Applied Linguistics and Politics 9781350098237, 9781350098268, 9781350098244

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APPLIED LINGUISTICS AND POLITICS

Contemporary Studies in Linguistics Series Editor: Li Wei, Chair of Applied Linguistics, University College London, UK The Contemporary Studies in Linguistics series presents state-of-the-art accounts of current research in all areas of linguistics. Written by internationally renowned linguists, the volumes provide a selection of the best scholarship in each area. Each of the chapters appears on the basis of its importance to the field, but also with regards to its wider significance either in terms of methodology, practical application, or conclusions. The result is a stimulating contemporary snapshot of the field and a vibrant reader for each of the areas covered the in series.

Titles in the Series Applied Linguistics and Politics, edited by Christian W. Chun Contemporary Applied Linguistics in Illness and Healthcare Contexts, edited by Zsófia Demjén Contemporary Applied Linguistics Volume 1, edited by Li Wei and Vivian Cook Contemporary Applied Linguistics Volume 2, edited by Li Wei and Vivian Cook Contemporary Computer-Assisted Language Learning, edited by Michael Thomas, Hayo Reinders, and Mark Warschauer Contemporary Corpus Linguistics, edited by Paul Baker Contemporary Critical Discourse Studies, edited by Christopher Hart and Piotr Cap Contemporary Linguistic Parameters, edited by Antonio Fabregas, Jaume Mateu, and Michael Putnam Contemporary Media Stylistics, edited by Helen Ringrow and Stephen Pihlaja Contemporary Stylistics, edited by Marina Lambrou and Peter Stockwell Contemporary Task-Based Language Teaching in Asia, edited by Michael Thomas Diversifying Family Language Policy, edited by Lyn Wright and Christina Higgins

APPLIED LINGUISTICS AND POLITICS Edited by Christian W. Chun

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2022 Copyright © Christian W. Chun and Contributors, 2022 Christian W. Chun has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editor of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgments on p. xi constitute an extension of this copyright page. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-3500-9823-7 ePDF: 978-1-3500-9824-4 eBook: 978-1-3500-9825-1 Series: Contemporary Studies in Linguistics Typeset by Newgen KnowledgeWorks Pvt. Ltd., Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

In memory of Jan Blommaert On behalf of my fellow contributors to this volume, I dedicate this book to the life and work of Jan Blommaert. His seminal contributions to applied linguistics and sociolinguistics have influenced and reshaped the ways in which we view how language, discourse, and society all effect one another. We will continue to strive to co-construct a more just world for our fellow humans as you have done throughout your life.

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CONTENTS

L ist of I llustrations A cknowledgments

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Introduction 1 Christian W. Chun Part I Media 1 Political Discourse in Post-Digital Societies Jan Blommaert 2 Populism as a Mediatized Communicative Relation: The Birth of Algorithmic Populism I.E.L. (Ico) Maly

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Part II Economy 3 Audit as Genre, Migration Industries, and Neoliberalism’s Uptakes Alfonso Del Percio 4 The Politics of Migrant Economies: Applied Linguistics Looking into Thai Massage in Vienna Mi-Cha Flubacher

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5 The Perceiving Subject of Irregular Employment: Applied Linguistics, Precarity, and Capitalism Joseph Sung-Yul Park

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Part III Culture and Identity 6 The Politics of Culture Claire Kramsch

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7 Biopolitics and Intersex Human Rights: A Role for Applied Linguistics 155 Brian W. King Part IV Affect 8 Wash Your Hands! Domestic Labor and the Affective Economy of Racial Capitalism Ana Deumert 9 Politics of Commemoration and Memory John E. Richardson and Tommaso M. Milani

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Part V Education 10 Language, Pedagogy, and Discourses of Criticality in Late Capitalism 235 Carlos Soto 11 Organic Intellectuals or Traditional Intellectuals: Critical Discourse for Whom? Christian W. Chun

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L ist of C ontributors A uthor I ndex  S ubject I ndex 

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ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures 1.1 Saussure’s model of communication

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1.2 Communication structure on Twitter

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2.1 Social Blade—overview @WyattEarpLA

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10.1 School multicultural celebration

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Table 8.1 Composition of the South African Labor Force

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Li Wei for inviting me to contribute to the series Contemporary Studies in Linguistics, Bloomsbury Publishing. I also thank my colleagues around the world who contributed their seminal ideas and cuttingedge research to further our field of applied linguistics in the domain of politics and society. Your work will expand our field in important ways in fighting for a better world for all. Finally, I thank Andrew Wardell, Morwenna Scott, and Becky Holland for their assistance in getting this book published.

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Introduction CHRISTIAN W. CHUN

THE YEAR THAT NO ONE WILL FORGET As I write this almost at the end of 2020, this year will most likely be for many of us around the world one of the most turbulent ones in our lifetimes. This has been due to not only the global Covid-19 viral pandemic that has taken the lives of millions of people near and dear to us but also the accompanying political, economic, and social upheavals that had already been in motion prior to the outbreak but have since accelerated because of the virus. In addition to the pandemic, in an unprecedented fashion, much of the world was anxiously waiting for the outcome of the US presidential election in November thanks to the repulsive, dividing, and extremely egregious politics and persona of Donald Trump. Never before in my lifetime had there been a US president who so many people in other countries wanted to see defeated in a reelection. Solely judging from news reports and social media posts from outside the United States, it appeared that at least in these countries, his detractors far outnumbered the supporters. However, within the United States, another unparalleled reaction to a US president has been the clear divide between half the people who intensely abhor him and nearly the other half who continue to adore and follow him, based on the 2020 election voting numbers. Friends, family members, neighbors, coworkers, and the proverbial strangers on the street have argued with, and sometimes literally fought, each other over what some who were beholden to what they perceived to be the admirable traits of Trump’s leadership, while others decried and lambasted his appalling behaviors and racist views he spouted throughout his term as president (as

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well as prior to his January 2017 presidential inauguration). His fervent supporters often pointed to Trump appearing to be refreshingly honest with his seemingly unprofessional registers unlike most career politicians, which may be understandable in some contexts: for example, some voters feeling that they were not being “talked down to” by him, unlike the many other longtime politicians who also have similar substantial cultural, financial, and social capital as Trump. These interactional dynamics illustrate that indeed “a register is a social regularity: a single individual’s metapragmatic activity does not suffice to establish the social existence of a register unless confirmed in some way by the evaluative activities of others” (Agha, 2007a, p. 153). How these evaluative activities evolve and shift over time through multiple macro- and microlevel social co-constructions are but one aspect of the inherent politics in our everyday language use. Furthermore, what is involved in the discursive co-constructive enactments of identities shaped in part by cultural notions of the self and the affects involved with the appeals of these discourses? Trump’s supporters also believed that he had their backs by his promising to build the wall along the entire border of Mexico so that their occupations would not be threatened by the “Others” who are “stealing” their jobs, and that he would deliver—and was delivering—on his promise to truly “Make America Great Again!” What actually was meant by him with this campaign slogan (used both in the 2016 and 2020 elections) employing the imperative in interpellating those who would help return the United States to being “great” once more prompted much speculation and debate in the mass media and on social media on the ideological meanings of this word, its intended enactments, and the disputed historically contextualized trajectories of what supposedly made the country “great” before. Was the country once being so-called great referring to the enslaving period of the United States, which lasted from 1619 to 1865? Was it the years starting with the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act that was the first to ban immigrants based on race and class? Was it the pre-Civil Rights Era in which segregation and the Jim Crow laws banning Black Americans from voting and having equal access to education and fair housing (which has continued to this day)? And was it referring to the ongoing years and decades following the end of the Civil War (1861–5) in which numerous Black Americans were lynched by white supremacists such as the Ku Klux Klan, none of whom were ever charged for their murders of Black lives including children? Indeed, some suggested that with these historical events in mind, the context in which Trump was promising to make the country “great” again was to restore whiteness (aka “greatness”) to its prominence as the undisputed power in the age of neoliberal identity politics (e.g., Fraser, 1995, 2000). In contrast, Trump’s critics in the mass and social media and those who voted against him repeatedly pointed out his overwhelming incompetence as president, his racism, sexism, selfishness, and apparent corruption in his

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seeming to refuse to disavow his personal business interests in favor of the public good. For those of us who have belonged to this latter camp, it has been quite perplexing at times why his supporters still embraced him even after his dismissal of the pandemic and the toll it has taken on the country (“Don’t be afraid of it,” he texted while recovering from the Covid-19 virus) and his administration’s utter disregard for, and rejection of, instituting any national policy to curb the outbreak. Furthermore, his supporters’ lives (for those who have not died from the virus) have not significantly improved since his election in 2016, if at all, and in many cases, they have gotten worse especially since the outbreak of the pandemic with rising unemployment and homelessness. As some liberal-minded voters and progressives have suggested, are these people just “brainwashed” into being his “sheeple”? What are the affects involved in the mass- and social-mediated discourse dynamics in helping to appeal to these supporters’ cultural identities? These discursive enactments interpellating cultural identities have obviously not been unique only in the context of the United States; the intereffecting dynamics of language, culture, and identity have always been the key component of politics everywhere. With the decline of the economy in the UK that began to accelerate in the decades following the end of the Second World War, there emerged politicians such as Margaret Thatcher and the current prime minister, Boris Johnson, who have drawn upon parallel discourses rooted in their history and dominant culture in promising to make Britain “great” again as well. And with the 2018 Brazilian presidential election of Jair Bolsonaro with his racist, sexist, misogynistic, homophobic, and xenophobic stances, it should be evident that Trump has not been an isolated case limited to the United States. Thus, for applied linguists around the world who are committed to social, economic, and racial justice for all, what are the ways in which we can help overturn these discourses and enactments of hatred, violence, and oppression with our research and teaching?

“THE ART OF THE DEAL”? Over 2,400 years ago, the ancient Greek philosopher Socrates, in his dialogue with Gorgias, observed that “rhetoric is an agent of the kind of persuasion which is designed to produce conviction, but not to educate people, about matters of right and wrong” (Plato, 1994, p. 10). It seems clear that a large part of Trump’s success—and this despite his losing the 2020 election, he actually got more votes than he did in the 2016 one—stems from his ability to use language quite shrewdly to not only dialogically co-construct certain beliefs among voters but also legitimize existing ones that had been somewhat more covert, or at least not being seen as socially acceptable in mainstream society in the preceding thirty years or so; one example would be white

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supremacist discourses. Yet there have been other discourses in circulation that interpellate other identities. Although some have dismissed his speaking abilities as being subpar for a president for its lack of any “presidential” register, Trump’s seemingly uncanny rhetorical strategies have proved quite effective in appealing to a good number of people. These supporters and new recruits since the 2016 election are not nearly as homogenous as some liberals or progressives might like to think, however; that is, his supporters comprise mainly straight white working-class cisgender males. Although this demographic does constitute a good portion of his voters, his other supporters have included a sizeable population of women and minorities, a percentage of whom actually increased in voting for him in the 2020 election (Powell, 2020), this despite his past alleged behaviors toward women and his documented racist and xenophobic comments. So then why do some people who have been the targets of his discursive actions continue to cheer him on? In posing the following question to Gorgias, Socrates addressed a central dynamic between language and politics: “What kind of persuasion does rhetoric produce, and what is its sphere of operation?” (Plato, 1994, p. 15). In this age of social media, it is clear that this online platform is now a predominant sphere of operation in which Trump’s rhetoric has circulated to the extent of which his followers (including those on Twitter and Facebook) have adhered to his insistence that the traditional news outlets such as the New York Times and Washington Post are, of course, “fake news” and thus easily dismissed. And with his castigating of mass media that have repeatedly critiqued him and exposed his business interests in part driving his policies, Trump’s linguisticpolitical dynamics have positioned him as someone who knows more than anyone else despite the lack of credentials in the areas of the people he has mocked. However, this is not novel, as this has been historically a characteristic feature of demagogues who have risen and taken hold of power throughout centuries, as “rhetoric is a phantom of a branch of statesmanship” (Plato, 1994, p. 30). Indeed, in what could be an apt description of Trump, Socrates astutely observed, Isn’t a practitioner of rhetoric in the same situation whatever the area of expertise? He never has to know the actual facts of any issue; instead, he’s equipped himself with a persuasive ploy which enables him to make nonexperts believe that he knows more than experts. (p. 24) Trump’s persuasive ploys have more than convinced his followers that he knows better than experts such as Dr. Anthony Fauci, the longtime director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, in his dismissing the threats of the viral pandemic by not wearing a mask in setting an example for his supporters, many of whom have also refused to wear masks in large gatherings

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including his campaign rallies and the protests against the 2020 election outcome. A central element in his appeal to these supporters and voters is the ways in which he has engaged them with his affective discursive approaches. I am pretty sure that he has never read the ancient Greek philosophers; nevertheless, Trump has clearly taken a page out of Socrates’ “playbook” as it were, inasmuch as the use of his rhetoric “doesn’t involve expertise; all you need is a mind which is good at guessing, some courage, and a natural talent for interacting with people. The general term I use to refer to it is ‘flattery’ ” (Plato, 1994, p. 30). Socrates frames rhetorical talent in defining it as “a kind of experiential knack … at producing pleasure and gratification” (p. 29) in which flattery is undeniably “the promise of maximizing immediate pleasure” (p. 32). Trump’s flattery is evident in his not “talking down” to his supporters as many of them have felt from other political leaders—and certainly in the context of their workplaces, from many of their work supervisors. His flattery is enacted in his treating them as his companions in the struggle against “political correctness” and all the efforts to dismantle white supremacy in the United States since the Civil Rights era of the 1960s. Undoubtedly, the role of affect over reason is a key element in political rhetoric as we have seen.

DISCURSIVE ECHOINGS OF VIOLENCE In early August 2019, a person shot and killed twenty-three people as well as injured twenty-three others at a chain department store in El Paso, Texas, which is a predominantly Mexican American community. These shootings have been reported to be the most lethal attack on Latinos in recent US history. The accused killer had written a manifesto that was posted online, in which he claimed to be inspired by the Christchurch mosque massacre in New Zealand that occurred five months earlier that year. In his manifesto, he wrote that “this attack is a response to the Hispanic invasion of Texas” (as cited in Baker & Shear, 2019). His use of the word “invasion” to frame both the entries of recent immigrants from Mexico into the United States and Mexican Americans who have been living in the country for centuries was a direct dialogical echoing of Trump’s discursive framing at a campaign rally during the 2018 midterm elections in which he bellowed to his supporters, “You look at what is marching up, that is an invasion! That is an invasion!” (as cited in Baker & Shear, 2019). M. M. Bakhtin (1981) cogently observed that “each word tastes of the context and contexts in which it has lived its socially charged life; all words and forms are populated by intentions” (p. 293). The common usage of the word “invasion” has traditionally been to describe the activities of military armed forces in entering state-demarcated territories to occupy and subjugate the residing people, or the entry of a viral disease or parasite into a living organism. What was conveniently omitted in the accused killer’s narrative was the fact that

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the area of what is now Texas along with the other southwestern regions such as California and Arizona were part of Mexico before the Mexican-American War of 1846–8 in which it was the United States that invaded Mexican territory. Trump’s lexical choice in the context of appealing to his supporters in primarily blaming the Other (those who are “conveniently” designated for specific political narrative contexts) for the loss of manufacturing jobs (and never, of course, are the corporate executives blamed for this) collocates this word “invasion” with immigrants from Mexico as a dangerous threat to the well-being of the country. By using this word, it is an example of what V. N. Vološinov (1973) argued that the “orientation of the word toward the addressee has an extremely high significance. In point of fact, word is a two-sided act. It is determined equally by whose word it is and for whom it is meant” (p. 86). It is clear in this case whose word it is and whom this word is meant for. By politically and thus socially sanctifying the word “invasion” in framing immigration from a particular country, Trump enabled people like the accused killer in justifying the killing of who the accused killer perceived as “invaders.” In her article, “The Public Life of White Affects,” M. Bucholtz (2019) maintained that according to traditional—and much-contested—conceptualizations, publics are political spheres discursively produced via mediatized communication (Cody, 2011). It is less acknowledged, however, that publics are also formed within the geographic and institutional spaces of social and political life (Low & Smith, 2006) as well as within collective contexts of affective density, or what Ahmed terms “emotional publics” (2015, p. 19 n.24). That is, publics are simultaneously constituted discursively, materially, and affectively. (p. 489) It is this affective density or emotional publics of nationalist and cultural identity discourses that is involved in determining who is “invading” a country. Is it those who, by immigrating in seeking jobs and/or fleeing from wars and other violent oppressions, are the ones who are the invaders? In the context of the United States (and other countries as well), there are only three ancestral lineages: The first are those who are the descendants of the Indigenous peoples, also known as Native Americans, having inhabited the lands for thousands of years. The second lineage are those whose ancestors were from Africa who were enslaved and thus sent against their will to the continent that became North America, starting in the early 1600s. And the third group are people who descended from immigrants coming from around the world. How and why have only a selected few of these in the last category become co-constructed and perceived by some as the “true” Americans (and again in the context of other countries, “true” nationals)? It appears that these selected people who

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share the same ancestral immigration lineage but whose ancestors were from countries that became white have bought into being the ones who deserve to be in the United States and who have once made the country “great,” which have been part of the discourses that Trump has effectively and affectively utilized via social media platforms such as Twitter. These affective ideological and historical constructs of viewing oneself and others who “look the same” as being “White” and being seen as such serve as what W. E. B. Du Bois (1992) called “a sort of public and psychological wage” (p. 700). These ideologically constructed and perpetuated wages that have been a fundamental component in capitalist economy and society in compensating many white workers for their much lower material wages compared with the ruling elite have manifested in a various ways: “They were given public deference and titles of courtesy because they were white. They were admitted freely with all classes of white people to public functions, public parks, and the best schools” (p. 700). In dialogical tandem with this was how Black Americans were “compelled almost continuously to submit to various badges of inferiority” (p. 701). These racial dynamics have served the capitalist class in that “the wages of both … could be kept low, the whites fearing to be supplanted by Negro labor, and the Negroes always being threatened by the substitution of white labor” (p. 701). In the United States, these fears among whites being supplanted by Black workers have always also included additional Others—immigrants and refugees from around the world, of which a selected few would be eventually “welcomed” into the ranks of whiteness, such as the Irish (Ignatiev, 1995), decades after their arrival, and then, later, Italian and Jewish immigrants. Indeed, publics forge their own legitimacy through the medium of common discourse, without having to refer to a transcendent form of sovereignty from without, and this element of agency is precisely what is so attractive about publics for theories of political emancipation, be they liberal, nationalist, or radical. (Cody, 2011, pp. 39–40)

APPLIED LINGUISTICS AND POLITICS In the weeks following the November 2020 US presidential election in which Joseph Biden defeated Trump in both the Electoral College system and the popular vote, Trump reposted a Twitter post in his continuing attempt on insisting that he won the election because of what he accused was fraudulent counting of votes that were attributed to Biden’s victory. In his Twitter repost, it is just one of the many examples of how the affective and attempted effective use of language has always been intertwined with the power relations, that is, the

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politics of any society: “If he is inaugurated under these circumstances, he cannot be considered ‘president’ but instead referred to as the #presidentialoccupant” (as cited in Baker, 2020). By framing Biden with the social media hashtag “presidential occupant” instead of using the term “newly-elected President,” Trump goes beyond any act of implicature; it is tantamount to an accusation that Biden did not win the election fairly but literally took over the Oval Office by force by the use of the word “occupant.” This social media post of Trump’s and many others like it from him and his followers are but one dramatic example of what A. Agha (2007b) has argued in that language in this sense is the business of everyone. All of our affairs are conducted in it, are organized by it, are shaped and enabled through its uses. This has the important consequence that the study of any aspect of human affairs can be illuminated by the study of language, provided that we have a useful set of models that serve analytically as “bridging constructs”—that is, provide a revealing link or connection—between some observable feature of language and the realm of human affairs that it informs. (p. 219) Given the ways in which we use language in our daily lives, the everyday enactments of language in the various socially and historically contextual demands, restraints, and challenges, and the use of language in the everyday of power relations, these are just a few of the many pertinent questions this volume will be addressing: How do our contextual uses of language and discourse shape and impact our lives and that of others? How do our lived experiences reshape and re-semiotize our language and discourses? Do they always mirror one another? What are the ways in which the meaning makings in our daily lives effect the everydayness of our language use? How does our language-in-action come to represent the everyday to ourselves, and how does the everyday reflect our language back to us? For the intended audience of fellow applied linguists, language educators, language learners, and the broader publics, these questions form the basis of the inquiries raised and addressed by the authors in this volume. And for those who might dismiss these issues as irrelevant to the study of language, Agha (2007b) again put it quite shrewdly, “Linguists of a certain type might well say, ‘That’s not linguistics.’ But no one cares” (p. 228). Yes, and to use a now common acronym on social media: LOL! This volume brings together a group of established international scholars in the field of applied linguistics whose works have examined the power instantiations of sociolinguistic and semiotic discursive practices in society from a variety of critical perspectives. The volume adopts the Gramscian stance that the political involves the ongoing production and maintenance of hegemonic coercion and consent throughout the numerous domains in our society. Accordingly, the volume is organized in the following manner: the five sections

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focus on the various ways in which the political is discursively and materially realized in its dialogic co-constructions within the media, the economy, culture, identity, affect, and education. Thus, with these five “bridging constructs” (Agha, 2007b), the questions that are addressed in this volume are the following: What new theories can applied linguistics contribute to the ongoing and developing political challenges and issues prevalent in the twenty-first century? What discourse and pedagogical methodologies can applied linguists develop to help co-construct counter-hegemonic challenges and practices in response to the current discourses of militarism, nationalism, Islamophobia, anti-LGBTQ, classism, sexism, racism, and the free market? How can we develop effective discursive and pedagogical strategies to help mobilize and organize for an economically and socially just society?

AIMS OF THE VOLUME One aim of this volume is to take on the challenge posed by Ellen Meiksins Wood in her 1995 book, Democracy against Capitalism: “In a fragmented world composed of ‘de-centered subjects’, where totalizing knowledges are impossible and undesirable, what other kind of politics is there than a sort of de-centered and intellectualized radicalization of liberal pluralism?” (p. 2). In this current age of Brexit, Trumpism, nationalism, and immigrant scapegoating and Othering, there is an urgent need for critical scholars to explore ways in which their knowledge can interact with the knowledge of everyday people who are suffering from various oppressions in society. As Marshall Berman (1984) argued, “unless we know how to recognize people, as they look and feel and experience the world, we’ll never be able to help them recognize themselves or change the world” (p. 123). In this manner, this volume seeks to fulfill how a politics of language, culture, identity, and pedagogy that is desperately needed can move beyond a liberal pluralism that does not always resonate with everyday people’s concerns in society (Chun, 2017). The volume builds on the recent research on neoliberalism, language, discourse, education, ideology, identity, media, diversity, militarism, and culture (e.g., Chun, 2017; Flores & Rosa, 2015; Flowerdew & Richardson, 2018; Flubacher & Del Percio, 2017; Holborow, 2015; Jones, 2016; King, 2018; López-Gopar, 2016; Milani, 2018; Morgan, 2016; Nelson & Appleby, 2015; Park, 2013; Pérez-Milans, 2016). In the current climate of extreme nationalism and fear-mongering, a new politics for a socially just world is needed more than ever. Thus, this volume aims to contribute to the possibilities of a new politics by exploring how innovative theories, methodologies, and pedagogies can engage with the political dimensions of the economy, media, identity, affect, culture, and education in the twenty-first century. These theoretical engagements, methodological issues, and practical applications include the following: a cutting-edge exploration of

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how applied linguists can help develop effective counter-hegemonic discursive and pedagogical approaches; the latest research addressing the political in its various discursive manifestations in society, media, economy, education, and culture; and future potential directions for applied linguistics research. By doing so, the overarching goal of this volume is aligned with what Stuart Hall (1988) proposed in his work, “The Toad in the Garden: Thatcherism among the Theorists”: The purpose of theorizing is not to enhance one’s intellectual or academic reputation but to enable us to grasp, understand, and explain—to produce a more adequate knowledge of—the historical world and its processes; and thereby to inform our practice so that we may transform it. (p. 36)

PART ONE: MEDIA In his chapter, “Political Discourse in Post-Digital Societies,” Jan Blommaert makes the compelling case that the revolution in digital technologies and ensuing social media platforms leading to our new literacies have reshaped our meaning-making dynamics, particularly in regards to the politics of our societies in the twenty-first century. Because of these dramatic changes to our digitalized literacy practices in the past twenty years or so, Blommaert argues we thus need to rethink our approaches to discourse analysis. Given the changes to these contextual interactions due to these new forms of communicative economies that we are all part of, he contends that we need to shift our perspectives in reshaping our discourse analytic methodologies for more relevant analyses of the never-ending and thus ever-expanding data of political discourses taking place and circulating online. Ico Maly, in his chapter “Populism as a Mediatized Communicative Relation: The Birth of Algorithmic Populism” frames populism as a “mediatized chronotopic communicative and discursive relation.” Populism in the past has always been co-constructed in part by the social and communicative relations among politicians, the media, and academics, but as Maly points out, populism now is also an ongoing process involving everyday people and activists involved in online agentive practices. Thus, our analysis of present-day populism needs to take into account these changes, particularly the social media platforms that have been a central factor in enabling populism to spread in their continuing transformations. As such, Maly argues it is both input and uptake by the actors that have given rise to a new form of populism—“algorithmic populism.” By addressing this important new communicative relation between human and algorithmic agents in chronotopic contexts, the new populism can be analyzed and better understood so that our critical engagements with it can be better suited.

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PART TWO: ECONOMY In “Audit as Genre, Migration Industries, and Neoliberalism’s Uptakes,” Alfonso Del Percio explores how the rampant spread of auditing in our professional and social lives is but one manifestation of the neoliberal governmentality that has been pervasive in societies in the past forty years or so. This neoliberal political regime “governs people through a relentless pursuit of economic efficiency, deregulation, outsourcing, and privatization” with the purpose of fostering “calculative practices aimed at promoting individualization and responsibilization” (Del Percio, Chapter 3 of this volume). However, as Del Percio argues based on his ethnographic studies of migrant workers and professionals, the auditing culture has given rise to resistance to these attempted regime-disciplinary aims. By drawing our attention to the migrant workers themselves with their linguistic and communicative practices challenging their neoliberal subaltern positionalities, Del Percio makes a powerful argument in making the case to scholars to avoid romanticizing or stigmatizing what everyday people do in their lives by framing it in a limiting binary, that is, either resisting or reproducing the system. As such, his chapter offers new insights into how people make sense of their lives in this world. In her chapter “The Politics of Migrant Economies: Applied Linguistics Looking into Thai Massage in Vienna,” Mi-Cha Flubacher examines the intersections between language regulations of migrant workers in the global economy and its frictions (Tsing, 2005, as cited by Flubacher, Chapter 4 of this volume) that led to Flubacher’s ethnographic study of these global interconnections in the context of Thai massage parlors. This is a seminal contribution within the field of applied linguistics to the studies of ethnic economies; specifically the materialized discourses of exoticization and eroticization of race, ethnicity, and gendered roles that are perpetuated by the state in conjunction with the capitalist-driven migrant economy. As Flubacher argues, this migrant economy of exoticized workers is championed and framed by politicians as the inventive opportunity for migrants, which does not always materialize on the ground as Flubacher points out in that these migrant economies in fact limit opportunities for individuals in the case of Thai massage workplaces. Furthermore, by highlighting that the language competences of the workers featured in the chapter are actually obstacles to the localized labor markets, Flubacher makes the compelling argument that critical perspectives in applied linguistics must focus on the ways in which language work is enacted, received, and mastered in these migrant economies of capitalism. Joseph Sung-Yul Park, in his chapter “The Perceiving Subject of Irregular Employment: Applied Linguistics, Precarity, and Capitalism,” addresses another central component of capitalist economy, that of the ever-increasing irregular employment now termed as “precarity.” Because any economic system has always

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been intricately embedded and co-constructed with the accompanying political system, it is impossible to talk about one without the other. Particularly, the enabling dynamics between discourse and economic-social relational domains have given rise to specific language uses during historical junctures of politicaleconomic shifts; for example, “the free market,” the field of applied linguistics needs to “critically reflect upon its own assumptions and ontologies” (Park, Chapter 5 of this volume) in the ways in which the economy employs language, as Park astutely notes. Indeed, one traditional focus of applied linguistics has been on linguistic differences that have been formally and functionally defined in various contexts. However, as Park points out in this chapter, the economic processes are not always indexed by linguistic differences. He thus cogently contends that for applied linguistics to be relevant in the age of capitalist precarity (which has in fact always existed since the beginning of capitalism), it needs to expand the scope of studies to the power and discourse practices of the economy that draw from rationalized-based differences beyond merely linguistic ones.

PART THREE: CULTURE AND IDENTITY In the chapter “The Politics of Culture,” Claire Kramsch examines the ways in which culture has been co-constructed by the politics in society and addresses the implications for applied linguistics. In furthering the recent research in applied linguistics that has addressed the notions and practices of what constitutes “culture” that go beyond the essentializing portrayals of it as a template of behaviors, mindsets, and/or products, Kramsch explores how cultures have been constructed through political discourses in two allegorical texts during specific historical eras—that of seventeenth-century France of its monarchial rule and the Black Power movement in the United States during the 1960s. Analyzing how these texts have been decontextualized and re-entextualized in the present era for nonaligned political agendas, Kramsch situates how these politicized re-entextualizations are a key factor in the struggles over cultural and political meanings in drawing on the seminal works of Bourdieu (1991), Silverstein and Urban (1996), and Blommaert (2005). Inasmuch as language use, language teaching, and language learning have continuously been imbricated with culture and its hegemonic discourses, Kramsch offers important possible pathways for language educators to take on not only the political but also the ethical tasks of teaching language as discourse and confronting existing discourses with their students in their classroom texts as well as their language use in all contexts. Brian King addresses in the chapter “Biopolitics and Intersex Human Rights: A Role for Applied Linguistics” the potential for applied linguists to critically engage with biopolitics in ways that prioritize the human rights of people who live intersex embodiments—that is, those of us whose physical

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bodies do not align with the binary of female/male. This important realm of King’s research on the ways in which people’s bodies are oppressed by hegemonic coercions attempting to discipline and control who we are and how we self-identify is a groundbreaking and much-needed research area in applied linguistics. And, in fact, this is part of King’s aim in not only reconceptualizing but also reconfiguring the “discipline” notion and practice of applied linguistics to the much more productive and fruitful construct of an “epistemic assemblage” (King, Chapter 7 of this volume) of linguistic-discourse-oriented scholars in undertaking integral language and social issues in working for justice and equality. But equally important is King’s emphasis on the ethicalities of applied linguists in their research in collaboration with local communities and in this context of the intersex community in their challenging the biopolitics of the state in their pursuit of fundamental human rights. By contextualizing this research in political economy (the biomedical and health care industry) and the media (e.g., how intersex-bodied people are represented), King makes a seminal contribution in how applied linguists can work with intersex people in ethical and significant ways to bridge the divide between academics and the general public.

PART FOUR: AFFECT Ana Deumert explores the discursive dynamics of how affect and emotion have always been a central component of the capitalist order in the chapter “Wash Your Hands! Domestic Labor and the Affective Economy of Racial Capitalism.” In what Deumert terms “psycho-political linguistics” (Chapter 8 of this volume), she highlights an important recent research focus in sociolinguistics on how our subjectivities, affects, emotions, desires, pleasures, fears, traumas, and oppressions stemming from violence (Deumert, 2018) are enacted and embodied throughout multiple interactions and situations. Specifically, the two intertwining and hence “interanimating” (Chun, 2019) domains of capitalism’s governmentality in our lives—that of economic exploitation and racial domination and oppression—that have long been part of colonial legacies and practices are examined through their social semiotic meaning-making practices in the context of domestic laborers working in South Africa. By focusing on the research-neglected (at least in the field of applied linguistics) community of Black domestic workers, Deumert in supporting in solidarity their voices to be heard makes the increasingly crucial argument that we as applied linguists need more than ever to draw upon righteous anger in our critiques of how the social semiotics of capitalist societies have enabled the exploitation of the 99 percent of humanity. In “Politics of Commemoration and Memory,” John E. Richardson and Tommaso Milani address how affect manifests itself in how we attempt and

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struggle with remembering and commemorating our societal and national histories. Importantly, their questions in asking who is able and has the right to celebrate selected pasts, and how these pasts are represented in presentday publicly displayed memorials, statues, museums, and street names in the attempts at a hegemonic “collective” memory, could not be more timely in light of the recent movements in several countries including the United States to take down statues that celebrate the imperialist and colonial legacies, such as the numerous commemorations of Christopher Columbus in cities such as New York and Boston. Although our memory of who Christopher Columbus was can be seen as collective inasmuch as this knowledge has been shared through social interactions in contexts such as the classroom with teachers, and at home with family members and friends, as Richardson and Milani poignantly note, this assumption of a collective memory as being the same mnemonic product from these shared processes is a fallacy because “even family members have different memories of the same collective events—not least because our memories are also a record of our individual, sometimes affective and/or emotional, reactions to these collective events” (Richardson & Milani, Chapter 9 of this volume). Hence, their exploration of the ways in which our collective memories are shaped by time and space through the materialized discursive ideologies of culture and politics in society and our accompanying and ensuing affects that reshape these memories in turn mark an important turn for applied linguistics.

PART FIVE: EDUCATION In the chapter “Language, Pedagogy, and Discourses of Criticality in Late Capitalism,” Carlos Soto traces the evolutionary trajectories of his criticality situated in language-based research and pedagogical projects in, as well as outside, classroom settings in the context of the political economy of Hong Kong. Examining and reflecting upon the rapid and dramatic changes in that city including the myriad transitions from being a former colony of the British Empire to now being classified as a “special administrative region” (SAR) based on the premise of “one country, two systems,” Soto explores how the intersection of the various institutional actors involved take up discourses of what pedagogy is supposed to be, how it is practiced with specific available resources in particular spaces, and the consequences of these uses in terms of the symbolic and material distributions of building human capital with the mission of being globally competitive. In doing so, Soto prompts us to rethink basic concepts of critical pedagogies and highlights possible avenues for further research and practice. Benedetto Fontana (2015) argued that “how to bring a people to think critically and coherently is the fundamental problem posed by Gramsci, and it is a problem that combines political, epistemological and educational spheres

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of activity” (p. 59). The educational sphere necessarily involves how discourses are mediated and taken up by people (Chun, 2015, 2017). One such sphere of activity is what has been called “public pedagogy”—the numerous educational and learning activities occurring beyond the traditional classroom, for example, public spaces, social media, and online blogs. In the spaces of public pedagogy, there exists the radical possibilities of “active participation that enables subaltern groups not only to use the language, institutions and to consume or absorb culture but allows subaltern groups to use them creatively, to add to them, and alter them in relation to their experiences” (Green & Ives, 2009, p. 22). In my chapter “Organic Intellectuals or Traditional Intellectuals: Critical Discourse for Whom?” I address and explore the possible discursive approaches and engagements that can make the necessary connections between so-called everyday people and those who are named as “intellectuals” in society. I am seeking ways toward a better understanding of how such a public pedagogy that is grounded in critical, radical traditions and approaches (e.g., Freire, 1970, 1994; Wolff, 2012) can engage with the discursive spaces of both contesting capitalism and exploring actual democratic alternatives to organizing our workplaces, economy, and society. In a world increasingly besieged by dangerous climate change, political and social upheavals, rapidly increasing wealth disparities, overwhelming poverty, and rampant demagogic nationalism, the stakes have never been higher.

REFERENCES Agha, A. (2007a). Language and social relations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Agha, A. (2007b). The object called “language” and the subject of linguistics. Journal of English Linguistics, 35(3), 217–235. Baker, P. (2020, December 5). Trump’s final days of rage and denial. New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/05/us/politics/trump-presidencyelection-loss.html Baker, P., & Shear, M. D. (2019, August 4). El Paso shooting suspect’s manifesto echoes Trump’s language. New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes. com/2019/08/04/us/politics/trump-mass-shootings.html Bakhtin, M. M. (1981). The dialogic imagination: Four essays. Austin: University of Texas Press. Berman, M. (1984). The signs in the street: A response to Perry Anderson. New Left Review, 144, 114–123. Blommaert, J. (2005). Discourse: A critical introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1991). Language and symbolic power (G. Raymond & M. Adamson, Trans.). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bucholtz, M. (2019). The public life of white affects. Journal of Sociolinguistics, 23(5), 485–504. Chun, C. W. (2015). Power and meaning making in an EAP classroom: Engaging with the everyday. Bristol: Multilingual Matters.

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Chun, C. W. (2017). The discourses of capitalism: Everyday economists and the production of common sense. London: Routledge. Chun, C. W. (2019). Language, discourse, and class: What’s next for sociolinguistics? Journal of Sociolinguistics, 23(4), 332–345. Cody, F. (2011). Publics and politics. Annual Review of Anthropology, 40, 37–52. Deumert, A. (2018, February 2). Why linguists need psychiatrists: towards a psychopolitical linguistics. Diggit Magazine. Retrieved from https://www.diggitmagazine. com/column/why-linguists-need-psychiatrists-towards-psycho-political-linguistics Du Bois, W. E. B. (1992). Black reconstruction in America: 1860–1880. New York: Atheneum. (Original work published 1935) Flores, N., & Rosa, J. (2015). Unsettling race and language: Toward a raciolinguistic perspective. Language in Society, 46(5), 621–647. Flowerdew, J., & Richardson, J. E. (Eds.). (2018). The Routledge handbook of critical discourse studies. London: Routledge. Flubacher, M., & Del Percio, A. (Eds.). (2017). Language, education and neoliberalism: Critical studies in sociolinguistics. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Fontana, B. (2015). Intellectuals and masses: Agency and knowledge in Gramsci. In M. McNally (Ed.), Antonio Gramsci (pp. 55–75). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Fraser, N. (1995). From redistribution to recognition? Dilemmas of justice in a “postsocialist” age. New Left Review, 212, 68–93. Fraser, N. (2000). Rethinking recognition. New Left Review, 3, 107–120. Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the oppressed. New York: Continuum. Freire, P. (1994). Pedagogy of hope: Reliving pedagogy of the oppressed. London: Continuum. Green, M. E., & Ives, P. (2009). Subalternity and language: Overcoming the fragmentation of common sense. Historical Materialism, 17, 3–30. Hall, S. (1988). The toad in the garden: Thatcherism among the theorists. In C. Nelson & L. Grossberg (Eds.), Marxism and the interpretation of culture (pp. 35–73). Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Holborow, M. (2015). Language and neoliberalism. London: Routledge. Ignatiev, N. (1995). How the Irish became white. London: Routledge. Jones, R. H. (2016). Spoken discourse. London: Bloomsbury. King, B. W. (2018). Hip Hop headz in sex ed: Gender, agency, and styling in New Zealand. Language in Society, 47, 487–512. López-Gopar, M. E. (2016). Decolonizing primary English language teaching. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Milani, T. (2018). Queering language, gender and sexuality. Sheffield: Equinox. Morgan, B. (2016). Language teacher identity and the domestication of dissent: An exploratory account. TESOL Quarterly, 50(3), 708–734. Nelson, C. D., & Appleby, R. (2015). Conflict, militarization, and their after-effects: Key challenges for TESOL. TESOL Quarterly, 49(2), 309–332. Park, J. S. (2013). English, class and neoliberalism in South Korea. In L. Wee, R. B. H. Goh, & L. Lim (Eds.), The politics of English: South Asia, Southeast Asia and the Asia Pacific (pp. 287–302). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Pérez-Milans, M. (2016). Reflexivity and social change in applied linguistics. AILA Review, 29, 1–14. Plato. (1994). Gorgias (R. Waterfield, Trans.). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Powell, M. (2020, November 16). Liberals envisioned a multiracial coalition. Voters of color had other ideas. New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes. com/2020/11/16/us/liberals-race.html

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Silverstein, M., & Urban, G. (Eds.). (1996). Natural histories of discourse. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Vološinov, V. N. (1973). Marxism and the philosophy of language. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Wolff, R. (2012). Democracy at work: A cure for capitalism. Chicago: Haymarket Books. Wood, E. M. (1995). Democracy against capitalism: Renewing historical materialism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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PART ONE

Media

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CHAPTER ONE

Political Discourse in Post-Digital Societies JAN BLOMMAERT

POINT OF DEPARTURE The point of departure for what follows is this observation.1 Since the beginning of the twenty-first century, we live our social, cultural, political, and economic lives in an online-offline nexus, in which both “zones”—the online and the offline—can no longer be separated and must be seen as fused into a bewildering range of new online-offline practices of social interaction, knowledge exchange, learning, community formation, and identity work. The so-called digital revolution has already happened, it has become “historical” according to Florian Cramer (2014), and we have entered a “post-digital” era in which big-tech innovation is matched by grassroots searches for agency, DIY media creation, and hybrid media systems. This has profoundly affected the flows of information in societies such as ours, and we need to get our heads around these new ways in addressing their outcomes: messages, meanings, and the social configurations within which they circulate. This evidently includes political messages and meanings. Note that such messages and meanings are almost without exception mediatized (and thus mediated) messages and meanings, reaching their audiences due to the mediating impact of media systems. For most people, political discourse is indirectly accessed through the specter of the media they are exposed to. One can reformulate this general observation. Digital infrastructures have become part of what is conventionally described as “social structure”—the

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deep, generic, and often invisible drivers behind actual social conduct— and such infrastructures now demand much more attention in research on messages and meanings (cf. Arnaut, Karrebaek, & Spotti, 2017). Concretely, not just the content should be central to discourse-analytic research, but also systems of communication and the way in which they shape new sociolinguistic conditions for production, circulation and uptake of discourses, new resources, new actors, and new relations between actors (Maly, 2018). Post-digital environments are new sociolinguistic environments, and discourse analysis cannot avoid attention to the sociolinguistic conditions affecting contemporary discourses. The point of departure has been sketched. I shall now offer three connected reflections on the analysis of political discourse within these post-digital conditions.

REVISITING PROPAGANDA MODELS Propaganda models are linear models of political mass communication, in which the messages and meanings of powerful actors—politicians in this case—are passed on to “the public” by mass media owned or operated by actors sharing the same interests as those articulated by the powerful actors. Mass media, in such models, act as an intensifying and expansive conduit for the interests of the powerful, and their monopoly in the public sphere ensures propaganda effects on “public opinion.” Various versions of propaganda models (the most widely known one is Herman & Chomsky, 1988) have been predominant in critical discussions of mass media and politics throughout the twentieth century,2 and they informed much early and influential work in Critical Discourse Analysis as well (e.g., Fairclough, 1989). These models are grounded in a modernist imagination of “the public” (hence the scare quotes I put around this term) and the public sphere, in which “the public” is usually seen as “the masses.” The latter are amorphous and inert—therefore vulnerable to propaganda—and coinciding with the statistical notion of “population,” which allowed it to be investigated by means of notions such as “public opinion” and to be structured into averages, majorities, and minorities. As a political actor, “the public” stood in a responsive relationship to politicians and state institutions, on the one hand, and mass media, on the other. These often implicitly held images have been pervasive in spite of the fact that most serious sociologists (from Georg Simmel and John Dewey to Jürgen Habermas, Pierre Bourdieu, and Anthony Giddens) would frequently warn against the fallacies of such amorphous and homogenizing views of “the public” and “the public sphere.” And attempts such as those of Dewey and Habermas to make citizens less responsive and inert, and more proactive and influential in

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the political process, often got no further than proposals for more structured, well-informed, rational debate in “the public sphere.” We now realize that this public sphere is profoundly fragmented. I suppose it always was fragmented, but the mainstream sociological imagination privileged artificial homogenization over actual fragmentation. In the onlineoffline nexus, we definitively must abandon this construct of a single and unified public sphere made up of “the masses” and manipulated by the “mass media.” In the new hybrid media system in which old and new media constantly interact, algorithms do not target “the masses”; they target a multitude of highly specific audiences (“micro-populations” in the terms of Maly & Varis, 2016) in what has become known as “micromarketing” or “niche marketing.” “Mass” effects—think of the Brexit referendum and the election of Donald Trump as US president—are achieved by establishing loose, temporal, and unstable coalitions between such micro-audiences. “Mass” media in the twentieth-century sense of the term (currently called “mainstream media” or MSM) now also operate on the logic of micromarketing algorithms and in close synergy with online platforms and social media. They are no longer hegemonic in the “public sphere” in the ways that led, for example, Walter Lippmann and Dewey to their reflections on the role of media in a democracy. And manufacturing consent in the way Edward Herman and Noam Chomsky understood it now demands intense and coordinated activity on far more and more diverse media platforms, operating in a fragmented field of media content production and circulation. I’m afraid that the public sphere—a phrase that has been used a zillion times in social and political analysis—has become practically meaningless. And the propaganda models that were so predominant in public discourse analysis also need to be fundamentally revisited, because two of their key elements have been dislodged: mass media in the twentieth-century sense and the public sphere in the modernist sense outlined above. They have been replaced by complex systems of communication aimed at micromarketing. As for rational debate within this public sphere—the duty of democratic citizens and the task of their mass media in the eyes of generations of social and political theorists—the same conclusion seems compelling. If propaganda models need to be replaced by micromarketing models of public communication, the features of marketing need to be taken seriously. I shall now recite the commonplace features of such marketing practices: they are irrational, aestheticized, and emotive. But let’s note with some emphasis that these features were already attributed to Nazi politics by Walter Benjamin in 1936. It is safe to assume that aesthetics has never been absent from the political sphere and that it may even be one of its key features in retrospect. Let us equally note that these features, while not rational, are epistemic nonetheless: they organize modes of knowledge construction,

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of argumentation and persuasion, just as effectively as rational, fact-based practices (cf. Blommaert, 2018a; Prochzka & Blommaert, 2019). Meaning is as much an effect of discursive shape as it is of discursive content, as Dell Hymes (1996) famously reminded us. Clickbait simply reaffirms this, as does the prominence of “fake news” and “alternative facts” (or outright lies) in contemporary political campaigns. The implications of all of this are clear, and I will quickly sketch three major ones. All three are related to how we imagine the democratic system as an actually existing contemporary mode of organization of the political field. First, we need to abandon the (cherished) idea of modern democracy as a rational system of decision making, revolving around “the truth” and with this “truth” as the point around which consensus (and coalitions) can be formed. Few issues are presently as controversial as “the truth,” and commentators sometimes refer to our times as the “post-truth” era. In actual practice, it is best to approach democratic decision making as a “mixed method” thing in which rational practices are just one element, and not always the prevailing one. Second, we also need to distance ourselves from traditional views of contemporary democratic decision making as carried along by relatively stable (and sociologically predefined) majorities engaged in rational debate with equally relatively stable minorities. And third, we need to distance ourselves from the idea of “public opinion” as a reliable indicator of such majorityminority divisions. Both elements—the majority-minority divisions and the notion of public opinion—too often operate as unchallenged a priori assumptions in analysis. In times of micromarketing and fragmented audiences, such assumptions need to be empirically demonstrated if we wish to get a precise view of the actual political process and the role of discursive action in that process. If we take these three implications on board, we are facing a more general one. An adequate understanding of the contemporary political system requires another sociological imagination (cf. Blommaert, 2018b), for the one we tend to carry along in our analyses reflects a political process that might have been accurate in the twentieth century but no longer corresponds to the field that prevails today.

REVISITING MODELS OF COMMUNICATION I can now turn to the second reflection. It is, obviously, connected to the previous one and can be seen as a more specific extension of it of particular immediacy for discourse analysts. Here, too, my remarks address deep and influential assumptions often implicitly articulated in analysis—assumptions about the model of communication underlying analysis.3

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FIGURE 1.1:  Saussure’s model of communication.

I shall start from something that all of us learned during our first year of language studies: Ferdinand de Saussure’s sender-receiver model of communication (Saussure, 1960, p. 27) (see Figure 1.1). We see two (male) individual humans, A and B; A produces an utterance originating in his brain and transmits it through his mouth to the ears of B, who processes it in his brain and responds to it. Both A and B perform these acts synchronically (in a real moment of interaction) and symmetrically: the acts of A and B are identical in Saussure’s model. All of this is very well known, but we should remind ourselves that this simply dyadic sender-receiver model is, to a large extent, still the default model for imagining communication at large and thus serves as the backdrop for communication theorizing. Note: it is individual, human, spoken, linear, synchronic, and direct within a clear sender-receiver relationship. With this in mind, let us turn to the actual contemporary forms of communication in the post-digital era. Here is the main structure of communication on Twitter (see Figure 1.2). We see a very different and much more complex structure of communication here. The tweet, produced by someone (e.g., President Trump), is sent to an algorithm—a nonhuman “receiver,” if you wish—through which artificial intelligence (AI) operations forward it to numerous specific audiences (A1, A2, …, An in the scheme), whose responses are fed back, as data, to the algorithm and thence to the sender of the tweet in nonstop sequences of indirect, mediated interaction. Parts of these audiences can relay their own uptake of the tweet (via the Twitter algorithm) to secondary audiences (A5, A6, …, An in the scheme), who can do the same—and so on, enabling a tweet to reach audiences not initially accessible, both immediately after the moment of tweeting and much later. The audiences (also often called “bubbles”) are constructed by the algorithms out of users’ data-yielding profiles, and they are selected on the basis of a range of “data points” including topic keywords, hashtags, and histories of prior interactions. The audiences consist of individuals, sure, but, in the case of Trump and many other high-profile accounts, also of bots—computer programs behaving like “normal” Twitter users and generating specific forms of response such as liking and retweeting and sometimes dramatically increasing the volume of traffic for tweets.

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FIGURE 1.2:  Communication structure on Twitter.

What we need to take along here is this: 1. There is no linear, symmetrical, and direct sender-receiver structure on Twitter, because the platform itself provides an algorithmic mediator for all and any interaction. 2. The participants are, consequently, not all human, as very crucial parts of the communication structure are controlled by automated AI technologies. 3. As an effect of these algorithmic mediations, there is not a single “audience” (or “public”) in the structure of communication, but a fragmented complex of “niched” audiences often with incompatible interests or political orientations. 4. There is also not a single producer of discourse here: political discourse is produced and circulated by all actors within this model, humans as well as nonhumans.

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5. The entire system is permanently in motion, with constant interactional conversions of actions performed by (human and nonhuman) participants into data further shaping and regulating the effects of the actions (cf. Maly, 2018). 6. These actions are indirect, that is, mediated by technologies as well as by the uptake and feedback actions of (unknown and unintended) audiences. 7. They are also not synchronic but spread over variable spans of time. Actions can be performed months or years after the original moment of tweeting, because of the archiving capacity of online platforms. 8. Finally, we are observing scripted communication here, not spoken communication. We are in a field of literacy here; this field is extraordinarily diverse and involves, for instance, different kinds of platforms on which literacy practices are performed. The conversion of all actual online practices into data, to be used in AI and in micromarketing, must be included into this. These are empirical observations, and specific ones. But even if we would prefer to minimalize their potential for extrapolation and generalization (something I would not encourage), these observations do not in any way fit into Saussure’s old model of communication, nor can they be made to fit into it. The model is simply irrelevant as a tool to generalize the actual modes of communication we face when looking at these types of examples. Models of communication in the post-digital era need to be models in which the characteristics of the online-offline nexus are absorbed as a reality affecting the phenomenology of communication in the most profound sense. This is, I think, a matter of realism in scientific practice: the frameworks for generalization we use need to be grounded in empirical analytical insights reflecting the “is” of communication, not its “ought.” More concretely, political discourse analysis needs to be refooted on the basis of the new kinds of communicative economies (including resources, actors, and relationships between actors) we observe and inhabit.

A POLYCENTRIC WORLD OF COMMUNICATION The latter remark takes us back to what was said earlier: political communication in post-digital environments involves a multitude of actors, some of whom are human and some nonhuman, and all of whom operate both as producers and receivers of political messages. The idea that political discourse is the discourse of professional politicians alone, or even primarily, is an anachronism. True, politicians often provide the “input” for the complex communication processes

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outlined in the previous section, but they do not determine its effects, intensity, or scale of circulation—things performed by the multiple audiences (including bots) in interaction with platform algorithms. Here, too, we can observe the limits and inadequacies of the older propaganda models: demonstrating that “the public” is “influenced” by politicians’ political messages—in which the politician (and his/her messages) is the key actor—nowadays requires a very intricate analysis of “who does what.” Outcomes of such analyses might suggest that parts of the public influence other parts of that public, or, more precisely, they might suggest that not politicians, but specific audiences, influence other audiences, and that this is achieved by means of a multitude of processes of re-entextualization (Silverstein, 1996). Entextualization refers to the process by means of which discourses are successively or simultaneously decontextualized and metadiscursively recontextualized, so that they become a new discourse associated to a new context and accompanied by a particular metadiscourse that provides a sort of “preferred reading” for the discourse. This key concept helps us understand that “virality”—the large-scale distribution of messages by means of online “copy” practices such as reposts, retweets, and so forth—is not, in fact, a series of repetitions of “the same” message, but a series of re-entextualizations (cf. Varis & Blommaert, 2015). In such re-entextualizations, the message of a politician is taken by an audience member—it is appropriated, if you wish—and inserted into an entirely new act of communication involving a new producer (the audience member) and addressees (the audience member’s own network of online “friends” or “followers”) in a new kind of interaction, with the algorithms mediating this new and more complicated process, the “data” of which are fed back to the politicians’ original act of communication, even if the characteristics of the new act of communication diverge strongly from those of the original (“input”) act. Concretely, imagine that I retweet a tweet launched by President Trump. I am not one of Mr. Trump’s supporters; in fact, I’m highly critical of his presidency and I became a “follower” of Mr. Trump’s Twitter account because it offers me plenty of powerful arguments to be critical. My retweet would reach a network of people broadly aligned with my views (my bubble), and it is likely that this specific audience of mine will understand my retweet as a critical comment on Mr. Trump, not as an act of support for him and his views. My retweet, in short, is a re-entextualization that conveys a negative message on Mr. Trump, not the positive one articulated in lots of other retweets (and preferred, one dares to venture, by Mr. Trump himself). But the Twitter algorithm will add my retweet to the total “virality” of Mr. Trump’s original tweet, allowing him and his supporters to interpret my act as a form of popular support for (and possibly even agreement with) Mr. Trump’s message.

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We observe polycentricity here: the circulation of political messages in the online-offline nexus does not, in any way, allow us to attach one single interpretation to that meaning. Sixty thousand retweets of Mr. Trump’s message cannot be read as sixty thousand acts of support and agreement—widely divergent interpretations will be included in what looks like simple repetitions of the same message. Observe (but I can only mention this in passing here) that new interpretations can be added much later, given the archival capacity of the Web: the tweets can be invoked as evidence in litigation, for example, or as evidence of contradictions or unconventional policy shifts by the president. Online messages inevitably end up in a system of communication in which the actually communicated meaning of such messages is open to very profound indexical reorderings and, hence, of very different readings depending on the kinds of appropriations mentioned above. Explanations for this can be found in the Twitter model of communication I sketched above: we are facing nonlinear, asymmetrical, and non-synchronic acts of communication here, involving different “indexical centers” (cf. Blommaert, 2005). In the example I gave, I am such an indexical center for my own Twitter audience, and the indexical order I apply to Mr. Trump’s message will be very different from that attributed to it by supporters of the president, who represent another range of indexical centers. The algorithms, of course, are also very powerful indexical centers in the entire process. In each instance, entirely different sets of social, cultural, and moral norms will be applied to the messages, and what such messages actually do in communication will depend on such widely divergent norms (cf. Blommaert, 2019). This feature of political (and other) communication in the post-digital era is yet another argument against simple propaganda models. Politicians quite often understand the numbers of retweets as well as the numbers of “followers” or “friends” of their social media accounts as evidence of the level of popular (often called “democratic”) support they command—an anachronistic reading grounded in the propaganda model and very much at odds with the actual facts of communication, uptake, and effect of their messages. As said earlier, there is no way in which we can see online audiences as yet another embodiment of “the masses” in the twentiethcentury, modernist sense of that term.

GOOD AND BAD NEWS FOR DISCOURSE ANALYSTS The last reflection has a clear implication: politicians need to be aware of the widely divergent meanings that their messages allow, and they need to spend a great deal of care for the actual forms of communication they engage in. Advanced big-data-based micromarketing assists them in the process, but messages targeting specific audiences still have the capacity to spill over into unintended

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audiences and generate a powerful negative backlash that way. Remember that the ultimate aim is to construct (temporary and ephemeral, but real) coalitions of different audiences; negative backlash from unintended audiences can render the construction of such coalitions more difficult or impossible. All of this is good news for political discourse analysts. It is also bad news. The good news is that the increased attention for actual forms of political communication creates a demand for nonstop, intensive, and sophisticated discourse analysis. I did my PhD in 1989 on Swahili political discourse in Tanzania. In those days, our material consisted of a finite body of texts— speeches given and texts written by politicians, possibly complemented by mass-media reports of such speeches and texts. Political discourse analysis today is much more exciting, for accurate analysis now involves the capacity to change analytical strategies whenever the field and its constituent elements change—and this is now a permanent process. This, of course, can also be seen as bad news. The toolkit with which I engaged with my Tanzanian texts in the 1980s was outstanding in its usefulness and clarity—we had standard “recipes,” so to speak, for doing the work of political discourse analysis. We no longer have the comfort of such clarity, for political discourse analysis, as just mentioned, now includes perpetual adjustment of perennially unfinished tools and tactics to adequately address a moving target. This challenge is theoretical and methodological, but also practical. Political discourse analysis is of crucial importance if we want to understand the complexities of the societies we inhabit. So there is not just a demand for such analysis but a need to continue providing it. The fact that this work becomes more difficult and more demanding should not deter us—the answer to it is a key scientific ambition called “innovation.”

NOTES 1 This chapter is the written version of the opening statement of a Babylon webinar on this topic, held on November 25, 2019, and involving audiences from Brazil, Argentina, and Australia. I am grateful to all participants for the very stimulating discussion we had during the webinar. 2 The debate between Walter Lippman (1922) and John Dewey (1927) can serve as an example. The debate structured two major lines of argument regarding the connection between politics, media as information providers, and the public—a pessimistic line and an optimistic one, respectively. These lines provide an accurate heuristics for following twentieth-century debates on the role and place of media in western democracies. Obviously, the views of, for example, Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno (1947) and Neil Postman (1985)—to name just those influential voices—also fit into the same mold. 3 The paragraphs that follow are adapted from Blommaert (2019).

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REFERENCES Arnaut, K., Karrebaek, M., & Spotti, M. (2017). Engaging superdiversity: The poesis-infrastructures nexus and language practices in combinatorial spaces. In K. Arnaut, J. Blommaert, M. Karrebaek, & Massimiliano Spotti (Eds.), Engaging superdiversity: Recombining spaces, times and language practices (pp. 3–24). Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Benjamin, W. (2002). The work of art in the age of its technological reproducibility. In W. Benjamin, Selected Essays, Volume 3: 1935–1938 (H. Eiland & M. Jennings, Eds.) (pp. 101–33). Cambridge, MA: Belknapp Press of Harvard University Press. (Original work published 1936) Blommaert, J. (2005). Discourse: A critical introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Blommaert, J. (2018a). Trump’s tweetopoetics. Tilburg Papers in Culture Studies, paper 203. Retrieved from https://www.tilburguniversity.edu/research/institutes-andresearch-groups/babylon/tpcs Blommaert, J. (2018b). Durkheim and the internet: On sociolinguistics and the sociological imagination. London: Bloomsbury. Blommaert, J. (2019). Sociolinguistic restratification in the online-offline nexus: Trump’s viral errors. Tilburg Papers in Culture Studies, paper 234. Retrieved from https://www.tilburguniversity.edu/research/institutes-and-research-groups/ babylon/tpcs Cramer, F. (2014). What is “post-digital”? A Peer-Reviewed Journal about Post-Digital Research, 3(1), 10–24. Retrieved from https://monoskop.org/File:A_Peer-Reviewed_ Journal_About_Post-Digital_Research_2014.pdf Dewey, J. (1927). The public and its problems. New York: Holt. Fairclough, N. (1989). Language and power. London: Longman. Herman, E., & Chomsky, N. (1988). Manufacturing consent: The political economy of the mass media. New York: Pantheon. Horkheimer, M., & Adorno, T. (2002). Dialectic of enlightenment. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. (Original work published 1947) Hymes, D. (1996). Ethnography, linguistics, narrative inequality: Toward an understanding of voice. London: Taylor & Francis. Lippman, W. (1922). Public opinion. New York: Harcourt. Maly, I. (2018). Populism as a mediatized communicative relation: The birth of algorithmic populism. Tilburg Papers in Culture Studies, paper 213. Retrieved from https://www.tilburguniversity.edu/research/institutes-and-research-groups/babylon/ tpcs Maly, I., & Varis, P. (2016). The 21st century hipster: On micro-populations in times of superdiversity. European Journal of Cultural Studies, 19(6), 637–653. Retrieved from https://doi.org/10.1177/1367549415597920 Postman, N. (1985). Amusing ourselves to death: Public discourse in the age of show business. New York: Viking. Prochzka, O., & Blommaert, J. (2019). Ergoic framing in New Right online groups: Q, the MAGA kid, and the deep state theory. Tilburg Papers in Culture Studies, paper 224. Retrieved from https://www.tilburguniversity.edu/research/ institutes-and-research-groups/babylon/tpcs Saussure, F. de (1960). Cours de Linguistique Générale (C. Bally & A. Sechehaye, Eds.). Paris: Payot.

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Silverstein, M. (1996). The secret life of texts. In M. Silverstein & G. Urban (Eds.), Natural histories of discourse (pp. 81–105). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Varis, P., & Blommaert, J. (2015). Conviviality and collectives on social media: Virality, memes, and new social structures. Multilingual Margins, 2(1), 31–45.

CHAPTER TWO

Populism as a Mediatized Communicative Relation: The Birth of Algorithmic Populism I.E.L. (ICO) MALY

Not many concepts have been hyped so many times and in so many different fields as the concept of “populism.” This is especially remarkable considering that even today, more than 150 years after it was first used, there is still no consensus on its meaning. Even in the twenty-first century, we see paper after paper and book after book being published trying to define it. Populism is a textbook example of a so-called empty signifier. Politicians, academics, and journalists use it in very different ways depending on the (national or regional) context or on the people, parties, or the movements that use it to describe themselves or others. At the same time, we all have a certain commonsense understanding of the concept. Keywords that we can find in all (academic and nonacademic) definitions are the people, the voice of the people, and the elite or the establishment. Most populism studies scholars regardless of the methodologies and their academic field (Abts & Rummens, 2007; Aslanidis, 2016; Blommaert, 2001; Blommaert, Corijn, Holthof, & Lesage, 2004; Jagers & Walgrave, 2005; Jäger, 2016, 2017; Maly, 2012, 2016, 2018; Moffitt & Tormey, 2014; Mudde, 2004; Mudde & Kaltwasser, 2017; Müller, 2016; Stanley, 2008; Wodak, KhosraviNik, &

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Mral, 2013) include these ingredients in their analyses. Populists are then those politicians who claim to voice the concerns of the people against the establishment. After this, the theoretical muddle starts. From the moment one tries to pinpoint the content of that voice, the messiness of the real empirical world comes in. If we look at the actual people, parties, and movements that are describing themselves or are described by others as populists, we run into theoretical problems. Left-wing and right-wing, democratic and anti-democratic actors, politicians, movements, activists, and intellectuals: they can all be selfproclaimed populists or (more likely) be accused of populism. They all can carry the burden of the label (and its overly negative associations). It is hard to find a common ideological denominator (Gidron & Bonikowksi, 2013). Even the classic contextual understanding of populism (see, e.g., Jäger, 2016, 2017) does not hold anymore: Podemos is only one counterexample to the idea that in Europe “populist” seems to equal extreme right, anti-democratic, anti-pluralist, and authoritarian demagogues. And Donald Trump is the counterexample to the idea that in the United States populism still connotes a left-wing position inherited by the inventors of the concept: the People’s Party of the nineteenth century. Thus, populism is what Marco D’Eramo calls (2013, p. 22) an inflated concept. In this chapter, I want to introduce a digital ethnographic and interactionalsociolinguistic approach to populism that understands populism as a mediatized chronotopic communicative and discursive relation. Populism, I will argue, is not only constructed in a mediatized communicative relation between journalists, politicians, and academics, but also in the relation to citizens, activists, and computational agency. In times of digitalization, we cannot understand populism by only looking at “the input,” the frame that actors prepare for uptake; it is about the uptake as well. Attention to all these actors, and the media they use, is of crucial importance if we want to understand contemporary populism. Digital media is part of the social situation (Goffman, 1964) and should thus be integrated in our analysis. Understanding populism as chronotopic directs us to understand the phenomenon in a specific context, as intrinsically connected to the time and the place in which it occurs (Bakhtin, 1986, p. 42). Jan Blommaert (2018) argues that chronotope as a concept invites us to critically check the ways in which we use the term “context.” In previous work, Blommaert already compellingly argued that in a lot of critical discourse analyses, conversation analyses, or social sciences in general, context is a flawed concept (see Blommaert, 2005, 2011, 2018), and I would add that this is also true in populism studies. In those research traditions it is not uncommon to still see a generic concept of context being mobilized wherein, to paraphrase Erving Goffman (1964), the social situation is neglected. We cannot assume, Goffman argued, that large social

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categories just geometrically intersect in a concrete communication setting. On the contrary, we should analyze the concrete social situation in detail. Goffman defined the “social situation as an environment of mutual monitoring possibilities, anywhere within which an individual will find himself accessible to the naked senses of all others who are ‘present’ ” (Goffman, 1964, p. 135). The social situation is the space where one gathers, and where the cultural and social rules (and we can add technological rules) associated with this social situation together with the relationship between the participants and so on will inform the communication. Chronotope is thus not just a replacement for context but also highlights a particular conceptualization of context. This particular conceptualization of context is grounded in a sociolinguistic understanding of context. “The notion of chronotope invites us,” says Blommaert (2018), “to treat aspects of context often dismissed or summarily taken into account in branches of scholarship, and to treat them with utmost precision as nonrandom elements of social situations that may account for much of how people make sense of social structure in actual moments of social action.” Thus, chronotopes invoke a sociolinguistic and ethnographic understanding of context that takes on board the idea that “concrete and socioculturally recognizable timespace configurations involve nonrandom modes of social action and lead to specific social effects” (Blommaert, 2018). In the digital era, digital media are a crucial part of this social situation or the chronotope. A telephone talk will produce a different type of communication than a president tweeting to his seventy million followers. The difference is not only to be found in the presence of those followers but also in the affordances of the platforms, their algorithms, and computational agency. J. B. Thompson (2020) argues that digital media facilitate a new type of interaction that he calls “mediated online interaction.” This interaction mode is dialogical in character and is oriented to a multiplicity of other human and nonhuman recipients. Important to stress here already is that those media themselves not only harvest and sell data or allow people and companies to promote their discourse but also moderate the uptake. Moderation, as T. Gillespie (2018) argues, is at the heart of what digital platforms do. In that sense, Twitter constructs a very different social situation than the telephone company or the post: there is no guarantee that your message will reach the intended recipients. Successful and popular digital communication will necessarily include “algorithmic knowledge” or media literacy. Claiming the populist label means competence in this very specific social situation. And, subsequently, it means that understanding contemporary populism demands that we analyze the phenomenon in its chronotopic context. Context is more that the existing power relationships or social categories; it is also about how discourse is produced in a particular social situation.

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Adopting chronotopic context as a tool to analyze populism means that we look at concrete instances of communication in its “social situation.” Populists communicate in many different ways, but the communication that is most constitutive of contemporary populism as a social and political phenomenon is the hybrid media system (Chadwick, 2017) and digital media within that system in particular. Analyzing the chronotopicity of populism in the digital age involves analyzing it not only as “culturally determined” but also as the result of datafication, of the affordances of digital media and its participatory media logic. It is this embeddedness in a specific time-space constellation that is the determining feature of contemporary populism. It produces specific modes of populism that have very clear and empirically demonstrable time-space characteristics. Understanding and focusing on populism in its chronotopic social situation forces us to understand it as a “communicative relation” between human and nonhuman actors. Analyzing populism as a chronotopic communicative relation allows us to analyze “populism” more precisely. When we do that, we realize that changes in the media field also have effects on how populism is constructed. More concretely, based on this approach, I argue that digital media have given birth to a new form of populism: algorithmic populism (Maly, 2018a,b,c). Digital media are not just new media that populists use; their algorithms and affordances reshape populism (see also Cesarino, 2019, and Silva, 2019, for similar arguments). I will use the case of the case of pro-Trump activist @WyattEarpLA to show how we need the communicative relation approach to understand populism as a real-world phenomenon.

THE THEORETICAL MUDDLE OF POPULISM STUDIES The most influential artifice to date to define and understand populism is the concept of “thin ideology” (Canovan, 2002; Moffitt & Tormey, 2014; Mudde, 2004; Mudde & Kaltwasser, 2017; Stanley, 2008). In this ideational paradigm, populism is understood as “a thin-centered ideology that considers society to be ultimately separated into two homogenous and antagonistic groups, ‘the pure people’ versus ‘the corrupt elite,’ and which argues that politics should be an expression of the volonté générale (general will) of the people” (Mudde, 2004, p. 543). Ben Stanley (2008) defines thin ideologies as those ideologies whose “morphological structure is restricted to a set of core concepts which alone are unable ‘to provide a reasonably broad, if not comprehensive, range of answers to the political questions that societies generate’ ” (pp. 98–99). The conceptual core of the populist thin ideology is built on the distinction and the antagonistic relationship between “the people” whose will and voice is represented by the populist (party or politician) against “the elite” (see Mudde & Kaltwasser, 2017; Müller, 2016; Stanley, 2008). This thin ideology is attached to full ideologies

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like conservatism, liberalism, or socialism. Classic examples of populist in this ideational paradigm are far-right politicians Marine Le Pen and Filip Dewitner, but also the socialist populism of Hugo Chávez. This artifice seems logical and has proven to be very productive. It seems to explain the diversity of parties, movements, politicians, and activists who sail under the (attributed or self-acclaimed) “populist” flag. The problem arises when this definition or approach is used to describe and analyze “populists” or to theorize the concept further. Much of the theorization on populism that starts by defining populism as a thin ideology very quickly moves into a theory that continuously adds elements to the keywords of the thin ideology (see, e.g., Abts & Rummens, 2007; Mudde, 2004; Mudde & Kaltwasser, 2017; Stanley, 2008). In his very popular and influential book What Is Populism? Jan-Werner Müller starts from a similar position. All the classic keywords are present, but in trying to define an ideal type he constantly thickens the definition of populism. In his understanding, populism is a particular moralistic imagination of politics, a way of perceiving the political world that sets a morally pure and fully unified—but, I shall argue, ultimately fictional—people against elites who are deemed corrupt or in some other way morally inferior. … In addition to being anti-elitist, populists are always anti-pluralist: populists claim that they, and only they, represent the people. (2016, pp. 19–20) In addition to this definition, Müller stresses that populists also criticize media and civil society, and show disdain for the democratic institutions. In Müller’s definition, populism is a label that fits on to the usual populist suspects in our time: Wilders, Orban, Grillo, Le Pen, Front National, Trump, and Chávez. This definition of populism has at least one remarkable effect, namely, that it disqualifies the party that was the first in history to be labeled as populist: The People’s Party in the United States. As a result of the thickening of the definition, the original populists are not populists anymore. This a classic case in which the world is asked to follow theory, not vice versa. This is one of the reasons that Anton Jäger (2016, 2017) criticizes several contemporary populism scholars. He highlights how the ahistorical usage of the concept of populism contributes to the theoretical muddle we are in now. He sees a way out in advocating a healthy “hygiene” in the use of the term “populism.” Purifying the concept, according to him, means to be able to define it. And in order to define it, you have to know its history (Jäger, 2017, pp. 13–14). He takes up the challenge and stresses that populism in the nineteenth century does not resemble populism as it is being defined in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

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Next to this, he also stresses the problems and dangers of this dominant conception of populism. He rightly claims that the contemporary understanding and theorization of “populism” has political effects. It serves certain political goals (organizing the status quo, protecting the elites and the establishment). This analysis aligns with D’Eramo’s conclusion that the contemporary meaning of populism, that can be traced back to Richard Hofstadter (1955) and the pluralists, from the start had political motives. It was in the 1950s when populism was theorized as a form of fascism characterized by anti-Semitism, conspiracy theories, and provincial resentments. This exercise in historical revisionism should be understood in the context of the Cold War in which the new conception of populism became a powerful cold war tool (D’Eramo, 2013, p. 20; Jäger, 2017). This new understanding of populism as inherently authoritarian and totalitarian constructed a “bridge linking communism and fascism” (D’Eramo, 2013, p. 20). In doing so, it also legitimated a technocratic, elite way of doing politics. It legitimated the middle of the political spectrum, what D’Eramo calls the oligarchical new order. But Jäger does do more. Sometimes explicitly and more often between the lines, he argues that the original conception of “populism” should be revived (Jäger, 2017). Or, at least, that the negative stigma that is attached to populism should be removed or nuanced. The People’s Party, he stresses, gave birth to both a negative and a positive populism. In its original form, populism was not racist; it was truly for and by the people. The implicit suggestion seems to be that the true meaning of populism can thus be only found in its first original conception. Jäger at least partially seems to adopt a position that we could label as “etymologism”: advocating the idea that there is a “true, original meaning” of a word and that the contemporary use of that word should remain the same. Concretely, he argues that the main goals of the original populists—“public control over the currency supply, abolition of wage slavery, decent work, an accountable state” (2017, p. 194)—are not being advocated at all by those who are awarded the P-label. Jäger finds that “numerous movements that today count as contemporary ‘populism’, even lack the language” (2017, p. 194) to truly fight for the common man, the people. The contemporary populists are constructed as “populists” only “in name,” he concludes. To summarize, we see that within the field of populism studies, populism can mean very different things. Even more, we see that the thin ideology is a very flexible analytical concept with political and social consequences. Jäger rightly highlights the ahistorical conception of populism, just as he rightly highlights the role of academia in the construction of contemporary populists. Populism is nowadays being used a synonym for demagogues, racism, authoritarianism, and nationalism. The concept has become a euphemism for far more radical ideological positions: it is being used as a thick ideology. Even though Jäger makes crucial points, his hygienic approach is a call in vain. Trying to fixate

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meaning, from a sociolinguistic perspective, is pointless. Meaning is always socially constructed, and the idea that someone can fixate meaning is thus at best a comforting illusion. The discursive battle for meaning is essentially what politics is about. That is the lesson Antonio Gramsci learned from the left and later also the right (Maly, 2018c, 2019, 2020a,b). What we as researchers of populism should do is study meaning. It is by studying the meaning of a concept that we get to understand the politics of it. The reason that populism is an empty signifier is of course precisely because it is a political concept. It is part of the language “for which and by which there is struggle” (Foucault, 1970, p. 110) between parties, politicians, and movements. Understanding, describing, and analyzing how meanings shift, I argue, will yield a more productive research field and a more detailed understanding of populism as a political phenomenon. Pinpointing Some Problems If we look at all the actors that have carried the flag or the burden of the label “populism” from a historical and translocal perspective, we see that the meaning of populism changes. This is not a remarkable thing, nor is it unusual, but it is an important observation and it provides scholars with a solid starting point. Words and language acquire meaning through people using them in certain contexts. Understanding populism will thus always need attention to the chronotopic nature of populism (Blommaert, 2017, 2018; Blommaert & De Finna, 2018), a focus on how populism is constructed in a specific time-space constellation. It requires from the researcher a very detailed analysis of the social situation (Goffman, 1964) in which populism is constructed. Context is not an autonomous or separate object: the social world is entangled in language and vice versa. More concretely, understanding populism to a large extent demands an ethnographic approach: we need to focus on how “populists” communicate themselves in concrete contexts as “populists.” We should thus be able to understand how this chronotopic context shapes the communication and thus the populist relation. How do they acquire the label (or denounce it) and how do they produce meaning? How does the social situation organize populism? The social situation here refers to the observable context that organizes the communicative act. In our case, we will see how the voice of an “anonymous activist” profile is retweeted by Trump to produce the idea that he has “popular support.” This construction of the populist voice only works in this specific context, and as such the features of this context are of crucial importance to this concrete populist act. This would entail a shift from a focus on content and categorization, toward a focus on “populism” as a productive label: a focus on the actors who construct themselves and/or others as “populists” in very concrete ways. When we shift our attention to this “discursive battle” (Maly, 2012, 2016, 2018c; Torfing,

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1999), we cannot understand populism as an absolute category anymore. This also means that the focus on categorization should be understood as part of the process of the discursive construction of populists and populism. The core problem of many contemporary populism studies lays on the one hand in the under-theoretization of thin ideology as an analytical concept (see, for instance, Aslanidis, 2016, for a substantial critique). One of the results of this under-theoretization is a high flexibility of the concept resulting in the constant thickening of the thin ideology of populism. From the moment the theory is thickened, on the one hand, with elements of “antidemocracy,” “anti-pluralism,” authoritarianism, or a Schmittian conception of the nation-state, or, on the other hand, with ideas of “really sticking up for the people, anti-racist, progressive,” it proves to be a very crude and sloppy analytical instrument making us blind to the full ideologies that are being circulated. However, we see that most populism scholars fail to study populist discourse as communication and thus as a process where the audiences are crucial part of the phenomenon. They only look at input and thus commit what Thompson called the “fallacy of internalism” (Thompson, 1990, p. 105): the idea that everything that can be explained as ideology can be found in the texts of politicians. Thompson stresses that one cannot read of the consequences of cultural products from the products themselves. Studying the effects, and therefore the actual uptake (which is always a work of interpretation and assimilation of content), is thus of crucial importance (especially in the age of digitalization and web 2.0). Seen from an interaction-sociolinguistic paradigm, we see several problems with the dominant theories of populism: 1. First of all, the slippery slope between so-called thin and thick ideologies in the ideational paradigm of several populism theories obscures the full ideologies that are reproduced within the populist frame. As a result of this, theories of populism constantly (1) have to admit exceptions to the rule or (2) need to call for a kind of theoretical purity that reshapes the world to fit theory. 2. On top of that, it is striking that in most contemporary studies on populism, populism is used as an absolute category. A politician or a party is then populist or not based on a focus on the discursive input of the politician. There does not seem to be any attention to the uptake—the communicative relation and the chronotopic nature of populism. Populism is understood as an abstract label, without a historical-sociological analysis of the different “voices” within the social stratigraphy of the populist discourse (Blommaert, 2018) and without any attention to the social situation in which those discourse are

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produced and reproduced. The real concrete chronotopic speech acts of the “populist” are neglected. 3. Third, we see that in most of the work within the ideational paradigm, populism is described as a purely political phenomenon. For some reason, the field of politics is isolated from society. In these theories, populism seems to have little or nothing to do with the (changes in the) media field (see, for instance, Mudde & Kaltwasser, 2017; Müller, 2017). 4. In the same move, the academic field that produces theories on populism is isolated from the political field. The study, and more concretely categorizing some actors as populists and freeing others from the label of course, has political effects as well (see Jäger, 2016, 2017, and D’Eramo, 2013, for a substantial critique). From the moment theories enter the “public sphere,” we could argue that they potentially contribute to the construction of populist actors. In that sense, these theories are part of the equation: they co-construct “populism” and should be taken on board as data that need analysis. 5. Once political theories enter the public sphere, they potentially have far-reaching political effects. This raises different kinds of academic, social, political, and ethical questions. The ethical questions become all the more important from the moment that populist theories are used as ideational categories, not only claiming to say something about keywords or communicative or discursive frames. Populism in this ideational frame becomes a categorization tool of the ideology, the belief system and the actual positioning of that actor. Labeling a party as populist in the sense of being racist can, for instance, result in the exclusion of this party from the political game. It is therefore important that scholars devote their energies developing and improving their analytical tools. In tackling these five issues, I argue that it is more productive and precise to understand and analyze populism as a (digitally) mediatized communicative and discursive relation. This is a plea to understand populism from an interdisciplinary perspective and more concretely to bring in a digital ethnographic, discursive, and interactional sociolinguistic take into the field of populism studies. A (digital) ethnographic approach (Maly, 2018c; Varis, 2016) helps us in overcoming the theoretical muddle of populism by focusing on how populism is constructed in communicative relations between different actors in a specific chronotope. The label “populism” is the result of many different communicative events in very specific chronotopic contexts. Trump communicates differently during the presidential debates, on Twitter or on Fox News. Those very specific contexts

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enable and format his discourse, and analyzing those discourses in relation to their social situation allows us to deepen our understanding of populism. When Trump is asked during the debate why he tweets conspiracy theories, he has to reorganize his discourse—claiming it is “just” a retweet. Both communicative events contribute to his message and can sustain or annihilate his populist identity. Understanding “populism” as a communicative relation would mean (1) separating ideology (and any normative judgments) from the communicative frame, (2) understanding populism as a frame that is used to normalize and (re)produce ideology, (3) focusing on the uptake and distribution of that frame, and (4) focusing on the material side of distribution: the embeddedness of the populist voice in (digital) media. This interactional-sociolinguistic approach comes with an interactional-sociolinguistic ontology of discourse. In this ontology, discourse is not understood as “text” but as interaction (Blommaert, 2005, 2011) and thus comes with a focus on the relational (and the effects) and chronotopic characteristics of populism. Studying populism in this paradigm is studying the concrete communicative processes. Understanding populism as “discourse-in-interaction” means that the different actors, the instruments for production, distribution, and uptake in a particular context become key in understanding populism.

