Apple Pies, McDonalds, and Gender O’ My

Am I the only that finds it a bit ironic that the restaurant that has been criticized as the culinary culprit in the breakdown of the American family has returned to traditional gender roles in their advertisements? Or at least traditional gender expectations? Yes, McDonalds has been pointed out in the lineup as being many families' route, or rather escape, from having home-cooked meals around the dinner table as stable, nuclear family ought to be doing. I do not mean to single out McDonalds as if those who run the company orchestrated this phenomenon by themselves. But given the general ratchet effect that has taken effect in the number of activities we cram into a single, 24 hour period and changing expectations of members of society as whole, fast food restaurants in general have been seen as enablers of this decline. And when you're the biggest and baddest bully of them all, you tend to take the rap more so than the others.

So what is this post about? Well, my apple pie wrapper pictured above. The apple pie has been a staple and trademark American food since the days of our grandparents. You may recall the old saying, "As American as apple pie." Though mostly a white, middle class story, it did not stay within this demographic group alone. It was not only a gastronomic creation; it was a symbol of American domestic life for many years, both here and abroad. Many home economics books of yore typically employed different depictions of the apple pie on their covers while inside they outlined how women ought to fill their roles of wife, mother, and homebody. I took my favorite oldest niece (our running joke as I only have two nieces and she's the oldest. Get it? Good) to McDonald's for lunch when I was in Miami. We both got apple pies and I saw the wrapper. And I was like, wow. Seriously. "Mommy didn't have time." Really. Kind of pissed me off: I'm not lovin' it.

The kitchen, even in the advertisement for the quintessential fast food restaurant, remains the woman's domain. In fact, one may can interpret the reading as sanctioning women for bring to busy. Though some conservatives, as I say above, demonized these restaurants for allowing women to spend even less time at home, and especially in the kitchen, McDonalds and traditionalists seem to be of one mind. McDonald's has not gone as far as the old saying, "A woman's place is to be barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen," but the general picture, I argue, is still there.

As a practical matter, it takes time to bake an apple pie when you do it right. But, as this advertisement suggests, let's put a child and/or husband not having solely one on mommy.

This post is not meant to be particularly earth-shattering. Rather, it fits with my general thinking about how reified our thinking about gender roles and expectations are and how best are we to continue moving forward in contesting, blurring, and crossing these boundaries. Personally, I feel that there is still much work to be done. However, I know that this is preaching to the choir members who also serve on the usher board on alternative Sundays and volunteer for the Sheppard's care ministry (to use and extend that old adage). In commenting on my post "How Not So Far We've Come: (Still) "Doing Gender"" where I discuss the gendered picture on baby changing stations in bathrooms, one of our more insightful readers said that things will change only when men start to care. I partially agree with her. I think that things will change when both men and women no longer take pictures, phrases, or depictions like these for granted.

Monday's Musings: I Can Hear Your Shirt, But What's It Saying?

This is not a traditional post where I present an argument or my opinion about a recent post although the social implications for studying identity, culture, and race are considered (admittedly as backdrop). Rather, I would like to offer something for discussion to the larger audience that I cannot quite come to terms with. So, I start with two simple, yet complex questions: What does this shirt mean to you? What does this shirt mean for society at large? A piece at The Root entitled “Can You Hear My T-Shirt Now?” called these questions into existence. The article highlights the current work of Renee Cox* of Maroon Rebel who wants to make t-shirts “racial and radical” once again with messages like “Bye Baby” with “Emmett Till Died For This” as the subtext (I think it would have been more powerful if she would have quoted Mamie Till, Emmett Till’s mother: “I have not a minute to hate. I’ll pursue justice for the rest of my life”).
**
The old adage goes, “a picture is worth a thousand words.” What is missing, or rather, what is taken for granted in this old phrase is that each picture means a different thousand words to each individual. Though there will surely be overlap, a plethora of internal conversations between picture and individual are held even when only a few of us come across a single image (Look at the vitriolic comments launched against Malia Obama for wearing a peace sign on her shirt in her last trip overseas with the rest of the First Family).

