My New Book!

My New Book!
My New Book!

Wednesday, December 31, 2025

December 31, 2025: Year in Review: AI

[The end of 2025 means another Year in Review blog series, AmericanStudying a handful of the year’s biggest stories. I’d love your 2025 reflections in comments!]

I wrote about ChatGPT and other generative AI programs as part of last year’s Year in Review series, and would say that every experience I’ve had with AI in the year since has only deepened every part of what I said there about its worst elements and effects. We’ve also learned a great deal more over this last year about AI’s horrifically destructive potential, from what data centers do to communities and the environment to what chatbots do to individuals to what AI is doing to education (to cite just four specific stories about just a few of the many issues I could highlight). And yet just about every day I see or hear or read or encounter folks—most of them folks I know and trust and often love—talking about using ChatGPT and other AI programs in casual and consistent (if not indeed constant) ways. So unfortunately I think I need to include AI in this year’s Year in Review series as well, as we desperately need a full and honest conversation about what this new technology is doing, and whether and how we can (at the very least) stop its further growth.

Next reflections tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think? 2025 stories you’d highlight?

Tuesday, December 30, 2025

December 30, 2025: Year in Review: Higher Ed

[The end of 2025 means another Year in Review blog series, AmericanStudying a handful of the year’s biggest stories. I’d love your 2025 reflections in comments!]

How three university presidents embody three distinct responses to ongoing attacks on higher education.

Those of us who teach and work at American colleges and universities outside of the nation’s most elite such institutions—which is to say, the vast majority of college educators and employees—have long been aware that our media conversations focus far too fully on that small handful of unis. We’ve certainly seen that trend play out once again in 2025, as the Trump administration’s attacks on elite institutions like Columbia and Harvard have dominated our narratives. But outsized as that attention may be, those institutions have indeed been under attack, and so it’s been particularly disheartening to see the obedient response from leaders like the University of Chicago’s President Paul Alivasatos, who together with that institution’s Board of Trustees froze and cut a good deal of the humanities at Chicago, including all programs that involve foreign language study, to cite just one especially egregious response to narratives that universities have become too “woke” or wasteful. Virtually none of the nation’s elite universities have covered themselves in glory in this crucial moment, and that has only aided and abetted the administration’s attacks.

At the exact opposite end of the spectrum is Michael Roth, the President of Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut. Wesleyan is a small liberal arts college with far more limited resources and clout (and presence in our national media and conversations) than places like Chicago and Columbia, but Roth has consistently punched above his weight class and pushed back on the Trump administration, and especially on its blatantly false narratives (really excuses) of both “woke”-ism and antisemitism at the nation’s institutions of higher education. If you’re not inspired by reading through this official list, on Wesleyan’s own website, of Roth’s Bylines over the last year—to say nothing of reading the pieces themselves, each and every one of which I highly recommend—then we’re not anywhere near the same page when it comes to what higher education can and should offer to our collective conversations, all the time and in moments of crisis most of all.

But such contributions to our national conversations aren’t the only thing higher ed can and should do, of course. And when it comes to the even more consistent and central goals of serving our students and communities, I’ve been very impressed by Donna Hodge, the new President (and first woman President) at my own institution, Fitchburg State University. That’s due to many different moments and actions of Hodge’s throughout her first year-plus in office, but I would point specifically to this podcast interview from the spring. It’s under twenty minutes and well worth your time, especially for the ways that Hodge talks about growing and supporting the diversity of FSU’s student body, including in the university’s now-official capacity as a Hispanic Serving Institution. In their own ways, these statements and actions represent just as crucial a response to current attacks as do Roth’s, and are certainly another example of the best of higher education, in 2025 and overall.

Next reflections tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think? 2025 stories you’d highlight?

PPS. Since I drafted this piece, President Hodge proposed one of the most impressive ideas for higher ed I've encountered in a long time: all students at the local Fitchburg-area high schools with a minimum GPA of 2.25 will have automatic admission to FSU, and can attend tuition-free. President Hodge was a first-generation college student and sees this as a path to college for folks in that community in particular, and I really, really love this proposal and wanted to add it to today's post. 

Monday, December 29, 2025

December 29, 2025: Year in Review: Fascism

[The end of 2025 means another Year in Review blog series, AmericanStudying a handful of the year’s biggest stories. I’d love your 2025 reflections in comments!]

On overt and insidious ways that Trump 2.0 parallels the worst leaders in world history.

Because the United States has had such longstanding relationships with so many of them, especially in the Western Hemisphere but also everydamnwhere else, I’ve written about dictators quite a bit in this space. For the most part, those relationships have formed after the dictators have taken power, and indeed have reflected America’s realpolitik perspective on what these established authoritarian figures can do to help advance our own national interests (whether foreign policy or economic or both). But there have certainly also been times when the U.S. has actively helped those authoritarian leaders both come to power in the first place and then cement their fascist dictatorial regimes, as was the case for example with Fulgencio Batista in 1930s Cuba. Which gives those of us with historical awareness an unquestionably ironic but also quite well-informed perspective on how the first authoritarian dictator in American history (at least at the presidential level) is seeking to cement his own fascist regime.