FROM (THIN) IDEOLOGY TO COMMUNICATIVE RELATION A good starting point to study populism is realizing that the concept did not start as “a theory” or an ideology. Populism came into life as the label for a movement and a rising new political party in a two-party landscape. It is remarkable that very few scholars today focus on this process of labeling, on how exactly populists claim or acquire the label. The actual communicative acts through which populists become populists are ignored in the quest for categorization. If we start focusing on the actual communicative acts, we must recognize that these acts are always (mass) mediated (Blommaert, 2017a). This simple point is something that has been missed or seen as unimportant by many populism scholars. If media are mentioned in populism studies, it is mostly mentioned in the context of media being part of the establishment and thus as being “routinely accused by populists of ‘mediating,’ … which is seen by populists as somehow distorting political reality” (Müller, 2016, p. 35). The other context in which media are mentioned is when “populists” gain power and transform “the media landscape by turning state media into mouthpieces of the government and closing and harassing the few remaining independent media outlets” (Mudde & Kaltwasser, 2017, p. 145). Nowhere are media described and analyzed as part of the chronotopic nature of populism.

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The thing is, of course, that populism always exists in the synchrony between “(digital) media and politics” (see also Moffit, 2018). Populists not only use media to articulate “the voice of the people,” or to out criticism on the media or the establishment, but it also shapes their populism. Those media are also used by journalists and academics of other politicians to label them as populists. This focus on media shouldn’t just be about “the populist style” (Moffitt & Tormey, 2014); it should also be about the role of media in the process of becoming a populist. They are a part of the social situation. Acquiring the populist label in (digitally) mass-mediated societies is always a mediatized process. And, thus, it is important to realize that changes in the media field also have effects on how populism is constructed. More specifically, as I already stressed above, in the age of digitalization, the affordances and the algorithmic nature of web 2.0 should be taken on board in the study of populism. Digitalization has profoundly reshaped the public sphere (Maly, 2018b,c; Papacharissi, 2002; Thompson, 2020; Tufekci, 2015; Van Poell & Van Dijck, 2014 ). Populism is constructed not only in relation to journalists, politicians, and academics but also in relation with citizens, activists, platforms, algorithms, and their computational agency. If we take media on board in our analysis, then analyzing populism as a style or a discursive frame that politicians can use to appeal to the people and mobilize them (Aslanidis, 2016; Canovan, 1981; Jagers & Walgrave, 2005; Laclau, 2015; Taggart, 2000) is not enough. Thus, the affordances of digital media and the web 2.0 push us toward understanding populism as a digitally mediated and chronotopic communicative relation between different human and algorithmic actors. Populism, in this understanding, presupposes (1) a communicator that mobilizes “an anti-elite discourse in the name of the sovereign People” (Aslanidis, 2016, p. 96), that is, an actor (person, party, or movement) who can be labeled or labels him or herself as a populist or claims to speak in the name of the people; (2) a (claim to a) certain amount of knowledge of the demands and/or needs of (a part of) the people “the populist (party/movement)” claims to represent (in many cases now acquired through datafication); (3) other actors like journalists, politicians, and/or academics who label the communicator, party, or movement as populist; (4) a (digital) media infrastructure through which the message of “the populist” is shaped and distributed, and knowledge about the audience is gathered; and (5) some kind of uptake, legitimation, or recognition of (a part of) the people (in the form of likes, shares, followers, militants, and voters).

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Understanding populism as a chronotopic communicative relation highlights that populism is the result of a complex interplay between all of these different elements. In the digital age, political discourses are only to a small extent produced by politicians. Millions of citizens, activists, and even algorithms (re)produce political discourses (Maly, 2018c). Digital media have fundamentally altered the media and political field, and studying populism inevitably means that we should include these media in our analysis. Social media like Facebook and Twitter allow politicians to control their own voice and message, but they only control it within the given formats of the social medium they use. These media come with specific affordances, and as such they not only shape the discourse but also contribute to the construction or destruction and distribution of the populist voice. This is especially important considering the rising political use and importance of digital media not only as “passive media” but also as media with algorithmic agency (Tufekci, 2015). Digital media are not just intermediaries—the message is not just distributed by digital media but also shaped and altered. The algorithms of these media “select and prioritize content by algorithmically translating user activity into ‘most relevant’ or ‘trending’ topics” (Van Poell & Van Dijck, 2014). Digital media and social media in particular are nonlinear; they (re)shape and reorganize the communicative structure of the “input” discourse. They have agency; they are mediators and are thus a fundamental actor. The algorithms and the general affordances of these media are staked on neoliberal principles that translate into the valuing of hierarchy, competition, and a winnertakes-all mindset (Van Dijck, 2013, p. 21). These media are thus not “just” neutral platforms connecting users sharing content. In these digital media, the popularity principle that states that “the more contacts you have and make, the more valuable you become, because more people think you are popular and hence want to connect to you” (Van Dijck, 2013, p. 13) is king. Within this logic, being a populist without online followers is a contradiction in terms. Politicians, and populists in particular, thus have to build a large audience if they want to claim to be speaking in the name of the people. And each post needs to reach an audience that actively supports or at least interacts with the mediatized voice, so that the algorithms push it into relevance. Each post has to have “likes,” “retweets,” and “comments.” The populist has to produce “popular posts.” Producing such posts is clearly not only a matter of content but also about knowledge about the medium itself and the algorithms and affordances that organize the distribution of posts. Media literacy is a crucial ingredient of contemporary populist discourse. In order to construct the populist voice, the populist first of all has to build his or her own followers. These followers are the first people (or bots) that can interact with a post and as such can give it the aura of “being popular” and the perception that the politician is

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really articulating “the voice of the people.” The number of followers, likes, and retweets are political facts. Depending on the success, or the hype and discussion, a post generates, it will be distributed further and become visible to more people. Moreover, in many cases it will trigger journalists to write about it, and as a consequence they can reproduce (or question) the politician’s claim on “the voice of the people.” Social media have thus become political battle fields. The configuration of these media make it crucial for a wannabe populist to build up his or her audience and to make sure that their posts generate retweets, shares, and likes. Without interaction, the populist will never be able to make the populist claim. We should, of course, recognize that this process is at least partially algorithmically constructed. In Facebook, for instance, we see that the number of interactions, and especially shares, will make your post more visible on the news feeds of your followers (Maly & Beekmans, 2018). In Twitter, we see that the more interaction (likes, comments, and retweets) a tweet generates, the more chance it will have to be featured as a Twitter Highlight and thus the higher the chance that Twitter will make this highlight visible to potential new audiences (Twitter, 2018b). The likes, retweets, and shares are thus not only important in creating the perception of popularity but also algorithmically important to reach out to an ever-larger audience. Numbers matter in the economy of virality. Popularity is a coded and quantified concept, and as such it is manipulable (Van Dijck, 2013, p. 13). It is thus no wonder that this gives birth to not only a new populism but also a new type of activism: algorithmic activism (Maly, 2018a, 2019, 2020b). This type of activism contributes to spreading the message of a politician or movement by interacting with the post in order to trigger the algorithms of the medium so that it boosts the popularity rankings of this message and its messenger. This type of activism, when intentional, presupposes that the activists not only subscribe to the message they interact with but also understand the affordances and the algorithmic construction of the medium. Algorithmic activists have media literacy and use this (theoretical or practical) knowledge about the relative weight certain signals have within the proceduralized choices the algorithms of the media platforms make as proxies of human judgment in relation to the goals of the medium itself. This type of activism can be organized in many different ways. It is dependent on the different platforms where the political battle is fought, on the knowledge and the technological competences of the activists, and on the mobilization power of the militants and their financial means. In its most basic organization, it consists of individual activists or militants who use one or more social media accounts. In its most elaborate form it consists of huge bot networks, backed up by many militants, databases, and financial means to fully exploit the affordances of social media like Facebook’s lookalike-audience products,

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allowing advertisers to upload lists of names or mails and then design so-called lookalike audiences that have a lot in common (not only demographically but also concerning interests, habits, and preferences) with the original list. Advertisers can then target these audiences. If we adopt a perspective on populism as a (digitally) mediatized chronotopic communication relation, we are forced to look at concrete data, at the concrete ways and socio-technological and political contexts in which actors communicate themselves and others as “populist,” how those contexts shape the populist message and at how they organize “uptake,” and how their populist message is reproduced. In order to illustrate how we can mobilize this approach in our analysis, I will zoom in on the construction of Trump as a populist. I’ll start by looking at how Trump is understood in the ideational frame before further zooming in on the digitally mediatized communication relation. Populist in Heart and Soul? Trump is a hard nut to crack, and some populism scholars are hesitant to label Trump as a populist. In an interview with The Atlantic, Cas Mudde, for instance, remains “skeptical that Trump is, in his heart of hearts, a populist. The chances that he becomes more ‘elitist’ in office are greater than for someone like the presidential candidate Marine Le Pen in France, who has been consistently populist for years,” Mudde said. However, he added that “Donald Trump the politician today is a populist radical-right politician” (Friedman, 2017). Seen from an interactional-sociolinguistic take on populism, this quote is informative for several reasons. First of all, Mudde’s communication here is published in The Atlantic and is thus produced for a broad audience. It is therefore best understood as part of the communicative relation that co-constructs Trump as a (fake) populist. A second element that is remarkable is the stress Mudde puts on the “authenticity” of the populist. When expressing his doubt as how to label Trump, Mudde points to the populist’s inner conviction. A true populist is seemingly somebody who is “in his heart of hearts, a populist.” Mudde thus makes a distinction between a “true populist” and a “fake populist.” The difference between the two is found in the “conviction.” The populist thus has to truly mean it. And Mudde adds that he thinks that the “chances [are] that he [Trump] becomes more elitist.” Trump thus has a lot of characteristics of a true populist, but he still could be a fake. Le Pen, on the other hand, is understood as the real deal because she has been communicating herself consistently as a true populist. Mudde’s qualification of Trump as a populist radical-right politician starts when Steve Bannon and Stephen Miller enter the picture. From the moment these “real populists” are on board, according to Mudde, you could see Trump becoming more populist. The example that Mudde highlights is Trump’s inaugural speech, “which was clearly

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populist” (Demeulemeester & De Preter, 2017). This change in discourse only adds to the idea that Trump is possibly not sincere and thus not a real populist. The fact that Mudde gives so much weight to the “sincerity and authenticity” of the populist can easily be read as an effect of the ideational paradigm. In this interview, populism is understood as an ideology within a cognitive and ideational frame in which ideologies are assumed to control the minds of the members (see Blommaert, 2005, p. 161, for an elaborate discussion on different conceptions of ideology). In this paradigm, populism is a series of ideas that the populist and his followers should believe. A real populist is, then, somebody who truly believes that he or she articulates the voice of the people. That same assumption is also made by Müller, who states that populists “assume” that “ ‘the people’ can speak with one voice” (2016, p. 57). Within populism studies, a true populist not only stands up to the elite and does this consistently; he or she should also be a populist in one’s heart: they should truly believe in “their people” and in the fact that they fight for these people. This touches upon a key element in the ideational paradigm that the populist believes in their populist communication. It is at this point that we see how Mudde’s and Müller’s communication contributes to the notion that true populists are, at least in their own heart and in their own perspective, true advocates of the people against the elites. This ideational approach to populism raises theoretical problems: the focus on intentions and ideology as cognitive phenomena disregards the material side of ideology. Ideologies do not just pop up in our minds; they are shaped and distributed in society through the use of media (Althusser, 1971; Blommaert, 2005). One could not only question if it really matters if Trump is a populist in his heart; more important is that we know that the Trump campaign at least imagined “the people” to be multivoiced. We all know by now that Trump spoke in many different voices (CBS, 2018; Concorida, 2016; The Guardian, 2018; Maly, 2018c; Nix, 2017). And these different voices were constructed through the datafication of his targeted audiences. We can thus safely say that the Trump campaign never believed that the “people” speak with one voice. This is no surprise as the people and the voice of the people have always been very flexible concepts, sometimes including a lot of people, sometimes defined very narrowly (Maly, 2016). Trump mobilized a strategic authenticity (Gaden & Dumitrica, 2014), tailor-made to resonate with certain targeted audiences (and not with others). The Case of Pro-Trump Activist @WyattEarpLA If we analyze Trump’s communication in an interactional-sociolinguistic paradigm, it does not really matter if the populist believes that the people only

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has one voice. What is more important is whether he can make it believable, if he is seen by others as the one articulating the voice of the people and if he manages to get support from citizens and activists. Every politician’s Twitter or Facebook posts will not only come with reactions from “citizens” but also from activists, who will challenge or support the politician by reproducing their message (Lempert & Silverstein, 2012). That this voice is relevant and important can, for instance, be seen when President Trump retweets a post of an activist called @WyattEarpLA. By retweeting this tweet, Trump clearly tries to portray himself as a president that has popular support. The tweet of this anonymous activist is re-entextualized and now presented to the world as a popular president thanking his supporters. The tweet is now part of the populist discourse of Trump. This was a post that generated 11,002 retweets, 54.481 hearts, and 6.691 comments in 16 hours. This uptake is also part of the chronotope context: it generates meaning and contributes to the construction of Trump as a populist. The populist discourse is clearly layered as it exists out of the voice of @WyattEarpLA, Trump, and the many others who use the affordances of Twitter to show their support. This assemblage says more than if Trump would just claim to be popular. In this retweet the voice of the “common citizen” and the uptake as represented in the vanity metrics (Venturini, 2020) attribute populist capital in an economy of virality. Twitter here functions as a key “social structure” and is thus an essential ingredient of the chronotopic context. The affordances to retweet, like, and comment shape the populist discourse; they are the invisible drivers behind actual social conduct and thus demand our attention. We cannot understand contemporary populism without looking at Twitter as part of the populist discourse. [Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump retweeting and replying to @WyattEarpLA]: Thank you!         [Snake Plissken @WyattEarpLA, replying to @realDonaldTrump]:         You’re the greatest President of my lifetime, Sir. 6691 comments        11,002 retweets    54,481 likes Donald Trump Retweets Activist – October 14, 2018 Contributing to Trump’s political capital is exactly why @WyattEarpLA produced this tweet in the first place. If we take a look at his account, we see that all tweets of @WyattEarpLA are deeply political, leaving no doubt about his political orientation. All of his tweets are explicitly supportive of Trump and Trumpism. The consistency in his tweets leaves no doubt about the truthfulness in praise of the president. Not a hint of irony can be detected in his communication. Each tweet shows that Snake Plissken is explicitly conservative,

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pro-Trump, and anti-Democratic. He regularly retweets Donald Trump and Donald Trump Jr. and constantly retweets pro-Trump activist accounts like @_ImperatorRex_, @drawandstrike, and @weneedtotalk. Democrats, on the other hand, are being described as left-wing communist hate mobs, echoing Trump’s discourse explicitly. It is safe to say that @WyattEarpLA is embedded in a network of MAGA activists. Those MAGA activists play a fundamental role in the construction of the populist message of Trump: they provide him with the authority to claim popularity on Twitter. Snake Plissken’s followers are part of the chronotopic relation. It is because @WyattEarpLA has a massive amount of followers that his tweet was visible on Trump’s wall. And we should realize that to have this impact, this activist had to invest a lot of work in his profile. This particular activist account was, according to Social Blade, created on April 24, 2018 (Social Blade, 2018). With 10,236 tweets in less than six months, @WyattEarpLA was a very active tweep. What’s more, in these same six months he has managed to gather over 63,000 followers (April 24–October 18, 2018). This account in itself has become a “micro-medium.” Since September 30, 2018, @WyattEarpLA has gained 36,966 followers. This steep rise, we can safely assume, does not happen from scratch; it needs extensive work. Work that is also done by the president himself, who by quoting this activist, has contributed to adding 2,940 followers for @WyattEarpLA on October 14, 2018 (Figure 2.1). Creating such a large following can be established through many different ways. Producing “good tweets” that generate retweets by popular accounts, like the one of the president, is one way. The use of bots and click farms would be another. Still another, old-school activist way would be to engage in mass following, in the hope that they follow you back. Looking at the stats of Social Blade, we see that #WyattEarpLA has indeed been engaged in mass following. The fact that this tactic of aggressive following is detected by the Twitter algorithms and resulted in a block is immediately being used to further build up an audience. @WyattEarpLA taps in a dominant myth in these MAGA circles that portrays Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey as part of the “liberal elite” that tries to control and censor “conservative voices.” (Note that in the screenshot, @ WyattEarpLA was going under the name Kurt Russel [@KurtRusselLA], which could also have contributed to his large amount of followers.) [Snake Plissken @WyattEarpLA]: I was following back a few dozen of my wonderful fans and twitter threw the cuffs on me for “Aggressive Following” .. Also had 70k followers and now i only have 44k. Seriously, Jack? Are we in junior high? What a damn joke. Retweet to show how juvenile twitter is.

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FIGURE 2.1:  Social Blade—overview @WyattEarpLA

Attached to this tweet is a screenshot from his Twitter account showing that Twitter’s communication directed to his account: Twitter We’ve temporarily limited some of your account features Kurt Russell (American Flag) @KurtRussellLA What happened? Your account is engaged in Aggressive Following (Including Link to Twitters explanation of aggressive following). So we limited some features for 2 days and 23 hours. The countdown will begin once you continue to Twitter 3802 retweets   4044 hearts @WyattEarpLA – Aggressive Following With some presidential help, insight in the MAGA niche, and time investment (and claiming a celebrity name), an anonymous account has created a mass

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following. His followers are “informed” on a daily basis about the “angry left mob,” about how good Trump is, about Trump’s speeches and the general stance they have to take. @WyattEarpLA is thus a fundamental part of Trump’s populist discourse, not only pushing it to new audiences, but also producing it himself. More importantly, his tweets are also being retweeted and liked by other “pro-Trump’ ”citizens and activists on a massive scale. We now understand how much work has been invested in co-constructing the president as popular and spreading his message to new audiences. All these MAGA activists are part of the social situation; their voices are also present in the retweet of Trump.

ALGORITHMIC ACTIVISM AND THE FOLLOWER-FOLLOWING RATIO Twitter as a chronotopic context is also visible in the communicative behavior of @WyattEarpLA on his own account. In the tweet above, he speaks to his followers as if he is a true celebrity and they are his fans. He is speaking as a celebrity and as such he shows his full integration in the digital economy of Twitter. Indeed, looking at the numbers, his account resembles the followerfollowing ratio of a celebrity. On October 18, 2018, @WyattEarpLA followed only 199 accounts (compared to more than 60,000 followers). Such a followerfollowing ratio is usually read as an indicator of success. Note that not many noncelebrities succeed in obtaining such a ratio. We can safely say that it requires skill and insight to obtain this “golden ratio,” especially within such a short timeframe. The tactic the account has used to obtain this ratio does neatly align with the guidelines in a widely circulated Pastebin Document for advanced meme warfare (MYNUNUDONALDACCOUNT, 2016). Under the section “outreach,” we find the following guideline for gaining followers for your “activists accounts”: “FOLLOW / UNFOLLOW. This is the essence of gaining free social media traffic. You want to follow a hundred or so people every day per account, and unfollow the ones who don’t follow back after a couple days. After a few weeks, you’ll have #XXX – #XXXX followers per account.” If we again look at the follower-following ratio in Social Blade, we see exactly this strategy unfolding. All this is politically relevant, not only because it creates a pro-Trump micromedium with a large audience, but also because the larger one’s following is, the more “relevant” the Twitter algorithms will find the comments of these accounts on, for instance, Trump’s tweets. Since 2016, Twitter does not show these responses in chronological order anymore. They are now personalized or, more concretely, algorithmically reorganized according to their relevance for the person looking at them. Twitter (2018a) explains it as follows: “Replies are grouped by sub-conversations because we strive to show you the [best] content

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[first, and what we think] you’d be most interested in … For example, when ranking a reply higher, we consider factors such as if the original Tweet author has replied, or if a reply is from someone you follow.” The algorithms of Twitter are thus part of the chronotope in which Trump and his supporters create the populist discourse. And the same is true for his followers, as they contribute to the relevance of @WyattEarpLA’s tweet and thus its visibility. The more followers this pro-Trump-activist has, the more chance his responses to presidential tweets will pop up in the top comments for anyone of his followers, as the algorithm will deduce its “relevance” for them. The more followers an activist has, the more they will be able to help the president in his claim on “the voice of the people.” The affordances of social media thus shape a new type of activism. This activism focuses not only on “fast” responses but also on increased interaction and on building a bigger audience reach. Social Media and the Political Battlefield Social media have become important political battlefields, and this discursive war is not only a pro-Trump war; other activists (and opportunists) have joined the battlefield as well. Since 2018, Trump cannot tweet anymore without receiving an enormous backlash. Every single tweet receives—next to retweets and hearts—an avalanche of critical comments within minutes. [Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump, retweeting and replying to @WyattEarpLA]: Thank you!     [Snake Plissken @WyattEarpLA, replying to @realDonaldTrump]:     You’re the greatest President of my lifetime, Sir. 7,373 comments   12,904 retweets   61,907 hearts [Brian Krassenstein @krassenstein, replying to @realDonaldTrump]: Was he born in late 2017? 204 comments   93 retweets   2565 hearts [Brian Krassenstein @krassenstein]: The greatest president of my lifetime is clearly Barack Obama, followed closely by Bill Clinton. 414 comments   85 retweets   895 hearts [Paul Joseph Watson @PrisonPlanet, replying to @realDonaldTrump]: Correction: You’re the greatest President in history! 367 comments   1027 retweets   6027 hearts Brian Krassenstein Response to Trump’s Tweets

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People like the twin brothers Brian and Ed Krassenstein and like @ChristopherJZelo have proven to be masters at this game. No matter if you follow them or not, chances are high that you will encounter their comments first under Trump’s tweets. The brothers have a long history in the (scammy) digital economy, and they clearly understand the Twitter ecology. Just like the MAGA activists, they are able to push their comments into virality, obtain an excellent follower-following ratio, and build a huge audience themselves while doing this. It’s also here that we see how social media, their algorithms and affordances, reshape the political field. New kids on the block—like the Krassenstein twin brothers—can now, without any party or movement behind them, claim an important place in the political field. What’s more, they can take up “activism” for their own profit. @ChrisJZulo’s primary aim, for instance, seems to be to sell his book The End is Near, Save US and his TagAmericaBlue.com merchandise, and the Krassenstein brothers promote their own website Hillreporter.com. I have said it many times, but it is important that we understand that Twitter is part of the social situation. The communication of these activists is at least partially reflective of their understanding of the protocols and algorithms of Twitter. This understanding gives them a huge voice against Trump, but they do not seem to be part of a broad movement or party. At the same time, they partially shape the resistance against Trump. It is their algorithmic voice that creates the necessity for “pro-Trump” activists to build and maintain their own network of “algorithmic activists.” Dominating the comments underneath and thus making sure that pro-Trump comments are pushed to relevance is an endless battle of producing comments that resonate, made by accounts that have a large following. This can be done by “real accounts” of celebrities or key activist figures within their niche (see, for instance, how Paul Joseph Watson from Infowars does this) or by setting up activist accounts and “farm them steadily” (MYNUNUDONALDACCOUNT, 2016). Populism: From Thin Ideology to Chronotopic Communicative Relation Populism in the age of digitalization has fundamentally changed. Citizens and human and nonhuman activists all co-construct the message of the populist and the resistance against it. Algorithmic activism has become a key ingredient in the construction of the “voice of the people.” Activists for or against the “populists” are engaged in an endless algorithmically shaped battle to co-construct the “voice of the people.” In its most elaborate form, the construction of the populist voice consists of huge bot networks (Bessi & Ferrara, 2016), backed up by many militants, databases, and financial means to fully exploit the affordances of social media. This type of professionalized activism is not unique; it has and will become key

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in the political battles of the future. Digitalization forces us to look at populism as a digitally mediated chronotopic communicative relation. Populism cannot be studied by only looking at the input side anymore. The uptake is at least as important. It is at this point that we see how productive the chronotopic context is: it pushes us to look at a specific set of features both affecting and producing specific modes of social action (Blommaert, 2018). In our case, it showed that we need to take the communicative economy of Twitter on board to understand how Trump together with many others construct the president as a populist. The simple retweet is a repository of internal stratification; it is a combination of many different voices that are synchronized in one message: Trump has popular support. If we look at populism from an interactional-sociolinguistic paradigm, we encounter it as a digitally mediatized chronotopic communicative relation. We then understand how politicians, academics, journalists, and algorithms contribute to the creation of a “populist message.” We see how the label of populism is not only constructed by the populists themselves but also by academics and journalists who function as “messengers of the message.” These messengers of the message are in most cases responsible of the labeling of politicians as populist. Trump, for instance, did not post one tweet mentioning the concept. Trump is only in part understood as a populist through his own communication and positioning; more important is the fact that the label is acquired through the communicative acts of academics, journalists, politicians, and activists. A focus on the uptake of messages is crucial in any understanding of populism. They are politically facts. It is those interactions that not only legitimize the populist frame but also make sure that the populist frame can be distributed online. Contemporary populists have to take the algorithmic nature of the different social media platforms into account. Moreover, we should realize that the algorithmic nature of digital media contribute to the construction of a new type of populism. Just like in the nineties populism morphed to fit into the new commercial news and entertainment formats (Blommaert et al., 2004), we see that it today again changes. Trump is an excellent example here. Populism and the creation of the perception of a populist politician articulating the “popular” voice of the people is clearly chronotopic. The populism of Andrew Jackson was constructed in a very different age, using different media, having a different tone, form, and content. If we want to understand populism, we should thus understand it in its specific context. This socio-technical, cultural, economic, and political context is of crucial importance to understanding which message scores and which doesn’t. Trump’s focus on gun rights, for instance, was part of his populist message, but it is clear that this mostly works in an American context, and then especially among Republicans. And it is also clear that this message was the result of a very specific space in

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which it was produced: a digital world. Twitter’s interface, its affordances and algorithms, contributes, as I have shown, to a very specific type of populist discourse. The role of algorithms and the affordances of digital media in the construction of the contemporary populist is not a detail but rather touches upon the heart of the phenomenon. It is also clear that not only the politician and the campaign team anymore that create the message, but also the “algorithmic activism” that is a crucial part in the creation of the populist voice. This underlines the importance of understanding populism not just as a frame but also as a communicative relation in which uptake is as important as the supply side. So even though on the surface Trump kept on speaking in the name of the people, behind that surface things look entirely different. Understanding populism in the digital age obliges us to take all these human and nonhuman players into account, it is a sociotechnical assemblage. Studying populism, then, is not about reading the beliefs or intentions of the populists, or trying to categorize politicians or parties. Instead, it is about analyzing how a party, politician, or movement comes to be known as “a populist” or “populist.” In this interactional-sociolinguistic paradigm, we are also able to exactly describe and analyze how certain politicians are understood as populist and others not. This also enables us to begin to understand how certain politicians, even without claiming to be populist, use the populist communicative frame to put a very radical ideology in the market as the voice of the people.

REFERENCES Abts, K., & Rummens, S. (2007). Populism vs. democracy. Political Studies, 55(2), 405–424. Aslanidis, P. (2016). Is populism an ideology? A refutation and a new perspective. Political Studies, 64(1S), 88–104. doi: 10.1111/1467-9248.12224 Albright, J. (2017, October 14). Cambridge Analytica: The geotargeting and emotional data mining scripts. Medium. Retrieved from https://medium.com/towcenter/cambridge-analytica-the-geotargeting-and-emotional-data-mining-scriptsbcc3c428d77f Althusser, L. (1971). On ideology. London: Verso. Bessi, A., & Ferrara, E. (2016). Social bots distort the 2016 U.S. Presidential election online discussion. First Monday, 21(11). Retrieved from http://firstmonday.org/ojs/ index.php/fm/article/view/7090 Bakhtin, M. M. (1986). Speech genres & other late essays. Austin: University of Texas Press. Blommaert, J. (2001). Ik stel vast. Politiek taalgebruik, politieke vernieuwing en verrechtsing. Berchem: Epo. Blommaert, J. (2005). Discourse. A critical introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Blommaert, J. (2011). Sociolinguistics of globalization. Cambridge: Cambridge University press.

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Blommaert, J. (2017a). Wat is populisme? Diggit Magazine. Retrieved from https://www. diggitmagazine.com/book-reviews/wat-populisme Blommaert, J. (2017b). Commentary: Mobility, contexts, and the chronotope. Language in Society, 46(1, Metapragmatics of Mobility), 95–99. Blommaert, J. (2018). Are chronotopes helpful? Working Papers in Urban Language & Literacies, paper 243. Retrieved from https://www.academia.edu/36894030/ Are_chronotopes_helpful Blommaert, J., & De Finna, A. (2018). Chronotopic identities? On the Timespace Organization of Who We Are. Retrieved from https://www.academia.edu/29536659/ Chronotopic_Identities_On_the_Timespace_Organization_of_Who_We_Are Blommaert, J., Corijn, E., Holthof, M., & Lesage, D. (2004). Populisme. Berchem: Epo. Canovan, M. (1981). Populism. London: Junction Books. Canovan, M. (2002). Taking politics to the people: Populism as the ideology of democracy. In Y. Mény & Y. Surel (Eds.), Democracies and the populist challenge (pp. 25–44). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Chadwick, A. (2017). The hybrid media system: Politics and power. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cesarino, L. (2019, April 15). On digital populism in Brazil. PoLAR: Political and Legal Anthropology Review. Retrieved from https://polarjournal.org/2019/04/15/ on-jair-bolsonaros-digital-populism/ Concorida. (2016). Presentation by Alexander Nix from Cambridge Analytica – The power of big data and psychographics. YouTube. Retrieved from https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=n8Dd5aVXLCc&t=454s CBS. (2018). 60 minutes with Brad Parscale. Retrieved from https://www.cbs. com/shows/60_minutes/video/PspFaw8d4MAdVINnKDkiD27VuWY3K_vX/ facebook-embeds-russia-and-the-trump-campaign-s-secret-weapon/ D’Eramo, M. (2013). Populism for oligarchs. New Left Review, 82(July/August), 5–30. Demeulemeester, S., & de Preter, J. (2017). Populisme-expert Cas Mudde: “Zelfs het establishment is vandaag anti-establishment.” Knack. Retrieved from http://www. knack.be/nieuws/belgie/populisme-expert-cas-mudde-zelfs-het-establishment-isvandaag-anti-establishment/article-longread-871287.html Gaden, G. & Dumitrica, D. (2014). The “real deal”: Strategic authenticity, politics and social media. First Monday, 20(1). Retrieved from http://firstmonday.org/ojs/index. php/fm/article/view/4985/4197 Gidron N., & Bonikowksi, B. (2013). Varieties of populism: Literature review and research agenda. Weaterhead Center for International Affairs, working paper. Retrieved from https://wcfia.harvard.edu/publications/varieties-populismliterature-review-and-research-agenda Gillespie, T. (2018). Custodians of the internet: Platforms, content moderation, and the hidden decisions that shape social media. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Goffman, E. (1964). The neglected situation. American Anthropologist, 66(2), 133–136. Hofstadter, R. (1955). The age of reform. New York: Vintage books. Horwarth, D. (2015). Ernesto Laclau: Post-Marxism, populism and critique. London: Routledge. Foucault, M. (1970). De orde van het spreken. Meppel: Boom. Friedman, U. (2017, February 27). What is a populist? And is Trump one? The Atlantic. Retrieved from https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2017/02/ what-is-populist-trump/516525/

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Jäger, A. (2016). The myth of “populism.” Jacobin Magazine. Retrieved from https://www. jacobinmag.com/2018/01/populism-douglas-hofstadter-donald-trump-democracy Jäger, A. (2017). Kleine (anti-)geschiedenis van het populisme. Amsterdam: De Geus. Jagers, J., & Walgrave, S. (2005). Populism as political communication style: An empirical study of political parties’ discourse in Belgium. European Journal of Political Science. Retrieved from http://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.517.954 &rep=rep1&type=pdf Laclau, E. (2005). Populism: What’s in a name? In D. Horwarth, Ernesto Laclau. PostMarxism, populism and critique (pp. 21–275). London: Routledge. Lempert, M., & Silverstein, M. (2012). Creatures of politics. Media, message, and the American presidency. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Maly, I. (2012). N-VA. Analyse van een politieke ideologie. Berchem: Epo. Maly, I. (2016). Scientific nationalism: N-VA and the discursive battle for the Flemish nation. Nations and Nationalism, 22(2), 266–286. Maly, I. (2017). How Trump won. Working paper. Retrieved from https://www. academia.edu/29745750/Why_Trump_won Maly, I. (2018a). Algorithmic populism and algorithmic activism. Diggit Magazine. Retrieved from https://www.diggitmagazine.com/articles/algorithmic-populismactivism Maly, I. (2018b). Facebook and the end of the public sphere. Diggit Magazine. Retrieved from https://www.diggitmagazine.com/articles/facebook-strangle-media2018-undermine-democracy Maly, I. (2018c). Nieuw rechts. Berchem: Epo. Maly, I. (2019). New right metapolitics and the algorithmic activism of Schild & Vrienden. Social Media & Society, 5(2), 1–15. Retrieved from https://doi. org/10.1177/2056305119856700 Maly, I. (2020a). Algorithmic populism and the datafication and gamification of the people by Flemish interest in Belgium. Trabalhos em Linguística Aplicada, 59(1), 444–468. Retrieved from https://doi.org/10.1590/01031813685881620200409 Maly, I. (2020b). Metapolitical new right influencers: The case of Brittany Pettibone. Soc. Sci, 9(7), 113. Retrieved from https://doi.org/10.3390/socsci9070113 Maly, I., & Beekmans, I. (2018). Research report: Analyzing Facebook’s guidelines for publishers. Diggit Magazine. Retrieved from https://www.diggitmagazine.com/ working-papers/research-report-diggitday-facebook-experiment Moffit, B. (2018). Populism 2.0, social media and the false allure of “unmediated” representation. In G. Fitzi, J. Mackert, & B. S. Turner (Eds.), Populism and the crisis of democracy (pp. 30–46). London: Routledge. Moffitt, B., & Tormey, S. (2014). Rethinking populism: Politics, mediatisation and political style. Political Studies, 62(2), 381–397. Mudde, C. (2004). The populist zeitgeist. Government and Opposition, 39(4), 541–563. Mudde, C., & Kaltwasser, C. R. (2017). Populism: A very short introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Müller, J.-W. (2016). What is populism. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Müller, J.-W. (2017). Wat is populisme. Amsterdam: Nieuw Amsterdam. MYNUNUDONALDACCOUNT. (2016). Advanced meme warfare /cfg/. Pastebin. Nix, A. (2017). Alexander Nix CEO, Cambridge Analytica – Online Marketing Rockstars Keynote | OMR17. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bG5ps5KdDo Papacharissi, Z. (2002). The virtual sphere: The internet as public sphere. New media & Society, 4(1), 9–27.

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Stanley, B. (2008). The thin ideology of populism. Journal of Political Ideology, 13(1), 95–110. Retrieved from https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/ pdf/10.1080/13569310701822289 Silva, D. (2019). The Amazon fires as talking to Bolsonaro. Diggit Magazine. Retrieved from https://www.diggitmagazine.com/articles/amazon-fires-talking-bolsonaro Social Blade. (2018). Snake Plissken @WyattEarpLA Overview. Retrieved from https:// socialblade.com/twitter/user/wyattearpla/monthly Thompson, J. B. (1990). Ideology and modern culture: Critical social theory in the era of mass communication. Cambridge: Polity Press. Thompson, J. B. (2020). Mediated interaction in the digital age. Theory, Culture & Society, 37(1), 3–28. Taggart, P. A. (2000). Populism. Buckingham: Open University Press. Torfing, J. (1999). New theories of discourses. Laclau, Mouffe and Zizek. Oxford: Blackwell. The Guardian. (2018). Cambridge Analytica whistleblower: “We spent $1m harvesting millions of Facebook profiles.” YouTube. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=FXdYSQ6nu-M Tufekci, Z. (2015). Algorithmic harms beyond Facebook and Google: Emergent challenges of computational agency. COLO. TECH. L.J., 13. Retrieved from https:// ctlj.colorado.edu/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/Tufekci-final.pdf Twitter. (2018a). About Twitter conversations. Retrieved from https://help.twitter.com/ en/using-twitter/twitter-conversations Twitter. (2018b). Highlights. Retrieved from https://help.twitter.com/en/managing-youraccount/notification-settings-for-twitter-highlights Van Dijck, J. (2013). The culture of connectivity: A critical history of social media. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Van Poell, T., & Van Dijck, J. (2014). Social media and journalistic independence. In J. Bennett & N. Strange (Eds.), Media independence: Working with freedom or working for free? (pp. 182–201). New York: Routledge. Varis, P. (2016). Digital ethnography. In A. Georgakopoulou & T. Spilioti (Eds.), The Routledge handbook of language and digital communication (pp. 55–68). London: Routledge. Venturini, T. (2020). From fake to junk news. The data politics of online virality. In D. Bigo, E. Isin, & E. Ruppert (Eds.), Data politics: Worlds, subjects, rights (pp. 123–144). New York: Routledge. Wodak, R., KhosraviNik, M., & Mral, B. (2013). Right-wing populism in Europe: Politics and discourse. London: Bloomsbury. WyattEarpLA. (2018). Tweet, October 14, 2015. Twitter. Retrieved from https://twitter. com/WyattEarpLA/status/1051625405185228800

PART TWO

Economy

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CHAPTER THREE

Audit as Genre, Migration Industries, and Neoliberalism’s Uptakes ALFONSO DEL PERCIO

INTRODUCTION In Audit Cultures (2000), Marilyn Strathern argues that auditing is a culture in the making. It is informed by practices that are not confined to one population, state apparatus, or geographical space. She claims that auditing contributes to the distribution of resources and the credibility of enterprises in diverse places. People become devoted to its implementation and believe in its capacity to provoke organizational change. At the same time, she adds that auditing evokes personal anxieties, frustrations, and resistance. It is held to be deleterious to certain goals, as it can be overdemanding and damaging. The principles of quality, efficiency, and transparency that auditing propagates have social consequences and moral implications. Auditing has also become a powerful descriptor that applies to all kinds of reckonings, evaluations, and measurements. Auditing affects people, personnel, and resources. It frames interactions and social relations and creates new values, practices, and dynamics of inequality. Audits have consequences for people’s understanding of themselves and others, and they allow for the pursuit of specific agendas at the cost of others. Accounting historians remind us that audit cultures have a long history (Previts, Parker, & Coffman, 1990). Their implementation and propagation

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are entrenched with the development of capitalism and the need to maintain control over financial assets and the correct disposal of resources (Lee & AM, 2008)). Auditing is also deeply grounded in the colonial project. Dean Neu (2000), for example, explains that in the Canadian context, auditing helped to translate policies of conquest, annihilation, containment, and assimilation into colonial practice, with the resultant outcomes of reproductive genocide, cultural genocide, and ecocide. Auditing is also grounded historically in the nineteenth-century fetishization of census data and the making of the nationstate (Duchêne & Humbert, 2018). Luca Zan (1994) notes that this historicity of auditing should not induce analysts to assume that the value and function of auditing have remained the same throughout history. Rather than trying to detect an unbroken continuity that links auditing activities with other auditing practices, both spatially and historically, Peter Miller and Christopher Napier (1993) invite analysts to examine the different meanings that have been attached to auditing in different spaces at different moments in time. They ask us to document the language and vocabulary in which specific practices are articulated and to note the ideals that are attached to certain calculative technologies, emphasizing the redirections, transformations, and reversals that constitute situations of established use. The changing meanings and values attached to auditing systems become particularly clear when we look at the transformation of the social economy and the European migration industry in particular. For example, since 2014 I have been studying the rationales framing the activities and practices of the businesses and economic transactions that have emerged around migrants’ desires to become mobile and the Italian government’s struggle to manage migration (Gammeltoft-Hansen & Nyberg Sorensen, 2013). In Italy’s migration industry, auditing has become part of a set of management techniques that allow actors to perform professionalism and compete for funding, mandates, and resources (Pansera and Rizzi, 2020). However, this has not always been the role of auditing. Historically, auditing practices in organizations involved with the Italian migration industry were aimed at documenting the correct disposal of financial resources and the certification of reports and financial statements. Auditing was associated with state control and accountability toward stakeholders and society at large. Recently, however, triggered by the increasing corporatization of the migration industry, auditing has been supplemented by an often spontaneous and voluntary practice aiming at surveilling operations and procedures, identifying inefficiencies, and promoting quality. Auditing is no longer only about documentation and certification but also about improving processes and productivity (Rossi, 2015). These transformations of auditing regimes, in terms of the specific practices that they entail, and in terms of the agendas that they serve, also involve changes in terms of who is auditing and in whose interest. Initially, auditors were external actors appointed either by the

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audited organization, by state authorities, or by other bodies of control (e.g., the Italian Supreme Audit Institution), but now auditors are increasingly integrated within the structures of organizations and contribute within their professional practice to a constant monitoring of processes, actors, and activities. Language scholars (De Costa, Park, & Wee, 2019; Gray & O’Regan, 2018) and beyond (Kipnis, 2008; Scott, 2016; Shore & Wright, 1999, 2015; Vannier, 2010; Welch, 2016) have argued that this proliferation of auditing in all sectors of social and professional life, not only in for-profit corporate organizations but also in cooperatives, charities, associations, and institutions of the public sector, is emblematic of neoliberal governmentality. This is a contemporary mode of ruling that subjects every domain of social life to market-type rationality (Collier, 2005). It governs people through a relentless pursuit of economic efficiency, deregulation, outsourcing, and privatization; it involves marketization and the privileging of competition over cooperation, as well as increasing emphasis on calculative practices aimed at promoting individualization and responsibilization (Shore & Wright, 2015). Nikolas Rose and Peter Miller (1992) argue that auditing systems are political technologies serving the propagation and naturalization of this neoliberal form of governance. Contrary to organizations and auditors who frame auditing cultures as qualityimproving systems that empower people, Strathern (2000) and Cris Shore and Susan Wright (2015), in their work on the current transformation of higher education in the UK, note that auditing techniques are peculiarly coercive and disabling. They seek to produce accountable and transparent subjects that are simultaneously docile yet self-managed. This account of audit cultures offered by critics of neoliberalism is persuasive and has informed my recent work on the governmentality of labor and migration in Italy (Del Percio, 2016, 2017; Del Percio & Van Hoof, 2016) and the UK (Del Percio & Wong, 2019; Wu & Del Percio, 2019). While this scholarship has allowed me to anchor the current spread of audit cultures in larger capitalist transformations and to offer a critique of the financialization and industrialization of migration infrastructure (McGuirk & Pine, 2020), it fails to explain the rather complex, contradictory, and often unexpected situations and practices we observe when documenting auditing cultures. Indeed, on-the-ground tensions, struggles, and contestations are present and constantly challenging the meanings and values of auditing cultures and their organizational functions. Agendas of control and responsibilization coexist with transformative projects of redistribution and inclusion. Discourses of accountability and quality intersect with projects of resistance and subversion. Measuring techniques and quantification tools invented to monitor performance and efficiency are used to document inequality and promote change. In short, if auditing cultures are often seen as pertaining to what Shore (2008) has come to call a new authoritarian, neoliberal mode of ruling, what we can observe on the

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ground is that auditing is also mobilized by some actors as a tool to challenge oppressive organizational regimes and reorganize the distribution of resources. To generate a more nuanced understanding of audit cultures and their social implications, in this chapter I explore what exactly made auditing an appealing resource to several actors of the Italian migration industry. I offer a thick documentation1 of how auditing manifests is done on the ground by people with different agendas and interests. I do this by drawing on ethnographic data—field notes based on observations of professional routines and decisionmaking practices, formal and informal conversations with actors of all sorts, and documents produced by organizational actors—collected in three organizations that operate in central and northern Italy that provide different types of services to a variety of migrants. I will call these organizations Legame, Lavoro, and Poverty. Conceptually, my account draws on Ilana Gershon and Michael Prentice (2021), Wanda Orlikowski and JoAnn Yates (1994), as well as Clay Spinuzzi and Mark Zachry (2000), Jillian Cavanaugh (2016), and Dorothy Smith (1990), and understands audit as a genre, or as a socially recognized type of communicative action that materializes in different interconnected texts (e.g., memos, notes, guidelines, lists, reports) and that is habitually enacted by individuals to realize particular social purposes. Based on this understanding of auditing and through a thick documentation of actors’ everyday operations and calculations as well as their activities, choices, and strategies, I claim that auditing is not just anchored in neoliberal rationality and its attempt to impose market logic onto people and their activities; while auditing certainly resonates with the increasing neoliberalization of the migration industry in Italy and around the world, it also serves projects and agendas that are much more diverse and at some moments even more contradictory than we might have thought. I argue that auditing produces power dynamics and regimes of control and inequality—but also that it serves the challenging and resistance of these regimes and dynamics—that emerge from and make sense locally in the everyday realities and experiences of the professionals I was able to talk to and whose practices I observed during my research. As I will show, these can be projects of visibility of the migrant condition as well as recognition for invisibilized work. They are attempts to challenge societal stigma and the criminalization of the migration industry in Italy, but they are also efforts to introduce regimes of oppression, distance, and patriarchy. This analytical focus on what Jacqueline Urla (2012, 2019) has called the uptake of neoliberal technologies—the circumstances under which auditing is adopted, mobilized, and invested in by people on the ground and imbued with local meanings—is not a means to diminish the power of neoliberal rationales governing social life. It is a means of challenging totalizing explanations of neoliberalism, a way of preventing us from producing generalized explanations

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of how neoliberalism works and of avoiding the conflation of diverse activities and regulations under the label of neoliberalism or neoliberal governmentality. Instead, it is necessary to investigate the complex ways auditing is implemented in specific settings that have their own histories and modes of working. It is also a means to study how auditing and its regulatory and disciplinary effects become acceptable and naturalized in different domains of action and how auditing becomes a form of institutional activity that is semiotically emptied of its association with market logic and disruptive effects on people and their lives. In other words, it is a way of making applied linguistics’ concern with real-life problems beneficial for an explanation of how neoliberal rationality becomes hegemonic and an integral part of the institutional life and routines we study (see Heller, 2019, on neoliberal governmentality as hegemony).

AUDITING FOR MORAL DISTINCTION Because of their central role in the management of migration, social cooperatives in Italy experience negative publicity (Barretta, Milazzo, Pascali, & Chichi, 2017). These critiques are amplified by sectors of the political spectrum (including but not limited to right-wing parties) who have found in migration politics a fertile terrain for political speculation, capitalizing on feelings of insecurity and precarity and on sentiments of sympathy for a fascist and reactionist thought that in some parts of the population has never disappeared (Perrino, 2019). Political critics of social cooperatives state that these organizations incentivize the arrival of migrants through their social services and the monetary resources that they distribute (Cusumano & Villa, 2019). This incentivization, the critics state, is informed by an ideology of multiculturalism that promotes the idea of open, diverse, and borderless societies (Khrebtan-Hoerhager, 2019). Migration in Italy is also seen by political actors and large sectors of Italian society as a prosperous business and social cooperatives as actors who make money at the expense of locals—with migrants seen as the source of increasing social and economic precarity (Jacquemet, 2019). This worsening reputation of social cooperatives is embedded in longer histories of rejection of leftist politics (social cooperatives are often called red cooperatives) and the type of social welfare that these organizations are imagined to be linked to: a model of societal ruling that part of the Italian public wants to leave behind (Orsina, 2017). This is exemplified through the idea of assistenzialismo (assistentialism), which is a political and economic practice linked to the caring state, a form of welfare that in Italy is associated with the first republic (that in the early 1990s was replaced by the second republic and its promise of the liberal revolution) and linked to what is generally called magna magna. This refers to the practice of “eating” (mangiare) and to the economic transactions and extraction of resources for personal benefit that is

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seen to emerge around the care state. If further critiques the inefficiency of the administrative apparatus, corruption, and a sense of entitlement for some to live at the cost of the welfare state and the general public (Sorgato, 1991). The world of social cooperatives came to experience additional pressure from the Italian public within this historical framework of suspicion when, in 2015, a police investigation uncovered the involvement of organized crime with Italy’s migration industry (Martone, 2017). In Rome, several leaders of social cooperatives managing reception centers were accused of having formed a criminal ring. As a result, these leaders were able to infiltrate the state apparatus and collocate subjects in the different key offices of the municipality through extortion, bribes, and other favori (favors) in exchange for access to privileged access to resource allocation. One of the sections of the municipality that was most affected by the investigation was the so-called migration office responsible for the allocation of individuals to different reception facilities where newly arrived migrants are housed. This office shared its locations with Legame, a social cooperative, where I conducted fieldwork between 2014 and 2016, that received funding from the Italian government to provide services (housing, employability, legal advice, language training, and cultural mediation) to migrants of different types, including refugees but also so-called economic migrants from Eastern Europe. The spatial proximity of the two organizations caused users of their services to get lost in the building and struggle to make sense of the difference between the two organizations. In addition, inhabitants of the neighborhood tended to see the two organizations as pertaining to the same field of activity and therefore as indistinguishable. The sense of suspicion by the investigators and the public at large that affected the migration office extended therefore to Legame, its staff, and modes of interacting; people felt constantly observed and watched by both their coworkers and the public at large. Staff started to close the door of their offices and stopped smoking cigarettes in front of the main entrance of their building. Others stopped getting coffee in the surrounding bars to avoid being confronted with uncomfortable questions, and they all stopped talking to the press and attending public events. This internalized sense of suspicion also had effects on my own capacity to do ethnography. My research participants started to perceive my presence as disturbing. My questions were too similar to those asked by the police. My fieldwork continued, however, and I was able to document the conversations and preparatory meetings that led up to the celebration of Legame’s tenth anniversary. The anniversary was meant to be festive. The organization invited the local media, a partner from the local municipality, and other members of the humanitarian world to celebrate their ten years in operation. But it was also meant to be a moment of reflection and debate,

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an event where the challenges of migration would be discussed and best practices among key actors shared. At the first preparatory meeting, Laura, the cooperative’s director, announced that she wanted to use this event to counter the climate of suspicion surrounding Legame and that this had to be done through a display of maximal transparency. This, I thought, was in a way opposite to the reaction of introversion and closure that I had observed during my work. She reminded her staff of the history of the cooperative, including the social and political activism of its founding members and of the role that these figures had played in Rome’s radical left in the 1980s and 1990s. Laura also reminded the attendees of how the organization’s activities had been anchored in a political struggle for social justice. “We need to be clear about the fact that we are different,” she insisted. “We are good people, hardworking, and at the service of the migrant community,” she noted. Was she also speaking to me? Was she trying to convince me of the integrity of her organization? To my surprise, in addition to the members of the organization committee, Laura had invited personnel from the accounting office and the project team that is usually responsible for project design. “We need to gather all information about the projects we conducted in the last ten years,” she noted. All brochures, briefings, texts, memos, reports, interactions, and events. “Everything needs to become visible and accessible.” Along with her instructions, staff members spent a long time screening their computers and hard disks. Everything that was considered to be useful was then stored on a central database, which was then updated by Barbara, the staff member supervising this activity. Luca, joking with me, noted that they had transformed into ethnographers like me, documenting the work that they themselves had done in the last decade. This attempt to create transparency involved forms of selection, classification, and ordering. This was true not only for those who had to gather all this data but also for those organized around Barbara who had to decide which data was relevant, how to order it, and how to build a narrative that would show the organization in a positive light. According to Barbara, classification of the collected data needed to follow the categorization techniques used in previous annual reports: (1) trajectories of social inclusion, (2) generation of knowledge and collaborations, (3) involvement of the community, (4) and support of the cooperative community. Nothing could look like it was invented ad hoc—fakes would be recognized by the general public. What was at stake was not just the cooperative’s standing in the migration industry, its reputation with both users and stakeholders, and the assurance of future public revenue, but also a deeper and moralized sense of trust, justice, and social commitment that the organization had historically aimed to embody and promote. On the day of the celebration, Laura led the event. Her team prepared the big room on the first floor of Legame’s building and a large audience congregated. Local media representatives, figures from the cooperative world, representatives

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of Rome’s municipality, migration specialists from the academic world, and other partners with whom Legame had cooperated in the past attended the celebration. The event was formal and Legame’s staff were dressed up and seated in the audience. Laura introduced the event by greeting the authorities that had joined and pointed to their presence as evidence that the authorities would continue to have trust in the cooperative’s service. She then went on recapitulating the history of the cooperative, the moment of its foundation, the challenges encountered, the ups and downs, the successes, and its achievements. Based on the data collected, she explained how proud she was about the work that had been done and the trust that Legame had gained not only in the target population but also in the local community. Then, a long list of data. Only in 2014, we provided 1,336 social inclusion interventions, we contacted 762 new users, 484 users benefitted from the sociolegal service provided, 261 users benefited from our employability service, 59 for whom we have been able to organize an internship, and 9 projects of social inclusion were actualized. We have offered 1,706 hours of linguistic mediation, 3 research projects have been conducted, and several activities of best practice have been launched. Furthermore, we have implemented 3 trainings for social workers, 89 professionals of the social sector have been educated, and we provided 154 hours of training. We have trained professionals of social sectors, intercultural mediators, university students, social operators, psychologists, and teachers of Italian as a second language. We partnered with 47 university lecturers in these trainings. Our website also has a substantial amount of traffic with 110,102 visits. Additionally, we received 1,937 “likes” on Facebook. We have further produced 15 e-newsletters and organized 7 events directed to the local community; 955 people have participated in these events. Shore and Wright (2015) argue that this sort of quantification performed by Laura and her team—the reduction of complex processes to numerical indicators—has become a defining feature of our times. At the heart of these processes, they say, is an increasing fetishization of numbers and static measurements; they are taken as robust and reliable instruments for calculating what are largely qualitative features such as excellence, quality, efficiency, value, and effectiveness. They add that this logic of quantification is linked to a new ethics of accountability and auditing—the place where the financial and the moral meet. Along with Shore and Wright, Theodore Porter (1994) explains that quantification also replaces professional judgment with measurable performance criteria and transforms employees into self-managed proactive, responsible, and calculative workers with a boundless capacity to produce and innovate. Michael Sauder and Wendy Espeland (2009) argue that numbers decontextualize organizational performances and make them comparable with performances and data in other organizations and able to be hierarchized within and beyond the nation-state. Numbers and rankings also make

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remote surveillance possible and allow outsiders access to the inner life of an organization. Rose and Miller (1992) note that this form of remote surveillance enabled by numbers and rankings is a neoliberal mode of ruling that “governs at a distance,” that is, that incites people to understand and manage their lives and practices according to norms and logics imposed by auditing systems. Through such regimes of quantification, they argue, authorities can act upon those distant from them in space and time in the pursuit of social, political, and economic objectives without affecting their “freedom” or “autonomy”— indeed often precisely by offering to maximize it by turning blind habit into calculated freedom to choose. In disagreement with this scholarship, I argue that understanding this investment in quantification as emblematic for a new mode of neoliberal government that acts through autonomous, self-managed, and calculative actors, while allowing to analyze the ways social cooperatives in Italy continue to be subjected to logics of competition and the market, auditing does not help us to grasp the nuances of the practices and agendas pursued by Laura. For sure, the tactics and techniques of monitoring and introspection that she wanted her staff to mobilize, as well as her quantifying rhetoric, were borrowed from the field of auditing and accounting. Such could already be found within her own organization in Legame’s book-keeping office. But Laura’s strategic re-entextualization of audit needs a more attentive analysis. We know from scholars of discourse and culture (Bauman & Briggs, 1990; Urban & Silverstein, 1996) that recontextualization practices do not only link a concept (Williams, 1977, calls these concepts keywords), for example, auditing, with a new domain of action, such as public relations. Recontextualization also transforms the meaning, value, and status of a concept as well as the meaning, value, and status of other concepts with which that concept gets associated (see Urciuoli, 2008). In other words, by being recontextualized into a new domain of action, concepts such as auditing become enregistered with new sets of concepts and contribute to the formation of new clusters of usage. Shore and Wright (2000), for example, have noted that in the case of new managerialism and British higher education in the 1980s, auditing was divorced from its financial meaning and became associated with a cluster of terms involving “performance,” “quality control,” “accreditation,” “transparency,” and “efficiency.” The introduction of this new vocabulary into higher education has given rise to a host of new practices and regulatory mechanisms and allowed the implementation of neoliberal rationales in one domain, education, which according to Shore and Wright (2000) was untouched by market logic. In Legame’s case, we see a different process occurring. Laura’s reinscription of audit into a new domain of practice involved a transformation of the social meaning of audit, but this transformation in meaning and usage allowed “audit” to move away from its association with neoliberal market principles. Instead of

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being seen as a practice associated with accountability, efficiency, and quality control (all practices scholars link to forms of neoliberal governmentality), audit became a practice for the restoration of a moral aura that the cooperative world wants to be associated with—one that is certainly linked to principles of efficiency and ensures future access to public funding—but that is anchored in logics of solidarity and justice that are not compatible with regimes of accumulation and profit. For Andrea Muehlebach (2012), this insistence on morality as a resource for distinction is not unique to Legame and its attempt to distinguish itself from other actors in Rome. She notes that if scholars have tended to emphasize neoclassical economic fundamentalism, that is, market regulation instead of state intervention, economic redistribution in favor of capital, international free trade principles, and intolerance toward labor unions as characteristics of the neoliberal market order, in Italy the gospel of neoliberal laissez-faire is always accompanied by hyper-moralization of the social and the economic. Drawing on Jean Comaroff and John Comaroff (2007) and David Harvey (2007), she explains that Italian neoliberalism entails at its very core a moral authoritarianism that idealizes the family, the nation, and god and that frames wealth produced through voluntary work and compassion. From what I observed on the ground, the economy of compassion was indeed an object of constant speculation and investment, Legame’s understanding of the moral was different from the politics of morality documented by Muehlebach (2012). For sure, Legame’s investment in auditing was an attempt to create distinction (Bourdieu, 1979), to differentiate the social cooperative from other actors of the migration infrastructure, and to stratify them according to their ability to display moral integrity. But from what I could understand, this morality was less anchored in a Catholic tradition of Italian altruism than it was to radical projects of anti-capitalism and a critique of individuality, egoism, and corruption that are at odds with the market principles promoted by neoliberal rationales. Still, this does not mean that Laura’s quantification strategy was not seen as a political move, as an act of power with effects on the distribution of resources and the making of inequality. While Laura was presenting this data, Alberto, a social worker sitting next to me whom I knew from my fieldwork in another organization, whispered to me that these numbers did not mean anything. Have 261 individuals benefited from their employability services? He asked ironically. This is less than one user per day, and we meet more than twenty users each day. He explained later that these numbers concealed a fight for money and visibility among the actors of the local migration industry and instead reveal a rather mediocre organizational performance. Another member of the public noted ironically that for an organization with so much visibility, the activation of fifty internships was rather disappointing.

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The contestation of the numbers did not remain an external issue. During the collection of the data, Barbara told me that making the activities transparent also involved questions of visibility and representation. Whose work is going to be made visible? Who is invisibilized? Who is going to get the merit and for what? She decided to be careful and balanced with the display of the activities and to take the risk into account that what she would present would point to diverse sorts of activities happening at diverse levels and maybe not necessarily producing a coherent picture of the cooperative—at least they would provide a balanced and complete one. The risk, she added, would be that the current crises would lead to internal divisions harming the team. In another conversation that I was able to have with the data collection team, Barbara noted that this exercise would come to reinforce the already existing voices within the cooperative that had indeed been contesting the professionalization of its activities—a process that had been triggered by Legame’s involvement in large European funding schemes requiring auditing mechanisms. This professionalization process has been perceived as disturbing by many staff members. While Barbara was ready to acknowledge the strategic use of these technologies by the cooperative’s leadership and their manipulation to pursue a more social and transformative agenda, these technologies and principles have started to be self-perpetuating. The cooperative had started to participate in projects that were not linked to its main business and that did not have any effects on their own target and allowed them to build a case for further projects that might better fit their agenda. This tendency to invest in self-perpetuating activities (a process that Biao Xiang and Johan Lindquist (2014) call infrastructural involution) had started to alienate some staff members, especially those who had to work with the people and who had to turn the projects into real-life encounters. At the same time, Laura’s tactic seemed to work. In the weeks and months following the event, people continued to problematize the social costs of this quantification logic, but the cooperative managed to get rid of the stigmatizing aspect of working in a sector that is usually associated with mismanagement, inefficiency, and corruption. The cooperative had mastered the rhetoric of transparency and quantification, allowing the cooperative to expand into a new sector of the migration industry, namely, auditing. Legame had already for many years provided this service to other migrant-focused cooperatives and organizations. Legame had organized training programs for social workers and translators, it had provided a platform for the exchange of knowledge and the joint development of best practices both at a national and European level, and it had also trained local organizations in the acquisition of national and European project funds. This had enabled Legame to a land a new mandate, the monitoring of the local “Sistema di protezione per richiedenti asilo e rifugiati” (System for the Protection of Asylum Seekers and Refugees) (SPRAR) project, which was a service of the Italian Home Office and which consisted of a network

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of reception centers for asylum seekers spread over the entire national territory. SPRAR’s aim was to promote the social and economic integration of migrants. Legame was then mandated by the Italian state to oversee the monitoring of the reception infrastructure in the greater Rome area. It became responsible for the monitoring of the financial flows, the supervision of monthly reports where organizations documented how resources received were spent, how they benefited the integration of migrants, who benefited, and for how long. This new mandate allowed the cooperative to become a hub of supervision that reported to local authorities and liaised with the financial police in case of irregularities. While it would be wrong to make a causal connection between the cooperative capacity to publicly display auditing, for example, during the tenth-anniversary event, and its new supervising role, Laura understood this new mandate as a reward for the cooperative’s history of transparency. This move into auditing was perceived internally by staff with mixed feelings. In meetings announcing the new mandate and its implications for work redistribution among staff, Barbara contested the fact that the cooperative was moving away from a commitment toward the cause of migrants and their social and economic inclusion and toward a service provider targeting mainly other cooperatives. “We have become the state eye,” noted Lorenzo, a social worker. “We are the finanza (the financial police),” Marco, another social worker, laughed sarcastically. Others, however, remained silent. On the one hand, they were reassured by the projects and activities that the group continued to develop and provide. “The daily work of most of us is not going to change,” stated Lorenzo. On the other hand, the promise of a more permanent and stable source of financial income, which this new project involved, and the resulting stability for staff (many staff members were employed on a project basis and reemployed depending on the number of projects the team was able to get funded, so they feared unemployment at each transition) created a climate of consent for a practice that many of the people I encountered in this organization would have normally had difficulties to digest. In the next section, I continue documenting the voluntary mobilization of audit practices by actors of the migration industry. Along with what I have demonstrated so far, I argue that auditing circulates as a social practice within the migration industry through this tension between actors’ willingness to continue pursuing their own individual and collective projects and the necessity to do this within the relations of oppression and control that organize social and economic life and frame their possibilities. Following Lila Abu-Lughold (1990) and Urla (2012), I claim that we should not understand these organizations’ performance of audit genres as further examples of neoliberalism’s totalizing nature and its colonization of all domains of social life. I rather claim that these investments in auditing are attempts to borrow and adapt from other field’s tools, methods, and tactics; while appearing deeply neoliberal and serving the

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hegemonziation of auditing as a form of individual and organizational conduct, these methods are also invested in the pursuit of alternative interests and agendas.

AUDITING FOR RECOGNITION In the summer of 2015, Umberto and his team of four job counselors were having a team meeting in one of the three rooms of their job counseling center in one of the impoverished peripheries of Rome. While smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, they discussed the means of implementing a new internship program for young non-EU migrants sponsored by the European Union. Umberto’s team was meant to promote the government mandate of professional integration of migrants, especially asylum seekers from sub-Saharan Africa and the Middle East. Then they heard a rumble. Umberto recalled that they immediately thought about a Molotov or a paper bomb. In the neighborhood where the center was located, organizations and services that serve the migrant population, especially refugees and Roma, had in the past been repeatedly subject to violent attacks by the local population or more organized aggressions by right-wing, post-fascist activist organizations. The rumble, however, had come from the roof of the office that had collapsed. Most of their furniture and computers had been damaged by the accident and the team had to move to new offices on the other side of the city. The new location was in an underused job center with some space and technological infrastructure. Umberto was certainly grateful that the local authorities had quickly identified new locations for his team to continue working with unemployed migrants; however, the coexistence with the other team, which had been working in this location for more than a decade, was more difficult than anticipated. The unemployed population that the local team focused on was predominately white and local and in many cases did not bear the presence of Black, migrant subjects who were seen as new competitors in an already difficult labor market. Tensions also manifested between the two counseling teams who had different ways of organizing their work, framing the space and the locations, allocating timeslots, and more generally approaching the management of unemployed subjects. While both teams did not share the same cohort of users and the teams’ activities were kept separate by the use of different spaces, their diverging practices and modes of understanding their work seemed to create friction between the two teams of counselors. In one of the informal conversations I had with Giovanni, a member of the other team, I was told that since the arrival of Umberto’s staff and his users, the air in the job center had changed. It might be the smell of their Black users who had fewer opportunities to shower, or, he added, the taste of the cigars that Umberto smokes in the office (even though smoking in public spaces is

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forbidden in Italy), or it might just be the fact that the offices are much more crowded since the new team had joined. Umberto had repeatedly asked the city administration to identify new locations for the team to pursue their activities. “Preferably locations that are suitable for the specific needs of migrant jobseekers,” he explained. “Locations that would also facilitate the preservation of privacy that was so important for jobseekers with complicated migration backgrounds,” he added. He wanted to have a safe space where his users would feel secure from racist aggression and other forms of violence. His interlocutors, however, kept ignoring his requests and referred to the general need to maximize the use of existing spaces in order to save resources and reduce the burden that migrant populations were having on the local city administration and finances. This sort of negative response, Umberto explained to me, was nothing unusual and his team had always been deprioritized when it came to the reallocation of resources, even with the new left-wing administration. He explained that the work they were doing was considered important by the city administration because it kept migrants off the street and managed issues of social order that are often associated with migrant unemployment; still, their job center had always been stigmatized. This also included the way the job counselors themselves were treated by the municipality’s human resource department, which was always reluctant to grant promotions, replacement for sick or retiring staff members, or more general recognition of their work. As a civil servant, a job counselor is considered to be respectable in Italy and the work guarantees access to a stable salary, sick pay, and pension. However, the counselors who were allocated to Umberto’s team were usually marginalized by other teams because they were seen as creating problems by asking too many questions. In general, while the team was performing well (this is how Umberto viewed the quality of his team’s work), working with migrants was not seen as particularly prestigious and was therefore avoided by many job counselors in the city. The stigmatization that Umberto’s team was experiencing is not unique to this specific case. As Pierre Bourdieu explains in his book The Weight of the World (2000), there seems to be a correlation between the social status of public officers, including social workers and job counselors, and the value of people they work with. It is as if not only the type of work, but also the type of people you work with and work for, affects the way professionals are seen and perceived. The status of the job counselors depends on the status of the unemployed subject. While job counselors in Umberto’s team are all white men and women, all of them Italians, their status and destiny are conflated with the status and destiny of the migrants they work with. It is as if their situation of subalternity and racial exclusion is extended to the white subjects who themselves get linked to the same qualities attributed to migrants, especially Black migrants. They are seen as useless, as not deserving any financial support, but also as triggers of bad air, noise, and diseases.

