View from Devil's Path east of Indian Head Mountain in Catskill Mountains. | Image, CC by Miguel Vieira. Click for license and information.

There’s a pretty neat series of maps featured in Business Insider making the rounds on various social channels. They tell us about ourselves, showing how Americans speak differently from each other. My favorite is slide 17 because I have only ever owned sneakers and was absolutely confused when someone recently suggested that my concept of sneakers was really a generalization of “athletic shoes.” (I still think they’re sneakers. All of them.) It’s a treasure trove of linguistic diversity revealing which everyday words in my lexicon vary (e.g., garage sale) and which seem fairly common (e.g., subway) to the overall American experience.

The maps are the work of NC State Ph. D. student Joshua Katz, who drew on a linguistic survey on the ways Americans pronounce words—you can view the original set of maps here. Regional variations in language are well-studied. Every speaker can be identified by region, social class and gender. Accents are incredibly revealing, which is why some people take great pains to hide theirs even while others use it to weave an identity. These identities reach beyond personal definition to explicitly include regional and social histories and cultural nuances.

However while accents can be hidden or faked, the sounds that we’re able to make may not be so readily manipulated. A recent study published in PLOS One shares evidence that geography may play a part in shaping these sounds. Anthropologist Caleb Everett analyzed 567 language locations and found a commonality that crossed dialectical boundaries and language families: languages with ejective phonemes tend to occur at higher elevations throughout the world.

What are ejectives? They’re a basic unit of sound—a type of phoneme—which when combined with other phonemes create words. Ejectives are unusual in that they’re non-pulmonic. They’re produced by the closing of the vocal cords. It is the vibration of the vocal cords that allow us to meld phonemes together to generate words. These sounds are essentially voiceless. They’re hard to describe: it’s almost as though you’re trying to make the sound of a consonant while holding your breath. They’re really better understood when you can hear them for yourself:

Fifteen percent of the habitable space in the world is at altitudes higher than 1500 m (approximately 1 mile) above sea level; these spaces are home to ten percent of the world’s population. Everett divided the 567 languages he tapped for his study into two groups: those having ejectives (92) and those without (475). Among those languages with ejective phonemes, sixty-two percent are found at higher altitudes. The remaining languages with ejective components are disbursed, but the greatest concentrations are seen within 500 km (approximately 300 miles) of these linguistic peaks.

Figure 1. Plot of the locations of the languages in the sample. Dark circles represent languages with ejectives, clear circles represent those without ejectives. Clusters of languages with ejectives are highlighted with white rectangles. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0065275.g001

Everett believes the conditions at higher altitudes may encourage the production of ejective phonemes. These utterances require that the vocal cords are closed and raised. Everett holds that this is easier to accomplish at higher altitudes where atmospheric pressure is lower, which means that air pressure in the mouth and lungs is lower so it may be easier to force the vocal cords closed. Everett also proposes that the higher incidence of ejective phonemes at higher altitudes may represent a biological adaptation. With ever word uttered, we’re generally exhaling during some portion of the utterance. This exhalation also releases water vapor, which Everett informs us is not a trivial matter. Apparently, we lose up 400 ml of water vapor though exhalations. At higher altitudes, this can lead to dehydration and severe forms of altitude sickness. Because ejective phonemes require the vocal cords to the closed, they’re also not drawing on air contained within the lungs and therefore releasing water vapor—in this way, ejective phonemes could be a biological adaptation to an extreme living condition.

However, not everyone is quite sold on Everett’s analysis. Over at Language Log, a blog run by the Research for Cognitive Science at the University of Pennsylvania, Dr. Mark Liberman raises some concerns over the statistical work done in this paper cautioning that this may be a causal effect. Liberman’s primary concern appear to be that data can be molded to tell any story, but acknowledges that there is independent support for Everett’s findings.

Given the amount of attention Katz’s maps have received, we are definitely interested in exploring our linguistic differences. In the case of languages that are in isolated, as those with ejective phonemes, they will likely attract a fair amount of attention as we work to better understand ourselves and our differences. Do you have a accent or dialect story to share? Or are you an ejective speaker? How has your locality influences how you speak—both physiologically and acoustically?

Image by WoodleyWonderWorks| Creative Commons | Click on image for license and information.

When was the last time you used some variation of the phrase “Thank you”? At the coffee shop this morning? While you were having dinner last night? Because someone held the elevator for you?

How about online? Have you used it to sign an email recently? Did you intentionally not use that phrase? And did you stop to think about what that really meant?

The phrase “Thank you” is part of a triad of ritualized responses we learn in early childhood that also includes “Hi” and “Goodbye.” The latter two represent transitional linguistic points that signal increased and decreased access to certain states of interaction. “Hi” both acknowledges a relationship and opens the interaction, while “Goodbye” marks the conclusion of the interaction. In the United States, it is an expression of appreciation. “Thank you” plays a mediating role in sustaining relationships where social access is possible.

These types of linguistic structures are known as “politeness formulae.” We are taught the framework for these responses by our parents—for example, American children begin to learn the rules for Hi and Goodbye by waving long before they are capable of verbal communication. My nephew is just learning how to wave Hi and Bye and while his movements are jerky, the delight of his parents will undoubtedly encourage his practicing and ultimately reinforce his understanding of this action. He may be told, if he refuses to participate as prescribed, that “it’s not nice” to not perform these social rituals, and in turn will learn that it’s a required part of social interactions. Over time, as he interacts with other groups of people, he may learn how variations of this response can be employed (e.g., goodbye versus bye or see you later; tone; accompanying gestures) to add further meaning to the phrase. For example, “Hey” may be used between friends of cosigns by way of greeting, but with strangers or uncles and aunts and grandparents, a more formal tact may be taken depending on the relationship and/or age difference between communicants. These patterns of responses are deeply nuanced and reflect the nature of the relationship between participants: degree of intimacy, relative status, and length of contact or expected duration of separation all influence how these interactions are carried out.

Goodbye is larger than just a word. It encompasses an entire ritual. Psychologist Herbert Clark expands on this idea with the ways in which we end a phone call. We can’t just hang up. There are three parts to ending a phone call: topic termination, leave taking, and contact termination. First, we have to indicate we’re done talking (“Well, it was really good to hear from you.”), and then both agree to break contact (“Okay, we’ll catch up again soon.” “Okay, bye.”), and then actually physically end the transmission (hang up). We rarely ever just hang up without observing these niceties, and if we do it is regarded as the height of rudeness even if it signals displeasure.

In the age of texting, these practices may seem antiquated, but the need for those sorts of rituals remains important, particularly in electronic communication where tone is hard to read. We end our communiques with “talk later,” “talk 2 u tomorrow,” or even simply “bye.” “Thanks” and “Thank you” have worked their way into this portion of the formula particularly in emails. More traditional valedictions have been replaced with “Thank you” so subtly that it’s now a common sign-off in this medium. But what does it mean? And why is it more acceptable than “Sincerely” or “Yours truly”?

It is in part be a reflection of our times. Email offers a speedier means of contact than an actual letter (and in some cases, a telephone), but that speed also means we’re sending more messages through this medium both for personal and professional reasons, and reading and responding to these messages requires a commitment of time. So it’s more important that the sender recognize the burden that they’ve placed on the recipient. In a time when letters took time to write, send, and respond to, it was important for the sender to attest to her reliability. Responses and actions were not so easy to take back. “Sincerely” and “Yours truly” which were meant to build trust between communicants. Credibility was an important determinant of whether a response would be issues. Today, as the web enables stranger to contact each other with little effort, credibility is less of a factor in determining responses (SPAM mail aside) when weighed against time.

That is not to say that more formal valedictions or affectionate closings are entirely overlooked. The nature of the relationship between corresponding parties must be recognized. It is vital to the continuation of the relationship. Skeptical? Try leaving the valediction off the next time you email a friend or loved one and let me know how it turns out. (Or fail to greet them as you are accustomed to.) “Thank you” serves a similar purpose. By including a closing at all, we’re adhering to the overall social politeness formula, and demonstrating that we understand the rules of social engagement. So in that sense, we are sincere individuals.

This practice is rampant in business communication—where people are most pressed for time to respond and where it seems it is most offensive if a closing is omitted, especially if the email contains a request of some sort. “Thanks” seems the safest option. But has it’s overuse has also reduced its meaning? How are you signing your emails—and have there been any instances where not having a closing created an issue?

References and Additional Reading:

• Becker, Judith and Patricia C Smenner (1986). The Spontaneous Use of Thank You by Preschoolers as a Function of Sex, Socioeconomic Status, and Listener Status. Language in Society, Vol. 15(4): 537 – 545.
• Clark, Herbert and J. Wade French (1981). Telephone Goodbyes. Language in Society, Vol. 10(1): 1 – 19.
• Ferguson, Charles (1976). The Structure and Use of Politeness Formulas. Language in Society, Vol. 5(2): 137 – 151.
• Greif, Esther and Jean Berko Gleason (1980). Hi, Thanks, and Goodbye: More Routine Information. Language in Society, Vol. 9(2): 159 – 166.

CC, image by Samat K Jain. Click on image for license and information.

A few weeks ago, an article appeared in my LinkedIn feed that asked “Is crying acceptable in the workplace?’ I’ll save you the click thru: the short answer in this piece is no. While emotion is a part of life, the article concludes it isn’t rewarded in the workplace because it suggests weakness. A quick reading of the comments revealed that many people agree—or accept that crying isn’t always looked upon favorably in the workplace.

Crying is most readily linked to grief, sadness, anger, fear and pain (1). Children can also cry to attract attention, but this behavior is discouraged almost as quickly as it begins. There are, then, socially-determined contexts when crying is acceptable, and when it is not—given the same situation, both utter despair and stoicism may be appropriate. We begin to learn when and where we can cry as children: it’s okay to cry (though not for very long) if we fall and scrape our knees, but crying out of frustration and anger are discouraged. And it’s expected that repeated events reduce that degree of a response. For example, on the first day of preschool teachers and parents may have tolerated sobs and sniffles, but by the third day or so, you may have been told to that you were a big boy or girl and that big boys and girls don’t cry.

This seems to happen more frequently with boys (1). Early work done by Balswick and Peek (1974) and Parsons (1951) have explored at length the ways in which masculinity is taught as instrumental moreso than expressive. Not only are boys told that “big” boys don’t cry, but that they must be “brave” and “strong” to the extent that those expressions are in opposition to weakness, sensitivity, emotionalism, and loss of control. Ross and Mirowsky (1984) found that men who hold traditional views about gender roles are less likely to cry (this data is self reported). They also note that as education and income increase, men are also less likely to cry even though they are also likely to hold less traditional views about gender roles (2). Ross and Mirowsky report that this is because they have less reason to be unhappy and more means to seek help for depression:

Sadness is the primary affective component of depression and depression is negatively related to men’s socioeconomic status, especially income. Thus men in the higher social classes may be more likely to cry when sad, but are less likely to be sad. Men in the lower social classes are more likely to be sad, but less likely to cry when sad (3).

Femininity has greater flexibility in expressing emotions, but even within this gender, crying is still not encouraged as a public display. But it’s also made private precisely because it’s gendered: Traditional gender roles place the feminine role within the private sphere such as the home, while the masculine role occupies a more prominent, public space.

By the time you’re “big,” there are few occasions when it’s okay to cry. And the workplace, as a public space that has long been a masculine space, becomes a very emotionally prohibitive space. Crying requires a response from others; it disrupts their experience of the shared space and challenges their roles within that space. Crying requires that the event be acknowledged and that some form of comfort be distributed. In the hierarchy of the workplace,these responses present uncomfortable challenges that we’re ill equipped to manage.

As much as views on gender roles may shift, the formula for success in the workplace and the boundaries of the relationships in this space seem rather cemented. So while there is greater recognition of the individual as an individual within this space, the parameters for acceptable behaviors aren’t likely to change.

Not all public spaces are so heavily restricted, however. Neutral spaces like the City sidewalks or the subway appear to be open game, though the rules of engagement—or non-engagement—apply.

While some events do require a ticket, many are free, including a science fair done street-style planned for Washington Square Park which promises lots of hands-on events for visitors of all ages. (Registration is recommended so you’ll receive updates, schedules, and maps as the event draws nearer.)

Other events include talks on whales, nanoscience, consciousness, time, and art. As well, robotics and 3D printer demos.

You can view the full line up of events and purchase tickets here. Hope to see you there.

CC | Click on image for license and information.

Cars have long been symbols for personal freedom. With the open road before you you can go anywhere—from behind the wheel you really take control of your destiny. In this regard, cars are empowering. Ownership means that you have the means to be independently mobile, that you own not just a vehicle but choice as well.

Car ads today work to capture these themes of choice, control, and freedom: In a random survey of Men’s Health magazine, the auto spreads on the back pages showed automobiles helping people reconnect with nature (e.g., among sequoias or traversing sandy dunes), or overcoming challenging weather by highlighting their safety features (e.g., handling in icy conditions), or conveying a sense of luxury (e.g., parked, against a minimalist background with emphasis on the shape and gleam of the car) (1).

The Car Without A Single Weakness," The Dorris Motor Car Co. (Laird 798).

Advertising employs the art of persuasion to convince the consumer of need. Prior to 1920, automobile ads featured heavy technical descriptions meant to impress and win over the confidence of the consumer. Purchasing a car was a serious event worthy of serious consideration:

Lengthy copy gave potential owners information calculated to inspire confidence in the machines. It also taught a language for asking questions and exchanging observations that relieved people’s uncertainties about the mysteries under the hood … Many advertising messages therefore presented cars as machines with parts and prices to be proud of—like the Dorris pictured quiets above a diagram of a ‘distillator’” (2).

By the 1920s, as the automobile industry entered its thirtieth year, there was a shift in the emphasis for car ads that allowed for a change in the mechanism of messaging: the proliferation of automobile meant that advertising no longer needed to solely convince consumers to purchase a car, rather it needed to convince consumers to replace their cars, even it it were in working order.

Somewhere West of Laramie," Jordan Motor Car Company, Saturday Evening Post (June 23, 1923). (Laird 808).

It’s at this time the themes of car ownership that we know today begin to emerge. One of the more prominent examples is a feature from the Jordan Motor Company: The owner, Edward S. Jordan leaned toward the use of imagery to drive home messaging. In 1923, the Saturday Evening Post ran an ad, in which Jordan passed over heavy technical copy in favor of images and copy about power, speed and the fun of driving intended to target “lively, youthful adventurers, or those who perceived themselves as such” (3).

These themes endure because they create a personal connection with the consumer—they marry the driver’s story with the item’s history, extending the concept of need to one that matches a larger social mindset that overlooks the impersonal nature of mass-produced goods. They’re adaptable to the attitudes and inclinations of the times.

