Posting on Behalf of Andrew

Microaggressions: Straightforward or Oblique?

Caroline Levine’s article on Americanah presents Ifemelu and Obinze as two characters who learn to defamiliarize themselves from the dishonest and hypocritical social (infra)structures around them. What I’m wondering about, though, is how our own reading practices of a novel like Americanah may prevent us from fully engaging with the de-familiarizing experiences of Ifemelu and Obinze, especially if we haven’t shared those experiences ourselves.

In the first half of the book, Ifemelu experiences a number of disconcerting microaggressions in America. A white guy with dreadlocks tells her on the train that race no longer matters as a social issue; Ifemelu’s first roommates give her snide racialized comments about Africa; the carpet cleaner is hostile when he thinks Ifemelu is the owner of the house she’s babysitting at. In our previous class we talked about the perceived dubiousness or unreliability of microaggressions (i.e. the recipient of a microaggression casting doubt on their own perception), but the point of these racial incidents in Americanah seems to be that they are actually rather egregious: a liberal, reasonably socially aware reader of these passages is in some ways prompted to feel a kind of “shock” or at least a disapproval of what happened, seeing the incident ‘through Ifemelu’s eyes’ as opposed to the oblivious microaggressor. Might the white liberal reader who never experiences microaggressions be trained through this reading experience into a kind of defamiliarization? Or does this reader, in keeping with the unreliable perception of microaggressions, rather cast doubt on Ifemelu’s perception or on perhaps the reliability of the novel itself? I can see a situation where the reader thinks, “These microaggressions are so stereotypical that of course Adichie would put them all into the life of one person so that she can make her point; but we also think it is improbable for someone to experience this level or amount of microaggression within the given time span”).

This kind of reading casts doubt precisely on the “plain language” Adichie uses for her descriptions, associating straightforwardness with a “selectivity” of realist information that distributes attention and resources unequally, in line with Susan Stewart’s critique of realism (Levine, 4). I suppose the suspicion of microaggression could work in line with a Eurocentric modernist reading practice that eschews plain language but likewise fails to defamiliarize readers from deadening habits of ‘color-blind’ perception.

I do realize that I may be invoking this counter-reading without basis, but I also think it is worth bringing up because Adichie’s realism feels in some ways so familiar to us that, from the perspective of modernism, “stereotypes” like microaggressions abound, and as ‘modernist readers’ we are supposed to recognize this stereotypicality and either “make something new” from it (in the traditional modernist sense) or make a performance of it (a la Flarf and conceptual poetry, for example).

“Berne’s Flarf as Seen through ‘The Office'”

Posting on behalf of Jessica:

Though Flarf and Conceptual Writing may be “two sides of the same coin” as Kenneth Goldsmith points out, I’ll choose Flarf as my poison since it’s still somewhat interested in sincerity and subjectivity, even if it’s making terrible fun of those tropes. In “Art, Work, Endlessness: Flarf and Conceptual Poetry among the Trolls,” Jasper Bernes offers context for the emergence of Flarf, connecting this writing movement to the restructuring of the workplace begun in the 1960s and 1970s. He writes, “In the retrospective definition that practitioner Drew Gardner provides for fellow Flarfist Jordan Davis, ‘Flarf was a bunch of us fucking around with google on the man’s dime.’ Before the age of smartphones, white-collar workplaces were some of the only spaces that allowed for the redirection of company equipment and time in this manner, and so, unsurprisingly, Flarf’s ‘bored-at-work google sculpting’ frequently foregrounds the managerial boilerplate of the contemporary office” (767).

 

Given Flarf’s relationship to the white-collar workplace, I was immediately reminded of an episode of “The Office” (American version) that seems to explore the Flarf phenomenon excellently. [You can find the compiled relevant clips here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0Byyg5HzdHAt8YWtUSHI3TzI3NzQ/view?usp=sharing

If you have Netflix and prefer that to my shoddy video, it’s S7: E15. The first scene begins at 8:08, and the second begins at 11:07.]