Many of the ways Trump and his cronies are doing so are strikingly overt. That includes the story that has understandably dominated the headlines throughout the second half of 2025, starting with Los Angeles in June: Trump’s use of the military to invade (a word I’m using very deliberately) and occupy (ditto) a number of American cities, especially those led by Democratic and/or African American Mayors. But there are plenty of other such striking parallels to world fascisms past and present as well, including nationalizing corporations and industries, using law enforcement to target political enemies, attacking and seeking to shut down critical media, purging “non-loyal” employees from all areas of the government, falsifying basic science and facts to align with the leader’s vision, and much, much, much more. Just writing those sentences and adding those hyperlinks really drives home how widespread and how blatant this descent into fascism has been, and I hope any reader of this blog will know that I don’t use such phrases or framings lightly.

I think there’s an even more insidious layer to the rise of this first fascist regime in American history, though. We’ve obviously had presidents around whom cults of personality formed, especially in the 20th and 21st centuries and even more especially in the media age; from Teddy Roosevelt’s faux-machismo to JFK’s Camelot, Ronald Reagan’s adoring acolytes to Barack Obama’s cheering crowds, these leaders have inspired popular adoration to be sure. But I’ve lived through two of those presidencies, and studied and written extensively about the other two (and every other presidential administration in our history), and I can say definitively that none of them were anything close to the cultish figures that Donald Trump is for so damn many people, from those serving him in his administration to those supporting him around the country. “The state, it is me” is a phrase associated with monarchs like Louis XIV, and of course monarchy was in many ways the original form of authoritarian regime. And it’s no coincidence that Trump loves to share images of himself as a King, nor that his actions align with so many of the criticisms leveled at King George in the Declaration of Independence. An American monarch would be even more ironic than an American dictator, but that’s about where we are in late 2025.

Next reflections tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think? 2025 stories you’d highlight?

Saturday, December 27, 2025

December 27-28, 2025: Wishes for my Wife’s Book

[Many, many, many times over the last year, I’ve wished that more Americans would have the chance to read my writing and learn even a few of the many lessons I believe it offers for us in 2025. So for my annual Wishes for the Holiday Elves series, I wanted to revisit my six books, highlighting something specific from each that I think we could takeaway today. Leading up to this special post on my awesome wife’s Christmastastic new book!]

I wrote back in September about my wife Vaughn Joy’s then-forthcoming and now-released first book, Selling Out Santa: Hollywood Christmas Films in the Age of McCarthy; I’ll write more about it as part of a late-March series on her many book talks across a number of different media and formats. But I couldn’t share a blog series on my own books without highlighting Vaughn’s, and I do have a few specific wishes for the Holiday Elves related to Selling Out Santa specifically:

1)      Redefining American Christmas: One of the most consistent and most striking responses that we’ve seen to Vaughn’s book is from folks who see Christmas as an overtly and centrally Christian holiday, and thus for example take issue with Vaughn’s claim (the center of her main book talk) that Christmas = America. But Vaughn’s argument, and it’s both incredibly convincing and hugely important, is that American Christmas has always been an amalgamated, multicultural, secular and civic holiday—while of course Christians can celebrate their version of the holiday, that’s just one of countless layers to American Christmas, and one that came along much later in the historical development of our holiday than (for example) Santa imagery. Vaughn seems to be fighting an uphill battle to remind people of these vital histories and realities, but it’s a fight well worth fighting, and one that I wish all Americans could really take to heart.

2)      Cultural and Media Literacies: Learning that lesson requires folks to engage thoughtfully and meaningfully with not only histories, but also and perhaps especially with the cultural and media texts that have created our Christmas and holiday imagery, narratives, and myths across the centuries—a list that includes but is in no way limited to Vaughn’s focus on Hollywood Christmas films. As Vaughn developed her book talks she realized that one of the most central throughlines of her scholarly work has been a focus on enhancing our literacy when it comes to such cultural imagery—whether of classical mythologies (her first MA), comic books (her second), films (her PhD that became this book), or other genres and media. I wholeheartedly agree with her assertion that no skills are more important for all Americans and people to practice and strengthen in late 2025, and I wish all Americans would have the chance to do so by reading Vaughn’s book.

3)      Sharing My Joy: Ultimately, though, my wish for the Holiday Elves is simpler than that—I wish every single person could have the chance to see just how excellent this book is—how engagingly written while offering nuanced ideas, how attentive to close readings of tons of classic films while making overarching historical arguments, how exemplary of interdisciplinary public scholarship at its best. If you want to share my Joy and aren’t sure how to get your hands on a copy of the book, feel free to leave a comment or to check out our website or to shoot me an email, and thanks in advance!

Year in Review series starts Monday,

Ben

PS. You know what to do!

Friday, December 26, 2025

December 26, 2025: Revisiting My Books: We the People & Of Thee I Sing

[Many, many, many times over the last year, I’ve wished that more Americans would have the chance to read my writing and learn even a few of the many lessons I believe it offers for us in 2025. So for my annual Wishes for the Holiday Elves series, I wanted to revisit my six books, highlighting something specific from each that I think we could takeaway today. Leading up to a special post on my awesome wife’s Christmastastic new book!]

Back in July, I concluded my 4th of July series with an offer and a request: an offer to send an e-copy of my sixth book Of Thee I Sing: The Contested History of American Patriotism (2021) to anyone interested; and a request for any and all opportunities where I might talk about that project and its ever-more-relevant resonances. I would make exactly the same offer and request for my fifth book (a direct complement to my sixth, from the same American Ways series): We the People: The 500-Year Battle over Who is American (2019). So as I conclude this series of Wishes for the Holiday Elves, I’ll make that multilayered offer and request into a wish as well: that every American have the chance to check out these two short, accessible, and damn relevant books; and that I have the chance to talk about them far and wide as well. You know what to do!

Special post this weekend,

Ben

PS. I say again: you know what to do, here or by email!