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One morning, during the daily routine briefing where tasks were allocated among the five team members, Umberto announced the need to make the work done by his team more visible for the local administration. The director in charge of job centers had been removed by the city’s mayor and a new one had been put in place, and Umberto wanted to use this change in senior management to make a case for his team to get recognition for their work and get new locations. He suggested the introduction of a new form, which each team member had to fill in after having completed a counseling activity so that after the end of each month the team could present a complete documentation of its activities. I was surprised to hear that in the past, Umberto and his team had never been subjected to accountability regimes. “We never had to report anything to our line managers,” Umberto explains. “This is a service of the city administration that we are paid for,” he noted. According to him, it had been a mistake to rely exclusively on the team’s reputation as a means to display their hard work and good performance and that for a new director it would be important to present hard facts. Along with Cavanaugh (2016), who understands documents as performative, as constituting what they report, Umberto assumed that engaging in a documentation of his team’s work activities was a means to provide material traces of this work. It would render visible the quality of the work they did, the conditions under which they operate, the challenges they face, and eventually allow them to get their own location back. For Umberto, his investment in a voluntary practice of auditing was a means of challenging what scholars have called processes of misrecognition or the invisibilization and stigmatization of individuals and actors by authoritative representational, communicative, and interpretative practices performed by institutional actors and authorities of all sorts (Fraser, 2000). According to Charles Taylor (1994) and Axel Honneth (2001), the type of misrecognition experienced by Umberto and his team, the stigmatization of their professional practice, and their exclusion from access to resources based on racist stratification of unemployed subjects (so that migrant employment seekers are seen as less deserving than white ones and therefore preventing job counselors serving migrants from accessing resources) represents an injustice not only because it constrains subjects’ ability to pursue their life projects but also because it impairs these people in their understanding of themselves. Investments in recognition, Honneth (2001) argues, calls attention to the specificities of groups of people and asks for symbolic change; that is, it stakes a claim for the revaluation and reconsideration of stigmatized professional practices and, as Bourdieu (1979) would argue, for dynamics that disadvantage certain people vis-à-vis others. Nancy Fraser (2000), however, notes that these claims for recognition are not only symbolic but, as in Umberto’s case, also linked to material demands and claims for redistribution that affect not only the ways actors and their work

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are valued and represented but more fundamentally the flow of resources and challenges of the dynamics of inequality. Requesting recognition through a documentary practice was for Umberto a way of investing in the capacity of documents to provide traces of his team’s merits. Throughout his professional experience as a public servant, he learned that “merit” was the new keyword in a governmental apparatus that had identified the logic of nepotism and workers’ underperformance as its main sources of dysfunction and inefficiency. Meritocracy was associated with modernization, efficiency, productivity, and quality, but also public acceptance for the costs of the state apparatus. According to this logic, he explained, those who are meritorious get promoted, compensated, and are valued. Umberto also learned that being meritorious was not enough. In order to be seen as meritorious, one had to be able to display it. Along with Cavanaugh (2016), who claims that documents make labor visible and traceable to actors in distant institutions or positions of control and therefore remain performative across space and time, Umberto was convinced that the production of documents would allow him to engage in this performance of meritocracy and be compensated for his team’s efforts. Even if his team had never been subjected to those auditing systems that Rome’s city administration had put in place in certain offices and sections labeled as dysfunctional, he had heard about the value that new managers appointed by the city administration place on documentation for performance of quality and professionalism. For sure, he was aware that borrowing this documentary tool from auditing systems would come with the risk of losing independence, exposing him and his team to a system of surveillance and making him accountable for their practices and decisions. He had discussed the implications of this choice with his team and evaluated the pros and cons of such a practice. Despite the risks that such a regime would entail, the team unanimously decided to proceed with this practice of voluntary auditing. Together with other members of staff, he created a form in which the name and address of the clients, the provided services and measures of intervention, and the complicated circumstances could be noted. This document had to be filled out after each counseling activity and signed both by the counselor and the unemployed subject. During my documentation of the counseling activities, I could observe that counselors’ complied with the new practice and reminded each other about the need to document each counseling activity, even banal or short ones; this was true even as migrants themselves perceived the document as disturbing and were suspicious about its role and status. “It is just for internal use,” Umberto kept explaining. Migrants had learned that texts and documents, especially if they are signed and require the provision of personal information and documentation of provided services, are never neutral but mediate what Smith (2005) has called ruling relations, that is, the complex dynamics and

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processes that govern society and sustain capitalist relations. Texts, especially when anchored in practices of accountability, do not only allow the traceability of social action. They also coordinate work practice, induce new activities, mediate social relations, alienate, and exert and naturalize power, control, and determination. Asif, for example, a Libyan man whose counseling activities I was able to document, was one of those who refused to sign the form. “What are you doing with this document? Why do you need my name? You have already integrated my data in your computer system.” He had observed the recoding of Asif ’s data in the internal database and was therefore suspicious about this additional textual practice. Migrants usually associate this sort of unexpected documentation with state control and violence. Every new textual practice is seen as linked to increasing repression of the migration and labor system and is therefore encountered with suspicion. Asif was not the only one who encountered the document with skepticism. Louis, a user from Senegal, asked his friend Médéric whether he had to sign this document too, and Louis only accepted to do so when he had been reassured that other users had signed as well. Umberto did not let this dissuade him from this practice, even if the form risked endangering the good relationships that he had with many migrants using his services. “We are doing this for them,” he said to counter my concern that these practices were harmful. If we are successful, they will benefit. At the end of every month, he scanned all forms and added a letter addressed to the new director where he synthesized the status of the activities, quantified his team’s success in terms of successful integration of subjects into the labor market, and described the challenges the team had encountered in this process. He had met the new director in an internal networking event and Umberto was sure that this was the type of activity he would appreciate and value. In the summer of 2016, I returned to Rome to follow up on the projects and found that the team was still located in the provisional location. While talking to the counseling staff, I noticed that the team had stopped using the forms Umberto had introduced. I immediately mentioned this change to Umberto, who explained that the practice proved to be ineffective. The director had for many months not responded to his emails. However, in a recent encounter he mentioned that this process was a bureaucratic practice, pertaining to an old form of doing administration that accumulates documents and prevents efficiency and high performance. Umberto’s team had to focus more intensively on clear outcomes and less on the documentation of practices and activities. While the director was not contesting the meritocratic logic that Umberto had bought into and learned to enact, he was challenging the overt way of displaying performance and merit. Merit, the director explained, was not measured through the counting of counseling services provided but rather through the effects that these practices had on the employability situation of

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the migrant population and the perception of the local citizens on the migration problem and social order. So instead of allowing Umberto to challenge the misrecognition of his team’s work and excellence, his engagement in processes of voluntary audit and self-inspection led to increasing marginalization of his team’s role within the larger apparatus of job counseling centers linked to Rome’s city administration.

AUDITING FOR OPPRESSION Now, as I have argued, both Umberto’s and Laura’s investment in auditing have served an emancipatory intent of distinction and recognition and were meant to challenge regulatory forces that stabilize domination and oppression (Fraser, 2013). In this last section, I focus on an additional attempt to benefit from auditing techniques. I will argue that the impetus for mobilizing auditing will not be an emancipatory one but will serve as an activity of oppression and control. This is not necessarily the type of oppression that we have learned to relate to neoliberal governmentality, but one that is anchored in longer practices of patriarchy and sexism. As part of my fieldwork in this organization, I had been invited to join a weekly team meeting within Poverty, an organization located in a bilingual (German/Italian) city in northern Italy. Juergen, the leader of the team, wanted to use the opportunity to introduce me to the team of counselors who provide housing and legal advice to migrants living in the reception infrastructure of the city or on the streets. I had just arrived in the city a couple of days before and Juergen wanted to make sure that his colleagues knew that my presence had been approved in the spaces where counseling was done. I felt quite uncomfortable because none of his counselors had been given the opportunity to decide whether or not they wanted me there, since this seemed to be imposed by the team leader and could not be questioned by his subordinates. I tried therefore to insist that I would only be present once my project had been explained to them, and only if I would get written consent from each of them; at this moment I too was believing in the authority of written texts. But the power of Juergen’s presence did seem to silence any sort of protests coming from his all-female counseling team. The busy waiting room and gatherings at the main entrance were visible to the public. Juergen changed the topic and did not engage with my attempt to mitigate the power of my presence. “Our neighbors have complained. They say we are noisy; people are loud. Neighbors also feel insecure. They are scared to be robbed or sexually assaulted. They are scared for their children. They don’t want them to play outside. They don’t want them to get offered drugs. You have read the news.” Juergen was referring to a series of articles that had been published by two local newspapers that had reported an augmented sense of

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insecurity in the local population caused by the rising number of migrants hosted in local reception facilities for asylum seekers and migrants with precarious status. Local right-wing politicians had picked up this story and pressured local authorities to impose a more repressive regime on reception centers and the migrants they host and prevent individuals to leave the centers. According to him, the amount of people waiting at the front door of the building hosting his team and the noise and disorder and sense of insecurity were mentioned in media reports; these were all reactions that the assemblage of young Black bodies seemed to provoke in the local population. The senior management of Poverty had urged him to reduce the visibility of migrant bodies and to contribute through urgent measures to the reduction of the tensions with the local population. “We need to shorten the waiting time,” he suggested. According to him, people need to wait outside because counselors spent too much time advising them. He had already mentioned this the first time I met him in his office as we negotiated my role in the organization. He wanted me to take the role of quality controller, to help him improve the professionalism of his team. With my expertise, I could be an auditor on a voluntary, unpaid basis and help him strengthen the services provided. I had refused to do this, but he insisted that his team needed to be better supervised and managed. I was therefore not surprised that as a solution to the crowd, he suggested that counselors should spend less time with each user. “Be more professional,” he noted. “Less emotionally involved in each case. Just stick to what had to be done and learn to delegate.” He saw his section as a platform, not necessarily a service provider, but as a space where information should circulate. People, he explained, spent too much time doing things that according to him were not part of his department’s core business. He clarified that for each case counselors should not take more than 5–10 minutes; more time-sensitive cases had to be delegated to other services within or outside the organization. Conversations had to refer only to professional matters and to the actual situation of the migrant; no personal issues could be discussed on either side. Finally, Juergen added, “We need to maintain more personal distance from the migrants to allow us to get rid of unnecessary work activities and reduce the time we spend with them, ultimately this will reduce the waiting time of migrants, allow us to display professionalism, and automatically help reduce complaints coming from neighbors and the local population.” To help regulate the time each counselor spent with each migrant, Juergen had prepared a spreadsheet where everybody would have to note the time spent with each migrant. “This,” said Juergen, “would help each counselor to self-regulate and the spreadsheet will help me keep control over the time used to serve migrants.” At the end of each working day, he noted, he wanted counselors to submit their sheets on a shelf on the desk in his office.

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In their analysis of the interplay between governmentality and accounting, Peter Miller and Michael Power (2013) note that documents like spreadsheets play a major role in linking up different actors with a shared narrative and developing a complex network of often stratified relationships. These documents invite comparison, evaluation, and adjudication. Adjudication in auditing means the allocation of responsibility and the constitution of performance. In other words, a simple document like a spreadsheet based on a printed Excel file—that Juergen had stored for the team in their shared folder on the internal network— had effects on people, their work activities, and their social relationships. It can be understood as a technology of power, which, according to Michel Foucault (1982), determines the conduct of individuals and submits them to certain ends or domination or contributes to objectification. There was a striking similarity between the spreadsheet introduced by Juergen and the documents that Umberto had introduced in this job counseling work routine. Both documents were simple in their structure, both were meant to document work activities and to represent time spent with interlocutors, and both were introduced on a voluntary basis, without obligation from any senior manager and explicitly introduced to produce change. In both cases, their implementation was inspired by practices that Umberto and Juergen had observed in other sections or offices of their organization. Both had become folk auditors, borrowing monitoring techniques from audit systems implemented in other contexts. And both believed in the transformative potential of these techniques. The thing that distinguished Juergen’s spreadsheet, however, was its purpose. While Umberto’s objective was to provoke recognition for the work done, Juergen’s document was to regulate conduct and bodies; this was done not necessarily for maximizing profit, as has been described by other language scholars studying the intersections of language and contemporary capitalism (Duchêne & Heller, 2012), but as a means to produce and ensure social order. This intervention by the team leader was received with irritation, at least by those team members whose mimicking I could observe from my standpoint in the meeting room. Aleksandra, the housing counselor who was sitting in front of me, rolled her eyes and with a deep breath expressed her discontent toward this decision. Maja, the legal specialist, raised her eyebrows and tapped nervously with her fingers on the wooden table. Maritza, who had been helping with health issues and supported her colleagues when her help was needed, could not stop shaking her head. I was, of course, not the only one noticing the counselors’ discomfort. Juergen, having noticed their reactions, raised his eyebrows too as a sign of omnipotence and then rhetorically asked whether there was anything that had to be added to his suggestions and closed the meeting without allowing the staff members to express their concerns. In the following days and weeks, I was able to document the counseling activities at Poverty. Sitting next to the counselors, I could observe how they

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supported migrants in filling out forms, making complaints, and asking for clarification. I could see how migrants were supported in applying for housing benefits, making appointments with a doctor or a nurse, and going through the procedures to get a temporary residence permit. In another case, I was able to follow an assisted repatriation, where a young man decided (or was forced) to return to what was seen as his home country and, with a small sum sponsored by Poverty and other partner organizations, to start a business activity and possibly a new life. I could also see how migrants were trained for job interviews: CVs were edited and job application letters were drafted. Different from Umberto’s team, where all members seemed to be committed to the documentation practices and believed in their transformative potential, Poverty’s counselors had a much more ambiguous relationship to their spreadsheets. Some of them followed Juergen’s instructions closely, delegated the cases when possible, kept emotional distance, tried to keep the interaction to a minimum. Others did not follow the instructions and just continued with their previous routine and mode of relating to their interlocutors, while at the same time filling out the spreadsheet and pretending to have remained in the time frame of 5–10 minutes. I decided to talk to counselors about these diverging practices and more generally about how they would make sense of Juergen’s intervention. I wanted to avoid doing this at Poverty so that I could avoid exposing the counselors to the risk of punishment and stigmatization if our conversation was overheard by their coworkers or by Juergen. I decided to address the issue one night when I was invited by some of them to go for a beer and talk more about my impetus to research their activities and practices. My interest in understanding the links between language and social inequality allowed my interlocutors to be very open and eloquent about their understanding of what was going on in their workplace—or at least this was how they justified their willingness to talk to me. For Maria, one of the more experienced counselors who had been working for Poverty before the arrival of Juergen, his regulation of the service encounters was a sexual intervention. She noted that Juergen had, since his arrival, expressed discomfort with the closeness and emotional commitment of counselors to their mainly male interlocutors and expressed that this behavior was disturbing, unprofessional, and unnecessary. This framing of the situation as a sexualized one, according to Maria, was the product of a form of attraction between the female counselors and the mostly young and male users of poverty services. Anina, on the other hand, was not sure about the sexual dimension of this intervention. She thought that given his inability to relate to users, the regulation of the counseling interaction was a means for him not to feel excluded from the rapport building with migrants that many of the counselors had done. She suspected him of having a form of autism that would prevent him from feeling forms of empathy for people. Maritza noted that he needed

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to make this sort of intervention from time to time just to signal his power and ability to exert control over the team. She noted that because he was from outside and especially the fact that he was German from Germany (and not local), he struggled to make his voice heard within the organization, so he needed to signal his presence through these violent acts from time to time. In the following weeks and months, I could observe how counselors complied (more or less) to the instructions and regulations of the spreadsheet and the communicative norms imposed by Juergen, but these activities did not significantly affect queues in the waiting room or outside the center. I observed occasional fluctuations of user numbers, but the fluctuating numbers were not caused by the work habits of the counselors; they were rather caused by the fluctuation of the migrants arriving in Italy and allocated to the region where Poverty operated. Neighbors continued to complain and political actors continued to capitalize on the feeling of insecurity that the presence of Black bodies in the public sphere was often associated with. This does not mean that the spreadsheet had no effect. Instead of a numeric one, the effect seemed to be cultural. Whether the audit practice was performed properly or not, Juergen’s intervention introduced a cultural change. He introduced new ideas about professionalism, counseling, and interlocution. This new mode of understanding and practicing sociality kept people in their place; whether applied or not by the counselors, it valued certain behaviors and stigmatized others, stabilized patriarchal regimes of interlocution that stigmatized certain behaviors as inappropriate and unprofessional, and imposed a system of control onto workers and their practices.

CONCLUSION In this contribution, I provided insight into the daily struggles, choices, and activities of professional actors in the Italian migration industry. I offered an ethnographic account of the specific circumstances under which different actors of the Italian migration industry have invested in different types of audit techniques to pursue projects of distinction and recognition but also distance and oppression. I have argued that auditing needs to be conceptualized as a genre that gets decontextualized and recontextualized from one domain of action to another. I have noted that this recontextualization of audit techniques from one domain to another changes the meaning of auditing in terms of what counts as auditing (the practices it entails), what vocabulary auditing is linked to, and what auditing is good for (what projects it serves). I also claimed that understanding the documented practices only as one further example of neoliberalism’s totalizing nature (as analysts of auditing cultures have often done) makes us blind to how auditing has historically served practices of oppression, control, and exclusion and to the multiple projects and struggles that auditing cultures

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are embedded in. Through a detailed ethnographic account of practices on the ground and thick documentation of people’s reasonings, choices, and sensemaking processes, I have shown that these projects are sometimes enmeshed with neoliberal agendas; other times, however, auditing is mobilized to contest these agendas, and sometimes auditing systems are completely disconnected from neoliberal logic. Inspired by Foucault (1982) and feminist theories of power (Abu-Lughold, 1990; Ong, 2007; Urla & Helepololei, 2014), I argued in favor of an analytical shift away from a sole analysis of the political rationales and the art of government, including political technologies only, toward an analytical focus on the uptake of these technologies by people on the ground. The focus is on what people do with these technologies: how they appropriate and recontextualize them in their own life projects. The other shift I propose is one that prevents us from either romanticizing or stigmatizing what people do on the ground (“people are resisting the system!” or “people are reproducing the system!”) and that rather understands people’s projects and struggles and the tactics they mobilize to pursue such projects as framed by specific power relations, overarching discourses, and systems of oppression. Rather than assessing the status of a practice (that we may like or reject), I have proposed an analytical approach asking why specific practices take the shape that they take: What is a particular mode of doing things as well as of reasoning telling us about forms of disciplinary control, oppression, and other discursive regimes? Drawing on what Kori Allan (2018) has called a critical political economic analyses of the study of language and neoliberalism and Sherry Ortner’s (1995) critical understanding of ethnography, the third shift I am proposing is one that takes ethnographic thickness as an analytical tool to understand the nature of people’s struggles and lived situations. Arguing for thickness is not an attempt to impose a positivistic stance toward the analysis of social life (what is really going on?) but rather an argument for the necessity of understanding people’s doubts, contradictions, and aspirations within a detailed, textured, and contextualized understanding of their life situations and practices. The analytical shifts I am proposing do not entail scholarly disinvestment from a critique of neoliberalism and its workings. What I am rather suggesting is a mode of doing analysis (and again I am inspired here by Allan, 2013, 2017, 2019; Park, 2017; Urciuoli 2008, 2016; and Urla, 2012, 2019a,b) focused on how neoliberalism is taken up by people and how people relate to it, engage with it, reject it, and invest in it. It is an approach that sees the political not in the critique of abstract political-economic systems but in the everyday life of people, in people’s practices and struggles, in their understandings of the society they live in, and in their everyday making and challenging of inequality. It is an approach that situates the political in the banality of daily life and in what makes ideological projects stick and acceptable to people. Applied linguistics’ focus on

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real-life problems and real life in general is particularly suitable for this type of endeavor because it allows us to foreground the messiness, contradictions, and unexpectedness of the social, rather than relegating this complexity to the status of negligible data. In this sense, applied linguistic research has a lot to contribute to the interdisciplinary study of the political; through its tools and techniques it is possible to bring the experiences of real people to the forefront of our analysis of political economy and governmentality. Finally, what I am proposing in this text is to join the ongoing scholarly attempts to shift the focus of applied linguistics from the study of “named languages” and “(post-)multilingualism” to an examination of larger processes of signification. For me, this has not only involved thinking about how signification materializes in communicative practice and serves the shaping and challenging of social order—that is, the ways in which society is stable, including the relations of production and oppression that underpin and sustain it and where existing social structures are accepted and maintained. It has also meant expanding what we mean by communication and recuperating (old) concepts, such as genre, that have in the last decade come out of fashion in the study of language in society, but that, from my point of view, are still useful for scholars in applied linguistics and can contribute to the study of praxis, the advancement of social theory, and the building of powerful explanations of the present.

NOTE 1 I prefer thick documentation to the idea of thick description introduced by Geertz because it allows me to point to the fact that ethnography and ethnographic texts do not only describe, that is, record and capture events, practices, and meanings. Ethnography as thick documentation entails analysis, theorization, and explanation of social reality, and therefore contributes to an augmentation of our understanding of what we observe on the ground.

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Khrebtan-Hoerhager, J. (2019). Intersectional ordering and new border cultures. Women Studies in Communication, 42(2), 125–129. Lee, T., & AM, A. (2008). The evolution of auditing. Journal of Modern Accounting and Auditing, 4,12. Martone, V. (2017). Marketisation of social services and mafia infiltration: The case of migrant reception centres in Rome. European Review of Organized Crime, 4,1, 9–28. McGuirk, S., & Pine, A. (2020). Asylum for sale. Oakland, CA: PM Press. Miller, P., & Power, M. (2013). Accounting, organizing, and economizing. The Academy of Management Annals, 7(1), 557–605. Miller, P., & Napier, C. (1993). Genealogies of calculation. Accounting, Organizations and Society, 18(7–8), 631–647. Muehlebach, A. (2012). The moral neoliberal. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Neu, D. (2000). Accounting & accountability relations: Colonization, genocide and Canada’s First Nations. Accounting, Auditing and Accountability Journal, 13,3, 266–288. Ong, A. (2007). Neoliberalism as a mobile technology. Transactions, 32,1, 3–8. Orlikowski, W. J., & Yates, J. (1994). Genre repertoire. Administrative Science Quarterly, 39(4), 541–574. Orsina, G. (2017). Antifascism, anticommunism, antipolitics: Delegitimation in Berlusconi’s Italy. Journal of Modern Italian Studies, 22(1), 7–26. Ortner, S. B. (1995). Resistance and the problem of ethnographic refusal. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 37(1), 173–193. Pansera, M., & Rizzi, F. (2020). Furbish or perish: Italian social cooperatives at a crossroads. Organization, 27(1), 17–35. Park, J. (2017). English as medium of instruction in Korean higher education. In M. Flubacher & A. Del Percio (Eds.), Language, education and neoliberalism (pp. 82– 100). Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Perrino, S. (2019). Narrating migration. London: Routledge. Previts, G. J., Parker, L. D., & Coffman, E.N. (1990). Accounting history. Abacus, 26(1), 1–16. Porter, T. (1994). Making things quantitative. Science in Context, 7,3, 389–407. Rose, N., & Miller, P. (1992). Political power beyond the state. British Journal of Sociology, 43(2), 173–205. Sauder, M., & Espeland, W. (2009). The discipline of rankings. American Sociological Review, 74(1): 63–82. Scott, C. (2016). Cultures of evaluation: Tales from the end of the line. Journal of Development Effectiveness, 8(4), 553–560. Shore, C. (2008). Audit cultures and illiberal governance. Anthropological Theory, 8(3). Shore, C., & Wright, S. (1999). Audit cultures and anthropology. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 5(4), 557–575. Shore, C., & Wright, S. (2000). Coercive accountability In M. Strathern (Ed.), Audit cultures (pp. 57–89). London: Routledge. Shore, C., & Wright, S. (2015). Governing by numbers. Social Anthropology, 23(1), 22–28. Smith, D. (2005). Institutional ethnography. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Smith, D. (1990). Texts, facts and femininity: Exploring the relations of ruling. London: Routledge. Sorgato, C. (1991). La lotta alla poverta in Italia. Retrieved from http://dspace.unive.it/ handle/10579/10872

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Spinuzzi, C., & Zachry, M. (2000). Genre ecologies. ACM Journal of Computer Documentation, 24(3), 191–81. Strathern, M. (2000). Audit cultures. London: Routledge. Taylor, C. (1994). “The politics of recognition.” In A. Gutmann (Ed.), Multiculturalism: Examining the politics of recognition (pp. 25–74). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Rossi, F. M. (2015). Public sector accounting and auditing in Italy. In I. Brusca, E. Caperchione, S. Cohen, & F. M. Rossi (Eds.), Public Sector Accounting and Auditing in Europe (pp. 125–141). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Vannier, C. (2010). Audit culture and grassroots participation in rural Haitian development. PoLar, 33(2), 282–305. Welch, A. (2016). Audit culture and academic production. Higher Education Policy, 29, 511–538. William, R. (1977). Keywords. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wu, M., & Del Percio, A. (2019). Serving people. Language, Culture and Society, 1(2), 194–218. Urban, G. & Silverstein, M. (1996). Natural Histories of Discourse. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Urciuoli, B. (2008). Skills and selves in the new workplace. American Ethnologist, 35(2), 211–228. Urciuoli, B. (2016). The compromised pragmatics of diversity. Language and Communication, 51, 30–39. Urla, J. (2019a). Towards an ethnography of linguistic governmentalities. In L. Martin Rojo & A. Del Percio (Eds.), Language and neoliberal governmentality (pp. 211– 221). London: Routledge. Urla, J. (2019b). Governmentality and language. Annual Review of Anthropology, 48(1), 1–18. Urla, J. (2012). Total quality revival. In A. Duchêne & M. Heller (Eds.), Language in late capitalism (pp. 73–92). London: Routledge. Urla, J., & Helepololei, J. (2014). The ethnography of resistance then and now. History and Anthropology, 25, 431–451. Xiang, B., & Lindquist, J. (2014). Migration Infrastructure, 41(1), S122–S148. Zan, L. (1994). Toward a history of accounting histories: Perspectives from the Italian tradition. European Accounting Review, 3(2), 255–310.

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CHAPTER FOUR

The Politics of Migrant Economies: Applied Linguistics Looking into Thai Massage in Vienna MI-CHA FLUBACHER

1. INTRODUCTION A few years ago, I set out to do research based on a lifelong string of exoticization experiences. These personal experiences ranged from being repeatedly told to “go home,” growing up as a half-Korean girl in Switzerland, to being asked by my high school head teacher whether I understood German, to finally being constantly asked where I “was from” and being spoken to in English (in a German-speaking context). On the basis of these—basically autoethnographic—experiences, and with my academic training in critical studies, I gained an understanding of the underlying ideologies of belonging and race at work, impacting on the lives of everyone marked as “different.” Finally, during the stressful time of writing up my thesis, I started to frequent Thai massage studios to loosen the knots that had been forming in my neck, back, arms, and stomach. Observing the interactions with clients, the studios’ design, and the implicit expectations of authenticity on the side of customers—also related to a specific language register—I realized that these studios could be regarded as an

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emblematic site of ongoing and pervasive exoticization processes of all things Asian (including, most tenaciously, people) in Western Europe. Devising a research project on exoticization through an ethnography in Thai massage studios in Vienna (where I had started a position in applied linguistics in the meantime), at the beginning I somewhat naively I thought I could evade the question of illicit business practices Thai massage is oftentimes associated with in the Western public discourse, which is often euphemistically alluded to as “happy ending”—and which is related to geopolitical reasons to which I will turn below (cf. also Kogiso, 2012; Sunanta, 2020). As it turned out soon after venturing into the field, this association is pervasive to the point that it infringes on and impacts professional practices, for example, online self-presentation or interactions with clients (cf. Flubacher, 2020). Imagine my surprise, then, when I learned that the Thai government sponsored Thai massage courses for their nationals living in European countries through local agencies, making it possible for them to learn these skills in their place of residence rather than having to invest in travels (to a course and accommodation in Bangkok at the famous Wat Po temple that doubles as a Thai massage school, for example). It puzzled me as to why the government would invest in this particular line of business when it had a contested reputation. Why would they not invest in measures helping them with developing other skill sets, or with language courses in the required European language for that matter—for example, as the Italian state did back in the 1960s in Switzerland or Germany, when it set up language classes and adult education classes for the Italian workers recruited by highway and railroad agencies, construction companies, and such. And, finally, why did so many women sign up for these courses to become trained massage therapists? I consider this moment of surprise and the ensuing confusion in my research process as a friction in Anna Tsing’s (2005) sense, that is, as conflicting interpretations and interactions in a globalized world. She argues that “attention to friction opens the possibility of an ethnographic account of global interconnection” (Tsing, 2005, p. 6). Following from these initial considerations, it is the aim of this contribution to pay attention to this particular friction, as it leads us to the interlinkage of political and economic interests of a nation-state that have local, material ramifications for its transnational population. Moreover, I came to realize that this epistemological friction is closely related to a fundamental friction reoccurring again and again in interactions within the context of Thai massage, that is, in the guise of conflicting interpretations and interactions with regard to the quality of Thai massage, which in turn tells us a lot about the postcolonial order in today’s European society (Flubacher, 2020). Against this backdrop, it is the aim of this contribution, informed with a perspective of applied linguistics, to understand how Thai massage functions as an economic niche activity. Using the local example of Thai massage in Vienna, I will draw on data from my research project (described in Section 2) in order

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to discuss how the sociological and political concept of migrant economy (cf. Section 3) introduces specific expectations, also with regard to language. This is why, in a next step, I will turn to language regulations in place for migrants to live and make a living in Western European countries and the much-needed perspective from applied linguistics to question the validity and enforcement of such regulations (Section 4). Tapping into the experiences and narratives of one particular case, I will present the frictions, political economy, and language regulations that come together in Thai massage (Section 5). A discussion will conclude the chapter (Section 6).

2. THE RESEARCH PROJECT: DATA AND METHOD The research project (April 2017–December 2019) was based on the intent to empirically gain insight into the mundane but insidious exoticization processes happening to women with “Asian” features in Europe (cf. Flubacher, 2020, forthcoming).1 The project endorses the ethnographic approach in its aim to understand how people make sense of practices and phenomena that re(appear) across time and space, how they talk about them in interactions, and how they deal with them (Blommaert & Dong Jie, 2010; Flubacher, forthcoming; Heller, 2008). In this, ethnography serves the exploration of the multilingual realities of actors in various settings in order to understand how they navigate local and global conditions, infrastructures and networks. Originally an anthropological method, it “enables us to explore how people can undermine or sidestep hegemonic models in the actual conduct of their lives” (Narotzky & Besnier, 2014, p. 12). It is for these reasons that ethnography has become firmly established within applied linguistics, too. It shares an epistemological interpretative understanding of social practices (e.g., Heller, 2008), which directly leads to the ontological assumption of the inherent “situated-ness” of language (cf. also Blommaert & Dong Jie, 2010, p. 8), that is, that any form of language use is socially embedded, meaningful, and indexical of societal structures. Through observant participation (cf. on comparison to “participant observation”: Moeran, 2007; Wacquant, 2010), ethnographies offer the possibility for in-depth and fine-grained analyses of meaning making: how language is used in daily life, how language practices impact on and are received by speakers, and what meta-discourses or ideologies emerge in such instances. In short: how social realities are constructed by participants themselves. In the following, I will focus on the political economic aspects of Thai massage as a transnational, globalized, and highly gendered business that is conceptualized in Europe as a migrant economy. I do so in order to get an understanding of who works in Thai massage in Vienna, why, and under which conditions. In analyzing the narratives and encounters with Thai massage therapists (TMTs), I will take into consideration the political economic

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conditions these women are facing in their daily lives and the migration policies that define the diasporic pattern of this particular community, thereby shedding light on the particular interconnections of politics and current capitalism for female experiences within migrant economies. This implies that I will draw only on specific data gathered in the course of the project, that is, field notes, complemented by (recorded) interviews and (unrecorded) conversations with a representative of the Office of Commercial Affairs in Vienna as well as TMTs. All data are presented in anonymized or pseudonymized form. The transcription is making use a simplified form employed for interactional analysis, as it offers narrative nuances that are also of interest for applied linguists of ethnographic conviction.2 The analysis of the data is inspired by “thick description” (Geertz, 1973) as proposed by anthropologists in order to recontextualize a situated understanding of historical processes. In this process, excerpts of both interviews and field notes are woven into the argumentation and serve as lenses into the research process.

3. THE POLITICS OF MIGRANT ECONOMIES Walking around these days in any city in Europe, the internationalization of business and services becomes visible to a high degree very quickly. “Ethnic” shops, multicultural markets, international fashion stores, and multinational corporate buildings adorn different neighborhoods, shopping streets, and city centers. Their prominence, exterior, or appearance depends on the neighborhood and the economic activity, but emblematic and hyper-visible examples would be Turkish barbers or Chinese restaurants alongside globally active corporations and service providers. With the multinational corporations operating in their own logic and often drawing on a highly qualified international workforce, the small and medium enterprises (SME) are said to form the “backbone” of any local economy within the European Union (EU). The following paragraphs will explain the analytical relevance of research on migrant economies. In many national labor markets of the EU, businesses of migrants and their offspring are mostly categorized in this manner (e.g., the Austrian Chamber of Commerce in Vienna labelling them as “ethnic economies”3). While this concept bears the risk of reinforcing classist, sexist, and nationalist categories of who are considered migrants or what are considered migrant economies, it has gained traction in public and academic discourse over the last thirty years, albeit in various forms (“ethnic economy,” “migrant entrepreneurs,” etc.).4 Focusing on the national context of Austria, 99.7 percent of businesses here are SMEs (337,800 in total) and employ almost two million people, which amounts to 67 percent of the Austrian workforce. Of these SMEs, a third is run by entrepreneurs who are originally migrants or have a so-called migrant background—in Vienna, the Austrian capital, the number rises to 40 percent

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(Eurofound, 2011, p. 9). This elevated percentage of “migrant entrepreneurship” in Austria, and particularly in Vienna, has attracted the attention of media (e.g., Bruckner, 2018), research (e.g., Dannecker & Cakir, 2016), and policy makers alike (e.g., DG Enterprise of the European Commission). Journalists, experts, and policy makers seem to invariably celebrate this possibility for migrants (or their descendants) to become economically active in either self-employment/ entrepreneurship or as employees, pushing for corresponding programs and services. In Vienna, the Business Academy is mandated to offer specialized and multilingual workshops for prospective entrepreneurs on legal issues, administrative challenges, and so on.5 In spite of the political embrace of the migrant economy, its conceptualization varies just as much as the assessment of the reasons, conditions, and effects of the economic entrepreneurial activities of migrants. Jan Rath and Anna Swagerman (2015, p. 154) thus rightly assess that “it is inappropriate to portray them [entrepreneurs] one-dimensionally. Yet in policy- and academicspeak this happens all the time.” In this sense, this contribution follows Susana Narotzky and Niko Besnier (2014, pp. 5–6) in their ethnographically inspired conceptualization of “economy” as “consisting of all the processes that are involved, in one fashion or the other, in ‘making a living’, taken in a very broad sense and stressing both the ‘effort’ involved and the aim of ‘sustaining life’.” Thus, it broadens the scope to consider economic activities of any kind, both formal and informal, as most business activities employ a mix of both, irrespective of being part of “mainstream” or migrant economies (D. Light, 2004). In conclusion, it employs a “mixed embeddedness” approach (e.g., Barberis & Solano, 2018; Rath & Swagerman, 2015), which means that it will pay as much attention to individual stories of success, failure, projects, and dreams as it will take into account the scaled opportunity structures or affordances. This means that this chapter will tease out discourses and experiences with language and, considering the specific context of Thai massage, the inherent frictions.

4. THE RELEVANCE OF APPLIED LINGUISTICS FOR MIGRANT ECONOMY RESEARCH Studies on migrant economies mostly occur in the social and political sciences, with contributions from applied linguistics or sociolinguistics sorely missing. The absence of applied linguistics, as basically “the theoretical and empirical investigation of real-world problems in which language is a central issue” (Brumfit, 1995, p. 27), is especially noteworthy as most of the existing studies on migrant economies argue that language competences are one of the key factors for success. This argument is based on the dominant discourse of language competences being key to entering the labor market as well as

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to business success alongside professional/educational qualifications. It is argued that without these language competences, migrants will not be able to participate in and contribute to the local society, let alone make a decent living. The hegemony of this discourse has resulted in migrants being required by law to acquire local language competences at various levels depending on what is at stake (entry, residence, citizenship, etc.). However, a growing body of researchers from applied linguistics (e.g., Blommaert & Verschueren, 1998; Extra, Spotti, & Avermaet, 2009; Yeung & Flubacher, 2016) decries the assimilationist tendencies inherent in the language policies in place in Europe, just as they also reject the idea of language competences as easily testable in a standardized procedure. Connected to this, the integration discourse focusing on “language” is considered to be one-dimensional, as it does not do justice to the multilayered and multilingual realities of migrants or to the systemic inequalities inherent in any society, in which the lower social strata will never be as successful economically, irrespective of any language competences. Yet, “language” keeps being commonly implemented by political institutions as a testable variable requirement for immigration within the EU (e.g., A1 according to the Common European Framework of Reference for Language [CEFR] for family reunification), residence (e.g., A2–B1 modulated in “Integration Agreements”), and labor market integration (e.g., B1–B2 for the recognition of professional qualifications).6 Against this background, somewhat unsurprisingly, most European studies focus on an apparent lack of competences of migrants in the locally dominant language. Stereotypically, studies report that “ethnic entrepreneurs faced an array of challenges, particularly because of a general lack of business management skills and competencies, and often a lack of proficiency in the host country’s language” (Rath & Swagerman, 2015, p. 162). Relating a lack in both qualifications and language competences to individual problems with social mobility, they reify the discourse dominant in integration policies, according to which “language is defined as the most important factor for the successful ‘integration’ of migrants” (Dannecker & Cakir, 2016, p. 101).7 As a result, “language” is commonly accepted in current studies on migrant economies as part of the “opportunity structure” (Waldinger, Aldrich, & Ward, 1990: i.e., the political economic infrastructure in place in a specific society) qua specific requirements of various levels for immigration, residence, and labor market integration (e.g., for the recognition of professional qualifications). Following from this, becoming active in migrant economies is often understood as a way of working around the local linguistic requirements and, thus, as offering alternative pathways. Yet, there are hardly any studies offering a systematic insight into the reasons of why actors actually become active in migrant economies and/or whether this has anything to do with language and specifically required language competences (or the lack thereof). Finally, the various existing

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language competences beyond the one required by the “host country” and the migrants’ first languages are usually not taken into consideration, neither are the interactional strategies they employ nor how they manage literacy challenges in their daily professional lives. The consideration of language appears central but formulaic at the same time. This is exactly why applied linguistics is of particular aptness to study these issues and to challenge the premises dominant in studies on migrant economies. In contrast to the logic of the test and the deterministic optics recurring in these studies, “language” is generally understood as a social practice, embedded in interactions and social structures (Gumperz & Hymes, 1972; Hymes, 1974), that is, as a socially embedded phenomenon. “Language,” in this sense, comes to stand for both language practices (language as a social practice) and language competences (language as a means to communicate). In a more critical paradigm (Codó, 2008; Duchêne, 2008; Heller, 2002), “language” can appear as a proxy (cf. also Bauman & Briggs, 2003) and as mechanisms of gatekeeping to material and symbolic resources and positions in society (Blommaert, 2005; Bourdieu & Passeron, 1977; Roberts 2013). As much as the promise of language learning and language competences leading to social mobility is tempting, it remains far from clear for whom and under which conditions this becomes reality. Most importantly, as empirically studied in the public employment service in Switzerland (Flubacher, Duchêne, & Coray, 2018), language competences alone are never as decisive for job seekers as other “soft” ’ criteria such as motivation, flexibility, and mobility in addition to professional qualifications and past experiences in the local labor market. Reversely, lacking language competences could very well become problematic for job seekers, as the threshold level for most qualified jobs is commonly indicated as B2 (i.e., higher intermediate CEFR level). Many migrants struggle to reach this level and are thus prey to underemployment (Riaño, Baghdadi, & astl-Walter, 2008). Finally, in studies of work environments, language competences have been evaluated as Janus-faced. On the one hand, it is often competences in one language that are productive for being hired, for example, in network-driven work teams in construction or production (e.g., Kraft, 2017; Piller & Lising, 2014) or in the creation of “alternative language regimes” (Piller, 2016, p. 89) that run counter to the linguistic assimilation demands of mainstream society; on the other hand, employers working in single shifts or in linguistic environments other than the local standard language are hindered from attaining more fluency in the locally dominant language and, thus, from better working conditions or better-paid jobs that come with specific language stipulations (Flubacher et al., 2018; Strömmer, 2016; Tavares, 2020). In conclusion, the relationship between language competences and professional integration and/or social mobility is highly complex and in need of fine-grained and nuanced analyses, of which several existing studies are a testimony already

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(e.g., Kraft, 2017; Sabaté-Dalmau, 2014; Tavares, 2020; Vigouroux, 2013). It is this nuance I aim to contribute to the study of migrant economies on the example of Thai massage in Vienna.

5. APPROACHING THAI MASSAGE AS A MIGRANT ECONOMY Inspired by these existing studies in applied linguistics and sociolinguistics, I will approach Thai massage as a migrant economy, also drawing on individual accounts (Section 5.2). For this, it is first and foremost relevant to take a closer look at the global and local politics of Thai massage as envisaged by the Thai government (Section 5.1). Anchoring this discussion in the local context of Vienna, it has to be mentioned that it was not possible to obtain statistical numbers on how many massage studios offer Thai massage. This is most probably related to two reasons: First, businesses and studios offering massage, cosmetic treatments, and tattoos/piercing are grouped together administratively; second, Thai massage is offered widely, that is, also in non-nationally marked studios as well as in studios that, for example, officially specialize in Chinese massage. A quick internet search provides a rough result of about two thousand studios (arguably some of which are most likely out of business in the meantime) in greater Vienna. This high number speaks of its popularity and the business opportunity that people see it as. The size of the studios varies: some are run by a single person, while others employ a dozen therapists and have a wide range of cubicles/rooms available. Corresponding to the literature existing on the structure and formation of migrant economies, Thai massage studios in Vienna appear to function along national networks: massage therapists are recruited from the generally female population of Thais in and around the Austrian capital (cf. Flubacher, 2020; Sunanta, 2020; Trupp & Butratana, 2016, on the gendered migration pattern from Thailand to Europe). Many of them had professional training in Thailand to become massage therapists; others are learning it on the job in Vienna. One therapist even told me about going back to Thailand to get the training, after a few years in Austria. A further possibility is to get certified in a course organized about once every other year by the Thailand Office of Commercial Affairs, sponsored by the Thai Ministry of Public Health, to which I will turn in the following. 5.1. The Politics of Thai Massage Trying to understand the official strategy to invest in a publicly contested and somewhat tainted economic activity, it is worthwhile turning to Kohei Kogiso (2012, p. 67; cf. also Sunanta, 2020), who offers a genealogy of Thai tourism strategies in relation to the global public image of Thailand, which

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transformed from exotic to erotic in the second half of the twentieth century. The emergence of the erotic images coincides with the onset of tourism in the 1960s in Thailand (Kogiso, 2012), which in turn is closely related to the US military stationed in Vietnam during the war and traveling to Thailand for Rest & Recuperation. Soldiers came to Thailand in the search of “erotic” adventures with women and men they considered “exotic” (Pruekpongsawalee, 2004). This “libidinalization” (Hamilton, 1997) of Thailand has had sustainable and tenacious repercussions until this day on a global level, feeding into “the most visibly racialized sexual phenomenon of all … [,]‌popularly known as ‘yellow fever’: a preference for Asian women (and men)” (Zheng, 2016, p. 401). This problematic development has prompted the government to launch several tourism strategies to broaden and diversify its appeal, with the aim of eventually “constructing an image of tourism in Thai around health and the healing” (Kogiso, 2012, p. 67), in which both the spa and Thai massage hold a central place. As Kogiso argues (2012, p. 67), “in 2004, the Thai government planned to make Thailand an international hub for the spa industry, using the cooperation of the Ministry of Public Health and the TAT [Tourism Authority of Thailand].” There is thus an institutional effort to promote the healing and therapeutic dimension of Thai massage in order to incorporate it into an image of Thailand as a health destination for tourism, in an attempt to discard with its erotic practices offered in massage parlors (establishments called ab ob nuad in Thai). In other words, what counts as Thai massage today “has been gradually acculturated by a kind of power structure (constructed by foreign tourists, the Thai government, and organizations)” (Kogiso, 2012, p. 68). Coming back to Austria and considering the courses offered by the very same ministry (i.e., the Ministry of Public Health), we can come to the following assessment: the governmental investment in Thai massage certification courses in local contexts such as Vienna is part and parcel of a global strategy, which incorporates the transnational diaspora in its efforts to promote Thailand as a healthy, healing, and therapeutic destination (including Thai massage). It could even be argued that this strategy is itself the outcome of a series of acknowledged frictions, as interpretations and interactions on the site of Thai massage have become heavily conflicting. As a consequence, the courses, taught by instructors flown in from Thailand, are first and foremost intended to improve and enforce quality standards of the massage technique called Wat Po, as the representative of the Office of Commercial Affairs puts it: Excerpt 1: Quality of Thai massage OCA: [mhm i think the] i think the the government is trying to (.) to up= i mean how do you say upgrade the level / of thai massage / [[mhm]] but i

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think is it takes erm it will take (.) [[time]] times and many things to ah to change the perception / of of people (Interview with representative of Office of Commercial Affairs, April 2018; lines 113–116) While the representative argues that the Thai government is “trying to upgrade the level of thai massage,” she is also pointing out that the “perception of people” takes a while to change. Yet, at a later point, she concedes that the eroticization of Thai massage and/or the delineation of illicit practices are not the topic of these courses. Neither are courses in language nor on administrative and legal issues, which might be recurring issues for owners of studios, offered. In other words, the officials in charge seem to hope that quality alone will ensure improved reputation. The question that arises against the backdrop of this political project is the following: Considering that the improvement of the quality of massage is a concern for the Thai government, where does this leave the massage therapists? What do they gain from these courses? 5.2. Thais Massaging: By Choice? In the following I will draw on one particular case of a TMT who followed different strategies in setting up her business. Her situation is of particular interest, as it is in stark contrast to the reality of many other TMTs that I have met over the course of my study. I will sketch out her trajectory and complement it with other cases over the next pages, following a “mixed embeddedness” approach. I got into contact with Achara through Maew, one of my Thai language teachers. She had agreed to be interviewed and immediately opened up about her experiences in Vienna when we meet up for an interview in a central coffee shop at the end of 2017. She is a smart-looking woman a few years my senior. Married to an Austrian engineer whom she had met in Thailand, where he was working for several years, they moved to Vienna when she was pregnant. Having lived in Vienna for a decade already, her German is as fluid as her English. She found a first job at a Thai grocery store, but she tells me that she found it rather arduous, so she decided to learn Thai massage when she saw the governmental course advertised. According to her, the course consists of 150 hours. After attending this entry-level course, she worked as a TMT for a few years and then, with some experience under her belt, took a further course in Thailand that consisted of 360 hours. With these certificates in hand, she then finally founded her business and set up a beautiful massage room in their private home in an affluent suburb of Vienna, where I visit her several times after this initial interview. There are two elements to her narrative that I want to highlight in the following. The first element relates to the ambiguous perception of Thai massage

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and the second to her possibilities on the Austrian labor market. I argue that it is these two elements that in their conjunction shed light on the conditions under which TMTs work in a Western European city and that form a migrant economy of its own. 5.2.1. Dealing with Friction The ambiguous reception of Thai massage is an insidious undercurrent TMTs have to live and come to terms with (cf. also Flubacher, 2020)—also Achara. As her German is clearly marked (as can be seen in the original excerpts of the transcript), this could be understood as a factor contributing to her being exoticized. However, as I argue elsewhere (Flubacher, 2020), massage therapists of any national/ethnic background potentially face sexualized demands due to the implications of working on semi-clad or naked bodies (Oerton, 2004). Moreover, women of Asian appearance are exoticized and rendered foreign irrespective of their language competences (Zheng & Samuel, 2017). This is why I argue that her German competences are only secondary to these particular experiences as a TMT, which lead to her being asked for “extra” services (Interview lines 307–317) even in her own home, something that has happened several times, as she professes. According to her, she reacts with “sadness” to these advances: Excerpt 2: Reaction to advances ich hab gesagt das ist so traurig \ das ich weiß nicht wo haben sie massieren oder English translation: i said that is so sad \ that I don’t know where did you go for massage or (Interview with Achara, November 2017; lines 312–313) It is important to note that—unlike many other TMTs—she can afford to react with “sadness,” as her livelihood does not depend on this business and surely not on making extra money. This does not mean that these advances do not rattle her. In her opinion, massage courses are offered by the Thai government in explicit reaction to this: Excerpt 3: Reason for courses ACH: mmh ich habe gehört dass es äh wegen thai massage hier ist sehr bekannt [m=h \] wirklich auch dieses kom kombiniert mit sex [m=h \] das auch ehm thai botschaft hat gesagt dann ist das ist so traurig \ [m=h \] das hab ich auch selber gefühl [ja \] sehr traurig ja \ und dann sie will das äh besser machen [aha] und dass die leute hat wirklich so gut ehm skill [ja] wie wie heißt

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INT: ausbildung [auch und die] ACH: [ja genau] \ INT: technik so ACH: ja genau und dann kann auch ehm mehr geld verdienen English translation: ACH: mmh i heard that it erm cause thai massage here is very known [m=h \] really also this com combination with sex [m=h \] that also erm the thai embassy said then is this is so sad \ [m=h \] that0s also my sentiment [yes \] very sad yes \ and then they want to make this better [aha] and that people get really good erm skill [ja] how how is it called INT: training [and also] ACH: [exactly] \ INT: technique so ACH: exactly and then you can also erm earn more money (Interview Achara, November 2017; lines 265–286) Again, the reoccurring friction in Thai massage is making itself felt—also in a Vienna suburb—and needs dealing with. Before launching a website and producing brochures for her business (both in prime quality, also languagewise), she had been debating whether or not to put any disambiguating phrases to indicate that her massages were “traditional” and, therefore, “serious.’ Apparently, it was her husband who argued against it, deeming it “embarrassing” (Interview, lines 358–363) to put it out there. Instead, she opted for another approach: when the neighborhood journal covered her newly opened studio and published a short interview with her, she tells me she made a point to praise the healthy and therapeutic aspects of traditional Thai massage, hoping it would deter men interested in eroticized forms of massage (Interview, lines 366–431). In a way, then, she follows the same strategy as the Thai government: emphasizing the healthy dimension of massage in order to erase the erotic ascription. Similarly, when comparing Excerpt 3 (Achara’s voice) with Excerpt 1 (official discourse) above, we can see similar lines of argument: courses are offered to improve the quality of massages under the preexisting condition that “thai massage here is very known,” albeit often in “combination with sex.” Thai massage thus does not need to become more known, but it is in dire need of rebranding. Most importantly, in Achara’s understanding, an improvement in “skills” could, in fact, lead to better salaries for the TMT (“then you can also erm earn more money”)—yet it remains unclear if this is actually the case or whether this would be connected to competences beyond massages (e.g., managerial, administrative, linguistic). Thus, while the perspective shifts across accounts from the global image to improve the quality of Thai massage as a product toward an improvement

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of working conditions for individual TMTs, it is noteworthy that only Achara explicitly refers to the erotic side of this particular migrant economy that needs to be abolished for Thai massage to be successfully branded as “healthy.” Naturally, the reason for silence on this matter on the side of the Office of Commercial Affairs could represent a discursive strategy of erasure in itself. Yet, remember the prediction of the representative of the Office of Commercial Affairs that “it will take time and many things to change the perception of people” (Excerpt 1). The question thus arises as to how the TMT in Vienna are faring in this particular economic domain in the face of this enduring instances of friction. 5.2.2. Professional Options for Thais in Vienna The tainted reputation of Thai massage as a migrant economy has different consequences for individuals. A friend of hers, Achara tells me, publicly never declares her profession as a TMT, ashamed of its connotations (Interview, lines 436–444). Achara regrets this, as she claims to be proud of helping people with her massages. In spite of this pride trope, she clearly has struggled with the limited professional options available to her in Vienna. Back in Bangkok she used to work as a secretary in an international company but found no similar position after moving to Vienna. Excerpt 4: No other options ACH: [...] dann ich muss wirklich hundert prozent perfekt deutsch INT: a:h okay \ ACH: u:nd ich habe gefühl obwohl wie meine schwester sie ist auch ehm (2) em: be: a: graduiert aber sie hat keine chance hier zu arbeiten \ ich habe gefühl hier thai leute kann nur (--) massage äh masseurin oder putzen \ English translation: ACH: [...] then i really have to a hundred percent perfect german INT: a:h okay \ ACH: a:nd i think even like my sister she is also erm (2) em: be: ay: graduated but she has no chance to work here \ i think here thai people can only (--) massage erm massage therapist or cleaning \ (Interview Achara, November 2017; lines 520–527) In this excerpt, Achara expresses a clear opinion on her professional opportunities that she sees restricted due to the expectation to speak “a hundred percent perfect german.” For illustrative purposes, she draws on the trajectory of her sister Gamon, newly arrived to Vienna a few months before the time of the interview, who is also married to an Austrian man who used to work in

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Thailand. Even with an MBA from a Nordic country (where she earned some money on the side with Thai massage) and advanced competences in English, Gamon seems to stand no chance on the local labor market—which is acerbated by her beginner level in German. She opted for the business of Thai massage in Vienna, thus becoming one of the many migrant entrepreneurs in Vienna. Gamon’s business strategy differs from her sister in that she opened a Thai massage studio exclusively for women. For this she rents a spacious former office in a shopping area of Vienna, hires half a dozen part-time TMTs, has a professional website up and running, and offers additional programs to her clientele (cooking classes, massage courses), many of them for free. The first time I visited her there—and was truly impressed by the space—she told me about her business strategies and her calculations. For instance, she employs a marketing student with German as her first language to support the communication outlets of her business (i.e., on the internet and social media), thus basically “outsourcing” the necessary language competences. Gamon never topicalizes the reasons for the fundamental strategy of opening a studio for women only in conversations with me, but she insists that the aim was to create a space of comfort and relaxation; it was Maew who had pointed out the obviousness of it right from the beginning: a space for women only, in other words, might avoid the tiresome experience of friction otherwise occurring regularly.

6. CONSEQUENCES OF THE POLITICS OF MIGRANT ECONOMIES: A CONCLUSION In conclusion, I will go back to the different frictions in and around Thai massage as a migrant economy. The first friction is related to the insight that the Thai government has been sponsoring local courses in Thai massage, following a global strategy of rebranding for touristic purposes. In order to approach this question against the backdrop of the exoticization and erotization of Thai massage and its therapists, which engender the second reoccurring friction, I drew on the concept of migrant economy that is celebrated by politicians as innovative economic opportunities for migrants; I also highlighted the lack of insight from applied linguistics in this field. In a nutshell, and to repeat Tsing’s (2005, p. 6) words, I paid attention to these frictions, which opened “the possibility of an ethnographic account of global interconnection.” The discussion of the trajectory, experiences, and perspective of Achara and her sister Gamon, exemplary TMTs, gave additional insight on how these different strategies are playing out on the ground. From what we can gleam with a mixed-embeddedness approach, both Achara and Gamon fit the description of migrants who turn to self-employment and entrepreneurship, and they do so in the confines of their own “ethnicity,” that is, turning to a

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product connected to their “ethnicity” or national origin. At the end of the day, both Achara and Gamon relay that for Thai women there are no other options than “Thai massage or cleaning,” which come with its own set of challenges. The question of “choice” is thus a cynical one. Still, contrary to other Thai women living in Europe who hail from poorer rural areas (Lapanun, 2012), these two sisters are equipped with a high level of financial, symbolic, and social capital and can ultimately create opportunities for themselves and others. They do so in spite of elevated language regulations and requirements in place in the labor market, which are especially trenchant for third country citizens who do not enter Europe as “experts” or “specialists.” What, then, are the consequences of the massage courses implemented by the Thai government for Thai women living in Vienna? I argue that globally implementing standards in massage qua techniques does not help these women with regard to their work conditions: no instructions are given that teach matters of administration, management, or language. It appears as if the Thai government does not necessarily see these TMTs as entrepreneurs in a wider sense—or Thai massage as a migrant economy. Rather, it is a skill that is taught to be sold on the labor market. As a consequence, entrepreneurial instructions have to be sought and obtained locally, for example, with the Business Academy in Vienna that offers training in such matters, but only in the local language, in one of the major “languages of migration” (i.e., not in Thai) or in English. Needless to say that both obtaining this information and navigating the system require a certain linguistic and symbolic capital. In the end, then, the global efforts inherent in the tourism strategy might help the nation in branding itself as a “health destination,” whereas the bodies of TMTs remain locally precariously exoticized, especially as Thailand will still bank internationally on being regarded as “exotic.” Considering the racialized reading of exotic as erotic (Zheng, 2016), it is questionable whether such branding strategies—with the aim of erasing the “erotic” dimension—can be successful in the long run. Now, coming back to the role of language in and for migrant economies, the question emerges as to how the situation of Achara and, by extension, her sister Gamon can be assessed. There are two issue to consider. First, it is not the aim of this chapter to dismiss the opportunities that “migrant economies” might offer for many individuals. Yet, it is noteworthy that these are sometimes actually restricted opportunities, especially in the case of Thai massage, which seems to still reinforce tropes of exoticism. Second, as both Achara and Gamon foreground language competences as the barriers to the local labor market, the option of becoming entrepreneurs in the migrant economy does appear as the ideal solution for both of them. However, some doubts are in order with regard to this hegemonic discourse. After all, what is striking is the successful operationalization of their multilingual resources and networks to the benefit of their business, and their elaborated management and sophisticated advertising.

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These women implement manifold strategies in their businesses that prove to be successful, which is why it would be reductive to only consider particular language competences, for example, according to the CEFR, as productive for economic activities. Gatekeeping mechanisms are further acerbated through the European discourse on migrant economies, which one-sidedly celebrates the innovativeness and self-sufficiency of migrants and their offspring. Most importantly, migrants are channeled into these niches and applauded for taking such high financial and professional risks, rendering it basically unnecessary to structurally and politically implement changes regarding the accessibility of the local labor market (e.g., targeting discriminatory hiring practices, facilitating the approval of foreign diplomas, or tackling exaggerated language requirements). I argue that it is exactly the critical perspective of applied linguistics (cf. Section 4) that could offer an alternative explanation to the blocked access to the labor market in actually shifting the focus away from language competences toward the protective mechanism in place in a nationalist capitalist system (Chun, 2017), namely, in paying attention to and empirically studying the (distributed) language work being actually done and mastered in the so-called migrant economy.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I am deeply thankful to the various participants in my research and their willingness to talk to me. Furthermore, I would like to thank Christian Chun for including me in this exciting book project. For an in-depth discussion of the complex role of language in migrant economies I am thankful to Cécile Vigouroux. Finally, I thank Christian Chun and Ana Deumert for giving me feedback on an earlier version of this chapter. All remaining errors are mine.

NOTES 1 Many thanks for the transcription of most interviews to Zoë Fox, whose temporary position as student assistant was financed by the Faculty of Philological and Cultural Studies. 2 The transcription guidelines are the following: m=h disyllabic agreement (-); (--) short pause; longer pause /; \

rising intonation; falling intonation

[] interjection 3 “Ethnische Ökonomien” (in German). Available online: https://www.wko.at/ service/w/netzwerke/herkunft-ethnizitaet-diversity.html (accessed June 1, 2020).

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4 Economic activities by a particular national group were first labeled as “ethnic economy” in the United States by Ivan Light and Steven Gould (2007). I offer a discussion on this term elsewhere (Flubacher, 2020). 5 Vienna Business Agency, “Migrant Enterprises.” Available online: https:// viennabusinessagency.at/consulting/migrant-enterprises-6/ (accessed October 25, 2020). 6 The CEFR was originally devised as a dynamic and shifting descriptor of the different domains of language competences by one individual, allowing for differentiated assessments between the domains (listening, speaking, writing, and reading) and across time: Council of Europe, “The CEFR levels.” Available online: https://www. coe.int/en/web/common-european-framework-reference-languages/level-descriptions (accessed October 27, 2020). It soon was appropriated for testing purposes, however, and for prescriptive legislation, which totally erases the possibility of different levels of competences in one language across domains and ignores individual languageacquisition histories. 7 A notable exception is a study on the emergence and spreading of the Vietnamese manicure industry in and beyond the United States by Susan Eckstein and ThanhNghi Nguyen (2011, p. 651), in which they clearly emphasize the importance of local initiatives and professional training allowed in other languages than English. As they found, it was particularly this linguistic openness that made it possible for Vietnamese women to carve out a specific niche for themselves.

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Duchêne, A. (2008). Ideologies across nations: The construction of linguistic minorities at the United Nations. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Eckstein, S., & Nguyen, T. (2011). The making and transnationalization of an ethnic niche: Vietnamese manicurists. International Migration Review, 45(3), 639−674. European Foundation for the Improvement of Living and Working Conditions (Eurofound). (2011). Ethnic entrepreneurship. Case study: Vienna, Austria. Dublin: CLIP. Retrieved June 8, 2020, from https://www.eurofound.europa.eu/sites/ default/files/ef_files/pubdocs/2011/212/en/1/EF11212EN.pdf Extra, G., Spotti, M., & Avermaet, P. Van (Eds.). (2009), Language testing, migration and citizenship: Cross-national perspectives on integration regimes. London: Continuum. Flubacher, M. (2020). Desire and confusion: A sociolinguistic ethnography on affect in the ethniceconomy of Thai massage. International Journal of the Sociology of Language, 264, 115–135. doi:10.1515/ijsl-2020-2096 Flubacher, M. (forthcoming). Ethnography as a speaker-centred approach? Methodological reflections. In J. Purtkarthofer & M. Flubacher (Eds.), Speaking subjects – Biographical methods in multilingualism research. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Flubacher, M., Duchêne, A., & Coray, R. (2018). Language investment and employability: The uneven distribution of resources in the public employment service. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Geertz, C. (1973). The interpretation of cultures. New York: Basic Books. Gumperz, J., & Hymes, D. (Eds.). (1972). Directions in sociolinguistics: The ethnography of communication. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Hamilton, A. (1997). Primal dream: Masculinism, sin, and salvation in Thailand’s sex trade. In L. Manderson & M. Jolly (Eds.), Sites of desire: Economies of pleasure in Asia and the Pacific (pp. 145–165). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Heller, M. (2002). Éléments d’une sociolinguistique critique. Paris: Didier. Heller, M. (2008). Doing ethnography. In Li Wei & M. G. Moyer (Eds.), The Blackwell guide to research methods in bilingualism and multilingualism (pp. 249–262). Malden: Blackwell. Hymes, D. (1974). Foundations in sociolinguistics: An ethnographic approach. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Kogiso, K. (2012). Thai massage and health tourism in Thailand. International Journal of Sport and Health Science, 10, 65–70. Kraft, K. (2017). Constructing migrant workers: Multilingualism and communication in the transnational construction site. PhD dissertation, Center for Multilingualism in Society across the Lifespan (MultiLing), University of Oslo. Lapanun, P. (2012). It’s not just about money: Transnational marriages of Isan women. Journal of Mekong Societies, 8(3), 1–28. Light, I., & Gold, S. J. (2007). Ethnic economies. Bingley: Emerald. Light, D. (2004). From migrant enclaves to mainstream: Reconceptualizing informal economic behavior. Theory and Society, 33(6), 705–737. Moeran, B. (2007). From participant observation to observant participation. In S. Ybema, D. Yanow, H. Wels, & F. Kamsteeg (Eds.), Organizational ethnography: Studying the complexities of everyday life (pp. 139–156). London: Sage. Narotzky, S., and Besnier, N. (2014). Crisis, value, and hope: Rethinking the economy. Current Anthropology, 55(9), 4–16. Oerton, S. (2004). Bodywork boundaries: Power, politics and the professionalism in therapeutic massage. Gender, Work and Organization, 11(5), 544–565.

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Piller, I. (2016). Linguistic diversity and social justice: An introduction to applied sociolinguistics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Piller, I., & Lising, L. (2014). Language, employment, and settlement: Temporary meat workers in Australia. Multilingua, 33(1–2), 35–59. Pruekpongsawalee, M. (2004). The constitutions and legal status of women in family related laws in Thailand: A historical perspective. In S. Satha-Anand (Ed.), Women’s studies in Thailand (pp. 85–155). Seoul: Ewha Womens University Press. Rath, J., & Swagerman, A. (2015). Promoting ethnic entrepreneurship in European cities: Sometimes ambitious, mostly absent, rarely addressing structural features. International Migration, 54(1), 152–166. Riaño, Y., Baghdadi, N., & Wastl-Walter, D. (2008). Les migrants qualifies et leur possibilités d’intégraiton professionelle en Suisse. Bern: Universität Bern. Roberts, C. (2013). The gatekeeping of Babel: Job interviews and the linguistic penalty. In A. Duchêne, M. Moyer, & C. Roberts (Eds.), Language, migration and social inequalities (pp. 81–94). Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Sabaté-Dalmau, M. (2014). Migrant communication enterprises: Regimentation and resistance. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Strömmer, M. (2016). Affordances and constraints: Second language learning in cleaning work. Multilingua, 35(6), 697–721. Sunanta, S. (2020). Globalising the Thai “high-touch” industry: Exports of care and body work and gendered mobilities to and from Thailand. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 46(8), 1543–1561. doi: 10.1080/1369183X.2020.1711568 Tavares, B. (2020). Multilingualism in Luxembourg: (Dis)empowering Cape Verdean migrants at work. International Journal for the Sociology of Language, 264, 95–114. doi: 10.1515/ijsl-2020-2095 Trupp, A., & Butratana, K. (2016). Cross-border marriages and socioeconomic mobility of Thai migrants in Austria. Conference Proceedings. Retrieved October 27, 2020, from http://repository.usp.ac.fj/9512/ Tsing, A. L. (2005). Friction: An ethnography of global connection. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Vigouroux, C. (2013). Informal economy and language practice in the context of migrations. In A. Duchêne, M. Moyer, & C. Roberts (Eds.), Language, migration and social inequalities: A critical sociolinguistic perspective on institutions and work (pp. 296–328). Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Wacquant, L. (2010). Participant observation/observant participation. In A. Giddens & P. W. Sutton (Eds.), Sociology: Introductory readings (3rd ed.) (pp. 69–73). Cambridge: Polity Press. Waldinger, R., Aldrich, H. E., & Ward, R. (1990). Ethnic entrepreneurs. Newbury Park: Sage. Yeung, S., & Flubacher, M. (2016). Discourses of integration and the politics of difference: An introduction. Multilingua, 35(6), 599–616. Zheng, R. (2016). Why yellow fever isn’t flattering: A case against racial fetishes. Journal of the American Philosophical Association, 2(3), 400–419. doi: 10.1017/apa.2016.25 Zheng, Y., & Samuel, A. G. (2017). Does seeing an Asian face make speech sound more accented?. Attention, Perception & Psychophysics, 79(6), 1841–1859.

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CHAPTER FIVE

The Perceiving Subject of Irregular Employment: Applied Linguistics, Precarity, and Capitalism JOSEPH SUNG-YUL PARK

INTRODUCTION On May 12, 2017, just two days after his inauguration, South Korean president Moon Jae-in visited the Incheon International Airport, located 48 kilometers west of Seoul. In his very first public appearance as president, he met with the workers employed by the Incheon International Airport Corporation (IIAC) and committed to solving the problem of bijeonggyujik, or “irregular employment”—various forms of precarious, flexible, temporary work that had become widespread in Korea since the 1990s. The airport was an apt place for this announcement, as 84.2 percent of the workers at the award-winning international airport, including cleaners, security personnel, baggage handlers, and firefighters, were hired on short-term contracts through a dispatching company, receiving much lower pay than workers directly hired by IIAC under a stable contract (T. Bak, 2017). Moon promised that the public sector,

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including IIAC, would be the starting point of his quest to eliminate irregular employment and emphasized that irregular employment must be allowed only in highly exceptional cases. He also stated that many of the positions at the airport, which had direct bearing on public safety, should be filled with workers hired on stable contracts (S. Yi, 2017). Moon’s visit was met with great elation not only from the irregular workers at the airport but from the general public as well. To the Korean workers, it represented hope that deteriorating labor conditions of the previous decades would finally start to improve under Moon’s leadership, which replaced a string of conservative and oppressive governments after the previous president Park Geun-hye was impeached. Such hope was short-lived, however. In 2020, Moon’s government proudly announced that it had achieved 94.2 percent of its goal to convert 205,000 irregular workers in the public sector to regular positions (Ministry of Employment and Labor, 2020). Yet, those regular positions created in the public sector hardly improved the conditions of the workers, as a great majority of the new positions still involved indirect employment through subsidiaries and offered a substantially lower wage than employees in regular employment (D. Bak, 2019; No, 2019). This was also the case for the workers at IIAC. By the time the planned conversion process was complete in June 2020, only 2,143 of the 9,785 irregular workers (22 percent) were directly hired by IIAC, with the rest being transferred to three different subsidiaries (J. Yi, 2020). Those who were directly hired were also paid a much lower annual salary (38 million won) compared to the salary of the employees who were already working in regular positions (90 million won; S. Yi, 2020). It thus became clear to the millions of irregular workers in Korea that Moon’s policy for the problem of irregular employment was more about rhetoric than addressing the fundamental problems of labor. Indeed, while the government highlighted its work on irregular employment in the public sector, it made no comparable efforts to address irregular employment in the private sector. The problem of irregular employment thus persists in Korean society, serving as a major source of social inequality. The problem of irregular employment in Korea shows how the economy is an important site of politics—not only in the sense that it is an issue that politicians clamor about but also in the sense that it is closely tied with deeprunning conditions of power. Despite intense debates that often take place in the political arena over economic issues, such discourses also coexist with arguments that naturalize shifts and transformations in the economy as a reflection of some apolitical social trend. Growing precarity of work, for instance, is often presented as something that is inevitable, a natural consequence of a new era we are entering, variously characterized in terms such as “globalization,” “the knowledge economy,” “the fourth industrial revolution,” and so on. Demands for stable employment are frequently rejected based on an “economic logic,”

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which argues that such arrangements are no longer practical or profitable in the volatile, transborder economy, thus obscuring and depoliticizing the specific interests that drive those very transformations. The plight of workers around the world struggling against conditions of precarious labor, including that of irregular workers in Korea, strikes back at such arguments, reminding us that those conditions are neither inevitable nor natural but are conditions shaped by interests of capital—and that economic conditions are necessarily political ones, as they are sites of power, suffering, inequality, and struggles for a better world. For applied linguistics research that aims to transform society by engaging with conditions of power, inequality, and hegemony, the political grounding of the economy provides both challenges and opportunities. On the one hand, it presses such research to address the thoroughly material dimensions of social life, attending to the production, circulation, and distribution of commodities, increasingly complex operations of financial capital, as well as structural conditions of labor across different fields of work—an investigation of which may require knowledge and insights that lie beyond the applied linguist’s zone of comfort. On the other hand, understanding that economic conditions of life are inextricable from the political offers a valuable vantage point from which applied linguistics can study the economy. Keeping in mind that the economic is not really about the impersonal, calculated exchange of goods and money but a process mediated by discourse, power, and social relations, the applied linguist can find more familiar ground upon which she can investigate the economy as a site for social and political transformation (Block, 2018; Chun, 2017; Flubacher, Duchêne, & Coray, 2018; Heller, 2003; Holborow, 2015; Rojo & Del Percio, 2020; among others). However, this also requires that applied linguistics critically reflect upon its own assumptions and ontologies, for the discipline’s capacity for approaching the economy as a field of political struggle and contestation partly depends on how flexibly it can conceptualize its very own object of inquiry—language. In this chapter, I consider the problem of irregular labor in South Korea to suggest that applied linguistics needs to move beyond its traditional focus on formally and functionally definable linguistic difference so that it can extend its scope of investigation to economic processes that are not indexed by such difference yet still rationalized based on difference that is discursively constructed by relations of power.

APPLIED LINGUISTICS AND POLITICAL ECONOMY As a discipline that is often defined as the study of “real-world problems in which language is a central issue” (Brumfit, 1995, p. 27), applied linguistics has already been producing much work on the relations of power in the domain of the economy. For instance, much scholarship has been conducted on the role of language in access to employment, in workplace interaction and socialization,

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and in the work process itself (Angouri, 2018; Cameron, 2000; Duchêne, Moyer, & Roberts, 2013; Duff, Wong, & Early, 2000; Flubacher et al., 2018; Heller, 2003; Jacobs-Huey, 2003; Lorente, 2017; Sarangi & Roberts, 1999; Warriner, 2016; among others). The socioeconomic inequality reproduced through language in the institutional and social context of education has also been a productive issue of inquiry for applied linguistics (Darvin & Norton, 2014; Lin, 1999; Ramanathan, 2005; Vandrick, 2014; among others). In particular, the neoliberal expansion of market logic into multiple domains of society has led to critical studies on educational policy and practice that promote particular languages, ways of speaking, or orientations to language for economic profit (Chun, 2009; Flubacher & Del Percio, 2017; Gray, O’Regan, & Wallace, 2018; Piller & Cho, 2013; Shin, 2016; among others). Other research highlights how the ways we talk about the world around us, including the economy, capitalism, and language itself, are linked with political economic interests shaped by globalization and neoliberalism (Chun, 2017; Fairclough, 2006; Hasan, 2003; Holborow, 2015; Park, 2016; among others). This body of research testifies to the diverse range of issues and concerns through which applied linguistics can contribute to the study of political economy from the perspective of language. It is worth reflecting, though, on what kind of conception of language is reflected in the contexts that applied linguistic studies on the political economy have tended to orient to. A large majority of such studies focus on situations or phenomena in which “language” as a structurally or functionally defined system of difference, identifiable via distinct language varieties, styles, or discourses, becomes prominent. For instance, a productive body of applied linguistic research focuses on the economic conditions of linguistic minorities or migrants, that is, populations who often speak different languages from the mainstream (e.g., Portuguese versus French, Filipino versus English, etc.) and whose linguistic differences frequently become involved in constraining their position in the job market and class hierarchy (Darvin & Norton 2014; Del Percio, 2018; Duchêne et al., 2013; Duff et al., 2000; Flubacher et al., 2018; Warriner, 2016). Other works focus on educational contexts in which institutionally authorized languages (English, in particular, in the context of globalization) impose their dominant status over other languages (Lin, 1999; Park, 2011; Piller & Cho, 2013; Ramanathan, 2005; Shin, 2016; Vandrick, 2014). Also, in the highly influential research on the commodification of language, the key analytic point hinges on shifts in economic value attributed to specific named varieties such as English or French, or to distinct styles of speaking defined by identifiable features that workers are expected to adopt (Cameron, 2000; Heller, 2003; Muth & Del Percio, 2018). I see such foregrounding of distinct, namable varieties or styles in applied linguistics research on political economy as a reflection of the structural

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linguistic roots of applied linguistics and Western language sciences in general (Heller & McElhinny, 2017; Kramsch 2005). I believe there is an institutional and ideological pressure that compels applied linguists to justify the existence of their discipline by framing their research in terms of hegemonic notions of language, in which “language” is understood in terms of formal and functional distinctiveness of varieties, rather than as a term that encompasses general human communicative activity that is inseparable from social practice. This is, of course, not to say that any of the researchers I mention above adhere to such a view of language themselves. On the contrary, named varieties or styles of language usually serve as mere points of entry into the domain of political economy for these researchers, and their concrete analysis of the embeddedness of language in material and political contexts offers a powerful counterargument to the understanding of language as an autonomous system isolable from social life. Also, it remains true that ideologies that reify and reproduce such language boundaries prevail in everyday and institutional discourse, and there is a clear need to account for how such ideological conceptions of language play a part in the operation and reproduction of political economic systems—which is precisely what many of the works above do. Nonetheless, I believe there is at least one problem with taking observable linguistic difference as a starting point for an analysis of political economy: it can potentially lead us to neglect material conditions of labor that are not directly indexed by linguistic difference. This might be part of the reason why applied linguistic studies of class has tended to focus on class-based identity and its intersectionality with race, gender, migration, and so on (which makes it easier to talk about different ways of speaking based on those identity categories), but without necessarily engaging with the political economic foundations upon which the politics of class unfold (Block, 2014, 2018). However, aspects of political economy in which linguistic indexing of difference is not apparent may in fact be crucially important sites where structures of power in the economy operate. Recent research on the perceiving subject (Flores & Rosa, 2015; Flores, Lewis, & Phuong, 2018; Inoue, 2006; Lewis, 2018; Lo & Choi, 2017; Rosa & Flores, 2017) shows how acts of gazing and listening that emanate from hegemonic subject positions interpret the discursive practices of subaltern populations as deviant or lacking in value, regardless of the observable characteristics of those populations’ language use. This points out how absence of difference, just as much as presence of difference, may serve as a site for the rationalization of power in the economy. For this reason, applied linguistic research that privileges sites where distinct varieties of language offer clear entry points for studying political economic relations faces the risk of obscuring the working of power through its own naturalization of linguistic difference and may unwittingly collude with the hegemony of perceiving subjects who

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rationalize socioeconomic inequalities through difference they supposedly hear and see in others’ practices. The issue of irregular employment in Korea is a good illustration of this point. As I will show below, irregular employment in Korean society is highly pervasive, to the extent that it does not affect only a particular social group or a general subcategory of workers. For this reason, being an irregular worker does not have a real sociolinguistic correlate, which makes irregular employment an unviable subject of applied linguistic research if one expects linguistic difference to serve as a necessary starting point. Yet, the condition of irregular employment is often rationalized based on neoliberal ideologies that blame it on the worker’s failure to compete successfully in the job market, where the accumulation of specific quantifiable skills functions as an indication of an ideal worker. And because the way in which irregular workers come to be perceived as lacking in skills, competences, and job preparedness is a process mediated by signs, discourses, and talk more generally, irregular employment indeed must be understood as a condition where language plays a pivotal role in shaping and sustaining it. Overlooking irregular employment as an issue for applied linguistic research, therefore, means a significant lost opportunity for the field to critically investigate and engage with the political economy. Moreover, it would be even worse if the field uncritically embraces the ideology of human capital and seeks to identify a correlation between, say, workers’ English-language skills and stable employment to “explain” the condition of irregular employment. Such a study would only work to naturalize the ideologically constructed difference between the regular and irregular worker, rather than uncovering such distinctions as part of capital’s strategy for exploiting labor. In the rest of this chapter, I elaborate on this point through a more detailed discussion of irregular employment in the Korean context and how applied linguistics can approach it as a topic of research. But before that, a general discussion of the place of precarity within capitalism is in order for setting an appropriate angle for approaching the issue of irregular employment.

