Artykuły w czasopismach na temat „Communities. Classes. Races”

Religious tolerance has become one of global issues in the world. So, Indonesia has regulation which specifies that the graduate competency standard for educational units for all grades is that students must accept the heterogeneity of faiths, communities, nations, races and classes. In this study, the textbooks which is published by the Educational Minister of Indonesia are also published under the category of Electronic School Books (ESB) in the form of electronic book (e-book). This study tried to examine the religious content reflected on three ELT textbooks currently used in Indonesia public high schools to teach Senior High School Students Grade X, XI, and XII

Numerous studies have shown that the language barrier may cause the difficulties among indigenous children in learning mathematics. Apparently, this is also the case among the Orang Asli students in Malaysia. As enshrined in the Malaysian Constitution, the Malay language is the national language spoken by Malaysians who are made up of various races. However, other races including the Orang Asli are free to use their respective languages in their daily lives. In the Malaysian education system, the medium of instruction used in mathematics classes is the Malay language. Since the Orang Asli students are only exposed to the Malay language after they enter formal education in a primary school, the use of the Malay language has become an obstacle for them to understand mathematical concepts. Accordingly, this concept paper discusses the position of the Orang Asli language in Malaysia, the medium of teaching and learning in mathematics classes in Malaysia, and the effectiveness of using the Orang Asli language in mathematics classes among the Orang Asli students. In addition, the code-switching approach that is widely practised in many countries is also discussed. Finally, the roles of various parties, including the Ministry of Education, the Department of Orang Asli Development, NGOs, teachers, parents and the Orang Asli communities in increasing the use of the national language among the Orang Asli students are also discussed. It is hoped that this concept paper can enlighten the language problems among the Orang Asli students in Malaysia and further improve their academic quality.

Early interactions between state administrators and forest-dwelling communities in eastern Africa yield significant insight into colonial attempts to grapple with difference across hierarchically conceptualized ‘races’, classes, tribes, and radically alternative livelihoods. In particular, uncertainties related to the governance of forest-dwellers resulted in a problematic known as the ‘Dorobo question’ in Kenya Colony, the former word being a corruption of the Maasai term for the poor, the sinful – and hence – the cattle-less. Drawing upon archival research in Kenya and the United Kingdom, I argue that halting attempts to govern such communities illuminate an historically and geographically specific dimension of late imperial Britain’s apparently ‘liberal’ biopolitics, which entailed not the ‘abandonment’ of populations, per se, but rather the elimination and subsequent transformation of livelihoods, ontologies, and sustainablities perceived as fiscally barren or otherwise of little use to the colonial state. Far from being resolved, however, the afterlives of these logics of elimination highlight the stakes of contemporary struggles over eastern African forests, and particularly so in the context of an emergent transition to ostensibly ‘green’ forms of capitalism in the region.

This article critically examines some of the recent works in Swiss national history. It argues that many of these works suffer, albeit in different ways, from a too narrowly construed, Eurocentric perspective. Consequently, they fail to offer an understandinf of how Switzerland both shaped and was shaped by processes of imperial globalisation since the 1500s. The article goes on to argue for a `post-patriotic` conception of Swiss national history that seeks to uncover how Swiss global entanglements fed into various hierarchies between gender groups, social classes, races and religious communities. The article ends with a historical example from 16th century Basel and Geneva, where book printers published books on the Spanish conquests of the Americas. The example illustrates how the historical beginnings of a Swiss nation and the beginnings of imperial globalisation in the 1500s were closely intertwined processes – and how the trajectories of Swiss history and the history of the world have remained intertwined ever since.

This article critically examines some of the recent works in Swiss national history. It argues that many of these works suffer, albeit in different ways, from a too narrowly construed, Eurocentric perspective. Consequently, they fail to offer an understanding of how Switzerland both shaped and was shaped by processes of imperial globalization since the 1500s. The article goes on to argue for a ’post-patriotic’ conception of Swiss national history that seeks to uncover how Swiss global entanglements fed into various hierarchies between gender groups, social classes, races and religious communities. The article ends with a historical example from 16th century Basel and Geneva, where book printers published books on the Spanish conquests of the Americas. The example illustrates how the historical beginnings of a Swiss nation and the beginnings of imperial globalization in the 1500s were closely intertwined processes – and how the trajectories of Swiss history and the history of the world have remained intertwined ever since.

Atopic dermatitis (AD) is a common, chronic, inflammatory skin disease affecting Australians of all ages, races, ethnicities, and social classes. Significant physical, psychosocial, and financial burdens to both individuals and Australian communities have been demonstrated. This narrative review highlights knowledge gaps for AD in Australian skin of colour. We searched PubMed, Wiley Online Library, and Cochrane Library databases for review articles, systematic reviews, and cross-sectional and observational studies relating to AD in Australia for skin of colour and for different ethnicities. Statistical data from the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare and the Australian Bureau of Statistics was collected. In recent years, there has been substantially increased awareness of and research into skin infections, such as scabies and impetigo, among various Australian subpopulations. Many such infections disproportionately affect First Nations Peoples. However, data for AD itself in these groups are limited. There is also little written regarding AD in recent, racially diverse immigrants with skin of colour. Areas for future research include AD epidemiology and AD phenotypes for First Nations Peoples and AD trajectories for non-Caucasian immigrants. We also note the evident disparity in both the level of understanding and the management standards of AD between urban and remote communities in Australia. This discrepancy relates to a relative lack of healthcare resources in marginalised communities. First Nations Peoples in particular experience socioeconomic disadvantage, have worse health outcomes, and experience healthcare inequality in Australia. Barriers to effective AD management must be identified and responsibly addressed for socioeconomically disadvantaged and remote-living communities to achieve healthcare equity.

Indonesia is a large country that consists of various ethnicities, races, religions, social classes, and cultures, vulnerable to conflicts. It's necessary to maintaining the unity amid the diversity or ‘Kebhinekaan’. The objectives of the research to: 1) explore the characteristics of diversity; 2) analyze communal awareness through the activities of tolerance tourism; and 3) analyze the values of diversity in supporting the concept of tolerance tourism. Qualitative methods are used in this study. Researchers used participatory observation and document study technique to collect the data from relevant archives and documents, to interviews with relevant parties to explore the characteristics of ethnicities, cultures, and tolerance tourism. The study revealed a number of facts, including: a) the characteristics of diversity among the people in Singkawang City that have a distinctive paradigm in assessing diversity that actually originates from the wisdom of Malay, Chinese, Dayak culture, and other nations that have lived in the city; b) a high communal awareness in the activities of tolerance tourism to promote the sense of caring among ethnicities; and c) the diversity of multiethnic communities in supporting tolerance tourism by promoting the values of tolerance, mutual respect, and solidarity.

The geographical and phytocoenotic areas of the endemic of the Southern Urals Delphinium uralense that is a relic species of the ancient Pleistocene steppe were studied. Species is listed in the Red book of the Russian Federation (2008) and the Red Book of the Republic of Bashkortostan (2011). The main part of the geographical area of the investigated species is limited by the Zilair plateau located in the south-western tip of the Ural Mountains, within the Urals fold-block surface. The phytocoenotic area of this species includes the xerophytic communities referring to 2 classes, 3 orders, 4 alliances, 1 suballiance, 2 associations, 1 subassociation, 1 variantand 4 non-ranking communities The formation of the unique complex of xerophytic oak-larch sparse forests and rocky steppes in the southern Urals is linked with the occurrence of the mountainous steppe with larch groves, which were the remnants of the xerophytic mountain landscape —“Pleistocene floristic complex” (Igoshina, 1961, 1963). The enrichment the floristic composition of the complex took place in the late Pleistocene due to following facts: the appearance of rock and mountain-steppe Asian relict species (Ryabinina, 1993), the migration of Eastern Siberian elements to the West, the movement of European species to the East, the formation of the Urals endemic floristic races (Krasheninnikov, 1939). Later, in the Holocene, the Pleistocene floristic complex was enriched by some species of broad-leaved forests (including oak Quercus robur), the penetration ofthe south richsteppe flora, and replenishment of the floristic complex by the Pontic and Sarmatic species (Igoshina, 1961). As a result of mentioned above processes a unique complex of xerophytic rocky mountain steppes and of sparse oak and larch elfin woodswas formed in the Zilair plateau.

Climate change is the most important challenge for developing as well as developed countries. Pakistan is a developing country and has faced different types of natural disasters such as floods in the last 10 years. The rural areas of Pakistan are adversely affected by floods, which cause significant losses to crops, assets, and the household members face illness, health problems, loss of family income, and displacement. Approximately, 7016 villages with a cropped area of 473998 acres have been affected only in Punjab due to floods during the last four years. The impact of floods is not the same among the different regions, races, ages, classes, and gender. In this regard, a study was conducted to analyze the vulnerability of farm households in three flood-prone districts of Punjab province of Pakistan. These three flood-prone districts have different population size, and are located in high-risk flood region of Punjab was selected for empirical analysis. A well-structured questionnaire was used. Minimum 120 respondents were selected through a random sampling technique. A farm household survey was conducted and a vulnerability index was developed by using well-defined indicators. Three major dimensions of vulnerability were analyzed in detail such as exposure, adaptive capacity, and sensitivity. A multiple linear regression model was used to formulate the results. The analyzed results showed that flood was the main cause of the destruction of houses, livestock, and destruction of agriculture production. Results showed that farm household communities were the most vulnerable and floods hazard has a negative impact on the livelihood of human beings and the economy of Punjab as well.

