken from http://www.edchange.org/multicultural/activities/groundrules.html):
The author of the Visible Pedagogy blogpost that references this list, Amanda Almond — Assistant Professor at the New York City College of Technology, uses this early on in the semester to develop a collaborative understanding (amongst teachers and students in the classroom) of the ground rules for discussion. She encourages her students to respond to this list and to come up with their own rules so that there is a communal understanding of what is expected.
In summary, I have enjoyed the many approaches to collaboration we’ve been exposed to this semester, even if there have been moments of tension and misunderstanding, and continue to learn about myself, and others, through collaboration. I am most appreciative of being given the space and time to riff on my thoughts regarding interpersonal classroom dynamics in person and online in this blogpost which is informing my own classroom practice and understanding of my role as a teaching librarian.
As I mentioned in class, Thursday we’ll be sharing our experiences/projects, briefly and informally, as we eat, drink, and think about the semester as a whole. For those who feel more comfortable with some parameters, here are some ideas of how to approach this brief assignment (3-5 minutes is ample):
Have fun, and I look forward to hearing about your work next week.
A hearty thanks to Patrick for his excellent tour of text analysis and NLTK in particular. I just wanted to follow up with a couple of notes and links that might be useful to those interested in further study:
Years ago, when as an undergraduate I read Critical Theory with Professor Carla Cappetti at City College, we students complained that the readings were too difficult and why did critical theorists have to use so much jargon. I think we had read Saussure, Bakhtin, Lukacs, Benjamin and Barthes and were moving on to Derrida. Professor Cappetti agreed that unnecessary jargon could be vexing but said that at times, difficult thoughts call for difficult language. So I focused on the ideas the theorists sought to express, and concluded that the critical theorists we were reading with Cappetti were worth reading, and the difficulty of having to get my head around unfamiliar terms was consequently justified. I find that Judith Butler’s chapter on Nella Larsen’s Passing falls in this category of necessary complication; the difficulty of her language is justified by the complexity and importance of her thought.
But for me, it’s slow going! After reading the first two paragraphs of “Passing, Queering: Nella Larsen’s Psychoanalytic Challenge” twice and failing to retain more than a fuzzy notion of what Butler is saying, I read it a third time very closely and tried to explain what she’s saying in my own words.
Butler describes a sort of diagram. I picture it as a kernel. On the inside we have a normative heterosexuality, and on the outside the convergence of homosexuality and miscegenation. It makes sense that these converge on the outside because they share the distinctive feature of being different from normative heterosexuality. Inside the kernel normative heterosexuality seeks to reproduce itself. Reproduction of the species, which I assume Butler considers our Darwinian evolutionary goal , is “the cathected [to cathect is to invest with mental or emotional energy] site of a racialized [to racialize is to reify boundaries and borders along racial lines] version of the species in pursuit of hegemony through perpetuity, that requires and produces a normative heterosexuality in its service.”
The kernel, or, in Butler’s words, the site, is the locus where humans aim to reproduce themselves through their relations with other humans within and without the sites they inhabit. These relations are invested with mental or emotional energy and seek to reify boundaries and borders along racial lines through normative heterosexuality. The goal of these human relations is to keep everything the same.
Heterosexuality is reproduced in different ways, depending on how race and its reproduction are understood. Butler says that while there are good historical reasons to keep “race,” “sexuality” and “sexual difference” in separate spheres, there are also good reasons to converge them, and that there are good historical reasons why at certain sites one can only be constituted through the other. This is not to juxtapose spheres of power or consider differences as separate attributes but rather to converge them, and Butler asks if we can read Nella Larsen’s Passing “to articulate the convergent modalities of power by which sexual difference is articulated and assumed” .
