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this fieldnote has also been posted on the WHY WE POST blog at University College London The latest music craze here in Northern Chile is actually a song from 1993. Italian band Corona’s Rhythm of the Night has been stuck in the collective brain of young Chileans for the last two weeks. Though reading the song title or artist’s name might not immediately ring a bell for blog readers, the song reached number 11 on the US Billboard chart and number 2 on the UK singles chart for 18 weeks in the early 1990s. The song is admittedly catchy (to refresh your memory: the original music video on youtube ). But the circumstances of it’s recent popularity in Chile are both coincidental and very much due to a convergence of typically Chilean sociality and the ways social media functions in relation to Polymedia.
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After leaving our apartment complex, my friend Alex and I set out driving around a city that felt entirely foreign in the almost-complete dark. The only points of light were car headlights and occasional bonfires neighbors had built to stay warm in the windy night air while wearing the shorts and tshirts they had been wearing when they ran out of their homes. We first slowly drove past an apartment building near ours’, where my friend Nicole lives with her family. Yelling “Nicole!” out the window proved useless, as the group of people that had gathered outside was in the hundreds, but we did manage to spot her father and a smile and wave from him assured us things were alright. We left there to check on a different uncle and his family, arriving on a side street, I met the whole family, hanging out on an empty concrete futbol cancha. While Alex went across the street to the family’s house, his young cousin told me that an internal wall had fallen and her mother’s foot had been hurt. “But we’re alright. It was exciting!” She commented. I could tell she was anxious. She seemed happy, but just wouldn’t stop talking. Asking me all sorts of questions, telling me all sorts of details from her day before the earthquake happened. It was as if, if she could just keep talking she wouldn’t pay attention to the more recent events and her fears would subside. I felt bad, I was only half paying attention. It was about this time, 45 minutes more or less after the quake had happened, that my friends in La Paz, Bolivia started sending facebook messages that popped up on my phone. They had felt tremors as well, even 750 kilometers away, and immediately turned on the television news. Hearing the earthquake’s epicenter was near me in Iquique, they wrote to see if I was ok. Most told me there were likely to be aftershocks and I should get on a bus to La Paz as soon as I could. And though I would have really loved to have done that immediately, I knew it would be impossible. With no power, and many highways likely blocked by falling rock, travel between cities wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. Next we passed by Alex’s cousin’s house, where we parked the jeep, barely missing a fallen electric cable. After navigating the electric situation, we confirmed the family was ok, but without cigarettes. Alex too was craving one but everyone seemed to be out. By the time walked back to the jeep, I had received at least 10 facebook messages from my friend Andrea, who was vacationing in a region further south. She was worried about a mutual friend and when I told her I was with Alex she asked us to drive over and check on her. And from there we started making rounds checking on friends. First, we went to Alex’s old neighborhood, where he had lived for 10 years. Essentially going door to door, he made sure everyone was accounted for. It was fairly easy, because most people were sitting on their stoops or had gathered on the sidewalk just outside their homes. We stopped and talked, drinking coffee with our friend Samanta and her family, who also lived in the neighborhood. Like Alex and his cousin, everyone was craving a smoke, and after finishing our coffee we set out again to find tobacco. Along the way we stopped by our friend Martin’s house, where he lives with his parents. He had been at work in Iquique, his mother informed us, but had texted to say he was alright. Then off to check on Leo, who we found safe at home, though he had been on a bus the steep highway between Iquique and Alto Hospicio when the earthquake hit, cracking the pavement several feet deep. He had to walk the rest of the way home, which took about an hour. “My mother assaulted me with hugs when I walked it he door” he told us as he took a long drag from a cigarette he had offered to share with Alex. I even took a drag, feeling shaken because my mother still had not responded to my Whatsapp message. picture of the highway damage taken the day after the earthquake Leo also gave us a hint on a place that might be open selling cigarettes, it turned out to not be true, but as we drove down the one of the main