Grad Student Profile

Addressing Latinx Social Inequality in Later Life

grandmother and granddaughter holding hands

Americans are aging, but the experience of retiring is far from equitable. The dream of an adequate pension or retirement fund, and of residing in an age-friendly community, seems increasingly inaccessible for many historically marginalized older Americans. What does aging look like across the spectrum of older Americans, and what does it specifically look like for Latinx older adults? 

For this Q&A, Julia Sizek, Matrix Content Curator and a PhD Candidate in the UC Berkeley Department of Anthropology, spoke with two graduate students from UC Berkeley — Isabel García Valdivia and Melanie Z. Plasencia — whose research examines what aging looks like for the Latinx communities in the United States, particularly in California, Mexico, and New Jersey.

Isabel García Valdivia
Isabel García Valdivia

Isabel García Valdivia is a PhD candidate in the UC Berkeley Department of Sociology whose research focuses on the life course of Latinx immigrants and their families in the United States, focused on California and Mexico. Her 2020 paper, “Legal Power in Action: How Latinx Adult Children Mitigate the Effects of Parents’ Legal Status through Brokering,”published in Social Problems, received student paper awards from the American Sociological Association’s Latino/a Sociology Section and the Society for the Study for Social Problems’ Youth, Aging, and the Life Course division. The paper discusses how children of immigrant parents broker, or liaise, on behalf of their parents, and how citizenship status affects their success in navigating legal and financial institutions.

Melanie Z. Plasencia
Melanie Z. Plasencia

Melanie Z. Plasencia is a PhD candidate in the UC Berkeley Department of Ethnic Studies who examines the role of social support and place in shaping the health and well-being of older Latinx people, in order to improve older immigrants’ social, economic, and health conditions. Her research on how older Latinxs envision an age-friendly environment was published in The Gerontologist: “Age-friendly as Tranquilo Ambiente: How Socio-Cultural Perspectives Shape the Lived Environment of Latinx Older Adults argues that social and cultural elements must be considered when constructing “age-friendly” communities for older Latinxs. A second publication, “‘I don’t have much money, but I have a lot of friends’: How Poor Older Latinxs Find Tangible Support in Peer Friendship Networks,” will be published in Social Problems and was awarded Second Place in the Emerging Scholars Poster Competition at the International Conference on Aging in the Americas (ICAA) in 2017. This article demonstrates how older Latinx peer networks are an important source of support, as they take into consideration the limitations of the aging body and affirm their intersectional identities as Latinxs, as immigrants, and as older adults in the United States. Her research has been supported by the Ford Foundation and Dartmouth College, where she resides as the 2021-2022 César Chávez Predoctoral Fellow. She is also presently the student representative for the ASA section on Aging and the Lifecourse

Q: How did you decide that aging is an important part of the immigrant experience, and that you wanted to study this particular lifestage?

 

Melanie: I have both a personal and academic investment in the fields of race, ethnicity, and aging. I was raised by my grandmother and her group of friends, who were foreign-born immigrants from Latin America and the Hispanic-Caribbean. Witnessing my grandmother’s and her friends’ experiences as older persons really clued me into the realities that older adults face, and some of the ways that we can better support them. 

However, it wasn’t until college that my mentor, Professor Ulla Berg, recommended that I turn my personal interest in aging into academic study. Since then, I have been focused on understanding the experiences of older foreign-born Latinxs and how they adapt to growing old in the U.S., especially under extreme duress and hardship. From my research, I’ve uncovered significant needs within the older Latinx population that researchers should pay closer attention to. A majority of older Latinxs worked in jobs that did not afford them an adequate pension or retirement. If they do qualify for federal aid, it is often a very small amount that does not meet their basic standards of living, especially in areas where gentrification is presently taking place and housing and other basic necessities are continually on the rise. It has been reported that 42% of married couples and 59% of unmarried older Latinxs relied on federal aid for more than 90% of their income to survive (Social Security Administration 2017), but this does not capture the experiences of those who do not qualify for institutional support. The number of older undocumented Latinxs is expected to increase in the next 20 years, and this population will be in need of health insurance and other modes of support for their survival as well (Ro, Hook and Walsermann 2021). (The Elder Index is a helpful tool to learn more about what older adults would need to cover housing, healthcare, transportation, food and other miscellaneous items in different geographical areas across the U.S.)

Isabel: Similar to Melanie, I have an academic and personal interest in learning more about the aging process of Latinx communities. In particular, I am interested in learning how the racialized United States immigration regime impacts immigrants’ lives across the life course. My academic interest in studying Latinx aging experiences stems from interviews with past research participants. In some of my research, I work with mixed-status families, whose members include a combination of legal statuses; specifically, I refer to the subset of families with at least one undocumented member. In my study, parents I interviewed expressed their concerns about accessing critical support like healthcare and financial security as they aged without an immigration status. Individuals need an immigration status to access federally funded safety nets. Similarly, their adult children highlighted how they expect to take care of their undocumented aging immigrant parents with little support from traditional safety nets, such as Medicare and Social Security. 

A little-known fact is that immigrants, including undocumented immigrants, were not always barred from safety nets due to their immigration status. Undocumented immigrants began to be excluded from federally funded safety programs starting in the 1970s with the Old Age Assistance program, now known as Supplemental Security Income (Fox 2016). In recent years, access to safety nets has diminished for legal immigrants, too.

At a personal level, I am the daughter of immigrants and I feel responsible for reducing barriers for my parents and improving their aging experiences. They are still young, but they have worked physically and mentally straining jobs that impact their aging experience. This influences my interest in learning more about aging and the factors that impact immigrants’ experiences.

Q: Both of you spent significant time in the communities where you worked, conducting interviews and ethnographic research. Discuss what your research methods were, and how this kind of ethnographic attention differs from how aging is typically studied.

 

Melanie: Typically, research on older Latinxs has been quantitative, using rich datasets from population-based surveys that measure the health and well-being of older Hispanics/Latinxs, such as the Hispanic EPESE and the Health and Retirement Survey (HRS). However, as stated at a recent virtual talk by gerontologist Professor Deborah Carr, immigrants on average only make up about 15% of these analyses. Isabel and I are offering a qualitative examination that focuses specifically on older Latinx immigrants in the U.S. (in my case) and binationally, via Mexico and the U.S. (in the case of Isabel’s work). 

Isabel: The EPESE and HRS are well-known as exceptional for understanding U.S. aging experiences, but they also have limits. For example, the HRS is nationally representative and oversamples the Latinx population, yet given the migration histories and patterns of different Latinx ethnic immigrant (or foreign-born) groups (e.g., Mexicans, Central Americans, Cubans, South America), the samples are still small. Many Latinx immigrants migrated to the United States after 1965, and these datasets are just starting to sample these cohorts. These older adult cohorts have also come to the U.S. in an era when greater restrictions have been imposed on immigrants’ access to safety nets.

Because the people I interview include undocumented older adults who may feel more vulnerable if they self-identify, trust is key. I conducted semi-structured, in-depth interviews with participants in California, and with migrants who have returned to Mexico. To create trust and to learn more about these communities, I had to build trust by volunteering at organizations at churches, and by making connections one-to-one with respondents. This meant showing up at their coffee meet-up locations where older adults gathered to drink coffee, socialize, and play games in a local store that provided outdoor tables, chairs, and benches and helping when asked to. It also gave me a lot of insights beyond what the research participants shared in the interviews. For example, I heard more stories about their day-to-day interactions with family members and struggles with bureaucracy. Since the initial interviews in spring/summer 2019, I have reinterviewed some of them, am still interviewing others, and some have reached out to check-in. It has been a very insightful experience.

Melanie: My work differs from how research on aging typically has been studied in a few different ways. I use my interdisciplinary training to conduct research that uses an intersectional approach. For example, key considerations for my research are the role of race, ethnicity, gender, class, immigration status, and disability in relation to the lives of older Latinxs. I see my work as building critical connections across the fields of Latinx Studies, gerontology, and sociology. While Latinx Studies has called attention to the importance of community formation and pan-ethnicity among Latin American immigrants in the U.S., we know little about what community means for older Latinxs. In sociology, there is an emphasis on older adults and inequality, but the work on older Latinxs has been largely limited, and in gerontology there is increasing demand for more research on the needs and experiences of older immigrants broadly. I see myself as an interlocutor between fields and between the academic institution and community. My training in Ethnic Studies, for example, makes it so that much of my work is grounded in being among the community and learning from participants as collaborators, with collective goals to create better living environments for poor, historically marginalized older adults on their terms (for example, based on the concept of tranquilo ambiente, which I describe in my manuscript as a concept developed by my participants to describe what an age-friendly community should encompass), and to push for better local and federal solutions that improve their livelihoods as they grow older. 

Q: How does immigrants’ legal status affect their ability to access social services and benefits as they age?

 

Isabel: It is complicated. In short, lacking an immigration status (i.e., being undocumented) bars immigrants from accessing most federally funded safety net programs. This is purposeful and is embedded in current immigration law. Exclusions also apply to legal migration. For example, at the time of applying for permanent legal residency, individuals (regardless of age) must provide an affidavit of financial support from a U.S. citizen or legal permanent resident (usually a family member or friend) to immigration officials and are barred from using federally funded safety nets for at least five years following their arrival in the United States. 

However, given the distinction between federal, state, and local governments, some jurisdictions allow immigrants to access some forms of care and safety nets. For example, under its program Health Program of Alameda County (HealthPAC), California’s Alameda County provides affordable healthcare to low-income, uninsured people living in Alameda County, regardless of immigration status. This helps immigrants of all ages, including older adult immigrants.

The main institutions of support for older adults are Social Security and Medicare, which are federally managed and are essential sources of support for aging low-income workers. Undocumented immigrants are ineligible for most federal public benefits, including Medicare and Social Security.

Melanie: Isabel’s description is spot on. It is complicated both federally, but also by each state. In New Jersey, undocumented immigrants use Charity Care, which is also for low-income and uninsured people. However, Charity Care might not cover all of their medical services and needs. For example, one undocumented woman I interviewed had become deaf in one ear and was in need of $850 dollars to complete the purchase of a hearing device, which was not entirely covered by Charity Care. The undocumented older adults that I interviewed or spent time with during my ethnographic work had to rely on family and friends for economic support for their daily survival. Undocumented older adults often used their networks to find employment, to ask for a loan of money, or to even ask for a collection on their behalf when times were extremely difficult. It was also common to hear older undocumented immigrants express that they were having a hard time finding work because of their status and their age. Many faced age discrimination, which added an additional layer of precarity that they had to navigate on a daily basis. 

Q: As both of you note in your research, older Latinxs have among the highest rates of poverty in the United States, and their economic status shapes how they and their families can access social services. How do you account for these economic determinants in your research in comparison to other factors, like citizenship status? What do they explain, and what can they not explain?

 

Isabel: Economic and citizenship status are interrelated in my work. The current immigration system stratifies the lifelong economic opportunities of immigrants. It starts with, how did the immigrants arrive with or without visas? From where did they arrive, and were they with family, immigrant-friendly communities, or neither? What opportunities were available to them? What types of employment opportunities were available? How have they been integrated (or not) into U.S. society? Do they have language barriers? I try to understand immigrants’ experiences through a life-course perspective because context really matters.

We must be cautious about looking solely at economic factors because they do not take historical context into account. For Mexicans, there is a long history of using workers as cheap disposable labor, for example through the Bracero Program, a federal temporary guest worker program that allowed Mexican men to come to the U.S. to work mostly in low-paying agriculture jobs. When the Bracero Program ended, many men continued to return to the U.S., and sometimes their offspring did, too. In 1986, many agricultural workers adjusted their immigration status with amnesty through the Immigration Reform and Control Act, or IRCA. This was the last and only large-scale legalization program. In the life trajectories of many of the older adults I interview, I see how these historical events and programs shaped their lives.

Melanie: I agree with Isabel that context matters, and several social, economic, and political factors influence the life-course trajectories of older Latinx immigrants. In my own work, I was inspired by my upbringing to consider how older Latinxs survive with limited economic means, and that became the impetus for my larger dissertation study on how they adapt and adjust to growing old in the U.S., by observing the role of the family, community, and place. I would say that economic factors are interrelated with other factors, including the social determinants of health. With limited means, they have poorer chances of surviving with a high quality of life.  

Another example of how historical context, migration, economics, and health converge can be seen in the case of older Puerto Ricans. As a colony of the U.S., Puerto Ricans who remain on the island have been relegated to second-class citizenship status, which does not permit them the same rights as other U.S. citizens, such as the right to vote for the U.S. president in primary elections. In Puerto Rico itself, there is increasing financial debt, governmental mismanagement, and the historical legacy of several policies that have stripped the island of its independence. These conditions have led to a large out-migration of both young and middle-aged Puerto Ricans and has increased population aging on the island (Abel and Deitz 2014).

Presently, the island is facing a “parallel pandemic” as a result of poverty and inequality, the COVID-19 pandemic, and recent hurricanes (García et al. 2021). These compounding disasters (see Garriga‐López) have furthered health disparities among Puerto Ricans, such as the older adult population, who were already suffering at high rates from several chronic conditions, including diabetes and hypertension (García et al. 2021). Island-born Puerto Ricans residing in the U.S. have also been shown to have worse health compared to other Latinxs and non-Latinx whites (Pérez and Ailshire 2017).

Q: Isabel, your research emphasizes the intergenerational aspects of aging. How are families affected by the aging of the older generations?

 

Isabel: Broadly speaking, their lives are linked. I see how immigration status stratifies the experiences of both older adults and their adult children. For example, I see how adult children take on more of the care and costs of their aging parents, who do not have access to safety nets. This contrasts with research on poor, aging citizens who still have access to basic safety nets and whose children may provide support after they exhaust all other sources. Providing support to aging parents is especially difficult for low- and middle-income families in areas with high cost of living, like the San Francisco Bay Area. High costs are also forcing their children to move farther away from them, as Melanie’s work also shows. The lack of support not only affects older adults, but also their adult children and grandchildren. Their lives are intricately linked.

Q: Melanie, your forthcoming piece in Social Problems discusses the evolving role of family and how we must also consider the role of friends in the lives of older Latinx people. What support do friends provide that might make them as important as that offered by family members?

 

Melanie: We know from the literature on Latinx populations and immigration that family can be tenuous due to one’s social conditions, expectations, and needs. In my research, I found that older Latinxs spent considerable time with friends, especially when family was not available due to a variety of factors, such as their children being incarcerated or sick or having children of their own to care for. They may also turn to friends when their children move to the suburbs and attain some level of upward mobility, as they may not want to live with them or be seen as a burden. There were several dynamics at play that made friends an easier avenue for support. 

I wanted to shift the conversation by offering another lens to view older Latinx care. I argue in the piece that friends or peer networks have the ability to support older Latinxs by providing them with social, economic, and emotional support that other networks may not be able to provide, since they are removed from some of the conditions affecting them as older Latinxs. For example, peers have the unique ability to understand each other’s migration experiences, the challenges that they have faced while adapting to the U.S., and also the challenges they face in the present as they grow old, such as understanding medical and health services and institutions and planning for later life. I wrote this paper on peer networks as a way to consider another avenue that can offer support to older Latinxs, and to consider how we could collectively infuse these networks at the community-level. 

Q: While you both work on similar topics, your research takes place across different coasts. How do the histories of the places where you work — the East Bay of San Francisco and New Jersey — shape the possibilities for the Latinx people who are aging there? What are some of the consequential differences between your fieldsites?

 

Melanie: The location of my fieldsite is Hudson County, New Jersey, relatively close to New York City, near the Lincoln Tunnel that goes into Times Square. One of the reasons I was drawn to my fieldsite is because, often in Latinx Studies, we focus on three dominant geographies for Latinx life —  New York, Los Angeles, and Texas — but now more than ever, Latinxs are moving beyond these epicenters into new areas and creating communities and enclaves that support their survival.  

In the case of Hudson County, people forget about its close proximity to Manhattan and how that has played a role in the creation of the community as a Latinx enclave. Many of the older Latinxs from my study actually arrived in New York City to work as domestic or factory workers, but found their way across the Hudson due to informal networks and a lower cost of living. 

My dissertation, Con Suenos Que Ya Son Viejos [With Dreams That Are Already Old], focuses on the older Latinxs who arrived in the U.S. to make money and planned to one day return home, but due to a series of circumstances have lived out their remaining years here in the U.S. Many of them are what Brian Hofland and Fernando M. Torres-Gil describe as “stuck in place,” a gerontological term that discusses how some historically marginalized older adults do not have the choice to grow old where they want. I would argue that some also decide to stay in place because they value the social and cultural aspects of the enclave. Here they can more readily find support, such as emergency assistance and food and furniture referrals, and it is easier to find facilities that accept Charity Care from uninsured patients. However, more research is needed to examine how state and federal governments provide limited assistance to care, which can make obtaining support to navigate older adulthood precarious, stressful, and expensive. 

Isabel: Melanie is correct that Latinx populations are moving beyond the traditional locations. My dissertation work, Becoming Invisible: Aging and Stratification for Older Immigrants in the United States and Mexico, takes place in California, a traditional immigrant receiving state, and the East Bay. Many of the older Mexican immigrants that I interviewed moved to the East Bay due to family connections. Some had parents or other family members who were part of the Bracero Program, while others used established social networks from their hometowns or rural areas to move to the area. Return migrants I interviewed in Mexico were from Jalisco, a traditional sending Mexican state that has a long history of migration to California. I selected these sites because there are many studies with the Mexican-origin population that assume that older adults return to Mexico to retire. Thus, my binational approach sought to compare the experiences of Mexican immigrants who are aging in the U.S. and those who opted out.

California and the East Bay are immigrant-friendly geographic locations and have deeply shaped how low-income older adults access low-cost health care and housing subsidies. California is shaping immigrant-friendly progressive policies. For example, the state of California has just approved the expansion of medical health coverage to all low-income adults over 50 (regardless of immigration status) starting in May 2022. Meanwhile, the returnees I spoke to in Mexico often have a legal immigration status that allowed them to gain capital, or accumulated wealth, or social benefits (e.g., Social Security). They are also able to return to the U.S. if they desire, and their retirement income goes a long way in Mexico where their cost of living is often lower.

Q: How has the pandemic reshaped your research?

 

Melanie: The pandemic has raised questions about structural discrimination and its effects on older minority populations, and has brought to the fore the highly unequal environments that Latinx older adults face. For example, a recent study has shown that Black and Latinx older adults face an accumulation of disadvantages across the life course that makes them more susceptible to contracting and having health complications from sicknesses like COVID-19 (Garcia et. al 2021). I am working on an epilogue to my dissertation that looks at how social distancing mandated by COVID-19 mitigation measures have impacted and possibly undermined the rich networks that existed for older Latinxs in my fieldsite. My sense is that older Latinxs in the community I study felt supported during the quarantine, based on the ease of partaking in alternative forms of their daily activities and the care and concern provided by the community. For example, critical cultural resources evolved: churches shifted to online platforms, many older adults used phone chains to pray and stay in touch, and the city brought food and masks to older adults’ doors and provided rental assistance and socially distanced transportation to medical appointments. Together, communal care and daily activity helped to limit feelings of social isolation. However, I should also say that the use of this landscape differed remarkably by gender, immigration, and marriage status, which I plan to write about in an upcoming piece.

Isabel: I have maintained communication with the older adults in my research and begun reinterviewing them since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic. The experience of the pandemic for older adults was significantly shaped by their immigration status. Undocumented older adults were not able to access much of the federal stimulus. Grassroots funds emerged, as well as private and state support, that only some were able to access. However, it was difficult for many older adults to apply for these opportunities because of their lack of  technological knowledge or understanding of whether they qualify. There was a lot of misinformation about the pandemic, and many feared being punished for accepting help. Prior to the pandemic, President Trump also sought to make it more difficult for undocumented immigrants to adjust their immigration status by changing the “public charge” requirements by amending the Department of Homeland Security’s (DHS) regulations on how DHS determined whether an immigrant applying for admission was likely to become a dependent on certain government benefits in the future, or “a public charge.” The revised regulations added Medicaid, Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), Medicare Part D, and Housing Assistance to the benefits that must be considered for immigrant admission. This influenced older adult immigrants’ willingness to actively seek pandemic-related support, including healthcare.

Q: What has previous research by gerontologists and policymakers helped us understand about how aging is changing in the United States? How does this differ from what you’ve been finding in your research?

 

Isabel: Work by gerontologists and social scientists has begun to show demographically who the aging population is and how it will change. The next groups of older adults will be less white, more diverse, and the cohorts will have grown old under different policy conditions. This forecasts that their needs will be different. For example, immigration dramatically changed after the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, which imposed limits on immigration from nations in  the western hemisphere for the first time, and after the exclusion of immigrants from social safety nets began in the 1970s.

Life course and aging theory show us how inequalities across an individual’s life shape their aging experience, and how policies further shape these inequalities. For example, laws that exclude immigrants from participating in formal employment also bar them from accessing important programs like Social Security and Medicare in late adulthood, even if they contribute to the fund. Federal funding often omits safety nets for undocumented individuals, even though many pay income taxes (as required by federal law). The intention of these restrictive immigration laws is to punish individuals, but we are really hurting their entire families (often citizens), who must carry the costs. It is critical to understand that every policy we enact has long-term consequences — everything from immigration to housing to social safety nets. We need to go no further than the Social Security Act to see how it helped decrease poverty among the elderly (even though it is not sufficient).

Melanie: As stated by Isabel, the general trend among gerontologists and policymakers has been to shift the conversation to “diverse aging,” which includes older Latinx immigrants, as well as other racial/ethnic populations, disabled older adults, and other historically marginalized populations, such as older LGBTQIA adults. My work is a continuation of the work of several scholars who have shifted the tides of gerontological work with important theories on race, ethnicity, gender, and class. Before I began my work, there were scholars who developed concepts like double jeopardy (Beale 1970, 2008), which became the impetus for studying the compounding effects of race, gender, and age. That was followed by triple jeopardy theory, which additionally considered sexuality as well as other categories of social stratification among older adults, and cumulative advantage/disadvantage theory, which focuses on the ways in which one’s early life, including advantages and privileges, or lack thereof, come to shape one’s life course into old age.

My work is different because I am working with a strong foundation from people before me, and because times have evolved, so much so that someone like myself who is a Latina, raised in a single-headed household and in a low-income area, can now complete a PhD at a place like UC Berkeley. I also benefit from having had the opportunity to work in a field that has afforded me an interdisciplinary range of ethnic and cultural studies courses, and has allowed me to take classes in public health, sociology, and social welfare. This combination informs my focus on ethnic aging and community, and also affects the policy interventions I am interested in highlighting in my work. As a result, I believe that aging equitably is part of meeting the challenge to live in a just world. This includes the incorporation of immigrants, as mentioned by Isabel, and also policies that focus on addressing affordable housing, food insecurity, healthcare needs, and policy interventions that address earlier determinants of one’s life chances, such as better working conditions, fair wages, and better education, to name a few. Once we address these and other social inequalities, we can see those fruitful changes at play at the end of the life course for everyone. Aging equitably can be our measure of success as a society.

 

References

Abel, J. R., & Deitz, R. (2014). The Causes and Consequences of Puerto Rico’s Declining Population (SSRN Scholarly Paper ID 2477891). Social Science Research Network. https://papers.ssrn.com/abstract=2477891

Beal, F. M. (2008). Double Jeopardy: To Be Black and Female. Meridians, 8(2), 166–176. https://doi.org/10.2979/MER.2008.8.2.166

Fox, Cybelle. (2016). “Unauthorized Welfare: The Origins of Immigrant Status Restrictions in American Social Policy.” Journal of American History 102(4):1051–74. doi: 10.1093/jahist/jav758.

García, C., Rivera, F. I., Garcia, M. A., Burgos, G., & Aranda, M. P. (2021). Contextualizing the COVID-19 Era in Puerto Rico: Compounding Disasters and Parallel Pandemics. The Journals of Gerontology: Series B, 76(7), e263–e267. https://doi.org/10.1093/geronb/gbaa186

Garcia, M. A., Homan, P. A., García, C., & Brown, T. H. (2021). The Color of COVID-19: Structural Racism and the Disproportionate Impact of the Pandemic on Older Black and Latinx Adults. The Journals of Gerontology: Series B, 76(3), e75–e80. https://doi.org/10.1093/geronb/gbaa114

Garriga‐López, A. M. (2020). Compounded disasters: Puerto Rico confronts COVID-19 under US colonialism. Social Anthropology / Anthropologie Sociale, 28(2), 269–270. https://doi.org/10.1111/1469-8676.12821

Pérez, C., & Ailshire, J. A. (2017). Aging in Puerto Rico: A Comparison of Health Status Among Island Puerto Rican and Mainland U.S. Older Adults. Journal of Aging and Health, 29(6), 1056–1078. https://doi.org/10.1177/0898264317714144

Plasencia, M. Z. (2021). Age-friendly as Tranquilo Ambiente: How Socio-Cultural Perspectives Shape the Lived Environment of Latinx Older Adults. The Gerontologist, gnab137. https://doi.org/10.1093/geront/gnab137

Ro, A., Van Hook, J., & Walsemann, K. M. (2021). Undocumented Older Latino Immigrants in the United States: Population Projections and Share of Older Undocumented Latinos by Health Insurance Coverage and Chronic Health Conditions, 2018–2038. The Journals of Gerontology: Series B, gbab189. https://doi.org/10.1093/geronb/gbab189

Social Security Administration. (n.d.). Hispanics’ Understanding of Social Security and the Implications for Retirement Security: A Qualitative Study. Social Security Administration Research, Statistics, and Policy Analysis. Retrieved November 24, 2021, from https://www.ssa.gov/policy/docs/ssb/v77n3/v77n3p1.html#mt9

Torres-Gil, F., & Hofland, B. (2012). Vulnerable Populations. In H. Cisneros, M. Dyer-Chamberlain, & J. Hickie (Eds.), Independent for Life: Homes and Neighborhoods for an Aging America. University of Texas Press.

 

Grad Student Profile

The History of Astronomical Illustration: Q&A with Lois Rosson

Lois Rosson

How do we imagine and illustrate outer space? Lois Rosson, a PhD candidate in the UC Berkeley Department of History, focuses on the history of astronomical illustration as a lens into the history of science and technology. She worked at NASA for two years before starting graduate school, and recently completed a research internship at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. She has held fellowships at the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum, and the Huntington Library. Her background is in studio art, and she is primarily interested in the ways both artists and scientists construct visual truth claims. 

Matrix content curator Julia Sizek interviewed Rosson about her dissertation research, drawing on astronomical illustrations that Rosson features in her work.

image of probe heading toward a planet
Art by Paul Hudson Pioneer Venus: Multiprobe Artwork

How did you become interested in the role of artists producing astronomical images?

I came to this project via a somewhat zigzagged trajectory. My undergraduate training is actually in studio art; I was very interested in portraiture. I didn’t have the vocabulary for this at the time, but what I was really interested in was mimesis, or how someone could paint an image of another person that could be recognized as “realistic.” In portraiture, there are thousands of ways to produce a painting that resembles an individual, but we don’t use the rubric of accuracy or objectivity to make sense of this relationship.

When I was an art student at Santa Cruz, there was an interesting split between painters who used photography as reference material and those who didn’t. The paintings people colloquially described as “realistic” typically used photography as a tool in the visualization process. What I noticed was, most of the time when people used the term realistic, what they actually meant was photographic.

When I graduated, I got a job doing graphic design at NASA’s Ames Research Center. NASA as an organization is great at preserving its own institutional history, and each of the ten NASA centers has its own history office that maintains a local archive.

The history office at Ames has an incredible collection of illustrations NASA commissioned to visualize the unmanned satellite and probe missions of the late 1970s. These images were circulated in print, so their final form was fairly small, but in person they are really large and stately-looking art objects. I couldn’t resist the urge to describe the type of realism they deployed as a photographic one. But what photographs do you use as reference material when you’re painting a largely unobserved topography? No one had ever seen the surface of these planets from these vantage points with the naked eye. I wanted to know more about how these artists were trained, and what kinds of reference material they were using.