I am of two minds with respect to t-shirts that claim to be “racial and radical” for a purpose on either continuum of the color spectrum. A host of questions immediately come to mind. Are the shirts just for shock value? Are these shirts made for getting a reaction out of passersby? Or are they to inform? Are they to force us to connect the picture or message—effectively, the representation of reality—to one’s reality? I am not sure. In fact, in writing this post I battled over including the following question as the opening so as to move the question beyond my own limited perspective: are there temporal or contextual constraints or expiration dates (if you will) for different modes of celebrating one’s history, the good and the bad? I changed my viewpoint as soon as the words were on screen because I realized that I was singling out African Americans for implicit in that question is that people should leave history in the past and only worry about the present and future, a perspective I do not subscribe to.

The fact remains that we are forever communicating with a larger audience. The body itself is always in dialogue with others. Taking off of sociologist Erving Goffman, the body both communicates and is communicated in the sense that one is always projecting and receiving social information simply by being copresent. The clothes we wear have cultural roots but they are also an expression of one’s individual and/or collective identity. So, when we wear certain shirts like the one pictured above, what exactly are we communicating?

*The picture headlining this post was taken on someone's person and is not one of Cox's design.
**This particular shirt is one of Cox's design.

Goombay is Dead

No more triangle banners hanging from the lampposts or baskets lining the ground in colors that capture the life and vitality of Bahamas, Jamaica, Haiti, and the other West Indian countries.

No more bands playing the rhythmic tunes from the islands that force us all to move our feet, shake our hips, swing our arms.

No more spicy curry goat that makes you run for water. No more watermelons or mangoes that make you forget your table manners. No more conch fritters that make you want to drive to Key West to start a little conch farm of your own. No more fresh crabs caught earlier that day, cooked in front of your face, and ate soon thereafter.

Here Ye. Here Ye. After 32 years, Coconut Grove’s Goombay Festival is Dead.

This reality has been on my mind for the past three years. And being back in Miami during the week leading up to Goombay and right after this year’s National Spelling Bee where Goombay was a word in one of the final rounds brought this thought to the fore. If you look in the dictionary, Goombay is a form of Bahamian music and a drum used to create it. Some link it to Calypso. For us in the Grove, Goombay is a two-day festival the first weekend in June held to commemorate the unique ties between the Grove and the islands of the Bahamas: the Junkanoos dancing in the street; the conch salad, fried conch, stewed conch sold along the sidewalk; Bahamian music reverberating on the ear drums; arts and crafts of the islands; the conch salad, fried conch, stewed conch. Literally, you walk, eat, drink, dance and listen for two days straight. To put it in perspective, imagine Carnival or Mardis Gras on a more local level but with all the fanfare, tourists, and craziness that ensues. For a look, look at the streets in action when the Junkanoos come by. I am sad to report, however, that the Goombay many of us grew up with, the Goombay some of us couldn’t wait for, the Goombay all of us got ‘all fixed up for,’ is dead.

A little background is necessary though to better understand this social autopsy. First, I am from Coconut Grove, a small community in Miami. The Grove, as it is more commonly known, is split. More honestly, the Grove is segregated (this is made evident even in the Wikipedia post where Black Grove is omitted). There is, for lack of a better way of saying it, White Grove where the homes are big, cars are fancy, and yards are sprawling, and then there is Black Grove (or West Grove) where, well, the houses are not so big, cars are fancy but in a different (read as ethic) way, and yards are a bit more crowded with stuff that doesn’t fit in the homes. Put it like this, once you cross McDonald St, a street that runs north to south between Grand Avenue and US1, you’re in a different world.

This “natural” split existed since the first black settlers came over from the Caribbean, specifically the Bahamas. When these settlers arrived, they were forced to live in Black Grove while they slaved away in White Grove, serving as maids, butlers, yard workers, and any other menial job that their more affluent counter did not fashion themselves doing. This story was the same for the few African Americans who came soon thereafter and the families of current residents here today. These settlers and their African American peers endured Miami’s tumultuous racial periods and now are as much a part of the community and city as any other ethnic group (though there is still troubles to be sure). So, enough with the history lesson. Why the post? Well, because the ceremony held to honor such a beautiful and rich history has been desecrated to the point of no return and should no longer be held for it sullies the legacy of the settlers and mocks the current inhabitants in every since of the word.