Introduction. A revision of syntaxa was carried out within the framework of the classification of the Brown-Blanquet school identified in the Russian Arctic. A geodatabase (GDB) and GIS, which include several interconnected main modules (see: Matveyeva et al., 2019a, b), with information on species composition, structure, ecology, and geography of syntaxa of all levels, integrated in these databases, became the basis of the presented checklist. This is the first result of compiling information on the vegetation classification, performed with the prospect to produce Prodromus of syntaxa, identified in this territory, with detailed information (character/differential/diagnostic species, ecology, zonal position, geography, bibliography), available in the GDB. It will be in time included in the Prodromus and later will become the basis for a volume in multivolume series on the vegetation of the Russian Federation (see: Plugatar et al., 2020). Territory. The checklist contains information on syntaxa established in the Russian Arctic within the boundaries of the Circumpolar Arctic Vegetation Map (hereafter CAVM) (CAVM Team, et al., 2003; Walker et al., 2005; Raynolds et al., 2019), as well as on the Barents Sea coast of the Kola Peninsula, which is referred to the tundra zone in accordance with the zonation of the Russian Arctic flat territory (see: Matveyeva, 1998). The list includes syntaxa found north of the treeline — in the tundra zone (subzones of the southern, typical, and arctic tundra) and polar deserts.1 Hence, it follows that there are no syntaxa from the forest-tundra as well as those above the treeline in the mountains adjacent to the tundra zone (Putorana and Anabarskoe plateaus). The syntaxa from the territory of the «Russian Arctic» (Barentsburg, Pyramida) on the West Spitsbergen Island (Spitsbergen archipelago) are also not taken into account (their positioning is logical in Spitzbergern syntaxonomy). History. The study of the Russian Arctic plant cover began in the second third of the XIXth century in the north-east of the European Russia (Schrenk, 1855) and in Siberia on the Taymyr Peninsula (Middendorf, 1860–1867). After a significant break, it continued in the USSR in the pre-war time and intensified after the end of the Great Patriotic War. The most intense (both in the size of the studied areas and the numbers and duration of the field works) was the period from the mid-1960s to the early 1990s. Researchers working both in other zones and in the Arctic processed the obtained data in accordance with the approaches of the dominant classification, and the relevés were either not published or presented in a small (4–5) number for association. Despite the obvious limitations of this approach, there were published (both in the form of text with listing of few dominants and with relevé tables) both general (Gorodkov, 1935) and regional (Andreev, 1932; Bogdanovskaya-Giyenef, 1938; Smirnova, 1938; Dedov, 2006 [1940]; Aleksandrova, 1956, 1983; Gorodkov, 1956, 1958 a, b; Katenin, 1972) classifications, and checklists — a draft classification of vegetation of the whole Arctic (Aleksandrova, 1979) and classification of Taymyr vegetation (Matveyeva, 1985). In the late 1980s, Russian phytosociologists turned to the Brown-Blanquet floristic (= floristic-sociological (Theurillat et al., 2021), or ecological-floristic (Mirkin, Naumova, 2014)), classification system as the most conceptually substantiated, with generally accepted rules for describing communities in the field and the technique of relevé tabular processing, and also with clear rules for the formation of syntaxon names. In this system, the obligatory publication of the original data and the requirements for its validity when describing the basic syntaxon are strictly postulated, which provides an objective comparison and classification of any plant community types, in whatever system these data are not submitted. Just as it is impossible to imagine the development of taxonomy without the existence of herbarium collections, so it should be an axiom for phytosociologists that since the relevé is the only documentary reflection of a natural phenomenon named «plant community» (Matveyeva, 2008), it should be available for analysis to all syntaxonomists. Since the second decade of the XXth century, the followers of the Braun-Blanquet system have published thousands of relevés from different regions of the globe, which made it possible to produce a unified classification of vegetation from the Arctic to the tropics and its constant replenishment. Currently, the process of creating electronic databases (archives) of relevés, including the Arctic Vegetation Archive, which accumulates information on circumpolar vegetation is accumulated, is actively underway (Walker et al., 2018). The starting point when Russian tundra experts began to work consistently, following the principles of this classification, is the first International Meeting on the Classification and Mapping of Arctic Vegetation, which took place in 1992 in Boulder, CO (USA). For the publication of its data, a special issue of the Journal of Vegetation Science (1994, Vol. 5, N 6) named «Circumpolar arctic vegetation» (where 4 papers by Russian syntaxonomists were published) was provided. After 1992, when the intensity of field works decreased sharply, the number of publications with complete characteristics of the communities of the Russian Arctic increased rapidly.The proposed checklist of syntaxa is the result of this almost 30-year acti­vity. The checklist structure. The arrangement of syntaxa of class rank is mainly the same as in the EuroVegChecklist — hereafter EVC (Mucina et al., 2016): zonal and intrazonal communities of the polar desert zone (one class); zonal (one class) and landscape-forming intrazonal (five classes) communities of the tundra zone; intrazonal communities (13 classes), united into groups according to the gradients of moisture, snow depth and soil mechanical composition. A syntaxon is represented as follows: — higher units of the rank Class/Order/Allian­ce (Suballiance): number (for Class), abbreviated rank in English (Cl., Ord., All. (Suball.)), in square brackets — code (if any) from EVC (Mucina et al., 2016); full name, author(s) and year; below is a brief description in two languages: English — in general as in the cited paper with some corrections due to the specificity in syntaxon geography and ecology in the Asian part; Russian — partly in accordance with the English version and/or to Prodromus of higher vegetation units of Russia (Ermakov, 2012), sometimes with minor corrections or clarifications. For new orders and alliances within the zonal tundra class differential taxon combinations are listed; — syntaxa of the rank Association, Community Type, Community, established on the territory of the Russian Arctic: abbreviated rank in English (Ass., Com. Type, Com.), name, author(s) and year (besides association, the cited papers are included in the Refe­rences). If syntaxon was previously described by European/American authors outside the Russian Fede­ration, the link to the publication, where it was found in the Russian Arctic, is placed in brackets. The ­arrangement of associations is alphabetical; — syntaxa of units of a lower (within association) rank (subassociation and vicariant, variant, subvariant, facies): abbreviated rank in English (subass. and vicar., var., subvar., fac.), name, in brackets author, year (besides subassociation, the cited papers are included in the References). The arrangement of the syntaxa is as follows: typicum(-cal, -ca), inops, then alphabetically. For subass. typicum authors are not listed (Theurillat et al., 2021), but if it was described by another author and/or in another paper, then the link to it is given in brackets and the paper is included in the References. All names of syntaxa are given in the author’s edition (as it was published), including the endings of a typical syntaxon within an association (subassociation, vicariant, variant, facia) — typicum, typical, typica. In different papers, there are two English spellings of Russian surnames: Aleksandrova/Alexandrova, Andreev/Andreyev, Bogdanovskaya-Giyenef/Bogdanovskaya-Gienef, Pristyazhnyuk/Prystyazhnyuk, Savich/Savič. A uniform (the first one) spelling of the surname is used here. If there was something that caused a disagreement with the author’s decision (including the assignment of an association to a syntaxon of a higher rank), there is a superscript number before the syntaxon name, or before the author’s surname (when it is in brackets), referring to critical comments. Critical comments. 1 – The name is invalid or needs change because: 1a – no reference to the nomenclature type; 1b – published ineffectively (names published as ‘manuscript’ or ‘unpublished’); 1c – not accompanied by a sufficient diagnosis, no tables with original relevés; 1d – suggested by the author as preliminary; 1e – not obvious from what species syntaxon epithet is formed and it cannot be extracted from the diagnosis and/or tables); 1f – syntaxon with the same name was described earlier (including the case of inversion); 1g – the form of the syntaxon name does not correspond to Art. 10 of «International Code of Phytosociological Nomenclature» — hereafter ICPN (Theurillat et al., 2021); 1h – the given nomenclature type belongs to a different syntaxon, validation does not correspond to ICPN; 1i – the relevé chosen as an association or subassociation nomenclature type does not contain the name-giving taxon of this syntaxon; 1j – there is a subspecies in the original diagnosis and in the tables, while in the syntaxon name the species name is used; 1k – the nomenclature type is given for 2 variants of the vicariant, among which there is no tyicum one; 1l – published or validated in 2002 or later with no indication of novelty (like, Ass. nov.). 2 – the author(s) did not place the syntaxon among the higher units. 3 – the author(s) placed the syntaxon in other higher units than suggested in this list. 4 – the syntaxon was renamed due to a change in its rank; in this checklist it is also given under a new name. 5 – the syntaxon is described by the author(s) in the Community rank but is assigned within the known association as a unit of it internal division. 6 – the author(s) assigned the syntaxon to this class with a question. 7 – the author(s) unreasonably (noted in literature) placed the communities in given syntaxon that needs revision. 8 – in the EVC there is only one author, while in the original source there are two. 9 – it is written that the title proposed by the first author was valid, but according to Principle II of the ICPN it is not. 10 – the author(s) of the syntaxon is(are) incorrect: the syntaxonomic units originally described in the framework of the ecological-physiognomic classification are invalid in accordance with Principle II (Art. 3d ICPN), and have been validated by subsequent authors. 11 – the author(s) assigned the syntaxon to this class/order, but did not refer to an alliance or placed in the alliance other than that proposed in this checklist. 12 – the author(s) attributed the syntaxon to this alliance, but as part of a different class/order, or not attributed to the class/order. 13 – the author(s) changed the rank of the syntaxon in comparison with the original description. 14 – the spelling of the syntaxon name does not correspond to the rules of the ICPN; the correct name [recte[ is given in square brackets. 15 – in the EVC the alliance is placed in another order. 16 – the author(s) of the syntaxon are incorrect, the first author (in brackets) did not give such a name, or incorrect year. 17 – the author(s) of the syntaxon incorrectly cited, priority belongs to other author(s) who published the name earlier and/or effectively. 18 – in the EVC the alliance is placed in synonyms for another alliance, which name was changed but not yet approved (nom. mut. propos). THE CHECKLIST — see the main text. Brief analysis of the composition. The checklist is based upon analysis of more than 70 papers, professionally reviewed and published, which contain more than 6,000 geobotanical relevés, that make available information on the composition and structure of 734 syntaxa ranging from association/community type/community to facies. At the mid-2021, the checklist includes 241 associations (152 subassociations and 25 vicariants, 190 variants and 61 subvariants, 13 facies), 35 types of communities and 17 communities from 62 alliances (6 suballiances), 33 orders and 20 classes. Most of the higher rank units — Class/Order/Alliance — are taken from the classification of vegetation in Europe (Mucina et al., 2016) Class. Of the 20 classes, 19 are in EVC (Mucina et al., 2016), to which we have assigned 207 associations, although we do not consider this decision final. A new class for zonal tundra vegetation Carici arctisibiricae–Hylocomietea alaskani class. prov.2 so far is left in the provisional status. Conventionally is used the class Betulo carpaticae–Alnetea viridis which contains willow scrubs in the valleys and on the interfluves. Order. Of the 33 orders 29 are in EVC. Among the known ones there is formally described Salicetalia glauco-lanatae so far located in Betulo carpaticae–Alnetea viridis. Three orders (Arctophiletalia fulvae; Chamerio–Betuletalia nanae; Schulzio crini­tae–Aquilegietalia glandulosae) were described by Russian authors. Three new orders (Salici polaris–Hylocomietalia alaskani ord. nov. prov., Caricetalia arctisibiricae-lugentis ord. nov. prov., Eriophoretalia vaginati ord. nov. prov.) are suggested here in the provisional status, for establishing within the tund­ra zonal class Carici arctisibiricae–Hylocomietea alaskani class. prov. Nameless order is proposed for communities dominated by mesophytic arctic and/or arcto­alpine herbs often with dwarf shrubs (Salix arctica/polaris/reticulata, Dryas octopetala/punctata) and few mosses on the southern slopes of hills and high river banks in the tundra zone of Eurasia; conventionally it is placed in the Mulgedio–Aconitetea. According to both species composition and habitat the order Arabidetalia caeruleae is moved from Thlaspietea rotundifolii (as in EVC) into Salicetea herbaceae. Alliance. Of the 62 alliances 36 are in EVC, 5 of which (Arctophilion fulvae; Caricion stantis, Chamerio angustifolii–Matricarion hookeri; Dryado octopetalae–Caricion arctisibiricae, Polemonio acutiflorum–Veratrion lobeliani) are described by Russian authors. Alliance Oxytropidion nigrescentis, validated in 1998 (Matveyeva 1998, p. 81), is given as valid. The following 8 alliances are valid: Aulacomnio palustris–Caricion rariflorae, Polemonio acutiflorum–Salicion glaucae and Rubo chamaemori–Dicranion elongati on the European North, Carici concoloris–Aulacomnion turgidi, Oxytropido sordidae–Tanacetion bipinnati in Siberia, Androsaco arctisibiricae–Aconogonion laxmannii, Aulacomnio turgidi–Salicion glaucae, Salici pulchrae–Caricion lugentis on Chukotka. Another 7 alliances have invalid names (suggested as preliminary, no nomenclature type was chosen, etc.). For 6 of these validation is necessary and quite simple. An exeption is the alliance Luzulo–Festucion rubrae (Ektova, Ermokhina, 2012), with all invalid associations (no both relevés and diagnoses); after the later are validated they logically could be placed in Loiseleurio-Arctostaphylion. Within the tundra zonal class the alliance Salici polaris–Hylocomion alaskani all. nov. is formally described and the alliances Cassiopo tetragonae–Eriophorion vaginati all. nov. prov. and Poo arcticae–Calamagrostion holmii all. nov. prov. are proposed provisionally. It is recommended to establish 6 alliances (in the checklist with no name) in classes Drabo corymbosae–Papaveretea dahliani (3), Betulo carpaticae–Alnetea viridis (1), Thlaspietea rotundifolii (1) and Mulgedio-Aconitetea (1). Syntaxonomic decisions, other than those derived from the EVC, are made on the positions of 4 alliances within the higher-rank units: Caricion stantis was moved from Sphagno warnstorfii–Tomentypnetalia to Caricetalia fuscae; Dryado octopetalae–Caricion arctisibiricae — from Carici rupestris–Kobresietea bellardii to Carici arctisibiricae–Hylocomietea alaskani class. prov. (see: Lavrinenko, Lavrinenko, 2018a); Potentillo–Polygonion vivipari is recognized (Koroleva et al., 2019) as different from Kobresio-Dryadion, synonym with which it is given in the EVC; the Honckenyo–Leymion arenarii is used compare to the EVC where it is the synonym of Agropyro–Honckenyion peploidis nom. mut. propos. Compared to the author’s decision, the alliance Carici concoloris–Aulacomnion turgidi from Loiseleurio procumbentis–Vaccinietea is moved to Carici arctisibiricae–Hylocomietea alaskani class. prov. Suballiance. Of the 6 suballiances 4 (Androsaco arctisibiricae–Aconogonenion laxmannii; Astragalo pseudadsurgentis–Calamagrostienion purpurascentis; Caricenion rariflorae; Oxytropido vassilczenkoi–Dryadenion punctatae) are valid, and two (Anemono parviflorae–Salicenion and Pediculari lapponicae–Salicenion) require validation. The suballiance Caricenion rariflorae placed in the checklist in Scheuchzerion palustris was originally established within the Sphagnion baltici, which in the EVC is synonymous with the first name. Association. Of 241 associations only 34 are known outside the Russian Arctic, and the remaining 207 are new. The known ones are mainly on coastal bio­topes — marshes (15) and dunes (3) — and extremely wet habitats (9). There are 4 associations described earlier in Europe within the large landscape-forming classes (Dryadetum octopetalae, Empetro–Betuletum nanae, Loiseleurio-Diapensietum, Phyllodoco–Vaccinietum myrtilli) which distribution ranges are extended to the European North of Russia, and 3 within small intrazonal classes (Geranietum sylvatici, Potentillo crantzii–Polygonetum vivipari, and Rumici–Salicetum lapponi) found on Kola Peninsula. Only 2 associations, described by European (Dryado–Cassiopetum tetragonae) and American syntaxonomists (Sphagno–Eriophoretum vaginati), occur in the Asian part of the Russian Arctic (with new subunits within both). The most association-rich are 8 main classes. The two zonal classes include Drabo corymbosae–Papaveretea dahliani (20 associations) in the polar desert zone and Carici arctisibiricae–Hylocomietea alaskani class. prov. (34 associations) in the tundra zone — 54 in total. 129 associations are identified in the 6 main classes of intrazonal vegetation: Be­tulo carpaticae–Alnetea viridis (29 associations) Loiseleurio procumbentis–Vaccinietea 1960 (22 associations), Carici rupestris–Kobresietea (21 associations), Salicetea herbaceae (16), Scheuchzerio palustris–Caricetea fuscae (25 associations); Juncetea maritimi (16 associations) — 187 in total. The vegetation of other 12 classes is described locally geographically and selectively syntaxonomically. 37 associations were not assigned to any of the known classes. This, in particular, was the case with the vegetation of the polar desert zone (Matveyeva, 2006) before Drabo corymbosae–Papaveretea dahliani class was described in 2016. But it also happened when deciding to assign an association to some well-known class, authors stressed that they did this forcibly in the absence of an adequate unit. For example, before the proposal, albeit provisionally, of the class Carici arctisibiricae–Hylocomietea alaskanii class. prov., even zonal communities from the Arctic tundra subzone were placed in the Loiseleurio procumbentis–Vaccinietea class accentuating that they do not contain a single characteristic species of this class (Kholod, 2007). Community type is distinguished when author does not establish new association due to the small number (less than 10) relevés in one location, leaving this for the future There are 35 such units, most of which (9) are in the Drabo corymbosae–Papaveretea dahliani in the polar desert zone. It is worth noting two points: 1) almost never Community types reach the association status; 2) not all authors are stopped by a small number of relevés, when naming syntaxa, and many associations are based upon on less than not 10, but even 5 relevés. As a result, units of different status often contain equally little information about their composition. Community. This rank exists when there is only one relevé, due to both the type rarity and the lack of time. There are 17 such units, with 7 in the polar desert zone. Two main subordinate levels are used within the association: the first — subassociation and vicariant (not protected by the ICPN), the second — variant. Both reflect small but obvious differences in composition, abundance, constancy of species from the type of association (typicum), conditioned edaphically, locally-climatically, chorologically (Ellenberg, 1956; Braun-Blanquet, 1964) or indicate different stages of succession (Westhoff, van der Maarel, 1978). Differences in the listed characteristics from the type group (typicum) due to ecology are an undoubted reason for identifying several subassociations even in a landscape. To reflect similar differences due to the object location in several areas on latitudinal (in different tundra subzones) or longitudinal (in different sectors of the same zone/subzone) gradients in similar habitats (on the same landscape elements, with the same soil type), subassociation (a unit protected by the ICPN) is used as well. However, the desire to distinguish the reasons that caused such differences is also understandable. Hence, understandable is the interest to the concept of geographic vicariant, perceived by some Russian syntaxonomists working in the Arctic, which is reflected in the checklist (since the unit is not protected by ICPN, after the name in brackets there is a link to References). Leading European phytosociologists E. van der Maarel and W. Westhoff, who in 1993 reviewed an article by N. Matveyeva on the vegetation of Taymyr (Matveyeva, 1994), recalling the concept of geographical races (Becking, 1957), or vicariants (Barkman, 1958), recommended to use the status of a geographic vicariant to reflect changes in the composition of communities of one association related with a geographic location, leaving ecologically determined differences for subassociations.The need for such a division is reflected in the famous paper of F. Daniëls (1982) on Greenland, where the author distinguishes ecologically (habitat-differential) and geographically (area-differential) determined syntaxa, although uses only the name of subassociations. It is a great pity that the concept of a geographical vicariant, which was formed in the minds of the classics of phytosociology almost 60 years ago, did not find formal support: this unit was not included nor in the 3rd edition of the ICPN (Weber et al., 2000), neither in the 4th (Theurillat et al., 2021). The question of whether such a unit should be covered by the ICPN regulations «... can be resolved with the accumulation of experience in its application» (Weber et al., 2000, p. 6); the results of such experience are reflected in this checklist. Subassociation. There are 152 subassociations within 71 associations: most of all in the Carici arctisibiricae–Hylocomietea alaskani (24), slightly less in Loiseleurio procumbentis–Vaccinietea (21) and Betulo carpaticae–Alnetea viridis (23), more than 11 in Carici rupestris–Kobresietea bellardii (16), Scheuchzerio palustris–Caricetea fuscae (17), Juncetea maritimi (12) and Thlaspietea rotundifolii (12). Usually there are 2–3 subassociations in one association. Vicariant. There are 25 vicarians in the 14 associations. 19 of these are latitudinal in associations of zonal, mire, snowbed (Matveyeva, 1994, 1998, 2006) and herb meadow (Zanokha, 1993, 1995a, b) communities within 3 tundra subzones and syntaxa, replacing them in the polar deserts on Severnaya Zemlya (Zanokha, 2001; Matveyeva, 2006. The appeal to the concept of vicariant on Taymyr, where in the only place on the Earth on the mainland at about 900 km a full latitudinal gradient from the tree line to the polar deserts is expressed (Matveyeva, 1998), is quite understandable and logical. The other 6 vicariants are longitudinal: 1 in the European North of Russia (Matveyeva, Lavrinenko, 2011) and 5 on Wrangel Isl. (Kholod, 2007). Variant. There are 190 variants within 66 associations. There are no clearly formulated rules regarding their fundamental difference from subassociations. It is also not obvious whether the level of variant is the next after subassociation in association subdivision, or these are units of the same rank: in 31 associations, variants are allocated within subassociations or vicariants, in 34 — directly in the association. There is no clear logic behind why even one and the same author follows the first way in some cases, and the second in others. Subvariant. This unit was used for the division of variants of technogenically disturbed vegetation (Sumina, 2012, 2018), where 54 subvariants (2–5 in each) were identified in 20 variants of 6 associations, as well as of the baydzharakh vegetation in the arctic tundra subzone in Siberia (7 subvariants). Facies. The unit without differentiaal taxa, recognized by the predominance (with a high abundance) of a species of the «normal» floristic complex of the association, due to particular or sometimes ­extreme abiotic factors, or under anthropogenic impact (Westhoff, van der Maarel, 1978). There are 14 facies in 2 associations of 2 classes on Wrangel Isl. (Kholod, 2007) and in 3 syntaxa of 3 classes in the Bolshezemelskaya tundra (Neshataev, Lavrinenko, 2020). Conclusion. One of the purposes of publishing this checklist is to draw the attention of northern phytosociologists to assessing the validity of syntaxa and the legality of their position in the Braun-Blanquet system. Our task was to bring together all available information, which is done in this article. Even a simple list of syntaxa makes it possible to assess the completeness of the geographical and syntaxonomic knowledge of vegetation. Geographically, sytaxonomic information is available for 12 of the 13 Russian floristic provinces (according to CAVM), in which about 130 districts have been investigated. The most studied provinces (from west to east) are Kanino-Pechora, Yamalo-Gydan, Taymyr, East Chukotka, Wrangel Island (the number of published relevés in each more than 600. There are no published data for the Kharaulakh province. It is not possible to say for sure to what extent the number of associations reflects the presence and distribution communities of 20 classes in different regions of the Russian Arctic. The completeness of the vegetation study depended on the tasks and on the possibility of their implementation. High attention to zonal vegetation is natural, since it is used for subdivision of the territory, for zonal division, and for maps of various scales. Both snowless (Carici rupestris–Kobresietea bellardii) and snowbed (Salicetea herbaceae) communities, as specific for the Arctic, are also always in the sphere of interests. Polygonal mires and bog-hollow vegetation (Scheuchzerio palustris–Caricetea) certainly require much more research, due to their vast areas in the eastern regions of the Siberian Arctic, where these types are not described. For the relatively well-studied shrub communities in the Asian part (conditionally assigned to the Betulo carpaticae–Alnetea viridis), validation of many syntaxa are required; the gap in the description of this object in the northern European regions has just begun to be filled. For 12 associations of grass-forbs communities on the well heated slopes conditionally positioned in the Mulgedio-Aconitetea, new orders and allian­ces, and, potentially, the class are necessary to be established. Unreasonably little data are available for raised bogs (Oxycocco-Sphagnetea), if even these are ­rather common of the southern regions of the tundra zone. Very scattered geographically and sparse syntaxonomic data are on the vegetation of naturally eroded mobile substrates (sand screes, gravel debris, landslides). In the Arctic, as in other regions of the globe, communities are placed in this class not by their species composition, but by habitat (unstable substrate), and the fact of the sparse cover. Only recently the zonal vegetation of polar deserts on horizontal surfaces with quite stable loamy substrates has been classified as a distinct class (Daniëls et al., 2016). In the list of habitat types with associated described Brown-Blanquet syntaxa from Arctic regions of Europe, Greenland, western North America, and Alaska, there are 5 classes (Walker et al., 2018) which are absent in our checklist: Juncetea trifidi Hadač in Klika et Hadač 1994, Saxifrago cernuae–Cochlearietea groenlandica Micuna et Daniëls in Mucina et al. 2016, Vaccinio-Piceetea Br.-Bl. in Br.-Bl. et al. 1939, Asplenietea trichomanis (Br.-Bl. in Meier et Br.-Bl. 1934) Oberd. 1977, Salicetea purpureae Moor 1958. Communities of these classes either exist in the Russian Arctic, but were not described (e. g. forest «islets» in tundra landscapes — Vaccinio-Piceetea, and the vegetation of rocks and rubble talus — Asplenietea trichomanis), or they exist, but are positioned in the other classes. An open question remains with Junce­tea trifidi on acidic substrates. Final conclusions on these classes will become possible after the thorough analysis of syntaxa throughout the entire circumpolar space. Even a very brief analysis of the available data revealed numerous cases of invalid names of syntaxa (no indication of the nomenclature type) or inconsistency names with ICPN rules (correct [recte] names are given for 43 ones); leaving the association outside of higher-level units or assigning one basic unit to ­several higher ones, etc. There are more such cases than we have noted now, especially taking into ­account the new edition of the ICPN (for example, the obligatory Latin or English terminology for denoting ranks and new units (ICPN 4th, Art. 3d, 3i, 3o, 5), mutation ­cases (Lat. mutatum, ICPN. 4th, Art. 45), inversions (Lat. inversum, ICPN. 4th, Art. 42) of names and autonym (Lat. autonym, ICPN 4th, Art. 13b, 4d). Now it becomes possible for each author to take measures to eliminate errors of various kinds to validate their syntaxa. Consolidated participation in joint publication is also possible. This is a necessary step for the next action — preparing the Prodromus of the vegetation syntaxa of the Russian Arctic with the expanded characteristics for all levels.

With a rise in overdose deaths in the United States, opioid awareness has come in a variety of ways. One of these, as reporters suggest, is obituary writing. Obituaries are considered in news media as offering “brutally frank” depictions of addiction that “chronicle the toll of heroin.” Moreover, obituary sharing by parents and loved ones has increasingly taken place on digital platforms, memorial websites expanding the visibility of overdose death while facilitating the building of virtual grief communities. Not solely commemorating individual loss, obituaries thus contain symbolic power—they reflect dominant social values and shape collective memory. As such, overdose obituaries inform how opioid crisis is framed, represented, and addressed. From a qualitative content analysis of 533 opioid-related U.S. obituaries published on Legacy.com and ObitTree.com , I find that while obituaries reduce stigma associated with drug use, addiction, and overdose, they primarily tell white tales of addiction. In affording a white racial framing of drug addiction, obituary writing corresponds with a larger whitewashing of the opioid crisis while implicitly constructing symbolic boundaries between those memorialized, who are predominantly white and middle-class, and those who are deemed as raced and classed Others. Such storytelling, particularly when popularized in news media and made visible on digital platforms, contributes to ongoing systemic inequality in the prevailing drug war.