From there, I got very interested in the conceptual differences between fine art and scientific illustration. Astronomical illustration was especially fascinating, because space has historically been such a difficult subject to visualize. I discovered that these illustrators were often trained as artists, but that the illustrations they produced were circulated as a sort of neutral scientific image. A lot of times, the illustrations were simply attributed as anonymous “artist’s depictions,” in ways that downplayed an individual illustrator’s interpretive lens.

I left Ames after two years to start a doctorate in history, and work with Berkeley’s resident historians of science. The history of science is really a study of how groups of people produce truth, and since I was interested in why certain images are read as more “real” than others, it felt like a great fit intellectually.

These images come from the Mariner 9 mission, which was the first mission to orbit another planet. Can you describe the process and techniques that they used to sharpen their images?

The Mariner 9 images are really fascinating because we used artists to literally help us “see” it better. Artists at the USGS took fuzzy Mariner 6 and 7 images and redrew them into a smoother, more coherent landscape. Then, by the time Mariner 9 sent back slightly clearer images, we used those earlier drawings to help us make sense of what we were seeing. In this case you have human observers collapsed into a larger, institutional “seeing” apparatus, which is why their identity as artists is collapsed into a process that sounds almost mechanical. These artists make visual observations, and then transcribe what they see. In my dissertation, I argue that astronomical illustrators exerted much more autonomy over their images than we typically account for, and that they actually held quite a bit of purchase over the “look” of outer space that emerged over the course of the twentieth century.

While the black-and-white image is a composite from the Mariner 9’s cameras, the color image comes from an artist rendering from the same mission. What did the production process look like for artists rendering images of Mars, and what does this show us about the relationship between science and art at this time, which you call “astrorealism”? How do the processes of astronomical illustration compare to scientific illustrations in other fields?

The Mars mapping efforts of the early 1970s — the maps we made with Mariner images — were actually made with a set of techniques developed in the 1960s for mapping the lunar surface in preparation for Project Apollo. In the early 1960s, photographing the Moon with high enough resolution for effective mapping was fairly difficult. The solution was to hire artists to come in and bolster the resolution of fuzzy photographs by hand with an airbrush. Patricia Bridges refined the technique of airbrush editing at Lowell Observatory, and trained a whole roster of illustrators in the process. She used a lot of the same techniques again in the 1970s to make clearly legible drawings of the Martian surface.

This is largely a story about artists being deployed to “see” in situations where cameras can’t, and I argue that the maps produced during this period were largely contingent on replicating images that could be read as sufficiently photographic. There’s a growing literature in the history of science about the history of scientific photography, and the ways in which it displaced human illustrators in botany and medicine not because the images were necessarily  “more objective,” but because viewers were anxious about human fallibility and trusted mechanical reproductions to be more neutral. The epistemological anxieties baked into the way we read hand-drawn images are part of the reason the artists in my story were cast as passive transcribers of astronomical information. In reality, they were just teasing out photographic-looking clarity from ambiguous scientific images.

“Realism” is the most confounding word in the entire dissertation project. In art, you have French Realism, photorealism, Socialist Realism, hyperrealism, etc. They all mean slightly different things, and usually refer to a specific historical movement as opposed to “naturalism” or mimesis, which typically refer to attempts at visually inscribing reality in some way.

I coined “astrorealism” after Douglas Dewitt Kilgore’s “astrofuturism,” which treats a lot of space advocacy work in the 1970s and 80s as a body of fictional literature. That’s not to say what these advocates were doing was fake, but by framing it as a form of literary futurology, you can tease apart the cultural meaning baked into descriptions of humanity’s place in the cosmos. For me, astrorealism refers to the artwork that accompanied much of this writing. The astrorealist impulse is one that depicts space accurately in an attempt to make space futures seem more tangible. There’s a long history of these landscapes being framed as a form of scientific illustration in order to differentiate them from science fiction art. This is typically done to make the views seem more scientifically plausible, which is useful if you’re trying to convince a wide audience about the feasibility of an orbital space colony.

In this image, we can see artist Donald Davis producing what became “The Two Former Faces of the Moon,” renderings of what the Moon used to look like. How did these illustrations circulate, and how did they shape American understandings of outer space?

Don Davis’s career is an incredible through-line through most of the dissertation project. He was hired by the U.S. Geological Service’s Branch of Astrogeologic Studies in the late 1960s, while he was still a high school student in Menlo Park. Because large-format color printers did not yet exist, the agency hired high school students to hand-color maps with a numerical coding system, much like a large color-by-number picture. Davis’ artistic dexterity was quickly noticed, and in 1971 he was sent to Flagstaff to help support the Mars mapping project that was newly underway. While in Flagstaff, Davis came under the tutelage of none other than Patricia Bridges, who by this time had a decade of experience using airbrushes on astronomical images.

Around the same time Davis relocated to Flagstaff, Donald Wilhelms, one of the USGS’s planetary geologists, had an idea for a project that would deploy Davis’ talents as a transcriber of visual astronomical information. In a gesture to the Moon maps produced by Lowell in the early 1960s, Willhelms wanted to produce a series of images that illustrated earlier periods of the Moon’s history. They collaborated on a paper published in Icarus titled “Two Former Faces of the Moon.” In it, Wilhelms described what the lunar surface looked like at various points in its history and paired his analysis with Davis’ detailed airbrush drawings of the Moon. Just as Bridges helped fill the gap cameras couldn’t, Davis’ used her techniques to make visible a view of the Moon humans could not photograph or view through a telescope. In this case, the views he was clarifying were unphotographable because they existed only in the past.

The paper was a pivotal moment for Davis’ career. Just after the publication of “Two Former Faces of the Moon,” Davis attended a party at a commune owned by Joan Baez. Carl Sagan, also in attendance, was the editor of Icarus and remembered the drawings of the Moon Davis had produced. Sagan was impressed by the series, and the meeting kicked off what would become a long and fruitful set of collaborations. Davis produced several illustrations for Sagan’s books over the course of the 1970s — including the cover of Dragons of Eden — and joined the Cosmos Art Department in 1979 when production for the television series began.

Davis went on to enjoy a highly visible career in the field of astronomical illustration. In addition to his many collaborations with Carl Sagan and JPL, Davis helped produce one of the 1970s’ most iconic visions of space. In 1974, Davis spotted a newspaper article titled “Princeton Plan for a New Frontier: A Space Colony by the Eighties,” written by Gerard K. O’Neill. The article outlined a plan for developing a space colony as early as the 1980s, and for no more money than the Apollo Program. In Davis’s view, O’Neill, a Princeton physicist, had the credentials necessary for this to be a reasonable claim. Davis was intrigued and reached out to O’Neill to advertise his services as an astronomical artist. In response, O’Neill sent Davis a newsletter with drawings and early ideas on the subject. Davis used these to produce a painting of one of the cylindrical space colonies O’Neill described in his plan.

Davis’s collaborations with O’Neill are a prime example of how the brand of scientific realism cultivated at Lowell Observatory helped develop the look of outer space in the public imagination. Davis was trained to make his images appear as plausible as possible by rooting his art in photographic reference material. O’Neill, actively trying to sell Congress on the viability of a 10,000-person space station, wanted images that appeared as realistic as possible. O’Neill and Davis’ 1975 Space Station Design collaborations are some of the most visually iconic artifacts of the post-Apollo period. Their production was contingent on Davis’ training as an astronomical illustrator, and the belief that artists can be deployed in the absence of cameras to document scientific information.

In other instances, art became a means to express what were seen as the limits of human expression, and a response to earlier modes of nationalist space exploration. What does the art included on the Golden Record show us about how the politics of space exploration and ideas about space are changing in the 1970s and 1980s?

Outer space is the perfect cultural Rorschach test. What’s fascinating about the Golden Record is that it represented an attempt to produce a snapshot of life on Earth, and attempted to make it legible to an imagined alien species.

As an artifact, it’s also a great representation of how space advocacy changed over the course of the twentieth century. Carl Sagan’s approach to drumming up support for new space ventures was a dramatic departure from the space boosterism of the 1950s. Rather than celebrating space exploration as an activity that would cement American hegemony in space, he framed the cosmos as an intellectual antidote to aggressive political impulses. The hardware that allowed space science to cohere into a bounded discipline in the mid-twentieth century was not a function of the same defense-minded spending habits that gave us nuclear weapons, but rather part of a much older tradition of astronomical observation. He framed space science as part of an ancient practice of human star-gazing, rather than a set of technologies similarly borne out of Cold War conflict. This rhetorical move allowed him to use scientific practice as a vehicle to critique the military-industrial-academic crucible that created a U.S. missile program, in spite of muddled historical boundaries. In Sagan’s view, which was reiterated in his popular writing and television appearances, the cosmos offered the type of humbling perspective the political squabbles of the 1970s so desperately needed.

The Golden Record’s emphasis on a single human race inhabiting a single planet is a great encapsulation of this philosophy. At its conceptual core, the project’s goal was to produce an object that represented the non-technical dimensions of Earth, and to communicate them to an imagined alien species. Jon Lomberg, one of Sagan’s long-time artist-collaborators, was tasked with collecting a range of images that described human life in a coherent way. Of course, no totalizing narrative of Earth could be communicated in 116 images; the selection included says much more about the compilers of the record’s contents than anything essential about life on Earth in 1976. There were diagrammatic images meant to describe concepts believed to be universal: lists of mathematical equations, a diagram of a DNA helix, as well as a chart describing the distances between all the planets in our solar system. There were also photographs of various human activities: one image showed three people eating and drinking, while another showed a baby breastfeeding. Olympic athletes, a teacher, and a woman at the grocery store were shown, as well as several city-scapes, cars, and Titan Centaur rocket.

Lomberg’s participation in the project is largely unknown, and is my favorite part of the Golden Record’s creation. Lomberg was concerned that, even if an alien civilization intercepted the record and was able to decode the disc, they might not be able to read photographs as containing any intelligible information. In his view, “not even all people can necessarily read photographs” unambiguously, and that most people take for granted the extent to which the ability to decipher visual information is a learned skill. His solution, which I think is fascinating, was to include eleven drawings on the record that broke down visual information into black and white shapes. He concluded that if an alien organism were ever to encounter the record, its physical ability to decipher visual information encoded by humans would warrant proximity to some sort of star system. In other words, if an alien being were to “see” visual information the way humans do, it would likely be the result of evolutionary sensitivity to a centralized light source. Thus, Lomberg’s solution was to depict certain forms as shadows. If the hypothetical alien observer had any familiarity with light emanating from a single source, then it was likely familiar with the concept of a shadow. If it was familiar with shadows, it might also understand that they represent complex physical objects in two-dimensions. If it got that far, it might also realize that the rest of the images on the record were two-dimensional representations of three-dimensional beings and structures.

While many images of space sharpened actual images, others imagined new frontiers in space. In these images, Donald Davis imagined donut-shaped spinning space colonies that physicist Gerard O’Neill’s envisions in a 1974 Physics Today article. How did these designs reflect the relationship between astrofuturism and astrorealism, and in what ways were these visions inspired by life on Earth?

I’m always fascinated to learn where the artists in my story source their reference material. When you’re depicting an unobservable topography — or, as in this case, an imagined one — it’s easier to deploy an existing reference as a proxy. Gerard O’Neill had worked out the basic architecture of the structures in his plan, but the look of the interiors still needed to be filled in. I had the pleasure of interviewing Don Davis about his working process in 2020, and when I asked him about the space station designs, he emphasized that the landscapes around him played a significant role in the visual formulation of O’Neill’s space colonies. He had recently moved back to Northern California from Flagstaff, and used the rolling green hills of the San Francisco Bay Area to inform his work. He considered trees and other natural features to be integral to a pleasant living experience, but also an important nod to the types of ecosystem design that would be necessary on a self-sustaining colony. Davis felt that would be as big a challenge as anything else and wanted to make sure environmental engineering was an implied task in the illustrations he produced.

Don Davis’ illustrations provide a clear material link between Gerard O’Neill’s space station designs, and Douglas Dewitt Kilgore’s analysis of them as literary objects that cast outer space as a type of suburban frontier. According to Kilgore, O’Neill’s design was the astrofuturist’s answer to the economic and political ills of the 1970s.  The energy crisis on Earth wouldn’t be a problem for orbiting space colonists, who could tap into the limitless supply of solar energy offered by the sun. Resources scarce on Earth could be mined from the surface of the Moon, and the absence of gravity meant the construction and expansion of space station structures could continue into perpetuity. O’Neill’s answer to the resource limitations of Earth was not to re-examine consumption, but rather to extend the possibilities of capitalist growth indefinitely into a new and endless frontier.

This would presumably also help ameliorate the political problems of the 1970s. By giving different groups of people the resources they needed to live independently, governments wouldn’t need to mediate their peaceful coexistence. Groups could self-organize however they pleased and splinter off to form new colonies, should the need arise.

At the time that Davis began collaborating with Gerard O’Neill, he was living in Atherton, a suburb south of San Francisco, close to his first job at the USGS. Atherton’s surrounding natural landscapes greatly influenced the look of the interiors of the space colonies Davis produced, but so did the layout of the city itself. Davis’s designs deliberately included a lot of greenery, foregoing the dense “shopping mall” aesthetic he often saw applied to space colonies. The beauty of O’Neill’s design was the prospect of infinite expansion, which eliminated the need for cramped space stations and the miserly economization of resources in an extreme environment. Atherton was a wealthy suburb, and a perfect example of the low-density housing Davis thought represented ideal living conditions.

I think this is a great example of the ways in which these images function as robust historical artifacts. Kilgore observed that the embrace of the suburban pastoral in space station design mirrored the same impulses that drove white flight out of urban environments in the same period. As with the new suburban neighborhoods sprouting up across the United States, Davis’ colonies implied the existence of life on the idyllic periphery of an industrial center. I think this is especially evident in illustrations of O’Neill’s toroidal designs, spinning rings that simulated gravity using centrifugal force. In a visual sense, the colonies are a suburban halo around a city that has ceased to exist. The problems of city life have been literally absented, leaving only a verdant and harmonious mode of existence.

How did astronomical illustrations change after the 1970s, and what does this tell us about the relationship between art and science today? How has the field of astronomical illustration changed today?

I think the visualization efforts of the late 1970s—when we had to rely on largely unmanned satellite views of distant cosmic neighbors—really resulted in a critical mass. By the early 1980s space art and astronomical illustration actually professionalized into a formal guild with its own in-house journal. I have an entire dissertation chapter about a trip they took to the Soviet Union in 1987 to meet with a parallel guild of Russian space artists, and the differences between their respective approaches. As you might imagine, both groups cultivated very different philosophical approaches to representing the cosmos.

The International Association of Astronomical Artists, or the IAAA as they were abbreviated, is actually still around today. There’s definitely less of a market for handmade illustrations than there was closer to the mid-twentieth century, but outer space is still extremely hard to make visible.

A few years ago I had the opportunity to interview Dana Berry, who worked on Hubble imaging at the Space Telescope Science Institute at Johns Hopkins. The question of how to represent space subjects in an intelligible way was still a pressing one, even with the use of digital image processing tools and the help of a space telescope.

In Berry’s view, science visualization is a competition between believability, pedagogy, and accuracy. For instance, if you’re trying to show the solar system on a computer screen, you have to be able to show the planets. In reality, they’d be so small they’d fall between pixels. In order to scale the planets up in a way that viewers can recognize, accuracy has to take a hit. So in this way, pedagogy and believability win out.

Berry emphasized that is especially true with representations of the Big Bang. To keep with the computer screen analogy, the Big Bang is usually shown as an empty screen, and then a pixel emerges, and blows up to include the entirety of the frame. But the problem with this visualization is that the Big Bang created space as well as time, so the computer screen technically didn’t exist yet. We’re trained to think of the universe as emerging from a single dot suspended in space—how do you show something expanding into a realm that doesn’t exist yet? In these views, accuracy takes a backseat to believability.

To answer your question, while we don’t see many handmade illustrations of space these days, we’re still very much grappling with the same kinds of questions that astronomical artists were trying to figure out over the course of the twentieth century. Space is hard to conceptualize, which makes it hard to see. I think our attempts to picture it will always inevitably function as cultural products.

 

Podcast

Genetic Ancestry Testing and Reconnection: An Interview with Dr. Victoria Massie

Victoria Massie

In this episode of the Matrix podcast, Julia Sizek, a PhD candidate in Anthropology at UC Berkeley, interviews Dr. Victoria Massie, an Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology, and Faculty Affiliate for the Center for African & African American Studies (CAAAS), the Medical Humanities Program and the Center for the Study of Women, Gender, and Sexuality (CSWGS) at Rice University, in Houston. 

Dr. Massie completed her Ph.D. in Sociocultural Anthropology with a designated emphasis in Science & Technology Studies at UC Berkeley. Her expertise sits at the intersection of African and African Diaspora Studies, feminist kinship studies, postcolonial science studies, vitalism, and anthropology of race and racialization. Her work broadly explores the political economy of emerging technologies from West and Central Africa, addressing geopolitical processes of racialization shaping the conditions of exchange, belonging, and scientific authority in the 21st century.

Her first book project, Sovereignty in Return: Building Utopia through Genetic Reconnection in Cameroon, draws on ethnographic and archival research examining how the emergence of a genetic Cameroonian diaspora has created new opportunities to rewrite the legacy of the postcolonial nation building project. Dr. Massie’s work has received generous support from the Mellon Foundation, the Fulbright Foundation, the Wenner Gren Foundation, the National Science Foundation, in addition to the UC Center for New Racial Studies, the UC Berkeley Center for Race & Gender Studies, and the UC Berkeley Center for African Studies. She has also been invited to speak on how a black feminist bioethics can help better understand the stakes of CRISPR/Cas9 gene editing technology by Black Women for Wellness in Los Angeles and the Francis Crick Institute in London.

Outside of academia, she has worked as a journalist and freelance writer. Her writing focuses on the intersection of racial injustice, technology, politics, and pop culture, with features in The Intercept, Vox, Complex Magazine, GeneWatch Magazine, and Catapult Literary Magazine. Massie also worked as a communications coordinator at the Center for Genetics & Society. She is also a Nonfiction Writing Fellow with the Hurston/Wright Foundation.

On the podcast, Sizek interviews Massie about her research tracking diasporic connections between the United States and Cameroon, and the wider world of genetic ancestry testing.

Produced by the University of California, Berkeley’s Social Science Matrix, the Matrix Podcast features interviews with scholars from across the UC Berkeley campus. Listen to other episodes here. You can also listen on Apple Podcasts and Google Podcasts.

 

Podcast Transcript

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Woman’s Voice: The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix an interdisciplinary research center at the University of California, Berkeley.

Julia Sizek: Hello, everyone and welcome to the Matrix Podcast. I’m Julia Sizek, your host. Today, we have Dr. Victoria Massie on the podcast to talk about her research on genetic ancestry testing in the African diaspora.

A recent graduate of the anthropology department at Berkeley, she’s now an assistant professor in anthropology at Rice University in Houston. Thank you so much for coming on today, Victoria.

Victoria Massie: Thank you for having me, Julia. It’s a pleasure.

Sizek: All right, so let’s just hop in and start talking about your research, which is about the social life of genetic testing. So tell us a little more about the history of the genetic testing industry and how you became interested in studying it.

Massie: Well, so I think in trying to give some historical analysis of genetic testing, it’s, for me, focusing specifically on genetic ancestry testing. And basically my work focuses on not just the social life of genetic ancestry testing, but specifically looking at it through the question of, how does notions of African descent say about how genetic ancestry is made to travel and what work it’s made to do in the world for home with a specific focus in Cameroon?

So how I got there though is basically, it’s in many respects their origin story of my route to anthropology as an undergraduate at the University of Rochester, Upstate New York with a lovely mausoleum of one of our forefathers, Henry Lewis Morgan.

I basically came to anthropology, one, intrigued by the race lecture, the notion of racism biological, that lecture in my intro to cultural anthropology class while also trying to figure out how to pursue this interest, this revelation I’d had one fall day on the quad and my consistent love of DNA.

Since I was in 10th grade for whatever reason the topic for my honors biology class just stuck with me and so much so that not necessarily having the resources to do research in this small school in rural North Carolina.

What I ended up doing was creating complementary base pair races with a colleague in the class like really nerding out hard core about DNA to the best of my ability at the time. Yeah.

It is really funny.

But this evolved in high school because I ended up going to this magnet public boarding school called the North County School of Science and Math. They have various outposts in other states, around the country, but we were the first unicorns. And during that time I was able to start getting my hands dirty with actual genetics research work.

I did research in a Genetics Lab at UNC. I also was able to do some work at the National Institute for Environmental Health Sciences within the triangle there. so just learning about the techniques, all of this.

And what I’d basically figured out by the time I entered college at Rochester was that, yes, I’m interested in genetics. But this whole sitting at a bench with doing pipette work was just not going to happen, just not interested. Yeah, not happening. And so by the time I had this revelation about anthropology, I was basically stuck in a situation of, OK, can I do genetics and anthropology? It was not clear to me.

And as I was having this existential crisis, whatever that is– I was a sophomore in college– I got a random email from my father. And my father was and continues to be the family genealogist. Growing up, one of the things that would often happen when we were driving up and down I-95 was he would just talk about random figures in my family and all their various antics that they would get into.

And so just the notion of genealogy and liveliness of it was very palpable for me, always. And yet as people who are descended from Africans who were enslaved in the United States and the complex issues around history and whether and how our absence or presence is available or not in the historical archive, he decided like many people in, I guess what? Was that 2008? To take a DNA ancestry test for his 50th birthday.

And he didn’t tell anybody. And so all of a sudden I’m having this, again, existential crisis. Miraculously, get some random email from my dad like here’s some DNA test results. And at the time I was doing this creative ethnography seminar and I was even just already thinking about, OK, how do I do this creative writing project on a notion of Blackness today?

And so of course, of all things today, rethinking this via DNA testing and trying to consider this moment of no racism biological, but then I’m looking at this is also going to talk about historicizing the industry.

And I think it’s– one of the reasons why the narrative around genetic ancestry testing is consistently been the reification of race the reemergence of race without even having necessarily say it via ancestry is because at that time 10 almost 15 years ago basically what started out with the test results were basically looking at just these very obviously racialized origins.

So it’s like somehow my– what is it? For one test result I think it was mitochondrial DNA. It had something like the Near East and it was bringing up like Eurasia or whatever. And nobody knew what to really make of that. It was just, OK, that’s fascinating.

And then the Y chromosome happened to have traced back to Africa. And of course, it wasn’t just general Africa, it was the racialization, the blackening of Africa via sub-Saharan Africa highlighted in orange. But again, not just like, hey, you’re racially Black. It’s like E3a haplotype known as the language people.

And it’s just all of this really fascinating clear emergence around, again, the reinscription of race via biology that shouldn’t be there, as was told by anthropologist. And so I just ended up luckily having a really phenomenal mentor as an undergraduate.

I just started looking into it. So I wrote a little essay reflecting on this conundrum for my creative ethnography seminar. But then the McNair program that next summer was really actually starting to get into the discourse and the actual literature of what’s going on.

And so yeah, now that’s basically from an honors thesis working with African Ancestry, the only Black-owned and operated genetic ancestry testing company to suddenly by the time dealing with dissertation and now soon to be book project, well, it was initially a question about the industry, just consumers finding their origins.

Suddenly now at this moment when you also have DNA tests have evolved to a certain level of precision, so where with African Ancestry because they cater specifically to the desires of an African diasporic imagining of Africa, which is not the racialized sub-Saharan Africa, but a notion of a present national and ethnic identity. So their results were the present day like Bamileke people in Cameroon today.

That’s basically at this point now an industry standard. You have to have some precision, whatever we mean precision to be. But some notion of not just these general large spaces regions. But with that, we at least from my work having to get beyond just these African-American desires to go back home, reclaim home.

But in a way I never anticipated seeing how temporary conditions in the post-colonial Africa, and in my case Cameroon, have made it possible for Africans on the continent to make a claim to the diaspora as an investment not necessarily to recover a path, but to recover the possibility of an alternative future to be made.

And so really just trying to think more broadly about the reification of race at a global scale, but more so with political economy and focusing squarely on Africa as the center and very materially, not just abstract spectre of Africa.

Sizek: Yeah, so maybe you can just– one of the things that you mentioned is how the genetic testing has actually become a lot more precise in some ways, but also stranger and weirder in other ways. Can you just tell our listeners a little bit more about how the testing has actually changed and what the forms of precision that are available now that weren’t available in the past are?

Massie: Yeah, so basically 15 years ago. I mean, it’s at this point. So I’m teaching this class of social life of DNA, surprise. And when I began it, I was telling, showing these students all of the ways that we see DNA. And one of the examples was including Lizzo’s lyric from “Truth Hurts,” took a DNA test, turns out I’m 100% that bitch.

And it’s interesting because it’s a part of the spectrum of genetic ancestry how entrenched it has become, I mean, who has– I’ve often given talks and asked people, who has taken a DNA? Who has taken a DNA ancestry test or knows somebody who has? And basically everybody in the room knows this.

And so a part of trying to how entrenched this is just dealing with from the very beginning when they’re I guess talking about precision in terms of now getting to the point of say, again, now trying to codify genetic ancestry in terms of contemporary national boundaries or whatever at the very least.

There’s a certain generality made available just because the tests were so expensive. At one point, I think it was in 2007, with 23andMe, if I’m not mistaken. It’s hard to imagine that 23andMe in the past was struggling to get people to take their tests because they’ve taken over the market so clearly.

But back in 2007, they were still in the process of trying to recruit people to just get interested. And we were seeing things like spit parties. There’s a New York Times article that notes that the development of a spit party at New York Fashion Week.

And so the elite of the elite trying to engage with this new consumer market, trying to corner the market with people who had the resources to engage with this, similarly with even for the African-American market potential consumers.

Again, Henry Louis Gates has become the face of DNA testing as well. And yet in 2005-2006 when he was not focused on just testing everybody, just general genealogy and genetics work that he does with at this point, but when he was doing the documentaries African-American Lives 1 and African-American Lives 2, he was focusing solely on African-American celebrities like Oprah and Whoopi Goldberg.

And I remember very vividly when I was even doing field work with a few people I had met through African ancestries road tour that I was doing ethnographic field work with, that was one of the things that they had mentioned that part of it didn’t feel palpable to take a test even though you see people at least racially like you. Again, the cost actually mattered quite a bit.

But now at this point it’s easy to take a test for less than $100. There are strategies sometimes that I’ve heard, even African Ancestry of people– African Ancestry tests tend to be more expensive. It’s 300, 350, that’s for the precision.

And there’s just all these strategies where because it can be treated as a family project having people chip in so easily like $100 pass even though you just have one person take it because it’s information for the whole family, how is it easily suddenly if you’re getting 20 people it’s like, OK, just $5, just $5, here we go?

Sizek: Yeah.

Massie: Easy-peasy suddenly to figure out potentially where your ancestry is from. And so when you deal with the limiting of the price point. The market in some aspects expands, but it has now expanded to the point where the market is now saturated. And so now we have a situation that we’re seeing with a lot of companies that people are not taking the test.

So suddenly it was 2018, if I’m not mistaken, was the point at which they had basically had– there was an article that noted somehow that almost as many people had taken genetic ancestry test the year prior as in compared to the entire 10, 15-year period in which the test had been evolved, had been available.

And so just the exponential growth also means that there’s going to be a steep downfall. And so what we see right now is that because the market is saturated, the prices are fairly low and you’ll get holiday discounts oftentimes.

But now they’re trying to salvage the value of genetic information via the clear third party partnerships that are being made. Now, because you’re not going to get the raw material, now you really actually have to try to do something with the actual information, whatever that happens to be.

