ethno what?

When meeting new people, I often have a conversation something like this:

NP: Oh, you're a grad student! What are you studying?
AB: I'm doing a dual master's in journalism and ethnomusicology [always "journalism" first so people get through that before being tripped up].
NP: Ethno... what?
AB: Ethno.music.ology. It's like a combination of music and anthropology.
NP: Right, anthropolani.
AB: Um, like the study of music in culture.
NP: Oh, ok. And journalism. Well that's an... interesting... combination. What do you plan to do with that?
AB: Well [see previous blog post], I'll find out in three years...

It's a peculiar feeling to devote myself to a discipline (or idea) that most people have never heard of before. They can't say, "Right on, ethnomusicology. My great aunt Bertha was a ethnomusicologist. One day she..."

It's even more disconcerting when that discipline doesn't even know what to call itself. I just read an article titled, "Ethnomusicology, Alterity, and Disciplinary Identity; or, 'Do We Still Need an Ethno-?' 'Do We Still Need an -ology?'" Scholars say maybe we're actually all musicologists. Or maybe we truly belong in anthropology. Or maybe just "music scholars." I wrote in the margins, "And we take ourselves way too seriously." Some of this writing is so convoluted it's like reading words through the church potluck fruit Jell-O. If I ever wrote like that for a newspaper article, I think I'd be fired.

So who are we, anyway, these so-called (ethno)(music)(ologists)? Let me take a stab:

• We study how music is used in cultures.
• We do a lot of research--usually first-hand, primary information gathering--in places that we find interesting (sometimes a foreign country, sometimes home communities).
• We are not necessarily musicians. We can spew out a great deal of theory on musical practices, but don't ask us to actually perform them. That said, many do learn new instruments and styles in the process.
• An example: if you say you like folk music, an ethnomusicologists might ask, "Who (what?) are (is?) the 'folk'? What prompted the emergence of this music? Who practices it and why? What impact does folk music have on the way people think about politics or religion?" The questions could go on and on.
  

And about me, specifically?

• I'm interested in two major areas: medical ethnomusicology (health and healing with music, especially in the HIV/AIDS crises) and applied ethnomusicology (working outside academia and using my knowledge and skills to help people, otherwise known as advocacy).
• I want to research in, I think, Uganda (where I lived in 2006).
• The journalism angle gives me practical skills in addition to the more theoretical and prepares me to, say, write for an arts column or create documentaries on musical practices.

So next time you meet someone who says they're an ethnomusicologist, you can say, "Right on. That's cool. So what's your research in?"

window reflections

I was driving up to Hood River in Oregon last week with some dear ol' Wheaton housemates, past gorgeous mountains and rushing rivers. I began looking out the window silently and was transported to another time and another place. It was a land of memories, a place of unanswered questions, where I wander, lost in a forest of uncertain decisions. Looking out windows tends to take me to this place. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

But then the car stopped at a glorious overlook and when I climbed out, the wind blew straight into me, as if singing--Anna, you are HERE, here in Oregon, in this beautiful creation, here at this time with your lovely companions, and it is beautiful and it is good.

I was snapped back to the moment, back to Oregon, and it was beautiful and it was good. It was good to be me, be there, at that moment.

Our next stop was at a winery. We took small sips of 14 different wines, all unique in their flavors, smells, and even colors. It was a spiritual experience, in a way. Each day brings its own flavors--here a sweet cherry, there a smokey oak. They mix together and present the palette with a rich aroma and full flavor. I sip and try to taste each ingredient, each moment of this crazy life. Sometimes life gets confusing and the flavors of the wine are too strong and bitter. Yet I bring the glass to my lips and drink.

My companions seemed to be living full lives, enjoying the richness each day brings. I began thinking about how future-focused I am, constantly planning the Next Step and asking other people what their plans are. This is how I grew up--just ask my dad. And people ask me all the time what my plans are after this grad school deal. But truth is, I don't know. I give a different answer to each person, hoping that I'll verbally stumble onto something that sounds perfect and then have a definite goal to work towards. But hell, I simply don't know where I'll be three years from now, and I'm not sure I want to know. I'm enjoying school, here and now, and that's sufficient. Maybe I don't need answers about the future. This is what I'm doing now and, well, that's that.

"Be patient towards all that is unsolved. Try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms, not seek the answers that cannot be given because you would not be able to live with them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then, gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer." (Rilke)

"to remove a wrinkle or not" (or, "ethics of light and photoshop")

Here are two examples of photography ethical dilemmas which border the ridiculous and the hilarious (brought up in my photojournalism class):

The first: You'd think people would be upset for magazine covers being over-manipulated. But here Fox is infuriated with Newsweek not touching up its cover of Sarah Palin:



The second: Photographer Jill Greenburg gets grilled for unprofessional behavior at a photoshoot with John McCain for The Atlantic, where she manipulated lighting to cast McCain with horror movie shadows. Again, Fox reports:



Sorry to overuse Fox... I'm not such a fan of their reporting, but find the ethical issues wrapped up in these interviews fascinating.