AbstractAs one of the first nonessential commodities marketed to African Americans, the race record industry provides historical insight into the cultural ethos and competing ethical values of black communities during the interwar period. Both ethnomusicologists and historians have discussed the ways race records articulate intraracial conflicts that were exacerbated by social factors such as migration and urbanization. But like all forms of mass culture, religious records served multiple purposes and were interpreted by listeners at varying registers. For many, religious recordings were spiritually edifying and liberating, just as they were wildly entertaining. And some may feel that these religious recordings contested the aesthetic values of the black middle class even as they reinforced prescriptive bourgeois behavioral codes. While the purpose of this essay is not to give voice to the listeners of religious race records, this essay does offer an initial attempt to illumine the broader cultural contexts in which these records, namely, recorded sermons, were both produced and consumed toward providing tenable interpretations of these recordings based on resonant religious beliefs and meanings of the historical moment. This essay is concerned with such questions as: What theological and political discourses were these preachers participating in on wax? What cultural symbols, explicit and implicit, did these preachers commonly reference? And what were the possible ideological implications of these cultural significations? Despite the many interpretive possibilities of recorded sermons and even the “folk” aesthetic that defines them, this essay suggests that the religious race record industry served as a productive force in encouraging systems of social control over raced, classed, and gendered bodies during the interwar era. And the industry’s decision to focus on theologically conservative sermons stressing personal piety cast a powerful ballot in the cultural debates concerning the style, content, and purpose of black preaching in the previous century.

<p><strong>Abstract.</strong> In Brazil, some aspects of the urban reality are not in the official maps. Those aspects are either informal urban elements, built without conventional parameters, or exclusive and exclusionary elements build by a privileged part of society, such as in gated communities. Informal or not, a significant part of these elements does not hold building permits. Furthermore, they are difficult to be represented in maps. The disconnection between the formal and the informal city results in a considerable amount of information that is not represented in official cartography. Thus, the lack of representation of certain urban elements in maps and urban plans is also a socio-spatial segregation symptom. One of the most representative features of Brazilian socio-spatial segregation is the so-called macro urban segregation, in which the higher-class neighborhoods are concentrated in some specific regions, completely separated from the poor communities (VILLAÇA, 2000). This fact explains the reason why the informal settlement areas, like slums, are excluded from many urban zoning plans and formal cartographic representations.</p><p>In addition to the irregular settlements, the urban landscape is endowed with smaller scale elements that also generate social exclusion and interfere in the urban and public space, both in material and immaterial ways. Immaterial aspects, such as civility, democracy, and the use of space, are difficult and complex to represent in maps. In turn, the material aspects that cause segregation are not in the maps either. Among the urban reality aspects that are difficult to be mapped, defensive architecture, also named hostile architecture, is the focus of the research work presented here. We consider defensive architecture any construction or object used to control or segregate the urban space, especially the common public space, defining who is allowed to use or access certain areas. Therefore, the elements deployed for this purpose are present in the urban landscape in different forms: protective iron grids, gates, metal spikes, sprinklers, thorn bushes or any other material strategy to control the space.</p><p>All these strategies are related to the physical and social segregation of the territory and they assured the use of public space only by some selected groups of people. Nevertheless, the traditional mapping does not follow the fast spread of defensive strategies, making difficult their monitoring and the understanding of their effect on the city. As already mentioned, the architectural elements responsible for exclusionary practices are not registered neither in building permits nor urban plans. Consequently, they are not in any official mapping. Considering that official cartography depicts and represents established policies for the territory occupation – the retrenchment and control to the access and the rights to the territory do not occur only on international borders, the discussion about territorialization, also, implicates excluding or including people within particular boundaries, such as within urban spaces (PETER VANDERGEEST and NANCY LEE PELUSO, 1995).</p><p>Motivated by these issues, this research is oriented by how cartography can operate as a spatial analysis instrument to understand the hostile architecture consequences in the public space. Once traditional mapping practices do not include informal elements, such as defensive architecture, our research hypothesis is that the study, classification, and mapping of these elements require diverse arrangements, besides the official ways of representation, such as collaborative mapping and in situ data surveying. The work is in progress and it started in 2017, with the study on the advance of defensive elements over Curitiba city landscape. Curitiba is a municipality in the south of Brazil. In this study, a small area in the city center was defined, and the defensive elements were inventoried and mapped. The region chosen for data surveying was the <i>Sete de Setembro</i> Avenue which has a particular architectural type: public galleries &amp;ndash; originally projected to assure the pedestrians a safe walk and to extend sidewalks and public space as well. However, currently, the galleries host many forms of hostile architecture, especially large flowerpots and iron gates that completely close the covered sidewalk. The initial research work results stimulated us to propose a research project about exclusionary architecture and authoritarianism in the center city of Curitiba. Therefore, in 2018, the fieldwork was redone more systematically. At that point, we designed and generated a group of maps. The purpose of this work is to act as a pilot for a larger analysis, throughout the extended center of the city.</p><p>The design and generation of the maps were developed by the theory of thematic mapping. We firstly defined the map users and their needs. Based on the users’ needs and the spatial analysis they will perform when the maps are ready, we established which urban features would be depicted on the maps. Knowing the urban features to be mapped we could determine the maps’ scales, thus, the level of map generalization. The next step was to defined the features classification. In the end, we developed the cartographic language to design the maps’ symbols, and we built the maps. As some results, we understand that the main user of those maps is the researcher responsible for the study "Architecture of exclusion and authoritarianism: control of the use of public space in the city center of Curitiba." The main objective of the research is to evaluate how design, architecture and urban planning contribute to the conformation of exclusionary public spaces in the center of Curitiba. Thus, a GIS software helped to evaluate the positioning of hostile elements, and it allowed understanding which places are most prone to be modified with exclusionary architecture.</p><p>The GIS also helps in achieving some specific objectives, such as identifying where the current legal structure influences on the landscape and on the limitation of public space use; verifying how the advance of private spaces over common use spaces, such as residential or commercial buildings, and galleries contribute to the quality of the public space; inventorying elements of hostile architecture (pines on benches, flowerpots on facades, railings) under the galleries of the avenue; and classifying the elements and the degree of restriction they exert under the public space. In order to improve the analysis and data mapping, two groups of hostile architecture classes were defined. The first refers to the type of hostile element, based on the 2017 survey: (1) blockages or private appropriations of public space, private appropriations of covered walks, with tables and chairs used in a restricted and commercial way, as an extension of commercial establishments; (2) hostile furniture, urban furniture placed in front of commercial establishments and residential condominiums (waste bins, bicycle racks, plants pots, skewers and sprinklers); and (3) the gates or grids, which close the galleries partially or totally. The second group os classes is related to the exclusion level that each element provokes: high, medium or low.</p><p>As a result of the map design, four maps were created. The thematic maps titles are “covered galleries location”, “defensive equipment location”, “hostile and defensive equipment”, and “degree of exclusion”. As an in-progress study, the pilot project described here is fruitful with regards to the possibility of its application in wider study areas, such as entire neighbourhoods. Among the processes that most aided in the studies, the possibility of easy inclusion of points in virtual platforms, like MyMaps or OpenStreetMap was the most productive. This has motivated the creation of collaborative maps (still in development), which enables any person to insert points on them. We also consider that the collaborative process brings benefits not only to facilitate the mapping of elements of exclusion, but to involve the academic community in the research and, at the same time, to raise questions about the process of construction of public space. Furthermore, the official mapping is tied to some agendas, despite the new tools available to democratize cartography. Thus, collaborative mapping is a form of enabling collective construction of a database, besides allowing the integration of several media (text, video, images and audios) with the traditional mapping.</p>

ABSTRACT This article seeks to critically analyse how intersections of race and class shape representations of Black and white gay men in QueerLife, a South African online magazine. It focuses on QueerLife's '4men' section and how its content represents classed and raced gay identities. My argument is that QueerLife forwards racialised and classed representations of the gay lifestyle, which reinforce homonormalisation within what is known as the "Pink Economy". Using Critical Diversity Literacy (CDL) to read the underlying meanings in texts and images, the article concludes that QueerLife is complicit in the construction of gay identity categories that seek to appeal to urban, white, middle-class gay-identifying communities in South Africa. The article also demonstrates how, when Black bodies are represented in QueerLife, exceptionalism mediates their visibility in this online magazine. Overall, the findings demonstrate how Black and white gay bodies are mediated online and how their different racial visibilities are negotiated within the system of structural racism. Keywords: Class, gayness, Pink Economy, QueerLife, representation, racism.

Connectedness and inclusivity are components of a healthy community. However, intersectional feminist thought poses that exclusion and marginalisation are enacted through gendered power structures and affect the lives of individuals and communities around the world on multiple intersecting axes, including gender, sexuality, race, class, and disability (Crenshaw, 1989). Critical analysis of music in its high art form, from traditional music education and musical narratives, to jazz, to what instrument one chooses, highlights a raced, classed gender order, and an ongoing cultural bias that privileges a heteronormative narrative, and highlights the work and importance of men’s contributions (Bradley, 2007; Gould, 2007; Maus, 2011). While community approaches to musical participation may seek to emancipate and transcend moral hierarchies which dictate who can and cannot participate, I contend that these may occur within the context of a deeply entrenched gender order. By focusing only on the essential and universal, or liberating and connecting qualities of music and music therapy for all of humanity, we may sidestep and erase histories of oppression and marginalisation. This article uses a critical lens to explore the literature for contexts in music that preserve a male dominated gender order, and seeks to question and problematise the notion that music provides equal opportunity for social connectedness.

The primary goals of media literacy are laudable: active and critical thinking about the messages we receive and the messages we create. In practice, media literacy standardizes limited ways of knowing and normalizes built-in biases. Subsequently, its narrow emphasis on skill development, particularly the role of fact-checking, content creation, and independent research are all practices that can be exploited, oftentimes leading to the amplification of misinformation. Homogeneous media literacy also assumes that platforms are neutral – codifying a dominant, neoliberal, racist lens as a competency. Social media literacy in particular assumes the norms of proprietary algorithms, arming users with the skills determined by Silicon Valley’s corporate, individualist, white supremacist values. Contemporary high school curricula teaches students to ably brand and promote themselves; adept meme creators are rewarded for racial appropriation and fungible performances of Blackness; vanity metrics foster reputation anxiety in social media’s ‘success theatre’; personal data protection is an arguably futile lesson in privacy that preaches paranoid gated communities; fascist media pundits easily exploit conservative media literacy practice of “doing your own research” to naturalize misinformation. What are the implicitly raced, classed norms of reading "correctly"? What are mundane emancipatory reading practices? What alternative literacy practices do users deploy to reject these individualistic, racist standards? What does interpretive media literacy look like? This panel offers a portrait of what’s missing in media literacy and explores visions of interdependent practices that offer alternative methods of active and critical thinking about the messages we receive and the messages we create.

Coffee changes people. Moreover, it changes the way they interact with their friends, their fellow citizens and their community. (Ellis 24) On my daily walk around the streets of my neighbourhood, I pass the footpath cafés that have become synonymous with the area. On this particular day, I take a less familiar route and notice a new, small café wedged between a candle shop and an industrial building. At one of the two footpath tables sit a couple with their young child, conveniently (for them) asleep in a stroller. One is reading the Saturday paper, and the other has her nose in a book—coffee, muffins, and newspapers are strewn across the table. I am struck by this tableau of domestic ease and comfort, precisely because it is so domestic and yet the couple and child, with all the accoutrements of a relaxed Saturday morning, are situated outside the spaces of the home. It brings to mind an elegant phrase of Robert Hughes’ about the types of spaces that cities need, where “solitudes may lie together” (cited in Miller 79). I could, of course, also have drawn my attention to other vignettes at the café—for example, people involved in animated or easy conversation—and this would support Hughes’ other dictum, that cities need places where “people can gather and engage in energetic discourse” (79), which is of course another way in which people inhabit and utilise the café. The ascendancy of the café is synonymous with the contemporary city and, as semi-public space, it supports either solitude—through anonymity—or sociability. “Having a coffee” is central to the experience of everyday life in cities, yet it is also an expression of intent that suggests more than simply drinking a café latte or a cappuccino at our favourite neighbourhood café. While coffee aficionados will go the extra distance for a good brew, the coffee transaction is typically more to do with meeting friends, colleagues or connecting with people beyond our personal and professional networks. And under the umbrella of these types of encounters sit a variety of affective, social and civil transactions. In cities characterised by increasing density and cultural difference, and as mobile populations move back and forth across the planet, how we forge and maintain relationships with each other is important for the development of cosmopolitan cultures and social cohesion. It is the contemporary café and its coffee culture that provides the space to support sociability and the negotiation of civil encounters. Sociability, Coffee, and the Café Café culture is emblematic of social and urban change, of the rise of food culture and industries, and “aesthetic” cultures. The proliferation of hospitality and entertainment industries in the form of cafés, bars, restaurants, and other semi-public spaces—such as art galleries—are the consumer-based social spaces in which new forms of sociability and attachment are being nurtured and sustained. It is hardly surprising that people seek out places to meet others—given the transformation in social and kinship relations wrought by social change, globalization and mobile populations—to find their genesis in the city. Despite the decline of familial relations, new social formation produced by conditions such as workforce mobility, flexible work arrangements, the rise of the so-called “creative class” and single person households are flourishing. There are now more single person households in Australia than in any other period, with 1.9 million people living alone in 2006. This figure is predicted to increase to 30.36 per cent of the population by 2026 (ABS). The rapid take-up of apartment living in Australian cities suggests both a desire and necessity for urban living along with its associated amenities, and as a result, more people are living out their lives in the public and semi-public spaces of cities. Maffesoli refers to restructured and emerging social relations as “tribes” which are types of “emotional communities” (after Weber) based upon the affective, life-affirming impulse of “being togetherness” rather than an outmoded, rationalised social structure. For Maffesoli, tribes have strong powers of inclusion and integration and people are connected by shared affinities or lifestyles. Their stamping ground is the city where they gather in its public and semi-public spaces, such as the café, where sociability is expressed through “the exchange of feelings, conversation” (13). In this context, the café facilitates a mode of interaction that is both emotional and rational: while there might be a reason for meeting up, it is frequently driven by a desire for communication that is underpinned by the affective dimension. As a common ritualistic behaviour, “meeting for coffee” facilitates encounters not only with those known to us, but also among relationships that are provisional and contingent. It is among those less familiar that the café is useful as a space for engaging and practicing civil discourse (after Habermas) and where encounters with strangers might be comfortably negotiated. The café’s social codes facilitate the negotiation of less familiar relationships, promoting a sociability that is not as easy to navigate in other spaces of the city. The gesture of “having coffee” is hospitable, and the café’s neutrality as a meeting place is predicated on its function as transitional or liminal space; it is neither domestic, work, nor wholly public space. Its liminality removes inhabitants from the potentially anxious intimacy of the home and offers protection from the unknown of public space. Moreover, the café’s “safety” is further reinforced because it is regulated temporally by its central function as a place of food and beverage consumption: it provides a finite certitude to meetings, with the length of encounter largely being determined by the time it takes to consume a coffee or snack. In this way, the possible complexity or ambiguity associated with meetings with strangers in the more intimate spaces of the home is avoided, and meeting in a café may relieve the onus and anxiety that can be associated with entertaining. Café culture is not a new phenomenon, though its current manifestation differs from its antecedent, the sixteenth-century coffee house. Both the modern café and the coffee house are notable as places of intense sociability where people from all walks of life mingle (Ellis 2004). The diverse clientele of the coffee house is recorded extensively in the diaries of Samuel Pepys and unlike other social institutions of the time, was defined by its inclusivity of men from all walks of life (Ellis 59). Similarly, the espresso bars of the 1950s that appeared in Europe, North America and to a lesser extent Australia became known for their mix of customers from a range of classes, races and cultures, and for the inclusion of women as their patrons (Ellis 233). The wide assortment of people who patronised these espresso bars was noted in Architectural Digest magazine which claimed the new coffee bars as “the greatest social revolution since the launderette in 1954” (Ellis 234). Contemporary café culture continues this egalitarian tradition, with the café assuming importance as a place in which reconfigured social relationships are fostered and maintained. In Australia, the café has replaced the institution of the public house or hotel—the “pub” in Australia—as the traditional meeting place of cultural significance. Not everyone felt at home, or indeed was welcomed in the pub, despite its mythology as a place that was emblematic of “the Australian way of life”. Women, children and “others” who may have felt or may have been legally excluded from the pub are the new beneficiaries of the café’s inclusivity. The social organisation of the pub revolved around the interests of masculine relationships and culture (Fiske et al.) and until the late 1970s, women were excluded by legislation from its public bars. There are many other socio-cultural reasons why women were uncomfortable in the pub, even once legislation was removed. By comparison, the café, despite the bourgeois associations in some of its manifestations, is more democratic space than the pub and this rests to some extent on a greater emphasis placed on disciplined conduct of its patrons. The consumption of alcohol in hotels, combined with a cultural tolerance of excess and with alcohol’s effect of loosening inhibitions, also encourages the loosening of socially acceptable forms of conduct. A wider range of behaviour is tolerated and sanctioned which can present problems for women in particular. The negotiation of gendered relationships in the pub is, therefore, typically of more concern to women than men. In spite of its egalitarianism, and the diversity of patrons welcomed, the café, as a social space, is governed by a set of rules that communicate meaning about who belongs, who doesn’t and how people should behave. The social codes inscribed into café culture contribute to the production and reproduction of different social groups (Bourdieu and Lefebvre) and are reinforced by the café’s choice of aesthetics. Bourdieu’s concept of cultural capital accounts for the acquisition of cultural competencies and explains why some people feel comfortable in certain spaces while others feel excluded. Knowledge and skills required in social spaces express both subtle and sometimes not so subtle hierarchies of power and ownership, cutting across gender, ethnic and class divisions. Yet despite this, the relatively low cost of obtaining entry into the café—through the purchase of a drink—gives it greater accessibility than a pub, restaurant, or any other consumer site that is central to sociability and place attachment. In cities characterised by an intensity of change and movement, the café also enables a negotiation of place attachment. A sense of place connectedness, through habitual and regular usage, facilitates social meaning and belonging. People become “regulars” at cafés, patronising one over another, getting to know the staff and perhaps other patrons. The semiotics of the café, its ambience, decor, type of food and drink it sells, all contribute to the kind of fit that helps anchors it in a place. A proliferation of café styles offers scope for individual and collective affinities. While some adopt the latest trends in interior design, others appeal to a differentiated clientele through more varied approaches to design. Critiques of urban café culture, which see it as serving the interests of taste-based bourgeois patterns of consumption, often overlook the diversity of café styles that appeal to, and serve a wide range of, demographic groups. Café styles vary across a design continuum from fashionable minimalist décor, homey, grungy, sophisticated, traditional, corporate (McDonalds and Starbucks) or simply plain with little attention to current décor trends. The growth of café culture is a significant feature of gentrified inner city areas in cities across the world. In Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley in Australia, an inner-city youth entertainment precinct, many cafés have adopted a downmarket or “grunge” aesthetic, appealing to the area’s youth clientele and other marginal groups. Here, décor can suggest a cavalier disregard for bourgeois taste: shabby décor with mismatching tables and chairs and posters and graffiti plastered over windows and walls. Ironically, the community service organisation Mission Australia saw the need to provide for its community in this area; the marginalised, disadvantaged, and disengaged original inhabitants of this gentrified area, and opened a no-frills Café One to cater for them. Civility, Coffee, and the Café One of the distinctive features of cities is that they are places where “we meet with the other” (Barthes 96), and this is in contrast to life in provincial towns and villages where people and families could be known for generations. For the last two decades or so, cities across the world have been undergoing a period of accelerated change, including the rise of Asian mega-cities—and now, for the first time in history, the majority of the world’s population is urban based. Alongside this development is the movement of people across the world, for work, study, travel or fleeing from conflict and persecution. If Barthes’s statement was apt in the 1980s, it is ever more so now, nearly thirty years later. How strangers live together in cities of unprecedented scale and density raises important questions around social cohesion and the civil life of cities. As well as offering spaces that support a growth in urban sociability, the exponential rise of café culture can be seen as an important factor in the production of urban civilities. Reciprocity is central here, and it is the café’s function as a place of hospitality that adds another dimension to its role in the cultivation of civility and sociability. Café culture requires the acquisition of competencies associated with etiquette and manners that are based upon on notions of hospitality. The protocol required for ordering food and drink and for eating and drinking with others encourages certain types of behaviour such as courtesy, patience, restraint, and tolerance by all participants, including the café staff. The serving of food and drink in a semi-public space in exchange for money is more than a commercial transaction, it also demands the language and behaviour of civility. Conduct such as not talking too loudly, not eavesdropping on others’ conversations, knowing where to look and what to hear, are considered necessary competencies when thrust into close proximity with strangers. More intimately, the techniques of conversation—of listening, responding and sharing information—are practised in the café. It can be instructive to reprise Habermas’s concept of the public sphere (1962) in order to consider how semi-public places such as the café contribute to support the civil life of a city. Habermas’s analysis, grounded in the eighteenth-century city, charted how the coffee house or salon was instrumental to the development of a civilised discourse which contributed to the development of the public sphere across Europe. While a set of political and social structures operating at the time paved the way for the advent of democracy, critical discussion and rational argument was also vital. In other words, democratic values underpin civil discourse and the parallel here is that the space the café provides for civil interaction, particularly in cities marked by cultural and other difference, is unique among public amenities on offer in the city. The “bourgeois public sphere” for Habermas is based on the development of a social mode of interaction which became normative through socio-structural transformation during this period, and the coffee house or salon was a place that enabled a particular form of sociability and communication style. For Habermas, meeting places such as the urban-based coffee house were the heart of sociability, where conversational rules based on reasoned exchange were established; the cultivation of conversation was aimed at the dialogical egalitarian. Habermas’s bourgeois public sphere is essentially and potentially a political one, “conceived […] as the sphere of private people come together as a public” (Johnson 27). It refers to a realm of social life in which something approaching public opinion can be found. I am not claiming that the contemporary café might be the site of political dialogue and civic activism of the type that Habermas suggests. Rather, what is useful here is a recognition that the café facilitates a mode of interaction similar to the one proposed by Habermas—a mode of interaction which has the potential to be distinguished by its “open and inclusive character” (Johnson 22). The expectation of a “patient, willing comprehension of sympathetic fellows” (Johnson 23) refers to the cultivation of the art of conversation based on a reciprocity and is one that requires empathetic listening as well as dialogue. Because the café is a venue where people meet with less familiar others, the practice and techniques of conversation assumes particular significance, borne out in Habermas’s and Ellis’s historical research into café culture. Both scholars attribute the establishment of coffee houses in London to the development of social discourse and urban networking which helped set the ground for conversational rules and exchange and worked towards a democratic culture. In this context, values were challenged and differences revealed but the continued practice of conversation enabled the negotiation of such social diversity. Demonstrations of civility and generosity are straightforward in the café because of its established codes of conduct in an environment focussed upon hospitality. Paying for another’s drink, although not a great expense is a simple gesture of hospitality: “meeting for coffee” has become part of the lingua franca of workplace and business culture and relationships and is weighted with meaning. As cities grow in density, complexity and cultural diversity, citizens are adapting with new techniques of urban living. At a broad level, the café can be seen as supporting the growth in networks of sociability and facilitating the negotiation of civil discourse and behaviour. In the café, to act as a competent citizen, one must demonstrate the ability to be polite, restrained, considerate and civil—that is, to act in accordance with the social situation. This involves an element of self-control and discipline and requires social standards and expectations to become self-monitored and controlled. To be perceived as acting in accordance with the needs of certain social situations, participants bend, limit and regulate their behaviour and affects. In sum, the widespread take up of café culture, based on hospitality and reciprocity, encourages a mode of interaction that has implications for the development of a social and civic ethic. References Australian Bureau of Statistics. "1301.0–Year Book Australia." 2009. 31 Jan. 2012 ‹http://abs.gov.au/AUSSTATS/abs@.nsf/0/916F96F929978825CA25773700169C65?opendocument› Barthes, Roland. Empire of Signs. New York: Hill and Wang, 1982. Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Trans. Richard Nice. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1984. Ellis, Markum. The Coffee House: A Cultural History. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 2004. Fiske, J., B. Hodge, and G. Turner, eds. Myths of Oz: Reading Australian Popular Culture. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1987. Habermas, Jurgen. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1962. -----. The Theory of Communicative Action. Trans. T. McCarthy. Boston: Beacon Press, 1984. Johnson, Pauline. Habermas: Rescuing the Public Sphere. London: Routledge, 2006. Lefebvre, Henri. The Production of Space. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1991. Maffesoli, Michel. Time of the Tribes: The Decline of Individualism in Mass Society. Trans. D. Smith. London: Sage, 1996. Miller, George. “A City that Works.” Sydney Papers Spring (2001): 77–79.