Sizek: So one of the things that you mentioned is that after this market has become saturated, the types of things that people can do with this information that they’re learning about their ancestry, it’s really changing. In your research one of the things you track is exactly what people do with their genetic ancestry tests, which is go on these tours. Can you tell us a little bit more about the tours that you studied during your research?

Massie: Yeah. So I use a pseudonym “seeds of return.” And basically, what ends up happening on these programs? And so one thing to consider is that via fieldwork they would not be considered a tour. There’s a constant tension about, at least in Cameroon, I wouldn’t speak for– you see these kinds of things, there’s a way to see this emerge in Ghana and there’s a way to see this emerge in other places in West Africa.

But at least in Cameroon, a part of the reason why you don’t necessarily call them tours per se is to get at this tension of the tourism industry or the potential of seeing it as some industry that in Cameroon just is not– the infrastructure is just not there for that.

But also trying to get at a certain legitimacy that comes from treating it as a pilgrimage and bringing it into the fold of a legitimate means of rectifying historical wrongs to bring people together as kin.

And so I say that because the way these programs operate is that a lot of it is set up not just the feed some notion of, OK, here are Americans. Even if they’re African-Americans you can’t– so the notion that you could ignore the power that comes with having American citizenship is not possible.

But it really tries to set up these situations for actually connecting directly with people, as well as immersion activities to actually make some sense of a genuine connection that’s not just you’re here. Say hi. We host you for a dinner or something.

And all of that do you deal with an ethic that really tries to imbue for African-Americans that they have a stake in the lives of those that they’re connecting with. So really trying to think about a bioethics where the possibility of return is not just you consume, you have to give back, you have to come back. And trying to create conditions that obligate return after the program itself.

And so it can be naming ceremonies, meeting with higher level dignitaries. I mean, again, some of this is just, again– this is like, again, not ignoring the social capital that comes with being American specifically.

But especially given one of the things that has long struck me about my project and the first program that I observed back in 2011 was that there was a wealthy landowner in Cameroon who inspired by the prospect of African-Americans coming back, this is all by DNA testing, gave the groups who were there land.

And so again, the materiality of a need of obligating return and linking it to, again, the process. Even the possibility for those in the area who live around the link is to use even the possibility of their kin, their brothers and sisters who happen to have been displaced in the United States via slavery back home.

That the prospect of them coming back offers them a prospect of holding tight to a future that otherwise given the lack of investment from the Cameroonian government is on strap, the different ways it does not give, but also being strapped for resources via various geopolitical entanglements that also are only exacerbated by the way the economic partnerships the state makes with foreign investors.

Oftentimes, it seems like the town where the land is located, the spectre of the Brexit phenomenon specifically, in this case China and China’s investments in infrastructure in that area, what you get is there’s a way that it does mirror standard roots tours and yet it’s the ethical need to obligate return beyond the program itself. That’s really critical and what ends up being different.

And I think one of the factors of not just saying it’s a tour, but focusing on, say, pilgrimage and why, given that tension, I just started calling them roots programs or genetic reconnection programs.

Sizek: Yeah, so through these programs, what are some of the– you mentioned this gift of land, for example. What are some of the other connections that people make? Or do you have examples of people going back to this land gift that they’ve been given, or what they’ve done with this land, or in other cases, people have pursued citizenship in country based on a genetic ancestry test?

Massie: Well, so the funny thing about my project and what was one of the most frustrating things think about doing as I go to field work is trying to capture the fact that people haven’t done anything. Not only have they not done anything, but doing nothing does not preclude the possibilities of speculating.

So for instance, so one of these things is the issue of, how do we think about citizenship and the qualifications for citizenship that aren’t just the juridical notion of recognition from the state?

So one was Isaiah Washington back in 2009 made headlines when he basically became the first African-American to gain formal dual citizenship based on DNA ancestry tests. For him it wasn’t Sierra Leone.

The thing with a place like Cameroon, that’s not really possible because, for instance, dual citizenship is not available or it’s this funny thing of the illicit nature of dual citizenship where it’s this joke that many people in government elites have citizenship in France, but dual citizenship in France, but it’s not technically possible. So that’s one part.

But a second part with this notion of citizenship even thinking maybe more generally on just the prospects of belonging, for a part of the legitimacy of the diaspora, being an investment is not playing into the ways that the state has motif of engaging with people.

So in African Studies this is often called the policy wonk or the politics of the belly. And a part of this is based on taking for granted a certain level of gross inequality between people of very extreme of differentials of power who has clearly more resources than those who are basically at the bare minimum.

And there’s a ethic, the way to leverage. Its ethics around sharing resources in some capacity, and because, again, the stark level of inequality, that’s enough to create a ethic of resource distribution.

And with this, what we find is that a part of resist– one of the keys to certain sense of legitimacy. And this is why at least in my work the genetic is not enough. It’s only an opening, it’s literally only an opening– a part of making the possibility of return for African-Americans actually legitimate requires that they leverage their resources as Americans.

They become a investment that helps to leverage neutralize or minimize these hierarchies, become a resource that for those who have so little suddenly via kinship ties can have so much more if that makes sense. They become a actual good, a material good in a very vitalistic sense.

And so in terms– that’s the I say politics of belonging, but it’s entrenched by just simplicity. That’s the notion of possibilities of citizenship in say Cameroon. Now, that was not the case in other places like say in Ghana. Ghana was a really great foil to some of the discussions and national discussions around the legacy of slavery based on the 1619 Project.

So we saw in the United States with the 1619 Project, this very clear conservative backlash about the prospect of making the slave trade and a particular narrative of a group of enslaved Africans who landed in Virginia in 1492 and located that as like an origin for the national narrative, like what it means to be American.

And yet Donna used it as a whole means of bringing the entire African diaspora home. They use an American notion of slavery there too for their own purposes. And with that I think because of especially Ghana having its own long standing discussions around citizenship for, again, formal citizenship for people of diaspora– I mean, remember there were like a ceremony that came with the year of return that included giving people citizenship.

So in Cameroon, it’s more so less about a juridical recognition of the state, but more so about practice and ethic that makes it possible for you to authentically claim people as kin and therefore, belong. And belonging being not a ontological thing you just have or you’re endowed with, but it’s an it. It’s ongoing or it ends when you stop coming back, whereas other places in West Africa that’s not the case.

Sizek: Yeah, I think that’s really interesting because it points out, I mean, I think as you already mentioned, this big tension between state recognition versus non-state recognition and in many ways the way that people enter into these conversations and say like, hey, I am going to go back is through these genetic ancestry tests.

And I think one of the things that I think is really amazing about your work is the way that a lot of people don’t really take these tests very seriously. They’re like people take these tests, they find out stuff, maybe they’re deluded in believing the things that they find out from this test.

But you take this as a real starting point for investigating this whole network of social and all sorts of relationships that emerge. And so I was just wondering if you could help me understand, how is the field of studying genetic ancestry testing already constituted? What do anthropologists or other people, how do they talk about genetic ancestry testing?

Massie: [LAUGHS] No, I’m laughing because a part of one of the issues that comes up. I mean, my project quite frankly should be unthinkable and it stark to me how it’s almost like I often have run up. It becomes this very psychoanalytic like what is– I’ve literally had people respond to my work and be like, is it real?

[LAUGHTER]

I mean, I say this to say that one of the challenges that I think is– my work is based on calling a bet that I think a lot of anthropologists, sociologists, social sciences I don’t think actually just social sciences. I think there’s a post-World War II narrative that just saying that race isn’t biological is enough to contend with the processes of racialization today, least of all in the sciences.

And so because people are so caught up in race not being biological, the notion that I could do work, then only not shows that that’s not true, I mean, or that is true. No, it’s not biological and yet people are still– it doesn’t mean that we can discount it.

The use of genetics, that’s really not just about biological essentialism, biological determinism. What we end up having– what I find is that there’s a crisis of the imagination where people don’t know what to do when I can still contend with genetics without dealing with the essentialist narrative. So I’ve had this.

For instance, this is especially important given the fact that African Ancestry specifically is oftentimes one of the critical categories. Of all the various categories of ancestry you can come up for genetic ancestry, it’s the pivotal. This is the one that people used to pivot the racism biological.

And not only is that the case, but it’s based on a gross misunderstanding of the possibilities of how African descent kinship and the notion of a essential biological understanding of this actually refracts. A part of the ways that– especially when it comes to kinship studies and even thinking about the ways that people often pity African-Americans for, oh, because they don’t have a history, that, oh, that’s all they got and they’re like, oh, how sad? But we understand.

It comes from this notion that because allegedly there is no history and I think there’s a lot of work with Black feminist thought or even– I mean, it’s not just Black feminist thought. I mean, Michel-Rolph Trouillot offers this critique of really thinking about this sociohistorical narrative, sociopolitical narratives of history where just because of an absence doesn’t mean that something else like biology can somehow replace it. So that’s basically how the critiques go.

And so one of the things that I’m trying to really consider is maybe there’s a way that– no, biology doesn’t– genetics doesn’t somehow become a supplement to history, but that’s based on the fact that with African-American kinship practices the possibility of this reduction is based on– and draw from Hortense Spillers on this– it’s a cover up.

It’s a cover up of all of the ways that social life is so deeply overdetermined by a theft of Blackness to survive. And so what I have to contend with is just basically how much not only historicizing how the race isn’t biological, it’s socially constructed at least in anthropology and maybe even more broadly in science studies given the way the social sciences I think tried to recoup science after Nazi eugenics, Nazi science after World War II.

But a part of this race isn’t– this duality of race is socially constructed, is not biological. It’s also based on a historical narrative of making blackness, Black people a clear conceptual problem in particularly in anthropology and that despite whatever we say, a part of this negation of race to be allegedly good is also based on an implicit concession that race actually can be understood biologically. And Kamala Visweswaran is very clear about this.

And a part of what I try to do is, yeah, just take the practices, which practice has always had to be a part of African-American kinship practices because of chattel slavery, because of the anti-Black racism in the United States. The notion of the biological to secure a family has never been available. It’s literally never been possible, never as a condition.

And so challenging. Why would we presume? Literally asking, why would we presume this is true just because of genetics? For whom is this allegedly true? And so you get to that level, for me, it’s just almost having to just deal with the unfortunate reality that my intervention in this discourse is just basically comes down to taking Black people seriously as agents who have actual practical reasons for doing what they do.

And it’s not always– you can’t explain away these things on the notion of just mythologization least of all in such a way that you get to pose a self-righteous posturing for doing good or ethical critique that leaves people solely operating a false consciousness. I think, well, I’m having to really sit with– when I have people at the AAA, again, asking me, I give my project and I gave a paper. Again, is this real?

It’s that why do you need this to be real in the way that we can only talk about this in terms of biological essentialism even when we know that the gene doesn’t actually inherently operate that way? And it just comes down to, yeah, actually just taking Black people seriously, that’s really it. It’s unfortunate, but that’s really what it comes down to.

Sizek: Yeah, I mean, I think that that’s one of the things that’s really I think walking that line between genes mean everything and genes mean nothing. It’s really like an interesting problem to try to inhabit, especially as yourself being a science studies scholar who also– you know how all of this biology works in your practice.

I guess one of the things I’m curious about is since the biology side of it is, how do you think about the actual practices of the science? So underlie these projects that you’re understanding both biologically and as cultural phenomena in and of themselves

Massie: Yeah, I mean, it’s one of those things where I think a part of the way I tend to be maybe– so there is something to be said about these companies are especially great about not essentializing. They need to essentialize for their own for the commodification of the information they’re allegedly offering. It’s not subtle.

And I remember even there was– it was positioned as a talk with the Center for African Studies actually at Berkeley. It was back in 2017. It was led by someone at 23andMe. I don’t mean to be harping on 23andMe I promise. It just happens to be, again, they do so much that it’s not uncommon for me to have to talk about them.

And one of the things that came up is that they were trying– it basically ended up being what I thought would be a talk was actually basically just like a recruitment effort for this African ancestry project that they were doing, but it was also just– it was unbelievable because, OK, you’re doing this at the Center for African Studies on I think a racialized presumption that African Studies would likely be a bunch of Black people.

And yet if the field of African Studies, it’s almost all White people. So I’m in this room with nobody– I think there was one postdoc who happened to be from South Africa and was a Black South African in the audience. But otherwise, it was just a couple of White geneticists. It’s just completely misunderstanding their audience really presuming a whole bunch of things. Anyway, so failure on that part.

But nonetheless, the person that goes through their presentation. And so this is very air, almost racial purity that’s still makes my skin crawl of showing us this diagram of their ancestry, it’s all blue. They’re not allegedly mixed. It’s all just European. It’s just like, oh my God, what are you doing here? What are you doing here?

But then some map of the interesting elegant mixed ancestry all the various colors. It’s just all this weird multiculturalist essentialist notions of someone who was I think African-American and using this as ploy to enhance. They need to enhance their African ancestry database. And yet when they were doing it, it was all this very neoliberal self-identification.

So if they were going to have someone recruited, one, they wouldn’t even be dealing with people who were actually on the African continent. That was not up for it. Rather they were dealing with specifically targeting people based in the United States, but also that allegedly someone’s grandparents. All four grandparents would have to be from the same country in order to qualify, which doesn’t even make sense because I’m like.

Thank you for listening OK. To learn more about my about central science matrix please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

I’m like there have been at least five versions of what territorially was Cameroon. Parts of Cameroon at that time in 1919 are now parts of Nigeria. So this literally– so many things are getting lost here. Not only that, you possibly couple in questions around immigration and class and who is coming from the continent to here. I mean, it’s mind boggling.

And so I called them out. I called the researcher out specifically using Cameroon. I was basically pointing out the issue of the construction of these national boundaries and the person just quipped at me. And again, these people the social scientific rhetoric, which is why, again, I think social scientists really need to think hard about what rhetoric we’re using allegedly for our critique or some sense of being positioned as good agents in the world to talk about these things.

She basically responded to me, well, all country, all national boundaries are socially constructed. And I was like, no, you have to do what people– it’s not just that. But these were especially the carving out of Africa. This was not done with respect to people’s actual sense of relating to one another. And so things got quiet and then the person who is managing the situation decided to turn to another question. So surprise.

So you have that part. But I do take that very seriously. But I also think this is trying to critique the science studies notion that all power lies with scientists or in the laboratory like, OK, bet. So you all are being wild and ridiculous. I shouldn’t say ridiculous because I’m also trying to be better about critiquing. But there are very serious concerns about how these markers of ancestry are genuinely being materially constructed. So we have that.

But I don’t place my bets on– I don’t hinge everything on that being the site of transformation. I think the site of transformation, for me, is the post-lab life. And so like Noah Tamarkin I think is someone else who has noted this and really, especially being, despite all the discussion of African Ancestry, the first person that I know of who’s really taken that on by looking at the African continent, which is, again, a gross like indictment of science studies and it’s anti-Africa anti-blackness.

And so yeah, for me, I see the active social life, what people are making of it as the opportunity to really challenge, no, it’s not– genetics can’t determine just like scientists and what– they are not the point in which power is completely decided.

And so really taking those other spaces as a means of least of all a place like Africa and Black Africa very seriously as a space where we can really see materially ways to critique the essentialist discourses that we presume are there, but actually in practice aren’t really there.

Sizek: Yeah, I think that’s just such an amazing– I think that this is such a great indictment of the way that science studies is practiced. And I’m so glad that your book is going to be in the world so soon or I mean whenever it comes into the world.

Massie: Yeah, give me– let me adjust just my first semester on the tenure track.

Sizek: Yeah, thank you so much for coming on the podcast. This has been really so fascinating.

Massie: Yeah, thank you for having me.

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about Social Science Matrix please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

 

 

Grad Student Profile

Land, Camps, and the Remains: Heba Alnajada on the History of Syrian Refugee Camps

Heba Alnajada

Heba Alnajada is a Ph.D. Candidate in Architecture History at the University of California, Berkeley, and a 2021-2022 ACLS/Mellon Fellow. Her research focuses on architecture and urban history, with particular interests in the connections between the built environment, law, migrants and refugees, and the history of Arab and Islamic cities. 

Her dissertation project situates the Syrian refugee crisis within an architectural and socio-legal history that spans from the late Ottoman period to present-day Jordan. Heba’s research builds on ten years of professional experience in architectural NGOs and urban development projects in Yemen, Libya, Jordan, and the Occupied Palestinian Territories.

Social Science Matrix content curator Julia Sizek interviewed Alnajada about her research, using images from her dissertation. (Follow Alnajada on Twitter at https://twitter.com/AlnajadaHeba.)

 

Figure 1: The image of the refugee camp dominates most representations of contemporary refugees, particularly Arab and Muslim refugees. World Bank image of Za’atari Refugee Camp, the world’s largest United Nations (UN) camp for Syrian refugees, buffeted in Jordan’s borderlands with Syria. Source: World Bank

Q: This image above (Figure 1), depicting refugees at a refugee camp, might seem familiar to our readers. In your research, you consider the history of the refugee camp as one of the predominant modes of understanding contemporary refugee life. How does this image reflect the history that is often told about refugee camps? 

The image of the refugee camp dominates the public imagination of refugees. We see such images next to news headlines and on Facebook and Instagram feeds, with hashtags for humanitarian crises and links for donations. In such accounts, Arab and Muslim refugees are racialized, typically portrayed as flooding into European shores, or as security threats to be contained in camps. Surprisingly, such tropes appear not only in journalistic accounts, but also in academic literature. Journalists, practitioners, and policymakers often claim that refugees and western humanitarianism have a coeval history.This is especially true for Arab and Muslim refugees.

Engaging with such tropes is reductive and leads to an erasure of rich and diverse histories of refugees in various Arab and Muslim countries. After all, migration is not a new phenomenon. 

In my Ph.D. dissertation, I counter the orientalist prism and ahistorical bias of such representations  by situating the contemporary Syrian refugee crisis within a history that spans from late Ottoman times to the present. I look at the case of Jordan, one of the largest host-states for Palestinian and Syrian refugees in the world. By moving across geographies and historical periods, I try to underscore various forms and norms of refugee shelter. Which, I think, challenges the monolithic narrative of the refugee camp and the singular architecture of the UN camp.

Figure 2: 1851 Map of Syria map showing the southern Eyalets and Sanjaks of Ottoman Syria — Damascus, Jerusalem, Tripoli, Beirut, Acre, Gaza, Salt, and Ma’an among others. Ottoman Syria encompassed present-day Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, and Jordan. (Map from the Illustrated Atlas, and Modern History of the World, Geographical, Political, Commercial, and Statistical: Index Gazetteer of the World. London: John Tallis and Co., 1851.)

Q: While much of your research has to do with contemporary issues, you also go back historically in your analysis of the Ottoman period of Syria, which existed prior to the splitting of the Ottoman Empire after World War I. How does the Ottoman period help us understand contemporary refugee issues? 

When I began my PhD, I applied to work on the Syrian refugee crisis and contemporary urban life. But in the course of my fieldwork, clues from the present directed my attention toward Palestinian refugee camps, and then all the way back into the Ottoman Empire. I realized that to understand how most Syrian refugees in Jordan have come to find housing and employment, one needs to look at their relations with earlier groups of refugees. 

In fact, less than 20 percent of the total number of Syrian refugees in Jordan live in UN camps. The rest — more than 80 percent — live outside of western humanitarian aid, among multiethnic communities that are largely migrants and refugees themselves: Palestinians, Iraqis, Egyptians, Sudanese, and Circassians and Chechens (who are the descendants of Ottoman Caucasus refugees).

In my research, I attempt to recover the thread connecting late 19th century Ottoman refugees, Palestinian survivors of 1948, and contemporary Syrian refugees. Each chapter of my dissertation serves as a reminder of an episode in an ever-evolving history of migration and the remains of earlier migrations.

Don’t get me wrong, this is not a romantic portrayal of Ottoman history. On the contrary, it is rich with accounts of contestation, ethnic/racial tension, and coexistence. I also show the persistence of Arabo-Islamic traditions of sanctuary amid the growing role of international humanitarian protection. And, in contrast to the cliché tropes of a violent and sectarian Middle East, I think that refugee settlements in this region are at once a manifestation of historical crises and the remains of alternative projects of refugee aid, solidarity, and multiethnic coexistence.

Figure 3: A typical Circassian House in Amman, 1920s. Following the Russo-Ottoman War of 1877-78, the Ottoman state received about a million North Caucasian Muslim refugees fleeing Tsarist Russian expansion. As part of the efforts to open up new areas for agricultural development, the Ottoman government resettled Caucasus refugees, primarily Circassians and Chechens, in the southern ‘frontier’ of Amman, then part of Ottoman Syria, Caucasus refugees. Source: History of Jordan (www.jordanhistory.com)

Q: You also study Circassian refugees, who came to Syria in the late 1800s. Who were Circassian refugees, and how are they relevant for understanding contemporary Palestinian refugee camps in Amman? 

Yes, who were Circassian refugees? That’s a question I often get asked, especially in the American academy, but certainly not in Arab universities. Circassians are Muslim refugees from the North Caucasus, a region between the Caspian Sea and the Black Sea. After the Russo-Ottoman War of 1877-78, the Ottoman state resettled about a million North Caucasus refugees fleeing Tsarist Russian expansion across the Empire’s southern region. Caucasus refugees, primarily Circassians and Chechens, were granted Ottoman subjecthood. In Amman, then a scarcely inhabited area (today, a capital city with over four million inhabitants), the Ottoman government gave state land as shelter to each refugee household, giving some eight hectares to large families. In addition, refugees were allowed to sell and transfer usufruct rights of these lands after twenty years of cultivation. It’s fascinating to see how Ottomans had a totally different view of refugees, not as temporary asylum seekers to be contained in camps, but as permanent and mobile subjects.  

After World War I and the eventual dissolution of the Ottoman Empire in 1922, Britain and France divided Ottoman Syria into four states. (Syria and Lebanon became French protectorates, while Palestine and Transjordan became British protectorates; contrary to colonies, protectorates are not directly possessed but governed by local rulers.) Britain installed the Hashemite monarchy to rule Transjordan. Amman was chosen as the capital city. As a result, lands owned by Circassian and Chechen refugees began increasing in value. Many members of the Circassian community became wealthy and influential land-owning families in Amman. 

Then, in 1947, the United Nations divided Palestine. In 1948, Israel established itself over more than three-quarters of Palestinian lands. Most Palestinian refugees sought refuge in Amman since it was less than 120 miles away. Many working-class and peasant Palestinians settled in camps established by the UN Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA), the UN agency solely dedicated to the relief of Palestinian refugees. Others built their own camps on squatted lands near the center of the city. Most squatted lands were (and are still) owned by the descendants of Circassian and Chechen refugees. These camps remain unrecognized by UNRWA and are deemed “squatter settlements” by the Jordanian government. As such, property (land and houses) remains a site of intense contestation and legal disputes. Legally contested refugee camps are put into a catch-22 situation: in order to rent the land, the camp needs to be recognized by UNRWA, but the land needs to be leased to UNRWA to get that classification. In such a situation, the state authorizes what is deemed “illegal” construction. However, the lack of official resolution pits the landowning families against both the state and the camp residents.

Today, Palestinians have been moving out of these camps to better neighborhoods in the ever-growing city. In the wake of the 2011 revolution and subsequent civil war in Syria, Palestinians have been renting or giving houses for free to Syrian refugees. So, as you can see, to understand how Syrians have come to find housing in Palestinian camps, one needs to excavate the layers beneath, all the way back to the city’s Ottoman layer. In such a layered understanding of land and housing, other refugee histories, urban histories, and legal structures are made visible.

Q: Your research involved conducting oral history interviews as well as taking photos of material signs documenting property rights. Can you describe your methods, and how these images help you shape your understanding of contemporary refugee issues? 

My research relies on a mixed-methods approach that combines archival research in the Department of Lands and Survey and municipal and geographic collections with field-based methods, such as oral histories, on-site architectural documentation, and ethnographic research among refugees, attorneys, engineers, government officials, ethnic associations, local NGOs, and humanitarian-aid workers. To focus on lived experience and how people manage to build and claim property, I asked my interviewees to recount their families’ stories of migration (or more accurately expulsion) from Palestine, listening to what they felt was important without pushing for information. My interviewees were primarily first-, second-, and third-generation Palestinians. I followed multiple entry points to reach interviewees who varied by age and gender, and made sure to interview camp elders. My interviews were all carried out at people’s homes and conducted in Arabic; most were audio-recorded. They ranged from thirty-minute one-on-one conversations to group discussions involving several family members over hours and days. To build trust, I shared information about myself, my Jordanian origins, and my husband’s origins from Palestine.

During a four-hour-long interview with a Palestinian family, I learned about the continued use of Ottoman sale contracts (called hujja) for installing new electric meter boxes. Hand-written hujja contracts are widespread, and are used as property titles, for inheritance, buying and selling houses, establishing building guidelines, and demonstrating occupancy. To my suprise, I found out that various state entities, including the Jordanian Electric Power company, authorize the use of what are now deemed “non-legal” written property documents, including hujja contracts, to serve as property titles. Therefore, I began to take photos of house sale ads sprayed on buildings. I also asked my interlocutors if they would be willing to share these handwritten documents with me. Following this clue, during my house visits, I began to take photos of electric meter boxes installed by the Jordanian Electric Power. My focus on material signs extends the existing literature on land tenure and property disputes in the global South. It is, therefore, not surprising that a socio-legal reality is manifest in many objects, most tangibly in papers and architectural and urban artifacts.

Figure 4: An abandoned house in a legally contested Palestinian camp that Palestinian refugees gave to Syrian relatives in the wake the revolution turned civil war in Syria. The Syrian refugee family stayed in the house free of rent for almost three years (2013-2016). At the time of writing, the war in Syria was in its eighth year, the number of Syrian refugees in Jordan stands at 665,834 million, of which less than 20% live in UN camps, the rest that is more than 80%, have chosen to settle outside of officially administered UN camps, among communities primarily refugees themselves. Despite this wide discrepancy in numbers, Syrian refugees in cities and among local communities are typically referred to, in humanitarian reports and scholarly works, as “self-settled” refugees.

Q: The photograph above (Figure 4), which depicts an abandoned house, serves as a reminder of the contemporary war in Syria. How does your research address the ongoing war, and how did it shape the conditions under which you could conduct your research?

Because of the war, I have not been able to reach Syria. Before the war, for many people living in Amman and northern Jordanian cities, a trip to Damascus for lunch and back was part of routine life. After all, Damascus is less than 200 km away (around 120 miles). I remember my mother and her girlfriends going shopping and having lunch at their favorite restaurant in old Damascus during the weekend. The increasing securitization of national borders and, by extension, Syrian refugees affected who/what I could access when conducting fieldwork in Syrian refugee camps in the Syria-Jordan borderlands. For instance, when I was doing research in Za’atari refugee camp, the world’s largest camp for Syrian refugees, humanitarian organizations prohibited me from talking to refugees because refugees were considered too vulnerable to speak to researchers. In Azraq, another Syrian refugee camp, I was restricted from entering certain zones where Syrian refugees with possible ISIS connections are detained for fears of possible ISIS infiltration. Although my research primarily focuses on different groups of refugees in Amman, my fieldwork with Syrian refugees in the border region was shaped by the events unfolding in Syria and the increased influence of international humanitarian aid.

Q: Finally, you use Arab and Islamic traditions to understand contemporary networks of refugees. How do refugees provide assistance to each other, and what implications does this have for our understanding of refugees today?

As a student parent, I knew that I could not do one consecutive year of fieldwork, customary to the humanities and qualitative social sciences. So, from early on, I decided to conduct fieldwork over summers. In the summer of 2018, before my qualifying exams, I did pre-dissertation fieldwork on a grant from the Human Rights Center. During that summer, I worked with a local community development organization that works with women in Palestinian refugee camps. 