In Butler’s reading John Bellew is at the center of the kernel, for he represents normative white heterosexuality. He says he would not associate with blacks but “paradoxically, his own racist passion requires that association” . Bellew needs Irene, Clare and Brian, and he needs them outside of the kernel, but really the kernel is more like a fluid membrane, through with Irene and Clare pass through as they choose. They pass until they are identified as black, at which moment their bodies are marked and those invisible markings set them outside the racial boundaries of normative heterosexuality. But really in Passing these boundaries are blurred. Bellew needs blacks as a foil on which to reproduce his racial purity and he also eroticizes blackness by calling Clare Nig and fetishizing her blackness which he at the same time denies. Race is inextricably linked to sexual desire. Clare is ambiguous both sexually and racially, playing with whiteness and blackness to seduce and lure. Passing, writes Butler, is not “about” race or sexuality but converges these and thus “offers a way to read the racialization of sexual conflict” .
Black is not normative. Nor are the women normative, as is made very clear in Irene’s desire for Clare, noted by Butler, and, I also think, apparent in Clare’s pursuit of Irene. Irene is tortured by her desire for Clare because Clare betrays not only the idea of race that Irene seeks to uphold but also the idea of family as a means to uplift the black race . This idea of the normative heterosexual family is at the center of the notion of uplifting race through social mobility, but by ascribing to the normative heterosexual social order it follows a politics of sexual oppression in which the homoerotic relationship between Irene and Clare makes the two women a threat not only to a heterosexual norm but also to the norm of racial purity, because as black women’s bodies, writes Butler, “continued to be sites of conquest within white racism, then the psychic resistance to homosexuality and to a sexual life outside the parameters of the family must be read in part as a resistance to an endangering public exposure” . Butler contests the claim that sexual difference is more primary or fundamental than racial difference, pointing out that
If, as Norma Alarcón has insisted, women of color are “multiply interpellated,” called by many names, constituted in and by that multiple calling, then this implies that the symbolic domain, the domain of socially instituted norms, is composed of racializing norms, and that they exist not merely alongside gender norms, but are articulated through one another. Hence, it is no longer possible to make sexual difference prior to racial difference or, for that matter, to make them into fully separable axes of social regulation and power .
By converging the problematization of sexuality and race we start to see the positioning of spheres of power in a wider, more nuanced and more interconnected way. Imagining this convergence feels strange to me, like reaching for networked relationships I don’t fully see, but the impulse to separate concepts into independent categories only obscures what I’m attempting to grasp. I look forward to discussing Butler’s chapter on Larsen in class.
 On second thoughts I wonder if by reproduction Butler doesn’t mean propagation of offspring but instead reproduction or representation of ideated self.
The history behind Markov models and poetry that this week’s piece slightly mentions is actually a really cool little facet of mathematics, technology, and literature. If any of y’all are interested, here’s a link to a rather fun background piece.
I really enjoyed “Devotion and Defacement: Reading Children’s Marginalia,” Seth Lerer’s article on children’s relationships to books, and I think it intersected with Ann Blair’s “Note Taking as an Art of Transmission” in some interesting ways.
Children mark their books up for all kinds of reasons and have done so ever since books began to circulate. (One thing his study doesn’t address is children’s access to and treatment of books in non-western antiquity, which—if possible to do—would be an interesting comparative study.) Blair’s treatment of marginalia as a form of note taking touches on the significance of marking a text by hand, but really focuses on the way content is recorded and transmitted— “storing, sorting, summarizing, selecting”—and the conditions that influence a reader’s choices in the annotation process (Blair, 85).
There are some major differences between note taking /annotation in books and what children write or draw in their books. The most obvious, of course, is that annotation serves a practical purpose, whether done for future reference and recall (storing and selecting) and/or as a means of recording one’s thoughts and responses at the time in order to explore them further, like talking to ones’ self, but on paper, and sometimes a margin is the only paper that is handy.
Children’s “annotation” varies so much, from scribbled lines in crayon to words and doodles. Looking at them, it’s hard to know whether these are direct responses to a book’s content— words and images on a page—or the result of having some paper and a crayon within reach. (I’m referring primarily to children’s marking in the modern age of plentiful printed books on paper, not hand-inscribed manuscripts on vellum). Once I saw a listing for a collectible children’s book from an online book seller: It included the typical descriptive language for used books like “covers faded, edgeworn,” and then: “some pages marked by previous owner in crayon.” Although these may not have been an aid to memory, they were just as much a record, an interior response exteriorized, and demonstrate the owner’s thought and intention. As Lerer writes, “It brings the inside outside” (130).