Story spreads out through time the behaviors or bodies – the shapes – a self has been or will be, each replacing the one before. Hence a story has before and after, gain and loss. It goes somewhere…Moreover, shape or body is crucial, not incidental, to story. It carries story; it makes story visible; in a sense it is story. Shape (or visible body) is in space what story is in time. (Bynum, quoted in Garland Thomson, 113-114) Drawing on Goffman’s classic work on stigma, research documenting the existence of discrimination and bias against individuals classified as obese goes back five decades. Since Cahnman published “The Stigma of Obesity” in 1968, other researchers have well documented systematic and growing discrimination against fat people (cf. Puhl and Brownell; Puhl and Heuer; Puhl and Heuer; Fikkan and Rothblum). While weight-based stereotyping has a long history (Chang and Christakis; McPhail; Schwartz), contemporary forms of anti-fat stigma and discrimination must be understood within a social and economic context of neoliberal healthism. By neoliberal healthism (see Crawford; Crawford; Metzel and Kirkland), I refer to the set of discourses that suggest that humans are rational, self-determining actors who independently make their own best choices and are thus responsible for their life chances and health outcomes. In such a context, good health becomes associated with proper selfhood, and there are material and social consequences for those who either unwell or perceived to be unwell. While the greatest impacts of size-based discrimination are structural in nature, the interpersonal impacts are also significant. Because obesity is commonly represented (at least partially) as a matter of behavioral choices in public health, medicine, and media, to “remain fat” is to invite commentary from others that one is lacking in personal responsibility. Guthman suggests that this lack of empathy “also stems from the growing perception that obesity presents a social cost, made all the more tenable when the perception of health responsibility has been reversed from a welfare model” (1126). Because weight loss is commonly held to be a reasonable and feasible goal and yet is nearly impossible to maintain in practice (Kassierer and Angell; Mann et al.; Puhl and Heuer), fat people are “in effect, asked to do the impossible and then socially punished for failing” (Greenhalgh, 474). In this article, I explore how weight-based stigma shaped the decisions of bariatric patients to undergo weight loss surgery. In doing so, I underline the work that emotion does in circulating anti-fat stigma and in creating categories of subjects along lines of health and responsibility. As well, I highlight how fat bodies are lived and negotiated in space and place. I then explore ways in which participants take up notions of time, specifically in regard to risk, in discussing what brought them to the decision to have bariatric surgery. I conclude by arguing that it is a dynamic interaction between the material, social, emotional, discursive, and the temporal that produces not only fat embodiment, but fat subjectivity “failed”, and serves as an impetus for seeking bariatric surgery. Methods This article is based on 30 semi-structured interviews with American bariatric patients. At the time of the interview, individuals were between six months and 12 years out from surgery. After obtaining Intuitional Review Board approval, recruitment occurred through a snowball sample. All interviews were audio-taped with permission and verbatim interview transcripts were analyzed by means of a thematic analysis using Dedoose (www.dedoose.com). All names given in this article are pseudonyms. This work is part of a larger project that includes two additional interviews with bariatric surgeons as well as participant-observation research. Findings Navigating Anti-Fat Stigma In discussing what it was like to be fat, all but one of the individuals I interviewed discussed experiencing substantive size-based stigma and discrimination. Whether through overt comments, indirect remarks, dirty looks, open gawking, or being ignored and unrecognized, participants felt hurt, angry, and shamed by friends, family, coworkers, medical providers, and strangers on the street because of the size of their bodies. Several recalled being bullied and even physically assaulted by peers as children. Many described the experience of being fat or very fat as one of simultaneous hypervisibility and invisibility. One young woman, Kaia, said: “I absolutely was not treated like a person … . I was just like this object to people. Just this big, you know, thing. That’s how people treated me.” Nearly all of my participants described being told repeatedly by others, including medical professionals, that their inability to lose weight was effectively a failure of the will. They found these comments to be particularly hurtful because, in fact, they had spent years, even decades, trying to lose weight only to gain the weight back plus more. Some providers and family members seemed to take up the idea that shame could be a motivating force in weight loss. However, as research by Lewis et al.; Puhl and Huerer; and Schafer and Ferraro has demonstrated, the effect this had was the opposite of what was intended. Specifically, a number of the individuals I spoke with delayed care and avoided health-facilitating behaviors, like exercising, because of the discrimination they had experienced. Instead, they turned to health-harming practices, like crash dieting. Moreover, the internalization of shame and blame served to lower a sense of self-worth for many participants. And despite having a strong sense that something outside of personal behavior explained their escalating body weights, they deeply internalized messages about responsibility and self-control. Danielle, for instance, remarked: “Why could the one thing I want the most be so impossible for me to maintain?” It is important to highlight the work that emotion does in circulating such experiences of anti-fat stigma and discrimination. As Fraser et al have argued in their discussion on fat and emotion, the social, the emotional, and the corporeal cannot be separated. Drawing on Ahmed, they argue that strong emotions are neither interior psychological states that work between individuals nor societal states that impact individuals. Rather, emotions are constitutive of subjects and collectivities, (Ahmed; Fraser et al.). Negative emotions in particular, such as hate and fear, produce categories of people, by defining them as a common threat and, in the process, they also create categories of people who are deemed legitimate and those who are not. Thus following Fraser et al, it is possible to see that anti-fat hatred did more than just negatively impact the individuals I spoke with. Rather, it worked to produce, differentiate, and drive home categories of people along lines of health, weight, risk, responsibility, and worth. In this next section, I examine the ways in which anti-fat discrimination works at the interface of not only the discursive and the emotive, but the material as well. Big Bodies, Small Spaces When they discussed their previous lives as very fat people, all of the participants made reference to a social and built environment mismatch, or in Garland Thomson’s terms, a “misfit”. A misfit occurs “when the environment does not sustain the shape and function of the body that enters it” (594). Whereas the built environment offers a fit for the majority of bodies, Garland Thomson continues, it also creates misfits for minority forms of embodiment. While Garland Thomson’s analysis is particular to disability, I argue that it extends to fat embodiment as well. In discussing what it was like to navigate the world as fat, participants described both the physical and emotional pain entailed in living in bodies that did not fit and frequently discussed the ways in which leaving the house was always a potential, anxiety-filled problem. Whereas all of the participants I interviewed discussed such misfitting, it was notable that participants in the Greater New York City area (70% of the sample) spoke about this topic at length. Specifically, they made frequent and explicit mentions of the particular interface between their fat bodies and the Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA), and the tightly packed spaces of the city itself. Greater New York City area participants frequently spoke of the shame and physical discomfort in having to stand on public transportation for fear that they would be openly disparaged for “taking up too much room.” Some mentioned that transit seats were made of molded plastic, indicating by design the amount of space a body should occupy. Because they knew they would require more space than what was allotted, these participants only took seats after calculating how crowded the subway or train car was and how crowded it would likely become. Notably, the decision to not take a seat was one that was made at a cost for some of the larger individuals who experienced joint pain. Many participants stated that the densely populated nature of New York City made navigating daily life very challenging. In Talia’s words, “More people, more obstacles, less space.” Participants described always having to be on guard, looking for the next obstacle. As Candice put it: “I would walk in some place and say, ‘Will I be able to fit? Will I be able to manoeuvre around these people and not bump into them?’ I was always self-conscious.” Although participants often found creative solutions to navigating the hostile environment of both the MTA and the city at large, they also identified an increasing sense of isolation that resulted from the physical discomfort and embarrassment of not fitting in. For instance, Talia rarely joined her partner and their friends on outings to movies or the theater because the seats were too tight. Similarly, Decenia would make excuses to her husband in order to avoid social situations outside of the home: “I’d say to my husband, ‘I don’t feel well, you go.’ But you know what? It was because I was afraid not to fit, you know?” The anticipatory scrutinizing described by these participants, and the anxieties it produced, echoes Kirkland’s contention that fat individuals use the technique of ‘scanning’ in order to navigate and manage hostile social and built environments. Scanning, she states, involves both literally rapidly looking over situations and places to determine accessibility, as well as a learned assessment and observation technique that allows fat people to anticipate how they will be received in new situations and new places. For my participants, worries about not fitting were more than just internal calculation. Rather, others made all too clear that fat bodies are not welcome. Nina recalled nasty looks she received from other subway riders when she attempted to sit down. Decenia described an experience on a crowded commuter train in which the woman next to her openly expressed annoyance and disgust that their thighs were touching. Talia recalled being aggressively handed a weight loss brochure by a fellow passenger. When asked to contrast their experiences living in New York City with having travelled or lived elsewhere, participants almost universally described the New York as a more difficult place to live for fat people. However, the experiences of three of the Latinas that I interviewed troubled this narrative. Katrina felt that the harassment she received in her country of origin, the Dominican Republic, was far worse than what she now experienced in the New York Metropolitan Area. Although Decenia detailed painful experiences of anti-fat stigma in New York City, she nevertheless described her life as relatively “easy” compared to what it was like in her home country of Brazil. And Denisa contrasted her neighbourhood of East Harlem with other parts of Manhattan: “In Harlem it's different. Everybody is really fat or plump – so you feel a bit more comfortable. Not everybody, but there's a mix. Downtown – there's no mix.” Collectively, their stories serve as a reminder (see Franko et al.; Grabe and Hyde) to be suspicious of over determined accounts that “Latino culture” is (or people of colour communities in general are), more accepting of larger bodies and more resistant to weight-based stigma and discrimination. Their comments also reflect arguments made by Colls, Grosz, and Garland Thomson, who have all pointed to the contingent nature between space and bodies. Colls argue that sizing is both a material and an emotional process – what size we take ourselves to be shifts in different physical and emotional contexts. Grosz suggests that there is a “mutually constitutive relationship between bodies and cities” – one that, I would add, is raced, classed, and gendered. Garland Thomson has described the relationship between bodies and space/place as “a dynamic encounter between world and flesh.” These encounters, she states, are always contingent and situated: “When the spatial and temporal context shifts, so does the fit, and with it meanings and consequences” (592). In this sense, fat is materialized differently in different contexts and in different scales – nation, state, city, neighbourhood – and the materialization of fatness is always entangled with raced, classed, and gendered social and political-economic relations. Nevertheless, it is possible to draw some structural commonalities between divergent parts of the Greater New York City Metropolitan Area. Specifically, a dense population, cramped physical spaces, inaccessible transportation and transportation funding cuts, social norms of fast paced life, and elite, raced, classed, and gendered norms of status and beauty work to materialize fatness in such a way that a ‘misfit’ is often the result for fat people who live and/or work in this area. And importantly, misfitting, as Garland Thomson argues, has consequences: it literally “casts out” when the “shape and function of … bodies comes into conflict with the shape and stuff of the built world” (594). This casting out produces some bodies as irrelevant to social and economic life, resulting in segregation and isolation. To misfit, she argues, is to be denied full citizenship. Responsibilising the Present Garland Thomson, discussing Bynum’s statement that “shape carries story”, argues the following: “the idea that shape carries story suggests … that material bodies are not only in the spaces of the world but that they are entwined with temporality as well” (596). In this section, I discuss how participants described their decisions to get weight loss surgery by making references to the need take responsibility for health now, in the present, in order to avoid further and future morbidity and mortality. Following Adams et al., I look at how the fat body is lived in a state of constant anticipation – “thinking and living toward the future” (246). All of the participants I spoke with described long histories of weight cycling. While many managed to lose weight, none were able to maintain this weight loss in the long term – a reality consistent with the medical fact that dieting does not produce durable results (Kassirer and Angell; Mann et al.; Puhl and Heuer). They experienced this inability as not only distressing, but terrifying, as they repeatedly regained the lost weight plus more. When participants discussed their decisions to have surgery, they highlighted concerns about weight related comorbidities and mobility limitations in their explanations. Consistent then with Boero, Lopez, and Wadden et al., the participants I spoke with did not seek out surgery in hopes of finding a permanent way to become thin, but rather a permanent way to become healthy and normal. Concerns about what is considered to be normative health, more than simply concerns about what is held to be an appropriate appearance, motivated their decisions. Significantly, for these participants the decision to have bariatric surgery was based on concerns about future morbidity (and mortality) at least as much, if not more so, than on concerns about a current state of ill health and impairment. Some individuals I spoke with were unquestionably suffering from multiple chronic and even life threatening illnesses and feared they would prematurely die from these conditions. Other participants, however, made the decision to have bariatric surgery despite the fact that they had no comorbidities whatsoever. Motivating their decisions was the fear that they would eventually develop them. Importantly, medial providers explicitly and repeatedly told all of these participants that lest they take drastic and immediate action, they would die. For example: Faith’s reproductive endocrinologist said: “you’re going to have diabetes by the time you’re 30; you’re going to have a stroke by the time you’re 40. And I can only hope that you can recover enough from your stroke that you’ll be able to take care of your family.” Several female participants were warned that without losing weight, they would either never become pregnant or they would die in childbirth. By contrast, participants stated that their bariatric surgeons were the first providers they had encountered to both assert that obesity was a medical condition outside of their control and to offer them a solution. Within an atmosphere in which obesity is held to be largely or entirely the result of behavioural choices, the bariatric profession thus positions itself as unique by offering both understanding and what it claims to be a durable treatment. Importantly, it would be a mistake to conclude that some bariatric patients needed surgery while others choose it for the wrong reasons. Regardless of their states of health at the time they made the decision to have surgery, the concerns that drove these patients to seek out these procedures were experienced as very real. Whether or not these concerns would have materialized as actual health conditions is unknown. Furthermore, bariatric patients should not be seen as having been duped or suffering from ‘false consciousness.’ Rather, they operate within a particular set of social, cultural, and political-economic conditions that suggest that good citizenship requires risk avoidance and personal health management. As these individuals experienced, there are material and social consequences for ‘failing’ to obtain normative conceptualizations of health. This set of conditions helps to produce a bariatric patient population that includes both those who were contending with serious health concerns and those who feared they would develop them. All bariatric patients operate within this set of conditions (as do medical providers) and make decisions regarding health (current, future, or both) by using the resources available to them. In her work on the temporalities of dieting, Coleman argues that rather than seeing dieting as a linear and progressive event, we might think of it instead a process that brings the future into the present as potential. Adams et al suggest concerns about potential futures, particularly in regard to health, are a defining characteristic of our time. They state: “The present is governed, at almost every scale, as if the future is what matters most. Anticipatory modes enable the production of possible futures that are lived and felt as inevitable in the present, rendering hope and fear as important political vectors” (249). The ability to act in the present based on potential future risks, they argue, has become a moral imperative and a marker of proper of citizenship. Importantly, however, our work to secure the ‘best possible future’ is never fully assured, as risks are constantly changing. The future is thus always uncertain. Acting responsibly in the present therefore requires “alertness and vigilance as normative affective states” (254). Importantly, these anticipations are not diagnostic, but productive. As Adams et al state, “the future arrives already formed in the present, as if the emergency has already happened…a ‘sense’ of the simultaneous uncertainty and inevitability of the future, usually manifest in entanglements of fear and hope” (250). It is in this light, then, that we might see the decision to have bariatric surgery. For these participants, their future weight-related morbidity and mortality had already arrived in the present and thus they felt they needed to act responsibly now, by undergoing what they had been told was the only durable medical intervention for obesity. The emotions of hope, fear, anxiety and I would suggest, hatred, were key in making these decisions. Conclusion Medical, public health, and media discourses frame obesity as an epidemic that threatens to bring untold financial disaster and escalating rates of morbidity and mortality upon the nation state and the world at large. As Fraser et al argue, strong emotions (such hatred, fear, anxiety, and hope), are at the centre of these discourses; they construct, circulate, and proliferate them. Moreover, they create categories of people who are deemed legitimate and categories of others who are not. In this context, the participants I spoke with were caught between a desire to have fatness understood as a medical condition needing intervention; the anti-fat attitudes of others, including providers, which held that obesity was a failure of the will and nothing more; their own internalization of these messages of personal responsibility for proper behavioural choices, and, the biologically intractable nature of fatness wherein dieting not only fails to reduce weight in the vast majority of cases but results, in the long term, in increased weight gain (Kassirer and Angell; Mann et al.; Puhl and Heuer). Widespread anxiety and embarrassment over and fear and hatred of fatness was something that the individuals I interviewed experienced directly and which signalled to them that they were less than human. Their desire for weight loss, therefore was partially a desire to become ‘normal.’ In Butler’s term, it was the desire for a ‘liveable life. ’A liveable life, for these participants, included a desire for a seamless fit with the built environment. The individuals I spoke with were never more ashamed of their fatness than when they experienced a ‘misfit’, in Garland Thomson’s terms, between their bodies and the material world. Moreover, feelings of shame over this disjuncture worked in tandem with a deeply felt, pressing sense that something must be done in the present to secure a better health future. The belief that bariatric surgery might finally provide a durable answer to obesity served as a strong motivating factor in their decisions to undergo bariatric surgery. By taking drastic action to lose weight, participants hoped to contest stigmatizing beliefs that their fat bodies reflected pathological interiors. Moreover, they sought to demonstrate responsibility and thus secure proper subjectivities and citizenship. In this sense, concerns, anxieties, and fears about health cannot be disentangled from the experience of anti-fat stigma and discrimination. Again, anti-fat bias, for these participants, was more than discursive: it operated through the circulation of emotion and was experienced in a very material sense. The decision to have weight loss surgery can thus be seen as occurring at the interface of emotion, flesh, space, place, and time, and in ways that are fundamentally shaped by the broader social context of neoliberal healthism. AcknowledgmentI am grateful to the anonymous reviewers of this article for their helpful feedback on earlier version. References Adams, Vincanne, Michelle Murphy, and Adele E. Clarke. “Anticipation: Technoscience, Life, Affect, Temporality.” Subjectivity 28.1 (2009): 246-265. 