 I think that summer was a real turning point. During an interview with a Syrian refugee woman, I realized how she had been provided a house for free in a Palestinian camp. She told me how she escaped Za’atari camp to come to live with her distant Palestinian family members. 

 I began to follow clues. I interviewed the Palestinian families who gave their houses for free and gathered that these houses were abandoned. That is, Palestinians did not host Syrians inside the space of the home but in vacant houses. I came to realize that such practices of refugee-to-refugee sanctuary happen between family members, and not based on hospitality shown to a random stranger. Now, looking back, I think that this was my first “a ha” moment. Because of this interview, I began to look into Palestinian camps, which opened onto a whole world of Ottoman refugee shelter. I also noticed how Syrian refugees of Circassian origin were provided housing in the abandoned houses of Circassian-Jordanians. 

 This pushed me to take seriously what remains from the past, and consider transnational networks of family and kin, a connectedness that is partially related to the interconnectedness of Ottoman Syria. This also led me to investigate the Islamic notion of Hijra (migration), which carries the heavy symbolism of Prophet Muhammad’s migration from Mecca and his sanctuary among the locals of Medina. I found that Hijra, which also has connotations of abandonment and departure, overlaps with urban vacancy. The urban and architectural dynamics through which houses built by earlier refugees become re-inhabited by newer ones remain overlooked within the overstudied Syrian refugee crisis. 

 

 

Podcast

Politics of Indigeneity in El Salvador

An interview with Hector Callejas, PhD candidate in Ethnic Studies, UC Berkeley

In this episode of the Matrix podcast, Julia Sizek, PhD candidate in anthropology at UC Berkeley, interviews Hector Callejas, a PhD candidate in Ethnic Studies at UC Berkeley and a 2021-2022 ACLS/Mellon Dissertation Completion fellow.

Callejas specializes in Native American and Indigenous studies and Latin American studies. He researches and teaches on the relationship between Indigeneity, race, space, and power in the Americas. His dissertation theorizes the territorial turn in Latin America from a settler colonial perspective. It draws on extensive ethnographic and archival research on transnational Indigenous politics in contemporary El Salvador.

In the podcast, Sizek and Callejas discuss his research and how Indigeneity is understood in El Salvador, as well as contemporary Indigenous movements in El Salvador.

Produced by the University of California, Berkeley’s Social Science Matrix, the Matrix Podcast features interviews with scholars from across the UC Berkeley campus. Listen to other episodes here. You can also listen on Apple Podcasts and Google Podcasts.

 

 

Podcast Transcript

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Woman’s Voice: The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix, an interdisciplinary research center at the University of California, Berkeley.

Julia Sizek: Hello, everyone and welcome to the Social Science Matrix podcast. I’m Julia Sizek, your host. Today, we’re excited to have Hector Callejas, a PhD candidate in ethnic studies and a 2021/2022 ACLS Mellon dissertation completion fellow. His research focuses on Indigenous politics and contemporary El Salvador. And he theorizes settler colonialism as a hemispheric structure. So thank you so much for coming today.

Hector Callejas: Thank you for having me.

Sizek: So let’s just get started by talking a little bit about the larger scope of your work, which is to say that much of your work focuses on the politics of history, the big scope of how we think about the history of El Salvador versus the history of other places in Latin and South America. How did you become interested in thinking specifically about this topic and also in the role that indigeneity has to play in understanding the history of El Salvador?

Callejas: Sure, yeah, that’s a great question. So basically, the origins of this research project on Indigenous politics in El Salvador is very much rooted in my own personal identity as a Salvadoran/Guatemalan American. Of course, I’m Latino. I was born and raised in Sacramento, California.

But very much of my Latino identity, I’ve always thought about it in terms of being a mixed race person and as part of that identity, that mixed race identity that has to do with mixture with Indigenous peoples, as well as mixture with European heritage. So going to El Salvador, my motherland, my mom’s homeland and trying to learn more about what Indigenous identity means there to the people who live there, that very much motivated my desire to turn this into a research project. In fact, it was very much– I think this started out as like an undergrad paper that I wrote for one of my ethnic studies classes, also here at Cal that just eventually morphed into the research project, as I’m thinking about it today.

Sizek: So how did you get started on the ground? What sort of things were you initially doing when you first went to El Salvador as a research project rather than as a time to visit family?

Callejas: Yeah, so my introduction, I guess or my point of entry into the field of national Indigenous politics in Salvador– I say national, but it’s very much a transnational phenomenon. But my entry was through a Salvadoran student group, student organization here on campus. It’s called La Union Salvadorena de Estudiantes Universitarios.

This is a student group with many different chapters at different public universities on campus. And it was through this network of Salvy student organizations that I was eventually connected to a grassroots Indigenous leader, Indigenous organization in Salvador. That leader actually came. He actually was invited by the UCLA chapter to give a talk at UCLA on Indigenous rights and activism in Salvador.

So basically, I showed up to this talk and I was like, hey, this is really cool. I want to get to learn more about what you’re working on and your activism back in El Salvador. And the timing worked out well for me because at that point, when I did this, I think I was in my third year of my undergraduate program. So immediately afterward, this talk was in May, in June, I was like, when you’re an undergrad– when I was an undergrad, I was like, I want to learn things. I want to learn them now.

So I met this activist in May, and in June and July, I basically got to live with him in his home with his family in El Salvador. And I got to follow him around as he went to these different Indigenous policy-making meetings at different national government agencies in the capital city. And I also got a sense of what kind of Indigenous activism he promoted on the ground in his community.

And it was through that relationship, that experience of living with an Indigenous activist and following this Indigenous activist as he tried to advocate for his community needs with different stakeholders in the national government that I was introduced to this world. And that’s the basis of my dissertation project.

Sizek: Great. I mean, it sounds like you have so much experience working in this field. And one thing that our listeners might be interested in knowing is trying to understand all of these different categories, some of which you’ve already mentioned. So for example, you’ve talked a little bit about how you identify as a mixed race person.

And so what does that category mean, especially in terms of Salvadoran politics? So there in your dissertation, you mentioned all these categories, not only the category of mestizaje or being mestizo, but also the category of Indigenous or being an originario.

Callejas: Yeah, no, that’s a great question. So I guess before I get into the explanation, I just want to say that the way that Latin American countries, including in Salvador, have understood and conceptualized and institutionalized, legislated and defined through policy race has been– racial identity has been very different than how we in the United States understand racial categories. So in the specific case of El Salvador, mestizo, what it means in Spanish is a person of mixed race heritage, specifically racial mixture of European and Indigenous heritages.

This identity, mestizo, was part of a broader nation building project called mestizaje that the Salvadoran national government or rather, specific agencies within the national government promoted to define the Salvadoran identity during the 20th century. And of course, mestizaje in El Salvador was very much part of a broader regional project throughout Latin America of all these different national governments, all these different national actors within different Latin American countries trying to construct and create these mixed race national identities. So the reason why I spent time giving you some background on mestizo and mestizaje is because in Salvador, like many other Latin American countries, have historically defined mestizo, so mixed race or mixed race person, in relation to and in opposition to an Indigenous person.

So even though mestizaje claims Indigenous identity, they claim it in such a way that differentiates the mestizo from the Indigenous person. So in Salvador, historically, the categories that have been used or the identities that have been used to refer to someone who is Indigenous and Indigenous person have been ordinario, natural, as well as indio. The last one, Indian, indio has a very pejorative meaning in everyday Spanish in El Salvador.

These identities, oh man, they have not– so in terms of the history of these identities in El Salvador, these Indigenous identities, the national government actually– as part of the Salvadoran nation building project of mestizaje, for many decades during the mid-20th century, the national government was like, we don’t really care too much about Indigenous peoples in El Salvador. The only attention that they gave to them was through national heritage and national culture. That was the extent to which the national government was willing to give Indigenous peoples any specific attention to their Indigenous identity within the realm of national law and policy.

Sizek: Great. So for part of your dissertation research, one of the things that you actually did is you worked with groups that were participating in this heritage field, doing a cultural tourism. What sort of work were you doing with them? And how does that fall under the auspices of this government recognition only through tourism or through heritage, rather than through land, which we’ll get to later?

Callejas: Yeah, that’s a great question. So yeah, as you’ve mentioned, the national government of Salvador, it wasn’t until 2014 that the legislative assembly was like, OK, we’re going to give constitutional recognition to the existence of Indigenous peoples in El Salvador. Prior to that, the national government didn’t give formal legal recognition.

It did give some recognition and some very limited cultural forms through national policy. But 2014 was when we see, OK, the national government has legalized the category of Indigenous or Indigenous identity. This form of legal recognition has been very limited.

I don’t want to talk about land right now. We can talk about it in a little bit. But this recognition has been very much in terms of national culture, multiculturalism. So mestizaje, we could say, was a nation building project that the national government promoted during much of the 20th century.

And multiculturalism is now the nation building project that the national government is promoting. So part of this project or an important feature of this new multicultural project has been basically saying that Indigenous peoples exist in El Salvador after nearly a century of saying that they no longer existed under mestizaje. And in order to prove this existence or in order to define or articulate this existence, the national government has very much focused on the cultural dimension of contemporary Indigenous identity with regard to the field of heritage, welfare, and visibility.

So I guess one of the– so I should also mention that, today, the national government entity responsible for Indigenous policy in El Salvador is the ministry of culture to give you a sense of the strong cultural emphasis that the national government is giving to contemporary Indigenous identity. And one of– at least for me, one of the most visible or high priority cultural expressions of contemporary Indigenous identity as it’s being promoted by the ministry of culture is Indigenous tourism or Indigenous tourism development. So El Salvador has a national tourism program that’s administered by the ministry of tourism.

This program is called pueblos vivos. Pueblos vivos, so like living towns, living peoples. But basically, the purpose of this program is to get people who live in urban centers, so like the capital city, the city of Santa Ana, the city of San Miguel, try to get these urban peoples out to visit and spend their money in these small towns in the countryside, smaller pueblos, small towns, small communities. The main attraction or one of the main attractions of this program is culture, heritage.

And that’s where indigeneity comes in. At least indigeneity, as the ministry of culture is trying to implement it through national policy. The ministry of culture and the ministry of tourism in the past decade more or less, they’ve identified a few municipalities, a few municipalities in the countryside, small towns that they’ve basically said, Indigenous peoples live here.

And they’ve been trying to– not just them, not just these national actors but also these national actors in collaboration with local actors. So the mayor, the director of the casa de la cultura, casa de la cultura being like a cultural community center run by the ministry of culture, as well as other local actors and stakeholders have been trying to define like, OK, what does Indigenous identity look like within the specific town? And what kind of tourism activities can we develop around this kind of Indigenous identity that we’re rescuing or we’re promoting?

Sizek: So what are some of– if you were to go to one of these towns, what would the activities be that you would do? Like, what would be an example of a town? Like, what sort of crafts might they have or activities might they have that they’re trying to encourage these people from urban centers to go experience in the countryside?

Callejas: Yeah, experience and consume. Because at the end of the day, they want urban people to spend their money in these local economies, these local municipal economies. But OK, so my first introduction to Indigenous tourism development was, again, with that Indigenous activist that I lived with.

At the time that I was living with him and his family, he worked closely with an Indigenous handicraft collective, also located in his town. So on some days when– there were some days when I followed him to these government meetings in San Salvador. And on days that these meetings weren’t happening, I hung out a lot with the Indigenous handicraft collective.

Yeah, I got to see how– I was very much interested in seeing how they made their local handicrafts, their local products at that specific site. The town that I was in was called Nahuizalco. Nahuizalco there, the handicraft promoted products made of natural fibers.

So let me think. Tula was one of them. All different kinds of fibers that could be harvested locally within the canton. The cantons are the rural districts that surround the urban core of Nahuizalco.

So that was my initial exposure to Indigenous tourism with that Indigenous activist. This was, I think, in 2013, back when I was an undergrad during, let’s see, between January 2019 and March 2020. I didn’t live with the Indigenous activist, but I did return to Nahuizalco. And I also started to visit a neighboring municipality called Izalco.

So Izalco and Nahuizalco, neighboring municipalities in the Salvadoran countryside in the zone or the region called El Occidente or the West. So in Nahuizalco, Indigenous tourism was very much focused on handicrafts. There was also some other activities that were promoted, usually fiestas around religious holidays that are organized either by the local municipal government or by the cofradias.

The cofradias being these Catholic brotherhoods, these popular– yeah, cofradias are super fascinating. They’re these popular organizations, so these organizations led by laypeople in collaboration with the local Catholic parish, who are just responsible for organizing and hosting, putting on all these really elaborate displays of popular religiosity. So now Izalco, we saw handicrafts and these cofradia fiestas.

And in Izalco was just pure– yeah, it was like pure cofradia fiestas. There was also handicrafts, but we could say that it was– the emphasis was switched between Izalco and Nahuizalco. Izalco was all about the cofradias, whereas Nahuizalco was very much about the handicrafts.

Sizek: Yeah, that’s really interesting to hear about, I mean, both in terms of how the national government thinks that they’re going to market indigeneity as becoming this new category, where urban folks can spend their money in the countryside, therefore propping up these economies and making them more sustainable. But it also gets back to this, I think, one of the big questions of your research, which is this issue around land and the history of land in El Salvador. And I guess, more specifically, how the categories that we’ve already talked about of mestizo and of originario, that both of these categories imply different relationships to the land, both legally and in terms of contemporary rights. So can you just tell us a little bit about the history of who gets to own land and why in El Salvador?

Callejas: That’s a great question. That question is at the heart of all Indigenous studies. A lot of scholarship in Native American Indigenous studies are very much focused on the relationship, the historical relationship between Indigenous peoples and the land. Man, so in El Salvador, initially– so let’s see, how should I phrase this?

Indigenous peoples in El Salvador, one of the things that make them unique among other Indigenous peoples in Central America, as well as in Latin America, is that they do not have any form of land tenure or land rights that are specific to them as Indigenous peoples. So usually, yeah, I mean, for the past what, three decades in the region, national governments have given partial state recognition to Indigenous communities or other subnational, Indigenous, socio-territorial formations. National governments have recognized Indigenous people’s partial rights to land, territory, political autonomy.

But in El Salvador, they don’t have that. Let’s see. In many Latin American countries, the way that we understand Indigenous territory and Indigenous land rights are based in or are in reference to collective land rights that were defined and operationalized during the Spanish colonial period. So in El Salvador, the national government, after it had achieved national independence first from Spain and later from Mexico, later from Central America, the national government in Salvador had also inherited collected land rights.

And these collected land rights were used by ordinario communities. But the national government did away with collective land rights at the end of the 19th century. And yeah, it was at the end of the 19th century.

And this was the last– in many other Latin American countries, there has been– these collective land rights have existed in some form for Indigenous peoples. But this didn’t happen in El Salvador. They didn’t continue to exist.

Collective land rights did not continue to exist within national law after, I think, it was the 1880s, 1880 to 1881. So Indigenous peoples lost their collective land rights in El Salvador at the end of the 20th century– oh sorry, at the end of the 19th century. Much of the early 20th century and mid-20th century– early 20th century was when we saw a lot of land privatization happening.

So the national government was basically like, OK, we want to promote private property as a form of land tenure throughout the entire national territory. We want to do this because we want to achieve or promote some sort of capitalist development. This kind of development that we want, we want it to be based on coffee.

Well, collective land tenure is not good for coffee cultivation. So in order to free up more land for coffee cultivation, we’re going to get rid of and privatize all that collective land because that collective land is very fertile. And it would be great for growing coffee.

So using this rationale or logic, the national government outlawed collective land tenure at the end of the 19th century in the national government. So it was a legislative assembly and the presidential administration, different legislative assemblies of different presidential administrations. And they basically tasked local communities and municipal governments to be in charge of privatizing all these formerly collective lands.

This process, I think, was supposed to be finished officially in 10 years of land privatization. But I think it extended into the early 20th century. But the point is, is that, eventually, our collective lands were privatized within the entire national territory. No part of the national territory remained or maintained collective land tenure.

And the reason why this matters is because– so this happened– Let’s see, land was privatized, fully privatized by the early 20th century. It wasn’t until what? The 1980s, 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, that transnational Indigenous movements had started to emerge and not just in Latin America, but also in North America, Oceania, Africa, Southeast Asia.

And one of the primary Indigenous rights, or one of the primary emphases focuses– one of the primary focuses of these transnational Indigenous movements have been about defining Indigenous peoples rights to land. The way that many Latin American governments have responded to these international Indigenous movements to this global proliferation of Indigenous rights to land, territory autonomy has been to give Indigenous communities partial control over their communal lands or their collective lands. So we’ve seen this happening in countries that neighbor El Salvador, like Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, Belize, Mexico, Costa Rica.

But we haven’t seen this happen in El Salvador for the past, let’s see, since the 1990s. So since the end of the Salvadoran civil war. The national government has been slowly been increasingly invested in developing some sort of national policy on Indigenous peoples.

And at different points in this very recent history, different national actors have been very explicit about not creating collective land rights specific to Indigenous peoples. So as of now, Indigenous identity in El Salvador is not tied to land. At least, it’s not– it is tied to land, but it’s not given a form of land tenure that is specific to Indigenous peoples, which makes El Salvador very different from its neighboring Latin American countries.

Sizek: Yeah, so I mean, the fact that it is so different in that– in many ways, El Salvador shares common histories with a lot of the neighboring region. Obviously, coffee cultivation is not unique. So what do you think that this different set of histories, what can this tell us as social scientists who are interested in understanding what indigeneity means?

I mean, the historical sedimentation of all these differences obviously has accumulated to mean a very specific set of things are happening in El Salvador versus elsewhere. But what does this tell us about the politics of indigeneity today?

Callejas: I’m still working that out. That’s like the so what of my dissertation. I’ll have that figured out and very soon, as I work on my job market applications. But for me– so you’re right, coffee cultivation is very common in Central America, for example. So El Salvador isn’t unique in that sense.

But what I think– I guess the lesson or what El Salvador teaches us about Indigenous identity and politics in Latin America, I think it reveals something about the nature of colonialism in the region. So not to get too caught up in how different scholars or theorists have talked about colonialism in Central America. But I’m very much interested in trying to analyze and understand El Salvador in terms of settler colonialism.

And I see El Salvador as a pretty good case that can teach us something about where Indigenous territories are allowed to emerge today in Latin America. Does that make sense? So we could say that in the past two decades, Indigenous territories have emerged as a result of these transnational Indigenous movements, as a result of these local Indigenous communities struggling for territory.

But we haven’t seen that process of emergence of Indigenous territory in El Salvador. So I want to try to– I want to take that uniqueness of El Salvador and try to see if I can make some sort of generalization about this broader territorial turn in Latin America.

Sizek: Yeah, that sounds really interesting. And I’m looking forward to seeing you in the near future. This also brings us to this question of the stakes of settler colonialism as a specific form of colonialism and why you decided that this was an important term for your own research.

Oftentimes, when people talk about settler colonialism, they’re referring to the United states, Canada, actually, a lot of the anglophone world. And so what made you think that settler colonialism was a good term to describe what’s happening in El Salvador? And what are the stakes of using this term to describe what’s happening there?

Callejas: Yeah, so settler colonialism, as you said, it’s a specific form of colonization. It’s ongoing. I guess two main points that Native American and Indigenous studies scholars like to emphasize about settler colonialism is that it’s a structure, not an event. Meaning that even though these– even though national countries have claimed formal independence from their former colonizing imperial homeland, they’ve nevertheless maintain a social structure that is colonial in nature. So that’s the first point.

And the second point is that, I guess, one of the key drivers or endeavors of settler colonialism is to eliminate Indigenous peoples and Indigenous territories as an obstacle to the settler possession and development of land. So in terms of, why did I choose settler colonialism for El Salvador? Well, I mean a big part of it had to do with that I just wasn’t finding literature in Latin American studies that talked about colonialism in a way that was helpful to understand El Salvador.

Much of the literature talks about coloniality, drawing on postcolonial and decolonial theory. And all that scholarship is great. It’s very useful. It explains a lot of interesting facets and dimensions of contemporary Indigenous politics with regard to land and territory in Latin America.

But the way that these theories had been– I guess, these theories had been theorized, have been developed, they just weren’t able to make much sense of El Salvador. Like, a lot of scholars who were invested in the kind of questions that are being centered through postcolonialism and decolonial theory, they just didn’t really give much attention to El Salvador, which made me look elsewhere for a theoretical framework that could. So I’m in ethnic studies. I’m a PhD candidate in ethnic studies.

I specialize in Native American studies. And in Native American studies, we very much draw on settler colonialism as a theoretical framework. So I was able to take that theory of settler colonialism and try to see like, OK, what sense can I make of El Salvador?

And I found settler colonialism’s emphasis on Indigenous erasure from national territory to be a very productive lens for thinking about El Salvador because at some point, I think by the 1990s, it was common knowledge in El Salvador that Indigenous peoples didn’t exist. Which to me was like, wow, that’s totally like settler colonialism to completely erase or claim to erase the social existence of Indigenous peoples. And yeah, the second part– yeah.

Sizek: So I think– I mean, one of the really interesting things is this actually brings us back to what we were discussing at the beginning and this question of how Indigenous peoples are becoming much more prominent in Salvadoran politics, as well as in terms of these tourism programs. So what do you see as like the movements for Indigenous peoples in El Salvador today? Like, what direction do you think things are headed in?

Callejas: So future directions, well, as of now, I think the future direction made possible through law, through national law is heritage and culture. As limited as that is, that’s just the terms through which the national legislative assembly or different legislative assemblies have been willing to grant formal state recognition of Indigenous peoples. There have been talks within different national government agencies about the possibility of establishing, of ratifying ILO convention 169.

The interesting thing about that is that ILO convention 169, for those of you– for those who are unfamiliar, it’s an international legal instrument that is recognized by many countries in Latin America. And this instrument is very much– Indigenous rights to land and territory are very much at the center of the ILO convention. 169. So in Salvador, the national government has been unwilling to ratify this international treaty, since this treaty was passed in 1989.

But there have been talks in the past decade of possible ratification and what the legalization of ILO 169 means for Indigenous politics and rights in El Salvador. And whether that could mean the recreation of some sort of collective land rights and maybe the possible emergence of Indigenous territory in Salvador remains to be seen.

Sizek: Thank you so much for coming in today. It was really interesting to learn more about your work. Thank you.

Callejas: Thanks for having me.

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about social science matrix, please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

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Podcast

A New Voice for Black History: Xavier Buck, PhD

Xavier Buck

In this episode of the Matrix Podcast, Julia Sizek interviews Xavier Buck, Deputy Director of the Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation, a nonprofit that has preserved and promoted the legacy of the Black Panther Party for over 25 years.

Buck graduated with a PhD in History from UC Berkeley in 2021. His work blends organizing and educational pursuits in the service of sustaining movements for Black lives, and he has previously been a fellow at Prosperity Now, the Education Trust – West, and the Digital Equity Initiative at the City & County of San Francisco.

The discussion focuses on Buck’s work in public history, including his @historyin3 channel (which can be found on TikTok and Instagram), his current work at the Huey P. Newton Foundation, and his dissertation research, which shows how Black experiences in Louisiana from 1927 to 1945 were integral to Black political organizing, cooperative economics, and government partnerships in California from 1945 to 1975.

Produced by the University of California, Berkeley’s Social Science Matrix, the Matrix Podcast features interviews with scholars from across the UC Berkeley campus. Stream the episode above, or listen and subscribe on Apple Podcasts or Google Podcasts.

 

About Xavier Buck

Dr. Xavier Buck is the Deputy Director of the Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation, a nonprofit that has preserved and promoted the legacy of the Black Panther Party for over 25 years. Prior to joining the Foundation, Buck was a fellow at Prosperity Now, the Education Trust – West, and the Digital Equity Initiative at the City & County of San Francisco, where he conducted research on racial equity gaps, wrote policy, and designed innovative programs for building black and brown wealth. Encouraged by the impact he made through these fellowships, he started Xavier Buck Research Ventures, LLC to continue supporting nonprofits, policy companies, and government agencies to advance black economic growth through data-driven research. At the Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation, he directs public art installations, manages public-private partnerships, leads strategic planning, designs curriculum, among many other things.

Dr. Buck earned his B.A. in history from St. John’s University (Queens) and his Ph.D. in history from the University of California Berkeley. As an undergraduate, he led the largest student movement in the history of the university which led to the hiring of more faculty of color and a chief diversity officer, the establishment of an inclusivity counseling center, the introduction of a required course on microaggressions, and a legacy of strong black and brown leadership. Buck has always believed that what we learn in the classroom is applicable to sustaining movements for black lives and continues to blend his organizing and educational pursuits.

Podcast Transcript

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Woman’s Voice: The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix, an interdisciplinary research center at the University of California, Berkeley.

Julia Sizek: Hello, everyone, and welcome to the Social Science Matrix Podcast. I’m Julia Sizek, your host. Today, we’re excited to have Xavier Buck on the podcast. Xavier recently completed his PhD in history and his dissertation revealed the connections between Black Lives in Louisiana and California from 1940 to 1970.

Today, he is deputy director of the Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation, a nonprofit that has preserved and promoted the legacy of the Black Panther Party for over 25 years. Xavier also runs a Black history channel called History in 3, which can be found on Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube.

Yeah, so let’s talk a little bit about your History in 3 channel. One of the things that you do is you tell hidden histories or I would say histories that people don’t know about Black people in the American West and really across America. And you give some context for contemporary events.

And so one of the things that I found really interesting when I was looking at your channel is how to think about the protest after the murder of George Floyd last summer and particularly, how to think about the language of rioting and destruction during the protests.

There’s this debate about whether to call protests riots or to call them protests. But that’s also a very racialized language to call protest by White people protest and protest by Black people riots. So can you just tell us a little more about how you think about this particular and very contemporary topic?

Xavier Buck: It takes a lot of groundwork to just make this argument, but I find that there’s continuity between slave uprisings, between people defending themselves in Jim Crow south with armed defense to the Watts Uprising in ’65 to protest today. I view all of these things as self-defence movements or movements for Black liberation.

And there’s a lot of continuity between the Watts Uprising and the protests today. One thing you brought up, you said, well, when Black people disrupt, it’s a riot and when White people disrupt it’s called something else. And I think today what’s really interesting is that a lot of the recent protests after George Floyd were mostly White people, but because they were for Black lives, they were still called riots.

That’s why it’s called the Watts Riots in ’65. But a lot of Black scholars have put forth as the Watts Uprising in 1965 to change that language around because it wasn’t just chaos or people just destroying things. It was rebellion. It was self-defense. It was a movement for black liberation.

And how I see the Watts Uprising is that you have funneled all these Black people into this area. There were for public housing buildings in that area. And they were centers for Black life, but they also very quickly became dilapidated because the federal government pulled funding from them.

And so you had all these people that just came from the south and went through Jim Crow, had seen lynchings, had escaped death, had been grossly exploited with of their labor, and all of a sudden, now they’re densely packed into poor housing in California, which is supposed to be the final frontier. It’s supposed to be where freedom is. There’s nowhere to go from there.

So to witness violence from the police once again, to witness poor housing once again, to not have options to really get that freedom because of redlining, segregation, and because of job discrimination once again, it just didn’t really match. It doesn’t match the word riot. It matches the word uprising. And so the Watts Uprising in 1965 was just that, people were fighting back.

Now, I want to draw the connection to today. We often complain about the businesses or the buildings being torn down, usually in these downtown areas or whatever the shopping districts are. And to an extent I can sympathize with business owners because nobody wants their business torn down at all.

But I think what you saw in the Watts Uprising is that you had to destroy what was there because it wasn’t Black-owned yet it was all Black neighborhood. And the powers were preventing it from being black-controlled. So the Watts Uprising burned down Watts in Willowbrook in Compton areas in South Central.

