The same scene can be found in nearly every American undergraduate sociology classroom: a professor pacing in front of a whiteboard, attempting to explain Erving Goffman’s dramaturgical theory to twenty-two students who are obviously considering lunch. It’s a well-known struggle. Abstract theory has a tendency to bounce off young minds without making much of an impact because it is disconnected from anything concrete. This is likely the reason why some of the brightest minds in American sociology have begun to carry something unusual in their wallets: tiny, laminated theory cards that distill complex sociological concepts into something you can hold, pass around, or even play with.
This impulse’s origin is not wholly enigmatic. In 2012, Jamie K. McCallum, a professor in the sociology and anthropology department at Middlebury College in Vermont, witnessed an unforgettable event involving his students. A group of students, including Kristina Hillarydotter, Alice Oshima, and Alexandra Weinstein, who were enrolled in Dr. Laurie Essig’s sociological theory course, modified “Cards Against Humanity” into “Cards Against Sociology.” A non-narrative response to theory was required for the assignment. They created something more bizarre and practical than anyone could have predicted.
The reason the game was successful was that it made students take a theorist’s idea lightly, even disrespectfully, while still understanding it sufficiently to apply it when needed. Over the years, McCallum and his research assistant Molly Stuart continued to improve the card packs, carefully observing that the jokes work best when they target “the more powerful, hegemonic, privileged groups”—which is, one could argue, the entire spirit of sociology made portable. It’s difficult to ignore how much that resembles effective instruction: it’s both loose enough to surprise and structured enough to inform.
Other classroom experiments, perhaps less chaotic but no less physical, have been motivated by similar instincts. In theory classes across the nation, matching well-known sociologists to tangible items has become a subtle trend. Imagine giving a student a label-maker and asking them to describe how it reflects Howard Becker’s research on deviance. Or witnessing someone struggle to explain Baudrillard’s hyperreality while holding a virtual reality headset.
Although it doesn’t teach the theory directly, the object serves as an anchor. It provides the brain with something to hold onto. In order to criticize domestic labor disparities, Ann Oakley receives a kitchen gadget. In a subtle homage to his “iron cage” of bureaucratic rationality, Max Weber receives a filing system. Even though the strategy initially seems a little frivolous and seasonal, there is something genuinely clever about it.
Accessibility and sociology have always had a tense relationship. It has a reputation for being grim, self-referential, and dense, which is sometimes justified. McCallum agreed, pointing out that the field is frequently referred to as the “Debbie Downer” of the social sciences. The laminated wallet cards, the gift associations, and the card game are all tiny protests against that image. Additionally, they are discreetly serious educators wearing casual attire.
The fact that this isn’t about simplifying anything is noteworthy. The fact that someone imagined Durkheim getting a data journal for Christmas does not make his social facts any less rigorous. Karl Marx’s criticism of capitalism remains unabated when it is affixed to a fair-trade coffee mug. If anything, the idea is sharpened by the concrete association, which makes it stickier and easier to recall. Pupils who remember a theorist through a tangible image are more likely to retain the idea for longer and bring it up again during tests or, more crucially, in everyday conversations.
In these classrooms, there’s a subtle optimism that theory doesn’t have to be a barrier. It might be a card you carry with you.