IRREGULAR EMPLOYMENT, PRECARITY, AND CAPITALISM As noted above, irregular employment (bijeonggyujik) in South Korea refers to a broad range of precarious, flexible, and temporary forms of employment, as opposed to full-time, secure, or “regular” employment. Such modes of labor are not unique to Korea, of course, as they have become common across many national contexts around the world. Increasing precarity of work indeed has been noted as one of the key characteristics of neoliberalism. As capital seeks to maximize profit by flexibly responding to market conditions and by focusing

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on short-term shareholder value, conditions of labor that are necessary for the worker’s fundamental human needs—including expectations of stable employment, fair and regular pay with benefits, protection through welfare, and representation through unions—become undermined. Layoffs, downsizing, outsourcing, and downsourcing replace secure forms of employments with various modes of precarious work, such as temporary positions, part-time jobs, platform work, self-employment, and short-term contract labor, all of which force the workers, instead of employers or the state, to carry the risks of the capitalist market (Kalleberg & Vallas, 2018). Workers need to face greater competition among themselves, fighting for fewer jobs of lower quality, and this serves as a source of great insecurity, anxiety, alienation, and deterioration of solidarity. While some critical scholars suggest viewing the “precariat” as a new social class that emerges out of the conditions of neoliberalism (Standing, 2011), it is also important to consider precarity as a much more fundamental and historical condition of labor under capitalism (Jonna & Foster, 2015). Karl Marx has noted the existence of a “disposable industrial reserve army” as an integral part of the system of capitalist accumulation. All workers who are not employed under stable and sustained conditions, including workers repelled from factories, agricultural workers who lost their land and must seek work in the city, laborers subject to highly unpredictable conditions of work, and the pauperized class, constitute a surplus labor force that not only is exposed to exploitation through low wages and harsh working conditions but also plays a crucial role in the accumulation of capital by suppressing the wages and working conditions of the fully employed, as well as by allowing capital to quickly respond to changing conditions of the market. Marx describes this role in the following way: The industrial reserve army, during the periods of stagnation and average prosperity, weighs down the active army of workers; during the periods of over-production and feverish activity, it puts a curb on their pretensions. The relative surplus population is therefore the background against which the law of the demand and supply of labour does its work. It confines the field of action of this law to the limits absolutely convenient to capital’s drive to exploit and dominate the workers. (Marx 1976: 792) In other words, the Marxist perspective emphasizes that precarious labor must be understood not as new and recent, but as something inherent to the capitalist political economy. Even though current conditions of neoliberalism have made precarity a highly salient element of society, it is important to understand this in terms of how these changing conditions extend and reestablish historically deeper relations of capitalist exploitation. This point

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has important implications for any critical investigation of the exponential increase of precarity in contemporary society. First, changing modes of labor that give rise to intensifying precarity need to be traced and analyzed for how they represent capital’s evolving modes of profit seeking at the expense of the income, safety, health, well-being, and humanity of workers. Second, the way in which expanding precarity is ideologically and discursively rationalized needs to be contested, to problematize how the capitalist interest underlying this process becomes obscured and to imagine different ways in which labor should be valued in society. Such a perspective on precarity becomes highly important for our consideration of the politics of irregular labor in Korean society.

IRREGULAR LABOR IN NEOLIBERAL SOUTH KOREA Growth of irregular employment has been a prominent element of South Korea’s neoliberal transformation. The labor market was significantly reorganized during the country’s globalization drive in the late 1990s, through which the statecapital alliance pushed for a series of reforms. These reforms were designed as a way of dealing with increasing competition on the global stage, as well as with the growth of the labor movement following the country’s democratization. Between 1996 and 1998, the labor law was revised several times, leading to significant deregulation of the labor market. New changes introduced included the provisions for mass layoffs, which allowed companies to dismiss workers more easily; dispatching of workers, which opened the door to indirect employment through another company; and flexible work time, which enabled employers to vary the work hours based on the company’s needs. Such changes served as the legal basis for expanding the scope of contingent labor. In particular, following the Asian financial crisis in 1997, during which many corporations went through bankruptcy and restructuring, irregular employment became the dominant form of work. Employers significantly reduced or completely stopped hiring workers on regular, full-time contracts, substituting them with contingent, irregular workers, resulting in a massive increase of precarity. In 2018, workers under various forms of irregular work accounted for 40.6 percent of all Korean workers (Kim, 2018). These include temporary workers based on either fixed-term or open contracts, part-time workers, subcontracted workers, and dispatched workers who are formally employed by one company but work for another. Such modes of employment are found across almost all industries and positions, though they are particularly prevalent in service, sales, and unskilled manual jobs. On average, irregular workers are paid only 50.7 percent of what the regular workers are paid, often with nonexistent safety provisions, social welfare, or union representation (Kim, 2018; Lee, 2015). Irregular employment disproportionately affects women, youth, the elderly, and minorities, thereby playing a major role in aggravating

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socioeconomic inequalities. As a result, irregular labor has become one of the prominent signs of the weary conditions of life in neoliberal Korean society. Particularly for the younger generation, the pervasive sense of insecurity generated by irregular labor drives them to intensively immerse themselves in accumulations of qualifications, including communication skills, Englishlanguage skills, internship experience, various certifications, and so on, so that they may outdo others in the competition for the small number of stable jobs (Cho, 2015). In this sense, widespread precarity caused by irregular labor not only impacts the irregular workers themselves but also plays an important role in promoting individual entrepreneurship and skilling of selves as the ideal model for neoliberal personhood (Park, 2016; Urciuoli, 2008). The prominence of irregular employment in South Korea has made it a key point for resistance against neoliberalism. Ending the widespread use of irregular labor has been a major demand of the labor movement and popular protests since the labor laws were loosened in the 1990s. The fact that irregular workers are often exposed to a greater risk of industrial accidents due to the cost-cutting measures of employers has also drawn much attention to the problem of irregular labor. For instance, the death of a nineteen-year-old worker named Kim in 2016, who was killed by an incoming train while he was repairing the screen doors at Guui subway station in Seoul, was widely recognized as a result of the terrible working conditions that irregular workers hired through subsidiaries were subjected to; Kim had to do the dangerous job meant for two people by himself because of understaffing, and he had to do it during the busy evening rush hour because the contract between the main company and the subsidiary stipulated that the screen doors had to be repaired within one hour of service request. South Korea has one of the highest rates of work-related fatalities among countries of the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development, and a high proportion of such deaths strike irregular workers like Kim, whose precarious position and lack of union representation prevent them from demanding safer working conditions. In some industries, over 90 percent of workplace fatalities involve irregular workers (Yi, Choe, & Jeong, 2018). The low pay and high risk that irregular workers must endure make clear that the institutionalized condition of irregular employment treats those workers as disposable labor, offering a key rallying point for the people’s contestation of neoliberalism. However, irregular employment remains pervasive in South Korea, supported and defended by the close alignment of interests between the state and capital. Measures introduced to curb the proliferation of irregular employment are often insufficient and rely on employers’ goodwill, rather than establishing stable employment and the well-being of workers as a fundamental principle of labor. Employers thus exploit limitations of the law to continue to offer irregular positions. A law passed on 2007,1 for instance, restricts the period for which a worker can be hired on a fixed-term contract to two years,

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which is supposed to encourage employers to rehire those workers on stable, long-term contracts after two years of employment. In reality, however, the law has had little effect on addressing the problem, as most companies simply switched to some alternative forms of irregular labor to skirt the law. Two types of arrangements have been particularly common. First, companies hire workers through subsidiaries that are established just for the purpose of dispatching workers, as we saw with the case of IIAC above. In this case, even though the workers may have a slightly more stable employment with the subsidiary, the indirect mode of employment still means the main company maintains power to flexibly control its workforce through its control of the subsidiary. Second, companies offer workers positions with “open-ended employment contracts” (mugigyekayjik). In this case, workers do not have to be rehired each time at the end of a limited term, but in other aspects they still remain under the same conditions of their employment as fixed-term workers, including lower wages, lack of benefits, and lack of opportunities for promotion and raise. For this reason, even though both arrangements are presented by the state and capital as solutions to the problem of irregular employment, they simply function as new guises for irregular work. Indeed, studies have found that since 2010, less than 5 percent of irregular workers managed to secure employment as regular workers, a figure that has actually decreased by 12 percent from that before the implementation of the 2007 law (Hwang 2017; Jeong & Gwon, 2016). This shows how irregular employment in South Korea functions as a mechanism for capital’s expansion of its profits; rather than a mere trend in neoliberalism, it is more directly a reflection of the underlying nature of capital that extracts surplus value through its control of labor. The evolving modes of irregular employment in Korea, including indirect employment through subsidiaries or open-ended employment contracts, point to how they work as part of capital’s system of exploitation—a system that is designed to keep workers in a perpetual state of dependency on capital, supported by state institutions of the law as part of the country’s political economic system. This is why, as illustrated in the beginning of this chapter, the Moon administration has failed to make meaningful progress in eradicating irregular labor; it is a much deeper problem that reflects the inherent characteristic of capitalism, rooted profoundly in networks of political economic interests and relations.

IRREGULAR EMPLOYMENT AS A SIGN THAT REFERS TO NOTHING Given the previous section’s discussion of irregular employment in South Korea, what can we expect the field of applied linguistics to contribute to its analysis and critique? On the surface, we might say, not very much. The discussion presented above makes no reference to the field’s raison d’être, language—at

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least not in the sense of structurally or functionally distinct language varieties or discourses. While an irregular worker’s labor obviously must involve language, the phenomenon of irregular employment itself does not appear to be one organized around or conditioned by some difference in language. The sheer pervasiveness of irregular employment and the diversity of contexts in which it occurs means that there is not a single social group that correlates strongly with irregular labor, or a particular interactional situation that characterizes labor carried out by irregular workers. This means that it is not likely that there will be a particular language variety, style, or discourse that can index an irregular worker or irregular work. Neither does it seem to be the case that a particular language skill or competence can be considered to correlate with whether one ends up with an irregular job or not, unlike how communicative skills or test scores in English come to function as an index of an ideal neoliberal worker in the Korean white-collar job market (Park, 2011). For an applied linguistics that views itself as concerned with formally and functionally identifiable ways of using language, then, irregular employment would appear not to be of much relevance, as it does not present an identifiable point of entry. However, instead of being a reason for applied linguistics to turn away from the topic of irregular employment, the fact that the irregular worker has no formal/functional linguistic correlate—or more generally, a social and behavioral index that can distinguish the irregular worker from the regular worker—is actually a crucial issue that needs to be interrogated from a linguistic, semiotic, and discursive perspective. If indeed there is no material or semiotic foundation upon which to account for the vastly inferior remuneration the irregular worker receives, how can the system of irregular employment be rationalized and justified? Even though irregular workers are paid as low as half as regular workers and with little or no benefits, in many cases they do the same work as regular workers, working alongside them. While many types of work are almost entirely filled with irregular workers, the pervasiveness of irregular employment in Korea means that a wide range of jobs that typically have been carried out by regular workers are also being carried out by irregular workers. In other words, the disparity between a regular and irregular worker is rarely due to substantial matters of qualification, skills, or competencies of the worker. Rather, it has to do with nonessential and circumstantial conditions such as which regulations happened to be in effect when the worker was first hired (Gwon, 2013). This means that the regular/irregular worker distinction is a sign that refers to nothing—it is simply a manifestation of shifting strategies of capital to drive down the cost of labor while maintaining flexible control over workers, instead of something that is shaped by concrete material constraints of production. Indeed, workers fighting against irregular employment have made this a point of contention, highlighting how irregular employment goes against the principle

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of equal pay for equal labor (dongil nodong dongil imgeum). In 2010, Hwang Inhwa, who had been working for Hyundai Motors in Ulsan as a dispatched worker from Deurim Industries, set himself on fire in front of the factory. It was during a protest that was part of the strike provoked by Hyundai’s refusal to transfer the irregular workers to regular positions even after the Supreme Court ruled that the company’s continued use of irregular workers beyond two years was illegal (S. Bak, 2013). In a testimony later published in the media, Hwang, who fortunately survived the self-immolation, stated, 현대자동차는 우리를 불법으로 사용하지 않았다고 하는데 거짓말이에요. 하청업체는 종이회사에 불과해요. 비정규직과 정규직이 같은 일을 하고, 저희는 (원청인) 현대자동차 관리자의 업무명령에 따라 일했어요. [...] 저는 새시(자동차의 밑부분 틀)라인에서 타이어 끼우는 일을 했지요. 오른쪽 바퀴는 직영 노동자(정규직)가 달고, 왼쪽은 제가 달아요. 왼쪽과 오른쪽에서 일할 뿐 같은 일을 했어요. Hyundai Motors claim that they did not employ us illegally, but that is a lie. The dispatching company is only a paper company. Irregular workers and regular workers did the same work, and we worked following the orders of Hyundai’s managers. … I did the work of putting in tires on the chassis line. Hyundai’s own worker (a regular employee) put in the right-hand side tire, and I put in the left-hand side tire. The only difference was left or right, and we did the same work. (Heo, 2010)2 Hwang’s point that regular and irregular workers do the exact same job alongside each other (putting on the right-hand side versus left-hand side tire) draws attention to how irregular employment is not motivated by any practical difference in the skills or services that the irregular worker and regular worker provides. It starkly demonstrates how, Hyundai’s violation of the 2007 labor law aside, the irregular workers’ indirect employment through the dispatching company is unjust in itself, because it is not based on any real need of production or management but merely a way of concealing the company’s refusal to acknowledge the value of the irregular worker’s labor. In this case, the key to this argument against irregular labor is the lack of a material and semiotic correlate for irregular labor that can account for the differential treatment irregular workers receive in the labor market. As the difference between the irregular and regular worker becomes a point of political contention, we may suggest that this is one area where applied linguistics research can aid and contribute to the workers’ struggle against irregular labor. Adopting the sociocultural linguistic perspective in which semiotic difference is always and constantly constructed through discourse (Bucholtz & Hall, 2005), the applied linguist can critically analyze how the difference between the

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irregular worker and the regular worker is not something that exists naturally in their bodies, character, competence, or achievements, but something that is ideologically produced through the logic of capital that continuously seeks extended ways of exploiting labor. As one illustration of this, in the next section I suggest how the notion of the perceiving subject can be used as a critical perspective for understanding the tensions between irregular and regular workers that arise through struggles against irregular employment.

THE PERCEIVING SUBJECT OF IRREGULAR EMPLOYMENT As demands to transfer irregular workers to regular positions gain more momentum in Korean society, such demands have also been met with resistance from some regular workers. Such resistance is particularly strong among the younger generation who have recently secured their regular positions after having gone through intense competition in Korea’s neoliberal job market. Their argument is that unilateral transfer of irregular workers to regular positions is unfair to the regular workers who have obtained their position by making their way through the highly competitive open-hiring process, known as gongchae. According to this view, irregular workers did not prove themselves through such rigorous competition and are thus potentially unqualified and incompetent, and even immoral to demand that they be hired on the same conditions as regular workers. The news that the irregular workers at IIAC will be rehired in regular positions was met by intense backlash, for instance (S. Yi, 2020). While this response was partly triggered by fake news on social media about how security personnel working at IIAC will be paid the same salary as those who were hired through gongchae, it is one illustration of the tensions that the system of irregular employment is generating between irregular and regular workers. Another prominent example of such tension can be found in the case of Seoul Metro (Seoul Gyotong Gongsa), a public corporation that operates the Seoul Metropolitan Subway system. In 2017, the company decided to transfer irregular workers on open-ended employment contracts to positions on par with regular workers. The decision was a rare move forward for irregular workers, a result of reforms that were set in motion partly by protests over the deaths of irregular workers such as Kim at Guui station discussed above. However, the decision was heavily criticized by regular workers who complained about what they saw as the unfairness of offering the same status and pay to irregular workers. Many of those regular workers had grown up during Korea’s rapid neoliberalization in the twenty-first century, familiar with its ethos of individualized competition, and had invested much time and resources preparing for gongchae, which included tests of one’s major area,

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English, and presentation skills, and which, for some positions, had as many as one hundred people competing for one job. They argued that their investment and hard work, as well as their eventual success in the competition, proved their competence and qualification to carry out tasks in both practical and administrative areas in the company, and therefore it was unfair and unjust to offer irregular workers, who they saw as carrying out a supportive function to the regular workers, the same position, wage, and benefits that regular workers enjoy (Jang, 2019; Yu, 2017). Such sentiment is reflected in the following extracts from an interview with some regular workers at Seoul Metro, which was published on the progressive online news site Redian in 2018 (Redian, 2018). For instance, one worker says, 2018년 신입사원들 평균 경쟁률이 78대1이었다. 그렇게 가혹한 경쟁을 뚫고 들어왔는데, 무기계약직으로 일하다가 바로 정규직이 되면 기존 정규직 입장에선 ‘나는 왜 그 과정을 거쳐서 들어왔나’ 의구심이 들 수밖에 없다. 그런 게 상대적 박탈감과 자괴감으로 이어지는 거 같다. In 2018, the selection ratio for new [regular] hires was 78 to 1. We have entered the company passing through such brutal competition, so when people who have been working on open-ended contracts become regular workers just like that, we, as existing regular workers, can’t help but think “why did I go through all that?” That makes us feel deprived and frustrated. Another regular worker in the interview says, 제가 PSD 고장 신고를 해서 오시는 분들 보면, 전문 자격증이나 지식 없는 분들 정말 많다. 중요한 업무라고 해서 그 일을 하는 무기계약직이 다 자격을 갖췄다고 말하긴 힘들다는 뜻이다. 자격증을 검증 받은 것도 아니고 시험을 치고 들어온 것도 아니지 않나. 솔직히 어떤 경로로 들어왔는지도 알 수 없다. 실력도 검증 안 된 사람들이 들어와서 안전을 담당하고 있는데 이 분들이 중요한 업무를 하기 때문에 정규직으로 바꿔줘야 한다는 주장엔 동의할 수 없다. When I request repair service for platform screen doors, a lot of people who come to do the work lack special certification or knowledge. What I mean is that the fact that they do important work doesn’t mean that all people on open-ended contracts have the qualifications. They never had their qualifications checked or took a test when they joined the company. Honestly it’s not even clear how they got hired in the first place. These people are handling safety-related work without any verification of their competence, and I can’t agree when someone argues that these people ought to be given regular positions just because they’re doing important work.

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Here we see that, in the context of Korea’s intense neoliberalization, in which constant competition and entrepreneurial self-development are presented as a moral responsibility for workers, the empty sign of regular/irregular distinction acquires meaning as an index of the worker’s careful management of their skills and selves (or lack thereof). In both examples, the fact that the irregular workers “have not had their qualifications checked or took a test when they joined the company” comes to index their “lack of special certification or knowledge.” The fact that they bypassed the competitive selection process even leads the second employee to present irregular workers as potentially immoral and shady characters, as reflected in her statements that “it’s not even clear how they got hired in the first place.” While it might be tempting to consider the regular workers’ complaint as a blind adherence to the ideology of human capital development, an alternative way of looking at this would be to see the regular workers as acting as perceiving subjects who “see” and “hear” a difference between irregular workers and themselves. The idea of the perceiving subject highlights the fact that the way in which marginalized identities are viewed and evaluated by the hegemonic system of power have nothing to do with how those marginalized populations speak, act, or behave (i.e., as speaking, acting, or behaving subjects) but with how the hegemonic subject listens, views, and perceives them (Inoue, 2006; Rosa & Flores, 2017). The perceiving subject does not refer to the perceiving individual but the structural position of power that may be enacted by individuals, institutions, technologies, and other kinds of social configurations. Thus, the concept allows us to situate the way marginalized groups are perceived within broader relations of political economy. That is, instead of simply treating the regular workers in the above examples as selfish dupes who uncritically align themselves with the neoliberal mantra of self-development, it allows us to analyze the regular workers’ perception of the irregular workers as a site where deeper structural relations of capitalism are enacted. The regular workers’ claims are problematic not simply because they refuse to share the security and benefits they enjoy with the irregular workers, but because the difference they supposedly perceive between the irregular workers and themselves do not exist in reality. As noted above, in many cases regular workers and irregular workers do the exact same work side by side, which invalidates the argument that irregular workers are lacking in qualifications or skills. In other cases where regular and irregular workers do carry out different tasks, their differential deployment is not motivated by their different skills or competencies but by the inherent character of capital to seek increasingly efficient ways of exploiting the value produced by labor and to drive down its cost. The fact that regular workers are seen as people who deserve regular positions due to their investment in developing and improving their qualifications, skills, and competencies is therefore an outcome of, rather than the reason for, the

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unequal treatment of regular and irregular workers. In this sense, to argue that irregular workers do not deserve equal positions to regular workers because of their failure to demonstrate job preparedness and self-development is an act of indexical inversion (Inoue, 2004), which treats a temporally posterior event as the cause of an anterior one—in this case, the historically prior condition of irregular employment is presented as motivated by the irregular worker’s supposed lack of qualifications and skills, an evaluation that in fact emerges only as an effect of the former. Regular workers’ perception of the irregular worker as unprepared, unqualified, incompetent, and immoral, therefore, rather than simply being a selfish, narrow-minded complaint of individual workers, reflects the hegemonic position of the perceiving subject shaped by the broader system of capitalism itself. Instead of having a real material basis in the actual competencies, character, or behavior of the irregular worker, it is a manifestation of capital’s strategy of ensuring flexible control of labor power. In this way, the notion of the perceiving subject enables us to see beyond and to question the specific acts of perception and evaluations in the context of struggles against irregular employment, tracing their connection with the material and ideological conditions of capitalism. For this reason, it offers an important juncture for applied linguistics to engage with the issue of irregular employment, simultaneously situating its precarity within the large-scale historical conditions of capitalism and disclosing a key mechanism for its rationalization.

CONCLUSIONS This chapter discussed applied linguistics’ potential for critical analysis of political economy, using the example of irregular employment in Korea. The main point I tried to raise was that the field of applied linguistics could do more to move beyond its traditional focus on language as discrete systems of communicative codes, so that it can more properly address the complex ways in which political economic inequalities are reproduced without direct or indirect reference to linguistic difference. Analyses based on the notion of the perceiving subject, which questions the material reality of social and behavioral differences perceived by a hegemonic social position, was suggested as one way in which we can move away from this orientation to formally and functionally identifiable distinctions in language use. The concept, indeed, brings a deeper challenge to applied linguistics, which often neglected to extend a critical lens to its own assessment of who counts as a competent and valuable user of a language. For instance, one major critical argument in recent analyses of language and neoliberalism has been to point out how the emphasis on commodified language skills in the job market serves as a site for reproduction of class-based privilege, allowing the upper class to reconsolidate their position

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of power through investment in more valued means of language learning (e.g., in the case of English, study abroad in English-speaking countries; Park, 2013). Such critiques are incomplete, however, and in fact may work to reify the power of those elite language learners, if we simply take for granted the supposed linguistic difference in English-language competence between social classes. What really needs to be asked is what kind of structural hegemony enables the English of the upper class to be seen as different from the English of the working class in the first place, and to what extent does the perception that elite English-language learners deserve to be compensated with better jobs and better pay have a real material basis (Park, 2017). In the case of irregular employment as well, we saw that the ideology of human capital development plays a major role, as the younger generation are driven to constant self-development and self-improvement to compete for more secure jobs; regular workers who managed to attain such positions also rely on that ideology to justify their resistance to extending the same treatment to irregular workers. And since in the Korean context some of the important skills that serve as a most prominent index of successful alignment with the ideology of neoliberal self-development have to do with language in a narrow sense of discrete communicative code—for example, Englishlanguage skills and presentation skills—this is indeed one point where existing applied linguistic critiques of neoliberalism may intervene. However, our discussion in this chapter suggests that simply pointing out the intersection of language (understood in this narrower sense) and the ideology of human capital development is insufficient, as it misses an opportunity for a deeper, more fundamental critique of capitalist exploitation of labor that applied linguistics as a field can offer. Language, more broadly conceived as socially embedded communicative action, is profoundly intertwined with the way the two-tiered system of irregular employment is structured and rationalized, through acts of perceiving that invert the relationship between the historical condition of precarity in capitalism and the differential evaluation of irregular and regular workers. This chapter has suggested that applied linguistics needs to reclaim such a critical perspective if it is to push further its mandate as a discipline that addresses real-world problems at the intersection of politics and the economy.

NOTES 1 Act on the Protection, etc. of Fixed-Term and Part-Time Workers (기간제 및 단시간근로자 보호 등에 관한 법률) (2007). Act No. 8074 (Republic of Korea). Available online: https://www.law.go.kr/법령/기간제및단시간근로자보호등에관 한법률/(08074,20061221) 2 All examples are translated from Korean by the author.

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Ministry of Employment and Labor. (2020, February 3). 공공부문 정규직 전환결정 19만3천명(전환완료 17만4천명), `20년까지 계획(20만 5천명) 대비 94.2% 달성. Press Release. Retrieved from https://www.korea.kr/news/pressReleaseView. do?newsId=156373846 Muth, S., and Del Percio, A. (2018). Policing for commodification: Turning communicative resources into commodities. Language Policy, 17(2), 129–135. No, G. (2019). 문재인정부의 공공부문 비정규직 정규직화 정책 진단 및 평가. KLSI Issue Paper 2019-03. Seoul: Hanguk Nodong Sahoe Yeonguso. Retrieved from http:// klsi.org/bbs/board.php?bo_table=B03&wr_id=2507 Park, J. S. (2011). The promise of English: Linguistic capital and the neoliberal worker in the South Korean job market. International Journal of Bilingual Education and Bilingualism, 14(4), 443–455. Park, J. S. (2013). English, class and neoliberalism in South Korea. In L. Wee, R. B. H. Goh, & L. Lim (Eds.), The politics of English: South Asia, Southeast Asia and the Asia Pacific (pp. 287–302). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Park, J. S. (2016). Language as pure potential. Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development, 37(5), 453–466. Park, J. S. (2017). Class, competence, and language ideology: Beyond Korean Englishes. In C. Jenks & J. Won Lee (Eds.), Korean Englishes in transnational contexts (pp. 53–72). New York: Springer. Piller, I., & Cho, J. (2013). Neoliberalism as language policy. Language in Society, 42(1), 23–44. Ramanathan, V. (2005). The English-vernacular divide: Postcolonial language politics and practice. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Redian. (2018, January 8). 정규직 전환 둘러싼 청년노동자들의 두 가지 생각의 대화. Redian. Retrieved from http://www.redian.org/archive/117955 Rojo, L. M., & Del Percio, A. (Eds.). (2020). Language and neoliberal governmentality. London: Routledge. Rosa, J., and Flores, N. (2017). Unsettling race and language: Toward a raciolinguistic perspective. Language in Society, 46(5), 621–647. Sarangi, S., & Roberts, C. (Eds.). (1999). Talk, work and institutional order: Discourse in medical, mediation, and management settings. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Shin, H. (2016). Language “skills” and the neoliberal English education industry. Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development, 37(5), 509–522. Standing, G. (2011). The precariat: The new dangerous class. London: Bloomsbury. Urciuoli, B. (2008). Skills and selves in the new workplace. American Ethnologist, 35(2), 211–228. Vandrick, S. (2014). The role of social class in English language education. Journal of Language, Identity & Education, 13(2), 85–91. Warriner, D. S. (2016). “Here, without English, you are dead”: Ideologies of language and discourses of neoliberalism in adult English language learning. Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development, 37(5), 495–508. Yi, J., Choe, H., & Jeong, H. (2018, December 11). 멈추지 않는 ‘위험의 외주화’… 산재사망 90%가 ‘하청노동자’. Hangyoreh. Retrieved November 12, 2019, from http://www.hani.co.kr/arti/society/labor/874034.html Yi, J. (2020, June 22). 인천공항 보안검색 1902명 정규직 전환…‘비정규직 제로화’마무리. Hangyoreh. Retrieved December 15, 2020, from http://www.hani. co.kr/arti/area/capital/950377.html

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Yi, S. (2020, July 3). 가짜뉴스로 촉발된 ‘인국공 논란’, 고개조차 들 수 없는 낙인...“사람이 무섭다”. Minjungui Soli. Retrieved from https://www.vop.co.kr/ A00001498378.html Yi, S. (2017, May 12). 문 대통령, 인천공항 비정규직 1만명 정규직화 약속. Hangyoreh. Retrieved from http://www.hani.co.kr/arti/politics/bluehouse/794480.html Yu, H. (2017, December 8). “비정규직 정규직화 반대” 새로운 논란, 청년 정규직들 반발, 왜? Redian. Retrieved from http://www.redian.org/archive/117159

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PART THREE

Culture and Identity

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CHAPTER SIX

The Politics of Culture CLAIRE KRAMSCH

The teaching of culture in applied linguistics seems to be a seismograph of current fault lines in the larger geopolitical and geotechnical landscape. Following the end of the Second World War, the technological advances developed during the war, such as tape recorders and other communication technologies, combined with the efforts of the Anglophone Allies to spread the use of English around the world, ushered in a communicative approach to teaching language that did away with the prewar “big C” culture of grammar-translation pedagogies and instead promoted the development of a communicative competence that gave priority to spoken language and interactive skills (Kramsch, 2005, 2014). Until the late 1990s, advances in computer technology and especially networked computers led to an interest in online communication as an excellent way to develop L2 oral competencies and the social skills needed to function appropriately in the “small c” culture of everyday life (Holliday, 1999). My definition of culture as “membership in a discourse community that shares a common social space and history, and common imaginings,” and “a common system of standards for perceiving, believing, evaluating and acting” (Kramsch, 1998, p. 10) expressed the views of the time. But by the early 2000s, due to the emergence of social media, the spread of a globalized economy, and the growing number of migrant populations, this notion of culture had become somewhat problematic. The concept of a culturally homogenous discourse community was put into question by the increasingly bi- and multilingual nature of the target language speakers, whose mobility complicated their affiliation with any one particular national culture. Concerns about culture got replaced by concerns about learners’ identity, agency, and

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intercultural competence, and about teachers’ effectiveness and accountability. In recent years, the notion of culture itself has felt a little obsolete, lacking a clear definition, especially in the teaching of English as a global language. It has become a stereotype, good for commercial advertisements and electoral campaigns, but too vague to be researched and too complex to be taught as such. And yet culture is a notion we cannot do without. The current efforts to redefine Applied Linguistics as a theory of the practice (Kramsch, 2015) and as a translanguaging practical theory of language (Li Wei, 2018) are in fact various attempts to account for the social and cultural context of foreign language education without calling it “culture.” They all do away with an essentialist view of culture as product, mentality, or set of behaviors and view it instead as discourse (Lemke, 1995; Scollon & Scollon, 2001). They strive to (1) supersede the boundaries of linguistic, disciplinary, and national “discourse orders” (Foucault, 1971); (2) bridge the gap between the discourse of researchers and academics and the real-world discourse of practitioners and professionals (Perrin & Kramsch, 2018); and (3) focus on the process of cultural translation itself (Kramsch & Zhu, 2020) in all its historicity and subjectivity. But in foreign language education, many initiatives have been less focused on the painful process of intercultural understanding than on the management the multiple and diverse interests, purposes, and learning styles represented in the target and in the learners’ own cultures. For example, teachers are enjoined to adopt a multiliteracies approach (New London Group, 1996) to teach for diversity of “meanings” (Douglas Fir Group, 2016), to strive for “embodiment” and “multimodality” (Block, 2014), to implement a “relational pedagogy” (Kern, 2015), and “intercultural learning” (Kearney, 2016). These efforts do take into account multiplicity and diversity in the study of culture, but they seem to avoid confronting the symbolic power struggles between unequal languages and their users and their different interpretations of social reality. Today, the tensions between local and global interests, and between print and digital technologies, are prompting applied linguists to take these tensions seriously and, heeding the call by Dell Hymes (1987), to build considerations of political action and cultural symbolic power into their theories of communicative competence. This chapter explores the political construction of culture and its implications for applied linguistics. In order to conceptualize what such politics could look like, I discuss in the first part the representation of political power in two allegorical texts critical of their times: one written at the time of monarchical power in seventeenth-century France, the other at the time of the Black Power movement in the United States of the 1960s. I examine how these two texts have been decontextualized and re-entextualized in modern times to serve other political interests. In the second part, I examine how such re-entextualizations are part of ongoing political struggles and how these struggles have been theorized by Michael Silverstein and Greg Urban, Jan Blommaert, and Pierre

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Bourdieu. Finally, I reflect on the ethical implications of politicizing culture in the current geopolitical landscape of applied linguistics.

1. REPRESENTATION OF SYMBOLIC POWER IN CULTURAL TEXTS In the following I consider two texts that were originally part of Aesop’s orally transmitted fables and were later made into written texts; these texts in turn were read or performed as veiled critiques of the dominant culture of the time and served different political interests. The first, created around 1680 at the time of the consolidation of monarchical power under Louis XIV in France, was later made to serve the interests of the French nation-state; the second, created around 1965 at the time of the civil rights movement in the United States, was later made to serve the consolidation of presidential power under Donald Trump in today’s United States. While the two texts might seem far removed from each other in history, they are part of similar processes of political and cultural power struggles to define what we call “French” or “American” culture. The Crow and the Fox Around roughly the same time as Michel Foucault (1995) conceived of his discourse theory of disciplinary power, and Bourdieu (1977) laid out his theory of symbolic power, their contemporary and colleague, the philosopher and semiologist Louis Marin, was studying the workings of the King’s absolute power at the court of Louis XIV (1643–1715).1 In his Portrait of the King (1988), Marin discusses the effects of the representation of power not only in the material signs of wealth and authority with which the King surrounded himself in Versailles but also in the symbolic representation of the power and legitimacy of the monarchy itself through literature and the arts. To illustrate the workings of political power at the King’s court and among the courtiers, Marin analyzes in detail one of the fables that the court poet, Jean de la Fontaine, published in 1668 at the height of Louis XIV’s reign. Le corbeau et le renard (The Crow and the Fox), adapted from Aesop’s Fable 124 with the same title, is one of the most well-known animal fables of the collection (see Martha M. Houle’s English translation in Marin, 1988, 94). It tells the story of a fox that comes upon a crow sitting on a branch with a cheese in its beak. By flattering the crow and praising its lovely voice, the fox manages to have the crow open its beak and drop its prey. The fox grabs the cheese and delivers the moral of the story: “Every flatterer lives at the expense of his listeners.” The crow swears it will not be taken in again. The fable, says Marin, is a representation or staging of the discourse of flattery as a means for the flatterer to satisfy his physical needs and for the

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flattered to satisfy his desire for social status and fame. By contrast with brute (animal) force that satisfies its needs by eating another living being, human power “institutes itself as power only through and in the representation of language” (Marin, 1988, p. 97). While the crow “holds” a cheese in his beak to satisfy his physical needs, the fox “holds forth” in words that postpone the satisfaction of his own hunger and feign to enhance the symbolic stature of the crow. By addressing the crow as if he knew his name and by granting him a title of nobility (Sir of the Crow), and by using the deferent form of address (“vous”), he makes the crow believe that he is famous and that, unlike the fox, he belongs to an elevated social class. The crow does not contest this title, even though he knows he is only a crow, but the fox makes sure the addressee recognizes this title as legitimate. By appealing to his vanity and to his desire to be more beautiful than all the other birds, the fox makes the crow complicit in the discourse of flattery—a form of symbolic power that works only if the crow misrecognizes it as natural and deserved, and if he recognizes the fox as a legitimate and authorized flatterer.2 This discourse of flattery does violence to the autonomy of the crow. It is pure symbolic violence: through a certain way of speaking, the target of the flattery is provoked, persuaded, and challenged into modifying his position in the world. The fox starts by provoking and praising the crow—“How pretty you are! How handsome you look!”—then by challenging him to identify with the flattering image offered to him. This challenge is also a strategy of seduction. By comparing him to a phoenix, the mythical bird reborn from its own ashes, he is seducing the crow with the prospect of immortality. The only condition is that he pick up the fox’s challenge, open his beak and sing. Marin asks, “Why did the crow not eat the cheese at the instant in which he took it?” Unlike the fox, the crow has no need to eat and thus gets easily distracted in pursuing more symbolic forms of power, namely, social prestige and fame. Wanting to live and be known as the most beautiful bird of all ages, the crow opens his beak and drops the cheese. The moral of the fable, as expressed by the fox, seems straightforward enough: “Every flatterer lives at the expense of his listeners,” and the fable is generally interpreted from the perspective of the dumb crow who swears, but too late, that he will not be taken in again. What this moral means is also that people who behave like the fox act as parasites at the expense of the people who produce and possess; they know how to exploit through their words the vulnerabilities of the secure and strong and their sensitivity to flattery. But what they also do is reinforce the power of a social hierarchy that needs constant manifestations of loyalty to prove its legitimacy. If every flatterer depends for his livelihood on the complicity of the one flattered, that is because the system is rigged that way. One would be entitled to ask: What social conditions made both such legitimation procedures for the crow and such con artistry for the fox necessary? In other words, what social and cultural

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conditions made it possible for such a fable to be written and understood by readers as relevant to the times? It is in this sense that La Fontaine’s fable is seen by Marin as a representation of political power and of its ambiguity, for it is at once a eulogy of absolute power and a parody of this eulogy. Marin was particularly interested in the role played by language in upholding the link between power and the perception of justice, as distinct from brute force and physical violence. All this without falling into the institutionalized form of satire that would risk ridiculing the King himself as vulnerable to flattery. La Fontaine admired the King and had no intention of criticizing his claim to absolute power, but he allowed himself to play with the double discourse of representation that is “simultaneously eulogy in the utterance and parodic censure in its enunciation” (Marin, 1988, p.92). Thus, the discourse of flattery is needed both by the fox to satisfy his hunger and by the crow to satisfy his need for recognition, but also by a culture that compels its members to rely on symbolic signs of power and symbolic forms of capital to survive in public life. Hence the ambiguity of the moral. The crow can swear that he will never again be taken in, but we know this pledge is futile, because those in power need the flattery as much as the flatterers.3 This fable, written in verse, has been read and memorized by generations of schoolchildren in France, where it is taught to this day as a humorous depiction of the human foible for flattery with no other consequence than the loss of a piece of cheese by an ugly-looking crow. Because of its accessible vocabulary and content, it has also been republished by most textbooks for the teaching of French as a foreign language around the world. It usually serves to teach, among other things, the use of the French imparfait versus passé simple and of the historical present. The cultural-political dimension of these republishings is rarely discussed. It is one of the ironies of linear curricula and linear syllabi that the texts used to teach language at the elementary level because of their linguistic simplicity never get discussed at the more advanced level for their political complexity.4 I take as an example of such republishing in a different context an online intermediate-level course for adult learners of French, titled “Easy French Poetry Readings,” run on the internet by a certain Camille Chevalier-Karfis, a native speaker of French born and educated in Paris, who has been teaching French for more than twenty years in the United States and in France. Her audio analysis of “The Crow and the Fox” (given here in her English translation) replicates the typical “explication de textes” used to teach French literacy in French elementary schools (Chevalier-Karfis, 2019). The crow and the fox is a very famous poem in France. All the children learn this poem at school. In fact, it’s a fairly simple poem, fairly short—and it’s always one of the first poems that children learn.

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The fox is an animal very well known to the French. Primarily to the farmers, because as I already said, the fox steals the farmers’ chickens. One says in French: he is sly as a fox. The fox uses tricks, uses his intelligence to trick, to deceive people. And the crow is completely fooled. He absolutely believes the fox. The fox is a liar, a flatterer, and the morale [sic] of the fable sums up perfectly what he is: “Learn that all flatterers live at the expense of the one who listens to him.” Let’s speak about the message of the poem and the significance of this message within the historical context. Who do the crow and the fox represent in 17th century society? In this fable, La Fontaine criticizes two famous actors of the French 17th century stage. The courtier, who flatters and says everything that the people in power want to hear. And the persons in high places—like the crow perched high up on his branch—that listen to them, and at the end, who support them. So, now, let’s speak about the author. Jean de la Fontaine is born at Chateau Thierry on July 8th, 1621. His father was noble, but not his mother. He studies at the school of Chateau Thierry until the 3rd grade. He studies Latin but not Greek. And he will regret it as he takes his inspiration in antic [sic] texts. … Toward 1670, he begins to writes poems for Fouquet—who is a very powerful gentleman. The minister of finance under King Louis XIV— the “Sun King.” Jean becomes friends with Molière, Boileau and Racine who are very famous French authors. He writes many tales and fables. In total, Jean de la Fontaine wrote 243 fables. In 1684 he was admitted into the Académie Française and he died in 1695. When taught to school children in France, this kind of textual analysis could be seen as a depoliticization of La Fontaine’s fable by a public educational system that has been keen on remaining factually objective and politically neutral. But, in fact, by remaining on the superficial level of general archetypes (all foxes are liars) and stereotypes (all courtiers are flatterers), it disregards the power struggle inherent in the creation of texts and reflects an apolitical stance that is itself a political choice. By treating this text as a purely denotational product and its historical context as yet another durable text made of stable symbols and meanings, the educational system and the publishing industry are transmitting what Silverstein and Urban call “the building blocks of shared culture … a despatialized and detemporalized meaning that can be clearly transmitted across social boundaries such as generations, without regard for the kinds of recontextualizations it might undergo” (1996, p. 1). In this case, the shared culture is a French national culture, transmitted as literary canon through its centralized educational system both in the metropole and in its colonies. By ignoring the dynamic and contingent social processes that gave rise to this text, and that recontextualize it in different occasions, a seemingly purely academic

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exercise as an explication de texte contributes to the universalist ideology of French culture and its francophone politics. In the same way as TESOL International and the UK- and US-based organizations (British Council, USAID) promote the teaching of English around the world, the International Organization of La Francophonie, founded in 1970, promotes the French language in fifty-four nation-states in which French is an administrative language or a lingua franca and that have an historical affiliation with French culture. The efforts of the French nation-state to strengthen the Francophonie are meant not only to maintain France’s cultural sphere of influence around the world after the demise of its colonial empire but also to counteract the planetary reach of English as a global language. For applied linguists, the case of the explication de texte à la francaise raises the thorny question of L2 academic literacy in foreign language education. Which genres should be taught in French as a foreign language class? Should the text the students are asked to write on the fable in French conform to the French commentaire de texte or to the English academic essay? If we acknowledge that text genres change with the social power structures of their time, how do we define the users in our post-national times? Which generic rules should international publishing houses apply for research articles published in French/in English for a global readership? A simple text as “The Crow and the Fox” raises inconvenient questions when culture is viewed as an instrument of political power for the control of historical memory. It is to this power and control that I now turn in our second example of textual politics in our present day. The Snake “The Snake” was composed as a song in the 1960s by Oscar Brown Jr., an outspoken African American soul singer, songwriter, political activist, and former Communist Party member from Chicago at the time of the Civil Rights Movement (Brown, 1963). Many of Brown’s songs at that time drew on biblical references and on Aesop’s animal allegories. This one, Fable 176, “The Farmer and the Viper,” is about a farmer who finds a viper freezing in the snow. Taking pity on it, he picks it up and puts it in his coat. The viper, revived by the warmth, bites his rescuer and the farmer dies reproaching himself for pitying a scoundrel. Brown’s song was performed in 1968 by Al Wilson, another African American soul vocalist from Mississippi, who brought it to fame. Under Oscar Brown’s rewrite, Aesop’s fable becomes the lyrical representation of the power struggle between the discourses of compassion, trust, and betrayal. The snake needs warmth in order to survive, the woman needs to satisfy her motherly or charitable instinct. While the fox in La Fontaine’s fable is endowed with speech, the snake here does not use speech, only its natural beauty, to seduce the woman into taking it in. The call for help in the refrain (“Take me

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in, oh tender woman”) is not attributed to the snake—indeed, it starts recurring as a refrain after the woman has decided to take the snake in—but serves as a kind of narrator’s commentary on the snake’s unspoken thoughts. Only in the end does the snake translate its animal bite into human words whose brutality clashes with the woman’s tender utterances. If we compare Aesop’s and Brown’s stories, the moral is enunciated differently in each case. In Aesop the perpetrator tells the victim “one should not expect a reward from the wicked” and the victim cries out, “I have only got what I deserved, for taking compassion on so villainous a creature,” both in direct speech. In Brown’s lyrics, the perpetrator alone delivers the intended lesson in the most direct and brutal way (“Shut up, silly woman, you knew damn well I was a snake before you took me in”). The victim who is dying has no say in the meaning of her death and is implicitly made into the guilty party by her very silence. The title of the song, unlike Aesop’s fable, only mentions the snake, not the victim; and the victim here is not the one drawing conclusions from the story—the snake exercises his power not only to kill his victim (as any viper would) but also to shame her with words and to denounce her “tender heartedness” as sheer stupidity. To the physical violence of the deed, the snake adds the humiliating power of human discourse, thus adding to the natural aggressiveness of the animal the symbolic violence of the human. The interpretation of this allegory is left open; it can run from a moral pragmatic warning, “don’t expect gratitude from the wicked” in the spirit of Aesop, to a common sense observation, “if you lay down with dogs, don’t expect not to wake up with fleas” (Rosenberg, 2018). But given the Black Power Movement of the 1960s and the political radicalism of the author, it could also be interpreted as supporting the efforts of radical Black activists who participated in both the Civil Rights and the Black Power movements to achieve through violent action what white racism had prevented them from achieving through peaceful means. It is not clear how the lyrics of this song fell into the hands of Donald Trump, president of the United States from 2016 to 2020. A standard staple of the numerous electoral rallies he held during his presidency was his public reading of “The Snake,” which he performed to the roaring applause of his supporters. The song served him to stoke the xenophobic fears of his audiences, who interpreted the song as an allegory of the threats posed by dark-skinned asylum seekers on the southern border of the United States. Renaming the song alternatively “The Border” or “Immigration,” Trump dedicated his reading of it to the anti-immigration police and border patrol. His lead-in invariably taunted his audience into being outraged at immigrants viewed as “vicious snakes.” For example, at one rally he would draw a piece of paper from his breast pocket and exclaim, “I read this the other day and I said wow! That’s really amazing. You ready? Who likes The Snake? Has anybody heard The

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Snake? Not that many! Should I do it again?” (Rosenberg, 2018). Trump put on his reading glasses, raised his index finger, and proceeded to read the poem aloud. His appropriation of the song as a tool to drum up fear about immigrants drew complaints from Oscar Brown’s daughters, who wanted the president to give their father credit for the song and who were outraged by Trump’s interpretation. As the journalist reporting on this story wrote, they found it ironic that their father—a revolutionary, outspoken black man who they believe was blacklisted by record labels and clubs for his political work in the ’60s—is enjoying a glancing sort of recognition through the song’s rebirth. “They wanted to pull him down,” Maggie said. “Now they want to pull from his stuff.” (Rosenberg, 2018) The renewed attention to this song left the media baffled. A conservative operative wrote on Twitter that Trump’s interpretation of the snake story was “vicious, disgraceful, utterly racist and profoundly un-American” (Rosenberg, 2018). Some were convinced that, given his obsession with the song, and his growling impersonation of the reptile in the last line, the president identified with the snake and took pleasure at seducing his listeners into believing his words and at exploiting their gullibility. One thing this reappropriation of the song underscored was the ambiguity of symbolic power that relies not just on the ability to reinterpret the given, but in the same manner as La Fontaine’s position as the official court poet gave legitimacy to the worldviews expressed in his fables, the institutional power of the presidency that made Trump’s reinterpretation of the song legitimate because it was (mis)recognized by his supporters as the natural prerogative of a US president. Discussion In these two examples, both texts have been taken out of their original contexts and placed into a new context, a process that anthropologists Richard Bauman and Charles Briggs (1990) called “entextualization” and that they viewed as a discursive and historical process in the construction of culture. Entextualization is the process of making discourse extractable, of making a stretch of linguistic production into a unit—a text that can be lifted out of its interactional settings … A text is discourse rendered decontextualizable … Entextualization may well incorporate aspects of context, such that the resultant text carries elements of its history of use within it. (Bauman & Briggs, 1990, p. 73) By taking texts not as products, fixed once and for all on the page and open to exegetic dissection, but as processes of entextualization and

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contextualization, Bauman and Briggs adopted a post-structuralist approach to language as discourse, as it is used and manipulated by speakers and writers to serve particular interests. With their focus on language as performance, they forcefully wrested the notions of text and context from their static structural, monologic origins in philology and embedded them in a view of language as dialogue, agency, and interaction. Rather than viewing discourse merely as a structural operation of building sentences into paragraphs and texts, such an approach sees every utterance as contributing to the organization of meaning in connection with social, cultural, and historical patterns of use. The notion of entextualization was picked up by linguistic anthropologists Silverstein and Urban (1996) who framed it as the dominant process in the production and transmission of culture and as the direct consequence of the power struggles about who has editorial control over the replication and transmission of texts. The metadiscursive understanding of the discourse process of entextualization involves assessments of participants’ power and authority, such that entextualization both reflects and constitutes assymetrical, social relation. (Silverstein & Urban, 1996, p. 4) The notion was further given historical depth by the sociolinguist Blommaert who emphasized its metadiscursive dimension, that is, the discourse about the discourse itself and the symmetrical or asymmetrical power relations it indexes. Entextualisation refers to the process by means of which discourses are successively or simultaneously decontextualised and metadiscursively recontextualised, so that they become a new discourse associated to a new context and accompanied by a particular metadiscourse which provides a sort of “preferred reading” for the discourse. (Blommaert, 2005, p. 47) For example, the metadiscourse of the moral in La Fontaine’s fable (“My good sir/Learn that every flatterer lives at the expense of his listeners”) carries historical traces of the intended audience of such fables, as do the metadiscursive impersonation of the snake by Donald Trump. Every entextualization changes not only the metadiscursive frame (or instructions about how to interpret the text) but also the genre of the text (see Lemke, 1995). La Fontaine’s fable used as a text to teach French verb tenses or French history becomes a pedagogic genre different from the literary genre it belonged to at the time it was first published. If the metadiscourse of the 1668 text in Versailles was cultural critique, in a French public school and in a public school in Algeria in the 1950s it was an instrument of the political and colonial status quo; and in an online French as a foreign language class in 2020 it becomes a cultural tourist attraction. Similarly, Trump’s public reading of the lyrics transforms the genre of Brown’s song from

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an exemplar of Black American soul music into a moralistic tale read aloud by a politician who warns his fans against dark-skinned immigrants and who prompts them to vote for him.

2. THE STRUGGLE FOR SYMBOLIC POWER What Is Symbolic Power? To understand the nature of the power struggle involved in such a process of entextualization, we turn to Bourdieu, who, based on the ethnographic studies he conducted in the 1960s in Algeria and France, developed a theory of symbolic power that helps illuminate the power relations in our two texts. In his essay “On Symbolic Power,” Bourdieu gives the following rather complex definition that I unpack below: Symbolic power—as a power of constituting the given through utterances, of making people see and believe, of confirming or transforming the vision of the world and, thereby, action on the world and thus the world itself, an almost magical power which enables one to obtain the equivalent of what is obtained through force (whether physical or economic), by virtue of the specific effect of mobilization—is a power that can be exercised only if it is recognized, that is, misrecognized as arbitrary … What creates the power of words and slogans, a power capable of maintaining or subverting the social order, is the belief in the legitimacy of words and of those who utter them. And words alone cannot create this belief. (1991, p. 170; my emphases) The power of “constituting the given” is based on the post-structuralist notion that what we take as given in the conduct of everyday life–ways of thinking, speaking, behaving seen as natural, self-evident—is, in fact, constituted, that is, constructed, through language, pictures, and other symbolic systems that affect the way we see the world. Our utterances have consequences, or performative effects, on people’s perceptions, imaginations, and beliefs. Our words do not force people to act a certain way, but by acting on their knowledge and emotions, they indirectly affect how people act. The constructivist notion that any speaker has the power to “constitute the given” may sound presumptuous to learners of a foreign language, who generally believe they are merely stringing foreign words together to get things done. But, in fact, every time they enter into a speech exchange, they are exercising the power to “mobilize,” that is, motivate their listeners to identify them as correct speakers of the language and to give them the attention they deserve. All this power to make people see and believe is not of a physical, nor psychological, but of a symbolic nature because it deals with the use of symbols to make meaning; it enhances one’s symbolic

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capital (i.e., reputation, status, public image, legitimacy, credibility) that can then be transformed into economic or social capital.5 One crucial condition, however, as Bourdieu points out, is that such power must be acknowledged and recognized as legitimate, not just linguistically comprehensible, but worthy of attention, respect, and trust. And that, says Bourdieu, cannot come from grammaticality alone but from institutional conditions that make the words uttered credible and trustworthy (see also Kramsch, 2021). Representation of Power Struggles within the Texts Both stories represent symbolic power struggles between two individuals with different needs, different economic or symbolic interests and who rely on language to change their interlocutor’s view of the world. The fact that they are animals that speak like humans makes it possible for the narrator to make them behave like animals (e.g., foxes can steal food, snakes can be poisonous) but speak like humans (e.g., delivering lessons). One of the protagonists attempts to change the other’s view of the world by constructing in words an idealized image of him that (s)he then persuades the other to accept; this eulogy is meant to bring both material and symbolic benefits. The fox paints a portrait of the crow with which he hopes the crow will willingly identify; the snake, too, represents the woman in elogious terms as “tender woman” in the hope that she will act tenderly toward him. The symbolic power struggle takes place with the complicity of both protagonists. The fox needs the crow as the snake needs the woman, namely, for physical survival. But the crow needs the fox and the woman needs the snake for symbolic gain—the crow to increase his symbolic capital, the woman to enhance her self-esteem as a tender-hearted woman. The actions of the protagonists are tied to essentialist views of the other as determined by stereotypes provided by the group: the sly fox versus the dumb and vain crow, the cunning snake versus the compassionate woman. These essentialist views present their own paradoxes. The fox exploits not just the vanity of one individual crow but also the symbolic power structure of a culture in which popularity, reputation, and fame are ultimately more important than material wealth (even if this wealth is only a piece of cheese). The snake draws benefit not just from the kindness of an individual woman but also from a culture that prizes compassion and hospitality. All four protagonists are thus themselves shaped by their society’s expectations. The readers themselves have been socialized into finding it natural that crows are ugly and dumb, foxes duplicitous, women kind-hearted, and snakes fork-tongued. Power Struggles between Texts and their Recontextualizations If we consider the entextualizations of these two fables and their re-entextualization by a French conservative educational culture, on the one

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hand, and an American populist xenophobic political culture, on the other, we can see how culture over time structures and is structured by historic conditions of possibility that are very much the object of symbolic power struggles. Some would argue that the conservative reading of a seventeenth-century fable in a French class is much less shocking than Trump’s racist reading of a Black activist’s song from the 1960s at a campaign rally. But while the scale of events is different, they both capitalize on the polysemy, that is, ambiguity, of the original texts to suit their political interests. In the first case, La Fontaine’s fable at once criticizes and consecrates (albeit tongue-in-cheek) a seventeenth-century social order based on bribes (flattery), favors, privileges, and what we would call today “corruption.” At the court of Louis XIV the fable was surely read as reinforcing the legitimate power of the King. No one asked why the monarchical regime made the discourse of flattery so necessary to the maintenance of such a regime. Nor did it question the fact that part of the mission of such court poets and writers as La Fontaine, Racine, and Boileau was to consolidate the power of the King by unifying his kingdom through the noble use of one legitimate French language, promoted by the very Académie Francaise to which La Fontaine was admitted before his death. In the second case, the song, written by a Black political activist and former member of the American Communist Party, tells us something about the political discourse of the time. In the early 1960s, many members of the Communist Party USA were fighting for African American equality in a country still heavily segregationist. They led the fight against Southern lynch laws and Jim Crow, white trade unions and police brutality toward Blacks. They played major roles in the Civil Rights Movement led by Martin Luther King (1929– 1968) and the Black Power movement led by Malcolm X (1925–1965). As Oscar Brown said when leaving the Communist Party, “I am too Black to be Red.” Finally, in the surprising last stanza, the singer might be echoing the views of the Black Panther movement that in the early 1960s reclaimed Black masculinity and traditional gender roles in the armed resistance against white oppression. This kind of historical information allows for a more complex interpretation of “The Snake” as an allegory of the times. The (Black) poor half-frozen snake taken in by a kind-hearted (white) woman turns against a female representative of the white race despite her individual hospitality. The derogatory male chauvinist discourse addressed to the woman in the last stanza (“Shut up, silly woman, you knew damn well I was a snake before you took me in”) is made understandable in the context of the Black Power Civil Rights Movement, but today, in the age of #MeToo, such a discourse would be seen as controversial.

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3. THE POLITICS OF CULTURE If all culture is political in the sense that it involves symbolic power struggles over whose construction of social reality will get to be accepted by others, then we have to rethink culture not as membership, heritage, or way of life, but as the inevitable struggle over symbolic representations and practices, over institutional legitimacy, and over processes of technological entextualization and contextualization. Struggle over Symbolic Representations and Practices Culture in this sense is the network of symbolic representations and practices fought over by social actors to establish their legitimacy vis-à-vis others and to influence their perception and understanding of events. These representations and practices are based on an acute sense of what is right and wrong (moral), what is ordinary and what is sacred (religious), who has and who has not legitimate power (political). For example, addressing someone with Vous instead of Tu, as the fox does to the crow, is not just using a “formal” rather than an “informal” pronoun; it is the verbal manifestation of a speaker’s understanding of the moral legitimacy of social hierarchy and the political respect due to people with greater institutional authority. The fact that symbolic power does not reside in words alone but in the institutions and societal structures that legitimize the choice and use of these words accounts for the conflictual nature of symbolic power and the struggle to resolve conflicts. These conflicts emerge not only between different national cultures with different national languages but also between generational, occupational, gendered, or (party) political cultures whose members use the same linguistic code.6 Culture is thus always a site of struggle for symbolic power—the power to have a voice and be heard and listened to, to have your identity recognized and valued, your subjectivity respected, your interests taken into account, your values transmitted to future generations, and your right to be remembered both in personal and in national narratives (see the fox’s use of the phoenix metaphor to seduce the crow). Culture as Institutional Legitimacy No notion is more difficult to teach American teenagers than the notion of “institution.” In his introduction to Pierre Bourdieu’s Language and Symbolic Power, J. B. Thompson takes pains to explain to American readers what Bourdieu means by “institution”: An institution is not necessarily a particular organization—this or that family or factory, for instance—but is any relatively durable set of social relations

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which endows individuals with power, status and resources of various kinds. (Thompson, 1991, p. 8) For Bourdieu, examples would be the Army, the Church, the Family, the Academy, the Justice system, the Presidency, but also Grammar, Primogeniture, or Social Class, that give individual speakers the power to be heard and listened to. Today, Facebook, Twitter, or the internet have become other kinds of institutions that serve to validate/legitimize their users’ social existence not through some preestablished hierarchy but through the sheer number of their users. Culture, then, is the authority and credibility that goes with membership in institutions. It gives its members legitimacy and respect by enhancing their status as language users; it endows their words with meaning and a sense of purpose by validating their efforts to be understood and paid attention to; it ensures the historical continuity of past, present, and future behaviors by making social relations durable; and most important of all, it brings about predictability, that is, consistency and trust, in those social relations. The difficulty for American youngsters, socialized in an individualistic ideology, is to acknowledge that their legitimacy does not come from their own individual achievements but from some higher social structure that has endowed them with that legitimacy. Acknowledging that they owe their authority as a speaker not only to their mastery of the grammar or their intrinsic merit but also to the reputation of their school, their ethnicity, gender, or social class goes against everything they have been taught; it can have a deflating effect, but it can also lead to a more honest discussion of what culture really is. Not Eiffel towers and mariachi bands, but institutional norms and conventions, ways of speaking or remaining silent, ways of interpreting events that are shared by some but not by others and are absolutely essential for the social survival of the individual. The challenge for teaching culture is that today’s institutions have become much less homogenous and ubiquitously respected than they ever were, or, rather, that their homogenous character has become much more of a myth that lives on in stereotypes, marketing ads, and brands than a reality. Financial institutions have lost some of their credibility; educational institutions are under fire; laïcité (secularism), a quintessential French institution, has become controversial, and so has affirmative action, a quintessential American institution. If political legitimacy is gained by adhering to the cultural norms of a country’s institutions, in the United States the norms of electoral institutions are determined largely by TV ratings and amounts of campaign donations, whereas in France they are still ruled by political platforms and legislation proposals. Moreover, institutions are no longer fixed, hierarchical administrative structures but networks of social relations regulated by the members themselves, whether it is internet culture, the information culture, or Facebook culture. The legitimacy they provide comes from the number of hits their postings get or the number of

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“friends” they post on social media. Culture, then, has become an arena where people with divergent interests, meanings, and sources of legitimation vie for attention and for the right to impose their view of reality on others.7 Culture as Technological (Re)entextualization. While “The Crow and the Fox” was to be read as a printed poem in La Fontaine’s collection of fables (1668), “The Snake,” also inspired by Aesop, was composed and performed as a song by Oscar Brown Jr. in 1963. Fifty years later, its lyrics were re-entextualized and re-semioticized for political purposes by Donald Trump and his followers. The various entextualizations of these two texts correspond to various technologies of communication—print, tape and video recorders, and digital media, and the various institutionalized modes of reading they demand of their addressees. Structuralist readings are generally associated with printed texts and publishing houses, post-structuralist readings with tape or video recordings and mass media, and new mediatic readings with digital forms of communication and social media. While these types of reading are characteristic of specific periods in history (see Kern, 2015), all forms of technology and institutional warrants coexist to various extents today. Traditionally, foreign language education has been a structuralist project that was born in the age of print. The treatment of the La Fontaine fable in ChevalierKarfis’s French classes illustrates (now online) a philological approach to texts in which attention is paid to the grammatical and lexical structures of the language, their relation to the text’s stylistic and thematic meaning, their social and historical references, and the biography of the author. Oscar Brown’s song, by contrast, belonged already to the age of television and the record player. A poststructuralist interpretation of the song would consider its social conditions of production and interpretation in the 1960s. It would note in particular the difficulty Oscar Brown had in having his songs published, as many of them were considered too radical by record companies. The re-entextualization of the song in the age of new media and its repurposing to fit a populist political agenda is also an example of the symbolic power of the new technologies to shape and manipulate public opinion. The song, now disseminated via digital media and gone viral on social media, has acquired renewed notoriety due to the institutional legitimacy of its new performer at his campaign rallies.

4. IMPLICATIONS FOR FOREIGN LANGUAGE EDUCATION What does all this mean for the teaching of culture in foreign language education today? If, as Foucault wrote some fifty years ago, “every educational system is a political means of maintaining or modifying discourses, together

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with the knowledges and power that they vehiculate” (Foucault 1971, p. 46; my translation), how can language educators fulfill the political task of teaching language as discourse, together with the knowledge of how to maintain or modify existing discourses? Taking into account the politics of culture in foreign language education would mean teaching not only how to talk but also how to talk about talk. This is what Robin Lakoff meant when she wrote, Making language creators and consumers more aware of the linkage between language and power is one way to attenuate this language–power relationship in order to offer language users real options. Making explicit the choices that have been made, and the reasons why they have been made, means that they can never function as simply “normal” and “natural” again: They have become marked. Once we understand the relation between the forms we encounter and the functions they perform, language forms … can be properly identified as persuasive and indeed manipulative and controlling, the more so because they masquerade as “innocent” and helpful. (Lakoff, 2001, p. 310; see also Lakoff, 1990). This would mean concretely the following: 1. Raising learners’ awareness of the symbolic dimension of all language use and of the power games inherent in the quotidian use of speech acts and faced-saving strategies: compliments, requests, warnings, accusations, are all speech acts that construct their addressees’ perceptions of self and other and their evaluation of the communicative situation. Fables, plays, short stories, novels, films featuring power games, moral dilemmas, conflicts of interest, and paradoxical situations offer rich material to discuss how textual politics play themselves out in everyday life. 2. Making explicit the relation between speech acts and their perlocutionary effects—a relation that generally remains implicit. When reading a play or a short story, instead of asking “What did the author intend to say?” explore what the effects of this or that utterance, this or that discourse, have been on the subjective attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors of the other protagonists and of the reader. The meaning of speech acts are to be found less in their intentionality than in their effects or uptake. 3. Recognizing that symbolic power is based on ambient discourses in which the students are complicit social actors. The teaching of any foreign language and culture to American students has to be based on the students’ understanding of their own American institutions and discourses. What ambient discourses both enable them and make it difficult for them to comprehend foreign ways of thinking, talking, and

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behaving? What cultural filters put them in a position of be both insiders and outsiders to these discourses? 4. Historicizing the texts read in class, that is, discussing the never-ending processes of their entextualization and contextualization. This last recommendation encourages both teachers and students to go beyond the textbook and treat the texts on the page not as finished products but as so many entry points to explore history in the make. These four ways of factoring in symbolic power in the teaching of foreign languages require a more reflective pedagogy than the “can-do” pedagogy of communicative language teaching. It requires paying attention not only to how people say and do things with words but also to how these words are received and interpreted by others, that is, their perlocutionary effects. It requires looking at how the sequence of turns at talk or of sentences on the page construct a vision of the world that is more than the sum of its parts. It calls for purposely selecting readings that enable students to discuss the politics of language in the sense of what Lakoff quoted above. But mostly it requires engaging with what we call “history.” Bringing out the historical significance of texts like a La Fontaine fable or the lyrics of an Oscar Brown song requires not just looking back from our present perspective and placing them in their historical context, as does Chevalier-Karfis, but also imagining ourselves at a time when history was not yet written and the future not yet known (Ricoeur, 1985). What were the issues people talked about then as reflected in these texts, and that are still unresolved today? This means reopening the past in its historical complexities and ethical contradictions in order to understand the present. As Paul Ricoeur wrote, we must fight against the tendency to consider the past only as completed, unchangeable, accomplished. We must reopen the past, revive its unaccomplished, stymied, and even massacred potentialities. One of the functions of history in that respect is to lead back to those moments in the past when the future was not yet decided, where the past itself was a space of experience open toward a horizon of expectations. (Ricoeur, 1985, cited in Best, 2011, p. 5; my translation) This task is indeed what Ricoeur saw as the ethical task of the political educator.

NOTES 1 Louis Marin was a contemporary of Jacques Derrida, Michel de Certeau, Jean Francois Lyotard, and Michel Foucault in the Paris of the 1970s and 1980s, and a

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colleague of Pierre Bourdieu at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences sociales from 1978 to 1987. 2 The reader might object to my use of masculine pronouns to refer to animals, where the English language would call for the neutral pronoun “it.” In the first text, the translation follows the original French, in which crows and foxes are of masculine gender. In the second, I draw from the context that the snake is an allegory for a male character. 3 For a filmic representation of what symbolic power games were played at the court in Versailles, see, for example, the film Ridicule by Patrick Leconte (1996). 4 In the segregated Southern United States of the 1930s, the same systemic interdependence as between crows and foxes existed between poor whites and Blacks. Martin Luther King Jr. pointed out in his speech at the conclusion of the Selma march in 1965: And when [the poor white man’s] wrinkled stomach cried out for the food that his empty pockets could not provide, he ate Jim Crow, a psychological bird that told him that no matter how bad off he was, at least he was a white man, better than the black man. And he ate Jim Crow. And when his undernourished children cried out for the necessities that his low wages could not provide, he showed them the Jim Crow signs on the buses and in the stores, on the streets and in the public buildings. And his children, too, learned to feed upon Jim Crow, their last outpost of psychological oblivion. (King, 2001, p. 130)

I am grateful to Christian Chun for drawing my attention to this parallel.

5 For a popularized account of Bourdieu’s theory of symbolic capital, see Brooks (2017). 6 I don’t wish to suggest that this fable should not be taught as a light-hearted social satire or should not be put into the hands of children. Indeed, the first collection of the Fables was dedicated to the six year-old son of Louis XIV. Only that such fables can also be read as reflecting historical discourses that today’s adult learners of French should be made aware of as relevant to our present-day populist politics. 7 In this sense, the very position of La Fontaine as the official poet at the court in Versailles, expected to exemplify through his work the beauty and refinement of the standard French language as the only legitimate language of the kingdom, makes him complicit in a politics of culture that was promoted by the French monarchy at the time and is still admired around the world today.

REFERENCES Bauman, R., & Briggs, C. L. (1990). Poetics and performance as critical perspectives on language and social life. Annual Review of Anthropology, 19, 59–88. Best, F. (2011). Quand la “pensée Ricoeur” devient philosophie de l’éducation [When Ricoeur’s thought becomes a philosophy of education]. In A. Kerland & D. Simard (Eds.), Paul Ricoeur et la question éducative (pp. 3–10). Lyon: ENS de Lyon. Block, D. (2014). Moving beyond “lingualism”: Multilingual embodiment and multimodality in SLA. In S. May (Ed.), The multilingual turn (pp. 54–77). London: Routledge.

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Blommaert, J. (2005). Discourse. An introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1977). Sur le pouvoir symbolique. Annales, 32(3, May–June), 405–411. Bourdieu, P. (1991). On symbolic power. In Language and symbolic power (J. B. Thompson, Trans. and Introduction) (pp. 163–170). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Brooks, D. (2017, July 18). Getting radical about inequality. New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/18/opinion/inequality-pierre-bourdieu.html Brown, Oscar, Jr. 1963. Tells it like it is! CBS Album Columbia Vinyl UK. Chevalier-Karfis, C. (2019). Easy French poetry readings. French Today. Retrieved from https://www.frenchtoday.com/author/camille-chevalier-karfis/ Douglas Fir Group. (2016). A transdisciplinary framework for SLA in a multilingual world. Modern Language Journal, 100, 19–47. Foucault, M. (1971). L’ordre du discours. Paris: Gallimard. Foucault, M. (1995). Discipline and punish (2nd ed.) (Alan Sheridan, Trans.). New York: Vintage. (Original work published 1975) Holliday, A. (1999). Small cultures. Applied Linguistics, 20(2), 237–264. Hymes, D. (1987). Communicative competence. In U. Ammon, N. Dittmar, & K. Mattheier (Eds.), Sociolinguistics/Soziolinguistik (Vol. 1) (pp. 219–229). Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Kearney, E. (2016). Intercultural learning in modern language education. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Kern, R. (2015). Language, literacy, and technology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. King, Martin Luther, Jr. (2001). Address at the conclusion of the Selma to Montgomery march. In C. Carson & K. Shephard (Eds.), A call to conscience: The landmark speeches of Martin Luther King Jr. (pp. 111–132). NewYork: Warner Books. Kramsch, C. (1998). Language and culture. Oxford Introductions to Language Study. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kramsch, C. (2005). Post 9/11: Foreign languages between knowledge and power. Applied Linguistics, 26(4), 545–567. Kramsch, C. (2014). Language and culture. AILA Review, 27, 30–55. Kramsch, C. (2015). Applied linguistics: A theory of the practice. Applied Linguistics, 36(4), 454–465. Kramsch, C. (2021). Language as symbolic power. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kramsch, C., & Zhu, H. (2020). Translating culture in global times. An introduction. Applied Linguistics, 41(1), 1–9. Retrieved from https://doi.org/10.1093/applin/ amz020 Lakoff, R. (1990). Talking power: The politics of language. New York: Basic books. Lakoff, R. T. (2001). The rhetoric of the extraordinary moment: The concession and acceptance speeches of Al Gore and George W. Bush in the 2001 presidential election. Pragmatics, 11(3), 309–327. Lemke, J. (1995). Textual politics: Discourse and social dynamics. London: Taylor & Francis. Li Wei. (2018). Translanguaging as a practical theory of language. Applied Linguistics, 39(1), 9–30. Marin, L. (1988). Portrait of the King. (Martha M. Houle, Trans.). Foreword by Tom Conley. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. (Original work published 1981)

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New London Group. (1996). A pedagogy of multiliteracies: Designing social futures. Harvard Educational Review, 66(1), 60–92. Perrin, D., & Kramsch, C. (2018). Transdisciplinarity in applied linguistics. AILA Review, 31, 1–13. Ricoeur, Paul. 1985. Temps et Récit (3). Le temps raconté. Paris: Seuil. Rosenberg, E. (2018, February 24). “The Snake”: How Trump appropriated a radical black singer’s lyrics for immigration fearmongering. Washington Post. Retrieved from https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/politics/wp/2018/02/24/the-snake-howtrump-appropriated-a-radical-black-singers-lyrics-for-refugee-fearmongering/ Scollon, R., & Scollon, S. W. (2001). Intercultural communication: A discourse approach (2nd ed.). Oxford: Blackwell. Silverstein, M., & Urban, G. (Eds.). (1996). Natural histories of discourse. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Thompson, J. B. (1991). Editor’s introduction. In P. Bourdieu, Language and symbolic power (pp. 1–31). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Biopolitics and Intersex Human Rights: A Role for Applied Linguistics BRIAN W. KING

INTRODUCTION In this chapter, I contribute to this volume by addressing the potential for applied linguistics to participate in the critical investigation of biopolitics. More specifically, I ask how epistemologies and ethical aspirations of applied linguistics might assist researchers to contribute responsibly to knowledge about the “anatomo-politics of the human body” (Foucault, 1980, p. 139). I prioritize, as a set of localized biopolitical social justice projects in multiple geopolitical locations, the human rights of people who live intersex embodiments. Thus, I narrow the focus in this case to the widespread hegemonic regulation of intersex bodies by biomedicine whereby intersex people (i.e., those whose natural bodies do not fit in the male/ female binary) are forced into a heteronormative and bionormative system of hegemonic coercion. Biomedicine is the dominant contemporary technology of the body (Cadwallader, 2009) and therefore at the center of biopolitics. I refer to applied linguistics not as a discipline but rather as an epistemic assemblage, or “a constellation of shifting interests around language in the world,” engaging in emerging epistemes that bridge various areas of humanities and social sciences (Pennycook, 2018, p. 128). From this point of view, it can encompass politically engaged and self-reflexive scholars working in various

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fields, including sociolinguistics, linguistic anthropology, and critical discourse studies, who are convinced that intersex bodies and their “treatment” are at least partly a language-oriented problem. This applied linguistics is also one in which research agendas are made in collaboration with local communities (Makoni, 2003) so that applied linguistics itself might develop as localized practice in various locations (Pennycook, 2018). Central to my approach is an ethical commitment to avoiding the co-optation and/or instrumentalization of intersex for other ends that do little or nothing to address the stated top-priority goals of intersex organizations and/or advocates internationally, goals that I will outline in a later section. For this reason, after reviewing the background to intersex biopolitics and its accompanying globalized hegemonies, I will turn to exploring how language researchers might usefully and respectfully, thus ethically, bring certain epistemologies to the table during research with intersex collaborators. I propose that applied linguistics, as an “assemblage” of “language-oriented projects, epistemes and matters of concern” (Pennycook, 2018, p. 129) is well positioned to provide the flexibility to ethically engage with intersex studies via “situated methodology” (Boellstorff, 2010), that is, a respectful and vulnerable co-theorization of social worlds with and for research collaborators. In this way, it is possible to align with calls in applied linguistics to be more robustly attentive to the commonly listed but less commonly pursued ethical principles of beneficence and justice (Kubanyiova, 2008). I have two related concerns as part of this prioritization, and this affects the structure of the chapter. As the title suggests, my primary goal is to reflect on how, as language scholars, we might contribute to investigations of biopolitics and intersex human rights. I will conduct this reflection via a researcher narrative in which I review some of my relevant past research. To prepare readers less familiar with intersex and biopolitics, I start out with a brief introduction of what intersex means and how it might fit in a book on applied linguistics and politics. I then move on to explaining somatechnics as my chosen theoretical approach to biopolitics. Finally, I also outline the various overlapping hegemonies that complicate the biopolitical landscape that intersex people are forced to navigate in their pursuit of human rights. I address these contextualizing points first because understanding them is essential to understanding the researcher narrative that follows. Via that narrative, I review some research that I conducted in collaboration with New Zealand intersex activist Mani Bruce Mitchell (i.e., King, 2015, 2016). In that project, they (Mani) spoke about their embodied knowledge, grounding the experience of being intersex in the body as an objective display and using what I, as a sociolinguistics scholar working with queer and feminist epistemologies, at first perceived as problematically binary and heteronormative language. Nonetheless, Mani’s theorizations began to have an influence on me as researcher when I realized that I would need to take their lived experience

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of innate difference very seriously, something that others in my field were not doing at the time, and which at first struck me, problematically, as a biologically deterministic standpoint on bodies. What I did not write about in previous publications was how this process of understanding unfolded for me as a researcher. How did our approach permit me to move from where I started to where I ended up? At the beginning I did not realize the true significance of bodies in interaction with discourse, and it was Mani’s theorizing that opened my mind to it; theorizing about what the surgeon had cut away versus what they knew to be true, that they had an intersex body that was often “unruly” in the face of discourses of gender and sex. I had to come to terms with the gap between my own knowledge and Mani’s knowledge as an “organic intellectual” (Chun, 2017). It was through “contrapuntal readings” (Said, 1993) by each of us that a real consultation was able to unfold, one that avoided unduly privileging my academic perspective yet also applied a critical lens to Mani’s contributions. I will return to this exploration in the latter part of the chapter, but first some information about what intersex means and what having an intersex body entails.