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Introduction There are increasing levels of concern around the health of citizens within Western neo-liberal democracies like Britain, the USA, and Australia. These governmental concerns are made manifest by discursive mechanisms that seek to both survey and regulate the lifestyles, eating habits and exercise regimes of citizens. Such governmental imperatives have historically targeted schools with school food ranking high in the priorities of public health policy, particularly in regards to the fears around childhood obesity and related health problems (Gard and Wright, Rich, Vander Schee and Gard). However, more recently such concerns have spilled into the wider public arena in Australia where fears of an “obesity epidemic”, the revision of the “food pyramid” and recent calls that make it mandatory for fast food companies to display calorie/kilojoule content on menu boards illustrate the increasing levels to which governments seek to intervene regarding the health of citizens. Not only does the attempt to produce a healthy citizen take place within policy imperatives but also within popular culture. Here, we see healthy eating and diet shows becoming international brands. For example The Biggest Loser, where obese contestants embark on a televised diet and exercise regime, competing to lose the most weight in the shortest time, and also Jamie Oliver’s attempt to change the eating habits of the British has crossed the Atlantic to the USA. There is a sense of urgency embedded in many such discursive practices and an implication that, as a society, we need a “lifestyle change” to make us healthier. Reflecting this urgency is an increase in cookbooks that not only provide recipe ideas but also seek to intervene into our day-to-day conduct. The content of such books moves beyond ways of putting a meal together and into the territory of self-surveillance and regulation. In this way, then, cookbooks can be read as pedagogical. This particular brand of pedagogy, moreover, feeds into wider socio-political discourses around the governance of the self within our late modern context. This chapter will argue that many contemporary cookbooks attempt to enact governmental imperatives around health and nutrition and that, by doing this, they become pedagogical devices that translate governmental devices into the homes of their readers. By using a post-Foucauldian analytical framework, we will illustrate the ways in which Jane Kennedy’s cookbook, Fabulous Food, Minus the Boombah mobilises discourses of health, gender, risk, and food in a rich (but 99 per cent fat free) mix. Analytical Framework This paper draws upon Foucauldian governmentality studies and the ways in which discursive practices are enacted in order to position and offer an analysis of cookbooks as pedagogical devices that translate the work of government into readers’ homes. Foucault defined government as “the conduct of conduct” arguing that government relates to the “way in which the conduct of individuals or groups might be directed: the government of children, of souls, of communities, of families, of the sick […] to govern in this sense, is to structure the possible field of action” (220–1). Foucault argued that attempts to shape conduct occur within socio-historical moments and contexts (Gordon) and they are, therefore, subject to change. Within this article, we seek to understand the ways in which governmental imperatives around food and lifestyle are taken up by cookbook authors and the implications of this in terms of public pedagogies within our late-modern context. Public health is located within a myriad of governmental sites that attempt to regulate people’s lives. In deciphering how government sites operate as mechanisms of regulation in modern times, Miller and Rose suggest that we require: An investigation not merely of grand political schemata, or economic ambitions, or even of general slogans such as ‘state control’, nationalization, the free market, and the like, but of apparently humble and mundane mechanisms which appear to make it possible to govern […] the list is heterogeneous and is, in principle unlimited (32). Such investigations can be grouped under the umbrella of “governmentality studies”. To grasp “governmentality” is complex and requires an analytics that can span history, and reach across macro and micro contours to trace various linkages and connections forged between governmental rationalities, techniques and practices (Leahy, Assembling). For the purposes of this paper we will be offering an analytic of the humble cookbook and its potential role in the governance of the self, a technique vital to contemporary neo-liberal modes of governance. Neo-liberalism produces particular versions of health, citizenship, and individualism. Within neo-liberal governmental assemblages, public health policy operates as a key site for enacting what Miller and Rose label “government at a distance” (32) by working to facilitate the shifting of responsibility for the health of citizens from the State to the individual. The individual, however, does not instinctively know how to incorporate governmental hopes for a healthy lifestyle into their lives—it is here that the cookbook, as pedagogical device, is vital because it translates macro governmental hopes to the micro level, that is, into the kitchens of citizens. Both risk and expertise also work alongside neo-liberalism in the assemblage to render the problems of government both thinkable and calculable, and in turn, practical. We will see in the next section how Jane Kennedy, the author of Fabulous Food, Minus the Boombah deploys both popular notions of risk alongside her own experience and expertise (her lifelong “battle” with weight) in order to fold the (female) reader in to Kennedy’s particular approach to healthy eating. Pedagogy could be described as part of the “doing” of education, the means through which ideas are transmitted through and between learners and teachers. Like contemporary neo-liberal government, contemporary pedagogies can be understood as assemblages; that is, they are made up of competing, intersecting, contradictory and multiple elements. Pedagogy is a technical device through which these elements are translated and transmitted to its audience, be that school pupils, students, adult learners or citizens. Elizabeth Ellsworth argues that pedagogy is a “social relationship [that] is very close in. It gets right in there in your brain, your body, your heart, your sense of self, of the world, of others, and of possibilities and impossibilities in all those realms” (6). In other words, effective pedagogical devices are necessary contact points between ideas and the self; they inform relationships between the macro and the micro, thus shaping both the individual and the collective. The remainder of this paper will demonstrate how Fabulous Food, Minus the Boombah deploys popular discursive trends regarding food, health, gender, and citizenship as pedagogic tools that aim to cultivate a healthier subject. Food That Makes Your Arse Huge? “Boombah: (adj). Word to describe food that makes your arse huge” (Kennedy 5). Lifestyle, diet, and health books can be seen to have saturated the market over recent years in an almost epidemic-like way. This phenomenon both mirrors and informs governmental imperatives around the health and lifestyle of citizens. A recent visit to our local bookshop revealed that there appears to be a polarisation of texts relating to food, health, and wellbeing. Books that explicitly relate to health and health issues can be found in one section, and cookbooks in another. However, there are an increasing number of texts that blend the two genres and offer diet, health, and lifestyle tips along with recipe ideas and cooking techniques. Within this blend there is also variation; there are texts that offer a scientific exposition of food, nutrition, and diet, such as Ricotti and Connelly’s The Healthy Family Cookbook, a text which offers a twelve-chapter overview of current theories and practices around health and nutrition before offering recipe ideas designed to help the reader achieve and maintain a “healthy weight” (page). In addition there are also texts that fold particular approaches to weight-loss, such as Jenny Craig or The Biggest Loser, together with cooking. The input of celebrity chef Jamie Oliver to the mix has been well documented (see Pike; Leahy, Disgusting; Rawlins; Zimmet and James) and the influence of Oliver’s approachable style of writing can be found within many contemporary cookbooks, including Fabulous Food, Minus the Boombah, a text within which Jane Kennedy blends together cooking, health, and lifestyle into a paste that is bound together with a Bridget Jones-style confessional commentary on her own, personal struggles with weight and dieting. For example: “I love food. Always have. Unfortunately I love it about one kilo per month more than I should. Perhaps I should put it another way: the food I love seems to have more calories than I need over a month and a year and a lifetime … it adds up! Yep, I get FAT” (xi). This style can be read as a way of “getting right in” (Ellsworth 6), to enfold the reader into Kennedy’s world. It also may provide readers, particularly, as we will discus below, middle-class Anglo-Australian females, with a sense of solidarity in a struggle against weight gain. Kennedy often deploys the spectre of designer jeans that no longer fit as a way to further entice the reader to embrace the healthy eating regime promoted by the book. Kennedy draws upon notions of horror and disgust at the fat body (her own but, implicitly, also the readers). Horror and disgust are potent pedagogical devices that are often put to work in educational and health promotion settings in an attempt to lure people and their bodies into action (Leahy, Disgusting; Lupton). In many ways Kennedy’s cookbook can be read as public pedagogy—its aim is to teach the reader how to cook food that is “packed full of flavour but minus the boombah” (xxvii), or minus that which causes bodily harm and/or disgusting transformation. In order to achieve this, Kennedy deploys “expert knowledge” as she takes the reader on a journey through her own struggles with weight, fad diets and failure to epiphany—which for Kennedy was a personal trainer and a new approach to cooking, eating and lifestyle and her book is peppered with self help-style narrative devices, for example: The key to successful weight loss with this style of eating is to be organised. Disorganisation is the open door though which every second excuse (and French fry) slips. “Oh no, the stores are closed. Oh well, better order takeaway”. Don’t do it. There. Is. No. Good. Takeaway. Food. (Kennedy xxii, emphasis original). Several mechanisms are being deployed here. Firstly, she is inadvertently constructing the perfect western neo-liberal subject: organised, self-contained, disciplined, and able to make informed rational decisions around food type and purchase. Secondly, by predicting and addressing the reader’s perceived resistance, Kennedy reveals her moralistic overtones. We see the judgment of a rational, ordered subject versus a messy, disorganised, immoral (and fat) subject in a piling up of connotations that lead to the same conclusion: this healthy way is the best healthy way. Kennedy’s personal narrative within the text follows a trajectory of “awareness, struggle and epiphany” (Plummer 131) that often characterise the confessional stories that we tell about ourselves: “I ended up […] back at square one: overweight, staring down a year of chicken consommé dinners […] I finally grew a brain and motivated myself to see a personal trainer” (Kennedy xiv). Kennedy’s narrative is a familiar one and a Foucauldian reading of confession enables us to take the position that confession is imperative to the contemporary construction of self. Modes of confession have become increasingly diverse and reified through the era of reality TV, social networking and the “personal trauma” sub-genre of autobiographical memoir (Brien). Kennedy’s book deploys confession as a narrative device that, like her moralising about the dangers of take away food, attempts to fold the reader into her world and, as a result, reifies her approach to healthy eating and lifestyle. We can do it because she has done it. Through the confessional she is not only able to tell of her love of food but also of her understanding of it as risky. This can be outlined by drawing upon an extract we looked at earlier: “the food I love seems to have more calories than I need and over a month and a year and lifetime it adds up! Yep, I get FAT” (xi). Risk and expertise work alongside neo-liberal individualism in the governmental assemblage to render the problems of government both thinkable and calculable, and in turn, practical. Kennedy deploys both risk and expert knowledge in order to successfully demonstrate her understanding of healthy eating as a battleground that see her appetite and tastes at war with her waistline. She guides us through the various fad diets she has tried, through gaining weight while being pregnant, and the anguish of seeing her image reflected back at her through her career in television, until her epiphany: the realisation that in order to achieve and maintain a healthy weight a balance of healthy eating and exercise is required. These are convincing pedagogical strategies that encourage the reader to apply modes of self-governance that reflect wider, macro hopes for the healthy neo-liberal citizen and Kennedy’s status as TV celebrity within Australia. Her use of the colloquial term “boombah” makes hers a uniquely Australian endeavour. It is worth noting here that Kennedy’s brand of Australian humour and use of colloquialism is deeply entrenched with raced and classed assumptions about desirable body size and the economic and cultural capital of its readers. It is middle class white Anglo-Australian women who are being targeted by this book and, arguably, by this brand of public pedagogy. As with many contemporary cultural texts about cooking, Kennedy’s book promotes an: “upper-middle-class lifestyle enhanced by the appropriation of goods and commodities. All the while, real issues surrounding the life-sustaining reality of food are ignored” (Wright and Sandlin 406). The lifestyle promoted by Kennedy is classed in this way. She writes of Bettina Liano jeans, of working on the popular Australian television show A Current Affair, of drinking wine, and using goats cheese and kaffir lime leaves in her cooking. Her levels of economic and cultural capital are obvious, and this sets the scene well for the type of reader she is attempting to educate. Although she does not explicitly mention gender, her “Bridget Jones”-style confessions of dietary failure (though Kennedy succeeds where Bridget would inevitably continue to fail), the mention of cooking both children’s and adult’s dinners, and the illustrations throughout the book that feature children’s toys implicitly position her as a “typical modern woman” with a career and a family to boot. In terms of pedagogy, Kennedy’s book reflects contemporary governmental discourse around health, food and wellbeing. It is designed “to shape with some degree of deliberation aspects of our behaviour according to particular sets of norms and for a variety of ends” (Dean 18). It reflects government fears around obesity, portion size, calorific content, and body shape. Pike and Leahy argue that food pedagogies provide government, and in this case the individual, with opportunities to shape, sculpt, mobilise, and work through the food choices, desires and aspirations, needs, wants, and lifestyles of parents, families, and children. The explicit intention of food pedagogies is to enlist the public into a process of “governmental self formation”: that is, “the ways in which various authorities and agencies seek to shape the conduct, aspirations, needs, desires and capacities of specified political and social categories, to enlist them in particular strategies and to seek definite goals” (Dean 563). Fabulous Food, Minus the Boombah then uses confession as a springboard to enlisting its readers into a healthier lifestyle and, more importantly, a healthier, risk aversive relationship with food. It individualises this struggle, and, like all good neo-liberal subjects, presents a healthy diet as an individual struggle: This way of cooking and eating works for me […] I feel much healthier and happier and I’ve got a lot more energy […] These recipes have to be better for you than chowing down a creepy bowl of 2 minute noodles and an entire pack of Tim Tams (yes, it’s time to let go). Be disciplined, even if you’ve struggled before. And if you really can’t live without your nightly routine of creamy pasta […] then bung this book back on the shelf. But stop whingeing about your huge arse (xix). This passage illustrates Kennedy’s pedagogy well, particularly the way in which her pedagogy is infused with neo-liberal discursive techniques. She positions herself as expert by stating that her way of cooking “works for me” as well as by deploying phrases like “I feel” and “I’ve got”. She then expertly shifts the reader’s focus from herself to the governance of the self by stating that it is up to the individual to be self-disciplined. Her pedagogy is littered with risk discourse as she informs us that you can continue to eat as you wish, but that there are consequences (a “huge arse”). This particular brand of risk discourse is gendered, as it is arguably mostly women who worry about the size of this part of their anatomy. One of the greatest contradictions of a neo-liberal approach to governance is that at the same time as promoting individual responsibility, there is also a strong emphasis on the collective. Kennedy reflects this throughout the book, as the above passage suggests. Her introductory section acts as a guide for the reader, who—once enfolded into Kennedy’s approach—she lets make their own way with encouragement. This is manifest in her final statements, “So let’s say goodbye to boombah. Go for it! And enjoy!” (xxvii). As pedagogy, then, Fabulous Food, Minus the Boombah attempts to cultivate and shape the reader’s choices around food by providing a practical means for transforming not only the reader’s food practices but also her image and self-esteem. This is achieved by the author’s supplement of supplying expert information, cooking skills, guidance, and incitement. Let’s Say Goodbye to Boombah? This paper has demonstrated how the contemporary cookbook can be read as pedagogy. In some ways the humble cookbook has always been pedagogical; seeking to teach the reader to make something that they previously did not, presumably, know how to, as well as providing cooking techniques and advice on the most suitable produce to use in particular recipes. However, in the contemporary moment, the cookbook arguably increasingly acts as a translation mechanism for governmental imperatives around food, health, and wellbeing. We have taken one cookbook amongst many as an illustration of our thesis. Jane Kennedy’s Fabulous Food Minus the Boombah is an Australian example of the neo-liberal project that lies at the heart of contemporary modes of governance of the population, but also, and more importantly, governance of the self. At the very heart of neo-liberalism is an imagined subject. That is, neo-liberalism needs and wants citizens to be autonomous, health seeking, enterprising, rational, choice-making individuals. The contemporary cookbook, it has been argued, can assist the individual in the production of a healthier-eating self. However, the more complex and intersecting aspects of selfhood—aspects such as socio-economic status, gender, location and ethnicity—are often absent from the construction of the healthy individual promoted by the contemporary cookbook. Above all, this paper has sought to problematise some of the dominant discourse around food, health, and wellbeing that can be found on the pages of the modern-day cookbook. 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Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1982. 208–26. Gard, Michael, and Jan Wright. The Obesity Epidemic: Science, Morality and Ideology. London: Routledge, 2005. Gordon, Colin. “Governmental Rationality: An Introduction”. The Foucault Effect: Studies in Governmentality. Eds. Burchell, Graham, Gordon, Colin, Foucault, Michel, and Miller, Peter. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1991. 1–52. Kennedy, Jane. Fabulous Food Minus the Boombah. Melbourne: Hardie Grant, 2009. Leahy, Deana. “Assembling a Health[y] Subject.” Unpublished PhD Thesis. Melbourne: Deakin University, 2012. Leahy, Deana. “Disgusting Pedagogies.” Biopolitics and the Obesity Epidemic. Eds. Wright, Jan, and Harwood, Valerie. Routledge: New York, 2009. 172–83. Lupton, Deborah. Fat. New York: Routledge, 2012. Miller, Peter, and Rose, Nicholas. Governing the Present. Cambridge: Polity, 2008. Pike, Jo. “Junk Food Mums: Class, Gender and the Battle of Rawmarsh.” Fat Studies and Health at Every Size. Conference: Durham U, 2010. Pike, Jo, and Leahy, Deana. “School Food and the Pedagogies of Parenting”. Australian Journal of Adult Learning 52.3 (2012): 434–59.Plummer, Ken. Telling Sexual Stories. London: Routledge, 1995. Rawlins, Emma. “Citizenship, Health Education and the Obesity Crisis”. ACME: An International E-Journal for Critical Geographies 7 (2006). 18 Apr. 2013. ‹http://www.acme-journal.org›. Rich, Emma. (2010b). “Obesity Assemblages and Surveillance in Schools” International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 23 (2010): 803–21. Ricotti, Henry, and Connelly, Vincent. The Healthy Family Cookbook. New York: W.W. Norton, 2004. Vander Schee, Carol, and Michael Gard. “Editorial: Politics, Pedagogy and Practice in School Health Policy”. Policy Futures in Education 9 (2011): 307–14. Wright, Robin Redman, and Jennifer A. Sandlin. “You Are What You Eat!?: Television Cooking Shows, Consumption, and Lifestyle Practices as Adult Learning”. Honoring Our Past, Embracing Our Future: Proceedings of the 50th Annual Adult Education Research Conference. 2009: 402-407. 18 Apr. 2013. ‹http://digitalcommons.nl.edu/ace_aerc/1›. Zimmet, Paul Z., and James, Phillip W.T. “The Unstoppable Australian Obesity and Diabetes Juggernaut: What Should Politicians Do?”. Medical Journal of Australia 185 (2008): 187–8.

