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Never paint a moving part.
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Tarantella–a swift Southern Italian dance believed to relieve tarantel, a nervous condition.
We’ve all felt it—that physical grimace that arrests us when we remember instances of shame. The “shame-shudder” if you will. It’s haunting. The memory cuts so clearly and rarely loses its veracity over time. I’ve been thinking about shame a lot recently, and why that physical sensation is nearly universal. Why do we experience it? What is the purpose of shame?
(That was a very This American Life opening. Whatever.)
Anthropologist Frans de Waal has suggested that empathy, and thus, morality, are evolved traits that support our kinship structures. Does the physical nature and seeming universality of shudder-shame indicate that it’s an inherited trait as well? If it is evolved, what does it do for us as a species? We can’t retroactively correct the behavior, and I, for my part, can’t really say I learn from the instances which cause shame.
Morality is not the only “personality” trait that’s considered “evolved.” Michael Winkelman and John Baker have documented how religion has both a biological and a cultural basis: how brain physiology and ritual intersect to produce religious experience. There is an element of the evolutionary in our penchant for religiosity, according to those two. And since shame is related to religion—many come to religion as a way to wash shame away—can we draw a corollary there? As an enlightened colleague flippantly quipped, what is therapy anyway besides a confession that you pay for?
But is shame productive? The things we feel shame about are often some of the most intimate, vulnerable, delicate details of our lives. Does shame keep us from being more connected to each other? Perhaps shame is purely embodied punishment, the physical result of thousands of years of socially-sanctioned behavior.
But keeping shameful things private compels us to present our best version of our selves–shame as a means of self-marketing. Its net effect is akin to crafting a Facebook profile, a persona unchecked by our less desirable qualities.
I’m making a couple of assumptions above that I should admit—I don’t know for sure if shudder-shame is universal or culturally-specific. Our sense of shame may Judeo-Christian/American in flavor. Am I making a disciplinary error, which is to say, is shame even an anthropological question?
As a person wholly motivated by guilt, I’m anxious to nail down an answer.
Radiolab episode that made me think of this.
I’ve been too distraught to write for the past 10 weeks, ever since I found out I am allergic to gluten. No more pizza, pasta or beer. I thought Mozzadrella was surely finished.
But Chicago bucked up. And now I’m going to flood you with my gluten-free exploits.
But I also got a little tired of the food-centric bent of the Fresh Mozz. This slice is still going to be fresh, but more inclusive. I dig new media, new verse, steampunk visions, walking slowly, overdone collars, endlessly considering my drag persona and making piles. Sound good?
So move with me.
If you tire of detail, intricate narrative, or fascinating anecdotes easily, I recommend against eating amongst the anthropologists. However I find them to be the best of company, and hearken back to the cultural universality of manioc root on a weekly basis. This past week saw the divine summit of all things anthropological in San Francisco at the AAA conference, and your humble Mozzadrella was fortunate enough to attend.
I actually hadn’t been to the Bay Area—brace yourself for the geek quotient here—since high school, when I went to a Model United Nations conference in Berkeley, and THEN summer economics camp in Palo Alto. It’s a miracle I manage to dress myself, even though my style these days screams “professional kickball player.” At least that’s what the burlesque “ladies” at Aunt Charlie’s Lounge told me.
Though I really didn’t stray from the “Tenderloin” area where the conference was being held, the food impressed so much I will no longer vow to set all of California alight. I had been dreaming of Salt House, an industrial/rustic-chic haunt, and its braised short rib for three days. Though the cavernous interior amplified sound—we could barely converse with the people next to us—I had the most delicious cocktail I’d ever sampled. The “New London” features cold Hendrick’s Gin with a kaffir lime-ginger syrup, and a chili-cardamom salted rim. I swooned. I exalted. I had two.
I admired the sweet delicate quality of the roast beet salad, but the braised short rib with mustard crust sent me reeling. As you raised your fork to it, the meat fell apart like a warm savory bloom. As it was served atop brussels sprouts and fennel, my appetite waived away all sense of reason or discretion. In that moment I began to see the reasoning behind elastic pants.
After I recruited Tiny and Mark, I insisted upon Vietnamese food whilst in Pacific time. We went to Mangosteen, also in the Tenderloin area, where the quail was served table-side, flambé-style, the skin snapping with searing crispness. All of our fresh rolls were delicious, and will the Pho was a tad waxy, and the décor a little 7-Eleven, I’ll be thinking about that quail in the months to come.
I still find San Francisco strange—the constant smiling from strangers made me wonder if I was suffering from early-onset dementia—I did take squealing happiness in the Ice Cream Parlor/Laundromat down the way from our hotel. Genius!
Indulge me a little concrete-clover love!
Upcoming events: Mozz’s little sister is coming to visit! I am taking her to Sunset Park for Dim Sum, will drag her to Queens to see PS1, take her to the coop and have her help me carry bulk items home, and take her to Styleklash to benefit Harriet’s Alter Ego. Anything else anyone can think of that’s sister-suitable?
Thomas Edison is a rock star. Literally: the man created incandescent light. Voices can boom and resonate thanks to the microphone. Global financial markets expand and contract on his tickers. The man held 1,093 patents (true, his factory sucked fresh ideas out of young idealists, but still).
I was unaware until recently of one of Edison’s most prescient ideas–in 1906 he conceived of one of the first mass-produced domicile solutions. The dream of affordable housing, according to Edison, could be made manifest in concrete molded residences.
The first single-pour concrete house was built on Hixon Street in South Orange, New Jersey (I guess J gets a little more love). Turns out that the cast iron mold for the house was ungainly and unwieldy, so only 11 were ever built.
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Just curious if anyone could suss out the difference. Lifetime seems to have way more “events” than movies, which would make it quite the service.
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She’s sharp. She’s deadpan. Her last name ends in “elli.” 
Giada who?
“LM: If you were going to be known for any one thing how would you want people to remember you?”
“AG: That I make great soup always. I make a split pea soup with fried bacon and fresh peas in it that I really love. I also make a great clam chowder. It takes five days to make, but it’s worth it. I think soup is a good barometer of chefs. It’s beyond upsetting when you have a crappy soup. You can have the best steak in the world and the best cherry jubilee afterwards, but the feeling of being let down by a watery, crappy soup never leaves you.”
