“Like, that was just one office,” he said. “Maybe another boss wouldn’t have been so great. But that boss was great. I mean, nobody’s pretending that’s an average office, right?”
Here Chip tried to raise the question of art’s responsibilities vis-à-vis the Typical; but this discussion, too, was DOA.
“So, bottom line,” he said, “we like this campaign. We think these ads are good for the culture and good for the country. Yes?”
There were shrugs and nods in the sun-heated room.
“Melissa,” Chip said. “We haven’t heard from you.”
Melissa raised her head from her desk, shifted her attention from Chad, and looked at Chip with narrowed eyes. “Yes,” she said.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, these ads are good for the culture and good for the country.”
Chip took a deep breath, because this hurt. “Great, OK,” he said. “Thank you for your opinion.”
“As if you care about my opinion,” Melissa said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“As if you care about any of our opinions unless they’re the same as yours.”
“This is not about opinions,” Chip said. “This is about learning to apply critical methods to textual artifacts. Which is what I’m here to teach you.”
“I don’t think it is, though,” Melissa said. “I think you’re here to teach us to hate the same things you hate. I mean, you hate these ads, right? I can hear it in every word you say. You totally hate them.”
The other students were listening raptly now. Melissa’s connection with Chad might have depressed Chad’s stock more than it had raised her own, but she was attacking Chip like an angry equal, not a student, and the class ate it up.
“I do hate these ads,” Chip admitted. “But that’s not—”
“Yes it is,” Melissa said.
“Why do you hate them?” Chad called out.
“Tell us why you hate them,” the little Hilton yipped.
Chip looked at the wall clock. There were six minutes left of the semester. He pushed a hand through his hair and cast his eyes around the room as if he might find an ally somewhere, but the students had him on the run now, and they knew it.
“The W——Corporation,” he said, “is currently defending three separate lawsuits for antitrust violations. Its revenues last year exceeded the gross domestic product of Italy. And now, to wring dollars out of the one demographic that it doesn’t yet dominate, it’s running a campaign that exploits a woman’s fear of breast cancer and her sympathy with its victims. Yes, Melissa?”
“It’s not cynical.”
“What is it, if not cynical?”
“It’s celebrating women in the workplace,” Melissa said. “It’s raising money for cancer research. It’s encouraging us to do our self-examinations and get the help we need. It’s helping women feel like we own this technology, like it’s not just a guy thing.”
“OK, good,” Chip said. “But the question is not whether we care about breast cancer, it’s what breast cancer has to do with selling office equipment.”
Chad took up the cudgels for Melissa. “That’s the whole point of the ad, though. That if you have access to information, it can save your life.”
“So if Pizza Hut puts a little sign about testicular self-exams by the hot-pepper flakes, it can advertise itself as part of the glorious and courageous fight against cancer?”
“Why not?” Chad said.
“Does anybody see anything wrong with that?”
Not one student did. Melissa was slouching with her armscrossed and unhappy amusement on her face. Unfairly or not, Chip felt as if she’d destroyed in five minutes a semester’s worth of careful teaching.
“Well, consider,” he said, “that ‘You Go, Girl’ would not have been produced if W——had not had a product to sell. And consider that the goal of the people who work at W——is to exercise their stock options and retire at thirty-two, and that the goal of the people who own W——stock” (Chip’s brother and sister-in-law, Gary and
Here Chip tried to raise the question of art’s responsibilities vis-à-vis the Typical; but this discussion, too, was DOA.
“So, bottom line,” he said, “we like this campaign. We think these ads are good for the culture and good for the country. Yes?”
There were shrugs and nods in the sun-heated room.
“Melissa,” Chip said. “We haven’t heard from you.”
Melissa raised her head from her desk, shifted her attention from Chad, and looked at Chip with narrowed eyes. “Yes,” she said.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, these ads are good for the culture and good for the country.”
Chip took a deep breath, because this hurt. “Great, OK,” he said. “Thank you for your opinion.”
“As if you care about my opinion,” Melissa said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“As if you care about any of our opinions unless they’re the same as yours.”
“This is not about opinions,” Chip said. “This is about learning to apply critical methods to textual artifacts. Which is what I’m here to teach you.”
“I don’t think it is, though,” Melissa said. “I think you’re here to teach us to hate the same things you hate. I mean, you hate these ads, right? I can hear it in every word you say. You totally hate them.”
The other students were listening raptly now. Melissa’s connection with Chad might have depressed Chad’s stock more than it had raised her own, but she was attacking Chip like an angry equal, not a student, and the class ate it up.
“I do hate these ads,” Chip admitted. “But that’s not—”
“Yes it is,” Melissa said.
“Why do you hate them?” Chad called out.
“Tell us why you hate them,” the little Hilton yipped.
Chip looked at the wall clock. There were six minutes left of the semester. He pushed a hand through his hair and cast his eyes around the room as if he might find an ally somewhere, but the students had him on the run now, and they knew it.
“The W——Corporation,” he said, “is currently defending three separate lawsuits for antitrust violations. Its revenues last year exceeded the gross domestic product of Italy. And now, to wring dollars out of the one demographic that it doesn’t yet dominate, it’s running a campaign that exploits a woman’s fear of breast cancer and her sympathy with its victims. Yes, Melissa?”
“It’s not cynical.”
“What is it, if not cynical?”
“It’s celebrating women in the workplace,” Melissa said. “It’s raising money for cancer research. It’s encouraging us to do our self-examinations and get the help we need. It’s helping women feel like we own this technology, like it’s not just a guy thing.”
“OK, good,” Chip said. “But the question is not whether we care about breast cancer, it’s what breast cancer has to do with selling office equipment.”
Chad took up the cudgels for Melissa. “That’s the whole point of the ad, though. That if you have access to information, it can save your life.”
“So if Pizza Hut puts a little sign about testicular self-exams by the hot-pepper flakes, it can advertise itself as part of the glorious and courageous fight against cancer?”
“Why not?” Chad said.
“Does anybody see anything wrong with that?”
Not one student did. Melissa was slouching with her armscrossed and unhappy amusement on her face. Unfairly or not, Chip felt as if she’d destroyed in five minutes a semester’s worth of careful teaching.
“Well, consider,” he said, “that ‘You Go, Girl’ would not have been produced if W——had not had a product to sell. And consider that the goal of the people who work at W——is to exercise their stock options and retire at thirty-two, and that the goal of the people who own W——stock” (Chip’s brother and sister-in-law, Gary and
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