For example, this messaging is consistent in many of the top 10 auto ads drawn from the last 25 years identified by The One Club. Chrysler’s 2011 Born of Fire campaign works to craft an intricate story that deeply roots the car in a place. It obscures the mechanics of production in favor of a social connection.

.
The idea of rebirth—both that of Detroit and the automotive industry—works to be a story that consumers can identify with: the recent financial downshifts that have affected many Americans have bred other opportunities for personal rebirth. In this ad, Chrysler’s attempt at a humanized story is intended to integrate the car as naturally as possible into the life story of the consumer.

This social connection is evident in other examples from the The One Club’s list. In Volkswagen’s 1999 Milky Way, the driver and passengers forego a noisy party to drive under a crisp night sky. And Jeep’s 1994 Snow Covered, the vehicle is depicted as so powerful that it can plow through several feel of snow. Honda’s 2004 Cog comes the closest to the first examples of auto ads by illustrating the mechanics of the car using a Rube-Golderg mechanism. Still, the story here is one of control: you have a car that will solidly support your endeavors because everything “works.”

It’s not that we care less about knowing how things work, or that car ownership is any less a serious endeavor than it was in the late 19th-century. Rather, this shift in marketing represents a shift in our overall relationship to the automobile and recognizes its place in our lives. The automobile doesn’t need to mechanically justify itself. Instead, advertisers work to convince consumers that the automobile can be a partner.

Notes:

(1) Alexander (2003): 550 | (2) Laird (1996): 797 | (3) Laird (1996): 807

Cited:

Alexander, Susan (2003). “Stylish Hard Bodies: Branded Masculinity in Men’s Health Magazine.” Sociological Perspectives, Vol. 46(4): 535-554

Laird, Pamela Walker (1996). ” ‘The Car without a Single Weakness’: Early Automobile Advertising.” Technology and Culture. Vol. 36(4): 796-812.

Baseball season is officially underway! And what better way to celebrate than by looking at the ball that drives the game?

A few years ago, I talked S into helping me take apart a baseball. I wanted to understand the properties that Johan Santana can hold in his hand and with the flick of his wrist, turn into a lethal strike. Armed with my old lab kit, we proceeded with an unorthodox dissection.

First, the 108 stitches that comprise the seam had to be removed. The seam is hand sewn on every baseball (and MLB teams use approximately 600,000 balls a season combined, which means a lot of labor). Once the red waxed thread was gone, we peeled back the cowhide to reveal a layer of yarn. Cowhide was introduced in 1974 due to a shortage in horsehide. The leather is tested for 17 potential deficiencies in thickness, grain strength, tensile strength and other areas before being sewn onto the ball.

Removing the seams, with the help of my handy old lab kit.

Red wax thread, two strips of leather, and the first later of white yarn that make up a baseball.

The first layer of the naked baseball (working from the outside-in to the core) is a layer of white poly/cotton finishing woolen yarn. There are four layers of wool and cotton windings that cover the core. After the first layer, the subsequent layers are varying gray and white woolen yarn of assorted grades.Why wool? Wool is naturally resilient and when compressed the material can rapidly return back to the original shape. This property helps baseballs retain their shape even after being hit repeatedly during a game. Though the photos below don’t show the ball’s diminishing size with each layer removed, it was interesting to see how much wool actually makes up a baseball.

Second layer: gray wool.

Third layer: white wool.

Fourth layer: grayish-brownish wool.

The center of the ball is composed cork encased by a thin layer of red rubber. The rubber was easy enough to understand: it essentially made the ball, well, a ball. Cutting into the rubber revealed the cork center, known as the pill. Apparently, cork was selected as the core material in 1910 as one means of standardizing baseballs. Prior, the core was rubber. The change allowed for “livelier” baseballs, which I assume means that the cork center allowed for greater flexibility in delivery—it let the ball behave differently depending on how the pitcher released it. According to the University of Illinois, the cork center had a tremendous effect on the game:

With the introduction of the cork center baseball in 1926, pitchers soon began to develop freak deliveries- shine ball, spit ball, emery ball, etc. Drastic changes were made in the rules in 1920 to outlaw these pitches. However, recognized “spit ball” pitchers were permitted to continue using their specialty for the remainder of their careers. Most successful of these, and the last to close his Major League career, was Burleigh Grimes, who pitched last for the Yankees in 1934.

To deal with these issues, the core was changed again: it was encased in rubber to become the modern pill below:

A glimpse of the pill.

As I considered this small piece of cork, it occurred to me that in this seemingly simple baseball was a global history—which is interesting considering that baseball is labeled as an All-American sport. Cork has been in use since at least 3000 BC in fishing tackle in China, Egypt, Babylon, and Persia. And evidence of cork being used for floats, stoppers, women’s footwear, and roofing materials have been found in Italy dating the the 4th-century BC. Both cork and rubber come from trees, forests and plantations in Portugal, Spain and Italy for cork, and in Brazil, Ceylon, Borneo, the Malay Peninsula, India, and England. The processes for use and refinement have been cultivated and handed down through the ages—including the idea for a cork center for a ball, which dates back to 1863 when an Englishman patented the cork center for cricket.

From cork core to leather, three components of a baseball.

So, the next time you’re at a baseball game, in between hotdogs and yelling at the umpire, consider what has gone into the tiny white sphere that’s traveling at speeds of 98 mph.

See the full dissection on the AiP Facebook page.

A version of this post appeared on the original home of AiP on March 29, 2010.

Take a second and look through your bag or pockets and take an inventory of the things you carry with you every day. A quick survey of my handbag revealed the following (in no particular order):

• House keys
• Cell phone
• Wallet
• Notebook
• Kindle
• Magazine
• Business cards and case
• Assorted pens and pencils
• Coin purse (yes, I actually have one of these)
• Travel passes
• Office keys
• Keys to my friend’s apartment
• 3 Flash drives
• Spare battery pack
• Assorted chargers
• Makeup case
• Brush
• Work laptop

Three years ago, I did this exercise, and I’m amused to see how my list had changed—and the ways in which it has stayed the same. I’ve definitely bulked up on the technology I carry with me; those items have a need for additional batteries, chargers, and adapters. Last time, I determined there were ways I could cull the list, but this time around, I’m not sure what I would want to cut. Sure, I could minimize the number of pens I carry, and any toiletries I have in my bag is entirely optional, but everything else plays an important part in my day.

This inspection had been spurred by an article in National Geographic about the Hadza, who are one of the world’s last remaining hunter-gatherers. They live in the Great Rift Valley, one of the most inhospitable environments on earth. They grow no crops, own no livestock, and build no permanent shelters. They set up camps, and move as needed to be closer to herds and other resources. They eat everything—birds, wildebeest, zebras, buffalo, warthog, bush pig, hyrax, baboon, plus berries, baobab fruit, tubers, and honey. Their possessions are minimal: a cooking pot, a water container, an ax, and perhaps a pipe—which can be wrapped in a small bundle for easy transport, which made an impression on the author of the piece:

There are things I envy about the Hadza—mostly, how free they appear to be. Free from possessions. Free of most social duties. Free from religious strictures. Free of many family responsibilities. Free from schedules, jobs, bosses, bills, traffic, taxes, laws, news, and money. Free from worry. Free to burp and fart without apology, to grab food and smoke and run shirtless through the thorns.

During my initial analysis, I asked if the Hazda can subsist without so many things, why do I feel lost without my cellphone? Of course, our lives are different—that’s an obvious point. The disparity between our view on necessities and the Hadza’s view, encouraged me to think about the ways in which our lives and the meaning in our lives are manufactured—we determine what is important, creating a context-specific experience, which arguably gives us culture.

In light of my current list, it’s interesting to think about how these items represent an overall shift in culture and lifestyle. In the early 1990s, very few people had cell phones. In 2010, the most important item in my bag was my cell phone. A need to be connected, to be reachable and to be able to reach out, drove and still drives this need. I proposed then that the next wave of necessities would increasingly include elements used to establish and maintain our digital presence. There is some truth to this, it seems: both my laptop and my cell phone ensure that I am always within reach of my digital profiles. The accessories I carry—flash drives, chargers, battery pack—serve the life of these tools. We continue to move toward greater degrees of connectivity and examples like the Hazda are increasingly rare. To what degree is this a function of choice? Of status? Of environment? My necessities reflects the state of my social context—time to tell: what are your necessities and what can they tell others about you?

A version of this post originally appeared on AiP on January 1, 2010.

Photo by Willow Gardeners. CC, click on image for license and information.

Eggs occupy a special status during Easter observances. They’re symbols of rebirth and renewal—life bursts forth from this otherwise plain, inanimate object that gives no hint as to what it contains. In this regard it is a handy symbol for the resurrection of Jesus Christ, but it is is a symbol that has held this meaning long before Christianity adopted it.

Ishtar depicted on a vase in the Louvre. Public domain.

There is a meme floating around Facebook that some people have rallied around and are sharing as a “truth” of Easter. It proclaims:

Easter was originally the celebration of Ishtar, the Assyrian and Babylonian goddess of fertility and sex. Her symbols (like the egg and bunny) were and still are fertility and sex symbols (or did you actually think eggs and bunnies had anything to do with the resurrection?) After Constantine decided to Christianize the Empire, Easter was changed to represent Jesus. But at its roots, Easter (which is how you pronounce Ishtar) is all about celebrating fertility and sex.

Clearly, we all know that Facebook memes are the ultimate source of information—particularly when they makes a biting point about something or some group that is not particularly favorably viewed. But it is well known that under the Roman Empire, Christianity did indeed adopt the pagan rituals of conquered peoples in an effort to help convert them. It worked pretty well as a strategy as it allowed the conquered peoples to continue a semblance of their observances as they remembered, and with time the population would be replaced with those who only knew the new traditions. This is not a secret. However, there are a few things wrong with the Ishtar meme that a simple Google search will turn up:

• Ishtar was the goddess of love and war and sex, as well as protection, fate, childbirth, marriage, and storms—there’s some fertility in there, but as with Aphrodite, there is also an element of power. Her cult practiced sacred prostitution, where women waited at a temple and had sex with a stranger in exchange for a divine blessing (and money to feed hungry children or pay a debt).

• Ishtar’s symbols were the the lion, the morning star, and eight or sixteen pointed stars—again, symbols of power.

• The word Easter does not appear to be derived from Ishtar, but from the German Eostre, the goddess of the dawn—a bringer of light. English and German are in the minority of languages that use a form of the word Easter to mark the holiday. Elsewhere, the observance is framed in Latin pascha, which in turn is derived from the Hebrew pesach, meaning of or associated with Passover. Ishtar and Easter appear to be homophones: they may be pronounced similarly, but have different meanings.

Our helpful meme places the egg in Ishtar’s domain, but Ishtar doesn’t seem to be connected to eggs in any explicit way. However, there are plenty of other older traditions that involve the egg as a symbol of rebirth and feature it prominently in creation mythologies:

• Ancient Egyptians believed in a primeval egg from which the sun god hatched. Alternatively, the sun was sometimes discussed as an egg itself, laid daily by the celestial goose, Seb, the god of the earth. The Phoenix is said to have emerged from this egg. The egg is also discussed in terms of a world egg, molded by Khnum from a lump of clay on his potter’s wheel (1).

• Hinduism makes a connection between the content of the egg and the structure of the universe: for example, the shell represents the heavens, the white the air, and the yolk the earth. The Chandogya Upanishads describes the act of creation in terms of the breaking of an egg:

The Sun is Brahma—this is the teaching. A further explanation thereof (is as follows). In the beginning this world was merely non-being. It was existent. It developed. It turned into an egg. It lay for the period of a year. It was split asunder. One of the two egg-shell parts became silver, one gold. That which was of silver is this earth. That which was of gold is the sky … Now what was born therefrom is yonder sun (1).

• In the Zoroastrian religion, the creation myth tells of an ongoing struggle between the principles of good and evil. During a lengthy truce of several thousand years, evil hurls himself into an abyss and good lays an egg, which represents the universe with the earth suspended from the vault of the sky at the midway point between where good and evil reside. Evil pierces the egg and returns to earth, and the two forces continue their battle (2).

• In Findland, Luonnotar, the Daughter of Nature floats on the waters of the sea, minding her own business when an eagle arrives, builds a nest on her knee, and lays several eggs. After a few days, the eggs begin to burn and Luonnotar jerks her knee away, causing the eggs to fall and break. The pieces form the world as we know it: the upper halves form the skies, the lower the earth, the yolks become the sun, and the whites become the moon (3).

• In China, there are several legends that hold a cosmic egg at their center, including the idea that the first being or certain people were born of eggs. For example, the Palangs trace their ancestry to a Naga princess who laid three eggs, and the Chin will not kill the king crow because it laid the original Chin egg from which they emerged (3).

The Sun God, Ra with an egg-shaped disk over his head. Public domain.

These are some of the stories that build the foundation for the tradition of eggs at Easter. Contrary to the assertion of our meme, eggs and bunnies actually do have something to do with the idea of resurrection: in these early stories, the creator often emerged from the egg itself in some form:

The cosmic egg, according to the Vedic writings, has a spirit living within it which will be born, die, and be born yet again. Certain versions of the complicated Hindu mythology describe Prajapati as forming the egg and then appearing out of it himself. Brahma does likewise, and we find parallels in the ancient legends of Thoth and Ra. Egyptian pictures of Osiris, the resurrected corn god, show him returning to life once again rising up from the shell of a broken egg. The ancient legend of the Phoenix is similar. This beautiful mythical bird was said to live for hundreds of years. When its full span of life was completed it died in flames, rising again in a new form from the egg it had laid (4).

The Phoenix was adopted as a Christian symbol in the first century AD. It appears on funeral stones in early Christian art, churches, religious paintings, and stonework. The egg from which it rose has become our Easter egg. As with many symbols, the Easter egg has continued to shift. When the Lenten fast was adopted in the third and fourth centuries, observant Christians abstained from dairy products, including milk, cheese, butter, and eggs. In England, on the Saturday before Lent, it was common practice for children to go from door to door to beg for eggs—a last treat before the fast began.

Even the act of coloring eggs is tied to the idea of rebirth and resurrection. While egg decorating kits offer a vibrant means of decorating eggs today, the link between life and eggs was traditionally made by using a red coloring. Among Christians, red symbolizes the blood of Jesus. Among Macedonians, it has been a tradition to bring a red egg to Church and eat it when the priest proclaims “Christ is risen” at the Easter vigil and the Lenten fast is officially broken (5).

I love the Easter traditions at Church. The lighting of the Easter candle reminds me of my childhood Diwali celebrations and the lighting of Christmas lights as they all represent means of driving away darkness. Ishtar may well have some connection to the rites of Spring, and admittedly Easter itself is an observance of Spring, but in an age when so much wrong has been done in name of religion, and religion is a focal point for criticism and debate, it’s worth remembering that the overlap of time and history has given us richer traditions than any of us can truly be aware of—and that memes shouldn’t be taken at face value.

