Coming of Age in Samoa is arguably the most influential, not to say controversial, book of the twentieth century. It virtually launched the discipline of cultural anthropology, at least in the mind of the general public. In one bold stroke it established Margaret Mead, twenty-seven when it came out, as a major force in American intellectual circles, one who possessed an uncanny ability to deal with recondite academic topics in a way that connected immediately with the lay public.
Most important, it opened up a topic that is as fiercely debated today - perhaps even more - than when it came out during the heart of the Jazz Age or the era of the flapper. Mead found her perfect modern woman not in Scott and Zelda's New York or south of France, but in the most remote of all American territories, a place that seemed obscure even in the faraway isles of Oceania. The young women of the island of Tua, American Somoa, a place that when Mead visited had been little touched by western civilization, would right the wrongs of the mainland by proving, in Mead's hands, that adolescence could be a smooth passage between childhood and adulthood, lacking nearly all the Sturm und Drang of the American version, with little of the conflict, the guilt, the self-doubt, even the "philosophical queries" that beset young Americans and scarred them for life.
Those who approach Coming of Age as though it contains salacious passages that will make reading the rest of it worthwhile will be disappointed. Mead, in her twenties, wrote like a seasoned academic deeply thoughtful, widely experienced social commentator. Much of the book - at least two-thirds of it and especially the first half or more - reads like what it is: an ethnography of a people very different from the ones we are used to, from ourselves. Mead is stunningly detailed on Samoan (American Samoan, that is) social organization and child-rearing practices. Her basic point is that Samoan families are not stultifyingly "nuclear" in the sense that American families had become as early as the 1920's. A complex stew of parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, sometimes people not related by blood or marriage, inhabited Samoan households and gave children a rich variety of relationships from which to choose role models.
The other radical feature of Samoan family life was age progression. People were classified entirely by age. Young pre-pubertal children took care of toddlers and already had assigned duties around the household. There were complex rules of association, with young boys and girls, brothers and sisters, strictly sex-segregated. Children were not classified by how smart they were or what they could do best, but on how old they were. When they got a little older, they ran in their villages in what Mead called gangs. When they reached puberty, however, they began to have a different set of responsibilities - always responsibilities, but never without a certain easy rhythm to life, time for fun and relaxation. In fact, one of the things Mead most admired about the culture - and the book gives every indication that she fell in love with it, as far as possible became part of it, far from the detached ethnographic observer - was that Samoans did not differentiate work and play and social life. It was all one, so that one never had to get off work with a sense of relief, then go out and get drunk or do whatever one did to blow of steam. This progression through life continued through to old age and death, which adults never hid from children. There was nothing about life - death, sex, disease, marital unhappiness - that was considered harmful to young people, so that as they grew older Samoans had an easy acceptance of whatever life sent their way, joyous or painful.
All this might not have been terribly controversial, though it was an original take on what Mead called primitive, what we now call indigenous, culture. Somewhere in the book's second half, however, she turns from anthropological observer to polemicist. Her compelling interest is the lives of girls from early teens to early twenties. She says that the average Samoan girl, as long as she is not burdened with being a Taupo or village princsse, who is weighted town with all sorts of responsibilities that basically destroy her adolescence, had a time of sexual awakening marked by carefree exploration, much as boys were long said to have in western culture. There is a kind of unspoken, unofficial, technically disapproved of but universally observed ritual of girls sneaking off from their families at night to join young men, sometimes boyfriends, sometimes casual one-night stands, in what Mead calls the palm leaves. A good deal of lovemaking goes on at night, and parents and other relatives, who are strict about many things, wink at it, expressing pro-forma disapproval but acting as though it's not happening. Mead thinks that this, along with diffused family relationships and the seamless continuity of work and play, render adolescence a smooth, easy transition that makes the rather stereotyped routines of adult life bearable, even enjoyable. In any case, she recommends that western culture adopt the same attitudes, obviating sexual guilt, imparting youngsters a smooth passage to conflict-free adulthood, and she spends many pages explaining how we might go about making this happen.
That at least is Coming of Age in Samoa on one level. But Margaret Mead was too close an observer and too honest a recorder to believe her own propaganda without hedging it so much it almost disappears. It turns out that what she calls simple, primitive Samoan life is as complex as any other, including our own, and there are so many negative factors that her "sexual utopia" almost disappears. This is especially true since she wrote an addendum to the book in 1973, responding to critics like Derek Freeman, that seemed to question many of her 1923 conclusions.
Though at bottom it didn't. She still extols Samoan life as a milieu where "adolescence represented no period of crisis or stress, but was instead an orderly developing of a set of slowly maturing interests and activities. The girls' minds were perplexed by no conflicts, troubled by no philosophical queries, beset by no remote ambitions. To live as a girl with many lovers as long as possible and then to marry in one's own village, near one's own relatives and to then have many children, those were uniform and satisfying ambitions." And there's a message for today's culture as well: "sex activity is never urged upon the young people, nor marriage forced upon them at a tender age." Each girl discovers sex at her own pace.
As Mead puts the girl's own mantra when someone tells her to grow up and be responsible, "I am young and like to dance." In the Samoa Mead studied, this has a literal meaning. Everyone danced, and no one criticized anyone else for dancing gracefully or clumsily. The dance is what brought the surprisingly diverse "primitive" community together.
Much of the more polemical parts of Coming of Age read as if they could have been written yesterday. In fact, they probably were. From the publisher's blurb, "Mead advances the theory that many so-called masculine and feminine characteristics are not based on fundamental sex differences, but reflect the cultural conditioning of different societies." These are the kinds of statements that makes conservative social commentators boil over with rage, and we have not moved a millimeter beyond them since Mead's opening shots. At the same time, by reading and carefully rereading Coming of Age in Samoa, we may get toward a more comprehensive vision of how we can help our young people, which is to say all of us, develop into mature, relatively untroubled adults.
Mead was the first to draw the lines of what would later be termed the culture wars about sex, gender, freedom vs. restraint, you name it. And she still contains the best paths toward answering these eternal, intractable issues. As we approach the centenary of the book that opened it all up, we can still return to it as containing at least the outlines of answers, of ways forward. No one has ever done it better.