streets of the city, about 2 hours after the quake had hit, there were occasional corner stores that were dimly lit with flashlights, and long lines waiting on the sidewalk. People were buying water, as the news had already spread that there would be no running water for at least two days. I was thankful for 5 liter bottle I had been told to buy. Though the first three shops had already sold out of cigarettes, the fourth was well stocked, and Alex pooled all the cash we had between the two of us and bought 6 packs. He took long drags as we sat in the jeep outside the bodega. I even smoked half a cigarette. My mother still hadn’t responded to my Whatsapp message 3 hours later, and though I was sure she was fine, after feeling a bit traumatized, all I really wanted, was to hear that my mother loves me. The cigarette helped. I wasn’t sure if it was really the nicotine that had a calming effect, but it did somehow make me feel better. Maybe it was just a moment of stillness, deep breathing, and knowing that I was still alive after what felt like extreme airplane turbulence in my apartment. an open shop, a few hours after the earthquake
On April 1, 2014 I went with a friend to Humberstone, an old Saltpeter mining community about 40 minutes from Iquique. Humberstone is located in the pure high desert of La Pampa and has been a ghost town since the 1930s when German scientists discovered a way to manufacture synthetic saltpeter. I returned to my apartment in Alto Hospicio, Chile around 7:30pm, covered in a layer of dust and desperately wanting a shower. I was also quite hungry, but so tired I just sat on the couch for at least thirty minutes, staring at my 5 fish in the 20 gallon tank that was already in the apartment when I rented it. I looked in the fridge and contemplated whether I would enjoy a bottled beer or a Coca Cola. I also looked at my food options: a bowl of tuna left over from lunch the day before, peanut butter and jelly, a variety of vegetables that I could cook with some rice and the hoisin sauce I brought back with me from the US. I eyed the bottles of liquor on the counter and wanted a little rum, but thought without food it might be a little too strong. I was in one of those moods where I was so hungry and tired I just couldn’t decide on anything. I thought maybe a shower would wake me up a bit. I had a wonderful hot shower and got all the fine dust off my skin and out of my hair. I stepped out, put lotion on my sunburn and started brushing my teeth. The sink made a strange clicking sound as the water was running. I turned off the water to listen, then everything started to shake. The window, the toilet, the shower door. I decided to go to the bedroom to get clothes, but I never made it there. I heard the top of the toilet bounce off the toilet seat and break on the floor. I heard everything fall out of the cabinet in the sink and spill across the tile. It was shaking so hard I had difficulty walking. I changed plan and headed for the kitchen doorway because it seemed the most sturdy. I sat down in the doorway, mostly because standing was impossible. As I sat, the refrigerator grazed my arm as it fell over. All its contents spilled out on the floor. The fridge falling scared me so I moved, now naked with the towel only in my hand, to the dining room table. But as soon as I got under it, the tv fell onto it, and I heard the clang of breaking glass, reminding me that the top is mirrored. Though it’s backed by plywood on the bottom, I decided this move had not been a good idea and crawled back to the kitchen doorway, through a large puddle of fish water, to the kitchen doorway where I sat in a puddle of beer from my now-broken six pack. Holy fucking shit I muttered as I saw sparks and the shaking continued. After three minutes that felt more like 10, the shaking stopped and I walked unsteadily, half crying, half laughing to the bedroom to look for clothes in the dark. I found a pair of jeans on the floor and shirt lying on the bed. I didn’t bother with underwear. I grabbed my cellphone, which had been plugged in and walked to the kitchen doorway where I felt for the 5 liter water bottle that had been on the table. A friend made me buy it the week before “in case.” I found my shoes in the middle of the floor, next to the sofa where I had kicked them off while watching the fish. The aquarium still was half full of water and I hoped it meant it was still structurally sound. I grabbed my backpack and joined the steady stream of neighbors walking down the stairs. “Apurranse!” I kept hearing a mother yell to her children. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, a young boy, about 10 years old, grabbed my arm and called asked “Mamá?” “No soy yo” I had to tell him, but I walked with him until we found his mother in the parking lot. I sat down on the pavement and put my shoes on. I wrote to my mother on Whatsapp. “Mom I’m ok.” I wasn’t sure if the network would go out and I wanted to make sure something got out before a possible collapse. I saw my neighbor and friend Alex who was leaving to go to his aunt’s house. He told me to come with him, and I, not having much of a plan, went along. I sat in his truck waiting for him to organize the backpack he had with him, and sent another message to my mom. “There was a big earthquake, but I’m out of the building and going to a friend’s. Don’t worry. I’ll write more later.” I answered a few more Whatsapp messages from friends in Iquique asking if I was ok, as we drove downhill towards the rest of the eerily dark city. a usual night view for comparison
