alexb2016's blog

Marilyn Waring's work, Counting for Nothing, presents the role of women as an invaluable asset whose value needs to be imputed in the gross domestic product of the nation. Waring analyzes and criticizes different ways economists have attempted to measure women's domestic labor (household labor and production), such as measuring opportunity cost, but doesn't ever present her own suggestion for its measurement. That got me brainstorming; how do you place a value on women's domestic labor? We could argue that reproduction, or the act of raising a child is intangible capitol as an asset that cannot be physically measured. Waring also believes that imputing value on reproduction wouldn't be morally correct. However, almost every other part of women's household labor can be physically measured in the economy. First, I thought that measuring value at a per/hour salary rate would be the easiest way to calculate women's domestic product. However, I forgot to take into account the different level of skill it takes for a woman to do various jobs--it really varies from cleaning to cooking to maintenance, all of which correspond to different careers with different salaries in the economy. A little of topic (but isn't that what our Serendip postings are for? :))...this past weeks reading reminded me of a discussion my AP English class had senior year. We wanted to calculate what a human life was worth. First, we thought of life insurance, but then realized that was just people paying to have risk taken away from them.

Today was a beautiful day to be outside, and yet, I couldn't really enjoy it. I woke up much later than usual, and I felt as if I had already lost half of my day (which, technically, I had). Everything felt rushed, cramped into a time frame that couldn't allow me to truly enjoy the benevolent weather. I felt disoriented and stressed, and then frustrated because I felt disoriented and stressed--you can see how this quickly became a vicious cycle. My spot behind Rhodes, which usually provides a much needed hiatus from my day, became another chore on a long to-do list. I was trying to force myself to immerse myself in the quiet, trying to connect with a more peaceful version of myself. 

In doing so, I realized that I couldn't make myself feel a certain way. The frustration I was feeling was a natural part of being me, and if I wanted to connect with nature, then I needed to be in tune with those feelings--even if it made me uncomfortable. Sometimes I feel like I will myself to feel certain ways, a very mechanical process; so today I let myself feel frustrated, and acknowledging that made it a lot more easier to deal with than having is fester in the corner of my mind. The experience was almost like a detox, getting all of the "bad stuff" out of my system. The trick wasn't to ignore those feelings, but to embrace them--and then I could enjoy the warmth of the sun on my back for a little while. 

I apologize for my late posting; my parents were up at Bryn Mawr for Parent's weekend on Sunday, and I didn't have a chance to visit my spot until this afternoon. While there, I reflected upon recent class discussions, and couldn't help but feel a little bit frustrated--and conflicted--about the role of women in present day society. I don't identify with the "radical" ideas that we discussed this past Thursday, but our discussion about ecofeminism coaxed out some bitter feelings that I've been harboring for quite some time (actually, I wouldn't exactly call it harboring...it's a common topic of discussion with my roommate). The patriarchal views which dominate American society have even penetrated the bi-co, crushing any sort of intimacy that may have been emerging between students and their curriculum, peers, and professors. This obsession eith domination is the problem. We're so focused on dominating our academics, social tiers, and athletics that many have lost their love of knowledge. William Butler Yeats once said that "Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire". This is the type of education that our liberal arts institutions have attempted to provide, but that we have not truly taken advantage of. I want to return to the state where I love to write, read, and learn with out feeling like I'm robotically taking in information. However, this is easier said than done, especially gievn the academic rigor of Bryn Mawr.

As Hurricane Sandy was making her grand debut on the East Coast, I was similarly making an entrance in the Eastern arch of Pembroke, joining the ranks of those who intended to ride out our loss of power with a night of festivities. We played music in the common room, donned our bathing suits, and celebrated the class cancellations Sandy had initiated. In those instants, we were living in the comic mode, and were merely "riding out the storm"--with the simple intention of getting by without electricity. When I woke up the next morning, my facebook newfeed had been bombarded with images of debri and destruction that Sandy had left in her wake. The headlines read, "The Storm of the Century", "13 People Dead", "Hurricane Sandy Wreaks Havoc Across Northeast"; suddenly, the previous night's festivities seemed childish and unsympathetic juxtaposed against the morose news that had taken over the internet. Now, I saw Sandy through the tragic mode, and attempted to put myself in the shoes of those who were not as fortunate as those of us at Bryn Mawr. Although the Sandy party offered a nice, enjoyable break from reality, it was imperative that I made the switch from the comic mode into the tragic mode to realize the situation for what it was. As we discussed in class, it's important to approach issues from both the comic and tragic modes--a tragicomic experience if you will. As Hurricane Sandy was making her way along the East Coast, what were you doing, and would classify your experience as being in the tragic or comic mode? 