Thursday, December 25, 2025

December 25, 2025: Revisiting My Books: History & Hope in American Literature

[Many, many, many times over the last year, I’ve wished that more Americans would have the chance to read my writing and learn even a few of the many lessons I believe it offers for us in 2025. So for my annual Wishes for the Holiday Elves series, I wanted to revisit my six books, highlighting something specific from each that I think we could takeaway today. Leading up to a special post on my awesome wife’s Christmastastic new book!]

For a long time, my fourth book, History & Hope in American Literature: Models of Critical Patriotism (2016) was titled (or at least featured in its working title the phrase) Hard-Won Hope. There’s a lot in this book that I’d say only resonates more strongly still in 2025 than it did in 2016, including the concept of critical patriotism to which I returned very fully in my sixth book (on which more in tomorrow’s post). But honestly, I don’t think any concept is more difficult to find, nor more desperately needed, here in December 2025 than hard-won hope (or critical optimism, as I also called it there and since). I can’t lie, there have been many days this year when I struggled to find hope or optimism of any kind, and I don’t imagine that’s going to change with the turn of the calendar. But along with my sons and my students, one of the main voices from whom I consistently got those inspiring things was my father, who passed away in March and about whom I’ll have more to say in next week’s Year in Review series. Dad was no pie-in-the-sky naïve optimist; but after a career engaging with some of the worst aspects of American history and culture, and a life that started in the early Cold War and ended in the Age of Trump, he continued to believe in and work for our best. Here on this special day, and on every other day, I wish for that hard-won hope for each and every one of us.

Last wish tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think? (Also, I have an e-copy of this book that I’m happy to email anyone who’s interested, so lemme know if you’d like one!)

Wednesday, December 24, 2025

December 24, 2025: Revisiting My Books: The Chinese Exclusion Act

[Many, many, many times over the last year, I’ve wished that more Americans would have the chance to read my writing and learn even a few of the many lessons I believe it offers for us in 2025. So for my annual Wishes for the Holiday Elves series, I wanted to revisit my six books, highlighting something specific from each that I think we could takeaway today. Leading up to a special post on my awesome wife’s Christmastastic new book!]

Given that the Trump administration has proposed various new policies that amount to a sequel to the Chinese Exclusion Act, I don’t know that I need to make much of a case for rereading my book The Chinese Exclusion Act: What It Can Teach Us about America (2013) here in 2025. I’ve also learned a lot more about that subject in the dozen years since, and would recommend my podcast The Celestials’ Last Game: Baseball, Bigotry, & the Battle for America (2024) for those more up-to-date thoughts. But one section in my third book that I’d say holds up particularly well is the Introduction: Teaching Americans the Chinese Exclusion Act. In that intro I make the case for something that I have come to believe even more strongly over the last dozen years: that public scholarship is a form of teaching, in the best senses of the term and the classroom (conversational, multivocal, civil, rigorous, and more). I’d like to think that both this book overall and the many book talks I had the chance to deliver over the year or so after its publication exemplified that vision of both public scholarship and education, and I’d say that I’ve never expressed it more succinctly than I did in that Introduction.

Next wish tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think? (Also, I have an e-copy of this book that I’m happy to email anyone who’s interested, so lemme know if you’d like one!)

Tuesday, December 23, 2025

December 23, 2025: Revisiting My Books: Redefining American Identity

[Many, many, many times over the last year, I’ve wished that more Americans would have the chance to read my writing and learn even a few of the many lessons I believe it offers for us in 2025. So for my annual Wishes for the Holiday Elves series, I wanted to revisit my six books, highlighting something specific from each that I think we could takeaway today. Leading up to a special post on my awesome wife’s Christmastastic new book!]

Largely because I had started this blog in the meantime, by the time I published my second book, Redefining American Identity: From Cabeza de Vaca to Barack Obama (2011), I was already thinking and working actively on the goal of creating public scholarship. I thus hope and believe that the whole book would be of interest to broad audiences in 2025, and certainly would argue that we all desperately need to engage with the book’s overarching thesis, my vision of cross-cultural transformation as a foundational and shared element of American identity. But the book is focused on individual American identities and stories (as captured in autobiographical works by those individuals), and if I were to highlight just one of them that it would especially important for all Americans to read & remember here in 2025, the answer is a no-brainer: Gloria Anzaldúa. Anzaldúa is not an easy read (to put it very mildly), but she has so much to tell us about not only the border (although that would be enough, given how much it has become a metonym for so many things America), but also what it really means to be American (in contrast to the simplistic visions we often have). If folks aren’t gonna read my book, they sure should check out Borderlands/La Frontera (1987).

Next wish tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Monday, December 22, 2025

December 22, 2025: Revisiting My Books: Contesting the Past, Reconstructing the Nation

[Many, many, many times over the last year, I’ve wished that more Americans would have the chance to read my writing and learn even a few of the many lessons I believe it offers for us in 2025. So for my annual Wishes for the Holiday Elves series, I wanted to revisit my six books, highlighting something specific from each that I think we could takeaway today. Leading up to a special post on my awesome wife’s Christmastastic new book!]