Cited:
Newall, Venetia. (1967) “Easter Eggs,” The Journal of American Folklore Vol 80 (315): 3-32.
RE Hume, ed. (1931) The Thirteen Upanishads. London: 214-215

Notes: 1. Newall: 4 | 2. Hume: 214 | 3. Newall: 7 | 4. Newall: 14 | 5. Newall: 22

I’m willing to bet you own at least one pair of jeans. Denim clothing—which will be used interchangeably with jeans for this discussion—is popular with people just about everywhere, with the exception of South Asia and China where strong cultural pressures mold ideas about propriety (1). In Germany, people own an average of 8.2 pairs of jeans. In the US, Russia, Korea, and South Africa, 31% of people own 3 – 4 pairs of jeans and 29% own 5 – 10 pairs. And then there’s you: What’s your denim story? Do you have a favorite pair? How do they make you feel? Have you stopped wearing them completely or do you wear them all the time and dress them up or down as the occasion requires? How does denim fit into your life?

These are the sorts of questions Daniel Miller and Sophie Woodward set out to answer in Blue Jeans: The Art of the Ordinary, which looks primarily at the relationship North Londoners have to with this material that can be found in almost all parts of the world. The conclusions they present are applicable far beyond this sample, however, and offer us a peek elements of human nature that go beyond culture.

The premise for Blue Jeans was born out of a paper titled A Manifesto for a Study of Denim, where Miller and Woodward first flagged the ubiquity of denim and that denim itself has a particular nature: it is often sold as distressed and is often the choice for people when they don’t know what to wear or are worried about what to wear. While these choices are personal, there is an underlying consistency that speaks to how we respond to social pressure, insecurities and personal fears. Denim figures prominently in these scenarios, and while it is not the answer per se, it functions as a mediator. It has its own global reputation as comfortable, stylish, and ordinary, and this allows the denim-clad to slip between casual and formal with ease.

Fashion

There is a typology to jeans. In North London, beyond the commercial distinction (e.g., brand and fit), there is also a personal categorization which reflects the preferences and overall lifestyle of the individual. In addition to color, level of wear/distress, and cut, jeans are differentiated by appropriateness for different situations. Jeans worn at work or for going out differ from jeans worn casually around the house or for running errands. The former are more likely to be a darker wash or colored, less distressed, more fitted, and paired with dressier shoes; these are “dressier” jeans. In the latter case, the denim is typically a lighter blue, more relaxed fit, more distressed, and usually worn with sneakers or more casual shoes; these are “casual” jeans. Jeans in the dressy group can ultimately be relegated to more casual wear with time, but rarely will jeans from the casual group move into dressy category.

While there are general guidelines for categorizing jeans, there is also room for personalization. For example, skinny jeans by their nature have been relegated to the dressier category: they’re fitted, usually a dark wash or colored, and typically less worn by requirement as it takes away from their “sharpness.” Skinny jeans have gained popularity despite concerns about how tight (and unflattering) they can be. However, as an accepted type of denim that has been assigned to a larger category, they have been adapted to suit personal preferences and maintain personal comfort: for example, they’re paired with longer tunic-style tops to hide thighs for those who are conscious of that body area, and dressed down with ballet flats to make them suitable for a more casual look (2).

These acts of adaptation are important to note because they specifically address concerns that skinny jeans are uncomfortable. They illustrate some of the steps taken to “get jeans just right”—a phrase that refers both to the wearer and the situation (3). Miller and Woodward show that this happens in both genders, though men appear to be less bound to managing shifts in fashion and are freer to adapt the general categories to the brand or fit that suits them. For example, though one of the men interviewed had a few variations of jeans—distressed, black, light blue, and indigo blue—they all followed the same fit: straight leg (4). In this case, “just right”—the fit which the wearer was most comfortable in—formed the basis around which typologies could be set. In the case of skinny jeans, “just right” is something mediated along with the typology.

Comfort

More than any other type of clothing, jeans stress comfort, which is why the underlying sense of “just right” is so important. But discussions with North Londoners about what exactly constitutes comfortable reveals immense variation. For example, some might say that wearing jeans in hot weather is uncomfortable, but people in tropical countries seem to wear jeans more frequently than people in the UK (5). Similarly, people might feel that jeans are ill suited to rainy weather as they tend to take longer to dry, while others feel that jeans offer some protection from the weather. Some people won’t wear jeans to travel because they feel that the material can be stiff, while others prefer to travel in jeans. In all of these cases, there is recognition that one person’s version of “just right” does not necessarily apply to what other’s might think is “just right.” These varying ideas suggest that jeans may be comfortable because they are acceptable in so many forms and contexts:

(A)lmost everything that has just been argued about the comfort of jeans, the practical and the pragmatic, comes not from any intrinsic quality of denim but from what we have designated as out attitude toward denim as a textile and indigo as a color. The decision whether one material or another is best when ironed is again arbitrary, just as it is when an elite considers that linen looks best when creased; it is not a quality of linen (6).

It is not that jeans have some specific trait that make them comfortable, but that over time this idea of comfort has become naturalized: our cultural definitions of comfort have been reinforced time and again by individual use and have become linked to the identity of jeans (7). Comfortable clothing is partly defined by the physical relationship between clothing and the body: how something feels against the skin, for example, can create a positive or negative association. The positive is comfortable, while the negative is not because it disrupts the individual’s ability to fully engage in an activity or event. Ideally, comfortable clothing should not be felt; it should not in any way hamper the individual’s ability to act and should not be something they think about.

To this end, “just right” is as much a state of mind as it is descriptive of a fit or brand or adaptation of denim. There’s a just right for everyone. And because this association has become accepted, seeing someone in denim is implies this idea “just right”—that they’re comfortable and should be accepted. Certainly this becomes apparent when people talk about when they themselves would not wear jeans, but express tolerance for people who would in those situations. For example, Miller and Woodward found that many South Asians in North London claimed that they would not feel comfortable wearing jeans to a religious service, but they would not have a problem if other people did as long as their overall presentation was respectful to the event (i.e., the jeans were not immodest).

Ordinary

“Just right” then has a dual meaning: Yes, it refers to the comfort of the individual, but it also refers to the appropriateness of the situation. Jeans have taken on a uniform status in that they carry a particular connotation of sameness. For certain professions in particular they’re standard wear. While some workplaces have taken pains to ban them on the grounds that they’re inappropriate, but the root of this inappropriateness is this idea of sameness:

To wear jeans when seeing a patient, customer, or member of the public might imply a lack of effort or inappropriate lack of concern. Under these circumstances jeans may be seen either as scruffy or as preventing people from taking the wearer seriously (8).

It is for this reason that jeans haven’t always been viewed as appropriate for more formal occasions—though that is certainly changing as dressier typologies emerge. And it is for this reason people choose jeans when they’re unsure about the nature of the event or what to wear or when meeting people they don’t know well: in this case, sameness is comforting. It is ordinary. The emergence of different typologies of jeans allow for different types of ordinary and different types of comfort as the situation requires. Jeans let you be you because they create a means of feeling equal and included; they provide a way to mediate social pressure without fully compromising comfort (8).

The Global Denim Project

The Global Denim Project” documents additional insights into our relationship with this fabric through the ongoing efforts of researchers around the world, and is a excellent companion to Blue Jeans. Miller and Woodward are promoting this effort as an open-source research project that anyone can contribute to and use. Currently, there are 22 projects that cover denim in South Asia, Italy, and Japan, and look at production and ethics and fashion. It is well worth a look for anyone interested in anthropology in practical practice.

Notes: 1. p 4 | 2. p 57 | 3. p 59 | 4. p 58 | 5. p 66 | 6. p 71 | 7. p 77 | 8. p 119

On My Shelf is AiP’s review series. You can view older reviews here.

Blue Jeans: The Art of the Ordinary was provided for review free of charge by the publisher, with the understanding that there was no promise or obligation to review.

A Roman Feast, Roberto Bompiani late 1800s. The J. Paul Getty Museum, 72.PA.4.

The last time I browsed the cookbook section of a bookstore, the options were dizzying. The present day culinary record of our habits and inclinations is diverse. It reflects the need to both speed up and slow down, have quick meals and lingering dinner parties, and preserve the tried and true and dabble with the exotic. Collections—at least in this metropolitan area—demonstrate a myriad of cultural fusions. What portion of this chronicle will be preserved remains to be seen but it will certainly shape the future understanding of our present relationship to food.

Why is this important? Cookbooks illustrate specific views of foods. When they have been recovered as historical documents, they provide insights into how people ate—or rather, how specific people ate. The sheer volume of health-oriented cookbooks might suggest that we are all health conscious, while actual analysis of our bones might reveal higher instances of diabetes or cholesterol among some members of the population. A recent paper by Kristina Killgrove and Robert Tykot (1) reveal this to be the case with our understanding of the Roman diet: that is, the view we have of Roman diets from the middle Imperial period represents a snapshot of a specific portion of the population. Our primary sources for this period—which include a few cookbooks, as well as mosaics and frescos—were developed primarily for an upper-class audience. For example, the recipes in de re Coquinaria, a cookbook dating to the 4th-century AD, is an exotic mix of recipes that includes the meat from birds, mammals, and fish, in addition to legumes, and fruits and vegetables, most of which would have been costly to acquire and prepare for most of the Roman population.. Coquinaria can be used to paint a rather romanticized version of Roman culinary history when the truth is that 98% of the Roman population was comprised of commoners, slaves, and freedpeople who likely would have had limited access to many food resources (2).

Slaves, for example, lived on rations: about 26 kg of wheat, half a liter of olive oil, and olives, salt, or pickled fish as condiments on a monthly basis, and 42 gallons of wine per year (3). Poor male citizens received a supplement of wheat from the Empire which they would have probably shared with their families, but freedmen and slaves would not have been eligible for this form of state welfare. Domestic slaves probable had different dietary status from agricultural slaves, with the former sharing the same foodstuffs as their owners and the latter having to make do on meagre provisions. Beyond this group, the pattern of variation continues with the common population whose diet included a variety of fruits, vegetables, and meats depending on what was locally and economically available.

But you truly are what you eat: beyond what is written about food consumption in the middle Imperial period, the physical remains of people can add testament to what they ate. Carbon and nitrogen isotope analysis on the skeletal remains from individuals from two cemeteries dating to the middle Imperial period of Rome present a picture of culinary stratification, confirming considerable variety in the quality of foods consumed. Killgrove and Tykot found that people living in the outlying areas of Rome had greater degrees of millet in their diets than the samples analyzed. Millet is easy to grow and maintain, but has a lower status as a grain because it was believed to be used in animal feed or to leaven bread. Yet people for people in an agricultural context, it would have been readily within reach for meal preparation.

The story of the basic Roman diet is told in terms of cereals, wine, and olives. But just as money, time, social pressure and overall access to resources can drive our food choices today, not everyone had the opportunity to participate in the convivium where dinner was as much a show as it was a meal intended to provide sustenance. The emphasis on exotic ingredients were meant to confirm the hosts’ social status. For example, in Petronius Arbiter’s Cene Trimalchionis, the guests are served sumptuous fictional dishes such as roasted pig stuffed with sausages and foods arranged in the shape of the signs of the zodiac (4). Though this idea of dining has become a popular image in relation to Roman dining, we know that it was not the norm.

This emerging picture of Roman diet tells a story that is repeated: not all access to foods is equal and that the record we create, when further refined through time, may not necessarily reflect this access. The overall cost of healthy eating can be prohibitive. Killgrove and Tycot note that while there was heavy trade in foods from different parts of the Empire, the majority of people in this period likely created dishes based on what was locally available to them. In today’s world, this story plays out in neighborhood where access to fresh produce is limited and fast food options are plenty—and are viewed as more economical when you consider the shelf life of fresh produce and the time required for preparation.

Legends maintain Marie Antoinette proclaimed in an offhand way that the starving citizens of France should eat cake to sate their appetites. While historians disagree the phrase can accurately be attributed to Antoinette, it’s been taken as an example of the attitudes of the French aristocracy of the period. French peasants were most certainly not eating cake: they were starving. But the lifestyles of the elite contained little evidence of these hardships. Our food records today could suggest the same sort of flippancy: with their glossy, hi-res photos of “food porn” depicting fresh of vegetables arranged in vibrant dishes, there is little recognition that not everyone is eating this way.

The disparity in the diets between people of different social means has long been a social and political point. What story will our cookbooks tell centuries from now? Will it capture the rise of fast foods? Or will it paint a picture of high-end foodies?

Notes:
(1) Killgrove, Kristina and Robert Tykot (2013). “Food for Rome: A Stable Isotope Investigation of Diet in the Imperial period (1st – 3rd centuries AD)” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology (32): pp 28-38.
(2) pp 28, 34
(3) pp 28
(4) The Roman Banquet,” The Met Museum

he back side of the Magdalena document shows translations for numbers from Spanish to a lost language. Photo by Jeffrey Quilter

Note: This article originally appeared on AiP on December 13, 2010. It won a Research Blogging Award.

It’s hard to imagine that knowledge could be lost today. Technology seems to have put the ability to know almost everything within our grasp. So when researchers announce they “found” a previously unknown Peruvian language, it’s a pretty tantalizing thing. Here is knowledge that we can’t Google. We can plumb the archives and look for clues that might offer answers, but true understanding is not be easily attainable. And in all likelihood, we might have to resign ourselves to not knowing.

In a public-friendly article, Jeffrey Quilter and colleagues (2010) announced in September 2010 that they had uncovered a remarkable find at an archaeological dig in Northern Peru: It wasn’t a funerary mask or ornate pottery or even a mummy, but a page. A letter actually, dating to 17th-century and detailing a minor trade event in the church complex where it was found. It is an interesting artifact by itself that could offer a glimpse into the life of the colonial community being uncovered. However, on the back of the letter someone had scribbled a number list in a previously unknown language, making the page more than just a record of church concerns. Though the list is short, it is enough to help researchers understand that they have in their hands the details of a number system that has not been previously recorded. As the researchers note, the history of the document itself—how and why it was created and then discarded—is tied to larger aspects of Peruvian history. And this history can help us understand the linguistic dynamics of cultural contact—which may be extended in some ways to the digital age.

Many People, Many Languages

The site of Santa Maria Magdalena de Cao is on the North Coast of Peru and provides a glimpse at life in a colonial town. Occupied from the late 16th- to the late 18th-century, the town was a redducion, a Spanish-style town where conquered populations were forced to live together under colonial rule. These towns naturally would have been sites of “mixing”: over time, the meeting of different cultural and linguistic backgrounds would have yielded to new forms of cultural identity with a tendency toward that of the conqueror.

