This is a study of media and cultural artifacts that constitute the remembrance of a tragic war as reflected in the stories of eight people who lived it. Using memoir, history and criticism, Crossing the Street in Hanoi is based on scholarly research, teaching and writing as well as extensive personal journals, interviews and exclusive primary source material. Each chapter uses a human story to frame an exploration in media and cultural criticism. What weaves these different threads into a whole cloth are the stories of the Vietnam War and the long shadow it casts over American and Vietnamese cultures.
This is a study of media and cultural artifacts that constitute the remembrance of a tragic war as reflected in the stories of eight people who lived it. Using memoir, history and criticism, Crossing the Street in Hanoi is based on scholarly research, teaching and writing as well as extensive personal journals, interviews and exclusive primary source material. Each chapter uses a human story to frame an exploration in media and cultural criticism. What weaves these different threads into a whole cloth are the stories of the Vietnam War and the long shadow it casts over American and Vietnamese cultures.
eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
This is a study of media and cultural artifacts that constitute the remembrance of a tragic war as reflected in the stories of eight people who lived it. Using memoir, history and criticism, Crossing the Street in Hanoi is based on scholarly research, teaching and writing as well as extensive personal journals, interviews and exclusive primary source material. Each chapter uses a human story to frame an exploration in media and cultural criticism. What weaves these different threads into a whole cloth are the stories of the Vietnam War and the long shadow it casts over American and Vietnamese cultures.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781783201488 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Intellect Books |
| Publication date: | 01/06/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 274 |
| File size: | 11 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
Carol Wilder is professor of media studies in the School of Media Studies at the New School in New York, USA.
Carol Wilder is professor of media studies in the School of Media Studies at the New School in New York.
Read an Excerpt
Crossing the Street in Hanoi
Teaching and Learning about Vietnam
By Carol Wilder
Intellect Ltd
Copyright © 2013 Intellect LtdAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78320-148-8
CHAPTER 1
The War That Won't Die
In 1988 with a small grant from San Francisco State University, where I taught, my colleague Hank McGuckin and I brought the "Moving Wall" to campus, a half-sized replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C. We were all taken by surprise by the power of this 252-foot-long work of plexiglas on plywood. Over the course of three days, our students and Bay Area veterans read aloud all 58,148 American names on the wall and a team of volunteers helped visitors find specific names, listed in chronological, not alphabetical, order per architect Maya Lin's inspired design. Thousands of visitors came through over the week leaving poems, flowers, teddy bears, and hundreds of other mementos. This simulacrum provided an "as if" experience of its granite parent, which is in turn a ghostly echo of the dead. The Moving Wall was affecting and undeniably authentic if not strictly speaking real. This was the decade of Jean Baudrillard's (1982) writing about media, simulation, and hyperreality, and the Moving Wall embodied all of those emergent expressions of postmodernity. Of course, erecting a similar monument or reading a list of the three million Vietnamese dead in that war, if such a list existed, would span a mile and take three or four months, not days. School would have been recessed for the summer well before we were done. As it was, I had imagined what it would be like for someone walking across campus on Monday to the cadence of the roll call, and then taking the same path on Wednesday while the names were still being read. One person that unintentionally happened to was me, and I was stopped in my tracks.
The first time I was actually able to visit Hanoi in 1993 it was still illegal for an American to visit Vietnam as a tourist, so I traveled as an official visitor sponsored by the Vietnam Ministry of Labor, Invalids, and Social Affairs. It was love at first sight in Vietnam and the first of many visits to follow for research, tourism, and once even escorting a blind baby for adoption by Mia Farrow, a mission that did not turn out as expected. I liked the idea of being "illegal" in Vietnam — I mean, wasn't the war undeclared and thus illegal? I was now illegal in the eyes of the U.S. government for visiting a country where American soldiers were jailed if they refused to go. Confusing? Maybe because of a multitude of such ironies, Vietnam appealed to my politics and aesthetics and to a subversive streak that had animated me and bedeviled my elders since I was a kid.