this fieldnote has also been posted on the WHY WE POST blog at University College London Here in Northern Chile, Facebook still reigns among social networking sites. Particularly for people over 25, sites like Instagram, Snapchat, and Twitter are rarely used. And through interviews and surveys, as well as actually observing what people here do online, I’m finding that people feel far more comfortable ‘liking’ and commenting on posts rather than creating their own new content. During an interview just last night, a man in his late 20s who I will call Sebastian told me “I see everything but I don’t write anything… If my friend writes ‘I’m angry’ I just don’t see the point. Why tell everyone? For me I like reading what my friends post, but I hardly ever post anything.” He then made fun of his sister-in-law who was also present for sometimes writing ‘Goodmorning’ or ‘Goodnight’ on Facebook. “It’s just silly. Why do you have to tell everyone something so basic? And sometimes—not you Celia, but others, it’s just annoying when my Facebook is filled with all these pointless posts and I can’t see the interesting things posted about films I want to see or friends in Argentina.” This sentiment has been echoed many times by both men and women from their early 20s to late 60s. In fact, when looking closely at around 50 different Facebook profiles from Northern Chileans, the average person only created a new status message 4 or 5 times in 2 weeks. read the rest of this entry on the WHY WE POST blog Carnaval in northern Chile does not look much like images of carnivals in Trinidad or Brazil. Celebrations range from local fiestas to parades of folkloric dancers and music, to outdoor concerts featuring national pop stars. I describe here, a trip by city residents to a town of 500 people for a carnival celebration. Nicole’s father grew up in this small town and the whole family was returning for the celebration. As I met Nicole and her boyfriend at the corner between our nearby apartment buildings she was already filming with her brother’s GoPro camera. Nicole’s boyfriend Martin and I had decided to come along just the day before, and all of the hostels in the town were booked. So, when the three of us drove into town in Martin's Jeep, we immediately set about looking for a camping spot. We found one next to a small building labeled as the city’s Social Sport Club. We set up the tents as the sun was setting and ate some rice with tuna. After cleaning up the food we walked to the center of town. Though the permanent population is only 550, there were several thousand people in the town that night. Like Nicole and her father, many people who grew up there or have family connections return for carnival. In this town, carnival takes the form of a rivalry between los Rojos and los Verdes (the Reds and the Greens). The town is filled with triangular banners, red and green on different streets depending on the residents’ loyalties. The only explanation I was given about the different groups is that it is a rivalry to see who has the best party, the best band, the best food, and the best dancing. “I have no idea how it started,” most people told me. What strikes me as interesting however, is that in describing this rivalry, people use he word ‘pelea’ (fight) rather than ‘competencia’ (competition). Nicole told me that some times individuals from opposing groups will get into fights, but this is not necessarily condoned. Indeed, mischief rather than violence, was the overwhelming theme of the event. Silly string, shaving cream, confetti, and colored powder were constantly being sprayed or rubbed in people’s hair and faces. Yet this was within the Verdes group rather than between Verdes and Rojos. In the Verdes’ party, there was a live band playing folk music to which everyone danced, and plenty of drinking. A few people wore Halloween-type costumes, but most people wore blue jeans and tshirts. By the end of the night, everyone was covered in silly string and colored powder. A few days later, after we had returned to the city, Nicole, Martin, and I all posted our photos on Facebook. Most were taken while at the party focusing on people drinking, dancing, or covered in powder and confetti. Two very short videos Nicole took on her cell phone also showed the event as full of people dancing, yelling, waving flags, and throwing powder. Nicole’s family also tagged her in several photos. These all seemed to capture the experience I had somewhat accurately. Certain