Some form of this sort of “mixing” had been going on well before the Spanish arrived as a colonial presence in South America, particularly at the hands of the Inka (Inca):

A highly complex linguistic and cultural landscape that had been created through millennia of human interactions was still present in the mid-16th-century era of the Spanish intrusion. The palimpsest of societies and tongues owing to historical processes of the rise and fall of empires and movements of people was augmented by a variety of specific cultural practices as well, such as the placing of colonies forcibly, as under Inka imperial policy (Quilter et. al. 2010: 361).

There may have been many indigenous languages in Peru in prehistory that could have have been absorbed after Inkan conquests. For example, between 100 and 800 CE, the North Coast of Peru was home to a culture known as the Moche or Mochica. Given the breadth of the region it is likely more than one language was spoken, but this is not definitively known. The archaeological record tells us that Northern and Southern regions of the Moche subsequently developed into the Lambayeque and Chimu respectively, and the Chimu appears to have conquered or absorbed the former, and gone on to become a rival to the Inka empire. However, contact with the Inka left traces on the Chimu society:

There is substantial evidence to suggest that the Inka actively worked to co-opt or coerce local elites into Inka cultural practices as a means of political control, and it is well known that they also brought the sons of local leaders to Cuzco for training in such practices (Quilter et. al. 2010: 361).

For this coercion to be effective, a common language would be of immense importance. To this end, the Inka helped spread the Quechua language family, a dialect that is widely used throughout the Andes, though they themselves may have spoken another language. The use of Cuzco Quechua would have helped solidify the goals of empire.

Learning to Count

CC, click on image for license and information.

Similar linguistic practices were employed by colonial powers via the Catholic Church to establish the state’s authority. In fact, the Spanish helped spread some version of Quechua themselves to teach the Gospel, and consequently impose Spanish law and order on the local people. Church records suggest that there were at least two but possibly three distinct languages spoken on the North Coast: Quingnam, the language of the Chimu monarchs, Mochica, a dialect spoken along the coast, and Pescadora, the language of the North Coast fisherfolk. It is likely that the fisherfolk spoke a distinct language in keeping with the socioeconomic organization in the region. Within these three languages, there would have been numerous dialects, so it is no surprise that the Church would have worked to reduce the number of languages that they would have had to work with.

The document suggests an attempt to learn the number system of a regional dialect. The author wrote out the Spanish names for the numbers 1 – 3, and the Arabic numerals for 4 – 10, 21, 30, 100 and 200, giving us the following:

• uno-chari
• dos-marian
• tres-apar
• 4-tau
• 5-himic
• 6.-sut
• 7-canchen
• 8.-mata
• 9-yucan
• 10-bencor
• 21. maribencor chari tayac
• 30 apar becor
• 100 chari pachac
• 200 mari pachac

It clearly lays out the system’s combinatory rules, and suggests that by learning this sequence, the rest of the sequence could be filled in. Interestingly, pachac appears to have been borrowed from Quechuan, but the list does not yield any other real linguistic clues about origins. The other numbers are unique and distinct, and numbers themselves function as narrow, repetitive systems within languages.

But we know enough to know what it is not. That is to say, Mochica survived into the 19th-century, and we have word lists that reveal no similarities to the found list of numerals. Records remain also from the Inka, allowing for comparisons and showing no similarities. No trace of the Quingnan and Pecadora languages remain, so they cannot be definitively ruled out. But the one potential connection to Quechuan suggests some point of contact with the larger language family.

There is a possibility that the numbers may be part of a trader’s language within Pescadora. Missionary records make reference to two Pescadora languages, with the possibility of one being a pidgin: a simplified trade language modeled after higher-status language(s), with shared grammatical and semantic features taken from the borrower’s native tongue (365). Pidgins are common in communities with high mobility that are engaged in trade because they help with communication between the two groups and facilitate commerce. The letter on which the numbers were scribbled reference a commercial transaction, perhaps the number system was a note for a potential transaction of its own. But without additional information, this is pure speculation—fun to imagine, but speculation nonetheless.

Language Lost Today?

Hieroglyphic block at the American Museum of Natural History, photo by KD'Costa.

Lost languages are not a think of the past. Globalization continues to absorb languages today, so much so that UNESCO has launched an initiative to help preserve languages in danger of extinction [pdf]. In a program document dating to 2003, UNESCO states:

About 97% of the world’s people speak about 4% of the world’s languages; and conversely, about 96% of the world’s languages are spoken by about 3% of the world’s people (Bernard 1996: 142). Most of the world’s language heterogeneity, then, is under the stewardship of a very small number of people.

Even languages with many thousands of speakers are no longer being acquired by children; at least 50% of the world’s more than six thousand languages are losing speakers. We estimate that, in most world regions, about 90% of the languages may be replaced by dominant languages by the end of the 21st century.

Languages may be replaced as a result of military, economic, religious, cultural, or educational efforts. And immigration itself can play a role in the continued existence of a language. An article from the NYT reports that New York City is home to about 800 languages, such as Garifuna (an Arawakan language that originated with descendants of African slaves shipwrecked near St. Vincent) and Mamaju (Austronesian language), which largely belong to immigrant groups. Immigrants often see language as a way to remain connected to a heritage left behind, to retain and transmit a cultural identity in a new land.

Digital sociality is also helping to create an entire category of “lost” that covers our modes of communication. With the growth of Internet slang and emoticons, which are now widely used in almost all modes of digital communication, language is shifting and changing, and shared elements are arising. Emoticons themselves have a universal element to them—Western and Japanese “happy” emoticons have similarities that make their meaning quite clear. By using these sorts of online symbols we are actively creating a dialect for the digital space.

Not that differing languages are necessarily a barrier to online communication anyway, at least not with Google Translate at hand. Even so, the program only covers 59 languages to-date, including English. Smaller languages, such as Garifuna and Mamaju, already at a loss for speakers, are not represented in linguistic access to the web. However, technology does allow for the preservation of some of these smaller dialects, which are in danger of extinction. The Endangered Language Alliance is working to record as many dying languages spoken by New York City residents as quickly as possible. This audible record can help future researchers—and possibly subsequent generations of former speakers—recreate lost languages.

This lone page demonstrates how much information remains just outside of our reach. While today, “standard” language families will likely be preserved for posterity, there is a great deal of work to be done if the languages of socially peripheral groups are to be recorded. Interestingly, Quilter and colleagues end their article with a note on the need for interdisciplinary work within anthropology to fully appreciate the importance of the discovered page. Given the recent debates concerning the field, it certainly bears repeating as a reminder of how much our understanding is enhanced through cooperative collaboration.

Cited:
Quilter, J., Zender, M., Spalding, K., Jordán, R., Mora, C., & Murga, J. (2010). RESEARCH ARTICLES: Traces of a Lost Language and Number System Discovered on the North Coast of Peru American Anthropologist, 112 (3), 357-369 DOI: 10.1111/j.1548-1433.2010.01245.x

It reminded me of something very important: civic pride should never be underestimated. Every place has a story to tell. Every place is loved. When people settle somewhere and the place becomes steeped with their life stories and informs their collective histories, it has the power to woo you—if you’re willing to listen.

Here’s a look at Cleveland through my eyes:

Built in 1890, The Arcade is a Victorian structure that was also home to America's first indoor mall.

The Free Stamp was created by Danish artists Claes Oldenburg and Coosje Van Bruggen. It was commissioned by Standard Oil Company of Ohio in 1982, and represented a common office supply at the time--a stamp.

Lake Erie is freezing. Literally.

Special exhibit at the Great Lakes Science Center included the mummified remains of a female from 220 BC

Am I moving to Cleveland? Doubtful as my heart already belongs to a City, but every place has a story to tell. When you travel, no matter where, no matter the reason, don’t be afraid to ask questions and allow yourself to see what makes that place home to others.

For more on these places, see the full album on the AiP Facebook page.

These iconic structures are as much a part of New York City's skyline as any famed landmark. But they play a larger role in New York City's history. | 30th Street, between 7th and 8th, 2012.

During the morning rush hour in New York City, tourists stand out as being the ones looking up. It’s possible that they see more clearly what most New Yorkers take for granted: water towers. Those archaic looking wooden structures that grace the rooftops of almost every New York City building play an integral, though often overlooked, part of watering this urban center.

In many parts of the world, if you want water for anything, you likely have to transport the water to your home yourself. This makes taking care of everyday things like bathing, cooking, drinking, or laundry hard. In the late 1980s, when my family still lived in Trinidad, we collected rain water in barrels for the purposes of bathing and laundry (purified water for drinking and cooking came by delivery). As we built up our homestead, large water tanks fed our basic plumbing system and allowed my mom to sparingly run her washing machine—an amazing luxury under those conditions.

Barrels were still commonly used on my grandmother’s farm to collect water for the animals when I went to visit in 2001. The tank water was strictly for indoor use and rationed carefully. (The idea of two showers a day was absurdly wasteful behavior.) Though the farm had been built near a river and at least one pond, over time these resources had been diminished with some of the water being diverted to support rice paddies and overall development.

In the American context of plenty, where water is easily accessible by the simple twist of a knob—and we have enough to supply public drinking fountains and decorative waterworks—we probably don’t give much though to where that water comes from. It’s just there. But if you live in an apartment building in New York City, you have water as a direct result of efforts to clean up the City and increase the well-being of City residents.

Filthy Clean

The story of New York City’s water towers has its roots in the sanitation. The state of being clean is a mark of status. It means that you have the means of accessing water and the tools and aids that allow you to remove dirt and other unsavory elements. This applies to places as well as people, and becomes increasingly important to urban areas as they grow in population and stature. Throughout history there is evidence of people employing waterworks for the purpose of personal and public cleanliness: for example, traces of earthenware pipes suggest that the Minoans had some sort of water carriage system and certainly the Greeks and Romans were known for their pipelines, aqueducts, and reservoirs, some of which fueled elaborate public baths and fountains.

The Great Bath at the Roman Baths in Bath. | CC, Photo by Ludi Ling. Click on image for license and information.

However, at some point in the Middle Ages public bathing fell out of favor. Living in the shadow of the plagues of the time, many people believed that bathing opened their pores to illnesses and began to limit this potential vulnerability, especially when it meant sharing water. Public baths and the waterworks that fueled them fell apart from disuse as people began to distrust standing water. This fear extended to water delivered by the mechanized means of rudimentary pumps as well, which was drawn from heavily trafficked rivers and, admittedly, not the cleanest. Instead, people turned to wells, cisterns, and small streams for water for everyday use.

Variations of these explanations for disease would persist into the 1800s (Pasteur’s work would not be fully accepted until the late 19th-century). The filth theory, for example, held that dirty, unsanitary conditions caused disease. Early cities were often championed as examples of this truth: Lacking the infrastructure for sewage drainage and garbage pick-up, urban areas grew notoriously noxious as the population grew.

Tenement life in New York - Rag-pickers' court, Mulberry Street. (1879) | NYPL Digital Archives, Image ID: 809685.

When the Dutch settled New York City, they found an island riddled with natural streams and waterways. Unfortunately, industry quickly polluted the larger of these, such as the Collect Pond, and when the smaller of these were filled in, like the Canal that gave Canal Street its name, it created severe drainage issues, which resulted in lots of “standing pools of filth in courts and alleys” that filled the air with “nauseous gases” (1). The natural drainage issues were compounded by the poor construction of early plumbing systems. In the 1840s, wealthier New York City households may have had indoor plumbing, which would have included at least one faucet and a water closet of some sort, but drainage systems were still in their infancy: builders buried house drains under cellar floors, rendering them inaccessible for repair or cleaning and preventing proper ventilation. If you weren’t so lucky as to have your own private facilities, then you shared a water tap and privy in a common yard or hall depending on your financial means.

In 1863 a group of wealthy social-minded New Yorkers led by Dr. Stephen Smith founded the Citizens Association of New York, a group focused on public health reform. They sponsored a citywide sanitation survey in 1864 which revealed the unequal sanitary conditions that plagued the City and launched a campaign to improve the access to health benefits for all people. The New York Times says of this report:

Not only have we in this Citizens’ Report a complete sanitary survey, and a body of evidence interesting as it is irrefragible; we have likewise tables, maps, charts, plates, and plans, which, while they attest the liberal spirit of the association, demonstrate also the scientific character of its great investigation. A sanitary and topographical map of the city, prepared by E.L. NIETE, President of the Board of Engineers, illustrates the primitive topography and water-courses of Manhattan Island, the ancient water-lines, the “made ground,” and the old and new distribution of drainage, sewerage, etc. Sanitary charts reveal the precise localities and extent of small-pox and typhus fever. Other charts show the situation, space, surroundings, and proportions of tenant-houses. Sections of wards and streets are presented in explanation of the various reports, while graphic illustrations of localities well known to the police and the medical inspector, but which are a terra incognita to the general public, enable us to conceive, in a measure, the “mysteries and miseries” of an overcrowded population.

Such “mysteries and miseries” included unsewered streets or open, above ground surface drains. This report mandated that sanitation be made a priority and that clean water be made available to all citizens of the City.

In 1865, state legislature passed an act that introduced a general sewage system that took into account the natural water histories of New York City districts when creating drainage lines. Unfortunately, these requirements only extended to unsewered areas; older districts would continue to struggle with sewage issues and access to clean water. This conditions would persist until the 1870s when the formation of Department of Public Works would help remedy some of this, with improvements that included the spacing of house connections to the drainage system as well as ventilated manhole covers, but older brick drains remained hard to repair.

Growing City, Growing Water Demands

By 1880, regulations were in place allowing the Board of Health to oversee the installation of all new plumbing works and maintain that three major drainage principles were upheld: that waste pipes were properly ventilated, that durable materials were used for pipes, and that pipes were laid so that they would be accessible for repair. Just in time: during this period, the City would experience a growth spurt that would drive it northward—and up. As buildings grew taller, to maximize efficiency of piping, plumbing fixtures were stacked vertically, so the bathroom of one floor sat below the bathroom of another. However, as taller buildings were introduced, getting water to residents beyond the sixth floor from the street mains was no longer practical: water pressure became an issue.

Water tower; view of Hotel Paris 1934. | NYPL Digital Archives, Image ID 3984291.

To this end, top floor storage tanks were introduced, which were filled using hand pumps. Top floor tanks shifted some of the burden from the pumps by using gravity. This practice has endured and gives us the basis for the wooden tanks that line New York City’s rooftops. New York City’s water towers are built by just three companies: Isseks Brothers, the Rosenwach Group, and American Pipe and Tank. The design for these iconic fixtures hasn’t really changed in the time since they were mandated to ensure that all New York City residents had access to water. They’re little more than giant barrels that can store between 5,000 and 10,000 gallons of water … which residents use for cooking, bathing, brushing their teeth, drinking, flushing their toilets, and laundry. When the water level drops below a certain level, pumps are activated and the tanks are filled. Wood continues to be used because it’s best suited to being outside—and it’s cost effective. Steel tanks can cost up to four times as much and have considerable maintenance fees (2). Plus, on a summer day, they can get pretty warm pretty quickly. Wooden tanks keep water cool in the summer and prevents it from freezing in the winter.

