
- sschneewind@ucsd.edu
- (858) 822-0814
-
9500 Gilman Dr
Department of History
Mail Code: 0104
La Jolla , California 92093
Professor
Sarah Schneewind holds degrees from Cornell University, Yale University, and Columbia University. Recently, she has adapted and explicated a sociological framework for studying working lives in any place-time, in the open-access book The Social Drama of Daily Work: A Manual for Historians (2024). Schneewind is now researching the work lives of ordinary people in the Ming period. She has studied the relations between state and society during the Ming era (1368-1644) in three books. Community Schools and the State in Ming China shows change over time in the local implementation of one policy, arguing that the center did not determine the policy’s course. A Tale of Two Melons traces the way the first Ming emperor, his advisors, and people at the local level interpreted one lucky omen. Shrines to Living Men in the Ming Political Cosmos argues that shrines to living officials (生祠) constituted, among many other things, a legitimate way for commoners to participate in politics under the autocratic, bureaucratic Ming monarchy. Schneewind has also edited a collection of essays on the image of the Ming founder through today, Long Live the Emperor! She teaches a lower-division survey course on Chinese, Japanese, and Korean history from 1200 BC to AD 1200 (for which and for more general readers she wrote the open-access textbook An Outline History of East Asia to 1200), and upper division and graduate courses on Chinese history and on pedagogy. Schneewind has been President of the Society for Ming Studies, and runs a website called "The Ming History English Translation Project." She has also developed a digital tool called The Late Imperial Primer Literacy Sieve (http://ctext.org/tools/literacy-sieve).
"Our Dead"
They said to me:
We keep our dead among us, buried in the fields.
We plough around their mounds;
noontimes, we lie in their shade, chatting.
The occasional spadeful keeps them with us.
In stubble days, goats climb their modest height.
Until in rain and forgetfulness,
a great-grandson's ox ploughs through,
and their bones return to ours.
And I replied:
I keep myself among my dead, their endtables and sofas.
I dust around their tchotchkes;
evenings, I lean against their cushions, chatting.
The occasional mending keeps them with me.
In troubled nights, ghosts strum my modest memories.
Until in a change of fashion's season
some great-granddaughter will plough through,
and donate all our love to charity.
Cumberland Poetry Review, vol. 17.1 (Fall 1997).
Second-place winner of Robert Penn Warren Poetry Competition
© Sarah Schneewind 1997
"Inspiration"
would leap,
I had thought,
faithfully onto my shoulder
and consecrate my ear
with wild imaginings in regulated verse.
Instead
it meanders down the driveway at a dignified distance
on careful paws
stopping now for a chew of blade,
now to doze in the shade of the barn
or it bleats indignantly,
butting against the fence
of my preoccupations
or shifts under my toes like the scant sand
or prods my feet sharply like the gravel
of this road
or, as it drives by,
waves politely from a beat-up pick-up
leaving me
in a shuffle of dust.
Cumberland Poetry Review 18.1 (Fall 1998)
© Sarah Schneewind 1998
"The Bride One Summer Evening"
Waiting for the grind of tires, barefoot,
not sure just where I ought to snip, or if,
his rose bushes long planted, long ignored,
I heard an unfamiliar cry and turned
to face the moon. It rose from ruddy clay,
uncanny, earthy, red, full, and so low
my shears could almost reach. Instead I found
the perfect angle for those clean smooth cuts,
goodbyes to last year's unseen crimson blooms.
I severed thorny brown from green to let
red growth replace the woman I had been.
The moon still loomed orange above the pines,
but faded, before he got home, to white.
He said that whippoorwill could whoop all night.
Cumberland Poetry Review 18.1 (Fall 1998)
© Sarah Schneewind 1998
"Minoan Gold"
Stalactites of honey; catacomb
of waxen hive where generous holy swarms
for centuries have worked in stony womb,
where fragrant humming air each morning warms
and melts for Cretan tongues the ancient stores
each one of us tastes of and never harms
as it seeps from mid-cliff through rocky pores.
So narrow-waisted bees, since Midas' day,
have sweetened this down-trodden people's chores.
A sailor, once, scoffed at our Cretan way,
scaled the hill, and rapelled down to take
a vessel full to sell.
Can insects pray?
The twisted cord became a hissing snake --
or so he shouted, fumbling with his sheath --
and swinging in air he slashed and fell, to break
in screams upon the flowering rock beneath.
Doge, Sultan, Führer: despoilers come
and leave. We live on what the gods bequeath.
Cumberland Poetry Review 18.1 (Fall 1998)
© Sarah Schneewind 1998