I won’t lie, I don’t really recognize the Ben who wrote Contesting the Past, Reconstructing the Nation: American Literature & Culture in the Gilded Age, 1876-1893 (2007). Partly that’s because it was published more than 18 years ago, and largely based on a dissertation finished 20 years ago; but mostly it’s because that Ben wasn’t yet thinking about producing public scholarship, and so it’s by far my most “academic” book, in ways that would make it more difficult for it to speak to broad audiences in 2025. But there’s still a lot in it that I love and would want to share with folks, and that’s especially true of the literary works and authors on whom I focused my analyses. Here are just a handful that are part of that project and that we all should be reading in 2025, with links to posts where I’ve written about them:

Helen Hunt Jackson’s Ramona (1884)

William Justin Harsha’s Ploughed Under (1881)

Sarah Winnemucca’s Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims (1886)

George Washington Cable’s The Grandissimes (1881)

And the dialogic poetry of Sarah Piatt

Next wish tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Saturday, December 20, 2025

December 20-21, 2025: Refugee Stories in 2025

[On December 14th, 1950, the United Nations adopted its Statute on the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. So for the 75th anniversary of that important moment, this week I’ve AmericanStudied the UNHCR and other refugee stories, leading up to this weekend post on that fraught and crucial issue in 2025.]

I’m a couple weeks out from my annual Year in Review series, so watch this space for more extended reflections on what dominated the headlines in 2025; but it’s fair to say that no social or political issue did so more consistently than did the Trump administration’s capricious, cruel, and thoroughly unconstitutional treatment of refugees, asylum seekers, and every other form of immigrant arrival to the U.S. For me those stories weren’t just headlines, though: I saw them up close, through the ongoing experiences of an FSU first-year student and her family. They’re refugees from Venezuela who had been granted Temporary Protected Status, and over the course of just a few months they had that status ripped away by the administration, had a court re-grant it, had it taken away again, and continued to live with profound uncertainty about their immediate and long-term future. The student is one of the strongest I’ve taught in many years, and wrote an excellent final research paper for our first-year writing course on these issues and their many contemporary and historical contexts; she’d be a wonderful addition to any university and community. But in truth, while that fact offers a particularly striking contrast with Trump’s thoroughly awful identity, what’s happened and continues to happen to her and her family shouldn’t happen to anyone, anywhere, at any time. I don’t know that I need to say any more about refugee stories in 2025 than that.

Holiday series starts Monday,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Friday, December 19, 2025

December 19, 2025: Refugee Stories: Refugees in 2020 (and Today)

[On December 14th, 1950, the United Nations adopted its Statute on the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. So for the 75th anniversary of that important moment, this week I’ll AmericanStudy the UNHCR and other refugee stories, leading up to a weekend post on that fraught and crucial issue in 2025.]

[Note: I originally shared this post as part of my 2020 Year in Review blog series, but once again it feels even more timely here in late 2025.]

On a short story that helps cut to the heart of an ongoing horror.

It was almost impossible, in the final months of 2020, to pay attention to all of the important news stories that broke; not that that was in any way a new problem, but I nonetheless felt that constant struggle for focus to be amplified as we all tried simply to navigate the conclusions of the Fall semester, of the multi-month crisis of democracy following the 2020 presidential election, of the end of a very, very long year. So it’s fair to say that a couple of late 2020 stories about the ongoing human rights abuses of migrant and refugee families and children at the US/Mexico border—a story about how the federal government had purposefully made it much harder to reunite separated families (illegal actions that reek of Stephen Miller’s xenophobic touch), and a related one about just how much children remain separated from their parents long after that policy was supposed to have ended—largely flew under the radar for far too many of us (this AmericanStudier very much included).

The frustrating absence of such stories from much of our collective consciousness isn’t simply about information overload, however. Precisely because the government has kept these individuals and families so isolated and separated, so hidden from even those tasked with helping them (much less our society as a whole), it can be quite difficult (speaking for myself, at least) to get to the human heart of what is happening to these people, of the intimate realities of the detention process and centers, of all that has been done and is still being done to these fellow humans and Americans (for that they are, despite our government’s and system’s most xenophobic and destructive attempts to define them otherwise). There certainly has been excellent investigative journalism despite those imposed limits—I would point for example to this stunning late August piece from Carmen Molina Acosta, an editorial intern with the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists (ICIJ) who clearly has a very bright future in journalism, on the horrors of COVID in the detention centers—but there we’re back to the information overload challenge.

Such journalistic pieces are still entirely worth reading and sharing, to be clear. But I also believe that cultural works have a role in play in cutting through the noise and helping us understand and empathize with the human experiences of these migrants and refugees. As part of my two online Short Story sections this Fall, I taught one stunning such cultural work: Cristina Henriquez’s “Everything Is Far from Here” (2017). Henriquez’s short story stays solely and fully within the perspective of her main character, a refugee woman and mother experiencing individual versions of detention and separation from her young son; readers get only the briefest glimpses of the broader social and political contexts for those experiences, both in the US and in her Latin American country of origin. But that’s precisely the vital strength of short stories—using literary elements like narration and perspective, descriptions and imagery, dialogue and free indirect discourse (the intimate representation of a character’s inner thoughts, a really powerful literary concept and effect despite the overly theoretical name) to locate readers within such an experience and world. If I could ask all Americans to read one text about the ongoing border horrors, I think I’d go with this simple, brutal, vital short story.

Contemporary connections this weekend,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Thursday, December 18, 2025

December 18, 2025: Refugee Stories: Tina Powell’s Guest Post

[On December 14th, 1950, the United Nations adopted its Statute on the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. So for the 75th anniversary of that important moment, this week I’ll AmericanStudy the UNHCR and other refugee stories, leading up to a weekend post on that fraught and crucial issue in 2025.]

I couldn’t share a weeklong series on refugee stories without linking to this great September 2018 Guest Post from Tina Powell on refugee literature, contexts and histories, and more. Check it out, please!