aspects were missing, such as the stack of empty beer bottles on the table, and the delicious rabbit stew, but they were pictures of the party. Nicole also edited her GoPro video and posted it to Youtube. Yet, this video focused far more on the trip itself. She begins by announcing to the camera “We are starting our adventure!” Set to a club remix of a pop song, the 5 minute video reminds me of a road trip montage sequence from some sort of teen movie. Desert mountains cruise by the passenger window. Images of the passengers getting out to stretch show more of the landscape. Then the video cuts to preparing and eating food at the camp site. Finally, around the 3 minute mark of the video we arrive at the carnival celebration. We enter the dance hall, where the celebration is just starting. About 15 people are dancing. There is no confetti or powder flying through the air. In fact, many people at the tables look bored. And the video fades out while each of us begins drinking a beer. When I saw this the first time I was struck by how different the party looked through these two different media. Comments from friends made it even more clear how the two functioned in different ways. While comments on facebook photos were generally along the lines “what a great party!” comments on the video complimented the beauty of the scenery and the style of the video. It seemed that Facebook represented the place to show off the great party atmosphere of carnival while Youtube was a place for more artistic expression, focusing not only on the party, but the trip in general. Nicole confirmed in fact that she knew pictures on Facebook were more fun, but more temporal. They would disappear to the bottom of her wall in a few days, but the Youtube video would be something she would go back to and share with people in the future. She took time editing it to make it look more artistically beautiful, whereas with the fotos on Facebook, she simply loaded all that she had taken with her cellphone. Facebook was for the quick and easy. Youtube was for lasting memories. Here are the facts: I spent the afternoon sitting at the table in my apartment working on my monthly report to be sent to the other members of my group. Around 4pm, a heard a knock on my door. When I opened the door I found three men, all appearing to be in their early 20s and in Movistar uniforms. “Señor Juan Perez?” the one with the clipboard asked, looking confused, and obviously knowing that I was not Señor Perez. “Mmm. No, lo siento.” I responded. “Oh, perdón” he said as he looked at his clipboard. Then knocked on the apartment next door. “No hay problema” I responded, closing my door. I sat back down at my computer feeling like I had wasted an opportunity. Not only were these potential contacts, they were internet installation workers. The exact type of people useful in an ethnography of how people use the internet. So I grabbed my stack of business cards and went back to the door. When I opened it again, two were standing on landing of the apartment steps just outside my door and using every ounce of courage I spit out “Soy antropologa y mi proyecto es en el tema de internet. Si quieren ayudar y complir una encuesta sobre el uso de internet y redes sociales en Alto Hospicio, aqui está mi tarjeta. Pueden mandarme un email y te explico mas sobre le investigación porque no quiero molestarse cuando están trabajando.” They responded with polite chitchat asking me the same things everyone does. “Where are you from?” “How long have you spent in Chile?” “How much longer are you going to stay?” I politely answered then said I would let them get back to work. I walked inside feeling pleased that I had at least tried to make some new contacts today, even though I had pretty much resigned myself to staying inside and writing all day. In fact, I was so pleased with myself that I half-facetiously wrote on facebook, “new sampling method: when repair men accidentally knock on my door, give them my card in hopes they'll email and i can give them my survey.” I thought it was especially clever because though some anthropologists use quite rigorous sampling methods, in other circumstances it simply impossible to be systematic about choosing who will participate in a qualitative study. I follow anthropologists such as Laura Bohannan Michael Taussig, and Victor Turner, who argue that the discipline, at it’s core is opportunistic and relies on coincidence. “The way [Taussig sees] it, a plan of research is little more than an excuse for the real thing to come along, I much the same way as the anthropologist Victor Turner described the value of writing down kinship diagrams as largely an excuse to stop falling asleep on the job and provide a situation in which the real stuff got a chance to emerge” (Taussig 2011:59). [see a longer discussion here] As facebook statuses do, after a few minutes, it had received a few likes. And then a comment. Ooh, what better way to procrastinate, I thought. Reading comments on facebook is so much more