I am not sure where my troublesome sense of righteous indignation was born, but as a third grader, I became engaged in an argument with my teacher over when it was safe to cross at the corner light. "Question Authority" was not even a concept to me at the time, nor to hardly anyone in my generation in the post-WWII complacent Midwest of America. Mrs. Foltz, my teacher, taught that we should cross when the light was green. I insisted that it was safe when the light was red. This was her last straw with my persistent interrogations. My mother was summoned to school and the three of us marched to the nearest intersection presumably to show once and for all who was right. It became apparent we had been looking at different lights, she at the one in the direction of the cross, myself at the signal controlling the perpendicular traffic. I lost the argument on the basis of sheer power, a valuable lesson in its own right, while privately maintaining my belief in the superior safety of crossing on red. After all, it is the cross traffic that runs you over. Clearly, I am still having the argument.
I may have lost the battle at the intersection but I won the war in my own mind by learning two lasting lessons: reality depends upon one's point of view, and while "might makes right" is catchy as an axiom, it is wrong as moral practice. I grew up in a suburban Republican family, where very little of political sophistication broke through the consciousness cocoon spun around us, but by a young age I had a keen sense of equality and justice as well as a full-blown hypocrisy detector. Nothing upset me more than if I believed something was not fair. For instance, I did not think it was fair that Jews were prohibited from living in our manicured enclave of Forest Hills, developed as a subdivision restricted to white protestants by Standard Oil (later Exxon) founder John D. Rockefeller in the 1920s. This was especially awkward since my high school was 95 percent Jewish. Of course, within weeks of starting at the school nearly all of my friends were Jewish and I was lobbying my parents for a Seder and regaling them with my memorized version of the prayer that blesses the wine. It became even more awkward when I acquired a Jewish boyfriend. We nearly had a Romeo and Juliet ending when both sets of parents discovered the forbidden relationship and went ballistic. Butchie told me recently that he gave me a Jewish name for his parents and he remembered our daring prank of smuggling him into the private Forest Hills Swim Club. I reminded him of the time we sneaked over to his house for lunch and I used one of the wrong pots, not even knowing what Kosher was let alone how to keep it or that it had to be kept.
The Cleveland Heights Jewish community was at least prosperous and the families were close and could not care less about Mr. Rockefeller's murky legacy or precious housing development. The situation was predictably worse when it came to the black residents (this was pre-"African American") who heavily populated Cleveland's East Side. When the progressive young Associate Pastor of Forest Hills Presbyterian Church started bussing black parishioners up from East Cleveland, my parents were among the many well- heeled donors who withdrew their support from the church. I knew that these things were not right and not fair, but I had no context for interpreting or acting upon them. I am sure I had never actually heard the word "hypocrisy." The Civil Rights Movement was no more than an abstraction in a life where I was discouraged from even having friends who were Catholic, an outcome that was easily accomplished because they had their own schools where it was rumored that regular beatings and brainwashing occurred and the girls were really fast. My own cocoon was not only literally unenlightened, but it was lined with the silk thread of middle class comfort that made the vague unease I persistently felt seem ungrateful. Historian Marilyn B. Young calls this state the "twilight sleep" induced by the drone of the government and media disinformation machine. In an interview with Bill Moyers, talking about Condoleeza Rice's manipulation of Iraq information delivered with a tone of unshakable authority, Young said:
Look, people in Iraq know what's going on. People in Europe know what's going on. People in the region, as she calls it, the neighborhood — they know what's going on. It's this country that is often kept in a kind of twilight sleep. I wouldn't say the dark. It's just sort of twilight. It's a little hard to see what's going on. Every now and then it becomes more clear, and people are really angry (2007).
And that fugue state was never more pervasive than during the early years of the American War in Vietnam.
Twilight Sleep
I did not begin to put any of the pieces together until following President Kennedy's assassination in 1963, which I learned of while walking across the serene campus of Miami University. The world changed on that day, which marked the start of what we now think of as the 60s, though it took until 1970 for my world to catch up. By the time the 60s were in full bloom in 1968, I was home with a baby and my nose pressed to the windowpane of the revolution. It took decades for me to recognize that not every location or generation experiences revolutions in culture, music, politics, ecology, human rights, spirituality, and pharmacology within a secure economic environment. How lucky we were. I was especially lucky to be growing up just before drugs entered the mainstream, or I might be dead now or writing this from prison.