To coalesce politically is to join together whilst retaining singularity. This is the aim of much contemporary social movement activism, marked most consistently under the sign of the global justice movement – the movement ‘for humanity and against neoliberalism’, as a common slogan goes. This movement regularly writes itself as one composed of diversity and a commitment to horizontal power relations. Within this, the discourse of the movement demonstrates a particular consciousness around privilege and oppression (Starr 95-97). The demands, in this regard, on a coalescence that brings together such groups as middle-class university students, landless peasant farmers, indigenous militants and child labourers are strong (Maeckelbergh). What kinds of solidarities are required for such a precipitation across difference and power? What ethical imperatives are produced for those activists who occupy the normatively first world, white, middle-class activist subject position within this?For activism in the Australian context, this question has had particular implications for practices of alliance and resistance around, for example, the Northern Territory Intervention as well as the treatment of refugees, particularly their mandatory detention and deportation. Many activist individuals and groups involved in these social movements can also be found occupying various positions within global justice movement discourse. There were shouts of “no borders, no nations, no deportations” at the 2002 World Trade Organisation protests in Sydney; there are declarations of Indigenous sovereignty at the gates of the Villawood detention centre in 2010. Under these circumstances, the question for coalition between singularities is negotiated at the difference between being an incarcerated refugee or a citizen of the incarcerating state; or between a person whose livelihood is administered through their race and class and one who has relative control over their own means of existence.Whilst these differentials are neither static nor binarised opposites, they do manifest in this way, among other ways, at the moment of claiming coalition. Again, then: what are the ethics of coalition that might be produced here for the relatively or differently privileged subject? By way of a response, this article is an address to the ethical scene of activist coalition, drawing on anti-colonial feminism, discourses of precarity, and Derrida’s “fiduciary register” (Acts of Religion). I pose three interpenetrating ethics of coalition for the privileged subject in (the) global justice movement: risk, prayer and gift. I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you are interpellated as this subject, in view of its instability. By the same token, this meditation is not specifically applied to the cases of alliance sketched above; which is not to say it cannot be.RiskAs global justice movement discourse recognises, the contemporary global polis is heavily marked by practices of securitisation and containment. Under such conditions, anticolonial theorist Leela Gandhi suggests that a collective oppositional consciousness may be defined by risk. For Gandhi it is the risk (of pain, sacrifice, humiliation, or exile) taken by the “philoxenic”, or stranger-oriented, subject in transnational activism that defines their politics as one of friendship, after Jacques Derrida (Politics; Gandhi 29–30). Risk takes the subject beyond recognition; it means facing something you might not recognise, something you cannot know. Easily commodified, risk cannot be pre-planned; “philoxenia”, says Gandhi, “is not reducible to a form of masochistic moral adventurism or absolutism, to a sort of ethics-as-bungie-jumping-at-any-cost school of thought” (30). Risk, rather, is partial, open-ended; always to come. (Risk here is distinguished, thus, from its actuarial register. The regimes of risk underpinning global securitisation are defined by imminence rather than immanence.)Risk, in this ethical imaginary, is a threat to subjectivity; the catalyst for any coalitional process of deactivating the habits of privilege and hierarchy. This is viscerally articulated by Bernice Johnson Reagon in her speech "Turning the Century: Coalition Politics":I feel as if I’m gonna keel over any minute and die. That is often what it feels like if you’re really doing coalition work. Most of the time you feel threatened to the core and if you don’t, you’re not really doing no coalescing. (Reagon)Reagon (a musician, scholar and activist speaking at a women’s music festival in 1981) highlighted that, as displacement is necessary to coalition, so do we risk displacement every time we seek coalition. Reagon’s speech remains a landmark challenge for allies to stake their subjectivity on social justice. A response is perhaps prefigured by feminist philosopher and activist Simone de Beauvoir, in her reflection on her pro-abortion activism in early 1970s France:I believed that it was up to women like me to take the risk on behalf of those who could not, because we could afford to do it. We had the money and the position and we were not likely to be punished for our actions. I was already a sacred cow to the authorities and no-one would dare arrest me, so don’t give me too much credit for bravery because I was untouchable. Save your sympathy for the ordinary women who really suffered by their admission. (Bair 547)Contemporarily, queer theorist and activist Judith Butler expresses similar coalescent displacement in Precarious Life, her manifesto for a politics of mourning:For if I am confounded by you, then you are already of me, and I am nowhere without you. I cannot muster the “we” except by finding the way in which I am tied to “you”, by trying to translate but finding that my own language must break up and yield if I am to know you. You are what I gain through this disorientation and loss. This is how the human comes into being, again and again, as that which we have yet to know. (49)Indeed: Butler and de Beauvoir, two different feminists equally concerned with coalition, provide two orientations to the risky solidarity forecast by Reagon. Butler’s is a commitment to displacing privilege, in order to bring about political relationship to another. De Beauvoir’s is to use her privilege to protect and advance the rights of those who are oppressed by that privilege. Both recognise a re-distributive, even liberatory, power that is created by giving up privilege, or by recognising it in order to work against it. Both statements might be located in particular timespace: de Beauvoir’s from a feminism beginning to consider the homogeneity in the white middle class heterosexual feminist construct of “woman”, and Butler’s reflecting a thoroughly raced, classed, queered, feminist subject. An anticolonial feminist reworking of this scene might thus see de Beauvoir and Butler as both deploying forms of Chela Sandoval's “tactical subjectivity”, that “capacity to de- and recenter, given the forms of power to be moved” (58-9). In doing this, both may run the risk of fetishising the others they de/refer to: Butler’s as the source of her humanity, de Beauvoir’s in speaking on their behalf (Ahmed 4-5). So in risking their personal empowerment activists still, simultaneously, risk replicating the very dominations to which they are opposed. The risk still, must not ‘stop’ alliance work, as Sandoval’s theory appreciates (62). These themes - of endurance and disorienting imagination - are rife in activist discourse: from the unionist “dare to struggle, dare to win” to the World Social Forum’s “another world is possible”. The ethical precept of risk is unpredictability, uncertainty; the interception of otherness. PrayerIn a world overdetermined by risk it is no surprise that much global justice movement activism is founded on notions of precarity. “Precarious work” is a term in labour politics that refers to widespread workforce casualisation and the decline of certain industrial standards, particularly in the geopolitical west. An example of its political deployment may be found in the performative Italian meme of San Precario, created by Milanese activists in 2000. For a decade now, San Precario has appeared at rallies, in grottoes and on devotional cards as the patron saint of precarious workers in Italy (Johal); enacting an iconic-ironic twist on prayer. Precarity as activist trope has its roots in wage instability but has been extended (particularly since the September 11, 2001 attacks on the World Trade Centre in New York) to refer to the condition of life during neoliberal globalisation.Within this there are those such as Ida Dominijanni who invoke Butler’s “precarious life” for an alliance politics formed from a shared vulnerability and instability. Butler’s notion of precarity here entails an acknowledgement that September 11 generated a “dislocation from First World privilege” (xii) in the Anglosphere.The ethical content of such a risky politics can be gleaned from these examples. On the one hand Butler and Dominijanni demonstrate that to be open to risk is to refuse the obsessive securitisations of neoliberal globalisation. On the other, San Precario highlights the value of security to those who are denied it under those same conditions. In evaluating the many-edged significance of precarity in global justice movement activism, Australian scholar Angela Mitropoulos puts it this way:“Precarious” is as much a description of patterns of worktime as it is the description, experience, hopes and fears of a faltering movement … This raises the risk of movements that become trapped in communitarian dreams of a final end to risk in the supposedly secure embrace of global juridical recognition. Yet, it also makes clear that a different future, by definition, can only be constructed precariously, without firm grounds for doing so, without the measure of a general rule, and with questions that should, often, shake us – particularly what “us” might mean. (Mitropoulos, Precari-Us?)Our precarious lives in partiality require, then, a contemplative sensibility - in order to discern and deploy, to tell the difference between containment and critique, and so on. We need to “take a moment” to balance on precarity’s shaky edge: to mourn the loss of certainty, seek guidance, affirm hope and belief, express the desires of futurity. It is arguably in this way that the Latin precarium became the English word prayer; as its simplest root/route it means “entreaty, petition, request” (Oxford English Dictionary).Prayer implies an address, though not necessarily as supplication to a sovereign. Prayer may instead be a gesture to a time of justice that may arrive despite all odds. Activism is social creativity: it requires the imagination of other worlds. It thus negotiates the transcendant: as other-to-this, other-to-now – simultaneously multiplying conceptions of time. This is a fiduciary mode of being; an openness to otherness that may be distinguished from institutional religion (Derrida, Acts of Religion 51), and that generates a “social divine” (Lacey).Crucially, prayer also tends to belong to the time and space of solitude (the “time out”, the “space outside”). In her thinking on solitude, Angela Mitropoulos suggests of contemporary activists – who are in social movement under hyperconnected capitalism – that “connection is not necessarily relation” (Mitropoulos, What Is to Be Undone?), particularly when said hypernetwork underscores an “injunction to stay connected in order to be a political subject.” Mitropoulos reinforces how “the solitude that can derive from disconnection” need not be “a retreat to the personal … neither individualism or quietism.” Instead, “a politics that disconnects as well as connects remains a form of relation”.To be sure, as Sara Ahmed notes, (more) ethical relations may be formed by a disinvestment that allows one to detect difference and disconnection; “getting closer to others in order to occupy or inhabit the distance between us” (179). In turning away, activists can nuance their responses to the domination they resist: choosing, sometimes, not to reproduce hegemonic sociality. The implication may be that those in social movement who adhere only to the communitarian community critiqued by Mitropoulos will lack the critical expansiveness required of coalition. The ethical precept of prayer may thus question, reaffirm and sustain activism through disconnection from coalition and disinvestment from activism by the privileged subject. Indeed, this may be a particularly just movement when the participation of privileged allies threatens to dominate the resistance of those they ally with.GiftTo think of yourself as being an activist means to think of yourself as being somehow privileged or more advanced than others in your appreciation of the need for social change, in the knowledge of how to achieve it and as leading or being in the forefront of the practical struggle to create this change. (X 160)These remarks from Andrew X, heavily circulated in some activist milieux, suggest that to Give Up Activism is something of an impossible gift for the activist. Indeed, one response to this text is entitled “The Impossibility and Necessity of Anti-Activism” (Kellstadt). For the geopolitically privileged agent to whom X’s text is addressed, Giving Up Activism would mean giving up privilege – which is itself the necessary and impossible catalyst for ethical coalition in the global justice movement (Spivak). On this logic, those who resist the exclusions of identity, community and geopolity may do well to give up activism when that identification is at risk of reproducing the force of these categories. It is one thing to give up activism as a literal casting off of the label and a refusal of activity addressed to patriarch, polis or nation; an interlinked giving up may be in understanding activism as an impossible gift, along lines traced by Jacques Derrida, Georges Bataille and Hélène Cixous. In these specific readings, the gift is reconceptualised as operating outside of the capitalist system of exchange (Cowell). But, under the modern system of ubiquitous global capital, there is something impossible about this gesture. For the privileged subject who “gives up privilege” for the other, she enacts a “giving which is also always a taking”, as Fiona Probyn puts it (42). So, the impossible gift of “giving up activism” – as strategic action or tactical consciousness – is one made with the awareness that the privileged activist in social movement cannot not risk reinscribing domination. Such an understanding in activist discourse would continue to nuánce the question of “What Is to Be Done?” (or indeed, What is to Be Undone, in Mitropoulos’ formulation). The ethical precept of gift is the capacity to give up the privileged investments of activism, and understanding that you cannot.Meta-MovementTo give up activism when it is called for, within an understanding of activism as the impossible gift of the privileged subject, is reflective of the Derridean friendship that shapes Gandhi’s explorations of anticolonial transnational solidarity. This is the friendship that requires turning one’s back, or “‘facing’ back to front” (Wills 9). If horizontal coalitions are to work with and against privilege, and if this means working beyond that limited horizon where activist recognises activist, then “giving up”, “turning one’s back on” activism may be a tactical exercise of power. This “turning one’s back” will also, therefore, be “the turn outwards” implied by prayer: a metaphysical movement that engages the other worlds that are imagined and sought. It is a movement which allows one to risk “giving up activism”, when that is required, in order to give (in)to or over to (the) other(ness). The metaphysical move goes outwards, from “physical” to “meta”: not towards a totalising meta, but as a sense of the other which overwrites present certainties: meta-. I recall Chela Sandoval’s words here: “Without making this metamove any ‘liberation’ or social movement eventually becomes destined to repeat the oppressive authoritarianism from which it is attempting to free itself” (59, my emphasis). It is in the space of such a movement that the ethics of coalition are disclosed.ReferencesAhmed, Sara. Strange Encounters: Embodied Others in Postcoloniality. London: Routledge, 2000.Bair, Dierdre. Simone de Beauvoir: A Biography. New York: Summit Books, 1990.Butler, Judith. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London: Verso, 2004.Cowell, Andrew. “The Pleasures and Pains of the Gift." The Question of the Gift: Essays across Disciplines. Ed. Mart Osteen. London: Routledge, 2002.Derrida, Jacques. Acts of Religion. Ed. Gil Anidjar. London: Routledge, 2002.———. Politics of Friendship. Trans. David Wills. London: Verso, 1997.Dominijanni, Ida. "Rethinking Change: Italian Feminism between Crisis and Critique of Politics." Cultural Studies Review 11.2 (2005): 25-35.Gandhi, Leela. Affective Communities: Anticolonial Thought, Fin-de-Siècle Radicalism, and the Politics of Friendship. Durham: Duke University Press, 2006.Gandhi, M.K. “Non-Violent Non-Cooperation.” The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, 82. Delhi: Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, 1995 (1942).Johal, Am. “Precarious Labour: Interview with San Precario Connection Organizer Alessandro Delfanti.” Rabble.ca 11 Sep. 2010. 10 Nov. 2010 ‹http://www.rabble.ca/blogs/bloggers/amjohal/2010/09/precarious-labour-interview-san-precario-connection-organizer-alessan>. Kellstadt, J. “The Necessity and Impossibility of Anti-Activism.” A Critical Discussion on the Role of Activism. n.d. 10 Nov. 2010 ‹http://www.archive.org/details/ACriticalDiscussionOnTheRoleOfActivism>. Lacey, Anita. “Spaces of Justice: The Social Divine of Global Anti-Capital Activists’s Sites of Resistance.” Canadian Review of Sociology and Anthropology 42.4 (2005): 403-420.Maeckelbergh, Marian. The Will of the Many: How the Alterglobalisation Movement Is Changing the Face of Democracy. London: Pluto Press, 2009.Mitropoulos, Angela. “Precari-Us?” Mute 29 (Jan. 2005). 23 Sep. 2010 ‹http://www.metamute.org/en/Precari-us>. Mitropoulos, Angela. “What Is to Be Undone?" archive:s0metim3s, 27 Jan. 2007. 28 Jan. 2005 ‹http://archive.blogsome.com/2007/01/25/activism>. Probyn, Fiona. "Playing Chicken at the Intersection: The White Critic in/of Whiteness." borderlands 3.2 (2004). 10 Nov. 2010 ‹http://www.borderlandsejournal.adelaide.edu.au>. Reagon, Bernice Johnson. “Turning the Century: Coalition Politics.” Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology. Ed. Barbara Smith. New York: Kitchen Table Press, 1983 [1981].Sandoval, Chela. Methodology of the Oppressed. Minneaopolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2000. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “A Note on the New International.” Parallax 3.1 (2001): 12-16.Starr, Amory. Global Revolt: A Guide to the Movements against Globalization. New York: Zed Books, 2005.Wills, David. “Full Dorsal: Derrida’s Politics of Friendship.” Postmodern Culture 15.3 (2005).X, Andrew. “Give up Activism”. Do or Die 9 (2001): 160-166.