fulfilling than simple likes. hmmm...yeah you get great info but only until a point...is that IRB proof? "I will flirt shamelessly with every person I meet until they agree to an interview" Suddenly, I began to question if I had been flirting. Honestly, the men were not unattractive. I did smile. Had I been subconsciously coming on to them? Did I only give them my card because I thought they were attractive? Was I too nice? Should I not have answered their questions about where I’m from and how long I’m staying in Chile? And then I started thinking about anthropology in general. Really all anthropologists, or at least the good ones, have to flirt (in a general sense). If you want to meet new people and gain rapport with them in a relationship that usually benefits you and your career far more than it does them, you’ve got to know how to sweet talk. Whether it’s with little old ladies, friendly police officers, or the Moviestar installation men, being nice and smiling is the only way you’re going to get anywhere. Flirting is part of the skillset of an anthropologist. Yet the way this person—this person who is a woman and an anthropologist—characterized my friendliness as “flirt[ing] shamelessly” really rather upsets me. If I had done the exact same thing, which I often consider, with the woman who comes to my door weekly selling pastries, would that be considered flirting? If I were a man and asked these installation men to email me if they’d be willing to participate in my survey would it be read the same way? Part of my research strategy, suggested by the project leader, is going door to door (with an assistant) asking people to take the survey. Will this be construed as flirting? Is there a qualitative difference between me knocking on a random door or someone random knocking on my door? Is opportunism slutty? In the end the comment upsets me, not because this one person made an incredibly gendered assumption in that suggesting a woman initiating conversation with a man or group of men is always “flirt[ing] shamelessly.” And it is not just because this person, as an intelligent woman trained in anthropology, should know better than to reinscribe the very ideologies that one hopes anthropologists are working against. No, it bothers me because I know it reflects a broader discourse in which a woman, and particularly a single woman who lives alone, making conversation with men must be a sexual invitation. For me, the first way to fight against this stereotype is not to sit in my apartment wishing to ask people to take the survey but fearing I will be misinterpreted. Rather it is to go out and defy these discourses (though safely), asserting myself as a capable researcher gathering participants for my survey. Bohannan, Laura
1966 Shakespeare in the Bush: An American Anthropologist Set Out to Study the Tiv of Africa and Was Taught the True Meaning of Hamlet. Natural History 75: 23-33. Taussig, Michael T. 2011 I Swear I Saw This: Drawings in Fieldwork Notebooks, Namely My Own. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Turner, Victor 1969 The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Chicago: Aldline Publishing. It was a typical summer Sunday in Alto Hospicio, and my friend Jhony invited me to a barbeque at another friend’s house. He picked me up in his Jeep emblazoned with a Zorros Rojos (red foxes) sticker, announcing his membership in the truck, car, and motorcycle offroading club. We arrived at his friends’ house, and met the hosts, brothers Miguel and Paul. Paul was in a wheelchair with a broken leg from a recent motorcycle accident. Also present were Cris and my friend Alex, who is not part of the club, but just bought a used small truck and wants to start riding with them. In general, I was happy to be spending the afternoon with some people who are slightly older than me, because so much of my social circle here falls into the 20-25 year old category. As the three of us walked to the corner, Alex asked Jhony about changing the steering wheel in his truck. Jhony said he’d help in exchange for Alex helping him set up his new Samsung tablet phone (a Tab 3, I think). So, when we returned to the with 24 Escudo beers to the meat-smoke filled patio, Alex set to work. Jhony’s first request was that Alex add Whatsapp, and in particular that he add his own and all the Zorros Rojos members’ contacts. Alex did so, and even sent a few pictures of the chicken breasts on the grill using the app. Jhony had already added Facebook, but asked the group what other apps he needed. We went around the circle offering our suggestions and the list included: Shazam, Skype, Google Chrome, Youtube, and Instagram. “What’s Instagram for?” asked Jhony. Alex explained “You upload pictures and the whole world says ‘I like it!” “It’s good for self-esteem” I offered. Alex agreed, sarcastically adding “Yep, it makes you feel like a real photographer.” Paul also offered his approval, “It's for ugly people like us. You take pictures and we come out looking good. It works like magic.”