Vietnam was at most a marginal part of my consciousness during the 1960s. I am not from a military family, unless you count the celebrated/notorious Civil War General William Tecumseh Sherman said to be on my paternal grandmother's side. My father was 4F in World War II because of a punctured eardrum, so he joined the U.S. Coast Guard and spent the war "chasing rats off the East Ninth Street Pier" in Cleveland. Most of what I knew about Vietnam had to do with the increasing lengths young men were going to in an attempt to be deferred from being drafted or to secure the sought-after 4F status — "not qualified for service under established physical, mental, or moral standards." Teachers qualified for deferral, fathers qualified, students qualified, but it got harder to get out with every military escalation. In 1965, there were 184,000 U.S. troops in Vietnam; by 1968 there were 538,000. Stories abounded about the insane things draft-eligible males would do to ensure failing the draft physical, foremost among them the ingestion of whopping quantities of drugs. Speed was a favorite, since it was still legal in many diet pills and widely prescribed. Rocker Greg Allman, high on speed and whiskey, shot himself in the foot, literally.
My door to Vietnam opened wider with another incident of inequity when I was prohibited from returning to my college teaching job after a maternity leave not because the job was unavailable but because my husband had taken a position at the same college and they had an anti-nepotism policy that prohibited both spouses from being on the faculty. He could not leave his teaching position for fear of being drafted. I do not remember even blinking an eye at this determination since it was about a year short of my being hit over the head by feminism. Since I could not return to my job as a teacher, I decided to do the only other thing that I knew how to do by that time and return to being a student working on a Ph.D. It was an unlikely path. I had been such a terrible student in high school I was disqualified as my homeroom's pick for homecoming queen because my grades were so bad. It wasn't cool for girls of my generation to be smart, and being cool was all I cared about, a shallow goal at best, not attainable by trying. College was not much better until I stumbled across a debate class and discovered my latent killer instincts. I never lost a debate. After that, school was easy and so satisfying that I have never left.
There were two Ph.D. programs in communication within commuting distance, one at Case Western Reserve University and one at Kent State. While Case Western would have been a better line on my resume, especially on the status conscious East Coast, and was closer to my house, the Kent program was new and innovative and offered a blend of humanities and social sciences that appealed to me. They also offered me a Teaching Fellow appointment, and I started classes in the summer of 1969 with a seminar on "Aristotle's Poetics" and another on the "Psychology of Communication," which typified the range of the program, a breadth that has held me in good stead throughout my career.
At Kent, I stood out only for my conventionality as a suburban wife and mother. Credit or blame for the first few degrees of the 180 degree change I made that year goes to my officemate Jim Crocker, a radical hippie Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) member I viewed with anthropological fascination and alarm. A hundred hours of talks with Jim and the charged air on campus began to break through my drowsiness. I began to wonder why all the smartest people around me were "radical." Everyone had always told me I was smart, in fact "too smart for my own good," but I was apolitical. It did not make sense except in terms of the cognitive dissonance theory I learned from the "Psychology of Communication" class. Dissonance theory would predict change in one of my attitudes to reduce the tension between conflicting cognitions, and indeed change came swiftly. Even before the May 4 shootings that marked the end of my first year of graduate studies there was no turning back from the political awakening that came to consume me, first in the women's movement and ever since in issues having to do with the media, war, and peace. My first publications were a feature series in a local Cleveland newspaper chain on "Issues of the Women's Movement," which my mother greeted with "We're proud of you, Sis, but did you have to write about that?"
My dissertation on The Rhetoric of Social Movements: A Critical Perspective(1974) was the first opportunity to explore at length the relationship between media and social change. While there was some attention given to television at the time, the concept of media as ubiquitous and transformational was in its infancy. The role of media made virtually no appearance in the communication or sociology literature, and the strange new thinking of Marshall McLuhan was so out of the box it was not taken seriously except in a few tiny enclaves like John Culkin's Center for Understanding Media established in 1968 in New York, the forerunner of the pioneering New School Media Studies Program which became my future home.