Conurbation [f. CON- + L. urb- and urbs city + -ation] An aggregation of urban areas. (OED) Beyond the urban, further and lower even than the suburban, lies the con-urban. The conurban: with the urban, partaking of the urbane, lying against but also perhaps pushing against or being contra the urban. Conurbations stretch littorally from Australian cities, along coastlines to other cities, joining cities through the passage of previously outlying rural areas. Joining the dots between cities, towns, and villages. Providing corridors between the city and what lies outside. The conurban is an accretion, an aggregation, a piling up, or superfluity of the city: Greater London, for instance. It is the urban plus, filling the gaps between cities, as Los Angeles oozing urbanity does for the dry, desert areas abutting it (Davis 1990; Soja 1996). I wish to propose that the conurban imaginary is a different space from its suburban counterpart. The suburban has provided a binary opposition to what is not the city, what lies beneath its feet, outside its ken. Yet it is also what is greater than the urban, what exceeds it. In modernism, the city and its denizens define themselves outside what is arrayed around the centre, ringing it in concentric circles. In stark relief to the modernist lines of the skyscraper, contrasting with the central business district, central art galleries and museums, is to be found the masses in the suburbs. The suburban as a maligned yet enabling trope of modernism has been long revalued, in the art of Howard Arkeley, and in photography of suburban Gothic. It comes as no surprise to read a favourable newspaper article on the Liverpool Regional Art Gallery, in Sydney's Western Suburbs, with its exhibition on local chicken empires, Liverpool sheds, or gay and lesbians living on the city fringe. Nor to hear in the third way posturing of Australian Labor Party parliamentarian Mark Latham, the suburbs rhetorically wielded, like a Victa lawn mover, to cut down to size his chardonnay-set inner-city policy adversaries. The politics of suburbia subtends urban revisionism, reformism, revanchism, and recidivism. Yet there is another less exhausted, and perhaps exhaustible, way of playing the urban, of studying the metropolis, of punning on the city's proper name: the con-urban. World cities, as Saskia Sassen has taught us, have peculiar features: the juxtaposition of high finance and high technology alongside subaltern, feminized, informal economy (Sassen 1998). The Australian city proudly declared to be a world city is, of course, Sydney while a long way from the world's largest city by population, it is believed to be the largest in area. A recent newspaper article on Brisbane's real estate boom, drew comparisons with Sydney only to dismiss them, according to one quoted commentator, because as a world city, Sydney was sui generis in Australia, fairly requiring comparison with other world cities. One form of conurbanity, I would suggest, is the desire of other settled areas to be with the world city. Consider in this regard, the fate of Byron Bay a fate which lies very much in the balance. Byron Bay is sign that circulates in the field of the conurban. Craig MacGregor has claimed Byron as the first real urban culture outside an Australian city (MacGregor 1995). Local residents hope to keep the alternative cultural feel of Byron, but to provide it with a more buoyant economic outlook. The traditional pastoral, fishing, and whaling industries are well displaced by niche handicrafts, niche arts and craft, niche food and vegetables, a flourishing mind, body and spirit industry, and a booming film industry. Creative arts and cultural industries are blurring into creative industries. The Byron Bay area at the opening of the twenty-first century is attracting many people fugitive from the city who wish not to drop out exactly; rather to be contra wishes rather to be gently contrary marked as distinct from the city, enjoying a wonderful lifestyle, but able to persist with the civilizing values of an urban culture. The contemporary figure of Byron Bay, if such a hybrid chimera may be represented, wishes for a conurbanity. Citizens relocate from Melbourne, Canberra, and Sydney, seeking an alternative country and coastal lifestyle and, if at all possible, a city job (though without stress) (on internal migration in Australia see Kijas 2002): Hippies and hip rub shoulders as a sleepy town awakes (Still Wild About Byron, (Sydney Morning Herald, 1 January 2002). Forerunners of Byron's conurbanity leave, while others take their place: A sprawling $6.5 million Byron Bay mansion could be the ultimate piece of memorabilia for a wealthy fan of larrikin Australian actor Paul Hogan (Hoges to sell up at Byron Bay, Illawarra Mercury, 14 February 2002). The ABC series Seachange is one key text of conurbanity: Laura Gibson has something of a city job she can ply the tools of her trade as a magistrate while living in an idyllic rural location, a nice spot for a theme park of contemporary Australian manners and nostalgia for community (on Sea Change see Murphy 2002). Conurban designates a desire to have it both ways: cityscape and pastoral mode. Worth noting is that the Byron Shire has its own independent, vibrant media public sphere, as symbolized by the Byron Shire Echo founded in 1986, one of the great newspapers outside a capital city (Martin & Ellis 2002): <http://www.echo.net.au>. Yet the textual repository in city-based media of such exilic narratives is the supplement to the Saturday broadsheet papers. A case in point is journalist Ruth Ostrow, who lives in hills in the Byron Shire, and provides a weekly column in the Saturday Australian newspaper, its style gently evocative of just one degree of separation from a self-parody of New Age mores: Having permanently relocated to the hills behind Byron Bay from Sydney, it's interesting for me to watch friends who come up here on holiday over Christmas… (Ostrow 2002). The Sydney Morning Herald regards Byron Bay as another one of its Northern beaches, conceptually somewhere between Palm Beach and Pearl Beach, or should one say Pearl Bay. The Herald's fascination for Byron Bay real estate is coeval with its obsession with Sydney's rising prices: Byron Bay's hefty price tags haven't deterred beach-lovin' boomers (East Enders, Sydney Morning Herald 17 January 2002). The Australian is not immune from this either, evidence 'Boom Times in Byron', special advertising report, Weekend Australia, Saturday 2 March 2002. And plaudits from The Financial Review confirm it: Prices for seafront spots in the enclave on the NSW north coast are red hot (Smart Property, The Financial Review, 19 January 2002). Wacky North Coast customs are regularly covered by capital city press, the region functioning as a metonym for drugs. This is so with Nimbin especially, with regular coverage of the Nimbin Mardi Grass: Mardi Grass 2001, Nimbin's famous cannabis festival, began, as they say, in high spirits in perfect autumn weather on Saturday (Oh, how they danced a high old time was had by all at the Dope Pickers' Ball, Sydney Morning Herald, 7 May 2001). See too coverage of protests over sniffer dogs in Byron Bay in Easter 2001 showed (Peatling 2001). Byron's agony over its identity attracts wider audiences, as with its quest to differentiate itself from the ordinariness of Ballina as a typical Aussie seaside town (Buttrose 2000). There are national metropolitan audiences for Byron stories, readers who are familiar with the Shire's places and habits: Lismore-reared Emma Tom's 2002 piece on the politics of perving at King's beach north of Byron occasioned quite some debate from readers arguing the toss over whether wanking on the beach was perverse or par for the course: Public masturbation is a funny old thing. On one hand, it's ace that some blokes feel sexually liberated enough to slap the salami any old time… (Tom 2002). Brisbane, of course, has its own designs upon Byron, from across the state border. Brisbane has perhaps the best-known conurbation: its northern reaches bleed into the Sunshine Coast, while its southern ones salute the skyscrapers of Australia's fourth largest city, the Gold Coast (on Gold Coast and hinterland see Griffin 2002). And then the conburbating continues unabated, as settlement stretches across the state divide to the Tweed Coast, with its mimicking of Sanctuary Cove, down to the coastal towns of Ocean Shores, Brunswick Heads, Byron, and through to Ballina. Here another type of infrastructure is key: the road. Once the road has massively overcome the topography of rainforest and mountain, there will be freeway conditions from Byron to Brisbane, accelerating conurbanity. The caf is often the short-hand signifier of the urban, but in Byron Bay, it is film that gives the urban flavour. Byron Bay has its own International Film Festival (held in the near-by boutique town of Bangalow, itself conurban with Byron.), and a new triple screen complex in Byron: Up north, film buffs Geraldine Hilton and Pete Castaldi have been busy. Last month, the pair announced a joint venture with Dendy to build a three-screen cinema in the heart of Byron Bay, scheduled to open mid-2002. Meanwhile, Hilton and Castaldi have been busy organising the second Byron All Screen Celebration Film Festival (BASC), after last year's inaugural event drew 4000 visitors to more than 50 sessions, seminars and workshops. Set in Bangalow (10 minutes from Byron by car, less if you astral travel)… (Cape Crusaders, Sydney Morning Herald, 15 February 2002). The film industry is growing steadily, and claims to be the largest concentration of film-makers outside of an Australian capital city (Henkel 2000 & 2002). With its intimate relationship with the modern city, film in its Byron incarnation from high art to short video, from IMAX to multimedia may be seen as the harbinger of the conurban. If the case of Byron has something further to tell us about the transformation of the urban, we might consider the twenty-first century links between digital communications networks and conurbanity. It might be proposed that telecommunications networks make it very difficult to tell where the city starts and ends; as they interactively disperse information and entertainment formerly associated with the cultural institutions of the metropolis (though this digitization of urbanity is more complex than hyping the virtual suggest; see Graham & Marvin 1996). The bureau comes not just to the 'burbs, but to the backblocks as government offices are closed in country towns, to be replaced by online access. The cinema is distributed across computer networks, with video-on-demand soon to become a reality. Film as a cultural form in the process of being reconceived with broadband culture (Jacka 2001). Global movements of music flow as media through the North Coast, with dance music culture and the doof (Gibson 2002). Culture and identity becomes content for the information age (Castells 1996-1998; Cunningham & Hartley 2001; OECD 1998; Trotter 2001). On e-mail, no-one knows, as the conceit of internet theory goes, where you work or live; the proverbial refashioning of subjectivity by the internet affords a conurbanity all of its own, a city of bits wherever one resides (Mitchell 1995). To render the digital conurban possible, Byron dreams of broadband. In one of those bizarre yet recurring twists of Australian media policy, large Australian cities are replete with broadband infrastructure, even if by 2002 city-dwellers are not rushing to take up the services. Telstra's Foxtel and Optus's Optus Vision raced each other down streets of large Australian cities in the mid-1990s to lay fibre-coaxial cable to provide fast data (broadband) capacity. Cable modems and quick downloading of video, graphics, and large files have been a reality for some years. Now the Asymmetrical Digital Subscriber Line (ADSL) technology is allowing people in densely populated areas close to their telephone exchanges to also avail themselves of broadband Australia. In rural Australia, broadband has not been delivered to most areas, much to the frustration of the conurbanites. Byron Bay holds an important place in the history of the internet in Australia, because it was there that one of Australia's earliest and most important internet service providers, Pegasus Network, was established in the late 1980s. Yet Pegasus relocated to Brisbane in 1993, because of poor quality telecommunications networks (Peters 1998). As we rethink the urban in the shadow of modernity, we can no longer ignore or recuse ourselves from reflecting upon its para-urban modes. As we deconstruct the urban, showing how the formerly pejorative margins actually define the centre the suburban for instance being more citified than the grand arcades, plazas, piazzas, or malls; we may find that it is the conurban that provides the cultural imaginary for the urban of the present century. Work remains to be done on the specific modalities of the conurban. The conurban has distinct temporal and spatial coordinates: citizens of Sydney fled to Manly earlier in the twentieth century, as they do to Byron at the beginning of the twenty-first. With its resistance to the transnational commercialization and mass culture that Club Med, McDonalds, and tall buildings represent, and with its strict environment planning regulation which produce a litigious reaction (and an editorial rebuke from the Sydney Morning Herald [SMH 2002]), Byron recuperates the counter-cultural as counterpoint to the Gold Coast. Subtle differences may be discerned too between Byron and, say, Nimbin and Maleny (in Queensland), with the two latter communities promoting self-sufficient hippy community infused by new agricultural classes still connected to the city, but pushing the boundaries of conurbanity by more forceful rejection of the urban. Through such mapping we may discover the endless attenuation of the urban in front and beyond our very eyes; the virtual replication and invocation of the urban around the circuits of contemporary communications networks; the refiguring of the urban in popular and elite culture, along littoral lines of flight, further domesticating the country; the road movies of twenty-first century freeways; the perpetuation and worsening of inequality and democracy (Stilwell 1992) through the action of the conurban. Cities without bounds: is the conurban one of the faces of the postmetropolis (Soja 2000), the urban without end, with no possibility for or need of closure? My thinking on Byron Bay, and the Rainbow Region in which it is situated, has been shaped by a number of people with whom I had many conversations during my four years living there in 1998-2001. My friends in the School of Humanities, Media, and Cultural Studies, Southern Cross University, Lismore, provided focus for theorizing our ex-centric place, of whom I owe particular debts of gratitude to Baden Offord (Offord 2002), who commented upon this piece, and Helen Wilson (Wilson 2002). Thanks also to an anonymous referee for helpful comments. References Buttrose, L. (2000). Betray Byron at Your Peril. Sydney Morning Herald 7 September 2000. Castells, M. (1996-98). The Information Age. 3 vols. Blackwell, Oxford. Cunningham, S., & Hartley, J. (2001). Creative Industries from Blue Poles to Fat Pipes. Address to the National Humanities and Social Sciences Summit, National Museum of Canberra. July 2001. Davis, M. (1990). City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles. Verso, London. Gibson, C. (2002). Migration, Music and Social Relations on the NSW Far North Coast. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Graham, S., and Marvin, S. (1996). Telecommunications and the City: Electronic Spaces, Urban Places. Routledge, London & New York. Griffin, Graham. (2002). Where Green Turns to Gold: Strip Cultivation and the Gold Coast Hinterland. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...> Henkel, C. (2002). Development of Audiovisual Industries in the Northern Rivers Region of NSW. Master thesis. Queensland University of Technology. . (2000). Imagining the Future: Strategies for the Development of 'Creative Industries' in the Northern Rivers Region of NSW. Northern Rivers Regional Development Board in association with the Northern Rivers Area Consultative Committee, Lismore, NSW. Jacka, M. (2001). Broadband Media in Australia Tales from the Frontier, Australian Film Commission, Sydney. Kijas, J. (2002). A place at the coast: Internal migration and the shift to the coastal-countryside. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. MacGregor, Craig. (1995). The Feral Signifier and the North Coast. In The Abundant Culture: Meaning And Significance in Everyday Australia, ed. Donald Horne & Jill Hooten. Allen and Unwin, Sydney. Martin, F., & Ellis, R. (2002). Dropping in, not out: the evolution of the alternative press in Byron Shire 1970-2001. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Mitchell, W.J. (1995). City of Bits: Space, Place, and the Infobahn. MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass. Molnar, Helen. (1998). 'National Convergence or Localism?: Rural and Remote Communications.' Media International Australia 88: 5-9. Moyal, A. (1984). Clear Across Australia: A History of Telecommunications. Thomas Nelson, Melbourne. Murphy, P. (2002). Sea Change: Re-Inventing Rural and Regional Australia. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Offord, B. (2002). Mapping the Rainbow Region: Fields of belonging and sites of confluence. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD). (1998). Content as a New Growth Industry: Working Party for the Information Economy. OECD, Paris. Ostrow, R. (2002). Joyous Days, Childish Ways. The Australian, 9 February. Peatling, S. (2001). Keep Off Our Grass: Byron stirs the pot over sniffer dogs. Sydney Morning Herald. 16 April. <http://www.smh.com.au/news/0104/14/natio...> Peters, I. (1998). Ian Peter's History of the Internet. Lecture at Southern Cross University, Lismore. CD-ROM. Produced by Christina Spurgeon. Faculty of Creative Industries, Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane. Productivity Commission. (2000). Broadcasting Inquiry: Final Report, Melbourne, Productivity Commission. Sassen, S. (1998). Globalisation and its Contents: Essays on the New Mobility of People and Money. New Press, New York. Soja, E. (2000). Postmetropolis: critical studies of cities and regions. Blackwell, Oxford. . (1996). Thirdspace: journeys to Los Angeles and other real-and-imagined places. Blackwell, Cambridge, Mass. Stilwell, F. (1992). Understanding Cities and Regions: Spatial Political Economy. Pluto Press, Sydney. Sydney Morning Herald (SMH). (2002). Byron Should Fix its own Money Mess. Editorial. 5 April. Tom, E. (2002). Flashing a Problem at Hand. The Weekend Australian, Saturday 12 January. Trotter, R. (2001). Regions, Regionalism and Cultural Development. Culture in Australia: Policies, Publics and Programs. Ed. Tony Bennett and David Carter. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. 334-355. Wilson, H., ed. (2002). Fleeing the City. Special Issue of Transformations journal, no. 2. < http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Links http://www.echo.net.au http://www.smh.com.au/news/0104/14/national/national3.html http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformations/journal/issue2/issue.htm Citation reference for this article MLA Style Goggin, Gerard. "Conurban" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/conurban.php>. Chicago Style Goggin, Gerard, "Conurban" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/conurban.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Goggin, Gerard. (2002) Conurban. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/conurban.php> ([your date of access]).

