Bell Jar Z.0

Shot from the series ‘Master of None,’ 2015.

I’ve taught Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar many times in several courses: American literature, major authors, women’s literature, and the American 1950s. Most are brimming with English majors. During my class discussions in the late 1990s, a few students would identify with protagonist Esther Greenwood’s mental health struggles. By the time I was teaching the novel to older Millennials, a sizable group of students was finding Esther’s academic performance anxiety parallel to their own. Theirs was the first test-test-test generation: scores on an expanded array of standardized tests would affect public K-12 school funding. Esther sweated her grades to maintain her scholarship at an elite private college. My students fretted over feeling responsible if a teacher got terminated because of their school’s test scores. I sensed that Plath’s most famous character was becoming more mainstream.

Mentimeter graphic from my Spring 2024 GenEd class

This year I taught The Bell Jar to General Education students for the first time; most were freshmen and none were Humanities majors. A few had heard of Sylvia Plath, yet none seemed to have read her writing. The course was on the American 1950s and campus life, featuring literature by Plath, John Cheever, Gwendolyn Brooks, Flannery O’Connor, James Baldwin, and Sloan Wilson. We also watched  Fifties family sitcoms and Rebel Without a Cause. For parsing postwar campus life, we did a deep dive into student publications in our University Archives. The weeks on Plath were my first in which students didn’t bring up the writer’s life. They were more interested in Esther’s campus life–finding much of her story highly relevant to their own. For them The Bell Jar was primarily a coming-of-age story, as well as a story about 1950s gender roles for women. Very few students thought it centered on breakdown and recovery–a consensus view from their Millennial predecessors. Mental illness and mental healthcare are everyday things now, and Plath’s protagonist strikes them as more normative than outlier. People are marrying later, and more of my students come from two-career households.

Peyton Howey, Faux Fifties Ad inspired by ‘The Bell Jar.’ 2024.

In their final papers on how their lives would change if they attended college in the 1950s, several students wrote that they couldn’t help but see themselves in Esther Greenwood–whether or not their gender, race, or ethnicity matched hers. My hunch is that these factors have brought about Bell Jar Z.0:

Fear of Failure. Being over-tested surely highlighted the fear of failure my students see in Esther–and sometimes in themselves. When I was in high school in the 1970s, I didn’t have the pressures of getting top grades to qualify for a free state tuition deal. I did feel a responsibility to do well because of my parents’ investment in my college education. But a high GPA wouldn’t save them money. In The Bell Jar, Esther felt the pressures of a practically perfect opportunity: a private school scholarship + a top summer internship in New York. She also bore the burden of her mother’s palpable disappointment in her setbacks.

Isolation and Expectations. Like all my recent students, this year’s GenEd students were isolated during a formative period of their education, separated from their peers and support networks through remote pandemic learning. For GenZ this happened during middle and/or high school. Several students’ papers mentioned how Esther’s isolation as an aspiring young woman and a newcomer to city prompted them to consider how they would be isolated as 1950s college students–as the only members of their demographic in their classes or majors, as first-generation college students, as international students. They can relate to the suffocation of circumstances and social expectations. I was struck by one student’s response that The Bell Jar was fundamentally about loneliness.

Fig Trees, FOMO & Futures. Most of these students saw themselves in Esther’s fig tree analogy: picking the fruit from one branch meant foregoing the others. They could identify with the paralysis of indecision that could leave them with an empty tree and unfulfilled ambitions. While the term FOMO (fear of missing out) was coined a decade ago, it started spreading through social media in 2010–when GenZ was coming of age. Facing more migratory job markets and anticipating more career changes than their predecessors, this generation is moving beyond binary models of career paths as they embrace less binary models of gender roles. Instead of regretting roads not taken, they tend to envision more than one future for themselves.

Unmoored from the facts of (and fixations on) Plath’s life, more GenZ students are beginning to make her novel their own story. Sixty years after its publication, The Bell Jar may be finding the wider audience it has waited for all along. – MB

Student work used by permission.

1950s Yearbook Highlights: Tapping Digital Archives for Student Projects

 

1950s coed posing by a red convertibleDo you remember how it felt to begin another full semester of remote learning in January 2021? While my students were scattered and attending class through their laptops or phones, I was facing my first semester teaching on Zoom and Canvas. I wanted to find a way to do group projects for my undergraduate course on the American 1950s (Desperate Domesticity). And I wanted to find a way for my students to feel included in their campus culture.