INTERSEX AND THE POLITICS OF BODILY AUTONOMY Definitions of intersex vary, but essentially it is an umbrella term with great material impact (Malatino, 2019), and it represents an array of natural bodies possessing sex characteristics and/or chromosomal possibilities that sit outside of normative expectations of a strict male-female binary (Holmes, 2000). It stands to reason that children’s rights to bodily integrity and autonomy sit at the heart of this issue along with, of course, the rights of adults whose bodies have atypical sex characteristics. Before going any further, I need to address the categorization of this chapter into the section of this book titled “Culture and Identity,” a positioning that is arguably not completely dissonant yet also quite problematic. It is an imprecise fit because “intersex” denotes first and foremost, as stated in the previous paragraph, an array of embodiments. Intersex is indeed also held as an aspect of social identity for many, but usually in an additive fashion so as to neither supplant nor subtract other identities (e.g., intersex man/intersex woman/intersex nonbinary person: Carpenter, 2018b). Many individuals with statistically uncommon sex characteristics use the term “intersex” while some do not, and some use it to refer to an aspect of their identity, others a trait of their body, and some presumably to encompass both (Davis, 2015). In an Australian sample of people born with atypical sex characteristics, for instance, it was learned that 60 percent of people surveyed used the term “intersex” to self-describe while only about 20 percent identified as gender nonbinary (Carpenter, 2018c). Of the 60 percent who claimed to use the term “intersex,”

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the survey did not ask them to specify whether they used it to describe their body, an identity, or both, or how they would differentiate between these usages. This means that there are important questions not answered in this case, but these results do confirm that there is no simple connection between nonbinary gender identity and intersex bodies. In the face of these facts, the inescapable conclusion is that what draws people together under the umbrella term “intersex” is not universally shared gender identity or even a shared approach to the politics of identity. What brings them to gather strategically and supportively under this umbrella is a shared sense, based on mutually recognizable familial, social, and medical lived experiences while growing up (Karkazis, 2008), of having a naturally occurring body that “does not fit” the sex binary (Holmes, 2000, p. 89). This sense is accompanied by a shared distaste for the pathologizing language of biomedicine (e.g., “disorders of sex development”) and an alignment to the notion that the institution of biomedicine ought not to be, and need not be, the first and final source of “truth” about sex characteristics (Holmes, 2011). One could argue, then, that central to the intersex experience is a “politics of identity” that is fraught with erasures and challenges as well as unforeseen distractions from a shared core interest in bodily integrity and autonomy. By focusing on this problematic aspect of “identity” and bodies, this chapter fits the book’s section while transcending it to foreground “biopolitics,” highlighting issues that are more directly relevant politically for intersex-bodied people. My use of the term “intersex” is in alignment with my public affirmation, as a researcher, of the Darlington Statement (a joint statement of consensus from the international intersex community) to eschew pathologizing terminology. The statement was written by organizations and advocates in Australia and New Zealand in 2017, yet has since been affirmed by intersex advocates, organizations, and allies from around the world. Item 6 of the charter acknowledges the following: [The signatories’] opposition to pathologizing terminology such as “disorders of sex development,” not only because such labels are inherently disordering, but also because this promotes the belief that intersex characteristics need to be “fixed.” Furthermore, in this chapter I am continuing my commitment to conducting research led by intersex community inputs (from Item 30 of the charter) and attempting to fulfill my promise to actively acknowledge the distinctiveness and the diversity within [the intersex] community, to support [intersex] human rights claims and respect the intersex human rights movement, without tokenism, or instrumentalising, or co-opting intersex issues as a means for other ends. (Item 47)

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The principles insisted upon in Item 47 of the charter refer to notions of ethical research that place strong emphasis on beneficence and justice for research participants. Serendipitously, there have already been calls for these principles to receive more urgent attention in applied linguistics generally, particularly by considering carefully the usefulness of research results to those who might collaborate with the researcher and by redressing the neglect of certain populations in research (Kubanyiova, 2008). Another way of putting it is to say that we must engage with the moral ends of research, and this must be achieved through self-reflexivity (Cameron, Fraser, Harvey, Rampton, & Richardson, 1992; Locher & Bolander, 2019; Ortega, 2012; Wolfram, 2013). In this chapter I extend this insight, beyond the original discussion in second language acquisition research, to applied linguistics more broadly by reflecting on my own past practices around situated methodology. Collectively imagined categories of sex (e.g., male, female, intersex) have real power to shape perception (Holmes, 2011), and this insight applies to all bodies in the biopolitics of anatomical regulation. In focusing on intersex, I align with a growing list of scholars working in critical intersex studies and gender studies who are now tracing the genealogies of concepts such as “sex” and “gender,” reminding us that the cultural-surgical management of intersex bodies is entangled with the regulation of embodied difference in general (Downing, Morland, & Sullivan, 2015; Repo, 2016; Rubin, 2017; Sullivan, 2009b). These entanglements have repeatedly led to the instrumentalization of intersex for other agendas, both other social justice agendas and conservative regulatory ones (to be explored below), while the injustices faced by intersex-bodied people (most egregiously by children) get sidelined (inter alia Carpenter, 2016; Holmes, 2008; Morland, 2011). With this in mind, I also aim to avoid what Nikki Sullivan (2009b) has called isolationist and analogical approaches to scholarship on bodies. In practice, this means that I try to invoke issues of the bioregulation of intersex bodies while refusing to collapse intersex issues into those of other groups via analogy (e.g., into LGBT), yet I also contest the isolation of intersex experience from embodiment, technology, and bodily practice more broadly. This contestation is part of an ongoing effort on my part to avoid fetishizing intersex (i.e., positioning it as radical “otherness”) or treating it as exceptional (Holmes, 2008; Rubin, 2017), that is, we need to avoid positioning intersex bodies as uniquely subversive, a trap wherein intersex bodies can soon become overdetermined and therefore intersex people become “caryatids bearing the burdens of social order for everyone else” (Holmes, 2008, p. 16). These commitments have led me to turn to the idea of “somatechnics” (Pugliese & Stryker, 2009; Sullivan, 2009b; Sullivan & Murray, 2011) as a way to theoretically frame bodies and biopolitics. I will explain more fully what somatechnics entails later on in the chapter.

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In order to find a place for applied language research that is commensurate with the interests and priorities of intersex advocates and/or organizations in varied geopolitical locations, and least likely to do unintended harm, it is paramount that research originates from consultation with intersex people, starting with the conceptualizing phase of research design. In the final sections of the chapter, I will write in more detail about how this dovetailing of priorities can be done and for what reasons, but first I will explain why I think it is productive to theorize biopolitics as a regulatory focus within somatechnics as a practice, and how somatechnics, as a way to theorize embodiment processes, is compatible with the “epistemic assemblage” (Pennycook, 2018) that constitutes applied linguistics.

SOMATECHNICS Somatechnics is an approach to theorizing bodies that positions embodiment as equal parts physical and discursive and as a sociohistorical outcome of embodiment processes. Furthermore, it represents an “ethico-political practice” (Sullivan & Murray, 2011) for being critical about operations of power around bodies in society and how they are perceived, debated, technologized, and shaped by technologies. What somatechnics brings to the table for critical language scholars is a well-developed theorization of how embodiment and technologies are bound up in processes that negate the logic of the “and” in the phrase “embodiment and technology,” that material corporeality (soma) is inseparable from “the techniques and technologies (technics) through which bodies are formed and transformed” (Pugliese & Stryker, 2009, p. 1), a theorization that is essential to understanding intersex embodiments. Biopolitics is more specifically about the regulation of bodies using “somatechnical practices” (Alm, 2013), that is, the regulation of bodies via techniques and technologies that (trans)form bodies, such as infant genital surgeries. I align with the notion that technologies and techniques, including language, interact with bodies as “dynamically co-constructed ground” on which “we do not lose sight of the materiality of the body as both affected by discourses and expressed and felt through them” (Edelman & Zimman, 2014, p. 675). These technologies and techniques, or somatechnical practices, are done during social interaction and sit on a cline between highly agentive acts (i.e., within the control/pursuit of a person or collective) and acts done to someone in ways that completely foreclose on agency. Thus, a somatechnical approach to research entails treating aspects of the material and discursive (or matter and representation) as both discrete and inseparable (King, 2019). In subsuming biopolitics into somatechnics as an element of it, I follow Joseph Pugliese and Susan Stryker (2009) in their assertion that somatechnics links

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Foucault’s anatomo-politics of the body to regulatory controls at the level of population and productivity. In their words, conceptualizing somatechnics as a “capillary space”” linking Foucault’s anatomo-political register of techniques operating on the level of individual bodies with the biopolitical realm in which sovereignty manages the biological life of populations as a resource for its ends. (Pugliese & Stryker, 2009, p. 5) Furthermore, operationalizing somatechnics is “to think through the varied and complex ways in which bodily-being is shaped not only by the surgeon’s knife but also by the discourses that justify and contest the use of such instruments,” including participation in related debates of right or wrong (Sullivan, 2009a, p. 314). Part of this endeavor, and compatible with the framing of this volume, can be the tracing of hegemonies and counter-hegemonies in the tradition of Gramsci, which I will engage in below to demonstrate the seemingly intractable contradictions faced by intersex-bodied people. As critical medical anthropologist Ronald Frankenberg argued (1988), in hindsight, Gramsci’s notions of hegemony anticipated Foucault’s ideas about the diffuse, capillary nature of power, demonstrating a clear compatibility between the two sets of ideas. Furthermore, in Frankenberg’s words, “the shared ‘hegemonic’ values of patients and doctors in Western society are at the core not only of the transfer of medical technology but also of the transfer of ideology” (1988, p. 325). This sharing of hegemonic values refers to Gramsci’s ideas of commonsense making whereby contradictory and inconsistent views are espoused according to shared frameworks that help us make sense of our lives yet can be reproductive of exploitation and exclusion (Chun, 2017). What is meant by “biomedical hegemony” in critical medical social science is not that doctors form a direct “ruling class”; instead, their power is delegated, not absolute, yet still real as a mechanism of cultural hegemony (Baer, 1997). Ultimately, doctors, regardless of diverse personal convictions, work in a relationship with their patients that reflects the relationship between biomedicine and political economy, one in which medical practitioners serve as a primary interface between the ruling capitalist class and their subordinates (Singer & Baer, 1995). They are always potentially agents of biopolitical regulation. Somatechnics, then, provides ample space for applied linguistic inquiry (cf. Edelman & Zimman, 2014), which I will explore further at the end of this chapter, but a framing in somatechnics is highly compatible with the current “turn” to materiality that is active in linguistic anthropology, for instance, “language materiality” (Shankar & Cavanaugh, 2017) as well as the shift to “embodied sociocultural linguistics” and its considerations of how bodies and language are imbricated, inter alia, with objects or technologies (Bucholtz &

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Hall, 2016). Furthermore, it is compatible with recent moves to emphasize bodies and materiality in linguistic landscapes research so as to expand language study beyond its logocentric scope (Milani, 2014, 2015) and efforts in critical discourse studies to bring material and embodied mediation more into the center (Thurlow, 2016), and finally “raciolinguistics” and the turn in language and race toward the mutual construction of embodiment and language practices through societal structures and power (Alim, 2016; Rosa & Flores, 2017).

INTERSEX BIOPOLITICS AND HEGEMONY I will turn now to brief summaries of the hegemonies entangled in intersex biopolitics and how violations of their rights paradoxically get turned into “common sense.” In outlining these hegemonic coercions and co-optations, I aim to prepare the reader for the researcher narrative in the latter part of the chapter, but I also aim to demonstrate why the biopolitics of intersex is an urgent issue for the attention of critical language scholars. For ease of organization, I classify these hegemonies into the categories social, scientific, and biomedical, although it is somewhat of an artificial separation. Social Hegemony In the opening, I outlined the oblique and partial connections between gender identity and intersex embodiment, and a tendency to conflate the two notions. Significantly, this conflation has led to controversy around the inclusion of intersex in the LGBT+ “rainbow” and all that such an alignment can entail in terms of visibility but also erasure in knowledge production. As Morgan Carpenter has argued, “from an intersex perspective, the LGBT movement appears preoccupied with identity and relationship recognition, without recognition of bodily autonomy, and deeper challenges posed by sex and gender norms” (Carpenter, 2016, p. 78). The reason this is such a problem is not so much because intersex gets forgotten (although this happens too); rather, it is because of a tendency that sits close to this book’s theme of hegemony, and that is the issue of the co-optation and instrumentalization of intersex. In this case, other social movements (e.g., some feminists and some transgender activists) instrumentalize the existence of intersex bodies for their own social justice causes, but in a way that can make lived intersex experience more difficult, not less so. It is a form of hegemonic knowledge production grounded in commonsense beliefs around sex, gender, and identity. Appropriations of intersex by other groups are disruptive to the production of accurate knowledge about intersex bodies and people, “[mischaracterizing] intersex human rights issues as matters of sexual orientation and gender identity” and in the process obscuring deeper, more intractable issues of gender

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norms and bodily autonomy (Carpenter, 2016, p. 79). In this way, discourse on identity in society can contribute to the “hermeneutical injustice” faced by intersex-bodied people, an injustice in which a marginalized individual is unable to make sense of their own experience because of prevailing social norms (Fricker, 2007, cited in Carpenter, 2018b). Next, I turn to the hegemonic state of knowledge production in the fields of human biology and biomedicine in relation to sex, and this will round out the picture of how hegemony plays a multilayered role in the continued disruption of bodily integrity and autonomy for people with intersex bodies. Biological Hegemony In my work, I align with the idea that people’s intersex bodies are not “ambiguous”; rather, they are clearly intersex in their morphology, that is, they are examples of bodies that combine traits typically seen as directly indexing either male or female (Holmes, 2000, p. 84). However, in contrast to this reasoning, the birth of a baby whose body displays primary sex characteristics that are statistically less common has typically been deemed by biomedical authority to be “a neonatal psychosocial emergency” (Holmes, 2002), resulting in surgical procedures such as clitorectomies, gonadectomies, and genitoplasty. It is also the case that medical authority disproportionately influences the system of logic for understanding sex characteristics, pathologizing bodies needlessly in most cases (Carpenter, 2016; Lundberg, Hegarty, & Roen, 2018; Rubin, 2017) via the entanglement of benign body variations within descriptions of malignant body processes that necessitate medical intervention (Lundberg et al., 2018). This tendency for medical classificatory systems to conflate medical needs and bodily variations (World Health Organization, 2015) problematically shapes the perceptions of parents and other stakeholders, predominantly influencing them to align with the abovementioned medical framing of intersex births as a neonatal emergency. As Vincent Guillot has put it (2018, p. 247), “intersex is one of the rare cases in modern medicine where the one group of people (the children) are physically mutilated to relieve the other (the parents) psychologically.” This conclusion is supported by the dearth of any evidence that genital surgery on children leads to better lives than they would otherwise have led (Baratz & Feder, 2015), demonstrating that the well-being of intersex people themselves is of secondary concern at best. Although there have recently been some concessions from certain biomedical quarters, with physicians admitting that there has been insufficient evidence to demonstrate benefits of genital surgeries, and conceding that it is possible to leave intersex people’s bodies intact and not conceal anything from them (Topp, 2019), these developments are still the exception and extremely uneven internationally (Carpenter, 2018b; Davis, 2015; Rubin, 2017). Therefore, it is

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predominantly still the case globally that if a display of difference resides in the genital area, childhood sexual assignment surgery is performed to “normalize” the appearance of the genitals so that they do not appear to combine what is typically perceived as the genitals of a man and a woman.1 Furthermore, surgery to alter sex characteristics (usually genitalia) often results in further surgery because of likelihood of infection, and this too often leads to an “alienated body, alienated or painful organs that also in people’s subjective perception no longer belong to them,” and hopes that their anxieties and conflicts might be circumvented by surgical intervention are generally regarded as failed hopes (Zobel, 2018, p. 216). Clearly, then, there is a great deal to be criticized in this whole regime. Backing up for just a moment, it is important to address a basic scientific hegemony that lies at the center of this self-perpetuating system of biopolitics, a system that is fundamentally a violent one. This apparatus rallies many surgeons to its ranks to conduct surgeries that are intended to help yet often harm (Davis, 2015). Yet it rests upon a biological assumption that has not been proved accurate (Hutton, 2019; Rosario, 2009; Rubin, 2016), and that is the idea of biological dimorphism, or the fundamental division of all mammals neatly into two sexes, male and female, with all other morphologies classified as biological defects. In fact, all mammalian bodies are polyvalent in terms of sex characteristics (Hutton, 2019); it is just that a “large minority” (i.e., intersex bodies) are more polyvalent than the average, enough to be noticed and pathologized, while “variable factors on the genetic, cellular as well as organic levels and different hormonal proportions in the life cycle … condition a more or less developed sex-related specialization” (Zobel, 2018, p. 209). In other words, there is no biological imperative to rationalize intersex sex characteristics as pathological (Hutton, 2019). However, there seems to be a holdover trend in human biology whereby an apparent human exceptionalism still reigns. A “commonsense” belief because of long-engrained ideologies, this faith in the sex binary in humans has evaded confirmation in science despite continual efforts (and failures) by biologists to verify it for nearly two centuries (Rosario, 2009; Sanz, 2017). The complexity of our bodies precludes clear answers about sex difference, and ideas about gender constantly color scientists’ assumptions about body systems and signals (Fausto-Sterling, 2000, p. 4). Meeting dead ends again and again, the field of human biology stalwartly keeps “plodding on,” looking for new dichotomies that might “come to the rescue of the binary” (Sanz, 2017, p. 20). Due to lack of space, I will not rehearse the waves of dichotomies that have been proposed (but see Rosario 2009; Sanz, 2017). Suffice it to say that there has been hegemony in the biology of human sex characteristics, a hegemony grounded in Gramsci’s “common sense” (as opposed to good sense), despite clear flaws, always “[seeming] to make sense

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to those caught within its interstices” (Watkins, 2011, p. 108, cited in Chun, 2017). It is a hegemonic form of consent that continues to have material effects on intersex bodies. What drives this hegemonic self-perpetuating nature of the binary sex concept in relation to humans is that, since the eighteenth century,2 it has not, in fact, been a hypothesis; rather, it has always been epistemic, or more precisely “an epistemological obstacle for the correct understanding of sex” (Sanz, 2017, p. 22). In other words, the idea of binary sex has never been a problem to demonstrate or prove, but rather an interpretive grid upon which all else rests; it generates the questions asked. It is this treatment of sex dimorphism of humans as a commonsense truth that drives a hegemonic process of knowledge production by which no amount of evidence seems to tip the scales. The implication for intersex-bodied people is that it seems no matter how much is discovered about the biology of sex characteristics that complicates this binary notion, human intersex bodies are always repositioned by prevailing human-biology consensus as abnormal. This positioning in turn contributes to the continued judgment of their bodies as pathological in biomedicine, a system whose hegemonic control of intersex bodies is tied closely to the notion of “gender” as separate from sex. “Gender” was invented by the psychoendocrinologist and sexologist John Money in the 1950s before later being appropriated by feminist theorists for other ends (Downing et al., 2015; Germon, 2009; Repo, 2016; Rubin, 2017). In the next section, I expand on this entwined history of gender and intersex, and I unpack the hegemonic processes that keep intersex bodies medicalized and under cultural-surgical erasure, creating stigma and trauma for so many. It will round out the exploration of the multisystemic coercion (i.e., social, biological, and biomedical) faced by intersex-bodied people worldwide, laying the groundwork for answering the question of what Applied Linguistics has to offer. Biomedical Hegemony The hegemony by which biomedicine continues to undertake surgery on intersex children, in the absence of evidence of its efficacy for their wellbeing, is tied to the birth of gender as a concept. It was invented by Money, a behaviorist by training, who was also the “mastermind” behind the notion that intersex babies should have genital surgery to remove any chance that they would question their binary gender of rearing (usually as girls). Despite a common misconception, gender as a counterpoint to sex was not created by feminist thinkers (Zimman, 2014). Rather, as Jemima Repo has put it, gender is “a biopolitical apparatus” (Repo, 2016, p. 4) that was appropriated from sexology by feminism, rather uncritically,3 as a way to theorize against biological determinism and the notion that “anatomy is destiny” (Repo, 2016;

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Rubin, 2017). This appropriation has usually been written out of the narrative of gender; for example, Linda Nicholson (1994) credited feminists with taking the notion from language grammar in the late 1960s while, in fact, Money had done that a decade earlier. However, in any case, under feminism, gender became a social constructionist concept with liberatory intent by which sex and gender became separated, a step aided by Robert Stoller’s uptake and adaptation of Money’s concept in his theorizing about transgender (Repo, 2016; Sullivan, 2015). This position sits in contrast to its beginnings, with Money and colleagues, as a conservative, regulatory type of social construction (Morland, 2011). It is notable that Money did not approve of the way his invention was deployed in feminism (Sullivan, 2015); as Hilary Malatino puts it, for Money and his colleagues, “[gender] malleability is construed as liberatory only insofar as it releases subjects from the bonds of perversion, from the threat of falling into queer netherworlds comprised of subcultural sexual practices and nonfamilial orchestrations of intimacy and sociality” (2019, p. 94). In other words, his mobilization of the counter claim that “anatomy is not destiny” ’ was a deeply heteronormative and regulatory version,4 at least when it came to intersex children. Thus, it warrants a more detailed explication. Money’s Theories of Gender and Sex  In 1955, as a former student of Talcott Parsons and thus a behaviorist by training, Money worried that the lived experience of having atypical genitals would distort the familial socialization processes of intersex children, interfering with their learning of what he called “gender role” (Fausto-Sterling, 1997; Karkazis, 2008; Reis, 2009). He theorized gender as an imprinted psychosocial state representing a person’s masculine or feminine sense of personhood, outlook, and behavior (Rubin, 2016). He proposed that this state formed during a critical plastic period in the first eighteen months of life (Morland, 2015), and once “the gate” was closed, it could not be reopened even if a person’s sense of affirmed sex “contradicted” expectations arising from the physical body (Sullivan, 2015). Not a surgeon himself, he drew on his understanding of “humanist” psychology of the period5 to rationalize surgery as a means to facilitate lived experiences, instigated through genital appearance, that would precipitate a binary gender role as either man or woman (Morland, 2015). This conviction arose during his early-career work with intersex children and transgender people, among whom he had observed this tendency for locked-in gender identity after a certain age. Money theorized that all children were highly plastic in the critical period, and they could be raised as either boys or girls if you started early enough (Morland, 2015), but this process could be derailed if their genitals did not match the gender assigned, resulting potentially in social and psychological difficulties. However, as Repo points out (2016), he knew from his own earlier research that most intersex

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adults who had not had genital surgery were quite content with their bodies. This fact points to another reason for his concern, one tied more to the potential disruption to the nuclear family that could take place due to the nonconformity of intersex bodies (Malatino, 2019; Repo, 2016). Thus, although his early research destabilized the idea of sex as unitary, in a highly conservative move he used the notion of gender to restabilize binary sex in medicine (Rubin, 2012). This effort to “control the behavioural system that upheld the sexual order” rendered the body more governable (Repo, 2016, p. 24), and intersex bodies began to be anatomically regulated using somatechnical practices of genital surgery. Thus, in the biopolitics of embodiment, individual intersex bodies became regulated at the level of anatomo-politics as a means to uphold populationlevel control. Money’s ideas remain entrenched in biomedicine globally, as hegemonic, commonsense beliefs, even though his core premise, that infant genital surgery is necessary because of the critical period of gender identity, was not as strongly supported scientifically as everyone had thought. Due to a hegemonic network of beliefs around sex characteristics in biomedicine, the recommended procedures created by him and his colleagues remain widely used, in a hegemonic biomedical entrenchment that still has widely disparate consequences for intersex people’s lives. Mounting testimony from those whom childhood surgery has harmed, readily available in the public domain, has been largely ignored and diminished by biomedical authorities worldwide (Carpenter, 2016, 2018a). In the words of Carpenter, “While vague and evaluative clinical beliefs are typically portrayed as facts, the views of intersex-led advocacy and peer support organisations are more often portrayed as unsupported beliefs” (2018b, p. 459). These vague and evaluative beliefs amount to the claim that silence from former patients signals satisfaction with their surgical assignment. This disingenuous stance conceals the probability that it is stigma, trauma, and disaffection that keep people silent (or “going missing” from biomedical networks as an act of resistance: Malatino, 2019), or, even more basically, a lack of awareness because of a lack of information arising from the regime of secrecy that Money’s team encouraged (Karkazis, 2008). By highlighting this example of the ongoing production of hegemonic coercion and consent via the production of knowledge it becomes clear that it is through a “conspiracy of silence” that endocrinologists and surgeons have essentially turned their back on science, this conspiracy evidenced by the fact that “an indispensable attribute of science is transparency and critical evaluation of one’s own results,” and so even now there is a lack of evidence-based findings (in violation of the World Medical Association’s Declaration of Helsinki) (Woweries, 2018, p. 99). Carpenter identifies as “testimonial injustice” this circumstance in which lived experience is diminished even though contrary perspectives from biomedicine lack evidence (2018b).

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Countering Biomedical Hegemony Clearly, there is a hegemonic “dance of avoidance” being choreographed around sex characteristics and infant surgeries in the “corridors” of biology and biomedicine, which has led some to postulate that the best way to overcome the problem is to usurp the binary sex model, proliferating other categories to create a new taxonomy into which intersex bodies can be slotted. On the other hand, Carpenter (2018b, p. 513) has warned against “third sex” models in accordance with which advocates maintain “pious hopes and unfounded expectations” that providing a legal category outside the binary will end childhood surgeries through a shift in perspective (cf. Garland & Travis, 2021). Rather, evidence suggests that what results instead is a hegemonic reinvigoration of the idea that surgeries are necessary, and this emerges through a renewed conviction on the part of parents and clinicians that the child will then be assigned to a life of sexual abjection as a member of one of these new minoritized categories, so surgery and deception must be conducted to avoid this consequence (Carpenter, 2018b). In other words, essentially the circular reasoning has been that intersex-bodied children needed to be saved from unintelligibility through surgery, but once an intelligible category was “carved out” for them, they then needed to be “saved” from being intelligible as that new category. Hence the heteronormative and bionormative motivations for the whole enterprise, and the links to hegemonic coercion, appear in sharp relief. For these further reasons, it has been suggested that a new model grounded in concepts of human rights sans moral universalism, focusing on bodily integrity and self-determination in localized contexts, will avoid the trap of inadvertently re-entrenching the likelihood of infant surgeries through a “[propping] up the boundary between medical jurisdiction over bodies and socio-political influences over classification of identities” (Carpenter, 2018b, p. 491; 2018c). The hope is that this other way will reposition the debate and foreclose upon some of these hegemonic, and thereby intractable, blockades. It represents a potentially powerful counter-hegemonic discourse by which links are blazed between the anatomo-politics of individual intersex bodies and the biopolitical regulation of bodies at the level of the entire population. The summary above provides background on the multisystemic hegemonic coercion faced by intersex-bodied people in an “ongoing production and maintenance of hegemonic coercion and consent throughout numerous domains” (Chun, Introduction of this volume). Epistemologically and culturally driven dedication to the sex binary in the biological sciences combines with the biomedical community’s entrenched but poorly substantiated belief in genital surgeries and, on top of it all, social hegemonies of co-optation and instrumentalization, creating a self-renewing cycle of difficulty by which bodily integrity remains elusive. It results in the perpetuation of an unjust system

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of bodily and physical regulation that drives the inflicting of physical and psychological trauma (Holmes, 2008). What, then, is the way forward? And how can researchers in applied linguistics and cognate fields potentially take part in dismantling these hegemonic traps?

A ROLE FOR APPLIED LINGUISTICS There are three broad approaches to researching the biopolitics of intersex that provide avenues to the type of data that applied linguists engage with. First of all, research should, of course, take the biomedical and health care industry itself as its focus, in its multiple communicative circuits between officials, surgeons, physicians, and nurses and in its interface with parents, intersex-bodied people, and scholars (social sciences or biomedical). When it comes to language use in interaction, there is a research lacuna around this whole elaborate series of relationships, and this represents a potentially important opportunity, assuming that researchers can gain recording access to the corridors and examining rooms of hospitals and clinics at key moments. By placing the words and interactions of those in the health care industry under analysis, much can be learned about the ways in which hegemonies are reified and perpetuated in relation to intersex bodies as well as breakthrough moments when bodily autonomy is upheld. Second, there is “biomediatization” (Briggs & Hallin, 2016), which moves beyond clinical settings to conduct critical analyses of how the perceptions of caregivers and patients are influenced by news media, professionals, and laypersons in a joint production of medical subjects. In the words of Charles Briggs, “Health news stories, which proliferate globally in newspapers, on the radio and television, and on the Internet and social media, project who can legitimately produce biomedical knowledge, how it travels, who are its designated receivers, and how people are supposed to respond to it” (2017, p. 298). News stories about intersex-bodied people certainly represent an under-analyzed area (a rare exception is Kerry, 2011), but one very likely a priority for intersex organizations and advocates, particularly in reference to infant sexual assignment surgery. As applied linguists we are ideally equipped to tackle such investigations. Having acknowledged these other lacunae, in the spirit of the book’s theme I would like to focus on how applied linguistics can also play a role by tapping into the “metascientific reflexivity” (Jaspers & Meeuwis, 2013) of intersex-bodied collaborators as organic intellectuals (Chun, 2017), exploring “ways in which [our] knowledge can interact with the knowledge of everyday people who are suffering from various oppressions” (Chun, Introduction of this volume). In other words, I explore how we might ethically and helpfully mobilize the lived experience of intersex people themselves through languageoriented studies deploying a more dynamic form of knowledge production in which applied linguists and intersex people collaborate in an ethically and

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meaningful way, breaking down the “expert” and “lay person” dichotomy (Johnson, 2001). Twenty years ago, applied linguist Monica Heller raised the important point that we need to “ask questions about how our work intersects with the major concerns people have about language in their lives, and with the making of language-related decisions which affect them in direct and concrete ways” (Heller, 1999, p. 263). In the field of critical intersex studies, the notion of listening to the voices of intersex people but not valorizing their positions naively or uncritically is well established (Holmes, 2008; Morland, 2006, 2009), and it is highly compatible with an approach to research that I will outline below, one in which contributions of collaborators are seen not as data to be mined but as theorizations to be reflected on by the researcher in a vulnerable engagement.6 I follow linguistic anthropologist Tom Boellstorff (2010) in referring to this approach as situated methodology. I will outline and critically reflect on my own use of these methodologies in the next section by using “researcher narrative” to interrogate my process of decision making in research conception, design, and conduct (De Costa, 2016). To push beyond co-opting the energies of my research collaborators into a valorized academic discourse, I will engage in a “praxis of questioning” (Silberstein, 2016, p. 235), looking back at past work to expose and acknowledge any shortcomings or contradictions in terms of the extent to which my work so far has been “rooted in [non-touristic] relationships and conversations” with intersex people in order to “disturb and destabilize” in ways valuable to them (Silberstein, 2016). As Deborah Cameron et al. (1992) have emphasized, ethical research should not simply mitigate harm; rather, it is possible to conduct “empowering” research. It is good research practice because it permits you to highlight clearly the distinctive power that you have as researcher, allowing you to be more accountable to your collaborators (Rampton, 1992). Ethical codes in applied linguistics have been clear if not always clearly followed. During participatory research with communities we must aim to avoid complicity with unequal power relations whereby academic knowledge is valorized and other forms of knowledge are marginalized; we must create “contrapuntal readings” (Said, 1993, quoted in Silberstein, 2016) with community members, “simultaneously surfacing the agency, resistance and power of [collaborators] and our own privilege and positionality” (Silberstein, 2016, p. 234)—real consultation with those we write about, not just participating “as academics.” Situated Methodology and Emic Theory I would like to propose that researchers can best draw on the knowledge of collaborators via “emic theory,” which represents theorizing from within a research site and without, drawing on lived experiences in a mediated way. This

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type of theorizing gets away from an all-too-common tendency to either take no interest in self-understanding of research informants (e.g., structuralism) or, on the other hand, presume a kind of “robustly self-aware, intentional subject” (e.g., intentionalism) whose voices need to be presented, unmediated, as the first and last authority on a topic that is part of their lived experience— “their ostensibly transparent self-understanding is the endpoint of analysis” (Boellstorff, 2010, p. 218). In some research traditions, the phrase “emic theory” may come across as internally self-contradictory because it straddles a dichotomy between the “etic” framed as theory and the “emic” framed as data, one that is seldom so concretely a binary in practice (Boellstorff, 2010). Emic theorizing treats data as theorizations of social worlds, not simply documentation of them. Example of Situated Methodology To illustrate this approach and reflect on its effects, I will review my collaborative work with activist Mani Bruce Mitchell in New Zealand (King, 2015, 2016), a project that addressed biopolitics and its accompanying hegemonies from the view of an individual’s very personal navigation of anatomo-politics, that is, as I explained in the section on somatechnics, techniques operating on the level of individual bodies that manage the population as an exploitable resource.7 In this case, the focus was on Mani Mitchell’s very personal efforts to cope with the legacy of childhood genital surgery. I review it with the purpose of reflecting on the extent to which my theoretical insights emerged from my collaborator’s theorizations of their social worlds and, on the flipside, to what extent they emerged from my own theorizations as an applied linguist. I will also reflect on the extent to which I kept beneficence and justice for intersex people as central to my efforts. Mani Mitchell first became involved in my research project, which was not centrally about intersex but rather sexuality education and language. As part of that ethnographic study, Mani came to speak to the students twice. Going back to the beginning, in early 2007, Mani and I were introduced at a public event after I had spoken to others of my plan to study language, gender, and sexuality. For these people who introduced us, what I was saying resonated with issues they had heard Mani speak about. Mani confirmed language as a topic of great interest, stating that the English language poses many challenges related to the “putting into words” of intersex experiences and bodies. At that point in my life, I had very limited knowledge of intersex from any perspective. After many conversations about language, and later about my research efforts, we became friends. When I approached them about a year or so later and introduced my schoolbased research project, I asked if a guest visit with the students would be

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possible, and Mani agreed, seeing it as an important opportunity to educate young people about intersex. In terms of the broader ethics of beneficence and pursuit of justice, I had entered into a personal relationship with Mani as a collaborator well before any research began, taking time to earn trust (Thorne, Siekmann, & Charles, 2016) and also getting centrally involved in Mani’s efforts at activism by supporting the work of Intersex Trust Aotearoa New Zealand (ITANZ), the organization started by Mani and chaired by them at that time. This is a relationship that has continued, and I have now been an active trustee of ITANZ for ten years. The extracts analyzed in the first publication (King, 2015), which I revisit here, came from recordings in which Mani spoke to the students and, later, to a group of teachers at a Health teachers’ conference (a recounting of the work with the students). Conducting a narrative analysis, I placed Mani in the role of an organic intellectual (although not aware of this concept at the time), in the process drawing on Mani’s theorizations and contributing my own insights in an “emic theorizing” conversation between us. For transcription conventions used, please refer to the appendix. Extract 1        Pam 1 what’s your genetic makeup 2 do you have internal female sex organs or what     Mani 3 um (exhalation) (1) th- i- i- i don’t know what my diagnosis↑ was 4 and i certainly s- and i’ve never been able to work that out 5 and these days i don’t care 6 um (.) when I was doing MY journey trying to work out who i was 7 my dad wonderfully had taken photographs (.) of ALL us kids 8 and really that was my goldmine of trying to work myself OUT 9 and i saw a child who was both comfortable doing (.)FE↑male things↑ 10 dressing UP ↑ (1) umm (.) doing those sorts of things 11 but i was also in SOME ↑ways more masculine than some of my BRO↑thers 12 um i would help my dad on the farm 13 i was really interested in how engines worked and things like THAT 14 so as a forty-year-old trying to put all this toGETher 15 I made the decision that people had tried to put me into a box 16 but that’s not who i AM 17 so I made the decision to be ALL of who i am

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which is where THIS came from ((indicates facial hair)) so it’s an experimental thing one summer thinking cause i’d always CUT my facial hair in OUR culture women are not supposed to have facial hair so i thought well if i’m NOT a WOman i don’t have to fit to that (.) that um conVENtion and so i started to grow it n- (.) and it was SO exciting because this is one of the very few things that i had left that literally wasn’t removed by surgery i had GENital surgery at age 8 (.) to normalize and feminize by body so the difference was removed by a surgeon’s KNIFE

In the original analysis I noted that the use of the word “female” by Pam in reference to Mani’s “internal sex organs” opened the exchange by setting up a field of heteronormative binary sex, and so Mani had to carve out a position to speak from. Mani both complied with this binary male/female discursive framing by not denying this possibility, but at the same time, while talking about their past, not entirely aligning with it either, stating in line 4 that they’d “never been able to work that out.” They then proceeded to deploy discourses of gender difference that tend to position men and women (i.e., gendered social categories) as completely separate in terms of both behavior and biology. In fact, there were limits to how much I was willing to align to Mani’s ideas about the body as a subjective experience. Instead I analyzed their stories from the point of view of what Boellstorff (2010, p. 223) has since called “surfing binarisms” in which binaries, unavoidable in all languages, and so in collaborator accounts, “[persist], but not as something ontologized into an unchanging first principle.” That is, binaries are manipulated in talk and with social efficacy, not necessarily succumbed to, as part of lived daily experience. Rather than needing to be deconstructed or obfuscated by me as an analyst, their ongoing manipulation could be analyzed. To borrow Boellstorff ’s language, as a queer-informed researcher I was forced to “surf ” binaries with Mani instead of following my instinct at the time, which would have been to deconstruct them head-on in a critical analysis. What became obvious to me was that Mani found these biologically deterministic discourses helpful in reclaiming masculinity and was manipulating them (i.e., surfing the binaries) in order to achieve that effect. Ultimately, the entwined binaries of masculine/feminine, boy/girl, and male/ female were evaluated by Mani as being insufficient for explaining intersex experience, as can be seen in lines 15–16 when they said “people had tried to put me in a box, but that’s not who I AM.” The next extract was recorded while Mani was speaking to students in the high school, which further demonstrates this.

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Extract 2     Mani 1 ((reading)) um what do you (1) consider (1) yourself as (.) more female or (.) male 2 uhh (.) that changesΛ 3 and i don’t usually use the words male and female 4 but i realize in different situations it sorta moves around a little bit↑ 5 um (.) i was with my::: (2) nephew two nights ago 6 and he was talking about the exhibition that’s currently at Te Papa the Formula One 7 and he was saying and laughing most of the females there seemed bored 8 and completely (1) not interested↑ 9 i- i LOVE cars and i’m fascinated about racing cars so (.) i10 y’know what part of my brain is working y’know when i’m doing that 11 so it changes it alters it’s not a consistent thing 12 but i know for myself that i (.) i hold both of those realities 13 ((pitch up)) NOT only in my PHYSical body it- there’s something in my BRAIN 14 one of the things that i’ve noticed a LOT thinking over the last few years 15 that MY brain works quite differently from a standard male or a standard female brain↑ 16 it works a LOT like my intersex friends in america 17 so there’s obviously something there about the horMONAL EXPOSURE 18 or the way my brain is WIRED that is different In Extract 2, Mani again began to draw upon discourses of biological determinism, this time to emphasize that differences between bodies run deeper sometimes than what is apparent on the surface where doctors’ scalpels make their marks. They spoke of the brain as an organ, aligning to binary male-female notions of how brains are structured, which is an idea taken up more enthusiastically in folk discourse than in science (lines 17–18: “So there’s obviously something there about the horMONAL EXPOSURE or the way my brain is WIRED that is different”). Although Mani had stated quite bluntly, in line 3, that the words male and female did not apply, I confess that it took me a while to realize that this cultural script of innate brain difference was taken up by Mani, not blindly, but as a useful way to communicate with people about intersex experience. Mani ultimately used a gendered body part (i.e., the brain) as a means for reclaiming masculinity. Implicitly they suggested that if reinforcement and social learning were an adequate explanation, then their “sex-of-rearing” (i.e., female) would have been imprinted upon their mind. It

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would have given them a female brain, but Mani’s subjective body experience did not match this assessment. Far from being a purely biologically deterministic explanation, instead Mani was explaining that the binary is in fact inadequate. The resulting analysis was much more insightful for the combination of insights, and emic theorizing is indeed what I was doing. Without Mani’s knowledge and theorizing about intersex embodiment as a lived experience, the analysis would have been far less useful. More importantly, the experience opened my eyes, as a researcher, to the challenges of intersex anatomo-politics, and I have gone onward to projects with other intersex collaborators, better prepared to “hear” them (e.g., King, 2019). It assisted me to begin understanding the power of perceiving subjects in the biopolitics of intersex and how there are various hegemonic traps to navigate (as outlined above). My goal here has not been to write a self-congratulatory narrative, and indeed there are questions that remain as part of this praxis of questioning and reflexivity. A very important question emerging from ethical problems outlined in an earlier section is to what extent this project “disturbed and destabilized” in ways valuable to intersex-bodied people (Silberstein, 2016). Another equally important consideration takes me back to the Darlington Statement, quoted at the start of the chapter, to ask whether I have been able to “respect the intersex human rights movement, without tokenism, or instrumentalising, or co-opting intersex issues as a means for other ends” (Item 47). I feel that the answer to the first question is yes, based on conversations with Mani about my interpretations both pre- and post-publication. The educational interaction with the students in the first place, as well as the perceptible ripples of knowledge created in academia by my publications, have fit with Mani’s personal advocacy goals as well as the goals of ITANZ. For the second question, the resulting publications walked a thin line between prioritizing knowledge about intersex and addressing broader questions important to my field, and those texts indeed did both. However, looking back, now that the Darlington Statement has been published, I feel that I crossed a line into “intersex exceptionalism,” treating the knowledge gained about intersex as uniquely positioned to transform ideas in my field. Although I had involved Mani from the start, this still was a form of instrumentalization, and it is an error I have since tried to rectify by also analyzing normative bodies to avoid overdetermining intersex bodies (King, 2019). Finally, in my projects since (e.g., with the Intersex and Language Research Group in the United States: King, 2019; forthcoming) and ongoing here in Hong Kong, I have placed the hegemonic pathologization of intersex, outlined in the earlier part of this chapter, squarely at the center of my focus. For as this chapter has, I hope, clearly outlined, this is the issue of most concern in intersex advocacy at this time.

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CONCLUSION In this chapter I have introduced readers to the quandaries and injustices of intersex human rights as a social justice project that manifests in localized ways in multiple geopolitical contexts. I have also endeavored to demonstrate that applied linguistics, in its epistemologies and ethical aspirations, has a great deal to offer intersex studies as the hegemonic realities of biopolitics for intersex-bodied people continue to be tackled. I have explored through critical reflexive praxis the ways in which applied linguistic knowledge can interact with the knowledge of intersex-bodied people, as organic intellectuals who are suffering these hegemonic oppressions, and where there is room for improvement ethically. Moving forward, I hope that applied linguists and other applied language scholars feel motivated to contribute to this human rights cause through research led by an intersex community, taking the long view, not as a researcher tourist, but as an ally committed to collaborating with and respecting the intersex human rights movement, eschewing tokenism, instrumentalization, and co-optation.

APPENDIX Transcription Conventions // Slashes indicate overlapping speech. word- A hyphen indicates abruptly cut-off speech. (1) Numbers in parentheses indicate elapsed time of silence in seconds. (.) A dot in parentheses indicates a tiny gap, less than 1 second. :: Colons indicate prolongation of the immediately prior sound. The length of the row of colons indicates the length of the prolongation. WORD Capitals indicate especially emphasized sounds compared to surrounding talk (including “I”). () Single parentheses contain prosodic contributions—for example, (laughter). (()) Double parentheses contain author’s descriptions rather than transcriptions. ↑ Indicates rising intonation in the preceding syllable. ̭ ∪ Indicates falling and then rising intonation in the preceding syllable. ∩ ̬ Indicates rising and then falling intonation in the preceding syllable.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank Mani Mitchell and ITANZ for supporting the research reviewed here. Thank you also to Morgan Carpenter, Christian Chun, Mi-Cha Flubacher, and Tommaso Milani for invaluable comments on earlier drafts.

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NOTES 1 Although, as Morgan Holmes has pointed out in her autoethnographic account, as an intersex child she had “child-sized intersex genitals,” not the genitals of a man and a woman (Holmes, 2009). 2 Thomas Laqueur (1990: 22) writes, The notion, so powerful after the eighteenth century, that there had to be something inside, and throughout the body which defines male as opposed to female and which provides the foundation for an attraction of opposites is absent from classical or Renaissance medicine. In the millennial traditions of western medicine, genitals came to matter as the marks of sexual opposition only last week. 3 This characterization is problematized by Sullivan (2015), who argues that it is reductive to say that feminists uncritically lifted gender from Money’s theorizing. Rather, most were critical of what they saw as his biological determinism, and even Ann Oakley, who recognized his interactionist stance, was critical of his failure to address the politics of gender. 4 In an odd twist, Money’s version of gender might surprise the far-right “antigender” movement who have vilified gender, resignifying it as a negative descriptor of progressive agendas (Borba, Hall, & Hiramoto, 2020). 5 Tracing keywords in Money’s publications, Iain Morland (2015) argues that Money built on then-popular ideas of Alfred Adler, who maintained that lifelong psychological qualities of a person could be traced to childhood, linking anatomy to psychology by suggesting that children with bodies they perceived as not fitting society would feel inferior and vulnerable and therefore socially withdrawn. Money combined this notion with Jacques Maliniak’s use of that reasoning to justify plastic surgery. 6 Of course, there are intersex people who are not “organic” intellectuals but rather serve as intellectuals in society already, and their work is fundamental; I cite many of them in this chapter (e.g., Morgan Carpenter, Georgiann Davis, Vincent Guillot, Morgan Holmes, Hilary Malatino, Iain Morland, and David Rubin). 7 Although I did not frame the project in the somatechnics framework at the time, I would like to do so now because I’ve realized the usefulness of somatechnics epistemologically, and the fact that what I have been doing fits the framework very well.

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Locher, M. A., & Bolander, B. (2019). Ethics in pragmatics. Journal of Pragmatics, 145, 83–90. Lundberg, T., Hegarty, P., & Roen, K. (2018). Making sense of “intersex” and “DSD”: How laypeople understand and use terminology. Psychology & Sexuality, 9(2), 161–173. Makoni, S. (2003). Review of A. Davies, An introduction to applied linguistics: From practice to theory and A. Pennycook, Critical applied linguistics: A critical introduction. Applied Linguistics, 24(1), 130–137. Malatino, H. (2019). Queer embodiment: Monstrosity, medical violence, and intersex experience. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Milani, T. M. (2014). Sexed signs–queering the scenery. International Journal of the Sociology of Language, 228, 201–205. Milani, T. M. (2015). Sexual cityzenship: Discourses, spaces and bodies at Joburg Pride 2012. Journal of Language and Politics, 14(3), 431–454. Morland, I. (2006). Postmodern intersex. In S. E. Sytsma (Ed.), Ethics and intersex (pp. 319–332). New York: Springer. Morland, I. (2009). Between critique and reform: Ways of reading the intersex controversy. In M. Holmes (Ed.), Critical intersex (pp. 191–213). Farnham: Ashgate. Morland, I. (2011). Intersex treatment and the promise of trauma. In J. A. Fisher (Ed.), Gender and the science of difference: Cultural politics of contemporary science and medicine (pp. 147–163). New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Morland, I. (2015). Gender, genitals, and the meaning of being human. In L. Downing, I. Morland, & N. Sullivan (Eds.), Fuckology: Critical essays on John Money’s diagnostic concepts (pp. 69–98). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Nicholson, L. (1994). Interpreting gender. Signs, 20(1), 79–105. Ortega, L. (2012). Epistemological diversity and moral ends of research in instructed SLA. Language Teaching Research, 16(2), 206–226. Pennycook, A. (2018). Applied linguistics as epistemic assemblage. AILA Review, 31(1), 113–134. Pugliese, J., & Stryker, S. (2009). The somatechnics of race and whiteness. Social Semiotics, 19(1), 1–8. Rampton, B. (1992). Scope for empowerment in sociolinguistics? In D. Cameron, E. Frazer, P. Harvey, M. B. H. Rampton, & K. Richardson (Eds.), Researching language: Issues of power and method (pp. 29–64). London: Routledge. Reis, E. (2009). Bodies in doubt: An American history of intersex. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Repo, J. (2016),.The biopolitics of gender. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rosa, J., & Flores, N. (2017). Unsettling race and language: Toward a raciolinguistic perspective. Language in Society, 46(5), 621–647. Rosario, V. A. (2009). Quantum sex: Intersex and the molecular deconstruction of sex. GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, 15(2), 267–284. Rubin, D. A. (2012). “An unnamed blank that craved a name”: A genealogy of intersex as gender. Signs, 37(4), 883–908. Rubin, D. A. (2016). Biochemistry and physiology. In N. A. Naples (Ed.), The Wiley Blackwell encyclopedia of gender and sexuality studies (pp. 1–7). New York: John Wiley & Sons. Rubin, D. A. (2017). Intersex matters: Biomedical embodiment, gender regulation, and transnational activism. Albany: SUNY Press. Said, E. W. (1993). Culture and imperialism. New York: Vintage.

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Sanz, V. (2017). No way out of the binary: A critical history of the scientific production of sex. Signs, 43(1), 2–27. Shankar, S., & Cavanaugh, J. R. (2017). Toward a theory of language materiality: An introduction. In J. R. Cavanaugh & S. Shankar (Eds.), Language and materiality: Ethnographic and theoretical explorations (pp. 1–28). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Silberstein, S. (2016). Ethics in activist scholarship: Media/policy analyses of Seattle’s homeless encampment “sweeps.” In P. I. De Costa (Ed.), Ethics in applied linguistics research: Language researcher narratives (pp. 218–236). London: Routledge. Singer, M., & Baer, H. A. (1995). Critical medical anthropology. Boca Raton: CRC Press. Sullivan, N. (2009a). The somatechnics of intersexuality. GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, 15(2), 313–327. Sullivan, N. (2009b). Transsomatechnics and the matter of “genital modifications.” Australian Feminist Studies, 24(60), 275–286. Sullivan, N. (2015). The matter of gender. In L. Downing, I. Morland, & N. Sullivan (Eds.), Fuckology: Critical essays on John Money’s diagnostic concepts (pp. 19–40). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sullivan, N., & Murray, S. (2011). Editorial. Somatechnics, 1(1), v–vii. Thorne, S. L., Siekmann, S., & Charles, W. (2016). Ethical issues in indigenous language research and interventions. In P. I. De Costa (Ed.), Ethics in applied linguistics research: Language researcher narratives (pp. 142–160). London: Routledge. Thurlow, C. (2016). Queering critical discourse studies or/and Performing “post-class” ideologies. Critical Discourse Studies, 13(5), 485–514. Topp, S. S. (2019). Shifting medical paradigms: The evolution of relationships between intersex individuals and doctors. In B. L. Simula, J. E. Sumerau, & A. Miller (Eds.), Expanding the rainbow: Exploring the relationships of bi+, polyamorous, kinky, ace, intersex, and trans people (pp. 265–277). Leiden: Brill. Watkins, E. (2011). Gramscian politics and capitalist common sense. In M. E. Green (Ed.), Rethinking Gramsci (pp. 105–111). London: Routledge. Wolfram, W. (2013). Language awareness in community perspective: Obligation and opportunity. In R. Bayley, R. Cameron, & C. Lucas (Eds.), The Oxford handbook of sociolinguistics (pp. 753–772). Oxford: Oxford University Press. World Health Organization. (2015). Sexual health, human rights and the law. Geneva: World Health Organization. Woweries, J. (2018). Who has a disorder? Who gets to decide? In E. Schneider & C. Baltes-Löhr (Eds.) (M. Müller & S. Volkens, Trans.), Normed children: Effects of gender and sex related normativity on childhood and adolescence (pp. 95–112). Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag. Zimman, L. (2014). The discursive construction of sex: Remaking and reclaiming the gendered body in talk about genitals among trans men. In L. Zimman, J. L. Davis, & J. Raclaw (Eds.), Queer excursions: Retheorizing binaries in language, gender, and sexuality (pp. 13–34). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Zobel, S. (2018). Intersex/gender-related constitutiveness: Specific realities, specific norms. In E. Schneider & C. Baltes-Löhr (Eds.) (M. Müller & S. Volkens, Trans.), Normed children: Effects of gender and sex related normativity on childhood and adolescence (pp. 209–228). Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag.

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PART FOUR

Affect

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Wash Your Hands! Domestic Labor and the Affective Economy of Racial Capitalism ANA DEUMERT

1. INTRODUCTION: CAPITALISM AND AFFECT Let me begin with a statement: capitalism—its rhetoric of rationality not withstanding—is shot through with emotion and affect. The affective nature of capitalism is not a result of Post-Fordist precarity and austerity politics—our more recent past—but has always been there; it is integral to the capitalist order. One of the scholars who has explored the link between capitalism and affect is Eva Illouz (2007). Illouz grounds her reflections in the tradition of (northern) scholarship and argues that early sociologists and political scientists paid close attention to the psychology of feeling, to affect and emotion. Prominent examples are Karl Marx’s theory of alienation, which speaks to the destruction of humanity’s freedom, and Max Weber’s The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, which outlines the warped “ethic” of capitalist wealth accumulation and value extraction. Not only is capitalism embedded in affective regimes, but anti-capitalist movements the world over also draw on emotional-psychological registers as well (see, e.g., Deleuze & Guattari, 2004). A psychological register is also

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found in anti-colonial critique (e.g., Fanon, 1961; Hickling, 2020; Nandy, 1983), a critique that is—always also—anti-capitalist. In addition, there is an ever-growing literature on the mental health implications of capitalist regimes, emphasizing its destruction of our emotional well-being (see Sennett & Cobb, 1972, for an early discussion; for recent work see, e.g., Matthews, 2019; Prins, Bates, Keyes, & Mutaner, 2015). Affect plays an important role in sociolinguistic theorizing (see, e.g., Bucholtz & Hall, 2016; Kiesling, 2018; Milani & Richardson 2020; Thurlow, 2016; Wetherell, 2013). Building on this and other work, some sociolinguists have begun to develop (what I call) a “psycho-political linguistics” that pays attention to subjectivity, to affect and emotion, to desire and pleasure, to fear and trauma, to violence and oppression (Deumert, 2018a). The interconnections between capitalism and affect are multiple (Chun, 2017; also Chun, 2019, on “class” as a “becoming” and thus necessarily affective). The notion of affect moves our attention toward the nondiscursive. That is, even though affect can be discursively articulated, it is primarily located at the level of “felt” experiences. At times, these experiences cannot be articulated easily; sometimes they remain unsayable or require a different vocality and tonality. While trauma and violence—whether experienced or perpetrated—often bring with them modes of unsayability, they can also result in an excess of words, a verbiage that seeks to hide the violence. In this chapter I foreground the violence, inequality, and exploitation of capitalism as a type of governmentality that is not merely economic but also grounded in structures of racial domination, enmeshed in colonial practices and their afterlives. As a linguist, my focus is on the connections between the capitalist order and semiotic practices: What kinds of language do capitalism and colonialism produce? What kind of silences? And what kinds of communicative excess and verbiages? The chapter focuses on the history and present of domestic labor in South Africa as a space of capitalist exploitation. I start with two theoretical reflections: (1) on alienation and (2) on racial capitalism. Following this, I consider the enduring semiotic practices that shaped, and continue to shape, colonial and neocolonial relations within the home, as well as the affects that they engender. I conclude with a particular moment in the history of capitalism: the global pandemic of Covid-19, which simultaneously strengthened and challenged capitalist formations. Methodologically I follow Jack Halberstam’s (1998, p. 13) idea of a “queer” or “scavenger methodology,” using different theoretical perspectives and data to understand social life in its complexity, thereby refusing “the academic compulsion towards disciplinary coherence.” I draw on (public) social media discourses, adverts by employers and job seekers, previous studies and historical texts, as well as a firm theoretical grounding in social theories that analyze, and acknowledge, the persistent presence of exploitation and oppression across the world.

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2. THEORETICAL REFLECTIONS I: ALIENATION Marx’s concept of alienation speaks directly to questions of affect, to the psychological and ontological damage that capitalism inflicts on humanity through exploitative labor relations. Alienation was a prominent concept in twentiethcentury philosophy, gaining widespread popularity through existentialism, the Frankfurt School, and Marxist psychology. A profoundly Marxist understanding of alienation is also central to Henri Lefebvre’s three-volume Critique of Everyday Life (originally published 1947, 1961, and 1981). At the heart of his work is the idea that unless we understand alienation, which shapes both labor and leisure under capitalism, we cannot understand the texture of the everyday. Moreover, unless we overcome alienation—an emotion which necessarily impoverishes our humanity—we will not be able to change the world for the better. Marx’s early reflections on alienation can be found in a set of incomplete texts known as the “Paris manuscripts” (written in 1844). They were first published under the title Ökonomisch-philosophische Manuskripte in 1932. The collection includes a chapter with the title Entfremdete Arbeit. In Martin Milligan’s (2007) much-used translation, the chapter title is “estranged labour,” not “alienated labour.” Consequently, many English-language scholars use the term “estrangement” in alternation with “alienation.” This reflects—broadly and not always consistently—Marx’ use of the terms Entfremdung (“estrangement”) and Entäusserung (“alienation,” “externalization”). The two terms capture different aspects of capitalist labor exploitation. Alienation speaks to the fact that capitalist relations turn workers into commodities and alienate—that is, externalize—labor from the human being that produces it. As a result, the products of our labor become “hostile and alien … a torment” (Marx, 2007, pp. 181, 213). Estrangement speaks to the psychological consequences of this process: a disturbing feeling of being strange to oneself and to others, a loss of self, of grounding and belonging in a world that has lost its humanity. Marx (2007, pp. 204, 206) notes that under capitalism, ‘life itself appears only as a means to life … a mere means to … existence.” Marx’s discussion is grounded in historical materialism: feelings of alienation or estrangement are not part of the human condition as such but emerge from particular historical contexts. They involve “real individuals,” “real active human beings” (German Ideology, cited by Weyher, 2012, p. 341), who are “sensuous … suffering being[s]‌” (Marx, 2007, 426). The psychology of affect is central to Marx’s thought and his conception of the human: alienation is an intense emotional state that is experienced and felt, a state that causes human suffering. Marx starts from the premise that labor is an essential part of beinghuman. Labor is not drudgery but a form of self-realization and creativity. In the Critique of Everyday Life, Lefebvre (1991, p. 62) expresses a thoroughly Marxist perspective when he states that “work constitutes man’s essence as a

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creator.”1 Alienated or estranged labor stops us from realizing our capacities, capabilities, and creativities. Under conditions of capitalist production, the object that we create is no longer ours: it stands outside of ourselves and has become a commodity that is sold for profit. This applies to all labor, including academic labor. Thus, if I write an article and publish it in a for-profit journal, I can no longer access the product of my own labor freely. I need to pay for it, just like anyone else. The commodification of academic labor is especially visible in the neoliberal university where publications and students carry a “cash value,” and scholarship has been turned into a value-creating commodity. Marx formulates a litmus test for identifying alienated labor: “As soon as no physical or other compulsion exists, labour is shunned like the plague” (2007, p. 198). The opposite of (alienated) labor is therefore not leisure but liberation from the capitalist yoke of other-determined work The concept of alienation speaks forcefully to the human cost of being reduced to one’s use value (Gebrauchswert): it is not the human being who matters—the person with their unique biography and unique capabilities—but the ability to be of use to someone else, to have one’s labor transformed into profit. This applies to all forms of waged labor, productive labor as well as reproductive labor. Like productive labor, reproductive labor contributes to privately owned wealth accumulation. However, instead of producing goods, it reproduces both capital and labor. That is, it ensures that the capitalist or worker is able to return—well-fed and with clean clothes—to work the next day, and that a new generation is being brought up to fill their place within the capitalist order (Gimenez, 2019). Domestic labor is also a space of complicity: not only the owners-of-the-means-of-production employ domestic labor to cook, clean, and mind their children, but workers do so as well. Waged domestic labor creates a usual intimacy of exploiter and exploited. One might think that such intimacy within a household—a home—might create different types of relations, a reaching out from person to person, recognizing each other’s humanity. Yet, physical intimacy does not change the fundamental principles of exploitation and alienation. This was emphasized by Arlie Hochschild (2012, p. 17) in her study of service work. She discusses the gendered nature of “care work” as well as the commodification of emotion. She writes, In order to survive their jobs, they [the factory worker and the service worker] must mentally detach themselves—the factory worker from his own body and physical labour, and the [service worker] from her own feelings and emotional labour. This opens up a range of questions that are relevant for the discussion of domestic labor under colonial and neocolonial capitalism: “What happens when social exchanges are not, as they are in private life, subject to change

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or termination but ritually sealed and almost inescapable? What happens when the emotional display that one person owes another reflects a certain inherent inequality?” (Hochschild, 2012, p. 19). The outcome, according to Hochschild, is a transmutation of feeling, a managed display of emotion that, if successfully performed, risks psychological disassociation; that is, an inability to “hear” one’s own feelings. Thus, the household is a space of exploitation and alienation, just like the plantation or the factory. It creates its own affective pathologies and emotional deformations.

3. THEORETICAL REFLECTIONS II: RACIAL CAPITALISM The history of domestic labor is intertwined with slavery and colonial exploitation. Saidiya Hartman (2016, p. 170) notes that it carries with it “the taint of slavery” (also Mohutsioa-Makhudu, 1989), and the widespread use of waged domestic labor is especially common in countries that have a history of enslavement and colonial labor exploitation. In South Africa, a slavery-societyturned-settler-colony, domestic labor accounts for approximately 6 percent of waged labor. More than one million people, mostly Black women, are employed in various households across the country (Table 8.1).2 Domestic labor exists at the intersection of triple oppression: class, gender, and race.3 The ordinariness of employing domestic labor in South Africa is reflected, for example, in advice given to expatriates. Consider the following extract from expatica.com: Having domestic help (a maid) is the one thing you will absolutely cherish in South Africa … Just think—I’m sitting here researching and typing TABLE 8.1: Composition of the South African Labor Force (4th quarter 2019;

Statistics South Africa, 2020, pp. 4, 62).

Manager Professional Technician Clerk Sales and services Skilled agriculture Craft and related trade Plant and machine operator Elementary Domestic worker

October–December 2019 Labor Force (%) Female (%) 9 31 6 53 9 53 11 72 17 47 0.5 29 12 12 8 12 23 43 6 94

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expat advice columns while my laundry is being ironed and my bathrooms cleaned! Almost all middle-class South Africans employ domestic workers: — housekeepers, nannies, gardeners, and so on. As an expat, you probably will, too.4 Or consider the reflections by the writer Jonny Steinberg (2015), who explained why he decided to give up his life in the UK and return to South Africa. Musing about what life in South Africa will be like once he is “back home,” he notes that “labour in South Africa being cheap, we will employ somebody to dust our furniture and polish our floors.” And among the faceless characters he imagines seeing in the street upon his return are not only the office worker and the laborer but also “a woman who wears the cotton uniform of a maid.” It is a white colonial imaginary: unapologetic, naïve, and fundamentally exploitative. To employ domestic labor is a taken-for-granted aspect of, especially, white, urban middle-class life. At the dawn of democracy in South Africa, roughly 50 percent of white households employed domestic labor; the comparative figure for African households was 2.9 percent (Russell, 2002).5 Thus, whites, who constitute less than 10 percent of South Africa’s population, are heavily overrepresented as employers of domestic labor. In other words, not only is domestic labor classed, gendered, and racialized, but so are those who employ such labor: they are predominately white and middle-class. In 1983, Cedric Robinson published Black Marxism, a book that introduced the idea of “racial capitalism” to a wider audience. In the 1970s and 1980s, the term “racial capitalism” was used by the South African left, where it was associated with the work of Harold Wolpe, Martin Legassick, and Neville Alexander (Al-Bulushi, 2020). While South African scholars “particularized” the idea of racial capitalism as a local phenomenon, Cedric Robinson (2000) extended it to a global scale. Drawing on the work of Caribbean historians such as Oliver Cromwell Cox and C. L. R. James, Robinson argues that capitalist wealth accumulation is embedded in racist practices of dispossession and labor exploitation. Capitalism establishes hierarchies of humanity that position certain parts of humanity as “exploitable” and declare this exploitation “just” or, at least, “justifiable.” Exploitation intensifies—becomes more direct, visible, and coercive—once ideologies of racial difference are evoked. Yet, despite the importance of race in the history of capitalism, race—like gender—has long been a blind spot of Marxist theory. Consider the notion of “precarity”—employed by economists such as Guy Standing (2011) and philosophers such as Judith Butler (2004). Butler casts “precariousness” as “vulnerability” and interprets it as a quintessential part of the human condition. The event that inspired her argument for a relational ethics

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grounded in our shared vulnerabilities was 9/11, and the resulting experience of loss, of “dislocation from first world privilege” (2004, p. xiii)—and one might add “dislocation from white privilege.” Thus, only when it was felt by white middle-class Americans did vulnerability become visible and precarity a theoretical concept. While deeply cognizant of global—and often racialized— inequities, Butler nevertheless writes from a particular position, and it is not the position of “the wretched,” whose lives were always dispensable (and who were often not “bodies” but merely “flesh,” Wilderson, 2010, p. 313). Similarly, Standing’s argument focuses on the effects of post-1980 neoliberalism and the socioeconomic landscape that was created following the 2008 global economic crisis. Precarity is positioned as “new”: a socioeconomic order that emerged over the past two decades, pointing to greater levels of insecurity and instability for many workers (also Tamura, 2018). Yet, precarity was always there. Rather, the short-lived social-democratic reforms of the mid-twentieth century should be seen as an unusual period in which states cushioned the effects of global capitalism within a small number of countries. From a majority-world perspective, precarity is woven into the fabric of capitalism and has been there from the outset (Kasmir, 2018; Munck, 2013). Domestic labor has always been precarious employment, embedded within historical structures of racial capitalism. Until quite recently, workers were rarely protected by labor contracts; working hours would often be excessive, stretching into the weekend and evenings; and despite a heavy and physically demanding work, schedule payment would be exceedingly low. In postapartheid South Africa, domestic labor is covered by the Basic Conditions of Employment Act, which includes the recognition of a national minimum wage, the need for labor contracts, leave and severance pay, and access to unemployment insurance (see Ally, 2010). However, many employers disregard the legislation and practices of severe labor exploitation continue (De Villier and Taylor, 2019; Magwaza, 2008; Tolla, 2013). SweepSouth, a company that provides domestic workers to clients, paints a bleak picture of the sector in their 2021 survey: only 2 percent of domestic workers have medical insurance and only 8 percent a pension plan or savings; 23 percent of domestic workers report that they have been abused verbally at work, 4 percent physically, and 2 percent sexually.6 Moreover, the basic conditions of employment, while providing some regulation, remain exploitative: weekly hours of work are allowed to be as high as 45 hours, lunch breaks may be as short as 30 minutes, and the minimum hourly rate (for 2020) is set at just above Rand 15 (less than 1 Euro). This rate is 25 percent lower than the minimum wage for other sectors, a troubling statement about the nonequality of domestic work and thus a sign, reflecting the perceived “worth” of their labor (on wages as signs, see Kaminer, 2019). For full-time employment, this wage translates to less than Rand 3,000 per month (approximately 150

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Euro), a salary that is so low that the households of many domestic workers remain below the poverty line.7 Reporting on their study of domestic workers in Mpumalanga, one of the provinces of South Africa, Tsoaledi Thobejane and Sibongile Khoza (2019, p. 33) describe the humiliating and dehumanizing conditions many domestic workers still face in contemporary South Africa: Domestic workers revealed a number of challenges they are facing in their daily lives … being harassed, working many days without being given off days and being forced to have sex with their employer, receiving low wages, working after hours and extra hours. The long shadow of colonialism and racial capitalism does not merely haunt the present like a specter. Rather, the shadow is permanent, not a ghost that appears and leaves; it darkens the present in which we live and creates relations not simply of precarity and vulnerability, not simply of exploitation, but of super-exploitation. Super-exploitation exists when wages earned do not cover labor reproduction, that is, when wages do not cover the cost of “decent” living (including access to health services, sick leave, pensions, etc.). Superexploitation is a feature of the global south, where low wages are endemic, allowing maximum profits for global capitalism (Smith, 2016).8 The term itself is not new: it appeared from the 1930s onward, in The Crisis, a magazine founded by W. E. B. Du Bois and others. It has been central to the analysis of racial capitalism in the United States, and also South Africa, where it appeared regularly in the pages of Sechaba, the official organ of the African National Congress (see, e.g., Sechaba, May 1973, a special issue dedicated to the South African worker). Super-exploitation—unlike vulnerability—is not part of the human condition. It is a defining feature of racial capitalism and it has shaped, and continues to shape, the experiences of workers, and especially women workers (whether in the global south or as migrants in the global north; see Pröbsting, 2015).9

4. SEMIOTIC BUNDLING: CREATING A TOTAL INSTITUTION In 1936, the South African writer J. J. R Jolobe published the poem Ukwenziwa komkhonzi (The Making of a Servant). It speaks to the dehumanization that occurs when the human spirit and human freedom is crushed, chained, and conscripted—when it is put under the yoke and forced into work. Each stanza of the poem ends with the following lines: Kuba ndikubonile ukwenziwa komkhonzi Kwinkatyana yedyokhwe.