By the time we had all consumed too many pounds of steak, chicken breast, hot dogs, and chorizo, Jhony had all of the apps we suggested as well as a flashlight, table level, compass, traffic advisory, QR scanner, and language translator on his new phone. Though I had a great time translating silly song lyrics for them, and laughing when they told Alex his new haircut looks like Miley Cyrus, I was also especially interested to get perspectives on different phone applications from people who do not see them as their main form of social engagement. Both age and their involvement in the Zorros Rojos place Facebook and other forms of social networking as supplementary forms of sociality, rather than the main way they communicate with their friends. And more than anything, I appreciated their sarcastic treatment of Instagram, which satirizes the ways so many younger people use the application. Yet, despite their degradations, they all still use it, knowing that it doesn’t quite make them artistic photographers, but appreciating that it might make their photos of tire tracks in the sand, just a little more aesthetically pleasing. this fieldnote has also been posted on the WHY WE POST blog at University College London When Daniel Miller came to visit my fieldsite in Northern Chile a few weeks ago, I took him on a walking tour of the city. He had just arrived from his own fieldsite in Trinidad, and as we walked he kept remarked that two places are quite different. They share certain aspects: warmth, nearby beaches, revealing clothing, and gated homes. Yet, he told me that compared to the razor wire or broken glass-topped fences in Trinidad, these just didn’t seem as intimidating. Similarly, we discussed the ubiquity of car alarms as the continuously sounded that evening as we sat in my apartment. “Are they really protecting anything if one goes off every three minutes?” I asked. read the rest of this entry on the WHY WE POST blog The selfie has been the subject of much discussion in recent times, from valuations of vanity to criticisms of public figures taking self-portraits at solemn events. But the selfie is more than narcicism or pathology. For anthropologists, it can actually tell us quite a bit about daily life, leisure (or not so leisureful) time, and notions of beauty. About a month ago, I began analyzing the Instagram feeds of almost 75 residents of Alto Hospicio, most of them under the age of 25. Certain aspects of their Instagram usage were not terribly surprising. The example I present here is the selfie. Of their last 15 photos, all users averaged about 6 selfies (this was also fairly consistent between young men and woman, with only a .07 average difference). But what was surprising was the lack of artistry that seemed to be attributed to these photos. Filters were used, but subject matter was not particularly “beautiful.” Shots were not composed with symmetry, with horizontal lines leveled, or with the rule of thirds in mind. Neither were shots noteworthy for their “rarity.” As Jon Snow of Chanel 4 tells Nimrod Kamer in his short Guardian video about selfies, “I think if you’re somewhere rare, it’s worth [taking a selfie], or if you’re doing something rare, it’s worth doing it.” (see min 2:55-3:05 of the video below). But these photos are taken in family living rooms, while at work, and the backseat of an older sibling’s car. The exact places the users traverse every day. The definitive opposite of “rare.” Instead, they are taken in utterly mundane places. The ubiquity of mundane photos corresponds closely to Daniel Miller’s assertion that the intention behind photography is now not so much to produce a photograph, but that the photography legitimates the act of taking a picture. The transience of Instagram also legitimates the mundane self-portrait. It is not a portrait meant for a display of beauty, but rather a document of the moment. In this sense, it’s intention to amuse in the moment (or short period of time thereafter). It not only is briefly entertaining in the instant of taking the photo, but provides entertainment for a friend or follower who might view the photo. Further, through collecting likes and comments, the mundane photo may serve to break up a mundane day for the user. mundane photos in cars and at work The other most common form of self-portrait was the “sassy” photo. These appear like fashion magazine photos aimed at showing off clothing. They are often either taken in the mirror or by a friend. Hands are often on the hips, or in another “fashion model” sort of pose. It is important to note the difference here between sassy and sexy. Though the line between the two can at times be ambiguous, sexy photos usually involve the subject with little clothing, lying on a bed, or showing cleavage or abs. Sassy photos on the other hand are the type your mother might comment “Oh, you look so cute!” Notably, in these sassy photos, the clothing