Change is good. Society seems to be perpetually changing our politics and regulations to save itself from regression, or being left behind in a world that is constantly modernizing. Most of the time, our adaptations to the changing times  are advantageous, and have rendered the United States one of the superpowers of the world. On the news, we brag about technological innovations, advancements in our education system, and refreshed activism in social issues that reflect the benefits of change, and our positive relationship with it. Therefore, today I decided to walk around and choose a new spot where I would journal for the remainder of the semester. Surprisingly, I found great difficulty locating a new spot. I wasn't afraid to step outside of my comfort zone; I even tried writing in the garden next to Haffner. However, nothing I tried felt "right". I missed the familiarity of my old spot next to the pond behind Rhodes, and I was frustrated at myself for it. I convinced myself that if I changed up my old routine, I would see the results in my writing. I found myself forcing a change that didn't need to happen at all. In the end, I returned to the pond, and tried writing again. Watching the pond in the rain allowed me to clear my head of all my frustration, and the writing soon flowed in after. I realized that, while change is good, you shouldn't force it--so for now, you can still find me at Rhodes every Sunday, writing behind the pond. 

                After visiting the Harriton house Thursday, I decided to approach this week’s serendip posting from a more “historical” standpoint. That is, what did my spot next to the pond behind Rhodes look like 100 years ago? In order to do this, I also needed to alter my ecological perspective of my place—and effected this alteration through the removal of students and buildings that are now Bryn Mawr College.  Bryn Mawr College was founded 126 years ago, and although some aspects of the college have remained the same, I imagine that things must have been much different back then. I pictured the pond next to where I sat, more carefully kept, without the fence surrounding the perimeter. I could see women in dresses strolling along the hillside, books in hand—maybe engaging in small talk with a peer as she descended down to the edge of the pond. Of course, there are none of the mowers to assail the quiet, and no computers in lieu of a worn, leafed through book. Instead of other academic institutions, I like to picture a more rural surrounding of my place. I can see fields looking past the pond to the left, and can make out the outline of the Harriton farm if I narrow my eyes and look to my right. The air is clean, and laden with the smell of wassail and dry leaves; I can see bursts of crimson and orange scattered across the ground and on the muddy surface of the pond.

When I visited the pond behind Rhodes for the second time, I decided to bring along some company. My teammate Georgia and I had just finished a run and were waiting for a friend, so I thought it would be an appropriate time to visit my "spot". I explained my assignment to her, and why I had chosen this spot out of every other place on campus. "I think it's so beautiful", I told her when she asked. 

She replied with,"It's messy, but it's beautiful". I asked her what she meant by that, and she told me that, to her at least, the pond seemed a little out of place on campus. It was fenced off, and not maintained like the rest of the grounds, which is why she had called it messy. I thought about that for a moment, and then asked her what her hometown looked like in comparison to Bryn Mawr. She lives in the suburbs of Alabama, and explained that everything there was perfectly maintained; a place for everything, and everything in its place. I realized that where she was raised may have affected the way she perceieved my spot behind Rhodes. My hometown in Vermont is nothing like she had described hers to be, and I wondered if that was the reason why I had seen the pond from a different window of perspective. To me, there was beautiful organization in the reeds, the overgrown shrubs lining the fence, and the looming shadows of trees that hung over the water. I would have never have thought to classify it as a "mess". 

     Sitting next to the pond behind Rhodes made me a little homesick for Vermont. Tonight, the air isn't heavy like it's been lately, and much less sweet like it's been after the rain. The day before I left my homestate a friend and I hiked up to a clearing in the Appalachian Trail to stargaze. We had forgotten to bring his blanket from his car, so we had to deal with sitting on the wet grass. We must have sat there for hours, talking about the huge leap we were both about to take, and listening to the frogs in the pogue. The view from the pond behind Rhodes reminded me of this scene, and as I reminisced this last meeting, I couldn't help but feel nostalgiac for my home. Where I live, I can step out the door and I'm surrounded by green, and the piney smell that accompanies it. Hiking the trails behind my home has become a ritual that I enjoy; I find that I'm immediately happier once I can get away from the business of my day. Sitting in my "spot" tonight had a similar effect--it offered a hiatus from the stress of everyday life as a Bryn Mawr College student. Not to say that I don't love my life here, but I wouldn't be lying if I said that constantly working, running, and studying hasn't taken its toll on me. Lying on the damp grass and listening to the frogs in the pond brought me back to Vermont for a while, a retreat that I was surprised to find I needed. 

This is a photo of the pogue. I usually run on the trails that surround the glacial pool. 

       I chose this image because I believe it represents the history of this institution, which foregrounds much more about the college than a map ever could. The Harriton House is actually located behind Schwartz, and is part of one of my longer cross-country runs. The mansion was originally constructed by Quaker Rowland Ellis, who named the land Bryn Mawr, which means “high hill” in Welsh. When the title was found in records years after Ellis had been forced to sell the property, it was decided that the township surrounding the estate would be named Bryn Mawr. Ellis’ uncle, John Humphrey, owned a handsome plot of land adjoining that of his nephew that now is Bryn Mawr College. Discovering the Harriton House on one of my runs helped me put my small window of perspective in relation to a more universal perspective of the world—in other words, my personal map in comparison to a much larger map. I use the corner between Harriton Avenue and Old Gulph Road as a reference point on my runs, while the Harriton House is a cornerstone of Bryn Mawr’s history.