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Because I have seen the making of a servant In the young yoke-ox10 The poem serves as the epigraph to Jacklyn Cock’s (1980) Maids and Madams, a sociological study of domestic workers under apartheid. Jolobe makes an obvious, but crucial, point: the servant is “made,” not born. Language plays a major role in this process. It is through language and other semiotic practices that relations of exploitation are realized, articulated, and reproduced, creating “scripts of servitude” (Lorente, 2017) and “scripts of supremacy” (Deumert, 2018b). The notion of “scripts” links to performativity and performance, to the “theatrics” of colonialism and racial capitalism. Theatrics describes the performative excess that characterizes colonial relations: interactions are not just about “getting the work done” but are staged for the benefit of an audience, inscribing and reinscribing the Manichean logic of colonial-capitalist oppression, staging a “drama of servility” (Baderoon, 2014, p. 175). The semiotic process that underpins these scripts, and makes them so effective and powerful, is what Webb Keane (2003) calls “bundling”: sets of semiotic and material practices are bundled together, embodied across time and space, creating meaning as assemblage. The South African psychologist Chabani Manganyi (1970) calls the interlinking scripts of servitude and supremacy the “master-servant communication complex.” It is a semiotic constellation that takes place primarily in English or Afrikaans; African languages are mostly absent. This, in itself, is an expression of (neo)colonial power and violence (Kaiper, 2018). The gendered nature of domestic work, and the fact that the master is usually a madam, suggests that a renaming might be in order. In the context of domestic labor it is apt to speak of the “madam-servant-communication complex.” The dual meaning of “complex” is relevant: it is a whole that is made up of interrelated parts (as in “the military industrial complex”), as well as a collection of repressed desires and affects (as in “the Oedipus complex”). The master/madam-servant communication complex was legally enshrined in the Master-Servant Act of 1856. The Act criminalized a wide range of behaviors. Servants who left their employment or did not follow the “command” of their masters or madams could be prosecuted. The Act also monitored the language used by servants, and any speech that was deemed insulting to the master or madam would lead to fines or imprisonment, thus inscribing social personae and established scripts for interaction. It was repealed only in 1974.11 Scripts of servitude require the domestic worker to show deference, to restrict the expressiveness of their voices, to keep them low and contained, to be silent rather than to disagree. The opposite applies to the madam. Anything is possible: commands can be couched in kindness or shouted; giving respect is a choice, not matter-of-course; silence or speech, the decision is hers. At

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the eve of apartheid, Nomsa Ngqakayi (1991) conducted interviews with domestic workers and their madams. Her interviews reflect the discourses and positionings that underpin madam-servant communication, practices of supremacy and deference as well as racialized exploitation. Importantly, none of the white employers interviewed could imagine having a white domestic worker. Domestic work was implicitly tied to race, and racial schemas determined the structures of interaction in the home. As one employer noted, “I never lived in a culture where there were white domestic servants. I would find that very very difficult in terms of not knowing what the lines and barriers were” (1991, p. 84). The domestic workers interviewed by Ngqakayi reported various forms of physical and verbal abuse, and often adopted “keeping quiet” as a survival strategy (also Magona, 1991). Writing about domestic labor in South Africa during the 1980s and 1990s, Sarron Goldman (2003, p. 84) notes salient aspects of these scripts: There was a specific language of control or subordination. For one thing, the domestic worker was required to punctuate her social interaction with verbal acts of deference, e.g. “sir,” “madam.” The employer’s child was to be submitted to in a similar fashion and commonly would have been addressed as “little boss” or “little master.” There was also the necessity to beg, importune or humbly ask for little things, such as permission to use the telephone, a drink of water, etc. The domestic worker was usually called “girl” … It carried with it the implication that the domestic worker was a “perpetual child” … the domestic worker’s African names were unknown to employers. All these are examples of what Erwing Goffman (1961, p. 22) called “indignities of speech” and “forced deference patterns.” Writing about asylums as an example of a total institution, Goffman comments on the deep humiliations that form part of the very structure of such institutions: “Just as an individual can be required to hold his body in a humiliating pose, so he may have to provide humiliating verbal responses.” Goffman’s examples echo those given by Goldman; the parallels are uncanny: Inmates are often required to punctuate their social interaction with staff by verbal acts of deference, such as saying “sir.” Another instance is the necessity to beg, importune, or humbly ask for little things such as a light for a cigarette, a drink of water, or permission to use the telephone. (Goffman 1961, p. 22) These interactional structures lead to the “mortification of the self ”: “The individual has to engage in an activity whose symbolic implications are

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incompatible with his conception of self ” (p. 23). The self that is being projected—the self that has to be projected—is a self-in-servitude. Job-seeker adverts continue to show such mortifications of self, the person—unique, complex, and creative—is turned into a bundle of stereotypes and humiliations. Consider these examples from adverts that were posted publicly on a South African online advertisement website in July/August 2020. I am humbled, ever-smiling and hard-working. Am well spoken, hygienic, neat and work without being attended. Ellen is very hardworking, reliable, loyal and trustworthy. I am extremely hardworking, reliable, honest person who does everything the way you want.12 Domestic workers emphasize their “use value” in these adverts: being good with cleaning, making children happy, polishing the silver and the wooden floors. The adverts are similar to one another, often copied verbatim. The persona presented is hardworking and reliable servant, who advertises herself in words that could have been uttered at a slave auction: “I am in good physical shape and more than able to lift heavy goods and stand consistently for up to 8 hours every working days.” The past is present. Goffman links these practices to his concept of a “total institution,” a social formation where human activity is controlled and regulated. Total institutions are “worlds apart,” enclosed social formations that show a basic split between supervisors and those whose actions (and agency) are under the control of the former. Typical examples are prisons—and these have been linked back to plantation economies and thus racial capitalism (see McKittrick, 2013, on the persistence of a “plantation logic” in contemporary spaces). Cock (1980) suggested that domestic service can be seen as a “quasi total institution” and refers, especially, to live-in domestic workers (which were common under apartheid), and the very long hours of work that don’t allow workers time to be with their own families and friends, to have a life outside of their labor. Domestic labor, as noted by Jennifer Fish (2006, p. 81) remains “the last bastion of apartheid.” That the madam-servant communication complex is not of the past is evident in continued reports of abuse of domestic workers (see Section 3; see also Kaiper, 2018). Apartheid’s long shadow is evident in the practices of those who describe themselves as “good” and “caring” employers. This is documented in Sarah Archer’s (2011) work on the semiotics of food and domestic labor in postapartheid South Africa. She shows how even “progressive” employers, who are cognizant of the country’s dark history, use food as a way of disciplining and circumscribing the bodies of domestic workers. A striking vignette comes from one of her focus groups and involves a woman called Cheryl, who—like many others—provides food for her domestic

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worker. Cheryl had told to her domestic worker that she can help herself to anything in the fridge. Yet, she recalled with astonishment the day when smoked chicken became her domestic worker’s lunch: “I never told her that she can’t have anything, until she actually had the smoked chicken” (p. 69). Food thus continues to serve as a code for the unspoken boundaries that cannot be transgressed—boundaries between masters/madams and servants that have solidified over centuries, boundaries that are embodied and “known,” grounded in racial logics of work and consumption. Food is a symbolic domain, where the madam can use her power and engage in affectively structured domination. Even though some economists count “food provided” among the “in-kind” support for domestic workers, ameliorating the effects of extremely low salaries (Burger, Von Flintel, & Van der Watt, 2018), the quality and quantity of such provisions depends on the employer-employee relationship. It usually requires from the domestic worker to behave in ways that are perceived as “pleasant” by the employer. Tania, another employer, was unapologetic: “I’m not generous with domestic workers I don’t like. It’s a power thing—I can be cruel to her if I don’t like her. I love our current domestic worker and buy her lots of food” (Archer, 2011, p. 73). There is violence in this statement, the violence of paternalism (and its female equivalent): “I will look after you, care for you, provided that you behave in ways that I like.” Mary Jackson (1994) describes paternalism as a manipulative practice that entrenches inequality and exploitation through a rhetoric of affection and care. These are structures-of-feeling that go back to the days of slavery, when “caring for (deserving) servants” was central to ideas of colonial womenhood. Other practices continue too: separate dishes are still being used; doors are being locked; requests for unpaid extra work cannot be denied without risk (as the specter of unemployment looms large); and gifts and favors are used to ensure loyalty and compliance (Jacobs, Manicom, & Durrheim, 2013). Boundary marking—so essential to the maintenance of white supremacy and dominance—is also visible in clothing: domestic worker uniforms were prominent during apartheid and much of the 1990s. Uniforms make the workers visible as well as invisible: they mark their identities as workers for everyone to see, but they also allow them to blend into the background, to be “just the worker,” not a person. The social and political meaning of workers’ uniforms was subversively transformed in 2014, when elected members of the Economic Freedom Fighters entered parliament wearing the clothes of the working class. They wore bright red manual worker’s overalls and domestic worker’s uniforms—the color of the socialist revolution—for everyone to see. Uniforms are still produced and used. However, they are no longer the norm (although they remain common in media representations, Mahali, 2016; also Steinberg’s nostalgic memory of a “woman who wears the uniform of a maid,” cited in Section 2). The archetypical uniforms were usually generic poly-cotton

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dresses—often in pastel colors with white trimmings—complete with aprons and a doek, a headscarf (Ntombela, 2012). The South African artist Mary Sibande used this imaginary to create the figure Sophie/Ntombikayise: hypervisible and inescapable statues of a powerful African woman, whose domesticworker uniform has become a regal robe. Sophie/Ntombikayise is queen and superman in one; she conducts symphonies, leads armies, rides horses and attends balls (Baderoon, 2014; Bidouzo-Coudray, 2014). Her eyes are closed— as if she is dreaming of another world. Looking at Sibande’s visually emotionally arresting statues of Sophie/ Ntombikayise, I am reminded of Nina Simone’s interpretation of Pirate Jenny. Simone locates Jenny’s story in a town in the American South. Jenny is no longer a prostitute but a Black maid who provides service to even the poorest of whites. Nina Simone first performed the song in 1964 at Carnegie Hall, at the height of the Civil Rights struggle. However, I draw on the recording of the 1992 live version at Montreal, where she introduced the song with the following words: This story is the story of a black freighter … it was written by Berthold Brecht and Kurt Weil in 1932, and it’s the story of Jenny … we have transported Jenny to a flophouse in South Carolina, and Jenny has decided that she is going to kill everybody tonight, everybody that is coming to that flophouse, she will kill them and tomorrow she is going home.13 Simone captures the anger, abjection, and affective violence of the song like no other artist. As she sings about a “black freighter” the words transform acoustically into a “black fighter” and simultaneously evoke the memory of “black freight,” of human cargo. In Simone’s breathtaking performance, Jenny—denied her agency and humanity, exploited and oppressed as a servant— imagines stepping out “in the morning, looking nice with a ribbon in my hair.” Her anger and bitterness, first loud and in staccato, becomes but a crackle, a hiss, a haunting whisper when she says “all of them,” ordering that everyone whom she served must be killed. As the bodies pile up her voice turns into a triumphant call: “That’ll learn ya!” Daphne Brooks (2011, p. 179) described Simone’s interpretation of the song as crafting “a poetics of sonic alienation”—a tonal expression of the pain, the suffering caused by super-exploitation and alienated labor. The performance moves from the unspeakable—the hiss and haunting whisper—to the triumph of speech, of addressing the exploiter of one’s labor directly: “That’ll learn ya!” The total institution is in ruins. Resistance can be spectacular and subversive; it can also be organized—a point that is emphasized by Susheela Mcwatts (2018) in her work on the politicaleconomic activism of the South African Domestic Services and Allied Workers Union (SADSAWU) and the International Domestic Workers Federation (IDWF;

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see also Ally, 2010). Collective action is especially important for domestic workers who often find themselves isolated within individual households. However, these rights-based political discourses are continuously undermined by discourses of intimacy and paternalism, an insistence that domestic workers are not just workers but that they are “like family,” and that, therefore, they do not need a union, they are being looked after.14

4. LIKE FAMILY: SENTIMENTALIZING SUPER-EXPLOITATION Fred Moten’s (2003) In the Break: The Aesthetics of the Black Radical Tradition starts with an anguished cry, the quintessential expression of emotion and affect. The cry, or rather scream, is that of Aunt Hester, the aunt of Fredrick Douglass, who witnessed her being beaten brutally by her slave master. It is a frequently cited memory: the violence of slavery and racial capitalism leads to a crisis in language, to speechlessness, to an anguish that sounds, but does not do so in words and sentences. A cry, a scream, a “phonic substance” that cannot be reduced to one meaning, millions of cries reverberate, in their singularity and their multitude. The commodity, the object, resists. Moten proposes a semiotics that is on “the outside of speech,” a semiotics that exists “in the break.” He explores the acoustics of photographs and argues that images transcend the visual: they sound and echo, not metaphorically but ontologically. The photograph he discusses is that of Emmett Till’s open casket, showing his tortured and mutilated body. Moten implores us to listen to the photograph, to engage in a “seeing that redoubles itself as sound,” and to hear “the extreme and subtle harmonies of various shrieks, hums, hollers, shouts and moans” that emanate from the picture (pp. 200–201). Like Simone, Moten foregrounds the anguished cry, the scream—a visceral-visual sonicity that Saidiya Hartman (1997, pp. 3–4) acknowledges and simultaneously decries. She asks: What are the consequences of the “routine display of the slave’s ravaged body”? Hartman suggests shifting the focus to the terror of “the mundane and quotidian,” the “terror and the violence perpetrated under the rubric of pleasure, paternalism and property” (p. 4). A particular photograph persists in the colonial archive: it is the image of a local nanny and a white child. The image is an archetype and transcends space and time. We can find such images for India and Gabon, for Morocco and Brazil—the internet overflows with them. And they are not just of the “past” but also of the “present”—as illustrated by Ellen Jacob’s photographs, documenting Black nannies and white children in Manhattan’s Upper Westside (Teicher, 2014). These images constitute a memory genre: they feature in photo albums and circulate digitally (Owira, 2015). In the South African context, many such images can be found on public Facebook groups. The

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memory genre of “my nanny” is noticeable among postings, expressing ideas of a fictive kinship and love, while ignoring the super-exploitative conditions of such labor. Consider a post from 2019: an image of an African woman and two small children who are sitting at a swimming pool. In the accompanying text, the writer notes that this—nameless—woman has been “part of the family” for over thirty years, working as a nanny across generations. The image is accompanied by the hashtag #bondsthatcantbebroken. The phrase is disturbing: the “across generations” trope evokes memories of bonded labor. There exist many similar posts and images online, always reflecting the excessively sentimental memories and thoughts of the employer, never of the worker: “best nanny of the world,” “my second mom,” “our wonderful and loving nanny,” “my nanny,” “Emily, our nanny and domestic,” and so forth. The language is revealing: the excessive superlative, the flattering adjectives, combined with the habitual use of possessives. The latter express a sense of ownership that is grounded in what Aileen Moreton-Robinson (2015) called “the white possessive,” a form of domination that stakes possessive claims of land, natural resources, animals, cultures, and people and their labor. Note that Moreton-Robinson refers to it as “an excessive desire to own” (p. 67): the white possessive thus has affective qualities and is “a constitutive element of white subjectivity” (p. 115). The idea that domestic workers are “like family” persists in art and literature, in personal narratives and shared photographs (Jansen, 2019). Domestic work exists in a paradoxical affective space; it is caught between humiliation/ exploitation and care/intimacy. It is a site where white children learn about privilege and domination, where racist structures are reproduced; and it is through the nostalgic narrative of kinship and love that employers silence their feelings of guilt, discomfort, and shame (Cook, 1980, p. 19; Shefer, 2012). And, indeed, Kevin Durrheim and his colleagues (2014) note that acts of “generosity” feature frequently in the narratives of employers. “Help” is provided to assuage one’s feelings of guilt: food, maybe some clothes, and assistance with school fees might be offered. Yet, the salary remains low and nonnegotiable, and practices of super-exploitation continue (see also Murray & Durrheim, 2019; Phyfer, Durrheim, & Murray, 2020). The employer’s narratives of affection, love, and care jar with the text of the Domestic Worker’s Manifesto (1995). Here the domestic workers state, “Everyone must know that we are forced into that work—it is not our choice.” In 2019, someone posted this memory on a public South African Facebook page, remembering her “nanny”: “She was my other mother who lived with us, left her family and became part of ours.” Behind these words lies tragedy: children deprived of a mother who had to go and work, not because she wanted, but because she had to. Echoes of bonded labor: “It is not our choice.” Consider this memory from the son of a domestic worker:

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I watched my mother bringing up white kids, serving white people to ensure that we were fed … I watched the life of a parent being offered for the convenience of a white person until there was nothing left. My mother worked for one family for more than 20 years. When she left their employ, there was no pension, and not even money for a couple of months. She was discarded because they had no use for her anymore. (Cited in Shefer, 2012, p. 311) The South African artist Zanele Muholi, whose mother was a domestic worker, had similar experiences and created the artwork Massa and Mina(h) as a tribute to domestic workers, turning humiliated and abused servant bodies into works of art.15 Muholi’s photographs “queer” the madam-maid relationship, making visible its inexplicable intimacies and Manichean structures (Ngcobo, 2010). “Like family” takes on a sinister and abusive tone in this statement by an employer. The madam is a medical doctor, who has four children and requires her domestic worker to be available seven days a week. She comments, She is part of our family. We take care of her, her mother worked for us. She gets all the old clothes, she eats all the leftovers and she has a bed and her own room. When we bought a new TV we put the old one in her room. She will do anything for this family. We can wake her up at midnight and ask her to prepare a meal and she does it with a smile on her face. (Cited in SeedatKhan, Dharmaraja, & Sidloyi, 2014, p. 35) I am reminded of Teju Cole’s (2012) tweets on the “white saviour industrial complex.”16 Cole is not holding back: “The banality of evil transmutes into the banality of sentimentality. … I deeply respect … sentimentality, the way one respects a wounded hippo. You must keep an eye on it, for you know it is deadly.” In Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power, Ann Laura Stoler (2010) writes about memory work in Indonesia and contrasts the sentimental and nostalgic memories of the Dutch colonists with those of their former servants. The narratives of the latter are striking by their “flatness” and “terseness” when compared to the emotionalized and highly affective narratives of the colonizers. Moreover, the servants’ narratives appeared to be minimally scripted. They resembled suppressed memories, steeped in structures of unsayability. Stoler contrasts two narratives: (a) the nostalgic memory of a Dutch colonist (characterized by “lush sentimentality”) and (b) the matter-of-fact memory of a former servant: a. She would … take me in her lap. The fragrance of her body and her clothes, of her sarung especially, I must have intensely inhaled, a sort of pre-erotic!

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She caressed me by nestling me against her … Now still I recollect this fragrance, because smells can remind me of it! … [S]‌uch was my relationship to her. (Stoler, 2010, p. 164) b. It was like this with the Dutch … I was told to take care of the child. At ten at night I’d go back in and give it something to drink, some milk, then a change of clothes, whatever clothes were wet, you know … then I’d return to the back [servants’ quarters] again, like that. (Stoler, 2010, p. 165) Stoler asks: What should one make of the “uncozy” and “distinctly unsentimental memories” of the former servants? These narratives seem “to speak past” rather than “to speak back” to the nostalgic memories of the colonizer. Stoler continues, Were relations between servants and those they served utterly bereft of tenderness, or were care and nurturing factored into the sale of emotional labour, cherished and valued only by those Dutch who were recipients of it? (p. 174) Stoler appears to struggle with this, looking for an explanation that acknowledges that there existed—must have existed!—some “tender ties,” that child care, even under conditions of colonial violence and super-exploitation, would show the love and care that the colonists remembered. But must it? If we proceed from the idea of violence—super-exploitation, super-alienation, and paternalistic humiliation— then the narratives, their tone and their silences, are not surprising. Isn’t it to be expected that “these were not warm recollections” (p. 202)? After all, “everyone must know that we are forced into that work—it is not our choice.”

5. CONCLUSION: WASH YOUR HANDS! I wrote this chapter at a particular point in time: during the Covid-19 stay-athome-order, referred to as “lockdown” in South Africa. The context is relevant for my reflections on racial capitalism and its affects. Just one year before the virus stopped the world, Gerard Delanty (2019) wrote about “the future of capitalism” and considered, in passing, the possibility that a catastrophic collapse could be caused by a virus. However, capitalism has lived through many crises and through two pandemics (Spanish Flu and HIV/AIDS). It is highly resilient and seems to change shape, rather than to collapse. Thus, while the current crisis might bring about new measures—such as a basic income grant—this does not mean that capitalism will end: wealth accumulation, protection of private property rights, and exploitation can exist alongside such protective measures. Moreover, it is in this moment—a moment that shattered all certainties about

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the future—that old practices continue unabated, illustrating most forcefully the coloniality of the present and the persistent violence of racial capitalism. The virus impacted directly on the institution of domestic labor. On May 1, 2020, the International Labour Organization (ILO) hosted a special seminar on domestic workers and Covid-19. The reports from across the world restated the same message: dramatic loss of income and employment, stress and depression, hunger and poverty, lack of state support (see International Labour Organization, 2020). Consider Brazil: in Rio de Janeiro, the first reported Covid-19-related death was by a domestic worker. She had contracted the virus from her employer who had returned from a trip to Italy (Lourenço & Castro, 2020). The situation was similar in South Africa and initial infections were linked to affluent global mobilities. However, soon it was in the highdensity townships, where workers reside, that the virus spread most rapidly. During the lockdown, domestic workers were not able to work. Considering nostalgic narratives of “like family,” one might have suspected that their salaries would still be paid. Yet, for many this did not happen, nor were they able to access unemployment insurance because too many employers had failed to pay the required contributions (Postman, 2020). And when the lockdown was eased, and workers could return to work, they risked infection due to working inside a house, in close proximity to others. Some employers have responded by reinstating live-in domestic work, strictly surveilling worker mobilities and discouraging any visits to families and friends.17 The past remains and returns, in employment practices and in interactional moments. During the early days of the lockdown in South Africa, one such encounter was filmed and circulated on social media.18 The power of citizen journalism, the filming of racist actions that have long gone unnoticed, ignited the global Black Lives Matter movement during the pandemic, following the release of a video documenting the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis. The South African video embodies not the anguished cries of racist violence and murder, but its everydayness. It is another example of Hartman’s (1997) terror of “the mundane and quotidian,” the terror of racist paternalism (and maternalism). What happened in the video? At an urban apartment complex a white woman teaches Black workers to wash their hands for the required twenty seconds (the time recommended to eliminate infection and transmission of the coronavirus). Those who clean up after the white masters, madams, and their children, those who are paid but a pittance do the “dirty work” of the home, are taught by one such madam how to wash their hands, while being ordered to sing “Happy Birthday” and “Shosholoza.” The latter is a song about the hardships of labor migration to the mines, and—like other songs about labor and exploitation—it was sung during the struggle for freedom. After 1994 it became one of the few African songs known by whites, and it is usually sung at occasions that wish to evoke the feel-good ideology of an ahistoric

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“rainbow-nation” (Chikane, 2018). To be ordered to sing these songs evokes memories of other moments when workers are asked to perform: to sing for overseas visitors are expensive resorts; to celebrate the birthday of children who are not their own. The video is an example of the theatrics discussed above, staging a drama of white arrogance. Listening closely to the interaction, one notices how the woman addresses the female workers as “girls” and employs an infantilizing register throughout. This is followed by a string of commands (put, clean, sing). There is excess here, a verbiage that speaks at—not with or to—a group of silent workers. It is the performance of a colonial “purification ritual” (McClintock, 1995, p. 226): soap and water as fetish; the firm demarcation of racial boundaries; the violent inscription of African workers as dirty and unhygienic, as needing not only separate dishes, food and clothes, but also instruction in the basics of “hand-washing” (on colonialism, discourses of cleanliness, and “soaps imperial iconography,” see also Ally, 2013). The incident speaks to the coloniality of the present and the intertwining of timescales: the moment in 2020—the so-called new normal—is shaped by colonial memories, discourses, practices, and materialities. I want to end with Audre Lorde (2007) who, in her essay The Uses of Anger, recalls the following memory: I wheel my two year-old daughter in a shopping cart through a super-market in Eastchester in 1967, and a little white girl riding past in her mother’s cart calls out excitedly: “Oh look, Mommy, a baby-maid!” And your mother shushes you, but she does not correct you. Today, half a century later, domestic labor is still carried out by Black women, under conditions of super-exploitation and the dehumanizing structures of white supremacy. Lorde uses this, and other memories, to affirm the transformative, and indeed revolutionary, power of anger and the importance of fundamental sociopolitical change: When I speak of change, I do not mean a simple switch of positions or a temporary lessening of tensions, nor the ability to smile or feel good. I am speaking of a basic and radical alteration in those assumptions underlying our lives … anger expressed and translated into action in the service of our vision and our future is a liberating and strengthening act of clarification. Thus, when thinking about linguistics, and what our profession can contribute to “an economically and socially just society” (see Introduction to the volume), one answer is “to be angry,” and to use this anger to “articulate with precision” (Lorde, 2007) our critiques. As linguists, our critiques are grounded in finegrained semiotic analysis: to show, painstakingly, how oppression and suffering

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continues, how semiotic practices persist through time, linked to historical materialities of exploitation and super-exploitation.

NOTES 1 In my writing I put gendered—and otherwise discriminatory language—sous rature, “under erasure.” I do not wish to change the original text as it articulates real oppressions. By putting the text “under erasure,” the discursive violence becomes visible and available for reflection. 2 The highly gendered nature of domestic labor emerged in South Africa in the early twentieth century when the rise of the mining industry led to a demand for industrial labor. Men increasingly found (better paid) employment in the mines, and domestic labor became dominated by women (Van Onselen, 1982). 3 By focusing on labor, I diverge from a focus on the commodification and consumption of semiotic resources (including language), which has shaped much recent work in sociolinguistics (see Del Percio, Flubacher, & Duchêne, 2017, for an overview of this research). 4 “Hiring a Domestic Worker in South Africa,” Expatica, June 11, 2021. Available online:  https://www.expatica.com/za/living/household/domestic-help-in-southafrica-105868/. 5 Research on Black households employing domestic workers is still limited. However, Xoliswa Dilata (2008) and Percyval Bayane (2019) suggest that relations are different from those found in white households employing Black labor. For example, frequently those employed are members of a larger family network, and employment is grounded in expectations of reciprocal care. 6 https://blogdotsweepsouthdotcom.files.wordpress.com/2021/06/2021-domesticworker-report-full-2-1.pdf. 7 Statistics South Africa (2019) sets the poverty line (for food and essential nonfood items) at Rand 1,227 per person/per month. This means that to support a household of three, the income would need to be above Rand 3,381 per month. See also livingwage.co.za. 8 Orthodox Marxists have rejected the idea of super-exploitation (which was developed by the Brazilian scholar Ruy Mauro Marini). However, John Smith (2016) and Matan Kaminer (2019) show that the concept is part of the analysis in Das Kapital, most noticeably in Marx’s analysis of labor reproduction and his comments on enslaved labor. 9 Using a cultural studies register—rather than Marxist analysis—super-exploitation can be seen a form of necropolitics, creating vast populations whose labor cannot sustain them (Mbembe, 2003). 10 J. J. R. Jolobe, The Making of a Servant and other Poems, trans. R. Kavanagh and Z. S. Qangule (from isiXhosa) (Johannesburg: Raven Press, 1974). 11 Early sociolinguistic work (despite its engagement with postcolonial contexts) has been quite blind to the communicative violence of the master/madam-servant

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relation. An example of this is John Gumperz’s (1968) discussion of the speech community, where he does little more than assign “linguistically distinct special parlances” to “highly stratified societies” (of which he names “master and servant” as a possible constellation). The sociological vision is Weberian, speaking about “stratification” and “status,” not Marxist, recognizing exploitation and oppression. 12 Academic conventions require us to reference. Yet I am not referencing adverts (and other online publicly available data) individually. I treat these narratives ethnographically, akin to overheard conversations one might note in a fieldwork journal. I do not wish to engage in forms of digital surveillance and the disruption of privacy (see also Bhattacharyya, 2020). My argument is not about individuals but about the workings of an exploitative and racist system. 13 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BB__mz4KGC8 14 Moreover, it appears that some employers actively discourage workers from joining the union; some employers forbid it explicitly (Kaiper, 2018; Mcwatts 2018). 15 https://derica.tumblr.com/post/5364557936/zanele-muholi-massa-and-minah. 16 Teju Cole, “The White-Savior Industrial Complex,” The Atlantic, March 21, 2012. Available online: https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2012/03/ the-white-savior-industrial-complex/254843/. 17 For example, one advert—posted shortly after the first lockdown in South Africa— looked for a live-in domestic worker who would, essentially, not be allowed to leave the premises: weekend visits to family were strongly discouraged and “until Covid19 virus is over, travelling on public transport or visits to shopping centres would not be allowed.” Another advert stated, “The person must stay with us until covid is completely over”; another one announces that the domestic worker must be “able to work under camera surveillance.” It is the return of bonded labor, of live-in servants who are ideally without their own families: “preferably no kids or husband.” 18 The full video is available at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWFvAoNOxkw, and the South African Human Rights Commission announced that it will investigate the incident (https://www.sahrc.org.za/index.php/sahrc-media/news/ item/2312-sahrc-to-probe-hand-washing-tutorial-video).

REFERENCES Al-Bulushi, Y. (2020). Thinking racial capitalism and black radicalism from Africa: An intellectual geography of Cedric Robinson’s world-system. Geoforum. Retrieved from https://doi.org/10.1016/j.geoforum.2020.01.018 Ally, S. (2010). From servants to workers: South African domestic workers and the democratic state. Scottsville: University of KwaZulu Natal Press. Ally, S. (2013). “Ooh, eh eh … just one small cap is enough!” Servants, detergents, and their prosthetic significance. African Studies, 72, 321–352. Archer, S. (2011). “Buying the maid Ricoffy”: Domestic workers, employers and food. South African Review of Sociology, 42, 66–82. Baderoon, G. (2014). The ghost in the house: Women, race, and domesticity in South Africa. Cambridge Journal of Postcolonial Literary Inquiry, 1, 173–188.

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Manganyi, N. C. (1970). Being-Black-In-The-World. Johannesburg: Ravan Press. Marx, K. (2007). Economic and philosophic manuscripts (M. Milligan, Trans. and Ed.). Minoela, NY: Dover. (Original work published 1961) Matthews, D. (2019). Capitalism and mental health. Monthly Review, 70, 49–62. Mbembe, A. (2003). Necropolitics. Public Culture, 15, 11–14. McClintock, A. (1995). Imperial leather: Race, gender and sexuality in the colonial context. London: Routledge. McKittrick, K. (2013). Plantation futures. Small Axe: A Caribbean Journal of Criticism, 17, 1–15. Mcwatts, S. (2018). “Yes madam, I can speak”: A study of the recovered voice of the domestic worker. Unpublished PhD thesis, University of the Western Cape. Milani, T. M., & Richardson, J. E. (2020). Discourse and affect. Social Semiotics. doi: 10.1080/10350330.1810553 Mohutsioa-Makhudu, Y. N. K. (1989). The psychological effects of apartheid on the mental health of Black South African women domestics. Journal of Multicultural Counseling and Development, 7, 134–142. Moreton-Robinson, A. (2015). The white possessive: Property, power and indigenous sovereignty. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Moten, F. (2003). In the break: The aesthetics of the Black radical tradition. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Munck, R. (2013). The precariat: A view from the south. Third World Quarterly, 34, 747–762. Murray, A. J., & Durrheim, K. (2019). “There was much that went unspoken”: maintaining racial hierarchies in South African paid domestic labour through the unsaid. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 42, 2623–2640. Nandy, A. (1983). The intimate enemy: Loss and recovery under colonialism. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Ngcobo, G. (2010). It’s work as usual: Framing race, class and gender through a South African lens. AfricAvenir International. Retrieved from http://www.africavenir.org/ publications/e-dossiers/revisions/gabi-ngcobo.html Ngqakayi, N. (1991). Subjectivity in the “maid”/ “madam” relationship and its effects on the occupational child care-giving functions of the domestic worker. Unpublished MA thesis, University of Cape Town. Ntombela, S. (2012). Do clothes make a woman? Exploring the role of dress in shaping South African domestic workers’ identities. In M. Relebohile, C. Mitchell, & A. Smith (Eds.), Was it something that I wore? Dress. Identity. Materiality (pp. 132– 147). South Africa: HSRC Press. Owira, P. (2015, Decmber 23). Mirror mirror on the wall, who is most privileged of them all? Daily Vox. Retrieved from https://www.thedailyvox.co.za/ mirror-mirror-on-the-wall-whos-the-most-privileged-of-them-all/ Del Percio, A., Flubacher, M.-C., & Duchêne, A. (2017). Language and political economy. In O. Gracía, N. Flores, & M. Spotti (Eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Language and Society (pp. 55–75). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Phyfer, J., Durrheim, K., & Murray, A. J. (2020). Buttressing whiteness by confessing guilt and rejecting racism: A study of white-talk about paid domestic labour. South African Review of Sociology, 51(1), 3–16. Postman, Z. (2020, May 11). Covid-19: Many domestic workers not covered by relief measures. GroundUp. Retrieved from https://www.groundup.org.za/article/ covid-19-many-domestic-workers-not-covered-relief-measures/

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Prins, S. J., Bates, L. M., Keyes, K. M., & Muntaner, C. (2015). Anxious? Depressed? You might be suffering from capitalism: Contradictory class locations and the prevalence of depression and anxiety in the USA. Sociology of Health & Illness, 37, 1352–1372. Pröbsting, M. (2015). Migration and super-exploitation: Marxist theory and the role of migration in the present period of capitalist decay. Critique, 43, 329–346. Robinson, C. (2000). Black Marxism: The making of the Black radical tradition. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. (Original work published 1983) Russell, M. (2002). The employment of Black domestic workers by Black urban households. Centre for Social Science Research, CSSR Working Paper No. 26. Retrieved from http://www.cssr.uct.ac.za/sites/default/files/image_tool/images/256/ files/pubs/wp26.pdf Seedat-Khan, M., Dharmaraja, G., & Sidloyi, S. 2014. A new form of bonded labour: A comparative study between domestic workers of South Africa and India. Journal of Sociology and Social Anthropology, 4, 31–40. Sennett, R., & Cobb, J. (1972). The hidden injuries of class. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shefer, T. (2012). Fraught tenderness: Narratives on domestic workers in memories of apartheid. Peace and Conflict: Journal of Peace Psychology, 18, 307–317. Smith, J. (2016). Imperialism in the twenty-first century: Globalization, superexploitation, and capitalism’s final crisis. New York: Monthly Review Press. Standing, G. (2011). The precariat: The new dangerous class. London: Bloomsbury. Statistics South Africa. (2019). National poverty lines. Statistical Release P0310.1. Pretoria: Statistics South Africa. Statistics South Africa. (2020). Quarterly labour force survey, quarter 4: 2019. Statistical Release P0211. Pretoria: Statistics South Africa. Steinberg, J. (2015, February 18). Why I am moving back to South Africa. Retrieved from https://www.buzzfeed.com/jonnysteinberg/why-im-moving-back-to-southafrica?utm_term=.sxaK0wGQLe#.lgB16X8K9 Stoler, A. L. (2010). Carnal knowledge and imperial power: Race and the intimate in colonial rule. Berkeley: University of California Press. Tamura, A. (2018). Post-Fukushima activism: Politics and knowledge in the age of precarity. London: Routledge. Teicher, J. G. (2014, January 14). Inside the lives of New York nannies. Slate. Retrieved from https://slate.com/culture/2014/01/ellen-jacob-photographs-new-york-nanniesin-her-series-substitutes.html Thobejane, T. D., & Khoza, S. (2019). Becoming a domestic worker. OIDA International Journal of Sustainable Development, 12, 27–38. Thurlow, C. (2016). Queering critical discourse studies or/and performing “post-class” ideologies. Critical Discourse Studies, 13, 485–514. Tolla, T. (2013). Black women’s experiences of domestic work: Domestic workers in Mpumalanga. Unpublished MA thesis, University of Cape Town. Van Onselen, C. (1982). New Nineveh: Studies in the social and economic history of the Witwatersrand 1886–1914. Johannesburg: Raven Press. Wetherell, M. (2013). Affect and discourse–What’s the problem? From affect as excess to affective/discursive practice. Subjectivity, 6(4), 349–368. Weyher, F. 2012. Re-reading sociology via emotions: Karl Marx’s theory of human nature and estrangement. Sociological Perspectives, 55, 341–363. Wilderson, F. B. (2010). Red, white & black: Cinema and the structure of U.S. antagonisms. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

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CHAPTER NINE

Politics of Commemoration and Memory JOHN E. RICHARDSON AND TOMMASO M. MILANI

INTRODUCTION Commenting on the spatial turn in applied linguistics, Clare Kramsch (2018, p. 114) forcefully proposes that “a post-structuralist focus on Space must be supplemented by a post-modern concern with Time.” Inspired by Gilles Deleuze’s (1992) work on power, she goes on to state that “without a humanistic sense of history, the wide open spaces of our translingual practices could easily be turned into societies of control” (Kramsch 2018, p. 114). Admittedly, Kramsch’s critique is directed specifically toward the spatial metaphors of possibilities used by (some) applied linguists when analyzing linguistic phenomena in digital environments. However, we believe that her comments are a powerful reminder of the analytical importance of time for applied linguistic research. It is precisely time and its political and ideological dimensions that are brought under investigation in this chapter. More specifically, we focus on struggles about remembering and commemoration. This is with the aim to marry an applied linguistic concern with “real-world problems in which language is a central issue” (Brumfit 1995, p. 27) with an ever-expanding number of studies examining the ways that the past is variously represented, “remembered,” and

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made material (as, inter alia, street names, museums, monuments, and other memorials) in public (see Ben-Rafael & Shohamy, 2016; and Blackwood & Macalister, 2019, on memory and memorialization in linguistic landscape research). National pasts have been particularly scrutinized, focusing on whether it is possible for a nation to “remember” its past at all and, if so, the role that such “collective memory” can play in national and political cultures. In what follows, we begin with an overview of key academic discussions about remembering and collective memory; we then move on to present the discursive ingredients in acts of memorialization, before presenting two very different case studies that illustrate the politics of commemoration.

MEMORY AND REMEMBERING Memory is a concept that is simultaneously easy to comprehend and elusive to define. Don Norman (1970), for example, lists twenty-five categories of psychological memory alone. However, since the work of Endel Tulving (1972), it has been commonly accepted to consider individual memory as being constituted by “two information processing systems” (p. 385): episodic memory and semantic memory, which are acquired, respectively, through experience and semiosis. “Episodic memory receives and stores information about temporally dated episodes and events … and it is always stored in terms of its autobiographical reference” (p. 385)—that is, episodic memories are our memories of our own personal experiences. Semantic memory, on the other hand, “is the memory necessary for the use of language … [the] organized knowledge a person possesses about words and other verbal symbols, their meaning and referents” (p. 386). In other words, semantic memories are memories “of meanings, understandings and other concept-based knowledge” (Gavriely-Nuri, 2014, p. 49). The two systems of memory overlay each other, to the extent that we may sometimes remember the moment that we learnt something (and so an episodic memory is the moment we acquired a new semantic memory); equally, our episodic memories can be shaped and/or distorted by being exposed to others’ accounts of the same or related events. What should be clear from the above summary is that language use is central to both episodic and semantic memories. The concept of memory has since been stretched by a range of additional concepts, including “collective memory” (Halbwachs, 1992); “collected memory” (Young, 1993, 2000); “collective remembrance” (Winter, 2006; see also Winter & Sivan, 1999); “cultural memory” (Ben-Amos & Weissberg, 1999), “communicative memory” (Assmann, 2006); and “social memory,” “public memory,” and “vernacular memory” (see Kansteiner, 2002). Andy Pearce (2014, p. 4) suggests that the “objects of interest within memory studies are the exchange, interaction and relationship of memory between individuals.”

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Communication, and semiosis more broadly, is central to these personal and interpersonal processes of memory exchange and interaction, with individual memory involving “  ‘interior communication’ within someone’s mind” and collective memory requiring “an act of communication among people” (Gavriely-Nuri, 2014, p. 51). Of all these concepts, collective memory is the most widely used definitional term; however, it is still “poorly understood in contemporary academic discourse” (Wertsch & Roediger, 2008, p. 318). Indeed, the “conceptual haziness” at the heart of some studies suggest that—for some—collective memory is an academic buzzword, a fashionable way to badge research on cultural history, historical identities, and historical consciousness (Fogu & Kansteiner, 2006). First suggested by Maurice Halbwachs (1992), collective memory is predicated on the idea that “it is in society that people normally acquire their memories. It is also in society that they recall, recognize and localize their memories” (p. 38). Accordingly, collective memory refers to both the process through which (individual, psychological) memories are acquired and the ways that these mnemonic products are shared, circulated, and become more or less “settled” within a group of people. Taking each in turn, for everyone except the desert-island-bound hermit, personal episodic memories are the result of collective interaction between groups of people— friends, families, work colleagues, and other people we encounter on a daily basis. The memories we hold are therefore self-evidently “collective” inasmuch as they originated in these shared social interactions and speak to the society, the time, and the place in which they were formed (Middleton & Edwards, 1990). However, we commit the fallacy of “concrete generalization” if we then assume or argue that we all share the same mnemonic product as an outcome of these shared processes. Even family members have different memories of the same collective events—not least because our memories are also a record of our individual, sometimes affective and/or emotional, reactions to these collective events. Summarizing Halbwachs’s argument regarding collective memory-asproduct, Oren Meyers, Eyal Zandberg, and Motti Neiger (2014, p. 3) argue that “social groups construct their own images of the world by constantly shaping and reshaping versions of the past.” Through this process, social groups implicitly (and, occasionally, deliberately) create boundaries that separate them from other groups who share different interpretations of the same historic events and processes. More succinctly, Claudio Fogu and Wulf Kansteiner (2006, p. 287) suggest that collective memories should be understood as “collectively shared representations of the past.” This deceptively simple definition should then require us to consider (1) who produced such “representations of the past,” when, and with what aims; (2) how they are shared, by whom, and the extent to which this is a joint/cooperative process or a more powerful social/political

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group imposing a particular representation of the past on the rest; and (3) as a result, which social group’s past/present they represent. The construction of a collective memory is strongly influenced by political, social, and cultural forces. Nevertheless, whilst these “memories” bear the hallmarks of shared communications, often produced and disseminated by cultural and/or political elites, they still need to resonate with “the life-worlds of individuals who partake in the communal life of the respective collective” (Kansteiner, 2002, p. 188). Much of the published work on the history of memory focuses on national “memorial projects, compensation legislation, parliamentary debates, presidential speeches, school textbooks and the like” (Niven, 2008, p. 434), which speaks to the central role that “the nation” continues to assume in collective identities. National collective remembering tends to involve “an identity project (usually based on a narrative of heroism, a golden age, victimhood, etc.) … relies on implicit theories, schemas, and scripts that simplify the past and ignore substantiated findings that do not fit the narrative” (Wertsch & Roediger, 2008, p. 321). The fact that such national “collective memories” are the focus of these various “memorial projects” is itself evidence of two further observations: first, that these “collective memories” are neither fixed nor universally retained by a population (otherwise a project to fix a memory would be unnecessary), and, second, that different accounts of the national past have differing political and moral rewards and, on occasion, legal ramifications (otherwise a project to fix a memory would be unbeneficial). For Henry Rousso (2011, p. 233), “in most of the contemporary disputes over the past, the real issue is not so much question of ‘memory’ but rather a claim for official recognition by an institution.” The stakes/consequences of disputes over “collective memory” are such that “most countries and their intellectuals propagated narrowly self-serving interpretations and memories of their past” (Lebow, 2006, p. 21), particularly “memories” that relate to wartime conduct in general and, for Europe at least, the Second World War in particular. The wartime conduct of the vast majority of Europe diverged, to a lesser or greater extent, with positive senses of these nation’s collective identities, leading to a widespread quarantining of “the war, the fascist period, the era of collaboration, or whatever events were troubling … as diverging from the ‘normal’ trajectory of the nation” (Lebow, 2006, p. 31). Consider, for example, the politics of postwar memory in Britain: Tony Kushner (1997, p. 8) has argued that “Britain’s war memory was essential to its post-1945 national identity.” Although, during the war, “detailed information about the Holocaust was received, believed and broadcast” by the BBC (Seaton, 1987, p. 53), not least the Allied Declaration on the fate of Jewry (December 17, 1942), which made official the assessment that the information previously received had been true, the British “memory” of themselves as “suffering heroes” of the war “was too precious … to have been brought into question

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by the experiences of another people whose suffering and losses made British sacrifices pale into insignificance” (Kushner, 1997, p. 8; see also Cesarani & Sundquist, 2012; Kushner, 1998). Accordingly, still, British people are far more likely to consider the “British collective memories of WWII” as incorporating the “Blitz,” the Battle of Britain, D-Day and—at a push–the liberation of BergenBelsen by British troops rather than, for example, the five-year Occupation of the Channel Islands between 1940 and 1945. Gilly Carr (2016, p. 45) argues that the occupation of the Channel Islands was similar in several respects to that of other countries in Western Europe. The Jewish population was persecuted and deported; those [gentiles] who committed acts of resistance were imprisoned locally or deported to Nazi prisons and concentration camps on the continent; and foreign laborers were imported to the islands to build the concrete bunkers of the Atlantic Wall. This history is doubly threatening to Britain’s Churchillian account of plucky resistance, as it not only questions narratives of wartime suffering (“Us” and/ or “the Jews”) but also examines who was positioned as the agent of, or responsible for, this suffering. The occupation of the Channel Islands during the Second World War reveals that British citizens were both the victims and the agents of institutionalized anti-Semitism (Fraser, 2000). These uncomfortable truths regarding British complicity in incorporating anti-Semitism into the law of the Channel Islands, in identifying British Jews for persecution and murder, and in identifying Jewish property for expropriation and “aryanisation” reveal not only that some Jewish victims of the Shoah were British but that their persecutors were also British (albeit living and operating under the constraints of the occupying Nazi German Army). There are also “political and epistemological implications” (Fogu and Kansteiner, 2006, p. 299) of categorizing shared representations of the past as “collective memories” since this shift (from representation to “memory”) tends to entail they gain a “new respect as meaningful explanations in their own right” (p. 299). Noa Gedi and Yigal Elam (1996, p. 43) argue that “collective memory” should only ever be used is a metaphorical sense: “It has the advantage of being a vivid and illustrative description, but as an explanatory tool it is useless and even misleading.” This position accords with Amos Funkenstein’s (1989, p. 6) pithy reminder that “just as a nation cannot eat or dance, neither can it speak or remember.” However, that hasn’t stopped a large number of academics offering accounts based on a simplistic analogy between individual and “collective” memory. Smita Rahman (2010), for example, suggests, “A collective memory can be understood as the combined memory of a population that has experienced a common past” (pp. 60–1). Collective memory, in this

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account, is less a metaphorical extension of individual episodic memory to the level of society, and more a wholesale reimagining of collectivities “as though they are individuals writ large” (Handler, 1994, p. 33). Such an approach not only reifies “collective memory” as a thing but also posits a transference between individual and collective processes. Even the more acclaimed and field-defining publications—such as Erll (2011)—index the slippages and ambiguities characteristic of memory studies. As the book points out very early on, “Memory itself is … not observable. Only through the observation of concrete acts of remembering situated in specific sociocultural contexts can we hypothesize about memory’s nature and functioning” (Erll, 2011, p. 8). In one sense, this is correct: we do not have access to others’ minds and so we (only) have recourse to what they say or do. Consequently, however, when people speak of the past we have no basis to suggest that what we encounter are “concrete acts of remembering” (our emphasis). What we have, in fact, are concrete acts of someone speaking about the past; to claim that these are “memories” (whether collective or individual) grants them an additional epistemic status. Later, in this same publication, Astrid Erll does state that “memories are not objective images of past perceptions, even less of a past reality. They are subjective, highly selective reconstructions, dependent on the situation in which they are recalled” (Erll, 2011, p. 8). Again, we would argue that this is correct, up to a point. Discourse is always produced according to context-specific factors including, but not limited to, (inter)personal, generic, institutional, functional, and rhetorical factors. Such discourse therefore bears the hallmarks of those who produced it, the intended recipient, and the context of situation in which it is produced/consumed; the various discursive strategies used should be taken to index these factors as much as the “past perceptions” or “past reality” being invoked. However, the ontology of “memory studies” cannot quite grasp the full implications of this situatedness of discourse on history, and this is indexed in the vocabulary used. To state that memories are “subjective, highly selective reconstructions [of past perception], dependent on the situation in which they are recalled” presupposes that the discourse being shared exists—however partially, however imprecisely—as memory, in the mind’s eye of the person doing this recollection. In other words, the person engaged in the concrete act of “remembering” is involved in “an act of assembling available data” and presenting this “in accordance with the changed present situation” (Erll, 2011, p. 8). Such an account doesn’t seem to allow for the possibility that the speaker could be vocalizing an account of the past that is not drawn from their own understanding—unless semantic memory is being folded into, and treated as indistinguishable from, episodic memory. In other words, this narrative of the past could have been produced by, and reflects the politics and discursive agenda of, person A but is merely being spoken by person B (cf. Goffman,

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1981). Accordingly, we propose analyzing individual or collective remembering as (perhaps someone else’s?) narrativization of the past, rather than as memory qua memory.

COMMEMORATION: RHETORIC, MEDIATION, EMOTION To summarize the preceding section: “The construction of the past and contestation of those narratives are political processes that take place in a broader linguistic and cultural setting” (Lebow, 2006, p. 27; see also Meyers et al., 2014). The processes through which certain narratives, and arguments, regarding the past come to prominence over others, how we are to understand them and how to understand ourselves in relation to these pasts, are matters of deep social significance (Edgerton & Rollins, 2001; Kansteiner, 2006; Stone, 2013). Consequently, the theories, methods, and analytical tools developed in linguistics, cultural, and communications studies are required to examine, and to understand, in detail the ways that pasts are narrativized and pasts commemorated. In one of the first publications to take a discursive approach to collective remembering, the collection edited by David Middleton and Derek Edwards (1990, p. 1) makes a case for “remembering and forgetting as inherently social activities.” Their discourse-analytic approach, an early example of discursive psychology, orientates us to take people’s accounts of the past as pragmatically variable versions that are constructed with regard to particular communicative circumstances. People’s accounts of past events are treated not as a window on to the cognitive workings of memory, but as descriptions that vary according to whatever pragmatic and rhetorical work they are designed for, such that no decontextualized version can be taken as a reflection of the “contents” of a person’s “memory.” (p. 11) Our approach, similarly, assumes that collective remembering (Wertsch, 2002) is a rhetorical accomplishment that not only constructs a “common past” but also presupposes a common/singular people who experienced this past. Frequently, this presupposition papers over fissures and conflicts based on class, sex/gender, race, and religion within the national “self.” The field of remembrance and its various genres (inter alia speeches, marches, ceremonies and mass commemoration, places of memory, public funerals, minutes of silence) both reflect and illuminate the complex processes of (national) histories, individual memory, and collective remembrance, and the ways that they mediate and interact with each other in social and historic contexts. Commemorations are dynamic processes, through which narratives

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about the past, about “us” and “them” as well as beliefs, values, and affective conditions contained in these stories, are produced and reproduced. The ontology of “collective memory” also tend to posit a mythic pseudo-organicist vision of the national self, wherein injuries to in-group others in the past are positioned as trauma for the national self in the present—or, at minimum, something that the national self in the present needs to variously work through, address, negotiate, overcome, and so on. In this way, “collective memory” not only tends to position contemporary social groups as complex individuals but also tends to collapse any distinction between this self in the present (the collective/constructed “we”) and others in the past. Commemorative events play a subtle role in the garnering of public consensus, working to consolidate myths about social in-groups and out-groups (particularly nations) and hence contributing to processes of group inclusion and exclusion. This facilitates room for the creation of unity but also the collision of opposing political interests and interpretations of the past, as well as the potential for conflict with the collective myths/narratives of other national, ethnic, or religious groups (Heer, Manoschek, Pollak, & Wodak, 2008; Wodak & Auer-Borea, 2009). Consequently, processes of collective memorializing are not neutral but rather “have bearings on relationships of power within society” (Confino, 2005, p. 48; see also Billig & Marinho, 2017). Remembrance and commemoration entail communication processes wherein people, events, and stories of the past are recalled, retold, and recontextualized in the present, frequently with a view to ensuring a just and moral society in the future (Gutman, Brown, Sodaro, 2010). When “the past” is recalled as part of a commemorative event, it is mediated by the immediate agenda of (typically institutional) “memory makers” (Kansteiner, 2002, p. 197), articulated to the preoccupations and discourses of the context, and according to hegemonic narratives of heroes, villains, perpetrators, victims and bystanders. Such commemorative discourse is always aimed at modifying or consolidating existing social relations. As Alon Confino (1997, p. 1390) argues, “every society sets up images of the past. Yet to make a difference in society, it is not enough for a certain past to be selected. It must steer emotions, motivate people to act, be received; in short, it must become a socio-cultural mode of action.” The “socio-cultural mode of action” described by Confino (1997, p. 390) works through moving audiences into and out of emotional states. Middleton and Edwards (1990, p. 9) refer to this as “the rhetorical organization of remembering and forgetting” and note that it is reflected “in argument about contested pasts and plausible accounts of who is to blame, or to be excused, acknowledged, praised, honoured, thanked, trusted and so on, that occur as part of the pragmatics of everyday communication.” Aristotle (2007) identifies three species of rhetorical discourse: deliberative/political rhetoric, forensic/legal rhetoric, and epideictic/ ceremonial rhetoric. Epideictic or ceremonial rhetoric is directed toward proving

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someone or something worthy of admiration or disapproval; its means are praise and censure and its special topics are honor and dishonor. The three species of rhetoric are heuristics, of course, that seldom occur in everyday argumentation in a pure form. Commemoration represents a blended rhetorical genre that brings together the epideictic and forensic species of rhetorical argument, operates through a combination of praise/censure and accusation/defense, and draws on the special topics of (dis)honor and (in)justice. In such discourse, the language of values and praise typical of epideictic rhetoric is blended with narrative accounts of the past and the language of (self)identification, where the past is retrieved for the present (Wodak & De Cillia, 2007, p. 346). Epideictic rhetoric has, in the past, been depreciated as ceremonial “praise or blame” speeches that simply trade on commonplace knowledge. However, such an account misses the aim, and the normative power, of epideictic. Epideictic does orientate to praise and blame. However, given that the topics of praise or blame assume the existence of social norms, upon which this praise or blame is based, epideictic also acts to presuppose and evoke common values. For Michael Hyde (2005, p. 11), epideictic acts as “a collective or public form of recognition, a pragmatic and ‘moral act’ that supplies meaning to life.” Epideictic rhetoric interpolates listeners (Richardson 2017, 2018), calls to their sense of conscience (or guilt), and aims “to create a conviction and suggest a conduct. The encomium offers listeners models of virtue and encourages their imitation. The subject being praised inspires admiration and emulation” (Pernot, 2015, p. 95). The purpose of epideictic rhetoric is, therefore, not simply “to say the truth, but to re-affirm and recreate afresh the consensus around prevailing values” (Pernot 2015, p. 98). As with all forms of rhetoric, epideictic arguments can be advanced through what Aristotle termed artistic means of persuasion, which the speaker needs to invent, and nonartistic means of persuasion, such as other texts (laws, photographs, film, etc.), which the speaker/writer calls upon and uses. To take an example of each in turn: Celeste Condit (1985) suggests that audiences “actively seek and invite” artistic epideictic speeches “when some event, person, group, or object is confusing or troubling. The speaker will explain the troubling issue in terms of the audience’s key values and beliefs.” Her analysis of the Boston Massacre Orations demonstrates that successful speakers didn’t provide the audience with “newspaper-like reportorial accounts” of the five American colonists killed by British Army infantrymen but instead “depicted events on a larger canvas” (p. 294). The successful speeches offered an “abstract, yet passionate” account of the victims being commemorated as a way of placing the past “in the emotional and valuational contexts of the community” (p. 296). Nonartistic means of persuasion are frequently utilized in commemoration as a way to establish facticity—that “this happened.” Photographs and archival

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film clips of the Shoah, for example, used in both commemorative ceremonies and museum exhibits, tend to repeat a number of well-established visual metonyms: inter alia, striped “pyjama-style” suits, piles of naked corpses, railway lines particularly those leading to the Auschwitz III gatehouse, and images of emaciated survivors behind barbed wire fences. The power and repetition of these “atrocity photographs” have not only become the basis of collective representations of the Shoah (Zelizer, 1998) but have also subsequently “provided the template for all later photo-reportage of mass murder, leading to the blurring of temporal boundaries” (Cesarani, 2000, p. 10). For David Bathrick (2008, p. 1), these visualizations serve “for some as virtual access to knowledge of the horror; in a few cases, they even provided preeminent verification that it actually happened … pictorial icons by which many have sought to capture the seemingly unimaginable.” Therefore, photographs and archival film function as a way not only to index historic events but also to imply an evaluative position for the viewer: as a way of parsing and emotionally processing the text. Or, as the introduction spoken during the British Holocaust Memorial Day ceremony (BBC Two 2016) put it, they “remind us of the scenes that so shocked the world at the end of the Second World War, and are still shocking us all today” (BBC Two 2016, 2.41– 2.48; emphasis added). Clearly, such archival films and images also feature extensively in massmediated representations of the past. Indeed, the mass media—both factual and fictional—constitute the most prevalent sites of historical and collective remembering in modern national societies (Huyssen, 2000). In recent years, “media researchers as well as collective memory scholars have increasingly explored the role of mass media in processes such as the commercialization of collective memory” (Meyers, Zandberg, & Neiger, 2009, p. 456), though questions regarding the (in)ability of the mass media to do “proper history” remain a perennial feature (cf. Kershaw, 2004). Ann Gray and Erin Bell (2013, p. 219) suggest that “it is certainly not impossible to create and broadcast commercially successful factual history programming”; however, the “key challenge … is to balance entertainment and information in the right proportions” (p. 160). The “giving of pleasure is the primary imperative of most television production” (Corner, 1999, p. 93), and so the extreme nature of the Shoah, in particular, “illuminates both the limitations and the capabilities of commercial media in its representation of a difficult past” (Meyers et al., 2014, p. 5). Rob Boddice (2017, p. 11) states, “History remains focused, fundamentally, on understanding the human past, of which the emotions have been an important diachronic component both at the individual and relational level.” Such emotional reactions, to artistic and nonartistic means of persuasion, “serve to situate subjects in relation to their world, orientating them towards its

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objects with degrees of proximity and urgency, sympathy and concern, aversion or hostility” (Martin, 2014, p. 120). They help to “create the circumstances that invite the public to see and willingly reinterpret what it has seen many times in a new way, with new eyes” (Marcus, 2002, p. 140).

NEGOTIATING AND CONTESTING THE COMMEMORATION OF THE SHOAH IN SWEDEN A compelling example of the political nature of remembering and commemoration can be found in a recent debate between Hédi Fried, a well-known and outspoken Shoah survivor who lives in Sweden, and Björn Söder, a Swedish politician of the far-right party Sweden Democrats (Sverigedemokraterna). In order to understand the debate, it is necessary to first give some contextual information about the shifting political landscape in Sweden. While in 2018 Sweden was rated the third “most democratic country” in the world according to the Economist’s Democracy Index, in the same year the far-right party Sweden Democrats registered an unprecedented electoral success with an increase of 5 percent since the previous election. This result made it the third-largest party in the Riksdag (the Swedish Parliament), after the Social Democratic Party and the Moderate Party. Two years later, a poll conducted by the largest Swedish quality paper Dagens Nyheter in collaboration with the opinion research company IPSOS indicated that the popularity of the Sweden Democrats had increased even further, to 24 percent of Swedish voters. Founded in 1988, the party is a national-conservative political formation with (1) clear anti-refugee sentiment as encoded in their aim to “stop receiving asylum seekers in Sweden and instead go for real aid for refugees” and “to enable more immigrants turning back to their native countries”; (2) an openly assimilationist agenda according to which migrants should “first do their duties” before “demanding their right,” one duty being that of assimilating into Swedish culture and norms; and (3) a Swedish language-only policy that would entail the abolishment of state-financed mother-tongue instruction and the prohibition of speaking any other language but Swedish in school. It is important to state upfront that the party has Nazi roots (see Rydgren, 2006), as is testified to by photos of their members together with former SS officers. And the party shows some awareness of these roots, though an article on their website distances the current political formation from its immature “early years”: The road from founding to present day has not been completely straight. We have been eyed thoroughly and we have been in the wrong sometimes, not least in the early years. But we have matured, and we have learned from our experience. (Sweden Democrats website: https://sd.se/english/)

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Rhetorically, this maturing process has entailed softening overtly Nazi edges in public speeches, thus making the party more palatable to a broader audience of conservative voters. That being said, party members have occasionally committed quite revealing “slips of the tongue” that disclosed underlying bigoted views. For example, in 2014, Björn Söder, who was then party secretary and Second Deputy Chairperson of the Riksdag, said in an interview with Dagens Nyheter that the Sámis and the Jews are allowed to live in Sweden as a minority but are actually not Swedish; they do not belong to the Swedish “nation.” In saying so, Söder espoused an essentializing view of ethnonationalist belonging, which can be summarized as follows: if you are Jewish, you belong to the “Jewish nation” (whatever that might mean) and you can be a Swedish citizen, but you will never be able to be part of the ethnic “Swedish nation.” More recently, a similar ethno-nationalist perspective transpired in the reaction of another Sweden Democrats politician, Kent Ekeroth, to the deaths of Swedish citizens in the downing of flight PS472 by Iran. Ekeroth tweeted laughing emojis at the representation in a news report of two victims as “smålänningar”—that is, from the Swedish region of Småland—when they had historically arrived there as unaccompanied refugee children. It has become typical for Sweden Democrats politicians to make pronouncements about who they believe can legitimately be considered “Swedish” or as belonging to a Swedish regional identity such as “smålänning.” In this case, who is deserving of the symbolic investment of being mourned as a fellow citizen is delimited. Ekeroth constructs a hierarchy determining which deaths are mournable and which are not (see Butler, 2004, on mournability): the deaths of two refugee children may be met with laughter. While the two young men were not deemed worth of Swedish national mournability, the party took a different stance on the commemoration of the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau organized by the Parliamentary Network Memory of the Holocaust (Riksdagsnätverket Minnet av Förintelsen). It should be noted that, since they entered the Riksdag in 2006, the Sweden Democrats have not taken active part in the arrangements of the yearly parliamentary memorial of the victims of the Shoah. However, this position changed in 2020 when Björn Söder was one of the organizers the event. Quite expectedly, the inclusion of a Sweden Democrat in the arrangement of the commemorative event immediately raised heated debate. The most vocal response was voiced by Hédi Fried. In an op-ed article in Dagens Nyheter, which we reproduce nearly in its entirety, Fried wrote, Excerpt 1 Hitintills har inga bärare av samma ideologier som låg bakom Auschwitz medverkat, och ingen har ifrågasatt detta.

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I år händer något nytt. De överlevande som förbereder sig för en dag då de i vänners krets kan minnas sina mördade nära och kära, måste också förbereda sig för att möta representanter avlade av samma ideologier som deras föräldrars mördare. Det som aldrig tidigare hade kunnat hända, händer nu. SD är rentvättat, dags för kramar. Jag har goda vänner, barn till förövare, som jag gärna kramar. Människor i ett annat land som förstår att deras föräldrar bländades av en charmig populist. Men jag förstår inte hur Moder Svea har sjunkit så lågt att hon är beredd att krama dem som nu återuppväcker samma dödsbringande ideologier. Finns det inte plats för det kritiska tänkandet längre? Okej. SD är inte antisemiter, det är islam de är emot. Kruxet är bara att de muslimska, arabisktalande invandrare som inte får finnas i Sverige, också är semiter. Och i obevakade ögonblick, vid anblick av judar, kläds ofta kretsens innersta tankar i ord: “Åk tillbaka till det land du kommer ifrån” eller till och med “Du får inte vara svensk medborgare”, sagt till någon som lever här sedan flera generationer. Det är normförskjutningens mörka stig vi vandrar. Jag har sett det komma, och ändå ville jag inte tro det. Och jag tror fortfarande inte att majoriteten av det svenska folket är bekväm med en sådan utveckling. Jag tror att majoriteten vill att deras barn ska växa upp i ett tolerant demokratiskt Sverige. Det är känslan av déjà vu som gör mig så rädd. Som ung vuxen såg jag samma normförskjutning som jag ser nu. Vi klarade inte av att hejda den då, vilket ledde till de oförglömliga fasorna vi ska minnas den 27 januari. Men denna gång, i stället för att bara minnas, låt oss hejda normförskjutningen i tid. I valet mellan tolerans och intolerans, låt oss välja rätt. So far, no carriers of the same ideologies that lay behind Auschwitz have participated [in the yearly parliamentary commemoration of the victims of the Shoah], and no one has questioned this. This year something new is happening. The survivors who are preparing for a day during which, in the company of friends, they can remember their loved ones who have been murdered, must also prepare to face representatives of the same ideologies as their parents’ murderers. What had never happened before is happening now. SD is washed clean, it’s time for hugs. I have good friends, children of perpetrators whom I happily hug. People in other countries who understand that their parents were dazzled by a charming populist. But I do not understand how Mother Svea has fallen so low that she is ready to hug those who are now resurrecting the same deadly ideologies. Is there no room for critical thinking anymore? Okay. SD are not anti-Semitic, it is Islam they are against. The crux is that the Muslim, Arabic-speaking immigrants who are not allowed to be in Sweden are also Semites. And in unguarded moments, at the sight of Jews,

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the inner thoughts of the circle are often clad in the words: “Go back to the country you came from” or even “You cannot be a Swedish citizen,” said to someone who has been living here for several generations. It is the dark path of a normative shift we’re walking on. It’s the feeling of déjà vu that makes me so scared. As a young adult, I saw the same normative shift I see now. We couldn’t stop it then, which led to the unforgettable horrors we will remember on January 27. But this time, instead of just remembering, let’s stop the normative shift just in time. In the choice between tolerance and intolerance, let us choose wisely. (Dagens Nyheter, 2020a) Mikhail Bakhtin’s notion of the chronotope can be useful to untangle the epideictic rhetoric employed by Fried about commemoration in the excerpt above. According to Bakhtin (1981, p. 84), a chronotope indicates “the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships.” Moreover, discourse analytical work operationalizing the notion of the chronotope has demonstrated (see, e.g., Blommaert & De Fina, 2017) that spatiotemporal “moorings” to the past, the present, and the future are discursive devices through which identities are produced at the same time as norms are reiterated and contested. Because of its focus on the nexus points of time and space, the chronotope is particularly useful in order to illustrate analytically how memory is produced discursively. In the extract above, it is possible to distinguish a constellation of three spatiotemporal alignments: (1) the I-here-now (see also Baynham, 2003), (2) the earlier/in Sweden, and (3) the then/in Germany. To begin with the present moment, Fried questions the decision made by the Sweden Democrats to be part of the network that is at the helm of the organization of the yearly commemoration of the Shoah in the Swedish parliament. Here it is possible to see how the problematic novelty of an event in the present is discursively realized with the help of two spatiotemporal “moorings”: first, the “earlier/in Sweden” chronotope in which the Sweden Democrats did not use to take part in the parliamentary commemoration of the Shoah and, related to this, the “then/in Germany” chronotope that crystallizes Nazi totalitarian ideology in the 1930s and 1940s, which, in turn, is linked to the present through an association to the Sweden Democrats. In this way, an affective and ideological chasm is set up between (1) the belief and norm system of the survivors, including Hédi Fried herself, their memory and right to mourn their loved ones in a supportive and empathetic environment, and (2) the totalitarian ideologies of the perpetrators of the Shoah and their contemporary embodiment in the representatives of the Sweden Democrats. From this perspective, any attempt to bridge the fundamental incompatibility between these two affective and ideological positions would ultimately lead to sanitizing the Sweden Democrats and their views. Interestingly, Fried

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is prepared not to blame those in other countries who have realized their forefathers’ fault in becoming enthralled to “a charming populist.” In contrast, she takes a much stronger stance on contemporary Sweden, here represented through the patriotic personification “Mother Svea,” and its embracing of “deadly ideologies” through democratic means. This critique reaches its peak with the rhetorical question, “Is there no room for critical thinking left?” As Roger Fowler has noted, rhetorical questions produce “argumentative engagement with the imagined points of view of those referred to by the text, and those who read it” (1991, p. 218). At an interpersonal level, then, the rhetorical question asked by Fried seeks to establish argumentative engagement between the writer and imagined audiences around the absence of spaces for critical reflection in Sweden. Moreover, Valentin Voloshinov pointed out that rhetorical questions are “situated on the very boundary between authorial and reported speech” (1973, p. 137). In the case of the excerpt above, the reference to lack of critical thinking can be interpreted as an intertextual reference to Hannah Arendt’s famous theorization of evil as the inability to think critically, that is, “the inability to think from the standpoint of somebody else” (Arendt, 1963, p. 49). Recast through such an intertextual reference, Fried’s rhetorical question could be rephrased as follows: Is there no room for understanding evil any longer? It is at this juncture that a caveat is given, and another interesting parallel is built by Fried. It is not so much that the Sweden Democrats are anti-Jewish, they are anti-Muslim. However, with the help of the ethnic category “Semite,” Fried levels out religious differences between Jews and Muslims, and brings them together under a common ethnic denominator. She goes on to suggest that similar exclusionary feelings are set off in Sweden Democrats’ hearts “at the sight of Jews” who might one day find themselves the target of this party’s exclusionary definition of the nation’s ethnic character. The op-ed closes with another spatiotemporal “mooring” through which the present becomes meaningful via the past: the norm shift in Nazi Germany that ultimately led to the Shoah is tied to a perceived shift in norms in contemporary Swedish society. And this is the foundation for Fried’s call not simply to remember the horrors of the past but to actively stop societal changes in the present, in order to prevent the past from repeating in the future. The Sweden Democrat Björn Söder replied in an interview in Dagens Nyheter saying, Excerpt 2 – Jag har förstått att Hédi Fried … starkt ogillar Sverigedemokraterna. Jag har stor respekt för henne och det hon har gått igenom men jag tycker att det är tråkigt att hon gör partipolitik av det här, säger Björn Söder.

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Han säger också att anledningen till att hans parti aldrig tidigare bett om att få vara med i nätverket beror på att de inte haft tillräckligt med riksdagsledamöter. – Det är först nu som vi känner att vi är såpass många att vi har tid att engagera oss i den här typen av sidoverksamhet. Jag tycker att det är viktigt att visa upp att hela riksdagen står bakom det här, eftersom att det är en så viktig fråga, säger Björn Söder. “I understand that Hédi Fried … strongly dislikes the Sweden Democrats. I have great respect for her and what she has gone through, but I think it is sad that she makes party politics of this,” says Björn Söder. He also says that the reason why his party has never asked to join the network before is because they did not have enough members of parliament. “It is only now that we feel that we are so many that we have time to get involved in this type of side activity. I think it is important to show that the whole parliament is behind this, because it is such an important issue,” says Björn Söder. (Dagens Nyheter, 2020b) Taking an even stronger position against Fried, the party leader Jimmie Åkesson commented in an interview with the TV channel TV4: Excerpt 3 J. Å: Jag tycker att det är sorgligt att … hmm … jag känner inte Hédi Fried och jag vet inte om hon tror på det eller om det är så att hon används av politiska intressen och säger sådana sakern hmm … men oavsett är det uppenbart fel. Journalisten: Kan du förstå hennes reaktion? J. Å: Nej, jag kan inte förstå hennes reaktion eftersom den bygger på felaktiga premisser. Björn Söder som är ju den som är med i denna kommitte kan vara riksdagens främsta Israel-vän [laughs] och jag tycker att om man har sådana farhågor som som till exempel Hédi Fried har då bör man prata med Björn Söder istället för att skriva i tidningen att han tycker saker som han förmodligen inte tycker eller att mitt parti gör det för den delen. Vi pratar med varandra alledels för lite i det här samhället idag. J. Å.: I think it is sad that … hmm … I do not know Hédi Fried and I do not know if she believes in what she’s saying or if it is just that she is being used for political interests, and says such things hmm … but anyway it is obviously wrong. Journalist: Can you understand her reaction? J. Å.: No, I can’t understand her reaction because it is based on wrong assumptions. Björn Söder, who is a member of this [parliamentary] committee,

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is perhaps the foremost friend of Israel in the Swedish parliarment [laughs], and I think that if you have fears like Hédi Fried has, you should talk to Björn Söder instead of writing in the newspaper that he thinks things that he probably doesn’t, or that my party does for that matter. We talk to each other too little in this society today. We can see in these interviews how Fried’s argumentative positions are countered by two key political figures among the Sweden Democrats, who subscribe to the view that collective memory can and should be apolitical and objective, and that those who politicize it may be dismissed out of hand. Rhetorically, such a standpoint is developed with the help of (1) a presupposition on what politics is and who has the right to speak on political matters, (2) the legitimation of the Sweden Democrats vis-à-vis the memorial event, and (3) the overt delegitimation of Fried’s standpoint. To begin with, politics is viewed here in the narrow sense of party politics. In light of this, Söder takes a normative position criticizing Fried’s stance as an encroachment on party politics, a business to which, according to him, only politicians are entitled. There are also some ideologically mixed messages when explaining why the party had not actively engaged in the commemoration of the Shoah in previous years. On the one hand, the memorial is described as having been a “side activity” and not a key priority for the party when their numbers were smaller. On the other hand, following the party’s increased representation in parliament, the commemoration in the present is portrayed as an “important event” that should be supported by the whole Riksdag. In other words, Söder seems to reveal that the importance of remembering the Shoah is directly proportional to the size of his party in parliament. An even more disturbing discursive act of delegitimation is performed by Åkesson who suggests that Fried is ultimately a marionette maneuvered by political parties who seek to discredit the Sweden Democrats. Observe in particular the affective qualifier “it’s sad …,” which in this specific context is a patronizing discursive device suggesting that an old person like Fried is being used by others without her actively recognizing it. When asked whether he can think from the standpoint of the Other, as Arendt would put it, Åkesson clearly demonstrates that he cannot. What is even more malicious is the argumentative move employed to justify his inability to understand Fried’s reactions: the identity attribution to Söder as the “foremost friend of Israel in the Swedish parliament.” Such a discursive move draws on a widespread global discourse that conflates Israel with Jewishness. The internal logic of this discourse is as follows: if one is a “friend of Israel,” one cannot possibly be “anti-Semitic,” and, vice versa, if one is “critical of Israel,” one is necessarily “anti-Semitic.” As several critical scholars have pointed out (see, e.g., Butler, 2012), Israel has over the years vied for the hegemony of Jewishness through the territorialization

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of the image of the ultimate accomplishment of a fulfilling Jewish life. This has led to a problematic two-tiered identity category: (1) Israeli Jewish and (2) Diasporic Jewish identity (see also Milani, Levon, & Glocer, 2019). It has also led to a situation where affective and moral attachments to Israel have become the benchmark for assessing what counts as pro- and anti-Semitic. This has led to paradoxical situations in which, say, Hungary’s prime minister, Viktor Orban, utters overtly anti-Semitic utterances against the Jewish magnate George Soros, on the one hand, and yet is welcomed in Jerusalem by his Israeli peer Benjamin Netanyahu as a “true friend of Israel.” While in her op-ed Fried articulated a fundamental affective and ideological rift between the Sweden Democrats and the victims of the Shoah, and ultimately argued for a “refusal to engage” with the party, Åkesson in contrast bemoans the lack of dialogue and naively proposes that a private conversation with Söder, rather than a public debate in the columns of a national daily, is ultimately the best solution to resolve or even dissolve Fried’s fears (see also Deumert, Chapter 8 of this volume, about the political relevance of affect). What is perhaps most unsettling is how the leader of a party with Nazi roots discursively positions himself as the moral arbiter on the matter, telling a survivor of the Shoah what is right or wrong in the organization of an event aimed at commemorating the suffering she and other Jewish people experienced at the hand of Nazism.

CONCLUSIONS In this chapter we have been inspired by Kramsch’s recent call to recast “a humanistic sense of history” (Kramsch, 2018, p. 114) in applied linguistics, a field that since its inception has aimed to study and intervene in “real-world problems” (Brumfit, 1995). In our view, this historicizing impetus can be sustained with a more thorough engagement with the burgeoning literature on memory and commemoration (see also Ben-Rafael & Shohamy, 2016; Blackwood & Macalister, 2019). With the help of a recent example from a debate on the memorial of the Shoah in Sweden, we illustrated how remembering and publicly commemorating the past in the present are not ideologically neutral processes but give rise to political struggles that are discursively built on creating specific time/space “moorings” (chronotopes), constructing particular identities as well as triggering specific affective elements. A historicizing approach is more necessary than ever in Sweden, a context in which, as Foucault once stated, a human is but a moving dot, obeying laws, patters and forms in the midst of a traffic that is more powerful and defeats him/her. In its calmness, Sweden reveals a brave new world where we discover that the human is no longer necessary. (Foucault in Lindung, 1968)

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If Foucault’s sketch sounds somewhat dystopian, trust in authorities is often singled out as a “typically Swedish” trait (see, e.g., City of Gothenburg and the Country Administrative Board of Västra Götaland, 2018). While what is characteristic of a nation should always be taken with some caution, it is perhaps this faith in institutions, combined with a firm belief in the infallible character of their democratic order, that a party with Nazi roots is able to openly question humanistic values and slowly erode democracy from within. It’s perhaps by unveiling the ideological nature of remembering and forgetting that applied linguistics can sustain its commitment as a socially relevant discipline.