"I take photo? It ok?" (or, "Ethics and Photography Methodology")

It seems that photographers often disregard the living and breathing context around them and do whatever it takes to get the shot that they are looking for, that they 'need.' In the name of publication, in the name of a demanding editor, in the name of promotion, regular social rules are broken and the photographer points a metal box into someone’s face. The outcome is, usually, beautiful pictures that could not be taken if social rules had been adhered to. But I wonder, is it ethical?

Let me give an example. I was at a performance tonight of two well-known musicians from New York. A photographer from the university paper walked up to the stage during the performance, in his gym shorts and bright orange t-shirt, and started snapping pictures of the instruments and the performers. I’m sure they were great pictures, but it was very distracting for the audience, never mind the musicians.

I respect performance space. I’ve had a definite sense of boundaries ever since I gave a piano recital in 4th grade and a boy my age put his chin on the edge, staring straight at my lanky fingers. I wanted to play a scale up the piano and smack him in the face! Performance space is sacred. A photographer breaks the charm and draws attention away from the central space.

The ethics of space becomes messier when placed in a context of poverty. When I lived in Uganda, we would walk around the slums and visit widows and orphans with HIV/AIDS. These people are noble and beautiful, broken and hungry all at the same time. Perfect photographing opportunities, right? When those slick and glossy pictures from World Vision are walking and breathing and living around you, there is an urge to pull out the camera and begin snapping. This is exactly what some western visitors did when they visited the slums. After a brief 'agreement' of a nod from Victim Exhibit A, snap snap! their face is stuck in a metal box. I admit: I’ve done this. But my boss asked me one day, "You are taking away their voice, their face, and what are you giving back?" I began to see this kind of photography as a type of exploitation. Here’s the rich white westerner going into poor dirty slum with fancy camera, capturing images in boxes, and going back home to showcase a brilliant portfolio. What does the "subject" receive? Nothing. "Exploitation: to use unfairly for one’s own advantage." Hm.

This issue of ethics and fieldwork methodology seems to be a fundamental difference between my two degrees--journalism and ethnomusicology. In journalism, you get the shot no matter what that means. Capture the moment, we’re told. Be there. Do what it takes to get a clean background, a neat shot. Ethnomusicology, on the other hand, espouses more of a participant-observation approach. You become part of the scene. Listen. Stay out of the way. Make notes and interact with people, but don’t let your presence affect the scene in any way.

I know that a good argument can be given for the purposes of either side. I know the output of both professions are much appreciated, by different audiences and for different purposes. But how do I be an excellent photographer without being a jerk? I have not yet found a balance that I am comfortable with.

Your comments most welcome!

honeymooning grad school

These days are full of meeting new people, trying to remember names, figuring out exactly how many minutes it takes to bike to class, delving into subjects I've wanted to study for a long time (like ethnomusicology and photography), discovering places to dance!, and beginning to commit to a few things beyond the basics. Basically, I'm having a great time and am not nearly as overwhelmed as I anticipated (but maybe I'm speaking too soon? or maybe it's just the glorious fact that everything is in English and I understand what's going on?).

They say the first stage of cross-cultural adjustment is like a honeymoon--everything is great; there are some emotional highs and lows, but the sun is shining and life is good. Bloomington isn't exactly cross-cultural, but whatever you want to call it, I'll ride this honeymoon as long as I can. It will probably change with the weather, haha... check back here in about two months.

The Church talks a lot about a theology of suffering, a theology of going through the rough times. We memorize the Phil. 4:13 and Ps. 23 passages. But what about a theology of joy, even a theology of monotony, when everything is going along smoothly? I'm convinced that at the center of this theology must lay an outpouring of thanksgiving and appreciation. By my door, I have this verse posted:

Rejoice always
Pray without ceasing
In everything give thanks.

Then next to that, I've put up a sheet where I write things I'm thankful for. Some bits up there now: Baganda music in the archives, the smell of wet earth after long fall rains, tired green leaves ready to burst into color, blue skies, audio transformers, recognizing familiar faces at new places, bike brakes that work in the rain, and new friends over coffee. This kind of conscious daily thanksgiving helps, well, helps the honeymoon last. Of course I'm far from having this a 24/7 life attitude, but hey, it's a start right?

On another not-so-holy note, I got hit by a car the other day. Notice how I wrote that. I *got hit by* a car. It was clearly all the car's fault. Never mind that I was crossing a street during (the wrong direction's) green light, onto a one-way (the wrong way) street. Oh no, that $&#*@ car swiped my front tire and drove off. I didn't fall but the speed at which it happened certainly took me by surprise and I gave my best "what the hell?!" glare to the fading outline of the driver. Damn car. Ok, and stupid me. I really have got to let go of the aggressive riding style I adopted in Viet Nam. There are a lot of cars here and they go fast and stay in their lanes (imagine that!), leaving little space for bikers. I think it should be a requirement for drivers (and pedestrians, for that matter) to live for at least a month in a place like Viet Nam to understand the marvelous riverlike flow of traffic. In Viet Nam, when someone crosses a street, they just start walking and the traffic flows beautifully around them. But here, crossing pedestrians look at me speeding towards them and stop in their tracks, like "oa! that bike is headed right towards me." It's more like a cement wall than a river. See, one month in Hanoi would solve so many problems.

Ok, off my stump. Another week awaits me and I must begin it with sleep.