Last story tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Wednesday, December 17, 2025

December 17, 2025: Refugee Stories: The Marielitos

[On December 14th, 1950, the United Nations adopted its Statute on the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. So for the 75th anniversary of that important moment, this week I’ll AmericanStudy the UNHCR and other refugee stories, leading up to a weekend post on that fraught and crucial issue in 2025.]

[Note: This post was originally from 2019, but let’s just say it hasn’t gotten less relevant in the six years since.]

Three ways to contextualize and analyze the 1980 exodus of some 125,000 Cubans (known as Marielitos) from Mariel Harbor to the United States.

1)      Refugee policy: Donald Trump’s Executive Orders on refugees and immigration have of course brought debates over refugee policy back into the news, but in a particularly oversimplified—and fearful and paranoid and factually challenged—way. The situation and issues facing President Jimmy Carter in 1980, on the other hand, illustrate just how complex and multi-layered national decisions about refugee policy are (even for those of us, like me and I believe Carter, who feel strongly that the U.S. should always try to welcome refugees). There are the perspectives and realities of a sovereign nation like Cuba, and of our own evolving relationship with that nation (Carter and Castro had worked to alleviate some tensions between the two nations over the years leading up to Mariel). There are the humanitarian and practical questions of where and how the refugees will be resettled in the United States, and what that will mean for the communities to which they arrive (Miami was most definitely and profoundly changed by the Marielitos). And there are the thorny but inevitable comparative questions—what do our decisions in response to this particular refugee community mean for the millions of others seeking and waiting for the chance to asylum? All difficult issues, and all raised with clarity by the Mariel boatlift.

2)      The boatlift in art: Refugee and immigration histories aren’t just about governments and policies, though—they’re also and most importantly about communities and stories, about identities and lives. Artistic and cultural texts are particularly good at portraying those latter sides to histories, and I would highlight three very distinct such texts about the Mariel boatlift. The Brian De Palma film Scarface (1983) uses the story of one fictional Marielito, Tony Montana (Al Pacino in one of his most famous performances), to consider some of our most overarching national narratives, from the ideals of the American Dream to the most sordid nightmares of violence and crime. Christine Bell’s novel The Pérez Family (1991; adapted into a 1995 film) focuses more fully on themes of community, both among the Marielitos (the protagonists are characters who share the same last name and decide to pass as a family) and in relationship to the Cuban-American community (Juan Pérez is looking for his wife, who has already been in the United States for decades by the time he arrives). And Reinaldo Arenas’ autobiography Before Night Falls (1992; adapted into a 2000 film) tells the harrowing story of one individual writer before, during, and after the boatlift. Each text is different in medium and genre as well as story and theme, but taken together they offer a powerful artistic portrayal of the boatlift.

3)      Pedro Zamora: For better or for worse, the fictional gangster Tony Montana is probably the most famous individual Marielito. But I believe a close second would be Pedro Zamora, who came to the United States with his family in the boatlift when he was only 8 years old, and came to prominence 14 years later as the breakout star of The Real World: San Francisco, the 1994 third season of MTV’s ground-breaking reality TV show. Zamora broke multiple cultural barriers during his time on television: he was one of the first openly gay stars of a TV show, and his commitment ceremony with boyfriend Sean Sasser the first such same-sex ceremony in TV history; and he was also living with HIV/AIDS throughout the show, bringing a profoundly intimate and human face to a disease that was, at the time, still deeply controversial and feared. Zamora’s tragic death later that year, and his widely broadcast memorial service, offered one more level to that prominence and its effects. None of those events or effects are limited to Marielitos or Cuban Americans, of course; but we can’t understand and analyze Zamora’s identity, nor perhaps appreciate his commitment to public advocacy and activism, without remembering the foundational role of the Mariel boatlift in his life.

Next story tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Tuesday, December 16, 2025

December 16, 2025: Refugee Stories: WWII Refugees

[On December 14th, 1950, the United Nations adopted its Statute on the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. So for the 75th anniversary of that important moment, this week I’ll AmericanStudy the UNHCR and other refugee stories, leading up to a weekend post on that fraught and crucial issue in 2025.]

On two federal actions that reflect the worst and best of our reactions to WWII refugees, and why we have to engage with precisely that duality.

In recent years, the story of the German ocean liner St. Louis and its ill-fated May 1939 attempt to help nearly 1000 Jewish refugees escape the deepening Holocaust has become more familiar to American audiences. As is too often the case, it has been a significantly over-simplified version of that history which has achieved that level of collective awareness, one for example that leaves out the ship’s original destination of and extended attempt to unload passengers in Havana, Cuba entirely. But nevertheless, one essential series of interconnected facts about the St. Louis that has been accurately highlighted is this: the U.S. government had the opportunity to welcome the refugees once they had been denied entry to Cuba and the ship sailed to Miami; the Roosevelt administration chose not to allow any of them to enter the U.S., due at least in part to blatant anti-semitism; and after they returned to Europe, more than 250 of the passengers ended up dying in the Holocaust. That’s a painful and shameful story for all concerned, including without question the United States.