 

Our video begins when Pam, a central character in the show, finds some unexpected captions written underneath one of her doodles. Pam reads the captions aloud to the office—to the pleasure of all except Gabe, who is the generally reviled representative from corporate headquarters. Later, when Pam organizes a few coworkers together in a more intentional “caption contest,” Gabe threatens to “shut this down” unless they “all agree to some ground rules.” He then hinders spontaneity by enforcing procedure and by making critiques of the office off-limits. Of course, he tries to insert his own polished, corporate brand of “fun” by insisting they use “Sticky Quips.” But for the employees who saw the captions as their outlet away from work, Gabe has effectively ruined the game. To combat this rigid corporate takeover, the employees plan to move their fun to private IMs, forming a collective of pranksters whose game is hidden from “The Man”.

 

Unlike the many pranks that Jim performs throughout the show, this particular brand of prankishness/humor revolves around language, making it more akin to Flarf. The doodle is the jumping-off point, but the caption (or the thinking-up of the caption) is where the competition lies. None of it is really “original” or creative, in that it takes the same source material as its inspiration. But like Flarf, the captions themselves are judged on the basis of novelty and ingenuity, which are retained despite the intertext. Oscar especially argues that “irony is integral” to the game, and a strong consideration for how well something is written reveals that taste is paramount. (This is something that separates Flarf from Conceptual Writing, as Goldsmith points out a few times.)

 

Gabe’s attempted co-opting of the game is a corporate effort to make a small office rebellion/revolution into an “equivalent of casual Friday, one example of the ludic nonconformity that firms will tolerate or even encourage in order to let their workers blow off steam and stay motivated” (770). Of course, Gabe is unsuccessful by the corporate paradigm; the workers’ resistance (or nonwork) is not absorbed, and antagonism does not get “sent laterally, toward other workers rather than vertically toward management” (771-772). Their “Hot Hatred” is still directed at Gabe and the corporate mentality he represents.

 

“The Office,” consistently humorous in tone, takes humor as its theme in this episode and fits nicely into conversations of Flarf. But despite the resistance that workers here maintain, it’s important to note that their game still takes place on the clock. It seems that even if Flarf is about work, at the expense of work, and without the procedures of work—as long as it is at work, it can never fully bring about a freedom from work. That seems to prove the thesis of Bernes article.

Posting on Behalf of Andrew

A speech with magical force. Nowadays, people don’t believe in these kinds of things. Except in the Metaverse, that is, where magic is possible. The Metaverse is a fictional structure made out of code. And code is just a form of speech – the form that computers understand. The Metaverse in its entirety could be considered a single vast nam-shub, enacting itself on L. Bob Rife’s fiber-optic network.” (Ch. 27)

 

This quote echoes Galloway’s statement that “code is the only language that is executable” (165). Executable speech – speech that does what it says – can be likened to incantations, which form a “meta-layer” (a Metaverse) around the purely written language. Castells’ concept of “real virtuality” similarly emphasizes code’s uniqueness in the scheme of human communication systems. People’s “symbolic existence” – what Peirce would call the function of written language – is not communicated as experience but becomes the experience itself (373). We may also recall Guillory’s definition of code (writ large) as the “cheat of words,” where only the medium is visible (339) – in other words, where the message disappears into the medium, and the medium becomes the only thing experienced.

But the novel, in comparing Metaverse code to Sumerian “nam-shub,” seems to emphasize the continuity between code and “real” historical languages over their difference. Like the “Infocalypse” of Babel, the Metaverse falls prey to a “neurolinguistic” virus that crashes the central nervous systems of users. Through the “real virtuality” of code, the virus affects both the computer and the human body (as seen with Da5id), both of which are implicated in a ‘magical’ world where written code (i.e. on the Brandy’s scroll) is executed as real speech acts. The speech of code takes on the physical aspect of contact and contagion.

Importantly, the novel does not portray the pre-infected Metaverse as a utopia where code unifies all agents with a common comprehensible tongue. The Metaverse operates on a fiber-optic network run by L. Bob Rife, who is interested primarily in privatizing and monopolizing telecommunication information flows. Rife is a religious charlatan, upholding the “miracle of [common] tongues” in order to sanitize his exploitation of cheap labor. Religion seems to occupy a place of ambivalence in the novel: it can be both a “virus” of incomprehensibility (the Pentecost in Acts) and a cleansing force (the medically-minded theodicy of the Essenes). Accounting for Galloway’s portrait of the hacker as anti-commercial, pro-protocalist “freedom fighter,” it is unclear to me at this point who the “enemy” is, and whether that enemy is the Snow Crash virus itself (decentralized and distributed) or a centralized entity that controls it.