Where the 60s Lasted Through the 70s
My first long-term faculty job was at San Francisco State, which had experienced a polarizing faculty strike in 1968 and was one of the most politicized universities in the country. During one of my job interviews a senior colleague literally took me into a broom closet to coach me that I had best know who was on what side of the strike when talking to the faculty. Colleagues in the department had led the strike (though some had "stayed in"), so I moved from the frying pan of Kent into the fire of San Francisco. During the first ten years at SFSU, I commuted from Palo Alto, where my husband was a computer scientist at Xerox Palo Alto Research Center, an organizational culture that would turn out to be even more revolutionary than San Francisco. The learning curve was steep at both ends of Interstate 280.
My first SFSU officemate was the celebrated radical lesbian feminist Sally Gearhart, who was tall and charismatic and kind and scared me to death. She was very close to Harvey Milk, who was assassinated in 1978 along with Mayor George Moscone, just days after the massacre of 918 mostly Bay Area residents at Jonestown, Guyana. It was my second year on the faculty and it still felt like the 60s, which as a decade continued far into the 1970s, certainly in San Francisco. It was the catastrophic toll of HIV/AIDS in the 1980s that ended the 60s for good.
My other San Francisco State officemate was Hank McGuckin with a Stanford Ph.D., a fierce intelligence and integrity to match. His father was noted Wobbly Henry E. McGuckin Sr. who passed along his radical sensibilities as well as priceless memoirs (1986). Hank also had such a fine operatic baritone that literary lion Kenneth Burke wrote music for the man he dubbed da voce. The office next door was occupied by writer and activist Kay Boyle, who would have intimidated me even more had she acknowledged my existence, which despite multiple introductions she did not. I guessed that with 40 books and six children she had plenty on her mind.
The Department Chair (later Dean) Nancy McDermid, with a law degree from the University of Chicago, never saw a wrong she did not want to right. Under the wing of these extraordinary colleagues, my passion for politics and media deepened and grew. After several years of establishing my own niche I was delighted to be invited to team-teach a course on "Communication and Social Process" with Hank and International Affairs Professor Ted Keller. They had previously taught together with Kay, so there were some big shoes to fill. It was my first experience presenting an academic production number with more than 100 students filling a classic raked-seating lecture hall. McGuckin and Keller were good friends and great classroom performers who loved to argue at length about the issues at hand, so we seldom had time for guests.
We made an exception for one class in about 1982, where Vietnam was the subject. I arranged for the visit of four guest speakers through an organization new to us called the Veterans Speakers Alliance, whose mission was to send vets to schools to talk about their personal experience. That was nearly ten years after the end of the Vietnam war, and while Vietnam movies were coming out (First Blood, Coming Home, Apocalypse Now, Deer Hunter), I had never heard an actual combat veteran tell his story, let alone heard a nurse tell hers, nor had hardly anyone else in the room. You could hear a pin drop as one after another former soldier told a raw, compelling, heartbreaking story. We were all speechless in this wounding moment.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Crossing the Street in Hanoi by Carol Wilder. Copyright © 2013 Intellect Ltd. Excerpted by permission of Intellect Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Foreword by William Logan Introduction Chapter 1: The War That Won’t Die Chapter 2: Hoa Lo Prison Museum: 'The Fury Burning Within' Chapter 3: Bac Ho: 'Casting Pearls before Swine' Chapter 4: Life on Vietnam: 'A Glory Preserved in a Wilderness Valley' Chapter 5: Reading Graham Greene: A Promise to the Dead Chapter 6: Vietnam Love Songs: 'Rode Hard and Put Away Wet' Chapter 7: Reinventing Rambo: Flooding with Love for the Kid Chapter 8: Murder on May 4th: The Case of the Missing Mob Chapter 9: Long Bien Story: Giving and Taking Away (with Douglas Jardine) Afterword: A Note on Theory