These wooden giants, though often overlooked, symbolize an important milestone in sanitation and public health history. Not only did they allow the City to grow—both in population and in height—but they demonstrate that a basic human right has been achieved: that clean water is accessible. Perhaps one day, this symbol and all it entails will extend to all corners of the world.

Sources:
Charles, Jacoba. “Longtime Emblems of City Roofs, Still Going Strong.” New York Times, June 3, 2007. Accessed February 10, 2013: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/03/nyregion/thecity/03wate.html?pagewanted=print

Harris, Elizabeth. “Getting Water to New Yorkers Is a Family Business.” New York Times, December 17, 2012. Accessed February 6, 2012: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/18/nyregion/for-3-families-wooden-water-tanks-are-in-the-blood.html?_r=0

Stone, May. (1979) “The Plumbing Paradox: American Attitudes Toward Late Nineteenth-Century Domestic Sanitary Arrangements.” Winterthur Portfolio 14 (3): 283-309.

Notes:
1. Stone (1979): 292.
2. Charles (2007)

Photo by Steven Kay | CC, Click on Image for License and Information.

To mark Valentine’s Day, I’m posting an early piece that originally appeared on the old home of Anthropology in Practice. Hope your connections are everything you hope for today.

A lingering look. A coy smile. Standing just a bit too close. An accidental brush.

Flirtation is an art. It is also a deftly employed social tool. It marks an exploratory, transformative stage—in a first meeting or an existing relationship—when interested parties look toward a tantalizingly unknown future. We flirt to establish a connection, and to gauge the interest of others in reciprocating that connection. While not all flirting is done with the aim of establishing a romantic or sexual encounter, it does help us determine the social investment potential for romantic relationships.

However, flirtation is not without challenges. Communicating and determining romantic interest in social-sexual encounters are often masked by uncertainty—which is actually a key component of flirtation. Both the message and the interpretation are intentionally vague: uncertainty serves to protect the interests and reputations of participants, and adds an element of anticipation that makes the act seem more like a game, prolonging the excitement and extending the mystery of the encounter.

Despite this uncertainty, are there universals to flirting strategies? Does a lingering glance mean the same in all social-sexual encounters? So much of flirting is dependent on non-verbal cues: a glance, a touch, a seemingly casual movement—can these actions really be interpreted differently across cultures and contexts?

Researchers have identified five distinct styles of communicating romantic interest, arguing that the ways a message is communicated is key to the way that message is interpreted (1). The styles are as follows:

• Traditional: In this style, women can signal responsiveness, but men initiate contact and next steps, thereby maintaining gender roles. For example, men are expected to make the first verbal move (e.g., men request the date or offer to buy a drink). Men are expected to lead the interaction once engaged, and make requests for future engagements (2).

Women who are traditional flirts tend to be less likely to flirt with partners and to be flattered by flirting, and may report having trouble getting men to notice them in social-sexual settings. It is a bit of a cyclic effect: Women who are traditional flirts have a limited role in flirtatious encounters, and often have fewer options for attracting a partner (3). Men who fit this category tend to know their partners for longer periods of time before approaching them romantically. They often proceed slowly, developing non-romantic relationships before acting on desires. Overall, individuals who are traditional flirts are introverted and uncomfortable in social settings.

• Physical: The physical style hints at sexual contact through verbal messages. This style often involves suggestive banter, and individuals are more comfortable expressing their desire and sexual interest to potential partners.

Individuals who fit this style claim to be able to detect the interest of others. They engage in private and personal conversation, which they use to establish the possibility of a relationship. Relationships generated by this style tend to develop at a faster rate, and are characterized by more sexual chemistry and emotional connection than the other styles (4).

• Sincere: The sincere style is marked by a desire to create an emotional connection with a potential romantic partner. These individuals look to develop intimacy by eliciting self-disclosure and showing personal interest in a partner, however, this style is not an effective means of communicating sexual interest.

Sincere communicators view the emotional connection as tantamount to the relationship. They are more likely to approach potential partners, find flirting flattering, and to believe others are flirting with them.

• Playful: These communicators view flirting as fun and not tied to relationship development. They enjoy the act itself, and will flirt even in the absence of long-term romantic prospects. Flirting is a self-esteem booster for this group.
• Polite: Individuals who practice the polite style take a rule-governed and cautious approach, exhibiting no overtly sexual behaviors. Individuals characterized by this style are more likely to seek an emotional and sincere connection and less likely to be playful. The challenge of this style is that often the individual’s partner may not think he or she is interested in pursuing a romantic encounter.

These communicator styles provide some insights into how people flirt, but determining meaning, or decoding flirting is a bit more challenging. Flirting is really a context dependent event. Even with these handy communication style charted, researchers are quick to note that humans adopt the strategies that are best suited to their situation and desired level of engagement (5). As a result, the meaning behind flirtatious gestures is personal. For example:

A kiss does not have any primary meaning beyond what the lovers create together, even though an outside observer might ad secondarily to those meanings on the basis of empathy, social knowledge, or memory (6).

Flirtation cannot be defined in any concrete way. Meaning is derived from the sequences in the act—and every response matters. The casually draped arm along the back of the sofa can lie there meaningless until the recipient reclines into that arm. Participants have to continuously indicate interest.

Naturally, these responses may be interpreted differently in social-sexual encounters. Non-verbal cues are most effective when there is a social understanding regarding meaning, however men and women tend to interpret flirtatious behaviors differently. For example, sixty-seven percent of individuals have reported that friendly behavior on their part has been wrongly viewed as a sexual invitation, with women reporting having experienced this misperception more frequently than men (7). It seems that men, more so than women, perceive partners as being more flirtatious, more seductive, and more promiscuous. They impart greater meaning to the act of flirtation. Why?

One possible explanation may be rooted in the evolutionary history of sexual selection. It would be beneficial, and minimally costly, for a man to overestimate a woman’s sexual interest and intent. If he incorrectly deduces that she interested, he doesn’t stand to lose much. However, if he misreads her signs and misses a mating opportunity, he pays a large evolutionary price (8). I find it curious though that women don’t impart as great a meaning to flirting, however. One could argue, in counterpoint to the discussion above, that women might find meaning in flirtatious acts as frequently as men do because it could hint at greater investment from a partner in the long run.

As with so much involving socialness and relationships, there are no hard and fast rules. Flirtation cannot be defined in a permanent way—its fluidity allows partners to create combinations of variation and uncertainty that are meaningful to the context. And that is really part of the appeal:

If the essence of flirtation is being unsure if she will or she won’t then that uncertainty is itself a promise: “Come, play, and we shall see.” Thus understood, flirtation leans forward into an unknown future, not into a timeless eternity where Ideal Forms repeat themselves in endless identity (9).

If you’re a willing participant in a flirtatious exchange, regardless of where it ultimately leads, the meaning that you can surely take from the exchange is that you’re admired. Happy flirting.

Cited:
Hall, Jeffrey A., Carter, S., Cody, M., and Albright, J. (2010). The Communication of Romantic Interest: Development of the Flirting Styles Inventory Communication Quarterly, 58 (4), 365-393 : 10.1080/01463373.2010.524.874

La France, B., Henningsen, D., Oates, A., & Shaw, C. (2009). Social-Sexual Interactions? Meta-Analyses of Sex Differences in Perceptions of Flirtatiousness, Seductiveness, and Promiscuousness Communication Monographs, 76 (3), 263-285 DOI: 10.1080/03637750903074701

Perper, T. (2009). Will She or Won’t She: The Dynamics of Flirtation in Western Philosophy Sexuality & Culture, 14 (1), 33-43 DOI: 10.1007/s12119-009-9060-3

Notes:
1. Hall et. al. 2010: 366.
2. Hall, 369.
3. Hall, 385.
4. Hall, 386.
5. Hall, 367.
6. Perper 2010: 40.
7. La France et. al. 2009: 265.
8. La France, 279.
9. Perper, 39.

CC | Click on image for license and information.

I’ve only been to Disney World once. A few years ago, S and I went for the first time and while I may go back, I’m definitely still recovering. Disney marketing isn’t kidding when they say it’s the happiest/most magical place on earth—it’s intense. And the experience stays with you. The promise of the experience draws lots of people: Disneyland receives approximately 10 million visitors annually (1). And lots of folks are repeat visitors. It may not be for everyone: I know people who absolutely refuse to have anything to do with the magic, as well as some who aren’t comfortable around costumed representatives, but they seem to be in the minority given the volume these places experience. Researchers have suggested that Disney generates a successful experience because our brains are responsive and receptive to art, creativity, storytelling, humor, wit, music, fantasy, and morality, all of which may have been important to social development—and feature heavily in the “Disney experience” in a rather amplified way.

Humans have large brains, which are really expensive to produce. Researchers have not yet determined why our brains are so large, but everything from diet to climate change to social competition to changes in gestation has been proposed. Geoffrey Miller, an evolutionary psychologist, suggested that big brains are a result of sexual selection. He argues that the brain is “an entertainment system that evolved to stimulate other brains” in an effort to attract mates (2). Miller’s “mating mind hypothesis” states

The large size of the brain evolved because mates (in most cases females) favoured a mate (in most cases males) with increased abilities to produce such aspects of culture as art, creativity, storytelling, humour, wit, music, fantasy, and morality (3).

These “courtship tools” are meant to attract sexual partners. However, Miller’s hypothesis is not supported by the actual development of the human brain, which does not display the characteristics of a sexually selected trait. Two of the the major points of divergence that researchers Palmer and Coe discuss are the lack of sexual dimorphism and the actual growth of the brain. Male brains do not significantly differ from female brains:

Although there do appear to be clearly evolved sexual differences in specific parts of the brain directly related to mating (e.g., mate preferences, jealousy), there are no similarly striking differences related to production of and responsiveness to the traits he is attempting to explain (art, creativity, storytelling, humour, wit, music, fantasy, and morality) (4).

And if the brain were a sexually selected feature, it would become more prominent after puberty. This isn’t the case: The human brain weighs about 25% of its adult weight at birth, and it doubles in weight in about 6 months. At puberty, there isn’t another of these types of gains. The brain completes most of its development within the first few years of life.

As an alternative to understanding why specific forms of entertainment are so appealing, Palmer and Coe instead suggest they reflect parenting strategies to influence the behavior of offspring. The “parenting mind hypothesis” proposes that the size of the human brain developed via natural selection in response to parental ability to influence behavior—big brains allowed offspring to store and replicate behaviors modeled by parents that enabled survival and reproduction (5). This latter hypothesis takes into account one possible reason why children develop language skills so early in life: language helps them receive information from their parents, which increases their fitness for survival.

Where does the Disney franchise fit in this discussion? Palmer and Coe propose that Disneyland (which is not Disney World, but the experience is essentially the same, I would imagine: extreme stimulation of the senses) is an extension of the traits that are important to the parenting mind hypothesis:

Although Disneyland and fairy tales in general are often mistakenly seen as mere entertainment, they both clearly provide moral lessons. Pinocchio warns children not to tell a lie. Cinderella tells children that virtue has rewards, and the three pigs teach children about planning and industriousness (6).

They suggest that our susceptibility to these forms of entertainment allow Disneyland—and other forms of art and entertainment—to exist. But I would amend that to say that our potential susceptibility to these traits allows the Disney franchise and other good examples of art, creativity, storytelling, humor, wit, music, fantasy, and morality—such as movies and plays—to be successful because they help us construct (non-sexual) social connections.

One of the things I wish this paper had discussed a bit more was the connection between relationship building and the traits linked to the Disney experience. Art, creativity, storytelling, humor, wit, music, fantasy, and morality may be important elements in the relationships we develop and maintain—not in a sexual sense, but in terms of network building. The researchers touch upon this briefly in their conclusion, and it seems to warrant exploration because it has broad implications in terms of how our social networks are engaged with these traits. When we experience an instance of storytelling or humor or music with someone else, we’re creating a bond through that experience that helps define our places within our network relative to each other. Revisiting these experiences could then be an act of reaffirming ties—which could help us understand why people return to Disney theme parks and other forms of creative entertainment.

Note: This post was pulled from the AiP archives–a version of this post appeared on anthropologyinpractice.com on March 8th, 2011.

Cited:
Craig T. Palmer, Kathryn Coe (2010). Parenting, Courtship, Disneyland, and the Human Brain International Journal of Tourism Anthropology, 1 (1), 1-14 : 10.1504/IJTA.2010.036843

Notes:
1. Palmer and Coe 2010: 2 | 2. Palmer: 2 | 3. Palmer: 3 | 4. Palmer: 4 | 5. Palmer: 5 | 6. Palmer: 10

Okay, love is too strong a strong word. I’ve never quite gotten over the smell of paper and the comforting heft of a much-loved tome, but I’m not quite the reluctant adopter I was a year ago. Still, it seems I’m not alone in making this shift: According to a report from the Pew research Center, the number of readers using e-books increased seven percent in 2012, while the number of readers reading actual print books dropped about five percent.

There are more e-Readers in the wild these days. They’re affordable and convenient. Pew has classified the typical e-book reader (the people, not the devices) as a college graduate between the ages of 40 and 49 who lives in a household with an income of more than $75,000. While that may be the way the data pans our currently, the increasing popularity of these devices suggests that they may spill out of this bracket relatively quickly. As they infiltrate schools in particular, tablets and e-readers are establishing a foothold in American literacy.

So how did I come around on my thinking? There were a few reasons:

• Convenience. Instead of carrying two or three books and magazines with me for my commute, I use my e-Reader. It has about five books ready for reading at the moment, and it has a stash of my favorites in case I want something tried and true.
• Privacy. I can read just about anything on my e-Reader without inviting comment or criticism. Of course, this is also a bit of a drawback too because I lose the basic interaction readers sometimes have with one another: “Oh, hey that looks like a good book” or “I read that too!”
• An awesome cover. This is probably the most important reason, though the one that is superfluous: My cover makes the device look like an old leather-bound volume. It changes the initial experience of the device, which helped soften some of my initial resistance.

Still, I’m likely not going to be a spokesperson for these things anytime soon―I’m just more likely to admit they have their uses. Why is this important to acknowledge? Well, it’s a sign that overall tendencies are shifting, but also a sign that the divisions (print or digital) are blurring. And belonging in one camp over another isn’t necessarily regarding the degree of your intelligence or preferences for technology.