Goombay is now held in the heart or rather, one may argue, the centerpiece of White Grove: Peacock Park. Goombay’s current location is unsettling and has many residents upset. Goombay is no longer held within the boundaries of where the original Bahamian and Black celebrated their cultural heritage, where they, to put it simply, lived in the truest since of the word. Some argue that this is a step in the right direction, bridging racial divides. This is simply not the case because in all the Goombays I attended (and those of individuals my mother’s age), there were people from all races and nationalities (yes, it even had people from Canada make a flight just for the food and music). All this happened while the festival was held in our backyard without corporate sponsors and the like, not a place where we were not wanted then and get followed when we go there now.

What is worse, a festival that was once free and open to ALL now has a price for admittance. This is the ultimate slap to the face. Once barred, relegated to “the other side of the tracks” to live, we must now traverse those tracks, pay an entrance fee to celebrate what we started in the first place. Goombay is dead.

The first thing I wanted to do is point the finger. Should we blame the planning committee, those who simply let Goombay decay into what it “is” today? No? Then definitely those who live in Black Grove, those who simply sat by, threw up their hands, and just went with the flow. I really wanted to place blame on someone, some individual or specific body of people. But then I thought back to my second semester in graduate school. I specifically thought about the books which focused on the neighborhood. I specifically thought of Columbia University sociologist Sudhir Venkatesh’s Off the Books which chronicles the daily economic as well as social happenings of Marquis Park (based on a Chicago neighborhood) and, more specifically, Northwestern sociologist Mary Pattillo’s Black on the Block which details the different phases of black gentrification. These books came to mind because one lasting question that nags me to this day is, what power do certain individuals have in voicing the concerns of the community. In Off the Books, taking it from this angle, the people were not able to break the boundaries of their social isolation and had no real say in the governing of their territory. Even Pattillo’s middle(wo)men, middle class African Americans in professional positions, were only permitted to quibble about the details of the residential plans with no influence on any major decision.

To put it a different way, the parallel I saw is not in argument for neither book focused primarily on racial/ethnic history of segregation and place by looking at a cultural festival, but they both spoke to issues of community-level social capital that was simply novel to me. Berkeley sociologist Sandra Susan Smith advocates for one form of community level social capital aimed at skill development initiatives for those in the low wage labor market to combat the dysfunctional manner in which Black low wage workers attempt to find work in her excellent book Lone Pursuit. I took this as a lens to look through as I thought about what has happened to Goombay and also the “who to blame” game going on in my mind.

Princeton sociologist Alejandro Portes, in his 1998 review article of the scholars who employed social capital at the individual level in the last decade, defines social capital as “the ability to secure benefits by virtue of membership in social networks or other social structures.” However, looking at benefits alone leaves out everyday, round-the-way resources made available to individuals and collectivities. There is a dearth of political clout and capital in Black Grove. Taking a step back, I was able to see the ways in which city officials enacted their draconian rulings about the use of the streets, specifically Grand Avenue, without paying due attention to the people. City officials, who only show concern for this side of the tracks when they are up for re-election, paved the way, literally and figuratively, for public events like Goombay in Black Grove to die while other larger events like Calle Ocho (a yearly festival to celebrate Cuban heritage) to expand. I mention Calle Ocho not to say “Hey, look at Cubans having all the fun and how well they are treated.” If anything, it speaks to the political and social base differences between the two ethnic groups. Again, political clout and social capital. I just find the relocation of Goombay and the “pruning” that preceded relocation disrespectful.

Looking at the ways in which individuals within a community are (un)able to express themselves hit home when thinking how the one event held by the community was uprooted and unashamedly planted in someone else’s garden, where now those whose original green thumbs helped it to grow and flourish now must pay to go see their pride and joy.

I am saddened that dear old Goombay is dead.