As the war continued to unfold, the U.S. government took small but meaningful steps to revise a different such shameful history. There’s no topic from American history about which I’ve written and talked more than the Chinese Exclusion era; while my work has focused on the last couple decades of the 19th century, those exclusionary laws and policies toward both Chinese immigrants and Chinese Americans also continued throughout the first few decades of the 20th. Indeed, the first federal law of any kind that began to change that exclusionary trend was the Magnuson Act of 1943, also known as the Chinese Exclusion Repeal Act. Proposed by Washington Representative (soon-to-be Senator) Warren G. Magnuson, this law both permitted some Chinese immigration to the U.S. and allowed some Chinese Americans to naturalized citizens. Both of those provisions were directly related to China’s newfound status as a wartime ally of the United States, in direct opposition to the unfolding war with Japan that had begun after Pearl Harbor and was at its height in December 1943 when Roosevelt signed the Magnuson Act into law.

Wartime alliances and adversaries are a straightforward, and not at all inaccurate, way to link these two World War II-era histories. Not only to differentiate two communities (Jewish Europeans and the Chinese), but also and even more relevantly because in 1939 the U.S. was not at war with any nation, and so the St. Louis decision can’t be separated from the official policy of neutrality in that moment. But even when we include those necessary (if still complicated) contexts in the mix, these two federal actions (or rather inaction and action respectively) nonetheless help us make a very clear and very crucial point, one I’ve tried to make for at least the 13 years since my Chinese Exclusion Act book: immigration laws and policies are incredibly haphazard, targeting communities and nations based on specific prejudices, shifting toward those same communities based on other practicalities or trends, finding new targets in new eras with no apparent lessons learned from the prior experiences, and so on. Anyone who seeks to make the case for immigration restrictions or exclusions based on concepts like “fairness” or “the rules” needs to engage with just how absent those concepts have been from the entire history of these laws and debates, as illustrated concisely by these WWII moments.  

Next story tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Monday, December 15, 2025

December 15, 2025: Refugee Stories: Global Organizations

[On December 14th, 1950, the United Nations adopted its Statute on the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. So for the 75th anniversary of that important moment, this week I’ll AmericanStudy the UNHCR and other refugee stories, leading up to a weekend post on that fraught and crucial issue in 2025.]

On two prior iterations of a global refugee organization, and how the UNHCR has built on them but gone much further.

Not surprisingly, the first global organization dedicated to assisting refugees was created by the first truly global organization period: the League of Nations, which in 1921 appointed a High Commissioner for Refugees, naming the Norwegian explorer and scientist Fridtjof Nansen to the role. Nansen had plenty to do in the continuing aftermath of WWI, including his longtime advocacy for Germany becoming part of the League in order to allow for aid to its internally displaced refugees (he finally achieved that goal in 1926). But his organization and role really came to the fore in response to a pair of 1920s European conflicts: the Greco-Turkish War of 1919-22, which created hundreds of thousands of Greek refugees in particular; and the Armenian Genocide, which had been ongoing and worsening for nearly a decade and about the effects of which Nansen wrote in his 1923 book Armenia and the Near East and two follow-up volumes. From what I can tell, this first international refugee organization was in many ways a one-man show, but Nansen was clearly a good choice for that role.

Nansen passed away in 1930, and like the League of Nations itself his organization became increasingly powerless across the subsequent decade. The Second World War which concluded that decade created an even more global and dire refugee crisis than the first one had, however, and not long after that war’s resolution a new global refugee organization was thus created: the International Refugee Organization (IRO), founded in April 1946 and gradually folded into the operations of the new United Nations. But the IRO was immediately and significantly hamstrung by two aspects of its Constitution (which was adopted by the UN General Assembly in December 1946): it could only work in areas outside of the Soviet bloc and/or controlled by Western armies of occupation; and it would not concern itself with “persons of German ethnic origin” (which in practice meant both German war refugees and many Jewish refugees of the Holocaust). The IRO’s two Directors-General, William Hallam Tuck and J. Donald Kingsley, did what they could within those parameters, but by 1952 the organization had ceased operations—and that was a year or so after it had for all practical purposes been replaced by the UNHCR.

The UNHCR was initially established with a December 1950 statue, the anniversary of which this week’s blog series is commemorating, but it was with the July 1951 United Nations Geneva Convention, also known as the Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees, that the organization’s sweeping mandate was truly defined. That Convention in turn built on an important prior UN document, the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which had recognized the right of persons to seek asylum from persecution in other countries. Together, this pair of UN actions made clear that this new international refugee organization wasn’t going to depend on the efforts of heroic individuals, nor that its purview would be in any way limited by geography or politics or time period. While the UNHCR did focus much of its early efforts on European refugees, by the end of the 1950s it had done significant work with Chinese refugees in Hong Kong and Algerian refugees from the revolution in that North African nation, among other communities. And in 1967 the UN Protocol Relating to the Status of Refugees reaffirmed that this organization could continue to evolve as world history did, could address “new refugee situations that have arisen since the Convention was adopted and the refugees concerned that may therefore not fall within the scope of the Convention.” For 75 years now, this vital global entity has done just that.

Next story tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Saturday, December 13, 2025

December 13-14, 2025: Kyle at Michigan!

[This week marks the conclusion of another Fall semester, my 21st at Fitchburg State. Since we’re all going through it at the moment, I thought I’d share one significant challenge I faced in each class this semester, and a bit about how I tried to respond. Leading up to this special weekend post on my younger son’s first semester!]