But they also built so much, so many businesses, so many art movements. They brought Cal State, Dominguez Hills nearby. They built Locke High School. They built the Martin Luther King Medical Center. They built Charles Drew Medical School and several medical clinics. They built so much and there was the Black community that controlled it. So they had to burn down that section.

And so today, when I see uprisings in this contemporary moment after George Floyd, it’s like, whoa, look at these downtown areas. How did they get built. And I’ll talk about the Bay Area. I’ll talk about Oakland as an example. You have West Oakland, you have downtown Oakland.

West Oakland, its infrastructure was really hardened when that freeway was built separating West Oakland from Downtown Oakland. So one of the most underused freeways in the nation. And it’s this freeway that just separated the Black people from the Downtown business interests mostly white-controlled.

And so it’s like at the same time that they segregated Black folk, made sure they couldn’t get business loans, or get home loans to improve their properties, or to purchase property, or to expand their business, they subsidize white business interests downtown right next door. And so it’s like we see these skylines going up. And this is in the ’80s, right after the black power era is dwindling.

So in the ’80s, the response to the black power era is let’s build these downtown skylines. Whether that’s Oakland or San Francisco, it’s the same thing. And so it’s like these are literally odes. These downtown areas are literally odes to capitalism, odes to White business interests, odes to white-controlled infrastructure.

And so once again, I can sympathize. I would never want my business torn down, but I can’t pretend like tearing down these odes to capitalism could not lead to black or minority controlled downtown areas, which could then lead to economic prosperity. And so for me, that’s where I see these two things tied together, where you have the Watts Uprising, where you tear down things and then you build it up, but it has different people in power.

It’s the same thing with today. It’s like, well, if you’re tearing down these things, let’s figure out who can be in power. Let’s figure out how to funnel the money into the people that have been living here for generations, that have been holding on to Oakland even when Oakland didn’t take care of them. And so I think there’s something to it. And I think it’s worth drawing the connections between the two eras.

Sizek: Yeah, that’s really helpful and very interesting. And I really appreciate your ability to connect across these different, what people might see as disparate, eras. And one of the things that I think that your TikTok does a really good job of is also featuring Black people who have been building up cities historically.

And one of those stories that I really appreciated and I would love to hear more about from you is the story of Biddy Mason, who is a prominent citizen of Los Angeles, who was actually born a slave in Mississippi prior to when she emigrated and was able to get herself out of slavery when she was in California. Can you just tell us a little bit more about her story and why you decided to feature it on the TikTok?

Buck: Yeah, I mean, Biddy Mason is basically– she’s the grandmother of LA. Biddy Mason, she was a slave, my understanding was in Mississippi. Her owner was Mormon and so they moved to Utah. And at that time, there was a bunch of Mormons that were moving from Utah to the San Bernardino area right outside LA or just east of LA.

But slavery wasn’t legal in California, not on law. And so they brought their slaves. But on the way there, basically Biddy Mason ran into a bunch of Black people on the way. And sometimes this is hard to imagine because we think about slavery is like you have no way to communicate, or any agency, or anything like that.

Yes, she was enslaved, but she found ways to communicate with other Black folk on the way to California from Utah. And so they basically told her they were like, hey, when you get to California sue for your freedom. Slavery is not legal there. So by the time she got there that’s what she does.

And from my understanding, she got in contact with some other Black folk down in LA and ended up suing for her freedom in a court in Santa Monica. Don’t quote me on it, but that’s what I think I remember. But she sues for her freedom. And it’s just one of those strange rags to riches stories because she’s cleaning people’s homes and doing other work for them. And before you know it, she’s really saving her money.

She all of a sudden, she has connections with the Afro-Mexicans that founded the Pueblo of Los Angeles, the most famous one being Pio Pico. Half the founders of LA were Afro-Mexican. And so she ends up becoming fluent in Spanish. She’s had all of their parties And these are the people that have lots of money, still have money even though it’s American soil now.

And so she’s connecting with them. And before you know it, she’s buying tracts of land in Downtown LA. And it’s funny because you would never know today. I mean, there’s a small I guess you would call it a monument. It’s not a mural, but it’s on a wall that is dedicated to her. It tells a little bit of this history, but it’s like these giant buildings, important corporate and federal buildings that are sitting on the land that she originally purchased.

And it basically became the first Black neighborhood in LA because as former slaves or just Blacks from the South or from other places were moving to LA basically the first person they went to was biddy Mason.

And she basically built tract houses on her land and started housing people and started selling it off. And then she used that money to start the first Black church in LA, first AME Church. So, I mean it’s one of those stories that surprises you in the 1850s and ’70s. And it’s extraordinary and I think it’s undertold. I didn’t know it until really I got to grad school. And I’m from LA. And so I just had to tell that information.

Sizek: Yeah, what were some of the other stories that you featured that you were surprised to know or learn about and felt like needed to be out in the public?

Buck: The story of Velma Grant, which is to be continued because I don’t the end of that story yet. But what I do know, the neighborhood where my grandmother bought her house, where my grandparents bought their house, which is just south of Watts, southwest of Watts in a neighborhood called Willowbrook.

This Black woman in the mid-1940s, she got a loan from Bank of America for about $2 million. This is a time when women couldn’t get credit. Yeah, right. This is the time when women couldn’t get credit and Black people couldn’t get loans.

So somehow this Black woman who a real estate agent, got a $2 million loan from Bank of America and built all this housing specifically for the Black middle class in LA and literally sold them within days, all 40 houses within days, then kept building. And then she went and did the same thing in San Bernardino.

And then the history gets blurry because she basically falls off the map. We don’t know what happened to her. I’ve heard some speculation from local historians in LA, but nobody really knows what happened to her. But yet she created the first housing in LA for the black middle class and was a Black woman. Who got this big old loan from a bank, Bank of America?

And it was just a very strange story that surprised me and I would have never known it. The person that designed her homes was Paul Williams, which is probably the most famous Black, not probably, is the most famous Black architect in history and American history and at that time he was one of the top architects in general of his time.

And so he designed her houses. And so he has a website that talks about the history of all of his houses. And so it was in my grandma’s neighborhood, one of the houses he designed there called the Carver manners after at that time, the late George Washington Carver. And they designed specifically for Black people. And I would never known about it unless it was on that website, about her at all.

Sizek: Actually, in some ways, this seems like this topic of this housing is also related to your dissertation, which is about the second Great Migration and specifically how Black people from Louisiana came to California and brought their own know-how from being in Louisiana and transported it into California. Can you tell us just a little bit more about what your dissertation is about and how you became interested in this subject?

Buck: Yeah, my dissertation is about ordinary people who are living in Louisiana. And I start in the late ’20s with the Great Flood of 1927 through the Great Depression up until the World War II era. And that’s in Louisiana. It’s about ordinary people from Louisiana, Black people, mostly rural, and there are politics, especially as it relates to how government is supposed to work.

What do they see as the role of government? How capitalist is it? How socialist is it? Is this a gray area in between? So it’s about the relation to government. It’s about the institutions they build to gain economic independence, and overall, their political strategies.

And these ordinary Black people from Louisiana. The greatest number of Black people who moved to California came from Louisiana and the area surrounding its borders. And so all of these people came to California and once again, came with their politics, but then were introduced to a different state that had some similarities and some differences.

But basically what I do is draw a genealogy between Black politics in Louisiana and California, not necessarily as a one way ticket into how politics work in California, but more so in how these two places exchange dialogue across kinship networks, across social institutions, across political institutions.

And then really doing that to try to understand, well, where did these ideas that sprouted that seem to have just sprouted up in the black power era, what is the continuity between the deep south and the West Coast? What is the continuity between black politics in Louisiana and California, specifically as it relates to black power politics?

Sizek: Yeah, so can you help us by just describing an example of this? What would be an example of a political or economic strategy that moved between these two places?

Buck: One thing that happens in Louisiana, especially around the Shreveport area, there’s an oil boom. And all kinds of people have oil on their land. There’s Blacks that had a lot of land down in Louisiana.

But because there was an oil boom and Whites wanted to control that industry, they basically killed and pushed a bunch of Black people off their land stealing their oil, millions of dollars worth of money and millions of dollars worth of resources.

And a lot of these people– there’s so many stories that I heard when I was doing my oral histories of because Black people were getting pushed off their land or trying to get killed in the middle of the night, Black folk that killed a police officer or killed a White person that was trying to attack them, defending themselves, and then fleeing to California.

Just as a second instinct they knew they were going to go to California next, because, one, that was the final frontier of freedom and because they probably had family there. But it’s this dispossession of land that I think was a major thread in Black politics in California. Now, LA by the ’50s has the highest Black homeownership rate in the country.

Sizek: Wow.

Buck: Right, yeah. And so people always compare that to the Watts Uprising in ’65. Well, how did that happen then? So in the ’50s you have the highest homeownership rate, but then ’65, you got black people burning down the city. So how do we make connections? What I see it is that, yeah, there was a solid black middle class.

But the majority of people who were moving to LA, especially in the ’60s, so the population that moved there in the ’50s literally would make up half of the Black population in LA. Then, again, in the ’60S the amount of people that moved to LA, Black people that moved to LA in the ’60s would then, again, make up another half of the Black population. That’s how fast they’re growing.

And when I talk about this urgency of Black people being dispossessed of their land and immediately moving into public housing project in Watts, Willowbrook. So you just lost your land. The ultimate idea of economic independence is that you’ll have your 40 acres and a mule or at least a home with a front yard in a decent neighborhood, something to call your own. But instead you force people into dilapidated public housing.

So to me, that is the antithesis of economic liberation. And I think there is a connection between being dispossessed of your land in Louisiana and not giving the opportunity to even own land in California. Majority people, I’m talking about people that are just within five to six years are experiencing this back to back.

And I think that’s what makes it worth it to destroy Watts in ’65, just like if they could have in mass. These are rural areas in mass. If they were in dense area like LA and Louisiana, I think they would have burned it down as well. It’d have been a lot more repercussions than what happen in California.

But I think because all of these Black people that were once in rural areas who were dispossessed of their land get condensed in this very dense public housing, all these four projects within a mile or two of each other. I think it becomes worth it to destroy this area so that it can finally be Black-controlled and so that they can have ownership over the land.

Sizek: Yeah, and as you note, a lot of people are coming from really rural areas to really urban areas. Were there any examples that you found, a continuity where a rural institution would get transported into an urban area?

Buck: Yeah, I mean, the obvious ones are church denominations. Say if you were a Baptist or Methodist in Louisiana, which are the two most popular ones, most likely to be Baptist and Methodist when you get to LA, there’s organizations.

If you participate in the NAACP or if you were in New Orleans, moved to LA, the United Negro Improvement Association, which was Marcus Garvey organization, the Urban League, also the Masonic lodges, and the Eastern Star lodges, they were very popular in Louisiana, very strong. And they proliferated in Los Angeles as well around the same time, the migration.

But I think most important, you can talk about the institutions that are physical, that have places. But most importantly, it’s the kinship networks. These are family. Whether a real or fictive kin, these people are connected.

And at one time people were hundreds of miles from each other or if not that far, far enough from each other, spread out across the south. And now they’re all in one location spreading information very quickly. So when we think about organizing strategies, these are people who are very well-organized in the deep south, in rural areas. Bring them to a city and see how fast they move.

In the areas that I’m talking about in my dissertation, mostly what’s Willowbrook and Compton, basically, these Black people organize government resources faster than the White constituents ever did that preceded them. And they improve their communities so fast, so fast. And they’re really able to mobilize millions worth of state and federal resources into their small communities. And I think it’s underappreciated how well organized they were, whether or not they were part of an organization or not.

Sizek: And so you mentioned that they were improving their communities. So were they getting– what are examples of doing those sorts of community improvements? Are they getting grants for housing? Are they making neighborhood associations? What are examples of those sorts of community improvement projects?

Buck: Yeah, well, the areas they were able to move to weren’t always the best areas. So you had a lot of places that didn’t have sidewalks, that still had dirt roads. So they got the streets paved. They got streetlights put up. They got bus lines installed. They got libraries established. They got schools erected.

They fought for public housing because we’re supposed to be a good thing. It was wartime housing and there was very little for Black people. And so because they were crowded downtown in Little Tokyo, basically they fought for public housing. And so public housing, on top of that, regular single family homes, that kind of stuff.

Things people need to– health care institutions, medical clinics– things people need to live life. And not even enjoy it, just the basic necessities that weren’t there when white residents were there. And Black people moved there on mass and government resources moved very quickly.

Sizek: So you mentioned that you did some oral histories as you were conducting your dissertation research. What were the other– did you use archives? How did you find out everything that you wrote about for your dissertation?

Buck: Yeah, I spent a lot of time in archives in Louisiana. From Shreveport to New Orleans I went to almost every single one and just looked for any hint of Black history in the 20th century. And that was very difficult because in the south I was just– no, let me be specific.

In Louisiana, there’s a lot of stuff on Black people when they were slaves. There’s very little documented under Jim Crow. And that’s partly because Black people weren’t trying to be found out during Jim Crow. A lot of their movements and organizations were clandestine. So that’s the part of the reason is because Black people didn’t record on purpose. The other reason is that these archives, until very recently, never really valued any type of Black history from the 20th century because it’s “too political,” quote, unquote.

I mean, I went to archives in Shreveport and the archivist– I never experienced anything like this. The archivist literally gave me some of their archives. They said they were just going to throw it away. There’s some newspapers and they said they were just going to throw it away. So they just gave it to me. They said I might want this.

I’ve never been to an archive, but that has happened. So when you ask me about my sources, newspapers, government documents, a lot of people’s personal papers, especially university administrators or politicians.

I actually to track kinship networks and where people are migrating when they were still in the south. And then on to California, I used a lot of obituaries because they always name where all of your kin is currently living in an obituary. So actually look through hundreds of obituaries. What else?

There were a lot of oral histories down at LSU in Baton Rouge from civil rights movement era. And then in LA, same documents, government records, oral histories, newspapers. And then I did my own set of oral histories.

This story that I’m telling, it started even before I started my PhD program. It was really like a family history project. That’s what got me interested in it. A lot of stuff. I’m talking about the same thing my family went through. And so the church that I grew up in or the people I grew up around, similar stories. And so all these people I was already connected to and able to interview immediately.

Sizek: Yeah, that’s amazing. And it’s also great that you’re able to piece together what is an incredibly complex historical narrative that comes from these two places that are very much historically connected, but often that people don’t think of together. I don’t think there are a lot of historians who are working between Louisiana and California.

Buck: No, I don’t know any.

Sizek: I guess it’s just you, which is why it’s so important to do this work. And so I guess transitioning toward what you’re working on now, you’re working for the Huey P. Newton foundation, which is here in Oakland. And it’s an organization that seeks to preserve and spread the ideas and legacy of the Black Panther Party. So can you just tell us a little bit more about that organization and how you became involved with them so that you’re now working for them?

Buck: Well, first thing, Huey Newton is from Monroe, Louisiana. So there was a connection there too with the dissertation. He’s in there. But how I got involved with them? Honestly, they’ve been around since 1993 and have had their highs and the lows and they were starting to build up again.

And Fredrika Newton, which was– she was a former panther. She was a nurse for 30 years with Kaiser. And she’s also Huey’s widow. She’s been the president of the foundation. She took it over after from David Hilliard. And she was looking to do some more work, figure out new ways of preserving the history of the Black Panther Party, especially using public art.

And she had a team of volunteers and they put out a job description. And I saw it and I just applied like a regular person. And they put me through three rounds of interviews and a brainstorming session. And then finally, they hired me as their deputy director, which at that time was still just a volunteer position.

And I thought I was going to have a team because there was a team of volunteers who interviewed me. I thought I was going to have a team, but as soon as I got on, they actually all went off and continued what they were doing with their own personal lives. They were all– a lot of them were in tech, very busy, had jobs to attend to tend to.

And so from there it was just me and Fredrika. And then we started building the team. And we started making, building relationships up again and figuring out really what we wanted to do and at the rest was history. That was a little over two years ago.

Sizek: And so some of the projects that the foundation is working on is both a project of putting up a bust of Huey in West Oakland, as well as trying to establish a Black Panther National Park historic site. Can you just tell us a little bit about these initiatives and their status and what you all are hoping to do?

Buck: So in February 2021, we unveiled Huey P. Newton way. Huey was killed on 9th and center in West Oakland. And so now 9th Street is Huey P. Newton Way between Mandela Parkway and Peralta. So that happened in February.

And then October 24, 2021, we will unveil a bronze bust of Huey Newton done by sculptor Dana King. And that was a really beautiful project because they brought in so many experts to help with it.

I mean, Fredrika was literally filling the molds face and using muscle memory to remember what Huey’s face felt like to help the artists make sure it was right. It was just a very personal and beautiful project for her. And so we’re really excited to unveil that on October 24.

Some of the other things that we’re doing, we have a larger Black Panther Party art installation, that we’re working with the City of Oakland to place in front of Alameda County Court, which was the site of the Free Huey movement. And this area, it’s around Lake Merritt. And this is where the Free Huey movement was.

There were a lot of Black events that happened at the Kaiser Center. And then 1200 Lakeshore is where Huey’s old penthouse was. So that whole area on that side of Lake Merritt is significant. And so we’re putting this larger, we’re hoping to put this larger Black Panther Party art installation that really tells the history of their survival programs like free breakfast and sickle cell research and free medical clinics in the community school.

And we want to talk about the survival programs. And we also really want to emphasize the women in the party who by the late ’60s made up the majority of the party, but often get overlooked. And so those are the two main stories that we want to tell with this monument.

So we have the bronze bust of Huey that’s going in West Oakland and then the larger art installation that’s going in the center of Oakland, right. We imagine it as the centerpiece of Oakland. For so many people around the world, Oakland is synonymous with the Black Panther Party and we want to make sure that piece of art tells that history.

Some of the other work that we’re doing, as you mentioned, we are working with the National Park Service to designate several sites as historic landmarks that are relevant to the Black Panther Party’s history to create a national park unit, which would include a visitor center or you could think of it as a museum run by national park staff, similar to Rosie the Riveter and Richmond.

And so that’s a huge project. That one’s going to take much longer, but we’re hoping that we have the political will with the current president and the people and Congresswoman Barbara Lee and the council members of the City of Oakland, as well as the resolutions we’ve gotten from cities of Richmond and San Francisco and Berkeley and Sacramento.

We’re hoping we have the political will to really push this through. We definitely have some allies with the National Park Service that are helping us out with this. But yeah, that’s the next of four to five years. We’re hoping to have this national park unit established.

Some of the other work that we’re doing, we’re digitizing all the Black Panther Party newspapers. I’m hoping that UC Berkeley will be involved with that and UC Berkeley libraries. We’re digitizing all the newspapers and a plethora of other projects, but those are the main ones.

Sizek: Yeah so, I mean, one thing that’s really interesting is that your work for the foundation is very much working on public history and these questions of memorialization. And I was just curious if there are ways that you find that your academic background and knowledge about history has informed your approach for thinking about these projects of memorialization, telling a historical narrative and putting in these large art installations.

Buck: Absolutely. I did my PhD originally to be a history professor. That’s what I wanted. By the time I finished, I really didn’t have that desire anymore and I never could imagine I’d be doing this work with the Huey Newton Foundation.

But I use my degree every single day in the things that I write, in the conversations that we have, and as you said, just thinking about how public art and history can work. I mean, I’m coming in contact with the people who lived this history.

All these people are still here. So it’s like I’m just working and living history and I love it. I love it. But my PhD in history has definitely informed the work I’m doing and it’s been extremely beneficial to me.

Sizek: I mean, it’s amazing to be able to work in this living history and to also be creating these archives that will help future historians. Exactly the kinds of archives where you had to, in your own research, really be digging around in the corners and the edges of the archives to try to locate the history that you needed in order to understand these connections between Louisiana and California. So I’m so glad that you’re able to actually create these archives now and to do that work for future historians.

Buck: Yeah, it’s dope. That’s all I got to say.

[LAUGHTER]

Sizek: Well, yeah, this has been great. I think we can wrap up here. Yeah, I’ve really appreciated this. It’s been phenomenal and I’ve loved hearing about your work.

Buck: All right, awesome, Julia, Thank you for putting me on the interview.

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about Social Science Matrix, please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

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Podcast

Matrix Podcast: Interview with Juliana Friend, PhD Candidate, Anthropology

Juliana Friend

In this podcast, Matrix content curator Julia Sizek interviews Juliana Friend, a PhD candidate in the UC Berkeley Department of Anthropology, whose research focuses on the intersection of technology, privacy, and culture. Her dissertation, “Don’t Click Here! Porn, Privacy, and Digital Dissidence in Senegal,” examines how digital dissidents are transforming the idea of sutura (discretion or modesty), a concept used to describe the appropriate relationship between private and public life in Senegal.

Friend’s research shows how citizenship, subjectivity, and nation are being redefined in online spaces by eHealth activists and women who work with pornographic images. Her dissertation research has been featured in The Conversation, and she was a 2020-2021 Charlotte W. Newcombe fellow. 

The interview focuses on the concept of sutura and Juliana’s research on the topic in Senegal.

Listen to the interview through the link below, or on Apple Podcasts or Google Podcasts.

Podcast Transcript

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The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix, an interdisciplinary Research Center at the University of California Berkeley.

Julia Sizek: Hello, everyone and welcome to the Social Science Matrix Podcast. We’re here in the Matrix space, wearing our masks, and we hope that you are staying safe out there. I’m Julia Sizek and I’ll be your host for this episode. Today, we’re excited to have Juliana Friend, a PhD candidate in anthropology to discuss her dissertation, don’t click here: porn, privacy, and digital dissidence in Senegal, which examines how digital dissidents are transforming the idea of sutura, which is often translated as discretion or modesty.

Her dissertation research has been featured in The Conversation, and she was a 2020-2021 Charlotte W. Newcombe fellow. Welcome, Juliana.

Juliana Friend: Hi, Julia. Thanks so much for having me.

Sizek: So let’s get started just by talking about what the concept of sutura is. Can you just tell us a little bit about what this concept is and its history?

Friend: Right, so sutura is a culture of discretion, and it’s often invoked to both create and police a boundary between public and private life. So this can take the form of modest dress, covering the body, or the form of speech, not discussing sex with elders except in particular situations. And so to suturale someone else means to keep their secrets, to protect them from exposure, shame, or unwanted visibility.

And women are often seen as the guardians of sutura, and maintaining sutura is crucial to crafting oneself as a good Senegalese woman. It’s crucial to securing honor, moral legitimacy, national belonging, and one reason why it’s really important is that it’s kind of a social contract between members of the Senegalese community.

So for example, if a sexual assault survivor refrains from naming the perpetrator, thereby keeping intimate life out of public view, this maintains the social contract of sutura and she’s more likely to receive social and material support from her community at the time she needs it most. So by protecting a member of the National Community, she in turn is protected.

So you mentioned that it’s both part of the national identity of Senegal, but it’s also part of the religious identity of Senegal. Many people might be surprised to find out that 96% of the population in Senegal practices Islam. So what’s the history of Islam in Senegal and how is the concept of sutura embedded in this religion?

Right, so a proper answer to this question goes beyond my pay grade but to start off, yeah, so Islam has been present in Senegal since the 11th century. Today, it is predominantly Sufi and broken into four brotherhoods. And the influence of these Sufi brotherhoods really expanded with French colonization, and some Sufi leaders were anchors of anti-colonial resistance. Others were actually integrated in colonial administration, which was rare for French colonial governance, and they mediated between the French and Senegalese populations.

And it’s interesting that, kind of on an international level, Senegal is known as having, quote, unquote, “a good Islam”, a moderate Islam. One that secures tolerance and is a bulwark against, quote, “political” Islam often conflated with extremism. And so this has really shaped the position of Senegal in the global order.

In terms of sutura, sutura is a hybrid between pre-Islamic practices, Muslim practices of modesty, and the history of colonization. So it existed before Islam’s influence and was very crucial to marking caste distinctions. So for example, the distinction between the griot or gewel who could say indiscreet things that higher class nobles who employed them were bound by sutura not to say.

And then this hybridized with Muslim practices of modesty. And then French colonization really shaped the gendered direction that sutura took. So French colonizers would invoke sutura to control women’s sexuality as a technique of governing their subjects more broadly. And then this continued in new forms after independence, when women’s morality became part of a nation building project. And so loose women appeared to compromise the ideal of a flourishing independent nation.

Sizek: I mean, it seems like sutura really embodies the incredible history of Senegal as well as the complex interactions between all of these both global and local forces. And one of, I guess one of the things that this makes me think about is how this sutura is really transforming or changing over time. And so in this post independence period, can you just tell us a little bit about how sutura has changed?

Friend: So one lens I use in my research to examine the transformations of sutura is the lens of new media, especially social media platforms like Facebook and more recently, TikTok, but situating those forms in a longer history of communication, and in particular, the history of how communication and the body intertwine.

So one example, and here I’m drawing on the amazing work of Ivy Mills, who is also here at Berkeley. So to rewind a bit to the height of the Wolof caste system, I mentioned this figure of the gewel or the griot who was employed by a noble family to tell family histories, to take a key role in ceremonies, and was known as brash, outspoken, lacking sutura.

So even though this figure was crucial to the social order, they were also marginalized. And interesting for the historical throughline is that because sutura is a very gendered value and because they were seen as transgressing sutura, they were positioned as not quite men. So in this case a, kind of, queer figure.

And so we see this remediated in different ways as the media landscape has changed. And especially with new media, often depicted as a promiscuous media form because it allows multiple intimacies, multiple connections at once, but this kind of anxiety about promiscuous media is displaced onto marginalized populations, like women, queers.

And so various anxieties are projected onto the figure of the gay man as always already too public, always bringing sexuality, intimacy into the public space just by virtue of their existence. So sutura can in its more unsettling forms be invoked to police who can take part in public life.

Sizek: So can you tell us a little bit more about these new social media forms. What would an example be of when someone is inappropriately, I guess, going against this idea of discretion in social media posting? What would that look like?

Right, so I mean, the quintessential example that definitely is not specific to Senegal is teen social media usage the source of much consternation. And so in my field work with sex education programs, there were these new modules coming out called sutura and Facebook. And again, the burden being placed on young women to keep in mind that Facebook, while it might seem friendly, is actually public space and therefore be on guard.

And one group of digital dissidents that I’m particularly interested in, and by digital dissident I mean somebody who uses media in anti-sutura indiscreet ways, are porn performers. And pornography is seen as the antithesis of sutura because it takes intimacy and makes it hyper-visible, hyper-public, so much so that a lot of Senegalese people I talked to refuted the idea that Senegalese porn existed in the first place.

And while rare, I was able to speak with some porn performers, and it was really striking that while sutura was invoked to marginalize them and place them outside the Senegalese moral community, they didn’t just kind of reject it wholesale, but they changed it.

And they didn’t view it as much as this boundary between public and private life. They lived sutura as an action, something that you do and something that you do with your body. So when performing in videos, most mask their faces so that their identities are concealed, and so that their labor can produce money for their family, but without their family knowing where the money comes from.

And so I think of this as a discrete exposure or enacting sutura in the very moment of exposing oneself. And I think this has been really thought provoking to me because it suggests that sutura doesn’t need to be predicated on a public, private boundary. So could we think of sutura or privacy more broadly outside this idea of two separate spheres, and its digital dissidents who often provide guidelines or inspiration toward that end?

Sizek: Well, that’s really fascinating, and especially to think about the emergence or continued growth or just the existence of a pornography industry and a place where most of your interlocutors outside of that industry would deny that it might exist at all. And while you were doing that field work, how did you get in touch with these people who were producing pornography?

Friend: Yeah, that was quite the challenge. And as I went about it, I learned it actually, like, through seeking to identify people in the industry, I shifted my research focus from pornography to sutura itself. What force does sutura exist in– what force does it exert in the world?

So it became my research object, but also an ethical precondition for field work at all because this was such a sensitive topic, because people were so marginalized, and because, as a White woman, my positionality is intertwined with colonial histories that controlled people by projecting hypersexualization.