I think annotations are most always a mark of ownership and a certain kind of identification with books. The annotations we might find in a second-hand book are not usually made to be passed on. Making Melville’s marginalia publicly accessible was a welcome development for Melville scholars and literary historians, but he wrote in the books he owned; even writing in books he borrowed from others indicates a feeling of ownership at the moment he made a mark on the page. Usually, we find young children’s annotations in the books read to them, given to them, or found in their homes. Unless these are made intentionally to spite an adult, they indicate a similar and probably unconscious declaration of “this is mine / this is my mark.” I think this is true even of shared books or those “signed over” to new owners, as in Lerer’s account of young Robert Doe who, having previously recorded his ownership of Dicts and Sayinges of the Philosophers, later inscribed on several pages “Robert Doe was the right houner to this Booke but how I give it to my well be loued brother Antony Doe 1614” (135).
The process of creation and the structure of codex-style books mirror this interior/exterior dynamic. Physically, the book is such a powerful example of inside/outside that it becomes a metaphor: “don’t judge a book by its cover.” And it is the record of an author’s interior thought and intention and private activity—a record of time in an author’s life—made public, readable, and subject to analysis of all kinds long after the author is gone. The same goes for children’s annotations and those of adults.”Such acts enable us to see not just the public text but the author’s response” (Lerer, 130). When I find marking or notes in second-hand books, I can’t help but wonder about the previous owner—whether a child or adult— and their experience of reading the same words on the page.
As we discussed, I’m going to focus my final paper on researching social annotation through the Genius platform, and potential implication of the platform on reading and writing. I want to do this through the Barthsian lens of “Text” and reading through writing, which is expressed in the annotation platform.
As I’ve researched over the past few days, and as we’ve read through works in class, I’ve been interested in seeing how hierarchies of authorship shape the possibilities of annotation. Genius plays with this a lot, as have prior (more primitive) annotation platforms like this one developed for the web browser Mosaic (this website introducing the tool is almost 22 years old, according to a domain dating tool I used)—the inventor of Mosaic invested 15 million into the development of Rap Genius, since he had originally hoped to officially incorporate a group annotation tool into the Mosaic browser. On the entry way for the annotation tool, developed by the university of Utah, it lists two caveats as a result of completely free annotation: 1. Be nice, don’t mess with other’s annotations; and 2. don’t trust all the annotations you read. Using this website as a primary source of early group annotation and looking as those tenants as a sort of rhetorical guide for how annotation has developed, and now exists on Genius, will be a useful tool in my research.
I also hope to think about the implication of the authorship and development of the website itself, by a small team of white, male, Yale-graduate “brogrammers,” has on senses of annotation stemming out of an inherently black genre and how that translates to other genres on the site. It may be worthwhile in this vein to research and compare to how as a platform which has been rebranded to annotate *everything* the volume and quality of annotation differ from text to text (i.e. Rap from today to Harlem Renaissance Fiction, to Victorian Poetry), and think about what it suggests for audience and writers on the platform.
There are plenty of news articles about Genius as it has rose in prominence on the web, but there are not many scholarly articles that I can find (I have only found one so far)—I’m not sure if this is because searching “genius” is not at all specific enough to use in search engines, or because there really isn’t anything on the website. This poses a challenge but also an opportunity: I don’t have much to contribute to in terms of established discourse, but I do have a lot of freedom with where to go with my project.
I’m planning on turning my final essay into a project on Manifold, through which—in the spirit of my questions about annotation—I would be able to annotate my own work, open it up to the annotation of others. Using it for the “Benito” project was a fun introduction, but I am curious to see what else is possible on such a flexible (and beautiful!) platform. I am also excited to play with incorporating visuals (maybe interactive?) from Genius as I work on/with that platform in my research, into my completed project.
And finally, sorry for the delay in posting! There is more research to be done on this, and my direction may change course slightly, but this is where it seems to be going at the moment.