Have you also changed your perception of these devices recently? What swayed you?

Photo licensed under CC. Click on image for license and information.

Sunday afternoons should never be spent in a laundromat if you can avoid it. One of the outcomes of our recent move is that I went from having my own washer and dryer to having a washer that floods the basement and a landlord who isn’t inclined to fixing it. That means I’ve had to spend some time getting reacquainted with coin-operated laundromats—and their particular social nuances.

Clean clothes are a luxury

In places where access to water is an issue, laundry means either bringing water into your home (maybe using buckets or pots) or traveling to a water source. It’s labor intensive and time consuming. And if getting water for laundry is an issue, then it’s also likely an issue for bathing, cooking, and drinking. Given those needs, laundry drops to the bottom of the list as a priority. However, once you can meet those water needs, laundry becomes important because having clean clothes is a sign of social status. It places you within the boundaries of being socially acceptable.

The most basic means of cleaning clothing is to wet them and beat them against a rock. It gets the job done, but doesn’t do much to preserve the life of the fabric. Before indoor plumbing, washboards were fairly common. They were basically a framed ribbed surface that you could rub wet clothes against. It got your clothes clean without reducing them to shreds. But this still meant hours of work—and that was before waiting for the drying to complete.

While washing machines have been around since the late 18th-century, they were largely hand and steam operated, and still required a fair amount of attention from the user. It was only when electric washers began to appear in the early 20th-century, that a more mechanically-guided process became a possibility.

In the United States, the popularity of washing machines rose steadily until the Great Depression hit which put the cost of a washing machine beyond the reach of many people. However, it opened the door for laundromats which allegedly took hold at this time because people who could no longer count on a washing machine, could use the laundromat. Hopeful entrepreneurs purchased washers and began the practice of renting them. Users could deposit coins into the machines to purchase their use for a period of time. Unlike commercial enterprises, which had been around for some time, laundromats were geared specifically to individual users who were solely responsible for the operation of the machine during their rental period.

Following the Great Depression, washing machines were once more pursued as a desirable household appliance. However, the laundromat never quite disappeared. They provide an alternative to having to own your own machines, and put clean clothes within relative reach of many people. Laundromats weren’t just for people without the means of purchasing machines, they provided a degree of convenience.

The code of the laundromat

For most of my early teen years we were renters, which meant that part of my weekend was spent helping my mom do laundry. I hated it. It was two or three hours spent in a space that smelled damp—like a moldy dishwasher—trying not to let strangers see my underwear (I was fourteen; I didn’t want anyone to see my underwear) and making sure no one stole our detergent. My biggest worry was that something would be left behind in the commotion of transferring clothes from the washer to the dryers to the folding tables. And it came true: a favorite blue sweatshirt went MIA during this time, and I’m sure it fell victim to the laundromat. In any case, we bought a house when I entered by midteens and my life took me away from the coin-operated laundromat. Until last month. And it seems the some things have not changed:

• Never, ever, ever go on a Sunday afternoon. Friday nights are bad too, as are late Saturday afternoons. Everyone wants in, and there’s a line for dryers, and double-washers. You’ll have to negotiate or be prepared to aggressively claim the machines you’ll need.
• Children will not be supervised. They’ll run laps around the laundromat, yelling at the top of their lungs. Or they’ll ride in the laundry carts and use them as bumper cars, in which case you’d better be on alert so you aren’t involved in any accidents. They also have a tendency to try to climb into dryers and you’ll run the risk of getting chastised by a harried parent if you say something.
• Protect your underwear. People are watching, particularly if those people are teenage boys who have yet to see lingerie in real life.
• Your detergent matters. Are you bringing your detergent or buying it from the vending machine? What brand are you using? Do you have dryer sheets? Hangers? You will be judged on the brand of detergent you use—and the extras you bring you to the laundromat. These things all change the way you are treated by laundry regulars—and and whether you’ll likely fall victim to laundry fishers who are waiting for your attention to waiver (we’ll talk about them more in a bit).

There is a hierarchy that exists at the laundromat. It’s a complicated system where rank is issued by degree of regularity, products used, and the ability to commandeer as many carts as you need.

Regular patrons know which machines to use and which to avoid. They’re familiar with the attendant and with each other. They may get access to bathroom facilities that others do not. They’ll keep an eye on each other’s machines and supply additional quarters for each other’s dryers (which are paid back) if the owner is not present. They’re the ones to stop bored children from riding in carts or from climbing into dryers—at least without repercussion.

The status of regular patrons is enhanced if they bring their own laundry supplies. It suggests preparedness and efficiency: they’re there to get in and out. And if those supplies expand beyond laundry detergent, that status is enhanced because it demonstrates (1) having the means of obtaining additional supplies and (2) an understanding of how to enhance your laundry experience.

Laundry carts are a form social currency as well. You have to be able to claim at least one or else you’ll not only find it difficult to transport wet clothes to the dryer, but you may find that your laundry supplies vanish when you aren’t looking. The cart gives you a temporary space that you can claim as your own. Within this space, you can store laundry supplies and transport your clothing without worry. The more carts you can claim, the more “space” you can claim, which forces others to find ways to work around you.

Watchful washing

The laundromat also makes public something that has become somewhat private. Personal washing machines and dryers take dirty clothes out of the public eye. Dryers mean that you don’t have to wait for your clothes to dry, but they also mean that you don’t have to air your laundry (so to speak). Whatever you choose to wear, it can be cleaned and dried within the private confines of your home.

Because you are sharing facilities at the laundromat, people may pay more attention to what others have to wash. For example, if someone puts something particularly soiled into a machine, you might not want to be the next person to use that machine. We’re far more aware of the possibility of contamination in this environment; we’re faced with the need to “protect” our possessions to the best of our ability—and that means watching.

But all that watching can leave you feeling exposed. Clothes are public markers of who we are. The ways in which they get dirty can also be telling. As can fabric patterns and qualities. When worn, clothes are a form of armor. However, as limp, sodden pieces of cloth, they can expose our vulnerabilities: blood from a cut, a tear from a fall, and a stain from a harried lunch are all revealing in how we interact with the world.

Contamination and exposure aren’t the only concern. The public nature of the laundromat means that anyone can walk in off of the street and wait for the right opportunity to claim unwatched clothing. Last week a pair of women came in during the bustle of the Sunday afternoon laundry crush and began opening dryers, apparently feeling the clothing inside to see if it was dry. Under the cover of a busy Sunday afternoon, their behavior wasn’t suspicious—until another woman confronted them as they were putting clothes into a laundry bag. They had taken a load of her clothes from the dryer and were preparing to take it with them. “It wasn’t an accident,” explained the laundromat attendant. “Some people fish the laundromat to freshen up their closet.” That is to say, they come in and take a gamble with a load of unwatched clothes. They can redistribute anything that doesn’t fit.

Suddenly as boring as it is to watch the spin cycle, it seems like it might be worth it—if you watch closely enough, you might learn something new about yourself.

Photo by Ferran Jorda. | CC, Click on image for license and information.

Do you have a light?

It’s 10:00 am, and all over New York City, office workers are headed outside. They’ve checked their email, drank their morning cup(s) of coffee, and had their morning meetings. Now they’ll ride the elevators down to the lobbies of their buildings, push the doors open and step outside. And in a corner off-to-the side, either in small groups or (more typically) by themselves with their smart phones to occupy their attention, they’ll light up.

Fifty years ago, smoking was a matter of preference. (Didn’t all the cool kids do it?) Today it’s a vice. Smoking has been moralized; and it has gained a heavy social value that we use to judge smokers and leverage to try alter their behavior. On a daily basis, they’re confronted with advertising and public service announcements that tell them they’ll live longer, reduce the chances of developing certain types of cancer, and increase the quality of life of the people around them if they stop smoking. And while these things may be true, these messages are accompanied with a degree of admonishment. Smokers are chastised through the mechanism of disgust: Wrinkled noses, irritated coughs, and outright dirty looks are signs meant to tell smokers their actions are unacceptable. These social markers form the basis for a shift in public acceptance; they’re a foundation of social stigma, which is the most effective means of social control.

That’s disgusting!

Disgust is an interesting sensation. It may have evolved to help our species determine what to eat. By linking feelings of nausea to certain foodstuffs, we learned what we should avoid and passed that knowledge onto others. But there’s more that goes along with disgust than the sensation of nausea: disgust may begin in the gut, but it’s conveyed through facial expressions and physical distancing.These signals have been appropriated for more than just avoiding unpalatable, inedible, or dangerous foodstuffs: disgust responses have come to be a marker for social rejection. Objects, people, and behaviors can incite feelings of disgust which in turn can effect judgment and behavior.

We learn disgust on two levels. First as members of a larger social order we learn that there are certain universals that are disgusting within our cultural groups and they should be avoided. Then as individuals we determine that there are degrees of tolerance for disgust that relate to personal preference. In both cases, disgust works as a deterrent because its associated signals imply contamination. Disgusting items, people, and behaviors are pollutants in that they can alter the things that they come in contact with and make them disgusting too, changing their status to one of socially acceptable. Disgust provides protection. As a preference, disgust protects the individual’s right to choose. However, once a preference begins to impede on others’ abilities to choose, it can no longer be regarded as a preference. It presents a larger threat to the social order that must be managed.

Revisiting peer pressure.

It used to be that peer pressure had a negative connotation to it—”just because everyone else is doing it doesn’t mean you have to.” Today it’s almost the opposite: precisely because everyone else is doing it (or not doing it), you should too. The often discussed Framingham data is a shining example of this:

In the early ’70s, 65 percent of Framingham residents ages 40 to 49 smoked regularly. By 2001, only 22 percent consumed one or more cigarettes daily. But the smoke didn’t clear at random: Friends and family had a decisive influence. “People quit together,” Fowler says, “or they didn’t quit at all.”

The scientists working with this dataset found that people quit smoking in groups. It was a ripple effect: friends of smokers were 36% more likely to quit if the smoker quit. Smokers went from being fairly equally distributed throughout the Framingham network to existing in isolated pockets. As isolated pockets, smokers are more visible as an anomaly.

In this case, the power of peer pressure is been magnified by the involvement of social agencies that promote smoking cessation. The rising body of data that reveals second-hand cigarette smoke can be harmful for non-smokers clearly casts smoking as a contaminant. Once it had been established that smoking was harmful to more than just the smoker, it became a social imperative to chastise the smoker. A growing body of medical literature and governmental policies are encouraging non-smokers to speak up. That wrinkled nose, that irritated cough, and that dirty look have all been sanctioned as a means of identifying an action that is detrimental to the group. Smoking has been marked as a universally disgusting action.

“Don’t you know that’s bad for you?

How do you know whether something is right or wrong? Do you feel it? Possibly. When you like something, you feel good about it—acquiring it causes you no sense of discomfort. It actually makes you feel satisfied or happy. Similarly, when you dislike something, it tends to make you feel badly. You may feel anxious or nauseas or uneasy. In this same vein, when you “do the right thing,” it generates positive affect in yourself and is confirmed by the positive response of anyone who may have witnessed the act. When you’re doing something largely unacceptable, you likely tend to try to hide it, which increases feelings of anxiety and negative affect—and if you don’t know you’re doing something wrong, the general responses of people around you are a good clue that something is amiss.

The same is true of disgust. Marked strongly by the sensation of nausea, disgust is one of those gut reactions that help make us decisions about right and wrong. Seeing signs of disgust on the faces of those around us tells us something about the acceptability of our actions. Is it no wonder then that smoking is become more of a solitary action?

Smokers are tolerated only if they are in their restricted areas (e.g., outside of the building, around the corner, away from the general flow of traffic), and even then just barely. Many smoke in a way to avoid contact with others (e.g., staring off into space, reading on smart phones, making phone calls). They make their smoke breaks into a busy period when it’s supposed to be a break in part to minimize the responses from others around them because those responses have gained a preference in the social order. At some point in the future, it may be illegal to smoke cigarettes at all. In which case, would we see the rise of Prohibition-type methods of acquiring, distributing, and smoking cigarettes?

Grand Central Station, New York City. | Image by Taraji Blue. CC; Click on image for license and information.

“Left or right?” he asked me as we watched the commuter train approach. A group of people nearby moved into position to line up with the door, all likely thinking the same thing: How do I get a seat? “Left,” I said. “These people are going to go right.” He looked at me for a minute and then nodded. We followed the initial surge in and turned to the left where the smaller seating section of the train is located—sure enough, the bulk of the crowd flowed to the right.

“Nicely done,” he said as we settled into our seats. If only it were that easy—these calls aren’t guaranteed: they’re dependent on time of day, direction of commute, the type of commuter rail car, the length of the station platform, whether there are special events (that cause more people to take the trains), and of course, people themselves. Guesses about crowd behavior aren’t certain—particularly when it comes crowds on the New York City transportation systems—but patterns do emerge with regard to how we move in public spaces. In the case above, the majority of people may have chosen to look for seats on the right because there are more seats in that area (there may also be a preference for “right,” but let’s save that for another day). These patterns are the result of both social “rules” as well as contextual rules, which are formed by the design of the spaces themselves.

New York City’s Grand Central Terminal can easily overwhelm the unprepared visitor. It is an architectural giant—a famed remnant of the Beaux-Arts era of the City that imposes its sense of elegance and struggles to remain timeless even as the City morphs around it. Visitors to Grand Central Station would not be faulted for thinking that the throngs of bodies (up to 750,000 per day) moving through the cavernous space are focused on little but meeting their trains or getting to their appointments. The hustle and bustle that characterizes this space is more than a chaotic scramble to get somewhere, however: Grand Central Station represents an early exercise in New York City’s history to contain and tame the Crowd.

People may joke about the unruly state of traffic in New York City today—with the primary charges often leveled against the bright yellow City cabs that have a reputation for recklessness—but things are far better than they were in the late 19th-century. The maturation of the American railroad in this period created challenges in defining spatial boundaries and maintaining their corresponding social codes. Above-ground rails interrupted the relatively subdued pace of foot-traffic (which, truly, was not so subdued) and forced pedestrians to demand a reconciliation between mechanization and aesthetics. Political support for the latter—couched in terms of safety, modernization, and degrees of preservation—would eventually drive the rails underground, but that still left the site of the depot to be dealt with.

Grand Central Depot c. 1880 | Public domain.

Train depots were meant to manage meetings between pedestrians and machinery, but they were rudimentary in their earliest forms and possessed little means of inspiring a sense of security. In its prior incarnation as a depot, Grand Central was essentially a train yard that marked a meeting point for three rail lines: the New York Central and Hudson River Railroad, the New York and Harlem Railroad, and the New York and New Haven Railroad. The New York Times reported that any visitor to the Grand Central Depot “has considerable terrors, for which ever way the eye turns, a brazen Moloch comes snorting and puffing, ready to crush out the life and hurl away the mangled body of the unwary or the frightened” (1).