So I can share one anecdote that is a source of embarrassment, but I’ve put it in the dissertation. That I was put in touch through networks of sex workers. So actually, that’s the short answer of how I met people, through broader sex work networks. I was put in touch with somebody who I was told might have connections in this domain.

And so I went to meet her in a cafe and then I think she was kind of feeling me out. She thought, OK, this person seems legit. So we had a second round of discussion in her home, and she was surprisingly open, like, of course, yeah, we can work together. This shouldn’t be a problem. No big deal. I was like, Wow, OK, this isn’t going to be as hard as I thought it would be.

And then just as I was leaving, exiting the gate, she says to me, so how much money do you have for this film? And I was like, Oh my god, she thinks I’m producing porn and not studying it because I had kept saying, when I was explaining my objective, I want to have a conversation with people about porn, its advantages, disadvantages, what it’s like, et cetera. And I didn’t know that a Wolof word for conversation can sometimes be a euphemism for engaging the services of a sex worker.

So this was a wake up call. And then when I clarified and said, Oh, no, no, no, I meant conversation, just talking and nothing more, she was like, that’s going to be difficult because Senegal is a country of sutura. So making a film which would be more lucrative was easier than trying to study it on a anthropology scholarship stipend. So that was a big wake up call, and she became my guide for how to research this topic guided by sutura.

Sizek: Well, that’s really fascinating. And in your research, you’ve also found that sutura doesn’t only show up in the context of sex work or in the context of health care, but rather that it’s in contemporary news. So in the spring of 2021 Senegal, which normally is not a country that’s in the news a lot, made headlines when Adji Sarr, who is a young woman, accused the opposition leader Ousmane Sonko publicly of rape. She was seen as many as violating the concept of sutura by accusing him in such a public venue. Can you tell us a little bit more about what was going on in this case and how it relates to your research?

Friend: Yes. So Adji Sarr is a young woman who worked at a massage parlor. And as you said, she accused the head of a key opposition party, PASTEF, of rape. And then she, in an even more scandalous turn of events, she gave a televised interview about it.

And when Sonko was arrested, there were big protests in the streets, and young people were killed by police during these protests, which launched a social media campaign “Free Senegal”, and these events brought rare international news coverage to Senegal, because again, Senegal is known as this country of peace, and sadly, that often means that it’s an African country that doesn’t get much media attention.

But this case is unique in two other ways. It first broke with the pattern of how sexual assault is usually treated in Senegal. So on the one hand, Senegal has a really lively history of women’s activism against sexual violence, which led to really important legislation criminalizing rape last year.

However, to follow the guidelines of sutura and maintain its social contract, as I mentioned, women do not denounce men publicly by name. And so Adji Sarr broke this pattern. And not only that, she used media forms to do it. And so the fact– and also the fact that she worked in a massage parlor conflated with sex work added to this depiction of her with this trope of the media whore seeking attention. But so she really broke with the pattern of how sexual assault is treated.

The second thing that really struck me and my coauthor Beth Packer, with whom I wrote an article in The Conversation, is the connections it brings out between sutura, democracy, and anti-imperialism, because just as Adji Sarr is a difficult figure to defend, Sonko is a difficult figure to oppose.

For many, he is kind of the anti-imperialist answer to the current Senegalese President Macky Sall. He has opposed the CFA currency that is pegged to the euro. He has criticized President Sall’s economic relationships with European companies.

And so Sonko’s arrest brought long simmering anti-colonial sentiment to a head, and most visibly protesters burned French-owned businesses that symbolized a government’s willingness to prioritize European economic relationships over the well-being of its people. And so Sonko called his arrest an anti-democratic conspiracy, and many of his supporters did too, also citing a pattern that two other rivals of the president had previously been imprisoned.

And so bringing it back to Adji Sarr, and gender keeps returning, Sarr didn’t just jeopardize sutura. She jeopardized democracy and the nation itself. And so to betray sutura is a betrayal of the nation. And so what I think one of the many things that this episode shows is that sutura continues to be a way that people code and understand national/international politics. And it continues to be an idiom for critiquing Neo-imperialism, and this critique emerges through debates about women’s bodies and sexuality.

Sizek: Well, that’s incredible. I mean, just the way that I think this event shows how much sutura is embedded in Senegalese identity as well as in contemporary anti-imperialist politics in Senegal. And so can you just tell us a little bit more about this push and pull between Macky Sall and then Ousmane Sonko of this imperialism, anti-imperialism friendliness with former French colonizers versus opposition to French colonizers. How does that situation play out in Senegal today and in contemporary Senegalese politics?

Friend: Right, so this is a complicated issue that I am still learning about, and this Adji Sarr episode was a first window for me into these broader issues. So I’m definitely still just finding my way and learning, myself. But I guess a place to start is that there is a movement that emerged recently called France degage, which is a broad call for separation from Senegal’s former colonizer, economically, politically, and has had periodic episodes of protest, especially by a lot of young people. And so Sonko is very popular with the France degage movement.

And Senegal is quite unique in that it’s an African country that has never had a coup. And so it’s often cited as having these Democratic transitions of power. But people in Senegal themselves often say, well, it’s not quite that simple. And a previous president was trying to get an unconstitutional third term, and there are speculations that Macky Sall might be wanting to do the same thing. So that might be why he is having Sonko imprisoned.

And so, yeah, these two figures have come to represent different ideas of what Senegal should be and what true independence success modernity looks like.

Sizek: Wow. And just to return to one of the earlier points, and I think one of the earlier focuses of your research, you’ve worked a lot with youth in Senegal. And so what do, from your experience in your research, what are the youth thinking about the future of Senegal, the future of sutura, the future of national identity in the country?

Friend: Yeah, I mean, so I’ve done some work with young sex educators, peer educators in a region called kolda in the South of Senegal, which is known for its higher rates of sexual violence. And especially in these youth centers called Centres Conseils Ados or CCAs, young women have been fostered as key ambassadors to a future where women take a leading role in a lot of aspects of life, including the political aspect, including leading the way in terms of health.

And so there’s always a fine line of negotiating sutura. And so there are young women who become radio personalities and are all about speaking out against injustice, but always with a sense of sutura and a sense of the really high moral weight that women’s conduct plays in public life.

And so as often happens, young women are taken as the index of progress and modernity, part of one reason why there’s so much international aid and attention placed on programs for young women. But the young women I’ve worked with in Senegal really take up that mantle and make it their own, and envision a country that continues to be guided by sutura. But they don’t view sutura as antithetical to a just system of gender equality, you could say.

Sizek: So how did you get started doing your research in Senegal, and what made you focus on these questions of gender and discretion?

Friend: So I have to give a major shout out to my very first French teacher, Dauda Kamara, who took me and a bunch of students to Senegal when I was in high school. And so my involvement with Senegal goes back to 2005. And my first relationships with friends there set off everything in motion.

And in terms of sutura, when I returned to Senegal later in a research project, I was struck by people who told me that as an American woman, over there, you don’t have sutura. And I was like, what is this concept of sutura? And it became this way of distinguishing my world from theirs. And so it, early on, presented itself as a key way of thinking about national identity and difference.

Sizek: Wow. Well, this has been so fascinating. Thank you so much for coming onto our podcast. It’s been really interesting to learn so much about sutura and contemporary politics in Senegal.

Friend: Thank you so much, Julia. I’ve really enjoyed talking with you.

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about Social Science Matrix, please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

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Podcast

Matrix Podcast: The Past and Present of Teletherapy

The Distance Cure

 

In this episode of the Social Science Matrix podcast, Julia Sizek, a Phd candidate in the UC Berkeley Department of Anthropology, interviews UC Berkeley scholars Hannah Zeavin  and Valerie Black about the history and present of teletherapy, which describes all forms of remote therapy, from letter-writing to chatbots. Both researchers study the history and experience of these tools of therapy, which are often assumed to be more impersonal than and inferior to forms of in-person therapy. They discuss the past and present of teletherapy, how the ongoing pandemic has affected mental health care, and the business of artificial intelligence-based therapy.

Valerie Black is a PhD Candidate in anthropology at Berkeley completing her dissertation, “Dehumanizing Care: An Ethnography of Mental Health Artificial Intelligence.” Her multisited dissertation research has been conducted in Silicon Valley at a mental health chatbot company and in Japan at a mental health videogame company. Her research concerns how chatbots and other AI health might reshape our understanding of care and labor. She was recently awarded the Charlotte W. Newcombe Doctoral Dissertation Fellowship to complete her work on her dissertation.

Hannah Zeavin is a Lecturer in the Departments of English and History at Berkeley, and sits on the Executive Committee for the Berkeley Center for New Media.she received her PhD from NYU’s Department of Media, Culture, and Communication in 2018. Her research considers the role of technology in American life. Her book (2021, MIT Press), The Distance Cure: A History of Teletherapy, is a transnational history of mediated and distance therapy, starting with Freud himself. Her second book, Mother’s Little Helpers: Technology in the American Family (MIT Press, 2023), considers the history of techno-parenting in the 20th and 21st centuries.

Produced by the University of California, Berkeley’s Social Science Matrix, the Matrix Podcast features interviews with scholars from across the UC Berkeley campus. Stream the episode above, or listen and subscribe on Apple Podcasts or Google Podcasts.

Podcast Transcript

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Woman’s Voice: The Matrix Podcast is a production of Social Science Matrix, an interdisciplinary research center at the University of California, Berkeley.

Julia Sizek: Hello, everyone, and welcome to the Social Science Matrix Podcast. I’m Julia Sizek, and I’ll be your host for this episode. Today, we’re excited to have Hannah Zeavin and Valerie Black to discuss the history and present of teletherapy.

Teletherapy describes all forms of remote therapy, from letter writing to contemporary chatbots. Both of them study the history and experience of these different forms of therapy, which are often assumed to be inferior to forms of in-person therapy. At the same time, teletherapy has seen an enormous surge in popularity during the pandemic.

Hannah, a lecturer in English and history at UC Berkeley, recently published her first book, The Distance Cure– A History of Teletherapy with MIT Press.

Valerie is a PhD candidate in anthropology and she was recently awarded the Charlotte W. Newcomb Fellowship to complete her dissertation on the use of artificial intelligence in therapeutic mental health care.

Thank you for both of you for coming. We want to talk about the new rise of teletherapy. During the pandemic, there’s been a lot of news coverage about the rise of teletherapy or therapy that’s conducted over the phone or online.

But both of you are really interested in the much longer history of teletherapy. How would you define teletherapy, and what’s seems to be so new about teletherapy today?

Hannah Zeavin: Thanks so much for that question, Julia, and for having me on. In my book, The Distance Cure– A History of Teletherapy, I both use the more narrow definition of teletherapy that’s mediated by true telecommunication technology.

But also this more expansive definition that you’re pointing to, so that I can include activist care, self-care mediated by machine, but also, as you point out, the post and Fin-de-siècle Vienna and radio broadcasts, and so on.

What’s new about contemporary therapy, I think the first thing that comes to mind is scale and also a diversity of delivery. We haven’t lost our usage of, say, the suicide hotline. People still call in and write to radio shows and advice columns, no doubt.

But now people do have a whole ecosystem of teletherapy startups vying for their care and their dollars. And in the global pandemic, much of private practice is still remote.

Although, of course, I think there has been this very intense focus on teletherapy, which obfuscates the fact that not all therapeutic care happened in an office anyway and not all therapeutic care has gone online. And we can talk a little bit about that too.

Valerie Black: What more is there for me to possibly add to that? I would just say that– so my research, my field sites were two different startups that are providing care that they themselves would not define as a form of teletherapy, but that I think it’s absolutely fair to understand it that way.

And forming my project, I was drawn to the seemingly improper, weird, in-between spaces filled with non-experts, places where entertainment meets care, everything from ham radio, amateur radio, early chat rooms.

And teletherapy is on the fringes of that. And Hannah is going to talk about this, but her own work really beautifully upends much of what seems to be proper versus improperly therapeutic.

For me, I’d say teletherapy instead of being too unofficial or sort of an outlier, I almost have the opposite problem. It’s a bit too official in some ways to define the work being done at my field sites. And I initially saw teletherapy as this sort of adjacent kindred spirit or predecessor.

I remember back in– I think it was 2018, I went to a panel at the American Psychology Association’s big annual conference on teletherapy, and I was just blown away by it being a field filled with red tape.

And I think one of the forms that I’m going to be talking about that you’ve already touched upon, Julia, therapeutic chatbots are very much free of that. They have a certain plasticity where that creates a business opportunity.

So whereas in conventional teletherapy leading up to the pandemic, there’s been so many questions about if I’m licensed to practice in this state, but my client is traveling in this other state for a certain period of time, can I still work with them while they’re at that location, even though both of us are remote from one another, anyway?

And I think, yeah, chatbots being so much less formal and not officially therapy end up circumventing a lot of the concerns that teletherapy has traditionally brought.

Zeavin: And Valerie, I think that’s an awesome point because one thing that’s very tied up in this idea of scale and diversity, too, is exactly that.

That in the pandemic, the lack of red tape that’s been reserved for non-therapeutic interventions, even if they’re marketed as such, like the AI chatbot, like the sort of, quote unquote, “serious game” or the gamification of mental health care, we’ve seen that all of the red tape disappeared virtually overnight for private practice as well.

So it used to be that you only could use HIPAA compliant medical grade Skype, say, or official teletherapy and telemedicine channels. And right as the pandemic started, those systems actually started to fail.

And so all of that compliance was waived for any habitual media. So whether you preferred FaceTime or Zoom, which is now so ubiquitous, that was OK. And in parallel, also licensure problems were also diminished.

And lastly, and I think this has been a really underreported story of the pandemic, four out of five big insurance companies waived the copay for teletherapy that had previously existed.

And now, of course, we’re seeing all of these special emergency loosening of that red tape that Valerie so perfectly pointing to go right back online, which is going to have pretty deleterious effects for those who still need remote care or needed it all along and could only access it because of this lack of structure.

Black: So well-described. Yeah, I think the changes and the sort of boomerang of those changes have been and will continue to be such so sweeping and so problematic for so many.

Sizek: Yeah, I think it’s so interesting to hear about the way that therapy has always been tied up with certain forms of bureaucracy, red tape, insurance, all this compliance that we don’t actually think about entering into the therapeutic relationship.

When people imagine going to their therapist, having their therapist be their friend, sitting on a couch, that is not at all what we think about when you’re pointing to these forms of mediation that are at the center, I think, of both of your work.

And so maybe, Hannah, you can tell us a little bit about why people think teletherapy is inferior or different from or the challenges that people have put toward teletherapy historically.

Zeavin: Great. Thank you so much. I mean, I think that that’s like the most loaded and overarching question here, right? And I think there are a lot of different answers that I try and deal with in my book.

As you point out, teletherapy up until the pandemic is most frequently talked about as lesser, almost amateur, definitely a dampening or kind of metallic quality.

And it was true up through the pandemic that teletherapy was therapy shadow form. It was not the dominant form of care on offer. And so there wasn’t a huge sociological drive to make it the dominant form or readily available.

And then I think what Valerie and I are both really interested in is that didn’t really stop anyone from experimenting in all different kinds of ways. On the one hand, of course, the history of AI therapy is some 60, 70 years old at this point, or the first efforts to script therapy. The suicide hotline starts in the 1950s.

And going further and further back, therapists have remarked in the pandemic, well, but I can’t imagine Freud using Zoom or something to this effect. I’ve that joke a lot.

And of course, I’m the killjoy. And I say, well, not Zoom, but in fact, the founder of psychoanalysis was very invested in media and thinking with media, not just metaphorically, but also quite materially in using written cures to both treat himself and others.

So I think that this idea that it’s lesser has to do with this question of, what does it mean to gather two people together? And that is a huge human question that we’ve been looking at and examining both at the personal and interpersonal level this past year and a half and for millennia.

What does it do to put two bodies or more than two bodies in a room together? So I could walk through all the various critiques. They often center on a reduction in empathy and feeling, a reduction in information.

Sometimes the critiques are upsetting and they center on losing a power differential that’s endemic and important. These people argue to the therapeutic scenario. And then we also see that actually there are all kinds of new ways of coming together in teletherapy that I call distanced intimacy.

The last thing I’ll say about this is that part of it, I think, has to do with the idea that there’s an intruding third factor. If it’s me and you and a medium, that’s, quote unquote, “less pure” than just me and you.

And so in my book, I start with upending that assumption and saying, actually all therapy is always a triad, not a dyad. It’s always comprised of patient, therapist, and medium.

And I think to pass this to Valerie, it’s one reason why AI is so fascinating as a test case because it actually returns us to the notion of a dyad, but this time it’s just the patient and the medium, no therapist.

Black: Such a great point. To think in terms of the dyad and triad, which is so compelling, I think a big question that people have for me oftentimes is like, who is the caregiver? Is it the human who writes this script?

And I don’t mean script as in like programming, although that too. But I actually mean the dialogue in the case of AI that the AI therapist is putting forth. Is it the human that’s creating that or the AI itself that is the caregiver for?

And so in a way the triad is still sort of there a bit depending on how you approach it. Yeah, so I love that framing that you have, Hannah.

Sizek: Yeah. And to maybe just dig into how this actually works, like, what does an AI chatbot interaction look like? What is a circumstance under which someone would use it? What are the mechanics of that relationship?

Black: So it’s really going to depend quite a bit on what service, what platform you’re using, like what kind of device you’re using as a user and user to connect to that. I’d say most generally I would say– I’ll just give an example, rather than say this is the way.

But if you’re using your phone, you might be using an app, you might just be using your regular SMS text messaging to a phone number, but then it’s the bot that’s replying to you.

And so it might pop up with a question once you’ve signed up and joined and you click through that, you understand the standard user policies, disclaimers that this isn’t a real person, that this isn’t an emergency service or a substitute for that.

Once you’ve gotten there and you’re signed up, then you might get pinged right away and also on a regular basis, maybe daily, maybe weekly, perhaps the same timeframe.

It really depends on the service. They have different theories as to how often people want to be contacted and how they detect that from people’s patterns of corresponding with it.

But say, you’re getting like a weekly text message on Friday afternoons and it might just be a question like– it could be something like, how’s your week going? Or how are you dealing with stress these days? Some sort of a hook that makes you want to open up your phone and click something.

Sometimes you’ll get buttons to answer, sometimes it’s all text-based. It really just depends. And it sounds so basic when I put it that way and surprise, it is pretty basic.

Does that help give anything when you– imagine trying to describe how email works to someone. It’s going to sound a lot more painful than just what it actually is. So I hope I did it justice.

Sizek: Yeah, well, I think that’s really helpful because it helps demystify this process for us, right? When we think about AI chatbots caring for people, some people find this to be a very strange phenomenon.

But when you put it this way, it sounds just like calling into a suicide hotline where both of you have conducted research, both archivally as well as ethnographically.

So maybe you can help us understand, like, how do you think about something like a AI chatbot today, which seems very different or new or exciting or strange, to something that seems somewhat mundane, suicide hotline?

Zeavin: I’ll let Valerie deal with that direct comparison. It’s such an incredible feature of Valerie’s work that those two sites are brought into conversation together. But maybe, Valerie, if it’s OK with you, I can back up and start with some suicide hotline, just brief glossing and history.

Black: Absolutely that would be perfect.

Zeavin: So the suicide hotline in AI if I had to foreshadow where Valerie might go, the suicide hotline when it starts is far from mundane. It’s a kind of radical idea for a number of reasons.

The first is that it really comes out of Protestant clergy first in England and then the United states, which surprised me. When I put together the proposal for what eventually became the book, I assumed, of course, that the suicide hotline had to be secular. But in fact, it’s psycho religious in origin.

And the idea of removing care from the expert, which we also see in the AI scenario, was completely radical. But instead of it being given only– and only there does include, of course, many, many, many humans, to a sort of machine, the idea was to yoke people anonymously via telephone wire, via another sort of common household appliance, the phone.

And the first suicide hotline in the United States was, in fact, in the Bay area, the first fully apparent suicide hotline run by Bernard Maze, who went on to found KQED and become chairman of NPR.

And as a queer priest in the Tenderloin, precisely to care for the suicidal, of course, but also folks who are working in the Tenderloin and especially LGBT users of the hotline who did not want to interface for all kinds of maybe obvious reasons with a deeply homophobic standard psychological apparatus in that time, and also one that really put suicidality within the context not only of that psychological framework, but a carceral one as well, right? It’s illegal.

And so Maze trained volunteers, it wasn’t just him. He did one in every four nights. And the people he trained, he would not accept anyone with any classical training in psychology or social work. He wanted what he called an exquisite ear.

But that meant that a whole host of media came together to train those volunteers, tapes of callers, role plays, and of course, scripts. But each script would be– and it’s true if you’ve worked on a hotline, you have scripts, you learn scripts. And then, of course, in the moment, you’re working between a script and response, human response to the person you’re talking to.

And the hotline grew rapidly. It started out as just a couple calls a day, and then slowly 200 and exploded and then became adopted in every possible state, precisely because it was this radical form of free, which is something we haven’t yet underscored. Teletherapy and it’s longer history is almost always free or low-fee, free peer-to-peer care that deletes the expert but keeps a human.

Black: So well put. And I would love to note that at hotlines today, many of the volunteers who go through training come there from some type of professional career or training background in some sort of mental health field, maybe psychology, maybe social work, psychiatry, and so forth. And a big component of volunteer training is having to be reminded to not bring that training into the call.

Yes, that squares perfectly with my experience as well.

So for me personally, the connection between crisis hotline and AI chatbot, this all sort of came together for me as like my way of thinking through how to propose and get funding for my dissertation research.

I think, in general, it’s very difficult to just put something forward at face value and say, this is new, this is unlike anything else. I mean, that’s absolutely bait for historians to say, oh, hell no.

But I think for most scholars, there’s a pause on that kind of claim. And that claim is all over in Silicon Valley. So it’s hard not to be a bit reactive to that as a scholar.

So to me, I was trying to just think through logically what are– this is what an AI chatbot does. Like, what are other forms that are similar? And to me, the first thing that came to mind, well, maybe the first two things would be like a confessional Catholic priest, the booth, and then also, yeah, crisis hotlines.

So I don’t know if it’s because I grew up in the South or what, but to me, I personally wasn’t surprised to learn that history of crisis hotlines. Maybe just, again, yeah, growing up immersed in a culture where church is such a huge component of life for so many different people.

But back to what Julia said about demystifying AI a bit earlier or just AI-based or delivered therapy, yeah, I think that that’s absolutely important to do here, too, because my biggest takeaway over time was that the AI is surprisingly not that advanced in these kinds of offerings.

It’s deliberately limited because the people making these are not wanting the AI to be crafting dialogue on its own, going outside of the confines that the experts who themselves are often trained psychologists are writing for it.

And so I– but this took me a lot of time to realize precisely because trying to get in to one of these sites to do field work– I don’t know if either of you or if anyone listening if you’ve ever seen– oh, gosh, I’m going to sound so nerdy, Star Trek 4, the one where they time travel back to San Francisco, actually, with the one with the whales.

Zeavin: No, but need to look it up immediately.

Black: Well, basically, they have– oh, man, now I’m like losing my nerd card because I’m forgetting the details that I ought to know as a nerd, but I think it’s set in the 80s. And so one of the members of the Star Trek crew is Russian. And so he’s there to save the problem.

And he’s saying to like, take me to your nuclear weapons, your nuclear vessels so I can come– and everyone’s like, Holy crap, there’s this Russian guy saying the nuclear word. Like, that’s a big– call all the security kind of issue.

And I started to feel like as a researcher because you’re wondering, where the hell is she going with this? When I– knock, knock. Hello. I’m a graduate student. May I please come observe your chatbot startup workplace?

I felt like I was basically demanding to be taken to the nuclear stuff, like people were very scared that I was going to spy on their AI. And I don’t have the training to really be able to do that, nor the inclination, but I ended up getting a lot of no’s and not even direct no’s, but like just non responses.

And I’d keep trying and someone at the company would on the down low reach out to me and be like, yeah, sorry, we’re not going to be answering that. But just so you know, it’s not happening. And I started to panic that I was not going to have a project.

And so I approached a suicide prevention hotline and asked if I could maybe do some research there. They were incredibly gracious, welcomed me right away. Literally, I think, 24 hours after I emailed, I was there.

And I sort of saw it as a warm up to get to think about a chatbot startup and understand this sort of, just as Hannah and I have both sort of alluded to, this pre-scripted forms of care where someone calls in or texts in and says something and you respond in one of two ways.

Or you ask this question and then based on their response, you move to this next question, or else you respond with the answer in all these sort of conditional “if then” tree of conversation.

So that was my chance to either warm up with that or else maybe end up there if everything else fell through. So that is what brought me to think about these two things together in the same frame.

Sizek: Yeah, I think that’s such an interesting way of also pointing out all the bureaucracy and red tape that not only surrounds the medical side of this practice, but the proprietary ways that chatbots are coming to fill in a certain kind of gap in the medical system.

So can you just tell us a little bit about how these companies think about their role in the mental health ecosystem or sort of within the scope of the very bizarre world of US health insurance?

Black: So again, with this sort of positioning of these, the people making them would never suggest that they are a substitute for conventional therapy. And so the way that they are being put forth is sort of like an additional layer.

It’s for people who would not be accessing conventional therapy for whatever reason, whether because they’re not interested, they have concerns about it, it takes too long to get started.

And many of the makers of these would also position them as sort of a transition into thinking about pursuing therapy for people that might be hesitant to do so. So it’s definitely like an added tool and not an instead of thing.

So I feel pretty strongly that the biggest difference between the 1950s AI chatbot iterations that Hannah mentioned and today’s services, things that you– I mean, I can say this one because it’s not my field site, but a very well-known, recognizable service, for example, is Woebot.

The difference between ELIZA and Woebot, the biggest difference is not the technological capacity. A little bit of the difference is the accessibility that so many more people do have a smartphone or similar device. But I think the biggest difference is the business to business that these startups are able to position this to a buyer.

And in this case, a huge percentage of the sales– and by business to business, I mean as opposed to you have a direct like business to– B2C. So you would have your in-consumer, your end user is paying for it. So maybe like a subscription service that you pay for.

But business to business would be something kind of like here at UC Berkeley, like our health benefits. If there’s something that you’re allowed to tap into by virtue of being a Berkeley student or faculty or staff member, like that kind of access that the university has bought on our behalf. So we’re the end user, but the university is the client in that relationship.

And in fact, actually, a lot of campuses are clients of AI chatbots, therapeutic chatbots. So I think the ability for a client to add this to their portfolio of services and the main clients in question would be programs like employee assistance programs, like EAPs, sort of privatized entities that provide the sort of care packages that we increasingly come to think of as characterizing a great company to work for.

But as I mentioned, schools and other nonprofits will have these as well. So I think the opportunity to add that service at a relatively low cost, but to have one more layer, one more sort of a safety net of like we have this offering just in case becomes the thinking behind that.

And a lot of these EAPs will actually build on and customize the offerings to tie-in a human counseling service to their chatbots. So you could start off in the chat and end up on a phone call or still in the chat with an actual human.

And while that’s not a feature of all of the chatbot companies, although some do have that service at the front-end where anyone could access it, I believe there are a few that do that. But most don’t, but then it becomes available that way through your own workplace or school or whatnot.

And Hannah, I don’t know if you want to add. I think there’s something very interesting about this way that the business relationship comes to interrupt how we think about therapy as maybe not being a business relationship, despite the fact that the money is always being exchanged outside of the room. I don’t know if that’s come up in your research.

Zeavin: Yeah, I mean, thank you for that. I look at all of these ways from jump. Any therapeutic encounter might be mediated. And I say might be because of course, one thing that is true with teletherapy across its longer history, much, much less now in the present, is that, again, teletherapy is often free or low fees.