Since we were all learning remotely in the pandemic, we connected to campus by exploring1950s college students in library digitized versions of 1950s yearbooks on the University Archives website. (UF’s yearbook was called The Seminole back then.) Time traveling through these yearbooks augmented students’ understanding of the time period they were studying. We considered the rise of suburbia and the nuclear family, gender roles and gender rebellion, consumerism and corporate culture, the civil rights movement and alternative domesticities. The time period seemed strangely relevant to our own as we were spending more time cooking, cleaning, and hunkering down at home. We were living our own modes of desperate domesticity.

stage actor applying makeupMy students curated 1950s UF yearbooks for their Highlights, which you can now find on the University Archives projects page. (Click here)

I invite you to explore their takes on their 1950s counterparts and postwar campus culture. If you click on the 1955 yearbook, you’ll find my DIY guide to teaching with yearbooks. We discussed the 1955 issue in class, thinking about what kinds of information and insights yearbooks can offer. For example:

Where might you fit into the UF campus culture this yearbook depicts?
Are there ways you think you would not fit in?
What aspects of student life do you find missing in this yearbook? Who is missing?
What are key ways your life would change if you attended UF in the 1950s?

We invite you to time travel with us through our 1950s Yearbook Highlights project.

My students and I are grateful to our University Archivist, Sarah Coates, for virtually visiting our Zoom squares and hosting our projects on the website. I also thank her predecessor Peggy McBride for showing 1950s yearbooks and other campus artifacts to my previous classes. – MB

1950s male college students outside a restaurant

Playboy and Postwar Masculinities

playWith Hugh Hefner’s passing, the sexual revolutions of the 1950s and 60s are trending again in the news. The fundamental revolution of Playboy wasn’t its nude female models, but its new model of masculinity. Following in the wake of Alfred Kinsey’s 1948 sensation, Sexuality in the Human Male, Hefner’s magazine was one of several that called out to American men who didn’t fit the standard models. In a decade of Cold Warriors, Beatniks, Suburban Dads, and Organization Men, what else could a man be? William Segal’s Gentry magazine highlighted the national crisis of masculinity in 1951 with its debut feature “What Does It Mean to Be a Man?” Pushing back against 3-M masculinity (medals, money, muscles), Gentry fashioned a Dandy identity for wealthy American men who wanted Cubism with their cravats and Goethe with their gabardine. The jet-setting Gentry man sported bold colors in his evening wear, collected art, enjoyed shopping, and thrived on cultured conversation. Like Esquire, which debuted in 1933, Gentry appealed to upscale male consumers of culture and style. Though home decor greatly interested such men, they were not ‘domestic’ when they were home–their place of leisure rather than labor. Hefner’s magazine was and was not an outlier in this wider context.

 

boyPlayboy and its revolutions in masculinity emerged in 1953, the same year The Mattachine Society’s One magazine offered imagegay men travel advice, literary reviews, social analysis, and advocacy. Hefner’s magazine assured middle-class, straight men “there was nothing queer” about artiness and “indoor pleasures,” as Barbara Ehrenreich puts it. Hefner created a new brand of American bachelors in his first editorial: “We enjoy mixing up cocktails and an hors d’oeuvre or two, putting a little mood music on the phonograph, and inviting in a female for a quiet discussion on Picasso, Nietzsche, jazz, sex.” This fabled Playboy preamble jabs at the more refined masculinity in Segal’s publication, working in tandem with the Mattachine Society’s magazine to bring male sexuality out into the open. All of these magazines offered alternatives to mainstream masculinity. Some of them required the company of women to enact, and some did not. They all rejected suburbia. Playboy, One, and Gentry offered DIY identity kits that reclaimed indoor spaces for manly pursuits. Hefner’s passing reminds us that American masculinity never was (and never well be) a one-size-fits all identity -MB

References:
Editorial attributed to Hugh Hefner. Playboy (January 1953).
Ehrenreich, Barbara. The Hearts of Men: American Dreams and the Flight from Commitment. 1983.
MB, “Gentry Modernism: Cultural Connoisseurship and Midcentury Masculinity, 1951-57,” forthcoming in Popular Modernism and Its Legacies, ed. Scott Ortolano.