Grand Central Depot was meant to physically serve as a transition point for the Crowd, marking a clear departure from the outside and suggesting a shift in behavior was warranted. But walls were not enough to encourage and establish these behaviors:

“One among numerous witnesses attesting to the inconveniences and outrages suffered at the Grand Central Depot stated that the passengers “are passed in like hogs. Just before the train starts—sometimes only ten minutes, the doors are opened and there is a scramble pell mell. Hats are knocked off, people kicked in the shins, trampled on the toes and pushed this way and that. I have seen women treated shamefully in that way. I have known them to be left-behind for two trains after they have been waiting a whole hour, but could not get through the gate” (1).

The problem it seemed was that the interior of the depot did nothing to manage the Crowd—which could resume the same patterns of movement as they did on the street—and believe me, it was just as unruly out there. In the depot, where passengers were confronted with the unbridled power of locomotives, it was necessary to impose some sort of structure to the meeting: the Crowd had to be domesticated.

Between 1899 and 1900, changes were made to Grand Central Depot that were meant to control the flow (and behavior) of the Crowd:

• Circulation and ticketing was centralized rather than being left to each individual rail company which created a definite processual experience.

• A wider passenger concourse was installed, and gates were used to separate the concourse from the tracks creating a concrete transitional space between the street and the trains.

• Immigrants were separated from other passengers which broke the homogeny of the Crowd and reinforced codes of conduct relating to class distinctions.

Grand Central Terminal waiting room, c. 1904. | Public domain.

Each of these changes was meant to remind the people that they were indeed individuals despite their place in the Crowd, and as individuals they still had social roles and responsibilities to fulfill. Moreover, these changes synchronized the Crowd by putting people through the same paces at the same points. But perhaps the most significant change would come from the architectural firm Warren and Wetmore. A deadly collision in 1902 preceded public demand for an even safer, more accessible terminal. Warren and Wetmore won the bid for reconstruction, and the plan they produced included galleries, which added yet another transition area but, more importantly, rendered the Crowd into a spectacle.

This design, which is the one visitors experience today, preserves the Crowd in a central area, providing raised balconies from which there are plenty of opportunities to people-watch. Being placed on display is not lost on the subconscious of the Crowd: what appears to be hustle and bustle are manifestations of many synchronizations happening at once. So what appears to be chaos to the casual observer is actually a play directed by design that makes the Crowd a key feature of the space even as it is minimized by the architectural elements that Grand Central Terminal is known for: the grand ceiling, the large windows, and the deep main concourse. These items add perspective to the Crowd and diminish its psychological power as an uncontrollable mass.

Now, as a commuter I can attest to a resurgence in unruly Crowd dynamics beyond the station terminal—once you’re on the subway or actually in an LIRR car, all bets seem to be off. And I know that several of my friends who travel in-and-out of the Port Authority Bus Terminal can likely report similar experiences once they’re actually on the bus. How can we explain this shift from relative order? Is it that the Crowd is homogenous again, removed from the processes that transitioned its members into this new setting? Does the Crowd then need to be exposed constantly to the pressures of containment? Perhaps, but it is also likely that each context has its own “rules” that govern Crowd behavior—it’s just that in some cases, those rules are more readily enforced by external social and physical factors than in others.

Reference:
Raynsford, Anthony. “Swarm of the Metropolis: Passenger Circulation at Grand Central Terminal and the Ideology of the Crowd Aesthetic.” Journal of Architectural Education. Vol 50 (1): 2-14.

• Liking a status update on Facebook could help reinforce relationships

• and Liking articles and media on the web could help build online reputations

Liking shows that we’re paying attention, and allows us to be recognized as a participant within our networks—regardless of the degree of connectivity we share with others. We Like to be noticed. And over time, our Likes reveal a noticeable pattern to other members of our network that generates a degree of authenticity. (Our Likes are also enticing to data-miners but most people are likely more concerned with the perception held by others within their network than the information that is being collected about them by marketing agencies.) To this end, Liking has grown into a valuable social currency; not only is it important to Like, but it’s also important to be Likable.

The popularity of the Like feature derives in part from the visibility it affords the Liker. But this visibility impacts the poster as well: There is a status to sharing things that are Likable. It positions the poster in-the-know and make them someone to watch. Liking that witty comment confirms the ideas and recommendations of the poster—but with time, it also places pressure on them to maintain that standard of interaction. They’re known for those snarky one-liners during awards shows, or the passive aggressive commentary toward fellow patrons or commuters, or the late night stream-of-consciousness. They’re known for being “in” and on it because they’ve got just the thing to say about breaking news, a particular hobby, or even parenting.

In the realm of online recommendations, there is a certain power to being Likable. It means that people pay attention when you post and that what you post matters. There is a fair share of posts about lunch and walking the dog, but with the rising awareness about the visibility of digital profiles, I’d argue that more posts are curated than we think. And if we’re thinking twice about posting those questionable party pictures (and we are, then we’re also thinking twice about how we’re phrasing some of our commentary—and we’re also thinking about how we dole out those Likes. It’s a lot to think about, but in a space where our relationships depend on what we can offer by way of information and ideas and distractions, it’s an important factor in determining our place within our networks. That is not to say that everyone is in the running to be Likable, but that once Likability is attained—once there is a consistent showing of Likability—it’s hard to give up. Yes, being Likable is addictive: It reinforces our sense of importance in a space where we have to work doubly hard to construct ourselves.

The acquisition of this social currency requires a conscious balancing between tone and content because too much of any one thing quickly becomes boring and unworthy of being Liked. Posters feel pressured to connect the online world with the offline world. They must interject interesting real world experiences—whether it relates to their own life or stems from pop-culture—into their online communications. This paves the way for updates about children, commentary about commutes or office experiences, and musings about product launches, politics, and items on the evening news. It’s new, it’s different, it’s delivered with a healthy mix of wit and sarcasm and genuine concern. Likable posters bear the expectation of being plugged in and representing a human response to events around them. It remains to be seen whether this is an identity that can be resumed. Can the poster still attract Likes after a period of silence? Or is the poster’s authority compromised?

What's inside your medicine cabinet? | Photo by trec_lit, CC. Click on image for license and information.

What story would your medicine cabinet tell about you?

Medicine cabinets are amazing spaces. They can contain a multitude of pills, pastes, syrups, and wrappings that we know we can reach for to manage many types of pain, ailments, and illnesses ourselves. They can provide a window into a person’s well-being—really? you’ve never peeked after washing your hands?—and tell us what works for them. Such forays can give us a basis for making decisions about similar conditions. After all, medicine cabinets house a collection of expertise—all packaged in a way to make them identifiable and trustworthy so that in the absence of a physician, we’re confident of receiving treatment within the promised parameters of healing.

Between 24-hour pharmacies (1) and Web MD, at any given moment we have access to patented non-prescription, or over-the-counter (OTC), medications, and medical information that we are free to weigh and use at our own discretion. We might take this for granted as we reach for that bottle of antacids or pain relievers or cough syrup, but the establishment of non-prescription patented medication represents a significant movement toward access to standardized health remedies. And as discussions about access to health care rage around us in the United States, OTC medication has become for many a primary means of treating ailments. The standard of care in our medicine cabinets is increasingly for many a measure of health

Packaging a Cure

In the video game Assassin’s Creed when you’re in need of medical attention you have the option of visiting a medical stand and purchasing medicine vials meant to completely cure your ailments, whatever they might be. While no such miracle cure really exists, the medical experience in the game isn’t all that far from the reality of health care for much of history. While medical professionals were required to have training, the standard of practice varied—particularly in the 17th-, 18th-, and early 19th-centuries when medical care was dispensed by physicians, doctors, barber-surgeons, and apothecaries.

The advent of the Scientific Revolution and the following Age of Enlightenment saw an explosion of cross pollination between the sciences that allowed doctors to treat illnesses and injuries with greater success. However, during this period and up to the early 19th-century, the odds of a single patient receiving successful treatment from a physician were 50-50 (2). Methods of treatments varied in accordance to superstition, astrology, and religion. For example, the doctrine of signatures maintained that God had provided a natural cure for every illness—as was evidenced by the resemblance some herbs bear to various parts of the body (i.e., liverwort could cure ailments relating to the liver). And ideas about balance were rampant; the prevalence of the theory of humours—that there were four fluids in the body (black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood) that needed to be in balance for good health—encouraged the practice of bloodletting.

In this context, physicians sought to distinguish themselves by patenting their cures, which meant serving them in specific bottles and with particular labels. The more famous of these include Godfrey’s Cordial, Dalby’s Carminative, Bateman’s Drops, Turlington’s Balsam of Life, Steer’s Opodeldoc, British Oil, Daffy’s Elixir, and Balsam of Honey (2). But patents weren’t enough to cement these cures as trustworthy in the minds of the purchasing public. But the longstanding success of these medications was also in part due to their reproducibility. They were easily counterfeited, right down to their packaging—but they were chosen to be counterfeited because they worked. So in a sense, they became public property. You wouldn’t be too far off in thinking of these early counterfeits as generic brand medications. The public trust in the formulas allowed drove the market for patented (and counterfeited) cures in more rural areas where obtaining medical care was a challenge. These formulas in their tell-tale bottles and wrappings placed medical treatment conveniently within reach of many people.

The Essence of Peppermint: A Case Study

The Essence of Peppermint [pdf] provides a useful case study in considering the factors of success, trust, and counterfeiting in creating a standard of care via patented medication.

Image from "Essence of Peppermint, a History of the Medicine and Its Bottle."

Essence of Peppermint is a simple mixture of peppermint oil, water, and alcohol. The addition of peppermint water functioned as a means of enhancing the flavor of treatments like Castor oil. It was also used to alleviate nausea, stomach pains, reduce gas, and relieve headaches, toothaches, and rheumatic ailments (3). In 1762, John Jupiter, a chemist and Westminster-based apothecary, obtained a royal patent that would allow him to prepare and sell essence of peppermint for fourteen years. This patent acted as a stamp of approval in his marketing efforts:

ESSENCE OF PEPPER-MINT By his Majesty’s Royal Letters Patent, Is now well known to give speedy relief to cholicky and gouty pains in the stomach and bowels, in the sea sickness, in Teachings from other causes, and in all disorders arising from wind; multitudes of infants as well as others, are daily relieved from its grateful, cordial, and stomatic effects, which are not equaled by any other medicine.

Prepared and sold by J. Juniper, chemist and apothecary, in Dean Street, near Gerrard street, Soho. in stopper bottles 3s and vials Is each, and is by him appointed to be sold by Mr. Oldham, chemist, in the Hay-market; Mr. Churchill, chemist, in the Stand; Mess. Vernor and Charter, booksellers Ludgate-hill; Mr. Wilkie, St. Paul’s Church yard, at the Rainbow coffee house, Cornhill; by Mr. Grey, chemist, in Bishopgate street without, near Spital-square; and Mr. Biddle near Whitechapel-bars (The Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser 1767:3). (4)

Five years later, Jupiter would introduce an embossed vial with the words “King’s Patent” and a specific wrapping, which when combined with the green colored cure contained within established the Essence of Peppermint as a recognizable cure.

The simplicity of the formula, however, ensured that it would not remain proprietary. Jupiter’s marketing efforts took medication beyond the shores of Great Britain. With the promise of relieving sea sickness, these small vials traveled to North America, where they were essentially removed from his association by virtue of distance. With time, the distinctive bottles, complete with the King’s Patent embossing, and their wrappings were produced in the United States, further removing Jupiter from the manufacture and sale of the Essence of Peppermint. The small variations that resulted in the packaging—i.e., font types and sizes—didn’t dilute the popularity of the medicine. The similarities were enough to help maintain the brand and help establish subsequent versions of Essence of Peppermint as a standard that could be trusted.

This particular presentation for Essence of Peppermint lasted for 120 years. The vials consistent physical appearance in the archaeological record has allowed them to be tracked to various military and trade contexts, suggesting that they were purchased for personal use as well as gifts (5). For example:

At both Fort Beausejour/Cumberland in New Brunswick and Fort Coteau-du-Lac in Quebec, there were long periods of time when these posts were manned by only a small detachment of men which would not likely have included a regimental medical person. Under such circumstances an easily administered, simple remedy like Essence of Peppermint may well have been a logical type of drug or medicine to have with the detachment.

In the late 18th-century and into the 19th-century, essence of peppermint was also specifically listed among the medicines carried by trading companies such as Hudson Bay Company, the Northwest Company, and the American Fur Company suggesting that Essence of Peppermint was widely known and a popular sale item. Its popularity may have also extended its medicinal properties beyond its originally advertised purpose.

OTC as a Primary Means of Care

The United States is home to roughly 312 million people. And 50 million of those people are without health insurance. A very public and accessible story about the lack of health insurance and the reliance of OTC medications comes from marine biologist and science writer Kevin Zelnio, whose son was hospitalized earlier this year with pneumonia. Zelnio discusses a reliance on patented OTC medicines and a shift in behaviors to help keep his family healthy:

That was until my eldest started kindergarten this Fall. Now he is frequently at home for a few days with colds or mild flus. Still it’s nothing that popsicles, Dimetapp and a bunch of TLC can’t take care of. I work from home as a consultant and writer, so it didn’t bother me too much if and when I get infected, plus I am there to help my family when they fall ill.

But recently my mindset has become affected by our position. I tell my kids not to do things that I certainly enjoyed doing as a kid, like don’t climb high on trees, run a little slower on the trail, watch out for roots and stones! It’s not just the usual parental concern either. I’m consciously thinking “oh my god, I cannot afford to fix them if they get broke!”.

Zelnio’s story has a happy ending: his son makes a full recovery … and he moves his family to Sweden.

But Zelnio is not alone in his reliance on OTC medications. Jonathan Cohn’s Sick documents the stories of Americans who are increasingly unable to pay for prescription drugs and regular check-ups. Stories like that of the Maldonados—who lost their health insurance and then found that Medicaid was unable to cover their medications and so began rationing their prescriptions—are common throughout the book. They rarely have happy endings: Ernesto Maldonado dies of a heart attack because he cuts a blood thinning medication. Reduced access to health care and prescription medications often forces people to seek alternative care. For these people, the means to self treat may not necessarily represent a cure, but it does present a degree of power. However, that sense of power may be a false one.

Patent medication placed remedies within reach for people who had no knowledge of how to prepare medicines or lacked access to the necessary plants and other ingredients to produce the remedies themselves. And it is is often to these means that people return to when medical care is just beyond their reach. But in the event of serious illnesses, it’s unlikely that OTC medications will be enough.

How likely are you to turn to your medicine cabinet before seeking professional medical attention? Where do you get medical information when you need it—your mom, friends, the Internet? And how do you weigh when the contents of your medicine cabinet aren’t enough?