So it is a place where no money might be exchanged. But of course, there are other media, overt obvious media. I recast money as another media that’s part of what’s called the therapeutic frame.

And so whether or not money is being exchanged in the form of a check, hand to hand, or cash, hand to hand, or on Venmo, as is now the case where you might see therapists being paid in your Venmo feed, if you use Venmo by friends or by strangers, all of that is deeply part when it isn’t part of one of these systems that Valerie perfectly just described.

It’s not just the system that Valerie is describing is not limited only to AI therapy, of course, because there is a huge ecosystem now that AI therapy startups, like Woebot, have just gotten massive rounds of funding, a B series funding in the last few weeks.

So the sort of, quote unquote, “slow down of the pandemic,” which, of course, is not at all slowing down, certainly not in the United states, certainly not elsewhere, is also not slowing down this kind of quest to make an AI therapist.

But all of this is also happening in other kinds of teletherapy startups, both in the Valley and Silicon Valley and in New York and elsewhere. And that is what now I think when you say teletherapy, the first thing that’s largely going to come to mind is, oh, you mean BetterHelp? Oh, you mean Talkspace?

And as Valerie said, these are often bought by employers and they are the mental health care that is then offered back to employees or students and for good and bad reasons.

This is not a defense of it, but I remember once talking with the CEO of a teletherapy startup that has since gone bankrupt as part of my research. And so I’ve cut this interview from my book because I’ve kept other elements in, but not this part.

And she said to me, yeah, but if you don’t have teletherapy, the waiting time at a California University– she was talking about a non-UC University in California, is 16 weeks for one intake session. And of course, we know mental health care needs to happen much more rapidly than that.

This it’s very hard to say something back to that, except my answer wouldn’t necessarily be to endanger data privacy, confidentiality, and of course, even just the basic therapeutic relationship in this way.

But that is part of the kind of evangelist sort of statements that Valerie is pointing to or the kind of democratizing, marketing campaigns around this ecosystem, both on the AI chatbot side and in the wider teletherapeutic startup landscape.

Sizek: Yeah, so maybe now that we’ve heard about this evangelizing side, this liberating part of teletherapy and these chatbots, maybe we can understand some of the drawbacks or this potential concerns around privacy, technology.

Earlier, we discussed how at the beginning of the pandemic everyone was allowed to go on Zoom or on an HIPAA compliant forms of mediation for their teletherapy. What are some of the drawbacks either in terms of this privacy concern or other concerns about teletherapy in terms of the specific media that we use today?

Zeavin: I mean, one thing I would say to that to just complicate our conversation is, of course, everything you just named, Julia, is a drawback of corporate teletherapy, and sometimes also in private practice too.

And there are others, there are legion, even though in general the charge gets laid at the question of relationality, which studies have shown it works just as well, sometimes better, depending on the kind of therapy. CBT, for instance, is shown to be more effective mediated by computer than in-person.

But leaving all of that aside, I think one other area that I’m really interested in and invested in that we haven’t yet spoken about is what it does to the therapist. So, of course, following Roy Porter’s call to look from below and to be invested in patients, in my book, that is absolutely the driving factor.

And also therapeutic labor is deeply intertwined with the question of media, and the feminization of therapy is deeply intertwined with the question of media and the kind of rescinding of the expert, which is good and bad.

So one thing we see now is also that the therapist is supposed to be always on. Even in private practice, that slide into what used to be known as therapeutic contact. Texting, emailing is much more prevalent the therapist I’ve spoken to say.

But then especially if you work for one of these startups, there have been a whole host of complaints. And two key figures who are really taking the charge in this debate, one in the UK is Dr. Elizabeth Cotton, who’s project Surviving Work is phenomenal and everyone should go check it out on the uberization of therapy and that demand to be always on.

And then researcher Brianna Last in Pennsylvania is also looking at what the current status of therapeutic labor is. As just one statistic from Dr. Cotton’s work, 10% of mental health workers in the UK in this past year received zero payment.

So the other thing to say is we hear this logic circulate a lot, right? Oh, there are too few therapists. And that’s true. But it’s also more complicated than that because we have a lot of therapists who aren’t being compensated and certainly not compensated fairly for their labor, and then are sort of at the behest of moving into these corporate teletherapy platforms which are gigifying therapeutic labor, therapeutic labor, where in the United states, something like 70 some percent of therapists, counselors, social workers are women.

And so that’s just one other additional question to ask. Is this the future of care we want? And all of this massively intersects with all kinds of other questions.

So there’s the labor question, there’s the patient experience question, where, yes, it’s been in Forbes, in The New York Times, in Guardian, right? And there have been massive confidentiality and privacy leaks from both AI chatbots and their corporations and more general teletherapy platforms.

There might be diminished connection, again, not because it’s mediated, but because it’s a corporatized medium, and the question of insurance, the question of choice and not choice, false choice.

The questions here are legion because the mental health care system in the United states, as you pointed out, Julia, is deeply broken and it has been for a century at least.

Black: Yeah, I’m so glad, Hannah, that you took that in the direction of thinking about caregivers. That’s exactly what my focus is in my research because for a couple of reasons.

And so when I receive a lot of questions around privacy concerns, that’s definitely something like I’m interested in talking about, but it’s not really what I’m most immediately concerned with in my work.

Like, as an ethnographer, you are most expert in the people or entities that you are spending time with observing. And for me, end users was a small fraction of that compared to workers.

And a big part of my project is considering the AI as a caregiver, as an entity working alongside, as a colleague with human caregiver laborers because a lot of the– as I’ve mentioned, like these startups, a lot of the–

There’s more than a bit of a status divide oftentimes at the way many of the startups are composed where you have people doing what you would think of as the conventional tech side of things, the engineering, the building and maintenance of what we think of as being like the real AI, the technology.

And then you have psychologists or social workers being hired to craft the language, the therapeutic dialogue that is then carried out by AI. And I think at the startups themselves, there’s a lot of status difference in terms of pay and just relative importance.

And that was something that really interested me because I didn’t exactly not expect that. But to me, I sort of saw startup as this whole entity. And precisely because it was so hard to get access to one, it was easy to slip into thinking of it as this singular entity, the startup, instead of just a regular workplace with all these hierarchies and dynamics.

But what really interested me, too, was that many of the mental health experts working at these startups were deliberately wanting to be replaced– I think in the better term from scholar Lily Irani, displaced by AI. They wanted their job to be taken over by AI so that their job as a mental health caregiver could be something else.

Many of the workers that I worked alongside, got to know, they had experienced really poor working conditions. A few of them had complex PTSD due following– OK, so that’s a whole thing, talking about you have PTSD because this one– it’s much more complicated than that.

But just shorthand to say like through the conditions of their work as caregivers that they experienced trauma that led to them needing to get care for themselves in order to keep working and functioning and being OK.

And they had terrible pay, they’d had tremendous job insecurity, they’d had terrible working hours. And so for them, AI was an opportunity to do better and have a job with more stability, better pay, benefits, safety. So I found that to really append a lot of conversations around automation in a very interesting way.

And in thinking about AI and human caregivers, this sort of working relationship between them is suggesting that AI is a caregiver. I’m not necessarily arguing that it’s a better caregiver or an identical caregiver. That care means the same thing, regardless if the caregiver is human or an AI.

I’m also not trying to just be provocatively fun and say like, AI– I don’t know how to put it. Like, I’m definitely seeing AI in this industry is very limited and not like our sci-fi imaginings might suggest. And then I’m simultaneously saying, yes, it’s a caregiver because it’s doing this work.

And I feel like looking at human and AI caregivers together in the same frame makes it possible to understand what is expected of caregivers, what an ideal caregiver is becoming, what sort of attributes.

And just as Hannah perfectly pointed out about the poor working conditions that human caregivers experience is not because AI, but AI ends up becoming a solution to these problems because of the logic that they create about what care work should be and entails.

And I also spend a bit of time dwelling on caregiving labor as this really fascinating sort of you see a paradox in plain sight where you would think we have a lot of expectations around work and labor and compensation and you would think that–

And I’ve even seen some scholars suggest– in anthropology, I’m thinking of Arthur Kleinman’s work talking about caregiving as this sort of ultimately human experience.

That there’s this deep rooted humanness sort of almost tautologically. Like, we are human because we care and we care because we’re human. And he writes about it in such a beautiful and personal way.

But I want to push back against that. And I think there’s a tendency to say like, well, there’s two forms of value at work here. There’s this humanist value, and then there’s income, money value.

And it’s because you’ve got two forms that being a caregiver is often very exploitative, particularly along the lines of gender, race, nationality work, but it’s because it’s so valuable in other ways.

But in actuality, I think it’s one big system of value where that becomes justification precisely for that. Like, that duality is precisely what enables that. It’s not really a duality because one condition is what enables the other. And I do think that looking at AI makes it possible to glimpse that in a different way.

Sizek: I think that’s so fascinating because it gets us back to the questions that we were thinking about at the beginning about mediation, about what makes teletherapy or chatbots seem so strange to us when, in fact, they’re often doing things that are replacing or displacing therapists in a way that they would like to be displaced.

That they would like to not have this complex PTSD as a result of doing their work, or that they would like to be adequately compensated for the labor that they’re actually performing.

And so I think this might be a good opportunity for us to just pull back a little bit and reflect on what we think that we can learn from this teletherapy and how to actually make our very broken mental health system a little better, or what this offers us in terms of thinking about our preconceptions when we come to therapy.

Zeavin: Well, I think one answer here is just to start by saying that I don’t think either Valerie would suggest that technology in a vacuum is going to fix anything, right? That these are system-wide and deeply complicated and very entrenched social problems.

I think it’s a long-term, very American techno optimistic fantasy, right? That would be great. It’s just not going to happen. And there are a number of reasons why.

I mean, one thing we can learn from teletherapy in the pandemic and telemedicine also– my colleague at Johns Hopkins, Jeremy Green, will have a book out in the next year from UChicago Press called the Medium of Care, which really deals with this in the telemedicine sector.

But one thing that we’ve each seen is that if telemedicine or teletherapy used to be often a project that would be small or medium, it would build its own infrastructure, the technology would work, and then other factors would intervene.

That the problem is not that– as Valerie is saying, that the technology doesn’t work. It’s that maybe infrastructures aren’t there. That trust might not be there for all kinds of reasons. That medical redlining is going to exist alongside digital redlining.

So if you were more likely to see a therapist or have telemedicine before the pandemic, actually during the pandemic, you’d be less likely along the lines of race and class and gender.

So these are the kinds of complicated takeaways that can scale for something like policy as long as we don’t techno evangelize and instead think about what role technology can play.

So Valerie’s very convincing anecdote, please take this element of my job, can be read again. And we can listen to that. Can be read against other concerns on the patient side what would it mean to call into a call center that uses paralinguistic vocal monitoring to make diagnoses instead. What would that do for the patient?

Beth Semel’s recent work. Listening Like a Computer, really deals fine grainly with why that might be a problem and not a solution and is a problem and is an extant long-standing problem.

So I think that what I’m trying to suggest here is that there is no easy fix. It would have to be systemic. And that technology is also– and of course, we shouldn’t even have to say this. Nothing under capitalism is neutral. Technology is certainly not neutral.

But also we can learn and listen to patients, to workers as we try and move towards scaling up, both ethically and holistically. Whether teletherapy is the sum total of that, I very much doubt it. But it’s always been part, it’s always been in the shadows. And right now, of course, it’s the dominant, if not only form on offer.

Black: Yeah, I’m just very much in agreement with everything Hannah said. Back to this issue of workplaces and institutions, there’s a desire to show like mental health care matters to us. So now we offer this.

And I think it’s so important to understand what these supposed pathways or solutions actually look like when you’re there navigating them, what they can and can’t do.

And I don’t think that needs to boil down to a pro or anti-technology debate any more than it would in any other component of life. I think it’s not that simple or straightforward.

In my work, I’m really trying to show AI– take AI as seriously as a caregiver, which isn’t to say that I’m committed to that as a solution. And I’m very skeptical of why services are becoming more– like, why startups like the ones where I’ve done field work are becoming more viable.

What kinds of needs and demands are leading to that? And I just think it’s very important to remain mindful of, yeah, exactly what kind of systems of care are available to whom and why.

And I think that a lot of things that we take for granted is being publicly available or freely or easily available to people, just really rethinking that. And technology can intervene in some of those problems and amplify them at the same time.

Zeavin: Yeah, I think that that’s exactly right. One of the worries about AI or a non-AI therapy startup is exactly that. It’s not as if therapeutic care is perfectly neutral or therapeutic care is perfectly good and therefore, we add technology and then the problems start.

But instead that because of profit motive in Silicon Valley and elsewhere, or what Silicon Valley has come to stand for, the Silicon Valley model, like trademark, TM, is all about using profit motive and scale, right?

And therefore, the thing we’re in danger of is remediating pre-existing problems, both in the technology and in the forms of care at scale, and to people who are more vulnerable precisely because those are the kinds of care on offer, whether they’re our students or our colleagues, right?

And I don’t just mean at our school, but I mean sort of in the broader sense where college students are more frequently increasingly receiving this kind of care instead of other forms. And these are the things to pay attention to.

So I think, of course, on the one hand, it’s always a sensational story when there’s a massive leak. And those are the ones that we get to learn about. A mindfulness app today had a confidentiality breach, and that’s just an interaction and a script and your data.

There are also breaches and leaks where a person has extraordinarily confessed their most intimate knowledges, behaviors, thoughts, feelings to whether it’s a bot or a person. And that transcript gets leaked. These are some of the deep seated worries on a patient side.

And then, of course, algorithm, what’s called bias, which is not a strong enough word, is also something to pay attention to in alongside thinking about all of the questions of labor, all of the questions of systems.

Black: Yeah, absolutely.

Sizek: Yes, well, thanks so much. This has been really illuminating, and I feel like we’ve all learned a lot about the world of not only teletherapy, but also the contemporary world of conducting therapy during a pandemic. And so I just want to thank you so much for coming onto our podcast today.

Black: Thank you so much. It’s been an absolute privilege to be able to speak with you.

Zeavin: Yes, thank you so much. This was lovely.

Woman’s Voice: Thank you for listening. To learn more about Social Science Matrix, please visit matrix.berkeley.edu.

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Cities

A Photographic Interview: Kaily Heitz on Black Oakland

Kaily Heitz

Kaily Heitz, who earned her PhD from the UC Berkeley Department of Geography in 2021, studies how concepts of Blackness and Black culture are deployed in the making and marketing of Oakland, California. Her dissertation, entitled “Oakland is a Vibe: Blackness, Cultural Framings and Emancipations of The Town,” draws on Black feminist geographies and media studies to understand contemporary conflicts over gentrification in “The Town.”

A paper based on this research, Sunflower’s Oakland: The Black Geographic Image as a Site of Reclamation, was published by Antipode, and was awarded the 2020 Clyde Woods Black Geographies Specialty Group Graduate Student Paper Award. Dr. Heitz has worked with Matrix Research Teams in the past, including the Berkeley Black Geographies team. Her research practice involves ethnographic research with United Roots/ Youth Impact Hub, Eastside Arts Alliance, the Black Cultural Zone, and the Business Association of the Black Arts Movement and Business District (BAMBD), archival research, and analysis of public art in and around Oakland. 

This interview by Julia Sizek, a PhD candidate in the UC Berkeley Department of Anthropology, revolves around images from Kaily’s work that help reveal the arguments of her work.

 

Chamber of Commerce
Oakland Chamber of Commerce brochure (circa 1991-1999)

Q: In your dissertation, you track how Oakland has evolved from being, as Gertrude Stein described it, a place with no “there there,” an idea encapsulated in this circa 1995 image from the Chamber of Commerce, to the right. How was Oakland viewed in contrast to the other cities of the Bay Area? How did you decide to start researching Oakland? 

I became a geographer because of the way I’ve always been interested in how people form attachments to place, and how these feelings, actions,  and attachments also operate through the racialized body, communities,  and a sense of place. [Author’s note: racialization here refers to the way that the phenotype and characteristics of people and the spaces they occupy are categorized according to the social construction of race.] The almost palpable sentiment present in and about Oakland, alongside the nomenclature of it being a Black city, was naturally very interesting to me. In terms of tourism and business, Oakland has long been overshadowed by San Francisco, and overlooked by the residential market in favor of the suburbs. So, given the emphasis that people have put on what the city lacks, I was interested in the fact that I loved Oakland, and I was very curious about why I loved it and why others around me – newcomers and locals alike – did as well. This story about the difficult ways that people love and struggle with The Town captured me, and is also part of what marketers are trying to capture when they promote Oakland’s vibe.

Part of this struggle is captured in Oakland’s booster material. Since the 1960s, promotional ads and brochures all seem to suggest that the city should be more materially successful than it has been. Between the post-WWII slump in American city centers and the early 2000s, much of the city’s development was built upon the promised return of White businesses and shoppers to Oakland’s downtown through the development of BART, ancillary highways, and new business districts. One of the biggest stumbling blocks in this plan was an open secret: Oakland’s representation as a Black city in the media. The racist stereotypes about the city, especially in the 1980s and 90s, could be summed up fairly well by a headline from The Argus, in 1991: “The Dumping Grounds.” Oakland was perceived as a place to avoid, a sinkhole for public funds because of the Black and Brown poor, when in fact, it had been floundering due to deindustrialization, federal divestment, and the racially disproportionate effects of the war on drugs. It wasn’t until the early 2000s, with the beginnings of Black displacement and the advancement of gentrification campaigns, that we saw more interest in developing Oakland for business and residential consumers.

In effect, the way that “no there there” has haunted Oakland is part of what makes the city so poignant to study at the personal or affective level. It’s the underdog, and has been the underdog for so long that a culture has built up around this identity of grit, determination, and hustle. This hopeful, sentimental strategy is evident in the caption and framing of this photo. Oakland’s “raw material” — its physical landscape and existing infrastructure – makes up only half of this image. The distorted vision of the city’s skyline in Lake Merritt literally and figuratively reflects a future and a feeling that is not yet wholly tangible.

 

Oakland Inspiration guide (2019-2020)
Oakland Inspiration guide (2019-2020)

Q: One of the big concepts in your work is “vibe,” a term used by both developers and community organizations to contradictory ends. In this image to the left, for example, we see it used to advertise Oakland. Why did you settle on vibe as a central concept for your research, and how does it help you better understand Oakland?

My research began as an inquiry into the nature of visual representations of place. In my inquiries about what images of Oakland were meant to convey, people reached for terms like “vibe” to explain an almost indescribable feeling of what it meant to be and live in this city. I use vibe primarily as a way of identifying the blurry qualities of affect that we attribute to a place. More specifically, it connects these feelings to the processes of racialization, and the political and economic work of urban development.

Vibe could, I found, be used to describe a number of different cultural and material references, often related to Black and Brown gatherings, businesses, or political histories. In lieu of any particular attraction to bring tourists or new residents to Oakland, the city’s tourism bureau, Visit Oakland, also draws on this kind of affective description; this is often couched within cultural attractions in their tourism brochures. What became most compelling to me about these descriptions was the way that they were often implicitly linked to Black culture or the vague language of “diversity.” For instance, in the 2018 cultural development report issued by the City of Oakland, Mayor Libby Schaaf is quoted as saying that the city’s “cultural vibrancy,” embodied in “our dance moves, our lyrics, our murals, our paintings,” is part of the Oakland’s “secret sauce.” When matched with images like this one of “The Vibe,” and contextualized by the kind of music, dance, and murals Oakland is known for (i.e. blues, West Coast hip hop, murals about social justice and legacies of the city’s Black and Brown communities), it becomes evident that Black people and Black culture are very important “ingredients” in Schaaf’s “secret sauce” and to vibe more generally. The idea of vibe, then, is a contested process of racial, cultural, and capitalistic development. It is at once a feeling, practice, and mode of being that arises from racialized interaction between bodies, structures,  and spaces; vibe is also reproduced at the institutional level for economic development, as with these examples from Visit Oakland. For Black communities, being able to repossess a claim to the production of vibe is also a way of repossessing space, capital, and political power in Oakland.

The idea of owning the production of vibe, then, comes with a promise of economic freedom that will always be partial as long as it is bound to a system of racial capitalism and oppression. Community-based groups, like the Black Cultural Zone Collective and members of the BAMBD, are working toward owning spaces that generate desirable and developable forms of vibe, such as businesses, cultural centers, and community plazas. In pursuing this kind of repossession of vibe, these organizations recognize the paradox that exists between their aims for radical liberation, and their means of attaining this goal through the market. This idea forms the basis of what I’ve called “emancipatory framing,” when hegemonic practices and modes of representation are utilized to create spaces of liberation. Liberation for the coalitions with whom I worked in Oakland looks like self-determined acts of ownership over land, community power, and economic systems. These two ideas – of vibe and emancipatory framing – enable an understanding of how important the affective production of Oakland is to conversations about racial justice, gentrification, displacement, and development.

 

Visit Oakland Inspiration guide (2019-2020)
Visit Oakland Inspiration guide (2019-2020)

Q: Part of your research includes work with Black Arts and culture organizations, including those in the Black Arts Movement and Business District, an area in downtown Oakland that you describe as a part of the city town that is not particularly “outwardly or visibly Black,” yet “proposes the thesis that Oakland is Black.” How do these contradictions play out on the public stage of city planning? 

The story of Oakland’s development since the WWII era is wrapped up in the erasure of the Black poor. For many decades, downtown Oakland was a highly visible site of violence against Black communities that boosters sought to cover up. These days, downtown development plans and cultural plans have taken up the strategy of enhancing the city’s “diversity” – a boon for an elite, aesthete class of White office-workers and home-owners – while downplaying its Blackness or history of Black radical politics. Conversely, by locating a Black business district in the heart of downtown, the BAMBD makes an assertion that Black arts and business have been central to the city’s development and identity, even while Black artists and business owners have been consistently pushed out of downtown spaces.

The question here becomes: is Oakland Black in name and image only (a representational, “diverse” space) or is there power behind its Blackness (ownership and political power)? The latter is what was being fought for in this city by the Black Panthers. The BAMBD community development corporation and its associated members thus face the difficult challenge of utilizing diversity representation politics in order to leverage benefits for existing and future Black businesses and residents downtown. These may come in the form of community benefits agreements, city- and developer-funded grants, and negotiating power when it comes to the city’s downtown development plans.

The danger, I think, is making Oakland too superficially Black in the aesthetic sense without a real community base behind it. The BAMBD unfortunately gets bogged down by being attached to the mechanics of city development. In contrast, collaboratives like the Black Cultural Zone (BCZ) in East Oakland have slightly more flexibility. Rather than trying to make a predetermined district Black, as with the BAMBD, the BCZ is able to occupy and recreate under-utilized pockets of land within East Oakland Black neighborhoods. For instance, where many recent attempts to cultivate cultural districts have occurred in rapidly gentrifying areas adjacent to transit development routes, the BCZ collaborative has developed its own “Liberation Park” in an area that is still predominantly Black in an effort to create a “foothold” for resisting displacement. These strategies, and organizations, ultimately work together in their efforts to leverage vibe toward emancipatory ends.

I like thinking about this picture of the Visit Oakland guide alongside the previous image of “The Vibe,” as well as the first image from the Chamber of Commerce. This particular image is the cover of Visit Oakland’s tourism brochure from around 2018, and I think it captures a slightly more specific version of Oakland’s “spirit” that the 1990s relocation guide didn’t quite have the strategy for. Whereas much of the booster material from the early 20th century onward focuses on Lake Merritt, we begin to see more focus on arts and culture with Jerry Brown’s renewed arts-based development focus during his mayorship between 1997-2007. 

This particular image was taken near the 19th Street BART station on Broadway. This area of downtown received the brunt of Brown’s redevelopment campaign; he rebranded this part of downtown as “Uptown,” and new luxury condos were constructed here. He also funded more public arts in this part of the city while largely neglecting community public arts projects in East and West Oakland. Here, we get a good sense of the flavor of the ethnically ambiguous (but not White) arts-based diversity development model that Brown initiated.

“The Vibe” photo zooms into a street level view of this same region of Oakland’s “Uptown.” This close-up effect is, I think, part of what Visit Oakland is aiming for in their rebranding campaign from the late 2010s, “See Things from Our Side.” This new logo is a direct counter to the many years of negative stereotypes that prevented people from stopping in Oakland, the “town” on the “other side” of the Bay Bridge. By encouraging visitors to “see things from our side,” Visit Oakland is advertising an experience, in which everyone in Oakland is viewed as an “ambassador” for the city. This kind of decentralization makes up for the fact that there are very few central attractions to bring people to the city. The appeal of Oakland is Oakland itself. To zoom in on the Black Joy Parade on the same stretch of Broadway as these murals demonstrates both the apparent success of Brown’s redevelopment campaign in Uptown and that the experience of Oakland, of Vibe, is intricately connected to the persistence of Black life in this city.

 

Q: In this image, Sunflower Love, one of the artists you work with, stands in front of a mural by artist Joshua Mays. Who is Sunflower Love, and how did you meet her? How does her work contest or reshape narratives about gentrification and change in Oakland?

Sunflower in front of a mural
Photo by Sunflower Love

Sunflower was a student in the workshop series I taught on smartphone photography at United Roots/ Youth Impact Hub back in 2017. The goal of the course was to bring together the basics of photography, the students’ work on social justice organizations and businesses, and their social media presence. Sunflower was working on her own holistic health care products at the time; for one assignment, she chose to use the idea of “taboo” as a theme unifying her images. Some of the images in this portfolio were of marijuana, or featured a stereotype about Black people. This image (to the right), along with a few others, were the most interesting to me because she included herself alongside murals and graffiti she found around Oakland. Placing herself in the image changed my perception of her photos because suddenly my understanding of what she considered “taboo” (unspeakable, sacred, uncouth) shifted away from the illustrations and toward her body as an unwelcome presence in gentrifying spaces that have been aestheticized as Black. Brandi Summers’ work on “Black aesthetic emplacement” illustrates the way that representations of Blackness, like these murals, may be used to dissociate actual Black bodies from gentrifying spaces. For Sunflower to insert herself into this aesthetic so deliberately is a means of reclaiming not only the aesthetic value of these murals, but also the spaces they are part of developing.

We talked a lot in class about gentrification, stereotypes, police violence, and displacement in Oakland. Sunflower and I also spoke one-on-one about these images and about her relationship to the city. She has struggled with maintaining a stable economic footing in Oakland while keeping a strong social, spiritual and relational connection to the city that she knew while growing up in the late 1980s and early 1990s. This tension comes through in her photos: her regal, assertive poses suggest her power relative to the murals behind her. There is something here of yearning for the expansive imaginary that the murals themselves offer, and the desire for the security that money and power offer. This contradiction feels so alive, so real in the everyday decisions we make about how to live within, uphold, and resist systems of oppression.

Sunflower in front of a mural
Photo by Sunflower Love

This particular image is demonstrative of the way that an aesthetic of Blackness can be pernicious and disempowering for Black artists and entrepreneurs like Sunflower. For instance, I find the way that the figure’s fingers seem to creep up Sunflower’s leg, and the gesture of a second face behind her left shoulder, to be particularly creepy, as if the aesthetic and what it represents about how Oakland has changed is sneaking up on her. And yet, the way her tights appear to blend in with the colors and patterns behind her suggest that she’s a part of this aesthetic – it’s simply gotten away from her. These disembodied images are now eclipsing the embodied experience of Black people in Oakland. Yet, Sunflower seems unfazed by this. She still projects confidence in her stance, despite how small she is relative to Joshua Mays’ figure.

In the second photo (to the left), she does win out over the mural. ​​Here she is larger in the frame, her stance more confident, and the way that her clothing blends in with the mural suggests that she feels a sense of belonging here — to the image, and to the ground upon which she stands. Sunflower’s ownership over this aesthetic I see as a means of claiming vibe for her own economic benefit, as it aims to promote her holistic business. Her series of images are, then, a visual and material process of reclaiming Oakland for herself and her community.