REFERENCES Aristotle. (2007). On rhetoric: A theory of civic discourse (G. A. Kennedy, Trans. with Introduction, Notes, and Appendices). (2nd ed.). New York: Oxford University Press. Arendt, H. (1963). Eichmann in Jerusalem. London: Penguin. Assmann, J. (2006). Religion and cultural memory: Ten studies. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Bakhtin, M. (1981). The dialogic imagination: Four essays by M.M. (C. Emerson & M. Holquist, Trans.) Austin: University of Texas Press. Bathrick, D. (2008). Introduction: Seeing against the grain: Re-visualizing the Holocaust. In D. Bathrick, B. Prager, & M. D. Richardson (Eds.), Visualizing the Holocaust: Documents, aesthetics, memory (pp. 1–18). Rochester, NY: Camden House. Baynham, M. (2003). Narratives in space and time: Beyond “backdrop” accounts of narrative orientations. Narrative Inquiry, 13, 347–366. BBC Two (2016, January 27). British Holocaust Memorial Day. Ben-Amos, D., & Weissberg, L. (Eds.). (1999). Cultural memory and the construction of identity. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press. Ben-Rafael, E., & Shohamy, E. (Eds.). (2016). Memory and Memorialization. Special issue of Linguistic Landscape, 2(3). Billig, M., & Marinho, C. (2017). The politics and rhetoric of commemoration: How the Portuguese parliament celebrates the 1974 revolution. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Blackwood, R., & Macalister, J. (2019). Multilingual memories: Monuments, museums and linguistic landscape. London: Bloomsbury. Blommaert, J., & De Fina, A. (2017). Chronotopic identities: On the timespace organization of who we are. In A. De Fina, D. Ikizoglu, & J. Wegner (Eds.), Diversity and super-diversity: Sociolinguistic perspectives (pp. 1–16). Georgetown: Georgetown University Press. Boddice, R. (2017). The history of emotions: Past, present, future. Revista de Estudios Sociales, 62, 10–15. Brumfit, C. (1995). Teacher professionalism and research. In G. Cook & G. Seidlhofer (Eds.), Principle and practice in applied linguistics: Studies in Honour of H.G. Widdowson (pp. 27–41). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Butler, J. (2004). Precarious life: The power of mourning and violence. London: Verso. Butler, J. (2012). Parting ways: Jewishness and the critique of Zionism. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Carr, G. (2016). “Have you been offended?” Holocaust memory in the Channel Islands at HMD 70. Holocaust Studies, 22, 44–64. Cesarani, D., & Sundquist, E. J. (Eds.). (2012). After the Holocaust: Challenging the myth of silence. New York: Routledge. Cesarani, D. (2000). The Holocaust as news. Perspective: Journal of the Beth Shalom Holocaust Memorial Centre, 3, 10–11. City of Gothenburg and the Country Administrative Board of Västra Götaland. (2018). About Sweden: Civic Orientation in English. Retrieved from https://www.informationsverige. se/globalassets/dokument/boken-om-sverige/omsverige_v7_eng.pdf Condit, C. M. (1985). The functions of epideictic: The Boston Massacre orations as exemplar. Communication Quarterly, 33, 284–299. Confino, A. (1997). Collective memory and cultural history: Problems of method. American Historical Review, 102, 1386–1403. Confino, A. (2005). Remembering the Second World War, 1945–1965: Narratives of victimhood and genocide. Cultural Analysis, 4, 46–75. Corner, J. (1999). Critical ideas in television studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dagens Nyheter (2020a, January 20). Hédi Fried om SD på minnesstund för Förintelsen: SD är rentvättat, dags för kramar. Retrieved from https://www.dn.se/ kultur-noje/hedi-fried-om-sd-pa-minnesstund-for-forintelsen-sd-ar-rentvattat-dagsfor-kramar/ Dagens Nyheter (2020b, January 20). Björn Söder efter kritiken: Tråkigt att hon gör partipolitik av det här. Retrieved from https://www.dn.se/nyheter/sverige/ bjorn-soder-efter-kritiken-trakigt-att-hon-gor-partipolitik-av-det-har/ Deleuze, G. (1992). Postscript on the societies of control. October, 59, 3–7. Edgerton, G. R., & Rollins, P. C. (Eds.). (2001). Television histories: Shaping collective memory in the media age. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky. Erll, A. (2011). Memory in culture. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Fogu, C., & Kansteiner, W. (2006). The politics of memory and the poetics of history. In R. N. Lebow, W. Kansteiner, & C. Fogu (Eds.), The politics of memory in postwar Europe (pp. 284–310). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Fowler, R. (1991). Language in the news: Discourse and ideology in the press. London: Routledge. Fraser, D. (2000). The Jews of the Channel Islands and the rule of law, 1940–1945. Brighton: Sussex Academic Press. Funkenstein, A. (1989) .Collective memory and historical consciousness. History and Memory, 1, 5–26. Gavriely-Nuri, D. (2014). Collective memory as a metaphor: The case of speeches by Israeli prime ministers 2001–2009. Memory Studies, 7(1), 46–60. Gedi, N., & Elam, Y. (1996). Collective memory – what is it? History and Memory, 8, 30–50. Goffman, E. (1981). Forms of talk. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Gray, A., & Bell, E. (2013). History on television. New York: Routledge. Gutman, Y., Brown, A. D., & Sodaro, A. (Eds.). (2010). Memory and the future: Transnational politics, ethics and society. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Halbwachs, M. (1992). On collective memory. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. (Original work published 1925) Handler, R. (1994). Is identity a useful cross-cultural concept? In J. R. Gillis (Ed.), Commemorations: The politics of national identity (pp. 27–40). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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Heer, H., Manoschek, W., Pollak, A., & Wodak, R. (Eds.). (2008). The discursive construction of history: Remembering the Wehrmacht’s war of annihilation. Houndmills: Palgrave. Huyssen, A. (2000). Present pasts: Media, politics, amnesia. Public Culture, 12, 21–38. Hyde, M. J. (2005). The rhetor as hero and the pursuit of truth: The case of 9/11. Rhetoric & Public Affairs, 8(1), 1–30. Kansteiner, W. (2002). Finding meaning in memory: A methodological critique of collective memory studies. History and Theory, 41, 179–197. Kansteiner, W. (2006). In pursuit of German memory: History, television, and politics after Auschwitz. Athens: Ohio University Press Kershaw, I. (2004). The past on the box: Strengths and weaknesses. In D. Cannadine (Ed.), History and the media (pp. 118–123). Houndmills: Palgrave. Kramsch, C. (2018). Trans-spatial utopias. Applied Linguistics, 39(1), 108–115. Kushner, T. (1997). “I want to go on living after my death”: The memory of Anne Frank. In M. Evans & K. Lunn (Eds.), War and memory in the twentieth century (pp. 3–26). Oxford: Berg. Kushner, T. (1998). Remembering to forget: Racism and anti-racism in post-war Britain. In B. Cheyette & L. Marcus (Eds.), Modernity, culture and “the Jew.” (pp. 226–241). Cambridge: Polity. Lebow, R. N. (2006). The memory of politics in postwar Europe. In R. N. Lebow, W. Kansteiner, & C. Fogu (Eds.), The politics of memory in postwar Europe (pp.1–39). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Lindung, Y. (1968). En intervju med Michel Foucault. Bonniers Litteräre Magasin, XXXVII, 203–211. Marcus, G. E. (2002). The sentimental citizen: Emotion in democratic politics. Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania University Press. Martin, J. (2014). Politics and rhetoric: A critical introduction. London: Routledge. Meyers, O., Zandberg, E., & Neiger, M. (2009). Prime time commemoration: An analysis of television broadcasts on Israel’s Memorial Day for the Holocaust and the heroism. Journal of Communication, 59, 456–480. Meyers, O., Zandberg, E., & Neiger, M. (2014). Communicating awe: Media memory and Holocaust commemoration. Houndmills: Palgrave. Middleton, D., & Edwards, D. (1990). Introduction. In D. Middleton & D. Edwards (Eds.), Collective remembering (pp. 1–22). London: Sage. Milani, T. M., Levon, E., & Glocer, R. (2019) Crossing boundaries: Visceral landscapes of Israeli nationalism. Sociolinguistic Studies, 13, 37–56. Niven, B. (2008). On the use of “collective memory.” German History, 26, 427–436. Norman, D. A. (Ed.) (1970). Models of human memory. New York: Academic Press. Pearce, A. (2014). Holocaust consciousness in contemporary Britain. Oxon: Routledge. Pernot, L. (2015). Epideictic rhetoric: Questioning the stakes of ancient praise. Austin: University of Texas Press. Rahman, S. A. (2010). The presence of the past: Negotiating the politics of collective memory. Contemporary Political Theory, 9, 59–76. Richardson, J. E. (2017). Making memory makers: Interpellation, norm circles and Holocaust Memorial Day Trust workshops. Memory Studies, iFirst, 1–18. Richardson, J. E. (2018). “If not me, then who?” Examining engagement with Holocaust Memorial Day Commemoration in Britain. Dapim: Studies on the Holocaust, 32(1), 22–37. Rousso, H. (2011). The history of memory: Brief reflections on an overloaded field. In M. Blaive, C. Gerbel, & T. Lindenberger (Eds.), Clashes in European

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memory: The case of communist repression and the Holocaust (pp. 231–238). Innsbruck: StudienVerlag. Rydgren, J. (2006). From tax populism to ethnic nationalism: Radical right-wing populism in Sweden. Oxford: Berghahn Books. Seaton, J. (1987). The BBC and the Holocaust. European Journal of Communication, 2, 53–80. Stone, D. (2013). The holocaust, fascism and memory: Essays in the history of ideas. Houndmills: Palgrave. Tulving, E. (1972). Episodic and semantic memory. In E. Tulving & W. Donaldson (Eds.), Organization of memory (pp. 381–402). New York: Academic Press. Voloshinov, V. N. (1973). Marxism and the philosophy of language. London: Seminar Press. Wertsch, J. V., & Roediger, H. L. (2008). Collective memory: Conceptual foundations and theoretical approaches. Memory, 16, 318–326. Wertsch, J. V. (2002). Voices of collective remembering. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Winter, J., & Sivan, E. (Eds.). (1999). War and remembrance in the twentieth century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Winter, J. (2006). Remembering war: The great war between memory and history in the twentieth century. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Wodak, R., & De Cillia, R. (2007). Commemorating the past: The discursive construction of official narratives about the “rebirth of the second Austrian republic.” Discourse & Communication, 1, 337–363. Wodak, R., & Auer-Borea, G. (Eds.). (2009). Justice and memory: Confronting traumatic pasts. An international comparison. Vienna: Passagen Verlag. Young, J. E. (1993). The texture of memory. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Young, J. E. (2000). At memory’s edge: After images of the holocaust in contemporary art and architecture. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Zelizer, B. (1998). Remembering to forget: Holocaust memory through the camera’s eye. London: University of Chicago Press.

PART FIVE

Education

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CHAPTER TEN

Language, Pedagogy, and Discourses of Criticality in Late Capitalism CARLOS SOTO

1. INTRODUCTION What does criticality really mean? Kubota & Miller (2017) It’s a question increasingly asked around the world by students and workers new to critical studies and practices, as well as by scholars and activists long committed to the spirit of criticality. I have been posing this question to myself and others for decades, pondering what it means for me to critically teach, conduct research, produce knowledge, and align with activist projects. What does it mean for me to do critical pedagogy as the conditions of my life and the world around me shift? Do I continue to believe in its potential for freedom even as its functions for institutionalized knowledge production evolve? Critical pedagogy, the branch of criticality to which I have been most committed, is positioned by some proponents as a tool for prefigurative politics, for imaging and working toward better worlds, and as guided by an audacity to imagine utopia in the face of prevailing contemporary discourses, policies, and practices seeking to narrow social life to instrumental economic activity. Though

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critical pedagogy is described as occupying a marginalized position in academia, it has still become institutionalized as a field committed to conducting social critique and unmasking the politics of domination, exploitation, and struggle behind everyday life, including in the production, circulation, and legitimation of knowledge. Critical pedagogy has also assumed a position in the professional development and certification of teachers, community educators, and social service workers (Malott & Porfilio, 2011). In the previous decade of my life in Hong Kong, I probed the possibilities and limits of criticality through language-based research and pedagogical projects in and out of school settings. These were done in collaboration with educators, researchers, community workers, and youth of Nepali, Pakistani, and Indian backgrounds who advanced a social-justice agenda aligned with ethnic minority-based concerns, amid a neoliberal logic pervading provision of schooling and other social services (Pérez-Milans & Soto, 2014, 2016; Soto, 2019; Soto, 2020; Soto & Pérez-Milans, 2018). Though my sustained projects with these communities effectively ended in mid-2017, I have spent the last few years reflecting on and writing about my experiences, tracing my trajectory of critical knowledge production to understand where it has been and where it might go, or end. In this chapter, I trace the evolution of my criticality and pull together what I have learned about how I justified, performed, and lived my criticality as I took part in the institutional process whereby a set of pedagogical activities that collaborators and I advocated became institutionally formulated as a commodity register (Agha, 2011). In doing so, I have situated my criticality within a political economy in Hong Kong reorienting the relationship between state, market, and individuals toward entrepreneurial practices and subjectivities, as the territory continues in a long transition from British colonial rule to retrocession to the People’s Republic of China. This shift has been accompanied by local government policies pushing for global competitiveness and internationalization of institutions and other social actors, while requiring social service providers and individuals to engage in entrepreneurial activities meant to increase economic output via building human capital (Choi, 2005). Throughout my research process, pedagogy, as a means of relations and discursive space (Heller, 2007), became a key lens through which I examined the meaning-making practices of collaborators, institutional actors, and myself vis-à-vis changing social structures. Thus, as I followed and documented the trajectories of participants, I paid attention to the consequences for social life linked to the intersection of social actors, resources, and institutions. In other words, I focused on what people said about pedagogy and what they did with it, with which specific resources, and in which spaces, and the consequences of these uses of “pedagogy” in terms of material and symbolic distribution. Who got what, and who didn’t? Who felt what? Who got categorized as what?

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FIGURE 10.1:  School multicultural celebration.

My reflections of my past criticality are sometimes triggered by photographs on my social media feed. For example, the 2014 photo in Figure 10.1 captures an event from more than three years of my time working at MAT secondary school, where I collaborated with teachers to develop an English-medium curricular program we rationalized via critical pedagogical stances. Looking back on this photo brings back a lot about my life. My son was a year old at the time, and I was working long hours to make ends meet, trying to find the time to finish a PhD that was already five years in progress. This was also a week before I would find myself unemployed. Captioned by me, “Our school’s Eid and Tihar Celebration performances written, choreographed, and performed by students,” the photo depicts a scene relevant to a school invested in institutional performances of “multiculturalism.” This particular event was one in which senior secondary students were encouraged to and supported in planning and executing a multilingual event meant to value and share knowledge from students’ diverse ethnic linguistic, cultural, and religious heritages. Participating in a Hindu ceremony is Dr. M, a research and publication collaborator who had been carrying out ethnographic work in my classes for three years. Dr. M wears a traditional Nepalese Dhaka hat and Indian tunic. On his right is a female secondary student of Indian heritage wearing an Indian sari, and on his left is a male secondary student of Nepalese heritage wearing baggy khaki pants, a black T-shirt, a scarf, a baseballstyle cap worn backwards, and sunglasses. All three figures are visibly smiling.

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On the top left of the image lies the logo of a Nepalese community online media organization that photographed the event and posted the images on social media. Against the backdrop of a Hong Kong schooling system criticized in academic and media discourses for its marginalization of South Asian heritage minority populations (Erni & Leung, 2014), this costumed acknowledgment, construction, and performance of “diversity,” purported to critically empower students as facilitators of their “own” knowledge, could be taken as an instance of how “applied linguists can develop discourse and pedagogical methodologies … to help co-construct counter-hegemonic challenges and practices” (Chun, Introduction of this volume). Indeed, while the ritual on display may be interpreted as an exercise of strategic ethnic essentialization (Lin, 2008), the photograph might also mark the intersection of researchers, a school, youth, educators, researchers, community organizations, and social media advancing a shared goal. Yet, though the photograph I recalled emerges from teaching projects guided by critical paradigms, taking these social actors, in this institutional setting, as fixedly and stably allied against and resisting a prevailing hegemony may well fall short in capturing the tensions, contradictions, and inequalities surrounding this interaction. Applying to my pedagogical work the critical language-based critical lens I have developed over the last decade makes me less likely to report spectacular moments of liberation or transformation, and more likely to arrive at sobering understandings regarding the complexity of social transformation as a project of human agency. Indeed, the ontological stance I have taken, in which social reality is seen as “discursively constructed, reproduced, naturalized, and sometimes revised in the course of large-scale historical, political, and socio-economic configurations” (Pérez-Milans & Soto, 2014, p .214) has led to conclusions that while criticality can be a “resource for discussing, theorising, and attempting to enact forms of participation beyond economic exchange” (Soto & Pérez-Milans, 2018), critically informed projects can simultaneously reinforce wide structures of inequality as institutionalized in contemporary labor markets. So while the participants in the photograph create moments of local solidarity, they do so while remaining under surveillance as “ethnic minorities,” doing promotion for a school in need of students in a competitive market, and not organizing to confront the path toward precarious labor that most in the audience face. These conclusions are in line with developments in Applied Linguistics. Sociocultural, reflexive, and plurilingual turns in the language disciplines have critiqued not only repressive notions of language and research but also the notion and stance of “criticality.” As neoliberal shifts in political economy have taken hold, “freedom,” a central concern of critical language studies, has become more widely discursively linked to emphasis in “growth, flexibility, and individualisation” (Barakos & Selleck, 2019). Thus, theoretical resources run the

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risk of being turned into potential resources for accumulating capital (Duchêne & Heller, 2012) by researchers, students, community activists, and other social actors. Accordingly, theoretical developments (e.g., multilingualism), which purport to critically challenge hegemonic essentialist (monolingual) views of language, speakers, and language education, become potential sites for the (re)production of social inequalities, in which advocacy for counterhegemonic empowerment intermingle with practices expanding educational market discourses and practices of productivity and creativity. There is concern within Applied Linguistics that as education processes are transformed into market goods, tenets of critical pedagogy become co-opted in the discursive production of such commodities, mutating concepts such as “empowerment” from a marker of liberation from social oppression to a marker of enhanced economic productive capacity. These are concerns that have emerged from my critical pedagogical work and which I will explore in the following sections. After reviewing how developments of criticality over time and current concerns about it language disciplines (Section 2), I will trace how my critical stance has evolved over several decades (Section 3). Then I revisit my previous work on critical pedagogy praxis and ethics, networked trajectories of identification in relation to self-reflexivity, commodification of pedagogy (Section 4). I discuss some of the tensions that emerged as my knowledge production, circulation professional expertise, and management of precarity were intertwined with networks, institutions, and social actors. I will focus on how unexpected tensions, dilemmas, and contradictions arose within my critical work despite my reflexive efforts. I hope this discussion will be useful in helping myself and others reconsider our commitments and paradigms, as educators and scholars interested in social change.

2. REVIEWING CRITICALITY Critical Theory, as traced to the Frankfurt School in the first half of the twentieth century, emerged as modernist tradition, relying on binary notions of the dominant/dominated, oppressor/oppressed, “specifically concerned with forms of authority and injustice that accompanied the evolution of the industrial and corporate capitalism as a political-economic system” (Lindlof & Taylor, 2002, p. 49). As Ryuko Kubota and Elizabeth Miller (2017) trace, early Marxist-influenced critical theory sought to “problematize the given in social structures and human experiences” (p. 133). As critical theory established itself in the social sciences, education, and language disciplines in the 1980s and 1990s, two approaches with an “emancipatory modernist orientation” (p. 134) became influential: Freirean critical pedagogies and critical discourse analysis. Those using a post-structuralist framework critiqued the use of binaries of these modernist approaches and reimagined power in a Foucauldian sense, not a

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“singular repressive force” but as a “netlike system that circulates and produces knowledge as a regime of truth” (p. 134). Subsequently, the post-structuralist turn led to feminist approaches to education informed by critique of modernist (and male-centered) critical pedagogy. In language disciplines, feminist approaches “critiqued the notion of empowerment, which implies a one-way transfer of power, and redefined agency as constructed in discourse and power relations,” and applied the “notion of performativity … to understanding linguistic practices” (p. 135). Further engagement with and critique of European modernist and poststructural approaches to criticality led to postcolonial theory, which while still using a European framework, “offers an antithesis to European superiority as embedded in colonial violence, socio-political domination, economic exploitation, and racism” (p. 138). Beyond understanding of social structures and human action as they are, these three critical approaches also share in common a desire to envision and enact social relations as they could be. This tracing of theoretical developments in criticality, particularly within the field of Applied Linguistics, leads Kubota and Miller (2017) to conclude that while critical scholarship may be taking greater hold, any “presumed progress in critical work may be illusive at best and repressive at worst” (p. 148). They note that criticality is constrained by neoliberal political economy, which, in demanding individual competitiveness and particular performances of competence, impacts production, circulation, and consumption of “critical” knowledge—who produces it, who engages with it, under what conditions and for which purposes, and who profits from it. Consequently, “critical work” is often done by privileged academics who, though they may be committed to “change that leads to greater social justice,” put theory above practice, “disseminate findings in a bubble … rarely engage in activism,” and profit by advancing their careers (p. 148). Moreover, the liberatory potential of critical pedagogy has been further questioned by scholars who have documented how the language of critical pedagogy can be co-opted for neoliberal goals. In some cases, “social justice discourse” is used to advance entrepreneurial aims and educational social enterprises (Dye & Golnaraghi, 2015; Hadley Dunn, 2017). In others, neoliberalism and language of business permeates and shapes the “everyday speech acts” of educators who self-identify as committed to social justice (MacDonald-Vemic & Portelli, 2018). Given these possibilities, Kubota and Miller (2017) propose that “in order for critical language studies to maintain its critical edge” it requires “praxis with hyper self-reflexivity” and “focus on result-oriented strategic action” (p. 149). They argue: All of us, regardless of our backgrounds, must critically reflect on our privilege, exercise vigilance against our complicity with neoliberal power, and develop

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the capacity to cross individual identity borders with responsibility and humility … The core of critical language studies, thus, should maintain its potency by continuing to expose and critique injustices, critically understand power and inequalities, and exercise engaged praxis for establishing societal and individual wellbeing. (p. 149) In responding to and concurring with Kubota and Miller, Peter De Costa (2018) emphasizes the “importance of carrying out locally respectful critical and culturally sustaining work; after all,” he argues, “one needs to be strategic and cautious in terms of addressing social inequality” (p. 1). Notably, other work focused on describing critical “practices” maintains a similar guarded optimism. Some scholars maintain confidence in critical pedagogy’s potential to help people resist or transform neoliberal constraints (see Chang & McLaren, 2018, for a discussion of Hong Kong and Greater China; see also Malott & Portfilio, 2011). Other work focused on academics and activism sees “encouraging signs” that “new media technologies” are reshaping how civil society, scholars, and grassroots organizers interact, and allowing new forms of radical politics to emerge (Martin & Te Riele, 2011, p. 25). Given this overall continued, but conditional, commitment to criticality, it seems necessary to document what “praxis with hyper self-reflexivity” can look like, and what kinds of outcomes and consequences we can trace from “focus on result-oriented strategic action.” I continue my attempt to do so by going further into the past.

3. MY EVOLVING CRITICALITY I was introduced to Frankfurt-influenced critical and postmodern theory in the early 1990s, first as a student attending a US public high school with a unique humanities curriculum, then while studying liberal arts and media studies at a public university. During these years, criticality was a way to understand myself following the familial, class, and cultural shifts I experienced growing up. My single mother moved my three sisters and me to the United States from Honduras, and I grew up with economic struggle and the experience of being racialized as a Latino. Critical theory “freed” me from dominant narratives and allowed me question the society around me. Black feminist, critical race, and postcolonial theories were tools I used to situate my present-day familial and personal difficulties within wider historical structures and struggles, in ways that allowed me to see privilege in being born male into a middle-class family upholding patriarchal values. As I settled into a professional life in the early 2000s as an educator working in a nongovernmental organization, my criticality expanded beyond my personal concerns. Critical theory became a lens to understand the minoritized

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communities I served and to locate my students’ experiences in schools and in their communities within historical struggles for racial and economic justice. But my educational practices were guided by a desire to impose my reading or knowledge of the world onto students; I had yet to question my normative assumptions about teaching and learning. I enrolled in a graduate program in equity and social justice in education as a way to expand my pedagogical capacity, and in 2006, I was first exposed to the field of critical pedagogy. However, I reacted with skepticism to my first reading of Paolo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed (2005), a foundational text in the field. Freire’s ideas about liberation from oppression via dialogue seemed idealistic and impractical. But further study, observation of teachers who taught guided by Freire’s theories, and opportunities to experiment with my own application of critical pedagogy theory in my work setting, made a “believer.” I have described this change as a “profound rebirth” that brought me “to a philosophy of education that situated educational practice directly within the experiences of students” and defined education as a site for social transformation (Soto, 2020, pp. 18–19). I have to admit now that at that time, I had a sense of having glimpsed a truth, one that other still skeptical educators around me had not grasped. Still, I was surrounded by educators who were aligned around goals of educational equity. Rebirth reshaped my identity as an educator. I clarified my theoretical stances regarding my work. Ontologically, I increasingly recognized the social world as marked by oppression, a counter-hegemonic struggle for humanization, and un-finalizability of individuals and social relations. Axiologically, I aligned with a value for education as a route to empowerment based on humanization and ethical relations of care. Epistemologically, I began to value transformative knowledge (Banks, 1996) that would allow individuals and group to come to a critical consciousness and resist oppression in ways that could makes changes for the better (Freire, 2005). At work, my sense of professionalism as an educator became connected to my growing commitment to developing a critical pedagogy practice and to give possibilities to theories in my context. As I continued with my graduate studies, I became connected to a network of educators and activists sharing common critical pedagogical stances, a common discourse of criticality. I became more familiar with this critical pedagogy discourse at talks and conferences organized for educators concerned with social justice. By 2008, after two study trips to Hong Kong, I decided to pursue a doctoral study to understand limits and possibilities of critical pedagogy in a new context. My move to Hong Kong in 2009 to develop a critical pedagogy working with minoritized students was another important step in my evolving criticality. New interlocutors (educators, activists, and scholars) helped me to clarify the stances I communicated and provided new frameworks for asking questions. Early in this study period, I read to become more aware of the scholarly critiques of

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critical pedagogy, which up to then I had given much attention. They included the following: (1) its lack of explicitness in defining key terms and proving examples of practice; (2) that much of its application is told through narrative of redemption that overemphasis a heroic role for teachers; (3) that [critical pedagogy] can fail to meet its political goals of empowerment or social change (Soto, 2020, p. 28). Key terms used by critical educators are often taken for granted, as already having fixed shared meanings. For example, what does it mean to “empower,” or to teach via “dialogue,” and what does it look like with youth of different ages, in specific formal school settings and other informal contexts? When stories of critical teaching practice are written, they sometimes foreground students who made a dramatic turnaround, from disengagement with schooling, to a new commitment to academics mediated by a commitment to social justice and by a critically informed teacher. And in the end, critical pedagogy may not lead to larger, successful movements for social change, or may even be repressing those engaging with it, as argued by Elizabeth Ellsworth (1989). As I gained opportunities to develop a practice while teaching secondary students in Hong Kong, first as a researcher in one school and then as a parttime teacher at a second school, I was able to take on those critiques and also become involved in criticality as an academic producer of knowledge about criticality. I used various theoretical and methodological tools in developing a practice. For example, critical race theory provided a framework for identifying and promoting transformational resistance (Solórzano & Delgado Bernal, 2001). I sensitized secondary students to conducting critical discourse analysis (Fairclough, 2001) by having them investigate how communities they identified with were portrayed in media. I explored what it meant to read the world and build critical literacy through popular culture (Duncan-Andrade & Morrell, 2008; Shor, 1999), and I attempted to engage students in dialogue related to their daily conflicts, concerns, and hopes (Freire, 2005). These practices were used by me to meet academic goals and build trust and community, sometimes in activities meant to push students into discomfort in order to challenge their existing beliefs, identifications, and practices. Guiding this practice was an ethic of care that foregrounded supportive relationships with students and commitments to solidarity for and accountability to the communities they constituted (Gonzalez, 2003). Between 2009 and 2016 was a period of transition and change for me. I moved to Hong Kong, adjusted to new cultural milieus, got married, fathered my first child in 2013, and completed my doctoral studies at the end of 2015. I worked multiple part-time jobs across the city, including working in various for-profit education centers, darting from one point to another to pay my university fees and cover the costs of building a family. Among this precarity, I experienced what I called a “radical rebirth” as a critical teacher

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more committed to my stance, and as critical researcher (Soto, 2020). I took on a critical ethnographic approach that would put my criticality into action (Madison, 2005, p. 18) and would give me a scholarly justification for not just uncovering and describing oppression but also taking action on it in order to empower research participants. At the time, I believed I could address or negotiate the scholarly critiques outlined above, by taking more care in defining my terms and in caring for my students and their experiences. If I thought my students could be empowered, then I needed to make explicit what I meant (Soto, 2019). Consequently, I felt a growing commitment to care for and address the needs of my students and research participants. Out of this commitment to people came a commitment to write. I began writing for scholarly publications not just to complete degree requirements but also to document my critical pedagogy, to tell my stories and stories of participants, and to critique myself, looking at how I failed to better understand fellow teachers who did not express alignment with my projects, lacked engagement with ethnic Chinese students present at my school site (2019), and at times modelled unempathetic modes of communication to students (Soto, 2020). My first scholarly work, a joint chapter with Dr. M (Pérez-Milans and Soto, 2014) and my doctoral dissertation (Soto, 2016) were completed for these purposes. During this time, I also collaborated on research projects with Dr. M, and these led to further joint publications. In 2017, I secured a three-year contract as a lecturer at my current university. Thus, my criticality entered yet another phase, one of reflection, without the same community-based action as before and also one of uncertainty going into the future. Though my main responsibility in this position is teaching, limited autonomy in curriculum development along with a common desire by students for practical teacher training have made it difficult for me to make space to enact a new critical pedagogy. Or at least that is how I typically justify this difficulty. Nonetheless, I have found time within my responsibilities to write for publication. On the one hand, this has allowed me to probe my criticality further by reengaging with the past and writing about it, but as time goes on my writing becomes less a product of commitment to communities I served, and more a strategic move to secure more permanent employment. Like other academic workers, I have become more aware of the number of publications I produce, the relevant measures of quality, and the academic brand and recognizability I am building in relevant academic networks. This awareness of academic labor market conditions coincides with a more intense awareness of the role that educational market conditions played and how my criticality was enacted in previous years. For example, returning to the photograph from the chapter’s opening, I started to see more how happy moments of celebration, the fruits of our critical work, were often contingent on the various social actors involved performing necessary market activities.

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My collaboration and discussions with Dr. M reoriented my critical attention to the relationships between language, pedagogy, and political economy, opening new avenues to self-reflexively critique my criticality. I shifted from examining my macro-social and political vision to becoming more aware of the everyday micro-ethical tensions in my classroom teaching. Our discussions and my reflections since then have revealed to me more of the tensions, contradictions, and ethical dilemmas that I encountered or participated in generating. For example, in committing to and attempting to enact a vision of education that would “empower” marginalized students, I still created pedagogical activities that may have discomforted students and unsettled their peer relationships. Such was the case in one classroom incident I examined, in which students were asked to discuss the topic of dehumanization. One student raised a concern that another was being dehumanized by others via homophobic slurs. I realized I may not have put the proper care into preparing the students for such potential unsettling of typical classroom relations (Soto, 2020). Moreover, I have a gained a better understanding of how I, particularly as a critical teacher and scholar, have been shaped by and profited from neoliberal institutional priorities. I have been a face of internationalization and diversity, appearing on institutional promotional materials, received awards and media attention, and a relatively stable job, in part I believe, for doing work that that allows institutions to align themselves with equity or community-based work. Considering Kubota and Miller’s (2017) advice, I now find it crucial to consider the limits of reflexivity and specific agendas for action as tools for advancing or maintaining a critical stance within contemporary political economies. In doing so, I have relied on critical ethnographic and analytic tools that shift my attention to [confronting] the question of interests served, that is, how the kinds of knowledge we are interested in producing, and do produce, are embedded in complicated relations of power, not all of which may be readily apparent to us, and not all of which allow for reliable prediction of the consequences of our work. (Heller, 2011) To confront how critical work may be unpredictable in its outcomes, regardless of hyper-reflexive activities, it is important to not take for granted that “criticality” (whether attached theory, research, activism, or teaching) denotes anything specific or durable. Rather, I have looked at criticality as a resource and discursive space. In this view, any instance of activity that is attached to or attaches itself to the label of “criticality” is a form of knowledge that is distributed, involving the activities of social actors producing and circulating resources within social structures. And as distributed knowledge, criticality gets attached to specific sets of values and social personae (values for empowerment,

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equity, diversity, multiculturalism, a foreign teacher interested in social justice for minorities, in my case), which implicates criticality with the distribution of difference and inequality. Monica Heller (2007, p. 635) explains below: Resources are unequally distributed in ways that position people differentially in terms of their access to them, and to the spaces where they are produced, where their circulation is regulated and their meaning and value are defined (Bourdieu, 1977, 1982). Discursive spaces have their histories and trajectories, as do the social actors who participate in them, more or less centrally. What gets constructed as counting as knowledge in and across those spaces is not neutral; it reflects the interests of some participants more than others, and certainly more likely of those who have access to those spaces than of those who are excluded, directly or indirectly. Distributed knowledge, then, takes the shape it does because of interests surrounding both its forms and its circulation, and because of the ability of participants to mobilize resources in those spaces in ways that have consequences for their own access to what goes on there (and what that might lead to) and, at least potentially, for the access of others. What is most relevant for the following discussion is that I could no longer take for granted critical pedagogy as being a particular method for achieving particular goals of empowerment and social justice, that what ends up counting as critical pedagogy may be implicated in various inequalities that emerge as social life plays out. Further, as a resource or form of distributed knowledge, criticality or critical pedagogy is not neutral,and is historically situated and embodied. The following section will reveal some tensions that emerged as I revisited and evaluated my critical pedagogy.

4. REVISITING CRITICAL PEDAGOGY When I first reflected on and documented my critical pedagogy, political economy was not a significant consideration. I was more concerned with tensions, conflicts, and contradictions related to how I enacted my sociopolitical vision of education and subsequent ethical dilemmas (Soto, 2020). Neoliberal restructuring was presented as a background contextual fact, not a part of the social fabric that would permeate my social relations and interactions. For example, I worried that I may have done harm to students by forming close trusting relationships with them, only to ultimately have our pedagogical relationships end abruptly when I could no longer work at MAT school. I questioned if I could have spent more time building relationships with other teachers at the school to understand their hopes and conflicts, though this may have generated its own set of harms. I later considered ethical dilemmas related

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to how I at times used classroom activities, asking if it was right to do so, that purposefully pushed students out of the comfort zones in order to generate dialogue about important issues in their lives, as I mentioned earlier. I noticed that in routine moments of classroom life I would at times model frameworks of interaction and participation that lacked empathy and care for students. In other words, allowing for interaction and participation in and of itself was not neutral, and had the potential to prepare students to act in ways that would generate further distress and lack of care. These reflections have been useful in helping me see complexities of critical teaching and could prepare me to do critical teaching in the future with an altered sensitivity toward those around me. But a discursive lens of critical pedagogy, in my collaborative research and writing, has provided further insights about how it may function as a resource or distributed form of knowledge implicated in inequalities. In our projects, discussions of criticality as tied to empowerment and social transformation provided a platform from which participants could form new identifications tied to specific social personae. For example, we documented how a female participant and student of mine, Sita, came to identity and perform as an activist aligned with ethnic minority concerns (Pérez-Milans and Soto, 2016). We also looked at a group of female students who created spaces for sharing interpersonal conflicts and critiquing sexism while also performing as a dance group to spread awareness of traditional Nepalese cultures. Yet these identifications and spaces were always linked to market activities and the performance of entrepreneurial selves in institutional spaces, and led to unexpected tensions. First, the critical personae performed by these girls were used for commodification purposes. Performances of activist girl or good Nepalese girls became wrapped up in processes of self-capitalization in which criticality took on value for students applying for scholarships for elite schools or for the dance group trying to secure additional funding for the social service organization sponsoring its activities. Activist and good ethnic minority girls also became poster children for media telling stories of individual resilience and social service agencies seeking funding. Second, these critical empowered personae were often in contrast to the ongoing social, emotional, economic, and physical conflicts these youth experienced. Rather than simply being empowered, the introduction of criticality added layers of complexity and contradiction to subjectivities already being shaped by gendered inequalities. Eventually, these lived experiences of youth have become the content through which I as a scholar have built a marketable academic profile and justified receiving pay advancements at work. Efforts by myself and collaborators to promote critical pedagogies and to explore community also resulted in unexpected tensions. As educational marketization and privatization swept over Hong Kong, low-prestige schools like MAT found themselves competing for small pools of student enrollment.

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This created a need for market distinction. As the school began to recruit students from South Asian heritage communities, promoting a particular form of pedagogy became a marketing angle. In the school site where we began our collaboration, the discursive construction of “progressive pedagogy,” advocating for student-centered teaching, building of community, and creativity of students, was used, with our participation, for commodification purposes, through which minoritized students could be recruited and other resources could be attracted to the school (Soto and Pérez-Milans, 2018). In daily life, tensions emerged as the pedagogy that was promoted could not always be enacted. Some teachers preferred to use “traditional methods,” or thought the progressive methods would not help students perform well in public examinations. In the end, the marketed pedagogy was not always made available or feasible. Yet these identifications and forms of community were not made available to all the youth we encountered in our sites; ethnicity, as a marker of difference, became an important boundary regulating who had access to university researchers, community workers, and youth engaged in conversations negotiating how criticality was shaped. The large numbers of ethnic Chinese youth from working-class backgrounds present in our first site never entered into these spaces, never entered into negotiating criticality with us. In my time practicing critical pedagogy in secondary schools in Hong Kong, I had tried to maintain self-reflexivity and aimed toward result-oriented action. I do believe ultimately I met goals of improving academic achievement while helping students to understand and take action on conflicts in their lives. But I don’t think that criticality necessarily empowered without also raising new dilemmas and possibly disempowering students.

CONCLUSION? Writing this chapter has given me an opportunity to trace how my criticality emerged and evolved over time. I can think back to when critical theory saved my life during adolescence and early adulthood when parts of life did not make sense to me. I remember then when critical pedagogy gave a rush of hope, a way to act more humanely and professionally as an educator. And now, when I think of criticality, I think of it through less rose-tinted glasses. Perhaps that’s due in part to my position in the world. With increased family responsibilities, fear of returning to precarity, and nature of work in a neoliberal university, my commitments to engaged critical research and teaching are limited. What then becomes of my critical pedagogy? Or as Peter McLaren (2019) asks, “What is the future of critical pedagogy?” This chapter has made a case that criticality, as knowledge that is discursively produced and circulated, may become a technology for governmentality (Foucault, 2008), through which social actors align themselves with discourses

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of social justice to do “socially meaningful” work oriented toward a public good and still perform as private competitive, entrepreneurial, and self-responsible beings, subjects relying on the market to meet their needs and embody their freedom. This has been the case not just for me personally but also for youth I brought into critical projects. Methods of mitigation like those that Kubota and Miller (2017) propose, such as praxis with hyper self-reflexivity and resultoriented strategic action, may not fundamentally alter what is able to count as criticality. But perhaps I am in a melancholic, pensive stage of my criticality. McLaren (2019) is optimistic for the future of critical pedagogy, at least within the context of the United States: Critical pedagogy has shown itself to be durable and enduring. It will survive and continue to develop in the coming years, as the struggle for a democratic socialism becomes more fierce and fraught with danger. In this, one of the darkest hours of our national life, critical educators take no pleasure in censuring the most desperate and loathsome designs of neoliberal administrations … Critical educators have come to recognize that only by sheltering the persecuted, and only by creating the conditions of possibility for new and emancipatory forms of praxis in all spaces of human sociability can we obtain as a people a new birth of freedom. Of course, I am working in a much different context than McLaren. Hong Kong has been undergoing waves of social and political upheaval. Further reintegration with the mainland of China, particularly as a project for the development of a Greater Bay Area unfolds, will provide new contexts, new limits and possibilities for what it means to obtain “a new birth of freedom.” I have already had two rebirths in my critical life. My first rebirth was as a young adult when I first encountered the work of Freire and of teachers who showed me how they developed a praxis from his work. I looked back at my previous attempts to educate students as imposing oppressive social structures on them, and I embraced Freire’s ideas about using dialogue with students to uncover and transform oppression. My second rebirth happened as started my own family, and in my professional work I developed a radical commitment to acting with and for a specific group of students for whom I grew to care. My reflections on those actions has led me back to a period of reflection and questioning, which I have documented here. I know it might be satisfying for readers for me to end this chapter with a sense of a new direction, what a third rebirth might look like, theoretically or practically. But I’m older now, wondering how I can support my aging mother as I take care of my own family. The risk-taking of my previous stage seems foolhardy at this time. Maybe I don’t need for my criticality to be productive right now. And maybe I can’t

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articulate what another rebirth would be like without a space in which to do so. Only time will tell if there is room for a third.

REFERENCES Agha, A. (2011). Commodity registers. Journal of Linguistic Anthropology, 21(1), 22– 53. doi:10.1111/j.1548-1395.2011.01081.x Banks, J. (1996). Multicultural education, transformative knowledge, and action: Historical and contemporary perspectives. New York: Teachers College Press. Barakos, B., & Selleck, C. (2019). Elite multilingualism: Discourses, practices, and debates. Journal of Multilingual and Multicultural Development, 40(5), 361–374. doi: 10.1080/01434632.2018.1543691 Bourdieu, P. (1977). The economics of linguistic exchanges. Social Science Information, 16(6), 645–668. Bourdieu, P. (1982). Ce que parler veut dire. Paris: Fayard. Chang, B. “Benji,” & McLaren, P. (2018). Emerging issues of teaching and social justice in Greater China: Neoliberalism and critical pedagogy in Hong Kong. Policy Futures in Education, 16(6), 781–803. Retrieved from https://doi. org/10.1177/1478210318767735 Choi, P. K. (2005). A critical evaluation of education reforms in Hong Kong: Counting our losses to economic globalisation. International Studies in Sociology of Education, 15(3), 237–256. De Costa, P. I. (2018). Toward greater diversity and social equality in language education research. Critical Inquiry in Language Studies, 15(4), 302–307. Duchêne, A. & Heller, M. (Eds.). (2012). Language in late capitalism: Pride and profit (1st ed.). New York: Routledge. Duncan-Andrade, J. M. R., & Morrell, E. (2008). The art of critical pedagogy: Possibilities for moving from theory to practice in urban schools. New York: Peter Lang. Dye, K., & Golnaraghi, G. (2015). Organizational benefits through diversity management: Theoretical perspectives on the business case. In R. Bendl, I. Bleijenbergh, E. Henttonen, & A. Mills (Eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Diversity in Organizations (pp. 255–277). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ellsworth, E. (1989). Why doesn’t this feel empowering? Working through the repressive myths of critical pedagogy. Harvard Educational Review, 59(3), 297–325. Erni, J. N., & Leung, L. Y. M. (2014). Understanding South Asian minorities in Hong Kong. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Fairclough, N. (2001). Language and power. Harlow: Longman. Foucault, M. (2008). The birth of biopolitics: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1978– 1979. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Freire, P. (2005). Pedagogy of the oppressed. New York: Continuum. Gonzalez, M. C. (2003). An ethics for postcolonial ethnography. In R. P. Clair (Ed.), Expressions of ethnography: Novel approaches to qualitative methods (pp. 77–86). Albany: State University of New York. Hadley Dunn, A. (2017). Refusing to be co-opted: Revolutionary multicultural education amidst global neoliberalisation. Intercultural Education, 28(4), 356–372. doi: 10.1080/14675986.2017.1345275 Heller, M. (2007). Distributed knowledge, distributed power: A sociolinguistics of structuration. Text & Talk, 27(5–6), 633–653.

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Heller, M. (2011). Paths to post-nationalism: A critical ethnography of language and identity. New York: Oxford University Press. Lin, A. M. Y. (2008). The identity game and discursive struggles of everyday life. In A. M. Y. Lin (Ed.), Problematizing identity: Everyday struggles in language, culture, and education (pp. 1–10). New York: Lawrence Erlbaum. Kubota, R., & Miller, E. R. (2017). Re-examining and re-envisioning criticality in language studies: Theories and praxis. Critical Inquiry in Language Studies, 14(2–3), 129–157. doi: 10.1080/15427587.2017.1290500 Lindlof, T., & Taylor, B. C. (2002). Qualitative communication research methods (2nd ed.). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. MacDonald-Vemic, A., & Portelli, J. (2018). Performance power: The impact of neoliberalism on social justice educators’ ways of speaking about their educational practice. Critical Studies in Education. doi: 10.1080/17508487.2018.1428642 Madison, D. S. (2005). Critical ethnography: Method, ethics, performance. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Malott, C., & Porfilio, B. (2011). Critical pedagogy in the twenty-first century: A new generation of scholars. Charlotte, NC: Information Age Pub. Martin, G., & Te Riele, K. (2011). A place-based critical pedagogy in turbulent times. In C. S. Malott & B. Porfilio (Eds.), Critical pedagogy in the twenty-first century: A new generation of scholars (pp. 23–52). Charlotte, NC: Information Age Pub. McLaren, P. (2019). The future of critical pedagogy. Educational Philosophy and Theory, 52(12), 1243–1248. doi: 10.1080/00131857.2019.1686963 Pérez-Milans, M., & Soto, C. (2014). Everyday practices, everyday pedagogies: A dialogue on critical transformations in a multilingual Hong Kong school. In J. Byrd Clark & F. Dervin (Eds.), Reflexivity in language and intercultural education: Rethinking multilingualism and interculturality (pp. 213–233). New York: Routledge. Pérez-Milans, M., & Soto, C. (2016). Reflexive language and ethnic minority activism in Hong Kong: A trajectory-based analysis. AILA Review, 29, 48–82. Shor, I. (1999). What is critical literacy?. Journal for Pedagogy, Pluralism & Practice, 1(4), 1–26. Solórzano, D., & Delgado Bernal, D. (2001). Examining transformational resistance through a critical race and latcrit theory framework: Chicana and Chicano students in an urban context. Urban Education, 36(3), 308–342. Soto, C., & Pérez-Milans, M. (2018). Language, neoliberalism, and the commodification of pedagogy. Language and Intercultural Communication, 18(5), 490–506. doi:10.1 080/14708477.2018.1501844 Soto, C. (2020). Classroom discourse analysis as a tool for exploring ethical tensions in a critical teaching. Classroom Discourse, 11(2), 129–148. Soto, C. (2019). Critical pedagogy in Hong Kong: Classroom stories of struggle and hope. New York: Routledge. Soto, C. (2016). Empowering low-income ethnic minority students in Hong Kong through critical pedagogy: Limits and possibilities in theory and practice. Doctoral thesis, University of Hong Kong, Pokfulam, Hong Kong SAR.

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Organic Intellectuals or Traditional Intellectuals: Critical Discourse for Whom? CHRISTIAN W. CHUN

INTRODUCTION Those in power have long sown divisions among people by co-constructing inter-effecting economic, racialized, gendered, and sexual hierarchies. However, there have been numerous popular-led movements throughout history that have transformed—or at least attempted to do so—political, economic, and societal structural relations in the name of equality, freedom, justice, and liberty for all. These movements were enacted through discursive practices defying the beliefs that had become hegemonic in their times. Some of these beliefs, held by particular segments of the populace and which were circulated by institutions such as the state, school, religion, and the media, perpetuated the notion of specifically targeted humans as being (much) less “worthy” than others, thus justifying an ideologically socialized order of humanity at historical junctures. Throughout centuries, slavery was viewed and enabled by racist and white supremacist discourses as being a natural and necessary condition for a society to exist and thrive. And yet, after millennia of enslavement, it was

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finally overthrown and abolished starting in the mid-nineteenth century. This was due to not only the enslaved people who revolted but also the people who were not enslaved that began to question and then challenge the prevailing dominant belief systems, resulting in their ensuing fight to change society in solidarity with those who were enslaved. What led those who were fighting slavery but were not enslaved themselves to confront heretofore materialized ideas that had been in social circulation for significant periods of time? How did they defy and transform their previously held beliefs that had been taught, learned, and embodied in their schooling, communities, and societies? How people can transform their views that are perpetuated by those in power is the central focus of this chapter. The ways in which we learn to critically face and overturn oppressive practices in changing our beliefs is an ongoing concern for those of us who have been advocating for and working to co-construct a world free from violence, war, hatred, oppression, exploitation, and crimes against humanity. The Italian philosopher, journalist, and activist Antonio Gramsci (2000c) ruminated during his years of imprisonment by the fascist Mussolini regime on this fundamental problem: For a mass of people to be led to think coherently and in the same coherent fashion about the real present world, is a “philosophical” event far more important and “original” than the discovery by some philosophical “genius” of a truth which remains the property of small groups of intellectuals. (p. 327) This chapter is part of my ongoing research (Chun, 2017, 2020a, 2021) exploring how to rethink and utilize discourse approaches in co-constructing important dialogues between whom Gramsci (1971) described as “organic intellectuals,” that is, the so-called ordinary people in their everyday meaning makings of society with family, friends, and now social media, and those who he named as “traditional intellectuals” (e.g., academics, journalists, pundits) who are “the dominant group’s ‘deputies’ exercising the subaltern functions of social hegemony and political government” (Gramsci, 2000a, p. 306). Drawing on interviews and anecdotal encounters with organic intellectuals, my intention here is to contribute toward a better understanding of how “on-theground” critical discursive framing approaches can engage with people who believe that “there is no alternative” to society as we know it. In contesting hegemonic beliefs, how can we present to organic intellectuals effective framings of actual alternatives to reorganizing our socioeconomic relations in the daily lived domains of the workplace, home, school, neighborhoods, and beyond in transforming society? As Edward W. Said (1996) put it so poignantly, “I am asking the basic question for the intellectual: how does one speak the truth? What truth? For whom and where?” (p. 88). This is a crucial question

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inasmuch as the past failures (in the context of the United States, the UK, and many other countries in the past forty years) of those identifying as socially and politically progressive to connect with people who are angry, afraid, sad, and broken have enabled the Right to claim the mantle of being the champion of the “people.” In a world increasingly besieged by imminent catastrophic climate change, intensifying political and social upheavals, greater than ever economic disparities leading to increasing poverty, and rampant nationalist and racist discourses propagated by demagogues, the stakes have never been higher.

ORGANIC AND TRADITIONAL INTELLECTUALS: WHO HAS THE “RIGHT” TO SPEAK? Who is—or rather, who counts—as an “intellectual” in society? How and why is this historically and socially constructed and determined characterization ascribed to certain people while not to others? The word “intellectual” has traditionally signified an elite status in that it indexes a privileged place in society in which one has had access to higher education and, importantly, the necessary time to read, think, and write on issues of interest—and while doing so, getting paid for this “mental labor,” commodified as such. Yet, are there other interactional contexts in which a person enacts the role of a non-salaried intellectual and, importantly, is viewed as such and by whom, when, and where? According to the New Oxford American Dictionary, an intellectual is hypothetically a person who possesses “a highly developed intellect.” What then is an “intellect”? This dictionary specifies it as having “the faculty of reasoning and understanding objectively, esp. with regard to abstract or academic matters.” The origin of this word is from the Latin intellectus, or “understanding.” However, this widely disseminated and accepted definition leads me to pose the following questions: First, what is an objective understanding? What are the ways in which we (learn to) “objectively” understand the world(s) around us? How is “objective” defined in which situations, and based on what? How is one’s reasoning presented as “objective” as such? Furthermore, regarding “abstract matters,” does “abstract” in this context mean the traditional Western-based notions of being “theoretical” and/or “philosophical”? Finally, what is involved in objectively understanding academic issues, and is that even possible? Does this merely involve being able to recite scholars’ work verbatim ad infinitum? Or is it assessing long-established and accepted academic themes and topics in terms of their validities, methodologies, applications, and/or legacies passed down through generations? Adopting these aforementioned descriptive definitions, perhaps one could then legitimate their argument on who counts as an intellectual. And yet, going by the aforesaid notion of “objective understanding” of carefully prescribed selected bits of empirical realities, one can present a counterargument. For

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example, in the academic disciplinary field of economics, there exists three major sets of theories: neoclassical, Keynesian, and Marxian. When theorists of these frameworks employ the same words such as “commodity,” “wage,” “price,” “profit,” “value,” and “capitalism” in their theoretical discussions and empirical findings, “they define such objects differently” and, because of this, “they literally mean different things by those words” (Wolff & Resnick, 2012, p. 36). How then is one able to “objectively” understand these competing theories whilst also impartially reasoning their theoretical validities if these core terms are used differently leading to much different conceptualizations and hence understandings of the co-constructed interanimations of social and economic relations? This stance of “objectivity” vis-à-vis certain parameters of selected knowledge in contrast to framings of subjective or biased forms of knowledge is, of course, inherently ideological. Inasmuch as living utterances “cannot fail to brush up against thousands of living dialogic threads, woven by socioideological consciousness around the given object of an utterance; it cannot fail to become an active participant in social dialogue” (Bakhtin, 1981, p. 276), the denial of the dialogical is evident in neoclassical economic theory in that it presents itself as monological “in which the unifying force in discourse becomes intolerant or at least dominant, giving rise to a totalizing point of view” (LaCapra, 1983, p. 313). This is evident in the word “capitalism,” which is articulated and mediated differently in neoclassical, Keynesian, and Marxian theories. Whereas some theoretical strands of Marxian frameworks question if capitalism has any “essential or coherent identity” (Gibson-Graham, 1996, p. 15), neoclassical economists insist on their authoritative word of “capitalism” as being the ideal rational(ized) system of enabling individual freedom, liberty, and our “innate” human nature in dismissing any negative characteristics. As such, there is no objectivity with neoclassical economics; rather, it seeks authority through their discourses demanding “that we acknowledge it, that we make it our own; it binds us, quite independent of any power it might have to persuade us internally; we encounter it with its authority already fused to it” (Bakhtin, 1981, p. 342). One discourse prevalent in Marxian economics as being a definitive feature of capitalism is the term “exploitation,” which would never be accepted by neoclassical economists. Certainly, among academic and professional economists—the traditional intellectuals—the authoritative discourse of capitalism “is given (it sounds) in lofty spheres, not those of familiar contact” (Bakhtin, 1981, p. 342). It is this lack of “familiar contact” of the usages of the authoritative word and discourse that serves to demarcate those who are designated to be “intellectuals” from the rest of society. What, then, “are the ‘maximum’ limits of acceptance of the term ‘intellectual’?” (Gramsci, 2000a, p. 304). One might ask, who are we, as the designated “nonintellectuals” that don’t

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know any better, to challenge or question those who supposedly do know much more than us? And yet, hypothetically, “nonintellectuals”—the organic intellectuals, aka everyday people—do precisely this; they challenge the ideas of some traditional intellectuals while accepting others unequivocally. In this manner, although everyday people may not have the social function of being recognized as “intellectuals,” they mirror what traditional intellectuals do, and thus “one cannot speak of non-intellectuals, because non-intellectuals do not exist” (Gramsci, 2000a, p. 321). In the case of those organic intellectuals who uncritically embrace beliefs and views of established mainstream intellectuals, their tacit and explicit acceptance enacts “the ‘spontaneous’ consent given … to the general direction imposed on social life by the dominant fundamental group” (Gramsci, 2000a, p. 307). In part, their consent from a Gramscian perspective co-constructs the hegemony of “the prestige (and consequent confidence) which the dominant group enjoys because of its position and function in the world of production” (Gramsci, 2000a, p. 307). But this consent is not passive inasmuch as the particular and at-times contradictory conceptions of the world held by organic intellectuals are in dialogic tandem with those of the traditional intellectuals as the materialities of lived experiences historically shift. Hegemonic consent is co-constructed by the traditional intellectuals in the media in dynamic conjunction with political parties they align with, enacting a journalism that Gramsci (2000b) called “integral” in that it “seeks not only to satisfy all the needs (of a given category) of its public, but also to create and develop these needs, to arouse its public and progressively enlarge it” (p. 383). The rise of Fox News in the United States with its inciting targeted audiences with right-wing discourses and its ensuing materialized actions such as racist attacks is but one example of this integral journalism. Thus, this central concern of discourse as language-in-action encompassing “all forms of meaningful semiotic human activity seen in connection with social, cultural, and historical patterns and developments of use” (Blommaert, 2005, p. 3) must be viewed in light of how the uptakes of dominant discourses by organic intellectuals lead to forms of enactments and in turn how these influence their discursive mediations. In examining how critical discourse approaches with organic intellectuals can lead to political, economic, and social change in society, this is essential because “we cannot safely leave politics to politicians, or political economy to college professors. The people themselves must think, because the people alone can act” (Henry George, as cited by Nichols, 2015, p. xxii).

TRADITIONAL INTELLECTUALS AND HEGEMONY One illustration of this dynamic of a traditional intellectual insisting on a monologic authoritative discourse contesting as well as perpetuating specific

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hegemonic meanings that various people associate with the word “socialism” was in the February 24, 2020, broadcast on the noncommercial public-funded US news program, Democracy Now, hosted by Amy Goodman. The online/ radio show featured a debate between the Nobel Laureate economist Paul Krugman and self-identified socialist economist Richard Wolff on the US presidential candidate Senator Bernie Sanders and what socialism means. When Krugman was asked the question posed by Goodman why his recent column was headlined “Bernie Sanders Isn’t a Socialist”, he replied thusly, OK, I mean, Bernie says he loves Denmark. I love Denmark. I think Denmark is an illustration of how decent a society can be. The Danes don’t think that they’re socialists. They think that they’re social democrats. They don’t use the word “socialist.” And it isn’t socialism as we’ve always used to understand it. It’s not government ownership of the means of production. It’s not seizing the commanding heights of the economy. It’s a really strong social safety net and a strong labor movement, all of which I support. In Arguing with Zombies, I have a whole chapter called “Eek! Socialism!” which is about the Republican habit of playing three-card monte. You say that you’re for universal healthcare; they say, “That’s socialist.” You say you’re for universal child care; they say, “Think about how many people Stalin killed.” You know, it’s this crazy stuff. So, why use the word? Why describe yourself? I think it’s kind of self-indulgent to call yourself a socialist and give the Republicans unnecessary ammunition. I think, probably, we’re for the same—I’m for the same kinds of policies. I’m for universal healthcare, universal child care, all of these things. Why buy into the Republican effort to make this sound like something Stalin would do? In the case of Krugman’s argument, it is clear that “expertise is of relative importance if it contradicts the experiences people have in their own, everyday lives” (Seargeant, 2020, p. 19). Krugman’s ostensible fear of using the word “socialism” plays right into the hegemonic perpetuation of the definition used by not only conservatives but also liberals, mainstream media, and school curriculum for decades. His social framework of the word appears to be a “guided doing” in his “continuous corrective control” (Goffmann, 1974, p. 22) in denying the resemiotizing recontextualizations of socialism that have contested Stalinist versions. Throughout the rest of the interview, Krugman does not offer any alternative word to define the policies he associates with socialism, for example, “a really strong social safety net and a strong labor movement … universal healthcare,” and thus legitimizes the capitalist system by implying these policies are inherently compatible with capitalism. Instead, he frames the usage of the word as being “self-indulgent” and, in doing so, continues the social circulation of the authoritative and

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ideological discursive collocations of socialism with Stalin and its sinister implications. When asked to respond to Krugman’s framing of socialism, Wolff answered, There is no agency, neither public nor private, that defines what a socialist is. If you follow the socialist movement for the last 150 years, you would discover that it has been a contested terrain from day one. There were different interpretations and different meanings. Bernie Sanders is perfectly in line with one of the traditions of what socialism is. It’s the government having a big role in offsetting some of the awful qualities of capitalism. But we also know that the kind of control that the government tries to operate is very difficult for it to succeed with. We once had a New Deal in this country. We lost most of it because we didn’t go beyond a government intervention to change the society. What Bernie Sanders represents is an awareness that it’s time to have a conversation we should have had for 75 years about our capitalist system and whether we can do better. This is now a changed environment in which what was taboo in this country isn’t anymore. And Bernie has already achieved the breaking of a taboo in this country to talk about socialism, its strengths and weaknesses, its different interpretations, and compare them to capitalism, rather than running away because nasty conservatives call us various names. That’s not a profound reason. And for the young people of this country, it doesn’t carry much weight anyway. So I welcome the opening that Bernie achieves, that we can talk about socialism, its different interpretations and why we ought to explore them a lot more than we’ve been able to under the taboo of the last 75 years. In contrast to Krugman’s insistence on adhering to the right-wing discourse of socialism, Wolff presents an alternative framing in which he notes not only “the contested terrain” of the “different interpretations and … meanings” of socialism but also the diachronic trajectories of the word. Particularly now that the Cold War has ended thirty years ago, socialism no longer has the same meaning to those born after the collapse of the Soviet Union as it did, and does, to many born right after the end of the Second World War. To a certain extent, the Right has not been entirely incorrect in its assessment of socialism as it was practiced by the Soviet Union. In the ensuing years of Stalin’s regime, the word socialism “became inseparable from the idea of state activity: control, ownership, planning, capital accumulation, social mobilization. Statism subjugated the working class to a new ruling bureaucratic stratum that perpetuates its hegemony under the banner of Marxism, or ‘Marxism-Leninism’ ” (Boggs, 1984, p. 267). Thus, in any conversation with those on the Right, it is important to acknowledge “the deeply undemocratic character of state-administered socialism” (Hall, 1988a,

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p. 227). In sharing “some of the same ground” (Hall, 1988a, p. 227) with the Right on this issue, is it possible to further the dialogue on economic systems? Although the Soviet government called itself “socialist” and “communist,” as Wolff and his fellow Marxist economist colleague and frequent coauthor, the late Stephen Resnick, argued in their 2002 book, Class Theory and History: Capitalism and Communism in the USSR, the Soviet apparatchiks merely replaced the capitalist class in their deciding who would get what from the workers’ production of surplus labor value. What “became a definitive signature of socialism/communism over capitalism” was “replacing markets by collective distributions managed by state agencies” (p. 7) and thus continuing the subjugations of the working class. Ironically, the right-wing in the United States and the UK has always denounced the dictatorial system of the USSR— and yet what the Soviet government did in solely determining the wages and benefits the workers would receive from their labor precisely mirrors capitalist-run businesses. However, as Resnick and Wolff (2002) argued, “other formulations (e.g., Lenin 1969; Sweezy & Bettelheim, 1971) moved this discussion in somewhat different directions” than the Soviet model because, for them, “the key issue was whether effective state power really (and not just formally) lay in the collective hands of workers. Defined as true democracy, that became the criterion of genuine socialism” (p. 7). This definition of socialism is thus a democracy enacted at the workplace by all the workers deciding on their pay and benefits rather than the boss (be it an owner, CEO, or board members). How this idea of socialism can serve as a primary framework with organic intellectuals will be addressed later in this chapter.

ORGANIC INTELLECTUALS’ RIGHT TO THINK? Stuart Hall (1997) argued that hegemony is “not the disappearance or destruction of difference”; rather, “it is the construction of a collective will through difference. It is the articulation of differences which do not disappear” (p. 58). These discursive articulations of socially and historically constructed differences such as race that can appeal across racialized divides in sustaining hegemony are evident in the following encounter I had in early 2020 with a taxi driver who identifies as Black, a devout Christian, and a US military veteran who grew up in an inner-city, predominantly Black neighborhood in the greater Los Angeles area. His sharing of his views with me illustrates this hegemonic construction of a collective will that embodies at-times contradictory “ideological elements … [that] do not have a necessary class belonging” (Laclau & Mouffe, 1985, p. 67). The conversation in his taxi started with a usual topic in Los Angeles—the nonstop congested traffic on its freeways. The driver mentioned that it would

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get even worse with the scheduled 2028 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. This prompted me to relate to him what I thought was an amusing anecdote: Oh, yeah, that’s right! A few weeks ago, when I was getting a haircut, the owner wished me a happy new year and said he was really looking forward to 2020. I asked him with a wink, “Oh you mean, the US Presidential election year, huh?” The owner laughed and replied, “No, because of the Olympics this summer in Tokyo!” In this context, the driver then asked who I was planning to vote for in the 2020 presidential election, to which I replied, “Well, definitely not Trump! And you?” He answered, “Well, I support his banning illegal immigrants by building that wall to keep them out, but his other policies like in Iran and Syria are stupid.” The latter part of his comment made sense to me because I framed it in the context of him being a former soldier who had served overseas and thus knew the situation there firsthand. However, my initial reaction to the driver approving of Donald Trump’s immigrant policies and, by implication, the accompanying racist use of the adjective “illegal”—as opposed to “undocumented”—surprised me because I foregrounded two aspects of his articulated identities—his being Black and coming from a poor neighborhood. My viewing him as a Black working-class person led to my immediate assumption he would be in support of other people—the “them”—who are also struggling to survive in a racist hierarchical society. However, therein lies the fallacy of believing that just because a person is poor and a minority, they will automatically be in solidarity with others like them. In this case, it was certainly not his class belonging nor shared lived experiences with people from Mexico facing racism in the United States but rather an articulation of a particular difference—that of being an “American” in opposition to the Other—“illegal” immigrants. His alignment with the anti-immigration rhetoric of Trump and his policy manifestations while rejecting the wars being waged in the Middle East is an example of his adhering to both an authoritative discourse—demanding an “unconditional allegiance” (Bakhtin, 1981, p. 343) to an Othering discourse— and an internally persuasive one in which he retold a text in his own word— “stupid.” His politically contradictory stances indeed demonstrate that “the ideological becoming of a human being … is the process of selectively assimilating the words of others” (Bakhtin, 1981, p. 341). His selective assimilation of some words but not others illustrates Hall’s (1997) argument that “hegemony is not the same thing as incorporating everybody, of making everybody the same, though nine-tenths of the people who have marginally read Gramsci think that is what he means” (p. 58). The driver’s articulation of his support for Trump building the wall to keep Mexican immigrants from entering the United States

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while rejecting his war policies is an example of the hegemonic construction of a current collective will through difference. Undeniably, “there is no single ‘voice of the people’. There are broken, polemical voices, each time dividing the identity they present” (Rancière, 2011, p. 12). So, if the counter-hegemonic aim of left-wing traditional intellectuals “is not only to create a particular way of life and a particular conception of the world, but also to translate the interests and values of a specific social group into general, ‘common’ values and interests” (Fontana, 1993, pp. 140–141), how then would you discursively engage with this organic intellectual on this issue?

ENGAGING WITH ORGANIC INTELLECTUALS IN THE INTERREGNUM In the aftermath of the 2019 UK parliamentary and 2016 US presidential elections with right-wing populists Boris Johnson and Trump appealing to enough voters to get elected, many who identify as being on the Left, that is, believing in racial, economic, and social equality for all and advocating for more democratic governance and accountability, have been baffled and flabbergasted by the rise and continuing appeal of these demagogic political leaders. Are Johnson and Trump seemingly abnormal or bizarre politicians, or does their rise to power index seismic shifts in their respective societies including rising nationalism and its accompanying discourses of xenophobia and white supremacy in the face of declining economies? Reflecting on the rise of the Italian fascist leader Benito Mussolini and his counterpart in Nazi Germany, Adolf Hitler, Gramsci (1971) observed that if the ruling class has lost its consensus, i.e., is no longer “leading” but only “dominant,” exercising coercive force alone, this means precisely that the great masses have become detached from their traditional ideologies, and no longer believe what they used to believe previously, etc. The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born; in this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms appear. (pp. 275–276) Although Gramsci defined an interregnum occurring when the ruling class uses only coercion rather than in conjunction with consent, I would argue that from their situated performativities, such as the deliberately disheveled hair of Johnson and the non-presidential registers used by Trump, these purposeful enactments that seem to be outlandish and ridiculous to some people are in fact indexing the detachment of others from their formerly held beliefs—at least partly so. Have their elections signified a crucial historical break from the previously (neoliberal) “business-as-usual” leadership of UK and US politicians

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in the past forty years? Although the peculiar public personas of Johnson and Trump stand in stark contrast to much more dignified self-presentations of past UK and US leaders such as Tony Blair and Barack Obama, were the policies of the latter politicians any significantly different despite their political rhetoric and stances? Both Blair and Obama presented themselves as “progressive” and yet they continued the neoliberal policies of Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan in the further dismantling of the social-welfare state. In the case of Obama, his bailout of Wall Street banks from the 2008 market crash without providing any assistance to the millions of Americans who lost their jobs, the deportations of undocumented immigrants (which exceeded his Republican predecessor, George W. Bush), and the continuation of global wars (or to use the now-preferred word, “conflicts”) to sustain US geopolitical hegemony would appear to be no different than right-wing politicians. However, this raises another question—why have the political discursive framings by Johnson and Trump persuaded some long-standing Labour and Democrat supporters to shift their votes to the Tories and Republicans? What prompted these voters to enthusiastically embrace the rise of right-wing populism? Interestingly, Hall (1988a), in his analysis examining the rise of Thatcher and her appeal to voters, used an eerily prophetic campaign slogan: When, in a crisis, the traditional alignments are disrupted, it is possible, on the very ground of this break, to construct the people into a populist political subject: with, not against, the power bloc; in alliance with new political forces in a great national crusade to “make Britain ‘Great’ once more.” (p. 49) The construction of a populist political subject of a targeted demographic— and, which people are we talking about?—to support any power bloc that would appear at least to others not to have their best interests at heart has traditionally relied on a long-standing discourse of nationalism in promising to make their countries “great” again. What have been the discourses that claim will make a country great again? One fundamental discourse in right-wing populism has been the lamenting and longing for a historically altered past reeking of ideological nostalgia in which a certain people are named as the “true” identity of a country. It is precisely this “kind of doleful nostalgia for an unrealizable ‘paradise lost’ that is perhaps no less debilitating or distorting than ideology itself ” (Gardiner, 1992, p. 27) that right-wing politicians use in knowing the impact of its affective discursive appeal to the people who bemoan their loss of relative status in a shifting economy of job outsourcing and increasing precarity. This discourse turns the attention of some voters away from the socioeconomic structures in place that are enabling their economic sufferings and anxieties to long for

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a “conservative utopia [that] is characterized by an ideological appeal to an idealized and mythologized past which de-legitimates any challenge to the reigning social order” (Gardiner, 1992, p. 32). A central element of the discourse of a conservative utopia co-constructs a unity of a certain demographic in opposition to a named adversary that is never the system itself—capitalism— and its enabling ruling class. In the context of the UK and the United States, this adversary has been created because of the ideologically prerequisite social-historical invention— that of the racialized white identity of heretofore serfs, sharecroppers, miners, factory workers, and manual laborers. In his article, “How the British Working Class Became White,” Alastair Bonnett (1998) traced “a shift in emphasis from whiteness as a bourgeois identity, connoting extraordinary qualities, to whiteness as a popularist identity connoting superiority but also ordinariness, nation and community” (p. 318). W. E. B. Du Bois (1992) examined the historical co-construction of what he coined as the “psychological and public wages” of whiteness among wage laborers in the context of nineteenth-century United States during the struggles to abolish slavery. Ashley Jardina (2019) observed that although whites “who live in places where manufacturing jobs have declined since 1990 did not view Trump more favorably … his supporters … were however, living in places with low economic mobility, and tended to be blue-collar workers with less education” (p. 101). She argued that while “we should be cautious in concluding that white identity politics is the politics of the white working class” and that “whites high on identity and consciousness are not, for the most part, objectively economically vulnerable” (p. 116), many “working-class whites may nevertheless find race to be an attractive social identity” (p. 117). But white identity allegiance unquestionably extends beyond those categorized as the “working class” because “indeed, there are many whites who possess high levels of racial consciousness who are financially secure and situated in white-collar jobs” (p. 116). Thus, the racializing co-constructions of whiteness in the historical contexts of the UK and the United States should be viewed in the discursive framing of how one “group” of particular people—whites (self-identified as such)— are continually endangered by the threatening and dangerous adversary of the “Other” in their trying to survive in capitalist society. The discourse of the Other is a central element in the framing of nationalist identities in rightwing populism. Throughout the past decades, there have been numerous discursive and ideologically materialized embodiments of the Other. During the Cold War, the predominant Other in the United States and the UK was the apparently covert communist infiltrating society in planning to overthrow the “democratic” government under orders from the Kremlin. In the ensuing years after the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Other has taken on other ideological appearances. One is the “foreign religious fanatic” not only refusing to

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integrate into and adopting the dominant culture of the country (presumably by converting to Christianity) but also intending to spread their religion. Another is the sponger or “welfare queen” (always a person of color)—frequently used by Ronald Reagan in his US presidential campaign speeches—who only lives off the government and bleeds it dry for the “free handouts” of social assistance, unemployment compensation, and health care. In the past few years with the Trump and May/Johnson administrations, the Other is also now “the (undocumented) immigrant” slipping into the country intent on stealing jobs from local people and “the refugee” (inconveniently from the war-torn countries the United States is involved in) living off the State at taxpayer expense. At the time of this writing, there is also a new Other—the Covid-19 virus has been framed by Trump as the “Chinese virus” and “Kung Flu,” which has helped fuel the resurgence of the “Yellow Peril” and the ensuing racially motivated attacks on Asians and people of Asian ancestry in the United States and the UK (Chun, 2020b). These fictionalized adversaries fulfill the core ideological aim of rightwing populist movements in the naming of the Others for the(ir) people to despise and unite against, and thus aligning themselves with, the power bloc as Hall (1988a) noted. This is not to suggest that people are necessarily reacting irrationally to these aforementioned adversaries in all contexts. Many people are angry, upset, and depressed about their daily existences in capitalist-run societies and fear for their livelihoods in this age of declining and stagnant wages, unand underemployment, and their precariousness in the post-manufacturing “service” economy. The Left in the United States—broadly defined here as encompassing political and social liberals, progressives, democratic socialists, and radicals—has mainly failed to engage directly with these affective dimensions of people, and when they do, usually dismiss their feelings due to ignorance, “brainwashing,” or “drinking the Kool-Aid.” In this manner, some on the Left adopt the dubious notion of “false consciousness,” assuming that “vast numbers of ordinary people, mentally equipped in much the same way as you or I, can simply be thoroughly and systematically duped into misrecognizing entirely where their real interests lie” (Hall, 1988b, p. 44). And enacting this stance of intellectual “superiority” in dismissing the masses as “dupes of history, ‘we’— the privileged—are somehow without a trace of illusion and can see, transitively, right through into the truth, the essence, of a situation” (Hall, 1988b, p. 44). Indeed, as Peter Ives (2004) pointed out, a group of traditional intellectuals who have never worked in a factory nor been exploited will have a very difficult time convincing workers that their view of the world is superior in any way to that of the capitalists whose ideas seem so much more congruent to how the world actually works. (p. 81)

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Because of this condescending dynamic among some traditional intellectuals on the Left, they do “not see that it is possible to connect with the ordinary feelings and experiences which people have in their everyday lives, and yet to articulate them progressively to a more advanced, modern form of consciousness” (Hall, 1988a, pp. 170–171). In their not understanding “the necessarily contradictory nature of human subjects, of social identities” and the embodied “politics as a production” (Hall, 1988a, p. 170), the leftist traditional intellectuals who are “in the know” have often dismissed the organic intellectuals “who know nothing” and “don’t even bother knowing.” In her discussion of Rancière’s critique of Bourdieu’s notions of reproduction and distinction, Kristin Ross (1991) noted that Rancière “uncovered a logic whereby the social critic gains by showing democracy losing” (p. xi). As she phrased it, “the ‘Bourdieu effect’ could be summed up in this perfect circle” (Ross, 1991, p. xi): “They are excluded because they do not know why they are excluded; and they do not know why they are excluded because they are excluded” (Rancière, 2012, p. 161). This attitude regarding people who know nothing became very apparent to me when I was a graduate student. I attended a guest lecture by a well-known scholar in critical pedagogy. I had extensively read their work and was looking forward to hearing what they had to say in person. The first few minutes I found exhilarating until I began to realize it was sounding more and more like an old-fashioned fire-and-brimstone speech by an impassioned preacher in the local church. But this was not the proverbial “preaching to the choir” as it were because some in the audience seemed somewhat skeptical about the actual implementation of critical pedagogic approaches in the classroom, as indicated by their questions to the speaker. Instead of finding ways to enter into a dialogue with the audience members who were unconvinced, the speaker gave curt and indifferent replies before returning to their oration. Although the speaker presented the affective displays of fury at the injustices of society, they failed to connect with the people in attendance who might have felt the same anger but were cynical or dubious about concrete changes. Thus, engaging in critical discourse with organic intellectuals who are angry and resentful of the society they perceive to be treating them unfairly—whether blaming the Other(s) or other agents—must necessarily be grounded in both the affective and dialogic. It seems clear to me that the people who look to right-wing media such as the Daily Express and Daily Telegraph in the UK, and Fox News in the United States, are satisfying (and, of course, further fueling) their emotions of anger and frustration of the injustices done to them in their daily existences. Their feelings and experiences of living in a capitalist world index the everyday alienation, or as it has been more accurately translated as “estrangement” (Marx, 1844), from both society at large and on a daily basis in how one lives. For example, one’s sense of being and becoming estranged

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results from numerous social domains, whether from the workplace with other coworkers and the bosses, or the local neighborhood in which we barely engage with neighbors who we may barely know, schoolmates who might bully us in school, and our sense of self (or lack thereof) conflicting with the expectations society demands of us in hegemonically prescribed roles in which we are at times forced to enact, which may not always align with our own self-identifications. Our affective and emotional needs are often greater (or, at the very least, as equally important) than our intellectual, rational needs in trying to make sense of the world(s) in which we live. So perhaps only when our emotional needs are first met can we be open to rationalist discourses appealing to our intellectual reasoning. Is it either/or, though? Can intellectual and rationalist discourses work dialogically with discourses addressing people’s emotions of estrangement? This is crucial since “an immediate consequence of man’s [sic] estrangement from the product of his labour, his life activity, his species-being, is the estrangement of man from man” (Marx, 1844, pp. 329–330; emphasis in the original).