that is being shown off is rarely overly stylish. Hair is usually not noticeably done for a special occasion. Though these certainly pop up when people attend formal events (such as weddings or graduations), they more commonly appear with every day clothing and style. sassy photos The point of understanding self-portraits, including selfies, is that it lends us information about conceptions of attractiveness and beauty among particular groups of people. And attractiveness is something that most people think about when posing for a portrait that they will then share with their networks. This is evident here from bodily poses and facial expressions. Both are chosen in these photos, meaning there is an explicit, self-conscious presentation of the self. However, what seems quite clear to me, given the number of mundane photos and sassy photos that display everyday clothing and hair, is that people’s sense of what forms of attractiveness are worthy of display are actually quite “normal.” This is reinforced by my observations in Alto Hospicio in general. People are rarely dressed nicely. Jeans, shorts, and t-shirts are the norm. It is rare to see women in dresses or fancy tops. Most men wear sneakers and most women wear flip flop sandals. Women especially wear bright colors. Men also generally wear t-shirts, though during the week it is not uncommon to see men on their work lunch breaks wearing plaid short sleeved collared shirts with jeans. I’m reminded here of two different critiques of “critiques of selfies,” which both have come from self-identified “feminist” bloggers. The first, The Young Girl and the Selfie written by a woman who is an ex-PhD student in sociology, suggests that the selfie, represents the perfect contradiction of late-capitalism: young women’s bodies’ are both a target for consumption (particularly for “beauty” and “style” products) and judged not by those who inhabit them, but by those who gaze upon them. Thus, the selfie is the logical outcome of this combination of pressures. And when the selfie is demonized, it becomes “simultaneously the site of desire and pity.” Teen girls are “Young-Girls” [a type, not individuals], are spectacles, are narcissists, are consumers, because those are the very criterion that must be met to be a young woman and also part of society.
The second blog, The Radical Politics of Selfies goes beyond this first piece, arguing that while perhaps selfies may reflect “the way society teaches women that their most important quality is their physical attractiveness…not all [people] are allowed to see themselves as beautiful, desirable, sexy, or fit for human consumption.” For many, mass media representations of people who look like them are nowhere to be found. Magazines, television, movies, and advertisements depict people who are so far from physically similar to women of color, queer women, differently-abled people, and even people with a high percentage of body fat, that they are not only an unrealistic ideal, but have little to no resonance. Thus, the author concludes, that social media allows for people who do not fit these molds to find (and produce) proper representations of themselves. Alto Hospicio is the kind of place where people do not look like the actors in television shows they watch. They do not look like the news anchors on CNN Chile, let alone the South American telenovelas that most middle-aged women watch. They are generally darker skinned, shorter, wider, and have more indigenous features. And to dress or otherwise present themselves as such might not be authentic. Even though the city is a melting pot of Northern Chileans, Southern Chileans, Bolivians, Peruvians, and Colombians, they generally all blend together in a homogenizing soup of “normalness.” No one really stands out. Skin tones range from the light tan of mixed Spanish/Indigenous/German heritage to the dark tone of Afro-South Americans, but the casual clothing, low-maintenance hair styles, and lack of other physical beauty accents brings everyone together. Thus, perhaps the selfie acts as resistance against erasure: within this homogenizing crowd, for the region that is often forgotten politically and lacks representation in media. My colleague and senior research partner, Daniel Miller was visiting my fieldsite earlier this week. He had just arrived from his own fieldsite in Trinidad, and as I took him on a walking tour of Alto Hospicio, he kept remarking how different the two places are. They share certain aspects. They are quite warm. There is a beach nearby. People are not afraid to show some skin. Houses have gates. And yet, he told me after seeing Trini house fences, these just wouldn’t do. There is no cut glass or barbed wire on the top. They are not high enough to keep anyone out. Anyone with a friend to boost them up could be in without a problem. photo by Daniel Miller Later, as we sat in my apartment discussing dissemination