As I highlighted with this August blog series in particular, my younger son (and phenomenal Guest Poster) Kyle started his first year at the University of Michigan this Fall. It was as full and kick-ass a semester as I knew it would be, and there are countless moments and experiences of which I’m very proud and which make me even more excited for all that’s next. But for a series on teaching reflections, I have to highlight two very distinct but complementary and equally impressive papers Kyle wrote for his tough but fascinating and rewarding first-year history seminar on the study of deep time:

Toward the start of the semester, Kyle’s professor asked them to write a personal observation and analysis of some aspects of the (beautiful) Michigan campus, tied to the class themes of continuity and change over deep time. He chose to observe the seasonal pattern of the changing Fall leaves, to connect it to the cycles of campus construction, and to consider the relationships and contrasts between these natural and man-mind experiences of the landscape, setting, and time. And he did so in a style that was equal parts funny and wise, warm and thought-provoking, very much Kyle’s but also something I hadn’t quite read from him before. My favorite paper I read all semester, with absolutely no offense to any of my FSU students!

The course’s second assignment was a somewhat more typical analytical paper: working with multiple class texts to develop a thesis about and multi-layered analysis of a central class question and theme. Kyle chose a complex and important question/theme about whether and how human progress is possible, and worked closely and convincingly with a series of dense and challenging texts (including one featuring the perspective of the legendary Werner Herzog) to develop a thoughtful and nuanced thesis about different theories of progress as, themselves, the best reflection of both the limits and the possibilities of such change. If Kyle continues in his pre-Law path he’s going to have lots of occasions to work with dense texts to consider big human questions, and this paper made me very excited for that continued arc—and every part of Kyle’s next steps at Michigan!

Next series starts Monday,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

PPS. I drafted this post before Kyle wrote his final paper for the course, a truly stunning synthesis of many different ideas about deep time, both from class readings and (especially) from his own evolving perspective. I could go on & on about that culminating essay and his incredibly thoughtful and multilayered work in it, but I'll simply conclude this post with his banger of a concluding sentence: "Through a collective understanding of deep time, humanity can challenge notions of temporal insignificance and inevitable environmental destruction, pioneering a newfound epoch defined by interrelational mutualism between man and nature, not one categorized by geological antagonism."

Friday, December 12, 2025

December 12, 2025: Semester Reflections: Our Graduate Programs

[This week marks the conclusion of another Fall semester, my 21st at Fitchburg State. Since we’re all going through it at the moment, I thought I’d share one significant challenge I faced in each class this semester, and a bit about how I tried to respond. Leading up to a special weekend post on my younger son’s first semester!]

I’ve covered the five courses I taught this semester in the first four posts in this series (since I had two sections of First-Year Writing), and so for the final post I wanted to focus on my role as the Chair of our Graduate English Studies programs at FSU (we offer both an MA in Literature and a Creative Writing Certificate). But in so doing, I am also shifting the tone of the series: because while we’ve certainly been facing for many years a serious challenge in terms of enrollments in our Graduate English MA, I’m very very proud to note that we have dramatically reversed that situation; a few years back we were in single digits in the number of students in the program, which had been temporarily frozen as a result, while as of this moment at the end of the Fall 2025 semester we have 25 enrolled students!

Mostly I’m just really excited about that trend and wanted to share it. But in case it might be useful for other folks facing similar situations, I also wanted to share two things that have, I believe, contributed to this significant upswing; the first is a practical thing we’ve done consistently and well, and the second a philosophical shift that I’ve made a permanent part of our program.

The practical thing has been to make and share (not only live, but also and I would argue especially as recordings) a ton of webinars, most of them featuring the voices of our Grad students themselves (mostly current ones, but with some alums sprinkled in as well). These webinars have represented our program and our community far better than I ever could by myself, and have I believe modeled for prospective students what the experience and community are like for our Grad students. Every time we’ve recorded a new one I’ve seen at least one or two new applications for the program over the subsequent weeks, sometimes from folks who were in the live audience for the webinar but most often from folks who saw them down the road (generally linked on our website). I can’t recommend this practice strongly enough.

The philosophical shift is a significant one, but it’s also one I very much stand by. For the first couple years of having the CW Certificate, its courses were pretty much entirely separate from the MA ones, and reserved for students in that Certificate program. But in order to recruit more students for the MA, I decided to allow MA students to take CW courses and have them count as Electives toward the degree. Since we only require 9 such Electives total (along with one required course), this shift means that a number of our students might well take significantly fewer Literature courses; but it also and especially means that they will be able to design their own version of the MA, one that might include Creative Writing if it is of interest, and in any case that can be more individualized (which was always a goal, but I believe this shift makes it much clearer still). I’ve put through a proposal to cement this practice as policy, and believe it will help us continue to recruit and grow our numbers, while also doing what we want to do in these wonderful Graduate English programs.

Special post this weekend,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Thursday, December 11, 2025

December 11, 2025: Semester Reflections: American Lit Online

[This week marks the conclusion of another Fall semester, my 21st at Fitchburg State. Since we’re all going through it at the moment, I thought I’d share one significant challenge I faced in each class this semester, and a bit about how I tried to respond. Leading up to a special weekend post on my younger son’s first semester!]

To circle back to the starting point of Monday’s post on First-Year Writing: I haven’t seen that much obvious or clear use of generative AI in those courses (no more than general instances of plagiarism over the years); but I most definitely have seen far more than I would like in my online-only literature courses over the last couple years (I’ve been teaching one online section every semester since about 2013). I think that’s no coincidence, for a couple of distinct reasons: these courses are entirely online, meaning they use technology and the web for every aspect, and so AI programs are just that much closer to the surface of our work; and I don’t get the chance to talk in person with these students, to show them how much I respect their voices and work and how much the use of AI takes them away from those things in all kinds of damaging ways (I try to make that case by email, but I’m well aware that it’s just not the same when it comes to tone).