STRUCTURES OF FEELING AND CONTRADICTORY CONSCIOUSNESS Raymond Williams (1977) addressed how reason and emotion are interwoven with our lived experiences in his concept of “structures of feeling”: The term is difficult, but “feeling” is chosen to emphasize a distinction from more formal concepts of “world-view” or “ideology.” It is not only that we must go beyond formally held and systematic beliefs, though of course we have always to include them. It is that we are concerned with meanings and values as they are actively lived and felt, and the relations between these and formal or systematic beliefs are in practice variable (including historically variable), over a range from formal assent with private dissent to the more nuanced interaction between selected and interpreted beliefs and acted and justified experiences … We are talking about characteristic elements of impulse, restraint, and tone; specifically affective elements of consciousness and relationships: not feeling against thought, but thought as felt and feeling as thought: practical consciousness of a present kind, in a living and interrelating continuity. We are then defining these elements as a “structure”: as a set, with specific internal relations, at once interlocking and in tension. (p. 132; emphases added) Here, Williams made the compelling argument that the ways in which we make meanings of our worlds and the values embedded in particular meanings are not confined to an oppositional binary of supposed rationalized thinking

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or “illogical” emotions. Rather, they are indivisible because our thoughts and ideas continually are shaped by our experiences, and in turn, these encounters and how we react to them affect how we see the world around us. How many among us have become upset and angry when we have had heated arguments about what is going on in the world with family members, friends, neighbors, coworkers, and the proverbial person on the street? The person we are engaging with at that moment whose thoughts as feelings and feelings as thoughts shaped by their different experiential identities would offer what they would perceive as their rational counterargument, but it would perhaps be viewed in that impassioned moment as “absurd” or “ridiculous” to us. In the case of the Black taxi driver in Los Angeles who supports Trump’s antiimmigration policies, he would no doubt argue that his stance made sense in his situation because of the understandable fear people in his socioeconomic position have over the scarcity of jobs coupled with the anger about the likelihood of undocumented immigrants getting hired (due to their much lower wage allocations) over someone who has lived in the country their whole life. This illustrates how an individual’s “internal contradictoriness is thus reflected in the contradictory nature of society, in the form of conflict among different groups of people. However, this in turn affects individual personalities, which experience a form of internal conflict as a result” (Filippini, 2017, p. 39). Another illustration of the structures of feeling was featured in an article that appeared in The Guardian following the December 2019 UK parliamentary election, entitled “In Blair’s Old Seat, the Regulars Agree: ‘Corbyn Doesn’t Understand Us Here’.” In the interviews with people residing in the postindustrial northern areas of England that has traditionally voted for the Labour Party, one voter, who had voted for the Labour Party in every election since 1945, told the reporter that Jeremy Corbyn is “not my kind of man. Not strong enough. He doesn’t understand us here” (Adams, 2019). For the first time in his life, he voted for the Conservative Party of Boris Johnson. The framing presented in this article positioned this voter and others like him as having family ties to the military, are patriotic, and feeling politicians like Corbyn are too “soft” on terrorism, and hence “not strong enough” to confront and defeat it. However, the voter’s next utterance that Corbyn “doesn’t understand us here” (emphasis added) would seem to index perhaps not only the patriotic sentiments and loyalty to the military shared by others in this community but also the feeling of being abandoned and left behind by the New Labour policies (i.e., the conveniently reframed continuation of neoliberalism started by Thatcher) implemented by Tony Blair. It seems clear that these two utterances together enact this voter’s meanings and values as actively lived and felt, as Williams (1977) observed, and thus the “practical consciousness” of the voter’s structures of feeling has led him to reject his past voting practices.

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On a rational level, one might wonder why this voter and others sharing the same socioeconomic condition have voted “against their interests” in electing Boris Johnson, who comes from an upper-middle-class background and attended the elite schools of Eton and Oxford for his education. Perhaps Gramsci’s (2000c) framing of this issue is of relevance here: The active man-in-the-mass has a practical activity, but has no clear theoretical consciousness of his practical activity, which nonetheless is an understanding of the world in so far as it transforms it. His theoretical consciousness can indeed be historically in opposition to his activity. One might almost say that he has two theoretical consciousnesses (or one contradictory consciousness): one which is implicit in his activity and which in reality unites him with all his fellow-workers in the practical transformation of the real world; and one, superficially explicit or verbal, which he has inherited from the past and uncritically absorbed. (p. 333) An example of an apparently contradictory consciousness is from a Pennsylvania roofer interviewed by the Boston Globe on why after voting twice for President Clinton in the 1990s and President Obama in 2008, he voted for Trump in 2016: I just absolutely love the way Trump presents himself. I’ve always been brutally honest my entire life. I say what I think and if you don’t like me for it at least I’m honest, is the way I look at it. And Trump comes off that way. (As cited by Goodwin, 2019) The roofer’s framing in aligning himself with Trump based on his own selfidentified characteristic of being straightforward and truthful and his perception of Trump being the same is rooted in the current backlash by some against “political correctness” (see Jones, 2016, for his analysis of Trump’s dismissal of political correctness discourse). Part of this resentment toward having to be “correct” all the time stems from the idea of the “thought” and “language police” controlling how we speak—in effect, censorship. In the United States, this resonates with some people especially when they bring up their First Amendment rights—the freedom of speech. In their interpretation, this means being able to say anything you think and want. The roofer went on to say, “People look at [Trump] as a bad person, but everyone doesn’t speak proper. Look at me, I don’t have that proper language. That’s the way I look at him—he’s just honest” (as cited by Goodwin, 2019). Given the discourse in the United States that most, if not all, career politicians lie as part of their job, it is not surprising that people like the roofer identify with Trump because of their perceiving that he “tells it like it is,” whether it

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is the reason why the economy is not working for them (blaming immigrants), or dismissing the fear of contracting Covid-19 (“don’t be afraid of it”). As Edward Sapir (1949) astutely observed, “the extraordinary importance of minute linguistic differences for the symbolization of psychologically real as contrasted with politically or sociologically official groups is intuitively felt by most people. ‘He talks like us’ is equivalent to saying ‘He is one of us’ ” (p. 17). By this very enacting of a “straight-talking no bullshit” persona, Trump strategically appears to be one of “them”—people like this roofer, this despite Trump having a privileged wealthy life since he was born. The following is from an interview I conducted in Los Angeles in 2019. The participant identifies as a straight white cisgender male from a working-class background in Detroit. When I asked him why some working-class voters still support Trump even though he has not fulfilled his promise to bring jobs back to their communities, he replied, I’ve been in working-class bars all over the country, and I feel most at home in working-class bars. That’s how I grew up in Detroit, and I’ve always seen working-class people as having incredible bullshit detectors. And in my opinion, if Donald Trump—if you could sort of strip people’s memory of who he is—walked into any working-class bar in the country, and started bragging about how much money he had, how rich he was, how smart he was, if he started asking people what they did for a living and they told him and he said “oh, I know more about that than anybody” because these are all things that he does constantly … his arrogance and his ego, the guy would get punched out. I’d give him 30 minutes, tops. He would get the fucking bum’s rush. He’d be lucky if he didn’t get his ass kicked after he was thrown out. There’s just no way, in my experience, working-class people would tolerate a person like that in their world. So that makes me wonder why, not only do they tolerate him, but they voted for him in large numbers. What did they, what was more worth it to them than their knowledge? ‘Cause, they have to see through him! So, I just can’t figure out what happened to that bullshit detector, what deactivated it, what caused him to slip under their radar in that way. And, you know, the cynical thing that I would say would be that he validates a lot of things that working-class people have felt shit on about, that they can’t feel or think anymore in this world. But I don’t know, you know, the basic xenophobia that he seems to promote. I mean, I don’t know if it’s that reducible, but that is really the greatest mystery to me, is why they don’t just roll their eyes when they see that guy. And a lot of people do, like my friend in Detroit, he’s a working-class guy and he doesn’t get it. Like I said, he’s angrier than I am because he’s got friends, you know, who voted for him. And he’s looking around, and he’s in working-class Detroit, and he’s seeing people who voted for him and he’s just enraged all the time.

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So he’s one of those guys who sees through it, but how did so many people not see through it, is my question. The issues the participant raises are important ones for those of us who have explored critical approaches to discourse engagements (e.g., Blommaert, 2005; Chun, 2017; Fairclough, 1992; Flowerdew & Richardson, 2018; Jones, 2016; Scollon & Scollon, 2003; Slembrouck, 2001; van Leeuwen, 2008; Verschueren, 2001; Wodak, 1996; Wodak & Meyer, 2016). The “bullshit detector” the participant mentions as being “deactivated” appears to still be working, but it has been reconfigured by some to view Trump as the one “calling out the bullshit” of a society they painfully know has left them behind. In a similar fashion to the Pennsylvania roofer who had been a Democrat but now supports Trump for the perceived honesty of his self-presentation, others desperate to find a political leader who cares about them—and not the “Others”—emotionally connect with Trump’s staged anger and bluster. One can conduct a critical discourse study of their utterances mediating his discourses in circulation and find the flaws in their logic, the fallacies they adopt, and the contradictions in their reasoning, but to what end does this serve? To reassure traditional intellectuals that, once again, only we are in the know? And by doing so, we perpetuate and uphold the consensual domain of hegemony by further alienating organic intellectuals who don’t share our views. As Gramsci (2000c) asked, imagine the intellectual position of the man of the people: he has formed his own opinions, convictions, criteria of discrimination, standards of conduct. Anyone with a superior intellectual formation with a point of view opposed to his can put forward arguments better than he and really tear him to pieces logically and so on. But should the man of the people change his opinions just because of this? Just because he cannot impose himself in a bout of argument? In that case he might find himself having to change every day, or every time he meets an ideological adversary who is his intellectual superior. (p. 339)

HOW CAN THOSE “IN THE KNOW” ENGAGE WITH THOSE “WHO DON’T KNOW”? Throughout this chapter, I have repeatedly cited the work of Gramsci because of his insights and ruminations on the dilemmas of traditional intellectuals who are contesting capitalism in their advocating for a better world in their attempts to engage with organic intellectuals who, although they may not be benefiting economically from this system, nevertheless stand by it and embrace leaders who do. However, was Hall (1988a) right when he advised that “we mustn’t use Gramsci (as we have for so long abused Marx) like an Old

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Testament prophet who, at the correct moment, will offer us the consoling and appropriate quotation” (p. 161)? As someone who has extensively drawn not only on Gramsci in my research (e.g., Chun, 2017) but also on Hall himself (as in this chapter), I do not view Gramsci as “consoling” but instead as relevant as ever in these times of the interregnum. Gramsci’s words should not taken as divination, however, as Hall implied, but rather as a guide to first ask about any organic intellectual’s ideology, as Hall (1988a) himself put it, “not whether it is false but what is true about it” (p. 189). A few months after I had conducted the aforementioned interview with the participant from Detroit, I followed up with him on how to engage with organic intellectuals in this manner: Me:

How would you talk to someone who came from a similar background that is white working class but holds conservative and/or reactionary views? Participant: Well, one thing I learned a long time ago is that the best thing for me to do is start off by doing a lot of listening, and not ask hostile questions or questions that frames things as … not, you know, not a question like, “how could you be so stupid?” but real questions that are gonna get them to talk about the foundations of their beliefs, and sometimes that backfires because a lot of these things are not that deeply thought out, and so asking a question that they’ve never considered can seem hostile in itself cause they’re suddenly … they’re like, “oh, I don’t have an answer for that. This person thinks I’m an idiot,” so sometimes asking … you got to be super careful about the question. But I try to get people to really talk about the foundations of what they feel, why they feel it and then I try to … once you get a general philosophical framework that they’re coming from, then I try and get personal with it. Not, again, not in a confrontational way, but just try to find out what personal experiences they have that might reinforce those beliefs. I know this is not very specific, but really, it’s different person to person, where they’re coming from. And I’ve had people who were really ready to say, “huh, you know, I never thought of that,” or whatever. I usually take as long as I can before I start suggesting another interpretation of their experience or of the experience of a person that they’re talking about or a class of people they’re talking about. But, you know, to me it’s about finding common ground, finding the common values with this person and uh … and then just trying to shift the perspective a little toward a, you know, toward a perspective where … where other classes of people or races of people are not the enemy, or

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immigrants are not the enemy, but they’re actually people with similar needs and confronting similar problems as the person I’m talking to. You know, if you come up against actual just straight-up racism, there’s not a lot of wiggle room there, but if it really just is, you know, a lot of people, you know, they’re afraid for their jobs, they’re afraid for their families, you know, a lot of right-wing politics, obviously, is coming out of fear because that’s an easy thing for the politicians and corporations to work. It’s that fear. That’s how they keep, you know, that’s how they keep workers in line, you know. So, yeah, it’s about creating common ground between the person I’m talking with and me, and to recognize common ground with other people who are all struggling against the same thing, but it’s a slow process. There’s no magic phrase or idea. You really have to listen … and choose carefully with each person individually based on their experience. The participant has been a longtime peace activist, traveling across the United States in participating in numerous anti-war and antinuclear protests and rallies, and has talked to many people regarding their political stances and views on the military–corporate complex. His approach in engaging with fellow organic intellectuals clearly displays his Gramscian praxis in action—and this is from someone who has never read Gramsci. He then continued, I’ve had certain miraculous turns in people and you know, in groups, I’ve seen things go wrong in destructive ways. I think we’ve talked about the guy who … the Tea Party guy who came to Occupy LA (in Fall 2011). I don’t know if I told you this, but he came because he was feeling disillusioned with the Tea Party. He came thinking, “well, what’s this all about,” and he looked about and all he saw were signs and displays against the Republicans and nothing about Obama and nothing about what the Democrats were doing, which was pretty much the same as Bush had been doing. And he was asking people about that and there was a lot of hostility toward this guy. And he was, you know, he was stepping into enemy territory. I thought he was doing a brave thing, and I thought he deserved more respect, but you know, it turned into people shouting at him. This guy never raised his voice, to his credit, but it turned into a bunch of people shouting at him. It was really sad and, you know, it seemed like an opportunity lost cause people were looking at him a like “oh, this guy here is a provocateur,” and I didn’t see him that way at all, but I kept trying to interject and I was getting nowhere. There was a real kind of mob mentality and that was really disappointing, so you gotta … cause he was asking and he was listening, so I don’t know if that’s

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an answer. It’s not specific. As I say, I think you got to take it case by case. Find out where people are coming from and without saying, “oh, you’re just scared,” you gotta find out where their fear is. It’s almost always coming from that. His conversations with people holding differing views clearly shows that it is us traditional intellectuals who need to be taught how to engage with organic intellectuals, rather than continuing to believe that their ideologies must be coherent all the time. For us traditional intellectuals on the Left who have read Gramsci “till the cows come home,” it seems that “we (still) do not know how to do it” (Hall, 1997, p. 67). However, it is obvious this organic intellectual knows how without having reading him. However, what about the organic intellectuals who have only been willing to listen to the “monologue speaker”? Who is this monologue speaker? It is the person who “expects no answer” to what they insist on to be the only true fact, and everything else is just “fake news” since “the monologic imagination often takes the form of denial or dismissal, refusing to take up the other expression in a meaningful way” (Tomlinson, 2017, p. 3). In the attempts of the monologue speaker to speak monologically, this becomes noticeably “apparent when people claim to represent a nation’s Geist, speak in the voice of ‘we, the people’, and speak in the voice of God” (Tomlinson, 2017, p. 3). This has been dramatically demonstrated by particular political leaders in the past such as Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin. This speaking in the voice of God is currently manifested in Trump in his multi-daily tweets, press conferences, and campaign-style rallies. The ways in which we communicate with one another are not only structured by the various functions we aim or intend to achieve but are also situated in the mutual agreement that the relationship between the language forms and the functions they serve in the different contexts of usage helps to determine and co-construct social meanings. These co-constructions of social meanings have significant implications because it is precisely this dynamic range and availability of options of linguistic resources that monologue speakers have at their disposal to co-construct meanings across the ideological spectrum. In doing so, their discourses help enact hegemony inasmuch as “there is never any one, single, unified, and coherent ‘dominant ideology’ which pervades everything” (Hall, 2016, p. 167). So how do we speak to not just the monologue speaker but also their audience in ways that do not disparage these organic intellectuals’ lived experiences and beliefs, but realign them for progressive goals? The Right exploits and mobilizes people’s fears and anxieties by framing them in nationalistic and moralistic ways. Traditionally, the Left has tried to appeal to people’s humanity, hope, goodness, and sense of fairness. How, then, can we address and validate these real fears and anxieties about one’s economic livelihoods and futures (or

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lack thereof) while exposing and debunking the ideologically driven fears of immigrants and the Other? How do we redirect those people’s fears and anger from the Right’s customary targets of the Other toward, in my opinion, the real culprits in taking away their livelihoods—capitalists and their enabling cronies, otherwise known as the 1 percent? So perhaps one question I would ask people is the following: “Do you believe in a dictatorship or a democracy?” I assume most people in the United States would answer they believe in democracy. So if one believes in a democracy, then what is democracy actually? Just showing up every year or two to vote at a polling place only to have elected officials disregard the majority of the people’s voice? Or is it something more? Does democracy begin at home? Does it begin at the workplace, where every worker has a democratic say and vote in how much everyone including their boss should get paid? How much bonus would everyone get if the products of their surplus labor brings in profits to the company? If everyone has a vote on who gets promoted? In connection with the workplace, how could a community collectively and democratically decide what is best for them in terms of the environmental factors of the local workplace, for example, how its pollutants might affect the community? Would they hire local people? If this sounds good to you, then do you believe in a democracy at the workplace? Inasmuch as there have been ongoing political and social media debates in the United States on what a democracy is, and if its government can be accurately described as a democracy in US high school curriculum (e.g., Goldstein, 2019), the crucial issue here is to address how we get these questions to be raised in the discussions and debates over what a democracy is supposed to be. The aforementioned discursive framing approach is one possible suitable way to engage with organic intellectuals; however, we must continuously explore how we can connect with their everyday realities and views. My above example is not entirely hypothetical but rather grounded in my own experiences as an activist working for an anti-war and nuclear disarmament organization in the late 1980s. My job was knocking on people’s doors in neighborhoods across the greater Los Angeles area and asking them if they thought their tax money funding the building of ever-increasing nuclear weapons and US military interventions in Central America was something they supported or disapproved of. I would attempt to engage with the people who agreed with these government policies (if they didn’t immediately slam their door in my face) by asking similar questions above such as, do you think having nuclear bombs and sending our troops overseas is what democracy is really about? Are you OK with our tax money bailing out Wall Street? Shouldn’t we have better schools, health care, and transportation financed by our tax money instead? Sometimes, people would change their views and eventually agree that it was a waste of our public funds on nuclear arsenals. Other times, they would

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challenge my own ideas of what keeps a democracy going. We need more of these on-the-ground ethnographic interactions with organic intellectuals so that we may learn from each other what being “critical” means, and what in their, and our, realities constitute critical discourse(s). Indeed, “alignment can be effected between elements in different discourses; the gradual disarticulation of one mode of thinking from another, and the rearticulation of that mode to a different set of social practices and political positions” (Hall, 2016, p. 168). In reflecting back on the student movements around the world during the 1960s that attempted to change their societies, Eric Hobsbawm (1977) poignantly noted that it does not much matter that the isolated impotence of workers or other masses of the labouring poor is of a different kind from that of intellectuals, since the working people by themselves are capable of overthrowing a social order, whereas the intellectuals by themselves are not. If a human society worthy of the name is to be built, both need each other. (p. 266) Thus, I call upon my fellow traditional intellectuals including applied linguists who align themselves with critical stances to engage in the praxis of people’s everyday lives through dialogical interactions—most importantly, listening and learning from them in a reversal of traditional roles. I believe these dialogical engagements are crucial because much critical work is written and articulated in ways that perpetuate discursive relations of academic and social power, which contributes to further alienation among not only teachers and students but also the general public who do not have access to these very privileged forms of discursive meaning-making resources. Our aim should be to engage all organic intellectuals by employing more accessible language and discursive framings that can speak directly to all of our lived experiences in this world.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Jan Blommaert was Professor of Language, Culture and Globalization and Director of the Babylon Center at Tilburg University, the Netherlands, and was also Professor at Ghent University, Belgium. His seminal works include Discourse: A Critical Introduction (2005), The Sociolinguistics of Globalization (2010), and Ethnography, Superdiversity and Linguistic Landscapes: Chronicles of Complexity (2013). Christian W. Chun is Associate Professor in Applied Linguistics at the University of Massachusetts Boston. He is the author of Power and Meaning Making in an EAP Classroom: Engaging with the Everyday (2015), The Discourse of Capitalism: Everyday Economists and the Production of Common Sense (2017), and A World without Capitalism? Alternative Discourses, Spaces, and Imaginaries (2021). Alfonso Del Percio is Associate Professor in Applied Linguistics at UCL Institute of Education, University College London. His ethnographic research deals with language, migration, and labor, especially their articulation with capitalism and processes of social stratification, inequality, and oppression. Alfonso is the coeditor and funding member of the journal Language, Culture and Society. He also coedits the ethnographic blog disruptiveinequalities.com Ana Deumert is Professor at the University of Cape Town, South Africa. Her research program is located within the broad field of sociolinguistics and has a strong transdisciplinary focus. She has worked on the history of Afrikaans (The Dynamics of Cape Dutch, 2004), coauthored Introducing Sociolinguistics (2009,

280Contributors

with Rajend Mesthrie, Joan Swann, and William Leap) and the Dictionary of Sociolinguistics (2004, with Joan Swann, Rajend Mesthrie, and Theresa Lillis). She has reflected on mobile communication from a global perspective (Sociolinguistics and Mobile Communication, 2014) and recently coedited Colonial and Decolonial Linguistics – Knowledges and Epistemes (2020, with Anne Storch and Nick Shephard). Mi-Cha Flubacher is a postdoc assistant in Applied Linguistics at the Department of Linguistics, University of Vienna, Austria. Her research experience and interests include ethnographic approaches to the economic commodification of language and multilingualism, to language as a site of the reproduction of social inequality, and to questions of language, gender, and race/ethnicity. She is the coeditor of the volume Language, Education, and Neoliberalism (Multilingual Matters) and has published in journals such as the International Journal of the Sociology of Language, International Journal of Multilingualism, Multilingua, and so forth. Brian W. King is a critical sociolinguist who researches language, embodiment, and identity at the intersection of ethnicity, gender, and sexuality. He has worked on several research projects with intersex collaborators. A member of the board of trustees of Intersex Trust Aotearoa New Zealand (ITANZ), he also leads the Communicating Sex Variation Research Cluster in the Research and Impact Initiative on Communication in Healthcare (RIICH) in the Faculty of Arts at the University of Hong Kong. Claire Kramsch is Emerita Professor of German and Affiliate Professor of Education at the University of California, Berkeley, where she taught courses in German and in Applied Linguistics, and where she was the founding director of the Berkeley Language Center. Her areas of interest are applied linguistics, second and foreign language learning and teaching, language and culture, bi- and multilingualism, and language and symbolic power. She has written extensively on language, discourse, and culture in applied linguistics. Her latest book is Language as Symbolic Power (2021). I.E.L. (Ico) Maly is Associate Professor of Digital Culture at Tilburg University (The Netherlands) and Editor in Chief of Diggit Magazine. He coordinates the digital culture studies master track and teaches Digital Media & Politics, Discourse Analysis and Digital Media, The Hybrid Media System and Online Writing and Social Groups in the Digital World. His recent research focuses on contemporary activism, ideology and algorithms, and politics and digital media in general. Tommaso M. Milani is Professor of Multilingualism at the University of Gothenburg. He is interested in the ways in which power imbalances are

Contributors

281

(re)produced and/or contested through semiotic means. His main research foci are the following: language ideologies, language policy and planning, and linguistic landscape, as well as language, gender, and sexuality. He has published extensively on these topics in international journals and edited volumes. Among his publications are the edited collection Language and Masculinities: Performances, Intersections and Dislocations (2016) and the special issue of Linguistic Landscape on Gender, Sexuality and Linguistic Landscapes (2018). He is a coeditor of the journal Language in Society. Joseph Sung-Yul Park is a professor in the Department of English Language and Literature at the National University of Singapore. His research explores the subjective and ideological dimensions of language in the political economy, with a focus on South Korean experiences of neoliberalism and transnationalism. He is the author of The Local Construction of a Global Language ( 2009), Markets of English (2012, with Lionel Wee), and In Pursuit of English: Language and Subjectivity in Neoliberal South Korea (2021). John E. Richardson is Adjunct Associate Professor of Language & Linguistics in the Department of Communication and Creative Industries, University of the Sunshine Coast, Australia. His research interests include critical discourse studies, rhetoric and argumentation, British fascism, and commemorative discourse. The author of over eighty publications, his most recent books include the following: British Fascism: A Discourse-Historic Analysis (2017) and the Routledge Handbook of Critical Discourse Studies (2018, coedited with Flowerdew). He is the editor of the international journal Critical Discourse Studies and coeditor of the book series Advances in Critical Discourse Studies. Carlos Soto is Lecturer in the Faculty of Education, University of Hong Kong. He is the author of the book Critical Pedagogy in Hong Kong: Classroom Stories of Struggle and Hope (2021). His recent publications document and interrogate his development of critical education practices while working in Hong Kong schools serving students from South Asian heritage communities.

282

Index of Modern Names Abrams, D. 34 Abu-Rabia, A. 228 Africa, T. W. 100 Albertz, M. 168 Albright, W. F. 226–7 Alford, H. 165–7 Al-Rawi, A. K. 226 Allegro, J. 220, 224–5, 229–30 Allen, P. 146 Allen, W. C. 110 Allison Jr., D. C. 105, 111 Amenábar, A. 156 Andrews, M. E. 125 Antoun, R. T. 221 Arnaoutoglou, I. 32 Ascough, R. S. 23, 24 Audollent, A. 136, 141 Aune, D. E. 120, 143, 146 Aus, R. D. 121 Austin, W. G. 33 Arav, R. 39 Avery-Peck, A. J. 111 Bailey, C. 226–7, 229 Baldassare, I. 8 Barag, D. 97 Barber, C. R. 218 Barrett, C. E. 1 Barrett, C. K. 166–7 Barthel, P. 101 Barthélemy, D. 218, 220 Baur, F. C. 149 Beard, M. 83, 209 Becker, E. 63 Beekmann, S. 59 Behm, J. 140 Berner, U. 83 Berthelot, K. 140 Betz, H. D. xii, 39, 42, 85, 128, 142, 176–7 Bienkowski, P. 219 Bilu, Y. 228

Bird, M. 126, 150 Bird, P. 149, 159, 163 Blänsdorf, J. 136 Bloch, R. 84 Blomberg, C. L. 155 Blümel, W. 141, 142 Blumenfeld, B. 125 Boardman, J. 49 Bolt, P. G. xi, 42, 54, 59 Bommas, M. 5 Bons, E. 140 Bonz, M. P. 114 Booth, A. D. 127 Borg, A. 218 Bornkamm, G. 143 Bouillet, M. N. 113 Brashear, W. 48 Bragazzi, N. L. 226 Bravo, B. 42, 52 Brenk, F. E. x, 4, 8, 17, 40, 41, 44–6, 55 Bricault, L. 2, 6, 15, 24 Brooke, G. J. 121 Brown, C. G. 83 Brown, P. 55 Brown, R. E. 99, 111 Brownlee, W. H. 218–21, 223, 229 Bruce, F. F. 165 Brucker, R. 140 Bryant, C. D. 63 Büchsel, F. 147 Bultmann, R. 184 Burket, H. W. 155 Burrows, M. 220, 227 Busch, P. 139 Busen, L. A. 63 Buttolph, P. 150 Campbell, J. 62, 66 Canaan, T. 225 Carlston, C. E. 119

234

Index of Modern Names

Carson, D. A. 144 Cary, E. 84, 92, 107, 114 Castner, C. J. 203 Charlesworth, J. H. x, 54, 111–12, 158, 198, 222 Childs, B. 150 Chilver, G. E. F. 93 Clark, K. 108 Clausen, K. B. 1 Cline, R. 103 Cohen, J. D. 157–9 Cohn, N. 64 Cole, S. E. 6 Collins, J. J. 98 Colson, F. H. 108 Conzelmann, H. 145, 150, 170 Cotter, W. 120–1 Cox, R. J. 4 Crawley, R. 85 Cross, F. M. 220, 224–5 Cumont, F. 103, 155–6 Cunliffe, B. 137

Dupont, J. 180 du Toit, J. S. 224 Dyer, B. R. 123 Dzwiza, K. 135

Dabrowa, E. 106 Dalton, W. J. 168–9 Daly, R. J. 111 Daniel, R. W. 39, 50 Danker, F. 74, 104 David, J. 156 Davies, P. R. 159 Davies, W. D. 105, 127 de Caro, S. 11 de Vaux, R. 220, 222 Deichgräber, R. 170 Deissmann, A. 47, 139–40 Del Puente, G. 226 de Ruggiero, P. 89 Descamps, A. 180–1 Dibelius, M. 150, 170 Dinkler, E. 197 Dittenberger, W. 104 Dochhorn, J. 139 Dodds, E. R. 154 Doran, R. 99 Dorcey, P. 155 Douglas, M. 55, 71 Downing, F. G. 121 Droge, A. 165 Dunand, F. 15

Fairclough, H. R. 114 Fairweather, J. 128 Falconer, R. 169 Faraone, C. A. 47–9, 137, 176 Farmer, W. R. 99 Farnell, L. R. 55 Feder, F. 17 Feder, S. 63 Fee, G. D. 167 Feldman, A. 121 Feldman, L. H. 41 Ferguson, E. 15153, 155 Ferrill, A. 97 Fields, W. 220, 221 Fiorenza, E. S. 128 Fitzenreiter, M. 17 Fitzgerald, J. T. 203 Fitzmyer, J. A. 6, 86, 145 Flemming, R. 208 Foerster, W. 39, 47 Foster, B. O. 115 Fotopoulous, J. 135–7, 140, 143–4, 146 Foucart, P.-F. 23 France, R. T. 105 Frank, G. 111

Easton, B. S. 168 Ebener, C. 229 Eisenbaum, P. 149, 160 Eitrem, S. 56–7 Elgin, V. G. 217 Eliot, T. S. 166 Elliott, J. K. 111–12 Engelmann, H. 24–7, 35 Eriksson, A. 128 Erler, M. 4 Eschel, E. 219 Evans, C. A. xi, 62, 98, 100, 111, 165, 189, 193 Evans, C. F. 59 Evelyn-White, H. G. 41 Everett, A. 89 Ezquerra, J. A. 36

Index of Modern Names Frazer, J. G. 63, 113, 115 Frye, N. 67 Gager, J. G. 49, 51, 136–7, 140–1, 147 Gallarte, I. M. 121 Gamble, H. 150 Gardner, I. 189 Garland, D. E. 145 Garland, R. 49 Gasparini, V. 1, 4, 8, 16, 32 Gasque, W. W. 165 Gero, S. 208 Gervais, M. 221, 223 Geyser-Fouché, A. 98 Gnuse, R. K. 102 Goldsworthy, A. 87, 89 Goldziher, I. 218 Golvin, J.-C. 2 Goodenough, E. R. 159 Goodman, M. 99 Goodman, Y. C. 228 Goodrich-Freer, A. 225, 228 Gordon, C. H. 226 Gordon, P. 203 Gordon, R. L. 36, 209 Gordon, R. 63 Goulder, M. 186, 191–2 Grant, H. 152, 156–7 Grant, M. 158 Grässer, E. 191 Green, J. B. 39 Green, S. J. 84 Grey, M. 217 Grodzynski, D. 209 Grossman, R. 220 Grudem, W. A. 162 Gruen, E. S. 4, 210 Grüll, T. 109 Guichard, L. A. 173–5 Guil, S. 228 Gulick, C. B. 84, 86 Gundry, R. H. 165–71, 180–2, 184, 187, 190–1, 193, 197 Gurtner, D. M. 108 Haase, W. 40, 46, 48, 120 Hall, E. S. 25 Hallo, W. W. 151 Hagner, D. A. 105

Hansen, M. H.. 24 Harder, M. A. 173 Harding, G. L. 218, 220, 223–5 Harland, Philip A. 23–5, 27, 29, 31–2, 36 Harley, F. 146 Harris, R. 79–80 Hart, G. 25, 37 Haufe, G. 191 Haslam, A. S. 33–4 Hata, G. 41 Hays, M. 151 Heinze, R. 42–3 Hendricks, O. M. 77 Henrichs, A. 39, 58, 154 Hermans, P. 228 Heyob, S. K. 152 Hicks, R. D. 107 Higgins, D. 174 Higgins, S. 152 Hinton, J. 63 Hogg, M. A. 34 Hölscher, M. 135, 139 Holtzmann, H. J. 185 Hopfner, T. 57 Hopkins, K. 87 Hurtado, L. W. 162 Hyde, M. J. 129 ibn Ibraaheem Ameen, A.-M. K., 227 Incignieri, B. J. 194, 199 Isbell, C. D. 39 Jackson, H. M. 108 Jacobus, H. R. 101 Jakubowska, L. 227–8 James, M. R. 54, 111 Jameson, M. H. 55 Jefford, C. N. 140 Jeremias, J. 170 Johnson, S. 217, 221, 224 Johnston, J. 189 Johnston, J. J. 193 Jokiranta, J. 219 Jones, B. W. 97 Jones, C. 210 Joosten, J. 140 Jordan, D. R. 39, 48–52, 55, 57 Jung, C. 62

235

236

Index of Modern Names

Kalman, J. 224 Kambitsis, S. 49 Kastor, R. A. 127 Kelly, J. N. D. 150, 169 Kent, R. G. 113 Kessler, D. 17 Keulen, W. H. 4–5 Khano, D. 217 Khoury, N. S. 217, 219, 221, 223–4, 226 King, J. E. 119 Kingsley, C. 156 Kiraz, A. 220–1 Kiraz, G. A. 220–1 Kirchner, S. 17 Kister, M. 101 Klauck, H. J. 143, 151, 153, 155 Klekot, W. 228 Kloppenborg, J. S. 23–4, 26 Klostermann, E. 110 Knibb, M. A. 54 Knight, G. W. 149–50 Knox, R. A. 167 Koch, S. 140, 143, 145 Kok, J. 34 Kondakov, N. P. 57 Kondoleon, C. 16 Konstan, D. 203 Köstenberger, A. J. 149 Kotansky, R. D. xii, 39, 55, 178, 184–6, 193–4, 199 Kraeling, C. H. 58 Kraemer, R. S. 153–4, 157 Kressel, G. M. 218 Kroeger, C. 150–1 Kropp, A. 135–7 Kuhn, K. G. 143 Kurtz, D. C. 49 Lampe, P. 111, 124 Lane, A. N. S. 39 Langton, E. 47 Lapinoja-Pitänen, E., x–xi Lapp, N. L. 220, 226 Lapp, P. W. 220, 226 Latte, K. 153, 154 Lattimore, R. 96 Lau, A. Y. 169 Lau, M. 135, 139

Lebling, R. 227 Lembke, K. 1–3, 5–9, 15, 20 LePort, B. 100 Levick, B. 96 Levin, M. 221–2 Lewy, H. 58, 84 Lichtheim, M. 152 Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. 93 Lieu, J. 24, 201–2, 208, 210 Lifton, D. 125 Lindsay, W. M. 113 Lion, H. A. 113 Litwa, M. D. 120 Lock, W. 167 Logan, A. H. B. 191 Longenecker, R. N. 23, 59 Louw, J. P. 161–2 Lugioyo, B. 184 Luke, T. S. 97 Luomanen, P. 34 Luther, S. xi, 135, 138–9 Luz, C. 173, 176 Luz, U. 111 Magness, J. 151, 159 Malaise, M. 15 Malewska, A. 228 Malinowski, B. 64 Maltomini, F. 39 Mark, Joshua J. 37 Marshall, I. H. 165–6, 168–9, 180–2, 184–5, 187, 191–3, 195, 197 Martin, D. 209 Martin, M. W. 123 Martin, R. P. 165–6, 169, 180–1, 187 Matthews, S. 121 Matyszak, P. 66–8 MacBain, B. 84 MacDermot, V. 189 MacDonald, D. R. 73, 75, 78, 80 MacDonald, M. C. A. 219 MacPherson, J. 67, 68 McCormack, T. 155 McEleney, N. J. 99 McGuckin, J. A. 78 McKnight, S. 39 McLean, B. H. 26–7, 37 Mee, C. 219 Meeks, W. A. 149

Index of Modern Names Meltzer, J. L. 223 Merk, O. 191 Merkelbach, R. 26, 98 Metzger, B. M. 185, 188 Meyboom, P. G. P. 2, 9–10, 12, 18 Micou, R. W. 185 Miles, M. M. 1 Milik, J. T. 218 Millard, A. R. 219 Miller, F. J. 113, 115 Minas-Nerpel, M. 2 Minns, D. 117 Mitchell, E. 228 Mol, E. 6 Moore, C. C. 63 Moorman, E. 1, 3–4, 6, 8, 13 Morgan, M. G. 94, 96 Morland, K. A. 143 Moser, C. 16–17 Mounce, W. D. 150, 167 Moyer, Ian S. 26, 29, 31, 35 Muraoka, T. 183 Muscettola, S. A. 11 Müskens, S. W. G. 8 Myers, C. 77 Naerebout, F. G. 3 Naumann-Steckner, F. 19 Naveh, J. 178 Nestle, W. 100 Neukam, P. 174 Neusner, J. 111 Newman, H. I. 101 Newsom, C. A. 198 Nickelsburg, G. W. E. 53–4, 158 Nida, E. A. 161–2 Nilson, M. P. 153 Nock, A. D. 97 Norden, E. 170–1 Noreña, C. F. 97 North, J. 24, 83, 201, 209 North, R. 217 Obbink, D. 47–8, 202–4, 208 Ogilvie, R. M. 47 Olson, E. T. 33 Osgood, J. 87 Osiek, C. 149

Padget, A. 149 Päffgen, B. 19 Page, D. L. 55 Pagels, E. 149, 160 Paget, J. C. 201–2, 208, 210 Palmer, R. E. 154 Pardee, N. 140–2 Parke, H. W. 153 Parrinder, G. 218 Parsons, M. C. 123 Parvis, P. 117 Patai, R. 225 Paton, W. R. 87 Pearce, S. 4 Pérez, G. A. 99 Perrin, B. 85, 107, 116 Pettis, J. 78 Pfeiffer, S. 1, 4 Phillips, C. R. I. 47 Piamenta, M. 226 Pitts, A. W. 124–7 Podlecki, A. J. 83–4 Podvin, J.-L. 24 Poletti, J. xii Pollini, J. 6 Porte, D. 120 Porter, S. E. 61, 123–7, 133, 150–1, 156 Potts, T. F. 6 Poyser, G. H. 113 Preisendanz, K. 39, 49, 135–6, 176 Pritchard, J. B. 39, 109 Prufrock, J. A. 166 Pyysiäinen, I. 34 Quack, J. F. 17 Quarles, C. L. 110 Rajak, T. 24 Reed, W. 217 Regtuit, R. F. 173 Reinink, G. J. 54 Reynolds, B. E. 184 Richards, K. H. 86 Riggs, C. 2, 5, 10 Ripat, P. 84, 88 Robinson, E. 218 Robinson, J. M. 189 Robinson, S. E. 54 Rolfe, J. C. 87–8, 91–2, 100

237

238 Roloff, J. 191 Ross, R. C. 86 Rothschild, C. 165 Rousseau, J. J. 39 Roussel, P. 23–7 Rusch, A. 23 Sampaolo, V. 8, 10–13, 16 Sampley, P. 124 Samuel, A. Y. 222, 229 Sanders, J. A. x Sansone, D. 93 Schaff, P. 156 Schmidt, C. 189 Schmidt, T. E. 197 Schmithals, W. 191–2 Schneider, B. 180 Schottroff, L. 144 Schrage, W. 143–5 Schreiner, T. R. 149 Schrijvers, P. H. 10 Schwartz, D. R. 100 Schweizer, E. 170, 181 Scott, E. F. 168 Scott, K. 96 Scurlock, J. A. 40 Seeberg, A. 185 Shackleton Bailey, D. R. 5 Shaked, S. 178 Shank, M. 153, 160 Shanks, H. 224 Shaw, B. 210 Shaw, G. B. 149 Shneidman, E. S. 63 Shoemaker, S. 218 Shultz, R. 63 Sigountos, J. G. 153, 160 Slater, E. 219 Sloan, P. T. 100 Smith, C. R. 128–9 Smith, E. 218 Smith, J. Z. 46 Smith, M. 41, 47, 58, 85, 86 Smith, W. D. 55 Smyth, H. W. 182 Sokolowski, F. 39, 103 Solmsen, F. 86 Speyer, W. 144 Spicq, C. 170–1

Index of Modern Names Spier, J. 6 Spoer, H. H. 225, 228 Stadler, M. 4 Stanley, D. M. 180 Stegmann, H. 217 Stein, R. H. 119 Sterling, G. E. 4 Stern, S. M. 218 Stevens, C. xi–xii Strodel, S. 174 Sukenik, E. L. 221–3 Sutherland, C. H. V. 97 Sweet, H. B. 188 Swetnam-Burland, M. 3–4, 6, 8–13, 18–19 Tajfel, H. 33–4 Takács, S. A. 1, 16 Talbert, C. H. 100 Tanaseanu-Döbler, I. 83 Taraporewalla, R. 97 Tardieu, M. 84 Taylor, J. E. 159, 220 Theissen, G. 56 Thomas, R. 19 Thompson, R. C. 40 Thompson, W. G. 120 Tiede, D. L. 97 Timmerman, C. 228 Tobin, V. A. 152 Tomlin, R. S. O. 137 Towner, P. H. 166, 184, 186–7 Tran tam Tinh, V. 8, 152 Trever, J. C. 217, 219–20, 223–4, 228–9 Tristram, H. B. 218–19 Tröger, K. W. 191 Trumbower, J. A. 111 Turner, J. C. 33–4 Twelftree, G. H. 39 Ulansey, D. 126, 150, 155–6 Uro, R. 34 van der Horst, P. W. 53 van der Ploeg, J. 228 van Eck, E. 38 van Haarlem, W. 19 van Henten, J. W. 101 Vanhoozer, K. J. 184 van Kooten, G. 101

Index of Modern Names Várhelyi, Z. 17 Vernant, J.-P. 42 Versluys, M. J. 1–2, 6–7, 15, 24 Versnel, H. S. 48, 51, 56 Veymiers, R. 1, 8, 15, 16, 32 Victor, U. 201 Vidman, L. 37 Vittozzi, G. C. 1, 3, 7, 20 Vlastos, G. 84–5 von Soden, H. 168 Vos, H. F. 155 Wace, H. 156 Wakker, G. C. 174 Wallace, A. xi Wallis, W. B. 167 Walzer, R. 208 Wardle, D. 96 Warmington, E. H. 113 Watson, D. F. 123–4, 128, 130 Watson, L. 147 Wedderburn, A. J. M. 191 Weiner, S. 219 Weiss, B. 191 Wendel, C. 175 West, D. S. 59 Wellesley, K. 94 Wheeler, B. 229 White, J. L. 158 Whitmarsh, T. 202, 211–12, 214 Wight, K. 19 Wild, R. A. 26, 36 Williams, G. 1

Williams, R. 38 Williamson, J. B. 63 Wilson, O. R. B. 193 Wilson, R. McL. 191 Wilson, S. G. 23, 26 Winiarczyk, M. 202 Winter, B. W. 144–5 Wissowa, G. 154 Witherington III, B. 123 Witt, R. E. 37 Wojaczek, G. 174 Wolmarans, J. L. P. 106 Woolf, G. 24 Worchel, S. 33 Wormell, D. E. W. 153 Wright, A. Z. xi, 61, 70 Wright, G. E. 223, 226 Wright Knust, J. 16–17 Wright, R. A. xii, 210 Wünsch, R. 39, 146 Yadin, Y. 222 Yarbro, A. 150 Yoon, D. I. 61 Younger, K. L. 151 Zalta, E. N. 33 Zenos, A. C. 156 Ziebarth, E. 23 Ziesler, J. A. 146 Zimmermann, R. 146 Zuntz, G. 150 Zwemer, S. M. 225, 227

239

Index of References HEBREW BIBLE/OLD TESTAMENT Genesis 1 3 4 16:7 19:15 21:17 22:11-15 32:1 40–41

70 71 70 103 103 103 103 103 102

Exodus 10:21-23 10:22 12:23 15:20 19:18 24 27:16 34:29

107 107 139 157 108 118 108 118

Leviticus 9:22-24 9:24

76 76

Numbers 24:17

98, 101, 120

Deuteronomy 4:7-8 32:17

133 52, 54

Joshua 1:6

70

Judges 4:4

157

1 Samuel 2:26

105

2 Samuel 4:10

104

1 Kings 10:1-2 10:25 18:37-39 18:39 19:11-12

105 105 76 76 108

2 Kings 1:9 1:10 1:12 2:11-12 22:14

78 73, 75 73, 75–6 78 157

Nehemiah 6:14

157

Job 9:6

108

Psalms 2:7 18:7 51 72:10-11 74:13-17 77:18 91:6 96:5 97:4 106:37

70 109 182 105 65 109 52 52 109 52, 54

Isaiah 6:1-6 80–1

Index of References 6:4 7:14 8:3 13:21 24:20 34:14 40:9 52:7 60 60:5-6 61:1 65 65:3 65:4 65:11 66:24

109 100 157 52 109 52 105 105 105 105 105 52, 56 52 225 52 99

Ezekiel 21:13 182–3 21:18 182 47:19 217 48:28 217 Daniel 7:9-10 119 10:6 118–19 Joel 3:16

109

Micah 4:7 4:8

105 105

Haggai 2:6

109

Zechariah 13:2 14 14:4-5

40 111 111

NEW TESTAMENT Matthew 1:1 1:18 1:20 1:21

70 70, 100 100 100

1:22-23 100, 102 1:23 108 2:1-2 101 2:2 101 2:5-6 102 2:10-11 101 2:11 105 2:12 101 2:13 102 2:15 102 2:17-18 102 2:19-20 102 2:22-23 102 2:23 102 3:13-17 119 3:17 70 4:1-11 71 4:3 71 4:6 71 4:11 184 5–7 70 5:21-26 70 5:27-30 70 5:33-37 138 7:1-12 70 7:22 146 8:29 57 8:31 40 9:20-22 72 10:1-4 74 10:5-6 166 15:18 70 16:1-8 112 17:1-8 76, 119 17:2 118 17:5 70 17:6 74, 76 25:41 57 27 112 27:19 102, 109, 182 27:45 107 27:51-54 110 27:51-53 110–11 27:51 108, 111 27:52-53 110–11 27:53 110–11 27:54 111 27:56 73 27:62-66 112

241

Index of References

242 28:1-8 28:2-7 28:2-4 28:2 28:3 28:4 28:6 28:9 28:16-20 28:17 28:19

112 184 112 108, 111, 186 78 112 186 112, 118 112, 118, 188 118 118

Mark 1:1 70 1:7 180 1:9-11 119 1:12-13 71 1:13 70, 184 1:20 73 1:21-28 55, 77 1:23 40 1:24-25 55 1:24 55 1:26 40 1:27 40, 55 1:29-30 77 1:32-34 54 1:32 40 1:34 40 1:39 40, 54 1:40 72 3:11 40, 54 3:13-19 73–5, 78 3:15 40, 54 3:16 74 3:17 74 3:22-30 54 3:22-23 54 3:22 40, 58 3:30 40, 54 4:38 57 4:40 57 4:41 57 5 71 5:1-20 56, 58, 106 5:1 56 5:2-3 225 5:2 40 5:4 55, 106

5:7 56, 106 5:8 40 5:9 56, 106 5:10 56 5:12-13 106 5:12 40 5:13 40 5:15 40 5:16 40 5:17 106 5:18 40 5:25-43 72 5:35-43 77 6:7 40, 54 6:13 40 6:14-29 54 6:14-16 58 6:49 58 7:24-30 57 7:25 40 7:26 40 7:29 40 7:30 40 8:11 107 8:31 77 9 40 9:2-8 73–4, 76, 119 9:2 78 9:3 118 9:4 76 9:5-7 77 9:7 70 9:8 81 9:14-29 57 9:17 40 9:20 40 9:22 57 9:25 40, 57 9:26 58 9:27 58 9:29 57 9:38-39 146 9:38 40, 54, 58 10:9 77 10:32-45 78 10:35-40 73 11:14 106 11:20-21 106 13:1-37 78

Index of References 13:1-9 77 14:32-42 77 14:32-41 74 14:38-40 77 14:71 140 15 110 15:27 78 15:33 107 15:38 108, 110 15:39 109–10 15:40 73 16:1 185 16:3 186 16:5-8 184 16:5 112, 186 16:6-7 185 16:6 185–7 16:7 112, 187 16:8 187–8, 190 16:9 40, 183, 187, 194 16:12 183, 187–8, 192 16:14-18 188 16:14 183, 188, 194 16:17 40, 146 16:19 167, 188, 194 Luke 1:8-20 1:16-17 1:21-23 1:24-25 1:26-33 1:35 1:39-41 1:46-55 1:57-66 1:67-79 2 2:1 2:2-25 2:8-20 2:10-11 2:36-38 2:40-52 2:52 3:1-20 3:21-22 3:22 4:1-13

102 103 102 102 103 70 103 103 103 103 103 103 184 103 104 157 105 105 103 119 70 71

4:3 71 4:9 71 5:1-11 73 5:12 72 6:12-16 74 8:29 40 8:31 57 8:43-48 72 9:28-36 76, 119 9:28-29 78 9:29 74, 81, 118 9:35 70 9:49 146 9:51-56 73–5 9:51 74, 167 9:52-56 75, 77–8 9:52 74 9:53 74 9:54 74–5 10:17 146 19:12-24 38 19:13 56 19:27 38 22:25-26 104 23:5 140 23:44-45 107 23:44 107 23:45 108 23:47 182 24 185 24:1-10 112 24:1 188 24:4 112, 118 24:6 186 24:13-27 118 24:13 188 24:15-16 118 24:22 185 24:23 186 24:24 185 24:29 188 24:31 118, 188 24:33 188 24:34 184 24:36 188 24:39 59, 121, 183 24:41-43 188 24:44-49 112 24:50-53 112

243

Index of References

244 24:50-51 24:50 24:51

117, 188 188 167, 188

John 1:14 1:29-34 1:31 9:2 10:9 20:5-7 20:11-29 20:11-17 20:12-13 20:12 20:14-16 20:17 20:18 20:19-31 20:19-23 20:26-29 20:28-29 20:28 21:1 21:14 21:22-23

190 119 180 71 72 186 112 186 184 186 118 117 186 183 118 118 118 112 183 183 188

Acts 1:1-11 1:2 1:3-8 1:3 1:6-11 1:6 1:9-11 1:9 1:10-11 1:11 1:22 2:22-36 3:6 3:11-26 3:11-15 3:16 4:7 4:8-12 4:9 4:10-12 4:10

187 167, 188 112 188 74 188 112, 118 118, 188 184 167 167 181, 195 146 195 181 146 146 195 104 181 146

4:27-28 4:30 5:29-32 7:55-56 8:9-24 8:12 9:3-8 9:11 9:13-14 9:15 9:17 9:21 9:22 9:26 9:28-30 9:29 9:30 9:40 10:34-43 10:38 10:40 11:19-26 11:25 12:21-23 13:26-41 13:31 15 15:22-29 16:18 17:16-34 17:19 17:22-23 17:23 17:31 18:26 19:13-17 21:39 22:3 22:21 23:12 23:14 23:21 26:16 26:23 28:11

195 146 195 118 58 58 118 124 131 124 184 131 131 131 123, 125 131 124 146 181, 195 104 183 124 124 98 195 184 133 6 146 130 130 86 86 195 163 58 124 124 124 140 140 140 184 195 78

Romans 1:3-6 1:3

195 190, 195

Index of References 1:4 118, 181 1:14-15 124 3 133 3:2 133 3:4 182 3:5 133 3:7 133 3:28 133 4:25 191 7 129 8:3 190 8:15 143 9:3 140, 143 10:7 146 10:13 147 12:2 71 12:4-5 163 12:14 138–9, 148 15:18-21 124 15:24 187 15:28 187 16:20 147 1 Corinthians 1:15 147 1:22 83 2:1-9 181 2:1-5 129 2:13 130 5:5 138–9, 148 6:11 147 10:20–22 54 10:20 54 12:2-3 139, 144–5, 148 12:3 139, 145, 147–8 15:3-7 195 15:3 71 15:5-8 184–5 15:14 71 15:20 111, 146 15:25 167 15:44 183 15:47 146 15:50 183 16:21-22 139, 143, 148 16:22 146 16:23 148

2 Corinthians 4:16 13:13

245

71 148

Galatians 1:1 134 1:6 131–2 1:7 132 1:8-9 139, 142, 148 1:11-12 131 1:13–2:14 131 1:13 131 1:14 131 1:15-16 124 1:15 131 1:21 124 2:2 187 2:8 132 2:9 124 2:11 132 2:16 132 3:13 144 3:28 163 4:6 143 4:8 54 4:12 131 5:12 132 6:14 131 6:17 131 6:18 147 Ephesians 1:20-21 3:7-9 3:10 4:8-10 4:25

181 124 184 110 138

Philippians 2:5-11 2:6-11 2:6 2:8 2:10-11 2:11 3:5-6 3:7-8 4:23

181 195, 198–9 120, 146, 198 198 167 198 133 133 147

Index of References

246 Colossians 1:18 2:8-15 3:15

111 181 163

1 Thessalonians 2:4 4:16-17 5:28

133 118 148

2 Thessalonians 1:10

133

1 Timothy 1:3-4 1:6-7 1:11 1:13 1:16 1:19-20 2:1-7 2:5-7 2:7 2:12 2:13 2:14 3:10 3:11 3:16 4:1-3 4:7 4:12 4:14 6:3-5 6:20

191 191 133, 193 193 193 191 187 195 193 163 193 193 193 138 133, 165–6, 169, 171, 179–80, 183, 188–9, 191–3, 198–9 191 191 138 193 191 191

2 Timothy 1:9 1:10 1:11 1:16 2:14 2:16-18 2:18 3:6-9 4:3-4 4:17

193 193 193 193 191 191 192 191 191 193

Titus 1:3 133, 193 1:9-16 191 2 149 2:1-10 149, 160 2:1 160 2:2-3 161, 163 2:2 160–1 2:3-5 149–50, 160 2:3-4 160 2:3 160, 162 2:4 161 2:5-6 161 2:5 160–1 2:6-8 161 2:9-10 161 2:9 161 2:12 161, 191 3:7 193 3:9 191 Philemon 25

147

Hebrews 1:3 2:14 9:26

195 197 180

James 3:8-10 5:12 5:14

138 138 146

1 Peter 1:12 1:19 1:20 3:18-22 3:18-19 3:19 3:21-22 4:6

184 199 180 195 110, 165, 181, 191 185 181 110

2 Peter 2:4

185

1 John 1:2

180, 190

Index of References 3:5 3:8 4:18

180 180 63

Jude 6

185

Revelation 1:12-16 2:20 3:12 9:20 16:14 18:2 18:12 22:4

119 157 77 54 40 52 40 77

APOCRYPHA

Tobit 3:8 3:17 6:7 6:13 6:14 6:15 6:17 8:3

247

52 52 52 52 52 52 52 52

PSEUDEPIGRAPHA Apocalypse of Adam 1:4 1 Enoch 19:1 99:7 53–4

54 53

Jubilees 10:1 22:16–23

40 54

Odes of Solomon 42:10 42:11

110 110

Sibylline Oracles 3.334–6 8.47 8.384 8.386 8.393

101 54 54 54 54

Baruch 4:7 4:35

52 52

1 Esdras 4:13-32

157

Judith 8:7

158

1 Maccabees 1:48 9:58-73

40 217

2 Maccabees 3:22-26 3:25 3:26 9:4 9:5-9 9:9 9:10 9:12 10:29-30 10:30

79 79 79 99 99 99 99 99 79 79

Testament of Benjamin 5:2 40

Susanna 1:2 1:7

158 158

Vita Prophetarum 12:12

Testament of Job 3:3-4

54

Testament of Levi 10:3

108

Testament of Reuben 5:1 158 108

Index of References

248 QUMRAN 1QS 4.21-22

40

11Q5 19.13-15

40

BABYLONIAN TALMUD Pesahim 6a

157

Yoma 39b

108

JERUSALEM TALMUD Sota 6.3

108

PHILO De vita contemplativa 28–9 159 32–3 159 De fuga et inventione De gigantibus 6–12 53 16 53, 55 Hypothetica 11.14-15 11.14

159 159

Legatio ad Gaium 65

53

De somniis 1.135–41

53

De specialibus legibus 2.33 161 3.31 158 De vita Mosis 1.123 JOSEPHUS Antiquities 2.11–86

108

102

7.142 8.45–49 13.314 13.317 13.415–16 17.1 18.195–202 18.195 19.343–4 19.345 19.346 19.350

161 53, 57 53 53 53 53 99 119 99 99 99, 119 99

Jewish War 1.23 1.82 1.84 1.110–12 1.599 1.607 1.656 2.20 3.400–2 3.351–3 4.618 4.624–5 4.656 5.69 5.135 5.207–12 6.47 6.289–91 6.293–6 6.312–15 6.313 7.185

98 53 53 158 53 53 100 158 98 102 104 98 104 106 106 108 53 98 108 98 98 53, 57

APOSTOLIC FATHERS Epistle of Barnabas 5:1 12:9 12:10 15:8 15:9

183 180 180 188 180, 189

Diognetus 11.3

191

Index of References Ignatius Smyrnaeans 3.2

59

Martyrdom of Polycarp 9 144 CLASSICAL WRITERS/CHRISTIAN WRITERS Acts of Pilate 11:1-2

107

Acts of Thomas 10 110–11 32 110–11 156

111

Aelius Lampridius Commodus Antoninus 16.1–2 88 Aeschylus Agamemnon 393

182

Choephori 125

41

Persae 354 620 630 642

41 41 41, 49 41

Apocryphon of James (NHC I, 2) 2.19–20 189 15.5–6 189 15.14–15 189 15.35 189 Appian Bella civilia 2.115–16

88

Apuleius Metamorphoses 9.27–8 11.11 11.22

5 18 5

249

11.27 11.28–30

6 4

Aristotle Poetica 1449b

65

Rhetorica 1.2 1356a 128–30, 132 1356b 1358b 1377ba Arrian Anabasis 1.24

128 133 129 131

158

Athenagoras Legatio pro Christianis 1 212 2 212 4 213 5–6 213 5 213 6 213 11 213 13 213 Book of Thomas the Contender (NHC II, 7) 138.24 189 Callimachus Hymnus in Apollinem 1 109 Cassius Dio Historia romana 44.18.1–4 51.16.3–5 61.35.1 61.36.2 64.8.1 66.1 66.2

88 17 92 92 98 97 98

Cicero De divinatione 2.40

96

Index of References

250 De natura deorum 1.3 206 1.85 204–5 1.86 205 1.115–6 205 1.121 205 1.123 206 2.71 86 De republica 1.41.61 6.22

113 107

Claudius Ptolemy Centiloquy §100

101

Clement of Alexandria Stromata 5.14.127 41 De AgriCultura 83

155

Descensus Christi ad Inferos 5:1 109 7:1 112 Dialogue of the Savior (NHC III, 5) 120.1 189

10.123–4

204

Dionysius of Halicarnassus Antiquitates romanae 2.56.6 107 2.63.2–4 114 Ennius Annales Frag. 64 Frags. 114–15 Frag. 116 Frag. 118 Frags. 119–20

113 113 113 113 113

Epicurus Epistula ad Menoeceum Apud Diog. Laert. 204 Apud Diog. Laert. 204 Peri Physeōs 12

208

Epiphanius Panarion 26.20.5

192

Euripides Alcestis 843–4 1003 1140

41 41 41 109 154 154 154

Dio Chrysostom Orationes 33.1 33.5 33.48

125 125 126

Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca historica 1.25.6

Bacchae 585–93 699–701 1114 1124

152

Diogenes Laertius Vitae philosophorum 4.64 7.151 8.31-32 10.9 10.10 10.123

107 43 40 203 203 204

Eusebius Historia ecclesiastica 2.7.1 109 3.33 199 Gospel of Peter 5:10-11 5:15 5:18

188 107 107

Index of References 10:39–40 10:41

112 110

Hephaestion Enchiridion de Metris 62.5–6 175

251

Justin Martyr 1 Apologia 3 4 5 6 9 10 13 20–3 20 21.1–3 24 59–60

212 212 212 212 212 212 212 212 212 117 212 212 212

Herodotus Historiae 1.19.3 1.67.2–3 6.98.3

153 153 108

Hesiod Opera et dies 121–6 41–2, 45 155

49

2 Apologia 3

Theogonia 669

49

Letter of Peter to Philip (NHC VIII, 2) 140.15-23 189

Homer Ilias 2.353 2.786–7 3.121 8.170–71 13.821–3 18.61 18.182 23.103–4

84 103 103 84 84 40 103 43

Odyssea 4.540 10.190–91 11.475–76 24.15–204

49 50 43 44

Homeric Hymns 33

78

Hymn to Demeter 35

49

Jerome Epistula 120

108

Livy Ab urbe condita 1.16.1 1.16.2–3 1.16.3 1.16.6–7 1.16.7

114 115 118 115 118

Lucan De bello civili 161

153

Lucian of Samosata Alexander pseudomantis 1–2 201 7 101 17 201 25 201 38 201 45–7 201 61 201 Philopseudes 9 16

58 55

Index of References

252 Martial Epigrams 2.14 8.81 10.48

5 5 5

Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah 9:17 110 Nonius Marcellus De compendiosa doctrina 120.1 113 Origen Commentarium in evangelium Matthaei 12:36 78 Contra Celsum 1.1 2.4 3.14 4.71 8.2–5 8.17–21 8.55 8.65–68 8.69

211 211 211 215 211 211 211 211 211

De principiis i. prol. 8

59

Ovid Fasti 2.478 2.487 2.493–95 2.493 2.505–9 2.511

115, 117 113 115 107 115 115

Metamorphoses 1.5–9 1.736–46 9.140 14.811–28 14.811 14.814 15.671–2

65 10 67 115 115 113 109

Paterculus, Marcus Velleius Historiae 2.41.1 87, 100 2.57.1–2 88, 109 2.59.6 90 2.71.2 89 Philodemus De libertate dicendi Frag. 6

203

De pietate 28 30 31 32

203 203 203 203

Philostratus Vita Apollonii 1.7 3.38 4.20

125 55, 57 55, 57

Pistis Sophia 1.1

189

Plato Apologia 18C 23D 24C

202 202 202

Cratylus 398A 398B–C 407E

41 42 103

Leges 717B–718A

42

Phaedo 107D–108B 244B

42 153, 160

Respublica 364B 427B 469A 540C

51 42 42 42

Index of References Symposium 202D–203A 655A

42 44

Timaeus 42D 61C 69C–D 90A–C 90A

45 45 45 42 45

Pliny the Elder Naturalis historia 2.30.97 15.83 28.4.19

88 96 137

Pliny the Younger Epistulae 10.96 10.96.2 10.96.3–4 10.96.7 10.96.8 10.96.10

144 210 210 210 210 211

Plutarch Adversus Colotem 1119E–F 1125E–F

206 207

Alexander 73–4 75.1–2

85 85

Antonius 11.3 16.4 22.2 33.2 34.1 55.3 60.2–3 60.2 63.6

89 89 90 89 89 90 89 108 109

Brutus 36–7 37

46 46

253

Caesar 1.2 49.11 63.1–2 63.3 63.5–6 63.6 63.7 68.2 69.3–4 69.4

87 45 88 88 88, 102, 109 88 88 88 107 88

Camillus 21.2

46

Consolatio ad Apollonium 109C–D 22 Crassus 22.4

46

De defectu oraculorum 415A 44 415B 42 417B 42 418B 57 418E 56 419F 45 431B 43 431E 43 De E apud Delphos 393E–394C

4, 8

De facie in orbe lunae 941F 86 943A 45 944C 45 De genio Socratis 575A–598F 577D 580A–B 582B 586F 591C 591D 591E 591F

86 86 86 86 86 40, 45 45 45 45

Index of References

254 593C–D 593D–E 594E

86 45 86

De Iside et Osiride 357A–D 360E–F 378A 382A–C 382F–384A

12 45 4, 8 17 13

De superstitione 164E–171F 164E 165B–C 165B 165E–F 166A–B 167A 167B 167D–E 169F 171A 171B–E

85 85 209 85 86 86 86 209 86 209 209 209

De tranquillitate animi 474B 41 Dion 2 45–6 12

45

Galba 23.4 24.2–3

94 94

Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum 1100D 203 1101B–C 206 1101C–D 207 1101D–E 207 1102A 207 1102C 207 Parallelae graecae et romanae 308A 44 Pelopidas 31.2–3

107

Publicola 13.4

46

Quaestiones romanae et graecae §51, 277A 44 Romulus 27.5–6 27.6 27.8 28.1–3

115 107 116 116

Polybius Historiae 3.112.8–9 6.56.6

87 86

Protevangelium of James 18:1 217 Ps.-Apollodorus Bibliotheca 2.4.8–2.7.7 2.6.1–2.7.7 3.16.1–Epitome 1.23 Epilogue 1.24

67 68 68 69

Ps.-Clementines Libri recognitionum II.13 II.15

58 58

Ps.-Phocylides 100–102 100–101 149 150

53 49, 53 53, 58 53, 58

Ps.-Plato Axiochus 364A

120

Seneca Epistulae 123.16

209

Servius Ad Virilii Aeneidem commentarii 6.763 113

Index of References

255

Socrates Scholasticus Historia ecclesiastica 7.15 156

Caligula 12.1 57.1–3 57.3 57.4 58.2–3 59

91 91 92 92 92 92, 109

Sophia of Jesus Christ (NHC III, 4) 91.10-13 189 91.10-12 192 119.8-11 189

Claudius 7 22 46

92 92 92, 98

Statius Silvae 3.2.107–16

5

Thebais 7.65

109

Galba 1 4.1 4.2 4.3 8.2 9.2 9.4 18.1–3 18.1 18.2 19.1

93, 106 93 93 94 94 94 94 94 94 108 94

Julius 1.3 6.1 7.2 81.1 81.2 81.3 81.4 88.1

87 87 87, 100 88 88 88, 102, 109 88 88, 117

Nero 6.1–2 7.1 16.2 19.2–20.2 23 34.4 36.1–2 36.1 36.2 40.2 40.3 46.1

92 92 210 94 94 92 93, 102 92 93, 102 93 94 93

Sextus Empiricus Adversus mathematicos 9.74 43

Strabo Geographica 1.2.8 14.5.13 14.5.14 125–6 14.5.15 14.14 Suetonius Augustus 6 29.3 31.1 91.1 91.2 93 94.1 94.2 94.3 94.4 94.5–6 94.7 94.8–9 94.11 95–6 96.2 97.1 97.3 99.1–2

86 125 125 126

90 90 90 90 90 90 100 90 89, 102 89, 102 90 90 90 90 90 90 90 91 91

Index of References

256 48.2 56

93 93

Otho 4.1 4.4–5 4.4 6.1–2 7.2 8.3 9.3

94 94 94 95 95 95 95

Tiberius 14.1 14.2 14.3–4 19 67.1–4 69 74 75.1

91 91 91 91 91 91 91, 108 91

Vespasianus 4.1–2 4.5 5.2 5.4 5.6 5.7 7.1 7.2–3 25

96 96, 101 96 96 96 94, 96–7 97 97 97

Vitellius 3.2 8.2 9.1 10 14.5 18

95, 102 95 95 95 95 95

Tacitus Annales 2.69 11.11 14.9 14.22 15.44 15.47

51 92 92 93, 98 209 93

16.14

93

Historiae 1.10 1.62.2–3 2.1 2.78.2 2.78.3 2.50.2 5.13

96 95 96 96 96 94 108

Tertullian Ad nationes 3.2.9

117

Theophilus Ad Autolycum 3.27

117

Thucydides Historiae 3.89.1–2 7.50.4

108 85

Treatise on the Resurrection (NHC I, 4) 45.39–46.2 192 Varro De lingua Latina 5–10 7.6

113 113

Vergil Aeneid 1.275–7 1.286–9 1.290 6.763 6.777–89 6.789–92

114 114 114 113 114 114

Georgica 1.467–8 1.498–9 1.503–4

88, 107 114 114

Xenophon Hellenica 4.7.4–7

84

Index of References INSCRIPTIONS aND PAPYRI L’Année Épigraphique 106 103 BGU 628

109

British Museum Papyri 10685C 40 Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae III, 2335 106 Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum III, 30 106 XI, 4639 51 XIV, 24 103 Defixionum Tabellae 22 25 26 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 37 38 51 111–12 198 234 235 237 238 239 240 242 249 271

52 52 52 52 52 52 52 52 52 52, 140 140 52 141 136 52 52 52 52 52 52 52 52, 56 52 52, 56

Defixionum Tabellae Atticae 99 49, 52 102 52

257

Greek Magical Amulets 52 57 Inscriptions de Delos 1403 29 1412 29 1416 29 1417 31 1434 29 1435 29 1440 29 1442 29 1452 29 2039 30–1, 33, 37 2075 30, 37 2076 30, 37 2077 30–3, 37 2078 29–31, 33, 37 2079 30–1, 33, 37 2080 30–1, 33, 37 2081 30–1, 33, 37 2085–86 30, 37 2085 37 2086 37 2087–88 29–30, 37 2087 36 2617 30 2618 30 Inscriptiones Graecae XI, 4 510–1349 XI, 4 129 XI, 4 1215 XI, 4 1216 XI, 4 1217 XI, 4 1220 XI, 4 1221 XI, 4 1223 XI, 4 1224 XI, 4 1225 XI, 4 1226 XI, 4 1227 XI, 4 1228 XI, 4 1229 XI, 4 1230 XI, 4 1243 XI, 4 1247 XI, 4 1249 XI, 4 1250

25 26 30–1 27 27, 31 27 27 28 30 30 28, 31, 33, 37 28 28, 32, 37 28, 37 27 30, 33 27 30, 37 30, 37

Index of References

258 XI, 4 1252 XI, 4 1290 XI, 4 1299 XI, 4 1305 XI, 4 1307

27 27, 31, 33 25–7, 35 33 31

Inscriptiones Graeca ad Res Romanas Pertinentes I, 901 104 III, 719 104 IV, 309 104 Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae 107 104 113 104 8759a 106 Inscriptions de Pergamon 336 25 Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae 458 104 655, iii, 36 96 Papyri Berlin 3008

152

Papyri Bremner-Rhind 1.9 151 Papyri Graecae Magicae I.1 49 I.11–19 177 I.11 177 I.12–19 176 I.26 177 I.29 177 I.42 49 I.248 49 I.253 49 II.1–2 179 II.5–6 179 IV.245–7 49 IV.249 49 IV.286–95 53 IV.296–466 49 IV.332–3 49 IV.361 50 IV.368 50

IV.369–70 IV.396–7 IV.435 IV.442–8 IV.446 IV.458–62 IV.1167–1226 IV.1170 IV.1171 IV.1180 IV.1183 IV.1200–1213 IV.1247–48 IV.1254 IV.1390–98 IV.1474–5 IV.1786 IV.1849–50 IV.1968–70 IV.2031 IV.2060 IV.2647 IV.3015 IV.3019 IV.3040 V.1–53 V.304 V.334 V.370–446 VII.348–58 VII.394 VII.540–78 VII.664–85 VIII.81 IX XII.494 XIII.749–59 XV XVI XVI.1 XVI.9 XVI.17–18 XVI.25 XVI.34 XVI.43 XVI.54 XVI.61 XVI.67 XVI.73

50 50 49 50 49 50 177 178 178 178 178 177 57 57 50 50 57 49 50 50 50 58 57 146 57 57 48 50 57 57 48 57 57 49 48 50 57 50 48, 51 51 51 51 51 51 51 51 51 51 51

Index of References XIXa XIXa.15 XIXa.151 XX XXXa XXXIa XXXIb XXXVI.1–35 XXXVI.138 XXXVI.146 XXXVI.231 XL LXII.24–46 CXI

48, 50 50 50 48 48 48 48 48 49 49 48 48 57 48

Pap.Graec.Monacum Inv 216 48 Papyri Herculaneum 1077 18 208 Papyri Oslo 26

104

Papyri Oxyrhynchus 215, lines 4–5 203 Papyri Rylands 601

104

Recueil des Inscriptions concernant les Cultes Isiaques 101/0424 29 111/0102 25 202/0101 26 202/0116 26 202/0117 26 202/0120 26 202/0122 26 202/0123 26 202/0125 26 202/0126 26 202/0127 26 202/0128 26

202/0129 202/0130 202/0131 202/0281 202/0421 202/0422 202/0423 202/0426 202/0427 202/0428 202/0433 205/0104

259 26 26 26 29 29 29 29 29 29 29 29 25

Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunde aus Ägypten 401 109 Select Papyri 211

120

Supplementum epigraphicum graecum 42.147 25 Survey of Greek Defixiones 1 48 2 48 151 51 152 52 153 52 160 52 152 52 Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum 390.27 120 MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE

Hymn of Shulgi 62–5

109

Qur’ān 19.16 19.22

218 218

260

261

262

263

264