Introduction: Shock WavesAs I carefully unfold the delicate piece of crisp white paper, three rogue words wildly jump up off the page before sinking deeply into my skin: “Cold and condescending.” A charge of anger surges up my spine, as these words begin to now expand and affectively resonate: “I found the instructor to be cold and condescending.” Somehow, these words impact me both emotionally and physiologically (Brennan 3): my heart beats faster, my body temperature rises, my stomach aches. Yet, despite how awful I feel, I keep on reading, as if compelled by some inexplicable force. It is not long before I devour the entire evaluation—or perhaps it devours me?—reading every last jarring word over and over and over again. And pretty soon, before I can even think about it, I begin to come undone ...How is it possible that an ordinary, everyday object can pull at us, unravel us even? And, how do such objects linger, register intensities, and contribute to our harm or good? In this paper, we draw upon our collective teaching experiences at college and high school level in order to explore how teacher evaluations actively work/ed to orient our bodies in molar and molecular ways (Deleuze and Guattari 3), thereby diminishing or enhancing our capacity to act. We argue that these textual objects are anything but dead and lifeless, and are vitally invested with “thing-power,” which is the “ability of inanimate things to animate, to act, to produce effects dramatic and subtle” (Bennett 6).Rather than producing a linear critique that refuses “affective associations” (Felski para. 6) and the “bodily entanglements of language” (MacLure, Qualitative 1000), we offer up a mobile conversation that pulls readers into an assemblage of (shape)shifting moments they can connect with (Rajchman 4) and question. While we attend to our own affective experiences with teacher evaluations, we wish to disrupt the idea that the self is both autonomous and affectively contained (Brennan 2). Instead, we imagine a self that extends into other bodies, spaces, and things, and highlight how teacher evaluations, as a particular thing, curiously animate (Chen 30) and affect our social worlds—altering our life course for a minute, a day, or perhaps, indefinitely (Stewart 12).* * *“The autobiographical is not the personal. […] Publics presume intimacy” (Berlant, The Female vii). Following Berlant, we propose that our individual narratives are always tangled up in other social bodies and are, therefore, not quite our own. Although we do use the word “I” to recount our specific experiences of teacher evaluations, we by no means wish to suggest that we are self-contained subjects confessing some singular life history or detached truth. Rather, together we examine the tensions, commonalities, possibilities, and threats that encounters with teacher evaluations produce within and around collective bodies (Stewart). We consider the ways in which these material objects seep deeply into our skin, re/animate moving forces (e.g. neoliberalism, patriarchy), and even trigger us emotionally by transporting us back to different times and places (S. Jones 525). And, we write to experiment (Deleuze and Guattari 1; Stewart 1) with the kind of “unpredictable intimacy” that Berlant (Intimacy 281; Structures 191) speaks of. We resist (as best we can) telos-driven tales that do not account for messiness, disorientation, surprise, or wonder (MacLure, Classification 180), as we invite readers to move right along beside (Sedgwick 8) us in this journey to embrace the complexities and implications (Nelson 111; Talburt 93) of teacher evaluations as corporeal matters. The “self” is no match for such affective entanglements (Stewart 58).Getting Un/Stuck “Cold and condescending.” I cannot help but get caught up in these words—no matter how hard I try. A million thoughts begin to bubble up: Am I a good teacher? A bad person? Uncaring? Arrogant? And, just like that, the ordinary turns on me (Stewart 106), triggering intense sensations that refuse to stay buried. What began as my reaction to a teacher evaluation soon becomes something else, somewhere else. Childhood wounds unexpectedly well up—leaking into the present, spreading uncontrollably, causing my body to get stuck in long ago and far away.In a virtual flash (Deleuze and Guattari 94), I am somehow in my grandmother’s kitchen once more, which even now smells of avgolemono soup, warm bread rising, home. Something sparks, as distant memories come flooding back to change my course and set me straight (or so I think). When I was a little girl and could not let something go, my yiayia (grandmother) Vasiliki would tell me, quite simply, to get “unstuck” (ξεκολλά). The Greeks, it seems, know something about the stickiness of affective attachments. Even though it has been over twenty years since my grandmother’s passing, her words, still alive, affectively ring in my ear. Out of some kind of charged habit (Stewart 16), her words now escape my mouth: “ξεκολλά,” I command, “ξεκολλά!” I repeat this phrase so many times that it becomes a mantra, but its magic has sadly lost all effect. No matter what I say or what I do, my body, stuck in repetition, “closes in on itself, unable to transmit its intensities differently” (Grosz 171). In an act of desperation (or perhaps survival), I rip the evaluation to shreds and throw the tattered remains down the trash chute. Yet, my actions prove futile. The evaluation lives on in a kind of afterlife, with its haunting ability to affect where my thoughts will go and what my body can do. And so, my agency—my ability to act, think, become (Deleuze and Guattari 361)—is inextricably twisted up in this evaluation, with its affective capacity to connect many “bodies” at once (both material and semiotic, human and non-human, living and dead).A View from Nowhere?At both college and school-level, formal teacher evaluations promise anonymity. Why is it, though, that students get to be voices without bodies: a voice that does not emerge from a complex, contradictory, and messy body, but rather “from above, from nowhere” (Haraway 589)? Once disembodied, students become god-like (Haraway 589), able to “objectively” dissect, judge, and even criticise teachers, while they themselves receive “panoptic immunity” (MacLure, Classification 168).This immunity has its consequences. Within formal and informal evaluations, students write of and about bodies in ways that often feel violating. Teachers’ bodies become spectacle, and anything goes:“Professor is kinda hot—not bad to look at!”“She dresses like a bag lady. [...] Her hair and clothing need an update.”“There's absolutely nothing redeeming about her as a person [...] but she has nice shoes.”(PrawfsBlog)Amid these affective violations, voices without bodies re/assemble into “voices without organs” (Mazzei 732)—a voice that emanates from an assemblage of bodies, not a singular subject. In this process, patriarchal discourses, as bodies of thought, dangerously spring up and swirl about. The voyeuristic gaze of patriarchy (see de Beauvoir; Mulvey) becomes habitual, shaping our stories, encounters, and sense of self.Female teachers, in particular, cannot deny its pull. The potential to create and/or transmit knowledge turns us into “risky subjects” in need of constant surveillance (Falter 29). Teacher evaluations do their part. As a metaphoric panopticon (see Foucault), they transform female teachers into passive spectacles—objects of the gaze—and students into active spectators who have “all the power to determine our teaching success” (Falter 30). The effects linger, do real damage (Stewart), and cause our pedagogical performances to fail every now and then. After all, a “good” female teacher is also a “good female subject” who is called upon to impart knowledge in ways that do not betray her otherwise feminine or motherly “nature” (Falter 28). This pressure to be both knowledgeable and nurturing, while displaying a “visible fragility [...] a kind of conventional feminine vulnerability” (McRobbie 79), pervades the social and is intense. Although it is not easy to navigate, the fact that unrecognisable bodies are subject to punishment (Butler, Performative 528) helps keep power dynamics firmly in place. These forces permeate my body, as well, making me “cold” and “unfair” in one evaluation and “kind” and “sweet” in another—but rarely smart or intelligent. Like clockwork, this bodily visibility and regulation brings with it never-ending self-critique and self-discipline (Harris 9). Absorbing these swarming intensities, I begin to question my capacity to effectively teach and form relationships with my students. Days later, weeks later, years later, I continue to wonder: if even one student leaves my class feeling “bad,” do I have any business being a teacher? Ugh, the docile, good girl (Harris 19) rears her ugly (or is it pretty?) head once again. TranscorporealityEven though the summer sun invites me in, I spend the whole day at home, in bed, unable to move. At one point, a friend arrives, forcing me to get up and get out. We grab a bite to eat, and it is not long before I confess my deepest fear: that my students are right about me, that these evaluations somehow mark me as a horrible teacher and person. She seems surprised that I would let a few comments defeat me and asks me what this is really all about. I shrug my shoulders, unwilling to go there.Later that night, I find myself re-reading my spring evaluations online. The positive ones electrify the screen, filling me with joy, as the constructive ones get me brainstorming about ways I might do things differently. And while I treasure these comments, I do not focus too much on them. Instead, I spend most of the evening replaying a series of negative tapes over and over in my head. Somewhat defeated, I slip slowly back into my bed and find that it surprisingly offers me a kind of comfort that my friend does not. I wonder, “What body am I now in the arms of” (Chen 202)? The bed and I become “interporous” (Chen 203), intimate even. There is much solace in the darkness of those lively, billowy blue covers: a peculiar solace made possible by these evaluations—a thing which compels me to find comfort somewhere, anywhere, beyond the human body.The GhostAs a high school teacher, I was accustomed to being reviewed. Some reviews were posted onto the website ratemyteacher.com, a platform of anonymously submitted reviews of kindergarten through 12th-grade teachers on easiness, helpfulness, clarity, knowledge, textbook use, and exam difficulty. Others were less official; irate commentary posted on social media platforms or baldly concise characterisations of our teaching styles that circulated among students and bounded back to us as hearsay and whispered asides. In these reviews, our teacher-selves were constructed: One became the easy teacher, the mean teacher, the fun teacher, or the hard-but-good teacher. The teacher who could not control her class; the teacher who controlled her class excessively.Sometimes, we googled ourselves because it was tempting to do so (and near-impossible not to). One day, I searched various forms of my name followed by the name of the school. One of my students, a girl with hot pink streaks in her hair and pointy studs shooting out of her belt and necklaces, had written a complaint on Facebook about a submission of a final writing portfolio. The student wrote on the publicly visible wall of another student in my class, noting how much she still had left to do on the assignment. Dotting the observation with expletives, she bemoaned the portfolio as requiring too much work. Then, she observed that I had an oily complexion and wrote that I was a “dyke.” After I read the comment, I closed my laptop and an icy wave passed through me. That night, I went to dinner with friends. I ruminated aloud over the comments: How could this student—with whom I had thought I had a good relationship—write about me in such a derisive manner? And what, in particular, about my appearance conveyed that I was lesbian? My friends laughed; they found the student’s comments funny and indicative of the blunt astuteness of teenagers. As I thought about the comments, I realised the pain lay in the comments’ specificity. They demonstrated the ability of the student to perceive and observe a bodily attribute about which I was particularly insecure. It made me wonder about the countless other eyes and glances directed at me each day, taking in, noticing, and dissecting my bodily self (McRobbie 63).The next morning, before school, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror and dabbed toner on my skin. Today, I thought, today will be a day in which both my skin texture and my lesson plans will be in good order. After this day, I could no longer bring myself to look this student directly in the eye. I was officious in our interactions. I read her poetry and essays with guarded ambivalence. I decided that I would no longer google myself. I would no longer click on links that were pointedly reviews of me as a teacher.The reviewed-self is a ghost-self. It is a shadow, an underbelly. The comments—perhaps posted in a moment of anger or frustration—linger. Years later, though I have left full-time classroom teaching, I still think about them. I have not recovered from the comments though I should, apparently, have already recuperated from their sharp effects. I wonder if the reviews will ceaselessly follow me, if they will shape the impressions of those who google me, if my reviewed-self will become the first and most formidable impression of those who might come to know me, if my reviewed-self will be the lasting and most formidable way I see myself.Trigger Happy In 2014, a teacher at a California public high school posts a comment on Twitter about wishing to pour coffee on her students. Some of her students this year, she writes, make her “trigger finger itchy” (see Oakley). She already “wants to stab” them a mere two weeks into the school year. “Is that bad?” she asks. One of her colleagues screen-captures her tweets and sends them to the school principal and to a local newspaper. They go viral, resulting in widespread condemnation on the Internet. She is named the “worst teacher ever” by one online media outlet (Parker). The media swarm the school. The reporters interview parents in minivans who are picking up their children from school. One parent, from behind the steering wheel, expresses her disapproval of the teacher. She says, “As a teacher, I think she should be held to a higher accountability than other people” (Louie). In the comments section of an article, a commenter declares that the “mutant should be fired” (Oakley). Others are more forgiving. They cite their boyfriends and sisters who are teachers and who also air grievances, though somewhat less violently and in the privacy of their homes (A. Jones). All teachers have these thoughts, some of the commenters argue, they just are not stupid enough to tweet them.In her own defence, the teacher tells a local paper that she “never expected anyone would take me seriously” (Oakley). As a teacher, she is often “forced to cultivate a ‘third-person consciousness,’ to be an ‘objectified subject’” (Chen 33) on display, so can we really blame her? If she had thought people would take her seriously, “you'd better believe I would have been much more careful with what I've said” (Oakley). The students are the least offended party because, as their teacher had hoped, they do not take her tweets seriously. In fact, they are “laughing it off,” according to a local news channel (Newark Teacher). In a news interview, one female student says she finds the teacher’s tweets humorous. They are fond of this teacher and believe she cares about her students. Seemingly, they do not mind that their teacher—jokingly, of course—harbours homicidal thoughts about them or that she wishes to splash hot coffee in their faces.There is a certain wisdom in the teacher’s observational, if foolhardy, tweeting. In a tweet tagged #secretlyhateyou, the teacher explains that while students may have their own negative feelings towards their teachers, teachers also have such feelings for their students. But, she tweets, “We are just not allowed to show it” (Oakley). At parties and social gatherings, we perform the cheerful educator by leaving our bodies at the door and giving into “the politics of emotion, the unwritten rules that feelings are to be ‘privatised’ and ‘pathologised’ rather than aired” (Thiel 39). At times, we are allowed a certain level of dissatisfaction, an eye roll or shrug of the shoulders, a whimsical, breathy sigh: “Oh you know! Kids today! Instagram! Sexting!” But we cannot express dislike for our own students.One evening, I was on the train with a friend who does not work as a teacher. We observed a pack of teenagers, screaming and grabbing at each other’s cell phones. The friend said, “Aren’t they so fascinating, teenagers?” Grumpily, I disagreed. On that day, no, I was not fascinated by teenagers. My friend responded, shocked, “But don’t you work as a teacher…?” It is an unspoken requirement of the job. We maintain relentless expressions of joy, an earnest wonderment towards those whom we teach. And we are, too, appalled by those who do not exhibit a constant stream of cheerfulness. The teachers’ lunchroom is the repository for “bad” feelings about students, a site of negative feelings that can somehow stick (Ahmed, Happy 29) to those who choose to eat their lunch within this space. Only the most jaded battle-axes would opt to eat in the lunchroom. Good teachers—happy and caring ones—would never choose to eat lunch in this room. Instead, they eat lunch in their classrooms, alone, prepare dutifully for the afternoon’s classes, and try to contain all of their murderous inclinations. But (as the media love to remind us), whether intended or not, our corporeal bodies with all their “unwanted affects” (Brennan 3, 11) have a funny way of “surfacing” (Ahmed, Communities 14).Conclusion: Surging BodiesAffects surge within everyday conversations of teacher evaluations. In fact, it is almost impossible to talk about evaluations without sparking some sort of heated response. Recent New York Times articles echo the more popular sentiments: from the idea that evaluations are gendered and raced (Pratt), to the prevailing notion that students are informed consumers entitled to “the best return out of their educational investments” (Stankiewicz). Evidently, education is big business. So, we take our cues from neoliberal ideologies, as we struggle to make sense of all the fissures and leaks. Teachers’ bodies now become commodified objects within a market model that promises customer satisfaction—and the customer is always right.“Develop a thicker skin,” they say, as if a thicker skin could contain my affects or prevent other affects from seeping in; “my body is and is not mine” (Butler, Precarious 26). Leaky bodies, with their permeable borders (Renold and Mellor 33), affectively flow into all kinds of “things.” Likewise, teacher evaluations, as objects, extend into human bodies, sending eruptive charges that both register within the body and transmit outward into the environment. These charges emerge as upset, judgment, wonder, sadness, confusion, annoyance, pleasure, and everything in between. They embody an intensity that animates our social worlds, working to enhance energies and/or diminish them. Affects, then, do not just come from, and stay within, bodies (Brennan 10). A body, as an assemblage (Deleuze and Guattari 4), is neither self-contained nor disconnected from other bodies, spaces, and things.As a collection of sticky, “material, physiological things” (Brennan 6), teacher evaluations are very much alive: vibrantly shifting and transforming teachers’ affective capacities and life trajectories. Attending to them as such offers a way in which to push back against our own bodily erasure or “the screaming absence in [American] education of any attention to the inner life of teachers” (Taubman 3). While affect itself has become a recent hot-topic across American university campuses (e.g. see “trigger warnings” debates, Halberstam), conversations tend to exclude teachers’ bodies. So, for example, we can talk of creating “safe [classroom] spaces” in order to safeguard students’ feelings. We can even warn learners if material might offend, as well as watch what we say and do in an effort to protect students from any potential trauma. But we cannot, it would seem, matter, too. Instead, we must (if good and caring) be on affective autopilot, where we can only have “good” thoughts about students. We are not really allowed to feel what we feel, express raw emotion, have a body—unless, of course, that body transmits feel-good intensities.And, feeling bad about teacher evaluations ... well, for the most part, that needs to remain a dirty little secret, because, how can you possibly let yourself get so hot and bothered over a thing—a mere object? Yet, teacher evaluations can and do impact our lives, often in ways that are harmful: by inflicting pain, triggering trauma, encouraging sexism and objectification. But maybe, just maybe, they even offer up some good. After all, if teacher evaluations teach us anything, it is this: you are not simply a body, but rather, an “array of bodies” (Bennett 112, emphasis added)—and your body, my body, our bodies “must be heard” (Cixous 880).ReferencesAhmed, Sara. “Happy Objects.” The Affect Theory Reader. Eds. Melissa Gregg and Gregory J. Seigworth. 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