I have to admit that, beyond trying to communicate those overall emphases early and often in emails to the students, my main strategy for dealing with this challenge has been and remained this semester a responsive one: when I see a first instance of clear AI use (almost always in an early weekly Blackboard post/response, and almost always because generative AI programs invent quotes and evidence when asked to work with texts; seriously, they do that, and not just for texts either), I reach out to the student to make the case as clearly as I can for why that’s a bad idea on every level, and to give them the chance to create a new version of the post featuring their own work and to receive the grade and credit it would have had it been the original one they posted (ie, to get a mulligan).

It's not a bad strategy, and it generally seems to help push students toward sharing their own voice and ideas, literally my only central pedagogical goal. But the question I return to is whether there would be ways to shift my syllabus and assignments in order to mitigate this challenge on the front end as well. I’m not sure there are such ways, as in a literature course we are always going to be reading texts and responding to those texts in one way or another, and in an online lit course those responses will take the form of short-form posts a good bit of the time. But I am considering using somewhat more creative and first-person post prompts in my Spring online lit course, to see if such prompts make clear from the jump that only the students themselves can do this work. I’ll keep y’all posted!

Last reflections tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Wednesday, December 10, 2025

December 10, 2025: Semester Reflections: American Lit II

[This week marks the conclusion of another Fall semester, my 21st at Fitchburg State. Since we’re all going through it at the moment, I thought I’d share one significant challenge I faced in each class this semester, and a bit about how I tried to respond. Leading up to a special weekend post on my younger son’s first semester!]

For many years now, I’ve featured in semester preview and reflection series the question of whether I should substitute shorter texts for longer ones in my literature courses. There have been a number of factors pushing me toward that question, as those hyperlinked prior posts reflect; but certainly one has been my desire to minimize (and ideally eliminate entirely) the number of texts that students have to find their own copies of (ie, purchase, although there are always potentially copies at libraries), rather than that are available online in full. Of course there are plenty of longer readings available in that latter way, but they have to be out of copyright, meaning that any text published after 1930 (as of right now) is not likely to be available online in full yet.  

For the first two-thirds of my American Lit II syllabus, that’s not an issue, as all of our readings (including the longer ones) are available online in full. But in the final Unit, in which we read texts from the late 20th and early 21st centuries, it is one—and the two longer readings in that Unit happen to be two of my favorite American novels, both overall and specifically to teach: Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony (1977) and Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake (2003). So when I was planning this semester’s section of American Lit II, I really debated whether to keep those two texts on the syllabus or to replace them with shorter readings by the same authors that are available online (such as Lahiri’s wonderful short story “The Third and Final Continent” [1999] in place of her novel, for example).

I ended up keeping the two novels on the syllabus, and made sure to have copies of both on reserve at the FSU library (e-reserve as well as hard copy for Silko, which was available in both ways; hard copy for Lahiri, which was not) so students had at least one guaranteed way to take a look at them without finding their own copies. But I also offered a compromise that I’m still not sure about but that did seem to help a bit—highlighting opening sections in each text that, if students were able to look at, would allow us to have meaningful conversations even if most folks were not able to read beyond those sections (which, indeed, most were not). Since I’m not requiring students to purchase any text, I don’t feel badly from that standpoint about not asking them to necessarily read the whole of a text; but since I especially love where those novels go in their latter sections, I most definitely did miss the chance to fully teach these books. This challenge remains a work in progress, and since I’ll have an American Lit II section next Fall it’s one I’ll be returning to to be sure.  

Next reflections tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think?

Tuesday, December 9, 2025

December 9, 2025: Semester Reflections: Honors Lit Seminar

[This week marks the conclusion of another Fall semester, my 21st at Fitchburg State. Since we’re all going through it at the moment, I thought I’d share one significant challenge I faced in each class this semester, and a bit about how I tried to respond. Leading up to a special weekend post on my younger son’s first semester!]

As always, my Honors Lit Seminar was an unadulterated joy to teach—a phenomenal group of students who were willing and able to dive into a large and challenging group of texts, including four longer readings and tons of shorter supplemental ones; individual work with our three papers as well as the Panel Presentations (four moments across the semester when a handful of students share their in-depth thoughts on a Unit and its texts as we’re concluding with them) that pushed my own thinking about our texts and topics; and collective class conversations that modeled the best of what a classroom can and should be. Can’t complain at all, and won’t try!

But I would say that this semester’s section of Honors presented one interesting challenge, something I have thought about every time I’ve taught this course but that felt a bit distinct and more fraught this time around. While our class focuses on America in the Gilded Age, just about every one of our texts and topics has complex and compelling legacies and parallels in our present moment. That’s obviously a positive in many ways, including making clear the stakes of doing this work and having these conversations. But in Fall 2025, those parallels were so apparent and so constant that I really struggled with the question of whether and how to make them a much more central part of our conversations than I usually do, or whether that would detract from our historical and analytical focal points.

I didn’t answer that question in the same way each time—that is, in some discussions I engaged the parallels more fully or centrally than in others—but I would say that across the semester I came up with a strategy that seemed to work well: allowing the majority of our discussion time and topics to focus on our texts and their historical and cultural contexts; but making sure to bring up the contemporary parallels in the final few minutes, both to allow me to note them and to see if folks had responses of their own to those connections. Since I give them the option of connecting to contemporary America in their final paper, as long as they bring in a text or two to help analyze our own moment alongside their analyses of the Gilded Age, I thought these brief and still analytical 21st century-focused discussions helped model that layer while making clear that it’s a secondary one to our main class focal points.  

Next reflections tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think?