Old remedies. | Photo by Tadson, CC. Click on image for license and information.

Notes:
1. In New York City, at least. | 2. Jones 1981: 2. | 3. Jones 1981: 4. | 4. Jones 1981: 7. | 5. Jones 1981: 26-31.

References:
Cohn, Jonathan. 2007. Sick: The Untold Story of America’s Health Care Crisis—And the People Who Pay the Price. New York: Harper Perennial.

Johns, OR (1981). Essence of Peppermint, a History of the Medicine and Its Bottle. Historical Archaeology, 15 (2), 1-57 PMID: 11632091

Miles, Ann (1998). Science, Nature, and Tradition: The Mass-Marketing of Natural Medicine in Urban Ecuador. Medical Anthropology Quarterly, 12 (2), 206-25 PMID: 9627923

“Approximately, 75% of US libraries lend e-books but 62% said they did not know if their library offered that service. Some 22% say they know that their library does lend out e-books, and 14% say they know their library does not lend out e-books.”

There are also issues with compatibility—not all e-books work across all devices. Titles may not be available and there may be long wait lists. These factors may contribute to the larger tendency to purchase e-books, but the nature of e-readers themselves and the environment of e-reading may also encourage different sorts of behaviors.

Let’s start with the last book you read: How did you find it? Of the readers surveyed, recommendations from family members, friends, or co-workers topped the list (64%), followed closely by recommendations from online sources (28%), and recommendations from bookstore staff (23%). Only 19% reported getting recommendations from libraries or library websites.

People’s reading choices, then, seem formed by input from a variety of sources. And the library is a repository for reading material, and less of an interactive space. But back to the last book you read, for just a minute—where did you get it?

Forty-eight percent of American book readers (in any format) purchased the last book they read. But book buying is certainly a privilege: The people most likely to have gotten their most recent book from the library were those earning $30,000 or less, and those specifically in limited income brackets such as teenagers and older adult. In addition, non-tech owners (people who don’t own tablets, e-readers, or cell phones, or have Internet access) were more likely to visit the library for books than tech owners.

E-book readers in general are more likely to get book recommendations from online sources, such as online bookstores and websites. These environments encourage immediate purchases, and tend to have a wider selection of materials available.

While online recommendations provide the benefit of aggregated comments, though they raise the question of how to vet those comments and weigh the raters. To this end, adoption of social bookshelf apps and the social integration of many consumer sites that allow users to share purchases and preferences, move recommendations from family members, friends, and co-workers to online spaces.

Personally, I’m a browser. I rely less on personal recommendation, and I tend to focus on authors and genres I enjoy. How—and where—are you getting your books?

*A report from Pew Internet indicated that tablet and e-reader ownership doubled following the 2011 holiday season, making them a “must have” gift for adults.

Image by Simon Davies, CC. Click on image for license and information.

Ed note: A version of this post originally appeared on AiP on Sept. 20th, 2010.

While the primary purpose of stamps has been to pre-pay for the transportation and delivery of mail, postage has helped preserve histories around the world. The world’s first postage stamp was the Penny Black invented by Sir Rowland Hill, founder of the Penny Post. It was issued in 1840 by the United Kingdom, and depicted a young Queen Victoria. Seven years later, in an effort to modernize the American postal system, the Benjamin Franklin, 5-cent stamp was issued. Franklin, the first American postmaster, was selected for the image over the recently deceased Andrew Jackson—in part, because he would be recognized as a unifying figure between the conflicted states.

Kristi Evans (1992) has a nice study that demonstrates how this type of cultural record can tell us about Polish history. Evans discusses unofficial stamps that were created by the outlawed Solidarity union, which presents a particular snapshot of Poland in the 1980s.

Solidarity positioned itself as representing the desire of the Polish nation (the people) to oppose the state (recognized as “Eastern, alien, despotic—as in a word, Russian”) (Evans 1992: 751). The stamps often included imagery suggesting sacrifice on the part of the nation in enduring the state. They highlighted events that could take on huge symbolic import for the nation and become integral to identity—a shared national memory remembered through the printing and use of stamps.

For example, in Poland in 1940 Soviet secret police murdered Polish nationals in the Katyn Forest. The order was based on a proposal to execute the Polish Officer Corps, and some 22,000 people were killed. This event came to be known as the Katyn massacre. Evans describes some of the Katyn stamps in her research (1992: 754):

A. The word “Katyn” alone, constructed from crosses.
B. “Katyn,” with a forest and the emblem of the Soviet Union.
C. “Matka Boska Katynska” (Madonna of Katyn) with crosses in a clearing. A box in the upper lefthand corner of the stamp frames the picture of a weeping mother and child.
D. “Katyn,” with a stylized drawing of a person standing like a cross and weeping.
E. “Katyn,” with a gun pointed at the head of a blindfolded man.
F. “Katyn,” with white candles (against a black background flickering in a triangular formation.
G. “Katyn 1940,” with a prominent red star, a skill wearing a Polish military cap, and the exclamation “[We remember!!!]” written in red and stylized graffiti.

The images evoke a sense of “betrayal and sacrifice,” and in connection with Polish history create a very specific point of identity:

By grounding Poland’s defining events in a particular space, representations by place creates a geographically situated consciousness of history and “Poland.” Poland is defined in opposition to Russia, to the Soviets, and to the Communists, and all three are collapsed into the Katyn image (Evans 1992: 756).

Stamps helped transmit these ideas via circulation, and ensured their longevity as collectors preserved them for posterity. In owning stamps, people claimed a certain connection to the nation and to a shared history. This is a particularly salient point given that the majority of Solidarity stamps were unofficial and not used to circulate mail:

In collecting underground stamps, individuals can appropriate for themselves the subversive images of the imagined community and locate themselves within a community partially defined by the circulation of these images (Evans 1992: 750).

This sense of sharedness, this connection, can help us understand the significance of certain events as experienced by nations and the ways in which they choose to represent themselves. This is evident in the American postal stamp history: a survey of the stamps displayed by the American Art collection highlights advances in transportation, communication, and industry, as well as achievements in the arts and sciences.

In addition to national social commentary, stamp choices can tell us a lot about the individual, as well. Choosing Katyn-themed stamps aligns the individual with Solidarity. But stamps can also tell us about the everyday interests of the individual—from baseball to cars to movie stars to cartoons, there are stamps to match hobbies and passions and past times. While using a particular stamp might not correlate with whether that person played sports or drove a Formula 1 racer, it can tell us about what appeals to an individual. Finding an old shoe box with envelopes bearing canceled stamps can provide a lot of information about the public and private histories of an individual:

Stamps, which are the basis for the circulation of correspondence, facilitate communication while simultaneously expressing certain ideas and emotions through their own imagery (Evans 1992: 750).

Stamps may face an uncertain future as we move increasingly toward digital means of communication. Snail mail may never be entirely eradicated, but there may be less of a need for decorative postage as time goes by. It will be interesting to see whether stamps take on purely a symbolic role, or if they are destined to be removed as cultural currency entirely.

Cited:
Evans, K. (1992). The Argument of Images: Historical Representation In Solidarity Underground Postage, 1981-87 American Ethnologist, 19 (4), 749-767 DOI: 10.1525/ae.1992.19.4.02a00070

Blogging is a selfish endeavor, a desire to be heard. Blogging is insisting you have something to say. Blogging is saying come here, come here and respond and tell me that at least some of what I am saying means something to you.

Over the years, in the tradition of It’s Not Exactly Rocket Science’s Ed Yong, I’ve called for Readers to delurk a few times, and I’ve gotten to know some of you quite well. I’ve shared moments of frustration and embarrassment and joy excitement with you. We have traversed a range of experiences together.

When Scientific American invited AiP to join the network, it was an opportunity to explore these experiences with a larger audience. So on this first anniversary of the Scientific American blog network, along with my fellow SciAm bloggers, I’m inviting you to tell us your stories. Borrowing from Ed Yong and DrugMonkey, we’ve compiled the questions below:

• Tell me about you. Who are you? Do you have a background in anthropology? If so, what draws you here? And if not, what brought you here and why have you stayed?

• Tell someone else about this blog and in particular, try and choose someone who’s not a scientist or anthropologist but who you think might be interested in the type of stuff found in this blog.
  Ever had family members or groups of friends who’ve been giving you strange, pitying looks when you try to wax scientific on them? Send ‘em here and let’s see what they say.

• Do you have a favorite AiP post? Or what topics have most interested you?

• How did you find me? Do you regularly follow AiP, through Twitter, Facebook and/or other beyond-RSS mechanisms that you may use to corral your information stream?

So come on, Readers. Say hello and tell me about yourselves. And long time Readers, I want to hear what you’ve been up to recently. You can reach me in the comments below, on Twitter (@krystaldcosta), on Facebook, or even (gasp) Google+ (though G+ is admittedly the worst way to reach me).

Hailing a cab or waving hello? Gestures are defined by culture and context. | CC. Image by Willy Volk. Click on image for license and information.

New Yorkers are hand talkers. We often use gestures to add emphasis to our conversations; from pointing to direct tourists, or waving to demonstrate our exasperation with traffic, drivers, or pedestrians, or trying to interject—because New Yorkers don’t interrupt!—we gesticulate. We’re not the only people to do this, of course—gestures are an integral part of language.

Arbib, Liebal, and Pika (2008) believe that gestures, via pantomime and protosigns, may have played a large role in the emergence of vocalization (protospeech) leading to the development of protolanguage (1054). Their hypothesis is based on the structure of the brain, specifically a mirroring of structures in the brain: near Broca’s area, a region of the brain said to be involved in language production, is a region “activated for both grasping and observation of grasping” (1053). The proximity of a grasping region to a language region is intriguing. Individuals who have suffered damage to Broca’s area have difficulties with language production. They can often understand others perfectly, but they have difficulty responding in all but the simplest of ways. Arbib and colleagues suggest that because damage to Broca’s area also impedes the emergence of signed languages as well, the region should be understood in relation to multimodal language processes and not just vocalization. They believe this creates a strong case for understanding the place of gestures in the evolution of language.

Gestures are common to many species of monkeys and apes, however, usage seems to vary between captive and wild groups. For example:

• Siamangs have demonstrated at least 20 different tactile and visual gestures in captive groups (1).

• Approximately 10 different gestures have been reported for wild orangutans and 30 have been described for captive groups.

• Captive gorillas use at least 30 different tactile, visual, and auditory gestures—but little is known about their gestures in the wild.

• Chimpanzees also have a large repertoire of gestures in captivity, with about a dozen having been recorded in the wild.

These numbers refer to entire populations. Within the group, an individual’s use of gestures depends on age, sex, and rank. There are also group-specific gestures, such as:

“Offer arm with food pieces” in orangutans, “arm shake” in gorillas, and “punch” in bonobos are examples reported from captive groups, while “leaf clipping” and “grooming hand clasp” are described as group-specific gestures in wild chimpanzees (1057).

Small, stable groups tend to have less intra-group variability than large, socially complex groups. Larger groups tend to have greater variability between members, requiring greater variety and variability in communicative means.

The higher number of observed gestures in captive groups also hints at an ability to learn (2). Basic forms of gestures and communication seem to be genetically preprogrammed (e.g., “chest beat” has been reported for gorillas that had never seen other gorillas). A process called ontogenetic ritualization may explain how gestures are learned—”a communicative signal is created by two individuals shaping each other’s behaviors in repeated instances of an interaction over time,” allowing behaviors to become signals (Arbib, Liebal, and Pika 2008: 1058). The example the authors provide is the “arm rise”: a stylized gesture that chimpanzees use to signal that they are about to hit each other and initiate rough-and-tumble play (3). Gestures are also used referentially, indicating that they can be intentionally deployed to manipulate or direct the actions of others. Captive chimpanzees, for example, use the “directed scratch”: a loud and/or exaggerated scratching motion to indicate where the grooming partner should focus attention (1057).

This discussion supports the criteria by which gestures are judged to be language:

whether they are used intentionally or are side effects of emotional states

whether they are flexible

whether they have an inherent meaning or whether the meaning is conveyed by social context

whether they are inherited or learned

whether they are used referentially

These criteria allow us to compare gestural communication between apes and humans. Referential gestures (or triadic gestures) begin to appear in prelinguistic children at around the age of 12 months. But even before this stage, children may demonstrate dyadic gestures, which direct attention to the actor. Chimpanzee infants begin to employ gestures around the age of 9 to 12.5 months, however, with few exceptions the majority of gestures used are dyadic. Attempts to teach apes to speak have not been very successful. Kanzi, a bonobo who spent the early years of his life observing his mother while she used a computerized keyboard, remains a rare success story. He learned many of the symbols (lexigrams) that his mother had not likely through exposure, which is similar to the way in which children learn to speak. They pick up on patterns from the behaviors of adults around them. His ability to understand English compares to a 2-year-old human child: He is able to combine two or three lexigrams or a lexigram and gesture, and order items (Arbib, Liebal, and Pika 2008: 1060).

His success aside, apes generally acquire symbols at a much slower rate when compared to human children. And despite being able to combine signs, the authors report that apes have not demonstrated the ability to employ syntax, which is key to language. The authors believe that gestures may have facilitated the transformation of imitation into communication, arguing that

the increased use of the hands in apes compared with body postures and facial expression in monkeys might be due to a shift from facial expressions (under less voluntary control) to more manual gestures (under voluntary control) over the course of evolution. Therefore, manual gestures may have played a role in the common ancestor of apes and humans as well (Arbib, Liebal, and Pika 2008: 1061).

Manual gestures would have enhanced our ability to communicate, and possibly had an effect on vocalization as well (e.g., inflections that accompany certain motions) that would have added nuances to communication. Crossing ones fingers, for example, drives home the fervency of hope for some people. A raised index finger can convey the triumph of victory. And a shrug can signal despondency, uncertainty, or hesitation. Gestures mean something because we define them, so they reflect our nuances. This happens on all levels from the larger social order to the individual with personal motions that are a part of our personality. In this way, the smallest motion can have meaning as long as we agree on it.

Notes:
(1) Gestures can be arranged into three categories, depending on the way in which they are received and interpreted: auditory gestures use non-vocal sounds (e.g., clapping or using external objects to make noise), tactile gestures include physical contact with the recipient, and visual gestures are signs that have no physical contact (Arbib, Liebal, and Pika 2008: 1056).

(3) Hitting is a normal part of play. The gesture signifies that the subsequent action should be regarded as play and not aggression, and sets the tone for an appropriate response.

Cited:
Arbib, M., Liebal, K., & Pika, S. (2008). Primate Vocalization, Gesture, and the Evolution of Human Language Current Anthropology, 49 (6), 1053-1076 DOI: 10.1086/593015