 

 

 

Photo of Kaily Heitz by Alexx Temeña

California Spotlight

Kate Pennington on Gentrification and Displacement in San Francisco

What impact does new housing have on rents, displacement, and gentrification in the surrounding neighborhood? Read our interview with economist Kate Pennington about her article, “Does Building New Housing Cause Displacement?:The Supply and Demand Effects of Construction in San Francisco.”

Kate Pennington

Kate Pennington is a research economist at the Center for Economic Studies, a division of the U.S. Census Bureau; she earned her PhD from UC Berkeley’s Department of Agricultural and Resource Economics in 2021. Her current work focuses on diverse questions related to inequality and urban issues.

Among her current projects, she is collaborating with PhD candidate Eleanor Wiseman in investigating how the water crisis in Flint, Michigan shaped political participation and voting behavior among residents, and she studies how economic shocks like the Great Recession affect access to reproductive healthcare. Her research has been funded by the Institute for Research on Labor and Employment, the Upjohn Institute for Employment Research, the Institute for Women’s Policy Research Fellow, and the National Science Foundation.

Matrix content curator Julia Sizek interviewed Pennington about her recent research on housing and displacement in San Francisco, which won the 2021 Urban Economics Association Prize for best student paper. Her paper, “Does Building New Housing Cause Displacement?: The Supply and Demand Effects of Construction in San Francisco,” explores the impact of new housing construction on rents, displacement, and gentrification in the surrounding neighborhood.  Her work disentangles the supply and demand effects of new construction and compares the different impacts of market rate and affordable housing. (Please note that questions and responses have been lightly edited.)

 

This graph illustrates the rising rent prices in San Francisco from 2003-2017. In 2003, 1 bedroom apartments on Craigslist are approximately $1300/month; in 2017, this number is closer to $2500/month.
Average Monthly Rent for a 1BR on Craigslist, 2003-2017. Courtesy Kate Pennington.

As we can see in this graph, rents have been increasing steadily in San Francisco, and have been climbing dramatically since 2010. Gentrification has long been a hot topic in San Francisco and the Bay Area, especially as the tech sector has brought new — and wealthy — residents to the peninsula. Given all the data that has been collected on this subject, what did you find to be missing? How did you decide to study this topic?   

This is an issue that people care about deeply, but there’s a lot of disagreement on how cities should respond to rising housing prices and demographic change. The construction of new, market rate housing — housing that isn’t restricted to low-income residents — is really controversial because of fears that it may actually accelerate neighborhood change. To me, this is an open empirical question. What is the impact of new market rate buildings on the surrounding people and neighborhoods? I wanted to try to answer this question to help move the discussion forward toward a solution.

The question is difficult to answer because it’s hard to tease apart causation and correlation. Because of the tech boom, higher-income people are moving to the Bay Area, and that’s driving up rents and displacement. Developers want to make money, so they like to build in places where prices are already rising. That means that new market rate housing is positively correlated with rising rents and displacement, but it doesn’t mean that the new buildings are causing the neighborhood change.

The challenge here was to find a natural experiment in housing construction that could help me identify the causal impact of construction on rents and demographic change.

In your paper, you combine data on new construction with data on structural fires and Craigslist rents. Why did you end up using these forms of data to track changing housing conditions in San Francisco? 

The ideal way to determine whether new housing causes changes in rents and displacement would be to do an experiment where we drop down new buildings at random throughout the city and then compare what happens nearby to what happens farther away. Obviously this is impossible for many reasons, so the challenge is to come up with something that mimics that ideal experiment.

I use serious building fires as a source of experimental variation in where new construction happens. San Francisco is famously hard to build in; it’s heavily regulated and it can’t sprawl because it’s surrounded by water on three sides. For the most part, if you want to build something new, you have to tear down something old. Serious building fires make it much cheaper for developers to build on a burned parcel. I use these fires to figure out which construction projects were “exogenously” located, that is, located due to the random occurrence of a fire. This mimics the ideal experiment of random locations for new construction.  The maps below shows where these construction projects were built in 2015 and 2016.

I use Craigslist rents for two reasons. First, the City of San Francisco doesn’t track rental prices.  I had to figure out how to get access to rental price data at a small spatial scale, without the ability to pay for a big dataset like Zillow. Scraping archived Craigslist posts was free and let me get the specific information I needed. Second, since the housing market is really segmented, Craigslist rents probably do a better job of capturing the rents faced by a lower-income resident who’s actually at risk of displacement. Higher-income people might use Zillow or Redfin to find a rental, and those prices tend to be a couple hundred dollars higher than the average Craigslist rent in any given month.

 

This map shows the locations of new construction in San Francisco in 2015.
Tracing the influence of new housing in San Francisco, 2015-2016. Courtesy Kate Pennington.
This map shows the locations of new construction in San Francisco in 2016.
Tracing the influence of new housing in San Francisco, 2015-2016. Courtesy Kate Pennington.

 

These maps depict new construction in San Francisco, as split up by several types. Help us understand these two maps, and how endogenous and exogenous construction are important distinctions to make for both policymakers and economists.

 

These maps show the 600-meter radius around new construction projects in 2015 and 2016.  They help visualize who might be affected by each new project. The randomly located (exogenous) projects are shown in pink and orange. These are the projects whose impacts I study in the paper. The projects shown in blue and green are not experimentally located; those locations may be “endogenously” driven by developers’ desire to build where prices are already high.

Why did you decide to focus on the local scale of housing, and what does this help to show us? 

Focusing on the local scale is important for two reasons: it helps identify a causal relationship, and it directly answers the question of how new housing impacts people living nearby, which is at the center of the policy debate.

 

This diagram shows the impact of new housing construction on rents at a local scale.
Measuring Exposure to New Construction Projects. Courtesy Kate Pennington.

In this figure, we can start to see how you approach this topic through measuring the impacts of new housing spatially. Help us understand this image. How do the effects of new housing differ based on distance?

For each person in my sample, I count up the number of randomly located new projects and new units completed within different distance bins for each year of my study, from 2003-2017.  This figure shows how. The circle shows the 600m radius around a fictional person’s house.  The yellow dot shows a project built within 200m, so this person would have a value of 1 for the number of projects within 0-200m.  They’d have a value of 0 for projects within 200-400m, and 1 for projects within 400-600m (the red dot).  Similarly, they would have a value of 6 for net units within 200m, 0 within 200-400m, and 200 within 400-600m.

 

This graph shows how rents of 1BR apartments shifts after new construction. The X axis measures distance from new construction; the Y axis shows changes in rent.
How do new projects affect 1BR rents and the probability of increase rent? These graphs show Pennington’s results to answer these questions. Courtesy Kate Pennington.

 

This image shows the likelihood of an adverse move for a current resident. X axis shows distance from new construction; Y axis shows likelihood of adverse move.
How do new projects affect 1BR rents and the probability of an adverse move? These graphs show Pennington’s results to answer these questions. Courtesy Kate Pennington.

This pair of figures tracks the impact of new construction on rents and displacement. Can you walk us through these charts, and what you were able to measure? 

This figure shows the main results. The first panel shows the average relationship between rents and distance from the new market rate construction project in the four years after completion. Rents are roughly $40 lower for people living close to the new building. This effect decays with distance, fading out to zero within two kilometers.

The second panel shows the impact on one measure of displacement: the probability that a renter moves to a lower-income zip code. The risk of moving to a lower-income zip code falls by about 20% for people living close by, and again fades to zero with distance. The renters who live closest to the new projects benefit from the largest differential rent reductions and the largest fall in the risk of displacement. Displacement refers to push migration, when individual people are pushed to leave their current housing. Gentrification refers to the replacement of lower-income incumbents with higher-income newcomers. Displacement happens to people; gentrification happens to places.

To measure gentrification, the ideal would be to count the net change in the number of richer people at a given address. Since I don’t have individual income data, I use median zip code income as a proxy. I count the net number of people arriving at a given address who came from a richer sending zip code. Panel A shows that the probability of a net increase in richer arrivers — my proxy for gentrification — increases by 2.5 percentage points close to new market rate construction, again fading out with distance. In contrast, panel B shows that new affordable housing doesn’t attract an increase in gentrification.

This graph shows how rents change based on distance from exogenous market rate construction.
Impact of new projects on gentrification by construction type. This figure shows exogenous market rate housing, or housing constructed after large structural fires for market rate renters. Courtesy Kate Pennington.

 

This graph shows how rents change based on distance from exogenous affordable housing construction.
Impact of new projects on gentrification by construction type. This figure shows the effects of exogenous affordable housing construction, or affordable housing constructed after structural fires. Courtesy Kate Pennington.

 

This final set of figures helps us consider the differences between different kinds of new housing, comparing specifically the differences between affordable and market-rate housing. What is the conventional wisdom on the differences between market rate and affordable housing, and what do these charts and your research more generally suggest for policymakers interested in housing affordability?

One idea that circulates in policy discussions is that market rate housing might cause local price increases and displacement, but affordable housing won’t. Instead, I find that market rate housing differentially decreases nearby rents and displacement risk, while affordable housing has no spillover effects on the surrounding people and neighborhoods. This suggests that affordable and market rate housing are complementary policy levers. Market rate housing can help many people who live nearby, but its price impacts will become less and less effective if the city continues to gentrify and the nearby residents are less sensitive to small changes in rent. On the other hand, affordable housing only prevents displacement for the people living in it, but it does better at targeting people who are really at risk of displacement, and it can preserve long-term income diversity. Both help — and neither hurts.

 

Methods

Metaketa: A Collaborative Model for Social Science Research

Thad Dunning

Social scientists conducting field-based research often design and conduct their studies in isolation, making their findings difficult to replicate in other contexts. To address this challenge, a team of social scientists at UC Berkeley and other institutions launched an initiative called “Metaketa,” which aims to provide a structure and process for designing and coordinating studies in multiple field sites at once, leading to a more robust body of data and improved standards for transparency and verification.

Metaketa is a Basque word meaning “accumulation.” Funded via Evidence in Governance and Politics (EGAP), a research, evaluation, and learning network, the Metaketa Initiative represents a model for collaboration that “seeks to improve the accumulation of knowledge from field experiments on topics where academic researchers and policy practitioners share substantive interests,” according to the EGAP website. “The key idea of this initiative is to take a major question of policy importance for governance outcomes, identify an intervention that is tried, but not tested, and implement a cluster of coordinated research studies that can provide a reliable answer to the question.”

The model is grounded in eight principles: coordination across research teams; predefined themes and comparable interventions; comparable measures; integrated case selection; preregistration; third-party analysis; formal synthesis; and integrated publication.

Thad Dunning, Robson Professor of Political Science at UC Berkeley, helped launch the Metaketa Initiative, and he participated in the first “cluster” of studies, which focused on understanding how the dissemination of information about candidates influences voter behavior. In 2019, Dunning co-authored a research paper in Science Advances, “Voter information campaigns and political accountability: Cumulative findings from a preregistered meta-analysis of coordinated trials,” that summarizes the importance of the Metaketa model: “Limited replication, measurement heterogeneity, and publication biases may undermine the reliability of published research,” Dunning and his co-authors wrote. “We implemented a new approach to cumulative learning, coordinating the design of seven randomized controlled trials to be fielded in six countries by independent research teams. Uncommon for multisite trials in the social sciences, we jointly preregistered a meta-analysis of results in advance of seeing the data.”

Cover of "Information, Accountability, and Cumulative Learning"Dunning and the co-authors — including UC Berkeley political scientist Susan Hyde — also published a book, Information, Accountability, and Cumulative Learning: Lessons from Metaketa I, that shares lessons learned from the project. This collaborative Metaketa model has since been used for studies on taxation, natural resource governance, community policing, and women’s action committees and local services.

We interviewed Dunning about how the Metaketa Initiative evolved, as well as what his own study suggested about how information influences voters’ choices. (Note that questions and responses have been edited for clarity and content.)

What was the focus of the study that you undertook through the Metaketa Initiative?

The initial thrust of the study was focused on the connection between information provision and political accountability. It almost seems like a truism that information has to matter for politics, and yet we don’t actually know that much about how providing voters with certain kinds of information actually affects political behavior. We haven’t built a coherent body of evidence around that.

The second part was methodological, and had to do with how we build cumulative knowledge. There’s been a big movement in the social sciences toward experimentation as a way of building causal knowledge. That has some advantages, but it’s also really limited. Our project stepped away from a single study and said, here are some aggregate conclusions that might hold across settings. It was really trying to tackle the problem of external validity in experiments: if I find something in a particular study, does it generalize to other contexts?

How did the Metaketa model evolve into a formal initiative?

The methodological goal of the Metaketa was to try to design a study through collaboration across teams that would build in meta-analysis-ready data. That was a major objective. There were also objectives around the reporting of results, including more pre-specification and transparency in the analysis, and working toward this larger model of open science. All of those aspects were important in the project.

There’s a lot of value in academia in planting the flag and being the first one to do something, but maybe we’re a little bit too willing to move on. The idea is not to prioritize new models or innovation, but to prioritize replication, and that was a big part of the model. There have traditionally been a lot of problems in trying to generalize across studies. Often the studies themselves are not comparable. They have different kinds of interventions and outcome measures.

In many ways, we were crossing the river by feeling for stones. We’d been having discussions around this kind of model for quite some time. Part of the project was getting some initial grant funding to support the concept, and then to launch this first substantive part of it, focused on political accountability and information provision. It has been an interesting initiative to be involved in. There have now been four or five Metaketas on different substantive topics. It’s a model that’s been funded by different sources, but we had an anonymous donor who provided the funding for our startup, and more recently, the British government and USAID and others have been involved in funding these larger Metaketas.

How did you ensure that data from one study will align with that of the others?

A big part of this is just trying to harmonize the interventions: what kind of information is going to be provided? How do we conceptualize information in relation to information and political performance? What do voters think before information is provided? How does the information differ from what they already believed? We wanted to try to standardize this across projects, and measure in a symmetric way what outcomes we care about: first, whether voters vote and how they vote, but then also secondary outcomes. And we want to be able to do that consistently across studies. That way we can assess the average effect across the seven study sites, as well as variation across the sites. And we can look at that in a way that makes sense. A lot of that was harmonized at the design stage ex ante through a series of workshops across project teams. Then, sharing public data ex post allowed us to do a meta-analysis of data from the seven studies.

What did your study suggest about the role of information on voter behavior?

Graph showing research findings from the study on information and voter behavior.It seems self-evident that the information people receive would make a difference in how they vote, but our finding was a big no. Almost everywhere we looked, the provision of information made no difference in how people voted. We had taken a lot of care to try to develop designs that were well-powered enough, particularly once we aggregated the data across seven studies. We could make the claim with a fair degree of precision and certainty, in a statistical sense. That may make the answer itself more compelling and more credible, that the information provision didn’t have any effect.

On the other hand, it may seem mystifying, given the important role we think information is playing in politics. What we can say is that providing this kind of information from neutral third parties about what politicians are doing in office, including about political malfeasance or misspending of funds, didn’t shape voters’ behavior. That’s depressing, but also may be informative. If we want to transform political accountability, maybe we should be looking at other kinds of interventions.

Politicians may think voters are more responsive than they seem to be in some of these instances. But voters can be hard to move, and that might be consistent with some of what we know about partisanship broadly. The idea that information doesn’t move people away from their pre-existing beliefs is a depressing finding from a number of perspectives, although you can’t test everything, and there’s a role for more sustained, cumulative evidence-gathering in some of these areas. I would have said ex ante that this kind of information provision would have mattered much more than it did.

Our methodological message is that we need to be careful and build up piece by piece, and then after having built up carefully, try to put a body of evidence together in an area. We don’t want to overclaim and then say, well, information doesn’t matter. But we do have robust evidence from these studies that this type of information provision doesn’t shape what voters do very much on average, across a wide set of contexts. We think that’s useful, even if not the final word. But we should evaluate other kinds of claims about other sorts of information, hopefully using similarly robust kinds of evidence. That’s the methodological point we want to drive home.

Do you think the Metaketa model could be used in other contexts, for instance among researchers on a single campus like UC Berkeley?

There’s a lot of ground for more collaboration, and this is consistent with an open science model. Often we have incentives to work in small teams, to claim priority to embark in new directions. Trying to work collaboratively to further knowledge is also really important, and there’s a big role for it. And it doesn’t all have to entail gathering seven teams in a room and planning a study in advance.

We’ve explored ideas like having a registry of study topics, where three studies would be conducted, and then a researcher would come along and replicate that set of studies, and also tweak them, building in innovation and replication at the same time. All of these things are potentially interesting. Many of them could also be interdisciplinary in character, speaking to the Matrix mission, and could be a way to bring people together from across disciplines. These approaches can have a big upside in terms of knowledge generation.

 

 

Matrix News

Q&A with David Robinson, Visiting Scholar at Social Science Matrix

David Robinson

Social Science Matrix is honored to welcome David Robinson as a Visiting Scholar for the 2021-2022 academic year.

A distinguished researcher working at the intersection of law, policy, and technology, David studies the design and management of algorithmic decision-making, particularly in the public sector. He served as a managing director and cofounder of Upturn, a Washington DC-based public interest organization that promotes equity and justice in the design, governance, and use of digital technology. Upturn’s research and advocacy combines technical fluency and creative policy thinking to confront patterns of inequity, especially those rooted in race and poverty.

David previously served as the inaugural associate director of Princeton University’s Center for Information Technology Policy, a joint venture between the university’s School of Engineering and its Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs. He came to Matrix from Cornell University’s AI Policy and Practice Initiative, where he was a visiting scientist. He holds a JD from Yale Law School, and bachelor’s degrees in philosophy from Princeton and Oxford, where he was a Rhodes Scholar.

We interviewed David to learn more about his research interests and the projects he will be pursuing while at UC Berkeley, including an upcoming book on the development of the algorithm used to determine recipients of kidney transplants in the United States. Please note that this interview has been edited for length and content.

Q: How did you develop your interest in the study of algorithms?

I have always been interested in the social impacts of technology. When I was a kid, I had terrible handwriting; because of a mild case of cerebral palsy, I had some fine motor impairment. When writing meant penmanship, I was a bad writer. But then, eventually, I got a word processor in school, and discovered that I loved writing, and it was a really empowering change for me. Word processors had been around for a number of years, so the key change that made the benefits possible in my life was that the rules changed. The school said, let’s get one of these computers into this setting, where it can be beneficial. Ever since then, I’ve been interested in the social impacts of new digital technologies.

I came of age during the first wave of internet optimism in the 1990s and early 2000s, and I returned to Princeton to help start the Center for Information Technology Policy, a growing, thriving organization that brought together people from different disciplinary backgrounds. Part of the idea was that, if you’re navigating the policy and the values choices that come up around new technologies, it’s a big help to have some real depth of technical expertise. My colleague from that center, Ed Felten, later became the Deputy Chief Technology Officer of the United States in the Obama administration. There was a style of work we had there that was very specific to understanding the factual pieces of new technology, and making sure that a clear shared map of the stakes of the debate would be available to all participants.

While there, I got very involved in one issue in particular: open government data, making data transparent to the public, and publishing it in a reusable format, so that, for example, if you have public records about pollution or crime or education, you can put that on a map and track it over time, and not only rely on the government’s presentation of that information.

This was an idea that really took off in the Obama administration, and they created something called Data.gov, and built a multilateral partnership called the Open Government Partnership, along with other different countries. I came together with Harlan Yu, who was a PhD student at Princeton, and we ended up starting a public interest organization, Upturn, to continue this work of informing the public debate.

In the beginning, there was an optimistic view that there was an inherent valence to the technology, that it would make things more democratic and more open and accountable. Over time, we saw that wasn’t the case. Data.gov and similar sites had great data about things like the weather or the real-time location of buses, but if you were thinking this was going to help uncover financial malfeasance or otherwise disrupt the status quo, that didn’t transpire. We published a mea culpa on this, called the “New Ambiguity of Open Government,” where we said, if you’re making the data open, that doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re making the government open. There’s a whole politics to this. It’s not inherent in the technology that things are going to get more open.

Upturn started out as consulting firm in DC and ended up as an NGO, and we ended up working very closely with civil rights organizations, addressing inequities that are based either on race or poverty or the conjunction of the two. We evolved over time into having a much clearer political or normative mission. While at Upturn, I worked on understanding questions like, how do predictive policing systems work? If we have systems in courtrooms telling us who’s dangerous, what does that mean? What danger or risk is being measured, and what is the impact on real people and their families? Those sorts of questions became more important over time.

Three years ago, I was teaching at the law school at Georgetown, and I was focused on, how do we make algorithms accountable? We’re having software make high-stakes decisions that are impacting people’s lives. What can we do to take the moral innards of these systems and make them visible, and give people a seat at the table who are not the engineers and have them help make some of these values choices? That’s a question that is very much alive today.

What will you be working on during the coming year as a Matrix Visiting Scholar?

One of the projects I’ll be working on is a book with the working title, Voices in the Code. The idea is, I can give you lots of examples of where a system has been built and the values choices have not been made in an accountable way. In courtrooms, in the pre-trial context, where someone hasn’t been convicted of a crime, you’re balancing the liberty of a presumptively innocent person against the risk to the community that they might go out and commit more crimes or something like that. There’s no visibility and no clear understanding of how many of those choices are made in many jurisdictions. The point of these courtroom systems is to predict who’s dangerous. We wrote a paper called “Danger Ahead” that said, we predict these systems are dangerous because they’re hiding the ball on what the moral trade-offs are.

Voices in the Code is about one place where people didn’t hide the ball: in organ transplantation in the United States. If a kidney becomes available, there are 100,000 people waiting for a transplant. So if an organ is donated, it’s a non-market resource. We’re not going to give it to the highest bidder, but we do have to decide collectively, who’s going to get this vital resource and the opportunity to resume a normal life, and not rely on dialysis?

There are all kinds of logistical factors that go into that: how far away is the person? There are also medical factors, like blood type. And there are moral factors: if we wanted to maximize the total benefit from our supply of organs, then we might choose to give the organs to younger, healthier, and by-and-large richer and possibly whiter recipients, with fewer social determinants, co-morbidities, or other health problems. Of course, this is dramatically unfair. If we were to do that in a completely utility-maximizing way, the result would be that people already disadvantaged would lose the chance to get transplants. It’s also the case that older recipients would be greatly disadvantaged in that system.

But what’s interesting about transplants is there’s a very public process of figuring out what that algorithm is going to be. And when they suggested this utility-maximizing idea, the public pushed back, and they switched to something that’s a lot more moderate and smarter than what they were originally going to do. They did that because there was a public comment process, and transparency about what the algorithm was. There was auditing and there were simulations of how it would work if we rolled out different versions of that algorithm.

Those are all things that people are arguing for in other contexts, whether in child welfare, courtrooms, or in the private-sector systems for hiring. We want transparency and accountability. And there are a lot of ideas on the whiteboard. But what does it look like in practice? How can it be done? From my point of view, the transplant example is a really valuable precedent for how to do the ethics inside an algorithm in an accountable way. My book is about this example and what we can learn from it. (Watch a video of a talk that Robinson gave about this work.)

The second half of the work is a book about how algorithms change the stories we tell about who people are. It is looking at how selves are constructed, so it has more of a philosophical bent. When I was working in policy, I noticed that if you tag somebody as having a high productivity score, or a high dangerousness score, it’s not only used to make some narrow decision, but it also changes how the person is perceived by others. If we think about the quantified self movement, with all these self measurements, like a smart watch giving me health points, that’s going to change my view about how healthy I am. If we rate surgeons based on how successful their patients are after the operation, we think we’re finding out who’s a good surgeon, when it turns out, we may really be finding out in part who cherry-picks their cases and takes easy cases or something like that. The book aims to help the public develop a greater sense of confidence in taking apart what some of these scores really mean, to recover a sense of being able to construct our own identities and not ending up outsourcing that to some piece of software. [See this short essay that previews Robinson’s book on the social meaning of algorithms.]

What other lessons does the kidney transplant example teach us about fairness in algorithms?

Sometimes you’ll hear people talk about going out to get public input through some process, and the input is treated like something we’re going to mine and collect. But one of the key insights from this transplant experience is that debate creates opinions. The opinions that people come to the table with tend to change and soften. I always visualize one of those machines for polishing rocks, where you have all of these sharp edges that go in at the beginning, and they tumble around and get polished. Eventually people see where others are coming from, and they are invested in hearing each other out.

The algorithm for transplants is perpetually being revised, which is part of what a real democratic process looks like. People arrived at something they may not have loved, but that they found tolerable. There was a kind of wearing down, a gradual acquiescence into something tolerable. Especially if we look at our politics today, it’s no small feat to find something that is mutually tolerable to people with very different points of view. At some level, that’s part of our ambition for the governance of algorithms.

Based on what you’ve learned about algorithms and transparency, what do you think should be the norm in this area in five or ten years?

People sometimes say there ought to be one centralized regulatory body for algorithms, and I’m skeptical about that, because I think the contexts do differ, and context really matters. If you’re dealing with something medical, you want medical experts, and if you’re dealing with criminal law, then you want experts in the criminal legal system, as well as people and families who’ve encountered the system who can provide input into that.

But I do think there can be a shared layer that emerges, where people in one area talk to people in another and recognize that we have problems of the same shape. We’re doing data science, but we want to do it in an accountable, inclusive, and democratic way. There are places where we can learn how to do that, and we can take examples from one domain and share them with another.

So what does that mean? It means getting people involved early in the design process as early as possible to frame a shared understanding of the problem. It means publishing and auditing and simulating. (This is a step I think that hasn’t gotten a lot of attention so far: how can we forecast the consequences of our  alternatives?) And then, once the thing is out there, continuing to pay attention to how it’s going and seeing if it needs to be revised. That’s a set of practices that people are learning how to do in parallel, in lots of different places. So it’s about how to share ownership of the ethical choices inside high-stakes software. That’s what I’m working on, and that’s where I think a shared literacy needs to emerge.

Sometimes there’s a pattern of technical “shock and awe,” and people say, you have to be a genius or an expert to have any clue what this system is doing. And yet, at the end of the day, there’s a conference room and a whiteboard somewhere where human beings are sitting around and saying, how does this work, and what do we want to change? The doors to that room can always be opened, no matter how complicated the software is, no matter if it’s changing every second. Answering that question is a job that can be shared.

Part of the mission of Social Science Matrix is to promote cross-disciplinary research. What academic disciplines does your work touch upon?

I’ve taken a deep dive into the legal and policy documents, because one of the things about this transparent process is that there are reams of documents and reports, which are not necessarily easy to understand. I added a qualitative component that draws draws on sociological and anthropological methods. I conducted semi-structured qualitative interviews with participants in this public deliberation process, including physicians who led committees, and a transplant patient, who argued that the original proposal was unfair. Although my original training was not in sociology, I learned a great deal from from colleagues and have been able to adapt those methods.

What brought you to UC Berkeley to continue this work?

Berkeley is just an extraordinary community. There’s a public service mission that is very strong because it’s a public university, and one of the world’s great intellectual communities is at Berkeley. It’s a tremendous place. It’s a tremendous opportunity to contribute to those conversations, and to share work in progress and get feedback.

Having looked at the transplant example, part of what I’m trying to do is to make that that experience available to other scholars and policymakers who are working on similar problems in other domains — maybe not in transplants, but in a courtroom or a human resources department, where they want to know, how can transparency be made to work? I really want the substance of what I’ve done to be available to people.

I’ve made an intentional choice to step away from the more immediate policy work and think longer term. It’s been a great opportunity to  think big picture, but also to think concretely about how we can take insights from the academic field and apply them to the social problems we have that relate to new technologies. In order for all this toil and time to pay off, I’ve got to weave in to the broader conversation around these issues. I am hoping Matrix and UC Berkeley will be a platform to bring these ideas into conversation with the wider world.