strategies, the usual evening dog barking and car alarm ringing began. I complained about the alarms with something like “if there’s one going off every three minutes they don’t seem to be actually providing any security.” He gave me a knowing look. There’s something about the feeling of security here. The desire to have the appearance of safety even if they only function as a symbol. It’s something like the little sticker on the window that says “This house is protected by ADT security.” Danny said he’d like to get a sticker made that says “This house is protected by a sticker.” A few days later, after Danny left, Miguel drove over to my apartment to help me with my fish tank (that I inherited with the apartment--and these fish are most definitely Chilean). With the sliding door to the balcony wide open, the car alarm sounds drifted in quite regularly. For a moment, he stopped and listened. “Is that your car?” I asked. “No, no…I don’t think so,” he responded. And we went about changing the water some more. I always assumed car alarms functioned by simply drawing attention-anyone’s-to something amiss. Yet, what Miguel was teaching me was that the car alarms did serve a purpose. People listened for their own. They took individual responsibility for the security of their own vehicle rather than relying on others to come to their rescue. And I suppose the fences may do the same. Though Danny is probably right that a serious criminal wouldn’t have much problem getting over one, it may communicate a certain individual capability to handle their own security. As a local priest told me, "neighbors like each other, but there's not much trust between them, anymore." There is no neighborhood watch group here. In a lot of ways this explains the ways I have been warned about safety here. People just don’t seem to trust what might happen in public space. And the fences around houses may in fact be a way of delimiting the private from the public in a way that leaves no questions as to where the boundaries lie. And by claiming the space as private rather than public, perhaps that makes it a little safer.
One of the benefits of having Danny here was that it meant I was speaking English in public. This attracted even more attention than my usual simple fact of being noticeably white. While we walked through the market near the municipal gymnasium a few days ago, a group of vendedores asked where we were from. As we chatted, asking about all things digitally related from snapchat to international call centers, one woman, who sells clothing in the market told us people never have their phones out in public because they are afraid someone will come by and swipe it. The most recent statistics I could find were from 2008, when 1,236 non-violent robberies (the type that might result in having their cell phone stolen from their hands as they sit in the plaza, or their pocket in a busy market). This is not particularly high, roughly matching national statistics, yet I am given pause that perhaps many such thefts go unreported. About a year ago, Iquique Radio reported that online security company ESET found almost 60% of Latin American residents have had at least one cellular phone stolen. The Catholic priest also told me that the most recent statistics he has seen suggests that about 40% of Alto Hospicio residents have had some personal effect stolen in the last year. "Probably because their billfold or phone is sticking out of their pocket in a public place." While statistics like "40%" and "1,236 reported" might not necessarily reveal much, I do sense that cellular phone theft is quite common and the vendedora is correct: people know this and protect themselves by not using their phone in public. So, I wonder then, if there is a certain “privateness” to the cell phone. And perhaps to the internet in general. Though one may interact with their friends though social media, that is generally something done while in private space. Even the local call center/internet café provides patrons with rather large cubicles while they use the computers. Though you might be airing your dirty laundry on facebook for all of your friends, the person physically next to you wouldn’t (or shouldn’t) know. So these walls, these fences, these alarms, and these cubicles…they provide a sense of delineation. A car alarm may be tripped just as easily by someone doing a bad parking job or a ball thrown amiss as by someone trying to steal it. Fences can be jumped. Cubicles can be peeked around (at least one young man quickly turned off his porn as Danny and I walked by in the internet center). But that is not the point. The point, perhaps, is to say this is mine, and this is private. If you touch this, walk past it, or look at my screen, you are transgressing a boundary. So however social, social media might be, it ideally retains a sense of the private. |
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