Unmaskings

One of the interesting things about the most successful super-hero films to date is the relative extent to which they discard the convention of the secret identity while trying still to play with the fetishistic character of masks and costumes.

Tim Burton’s Batman started it off, with the reveal of Batman’s identity to the Joker as well as Vicki Vale. Since then, this has become a predictable part of most superhero films: both the antagonist and the love interest are let in on the secret, and relatively little effort is made by the hero to protect his identity. In the Spider-Man films, it’s even been clearly implied that Aunt May knows Peter Parker is Spider-Man, let alone the reveal to Mary Jane. No robot doubles, or butlers dressing as the secret identity, or any of the other staple narrative tricks for protecting secret identities that have filled comics for decades. Mostly this works well in the films, I think. It’s ok to have the reveal of the identity to the villains, because another thing that’s become common in super-hero films is killing off the bad guy at the end. That’s a difference between having to tell twelve or twenty-four or fifty stories about a character each and every year without making major changes to his status quo and just telling a single story about him.

There are some exceptions: the wonderful Bruce Timm cartoons based on various DC characters have continued to work a bit with secret identity storylines, but they’re consciously retro in their fidelity to an older comic-book geist anyway.

I’m kind of disenchanted with mainstream DC and Marvel comics these days, for reasons I’ve written about before. If I have to choose between two kinds of juvenalia, I’ll take the trippy, sappy, Boy-Scoutish character of a lot of Silver Age DC comics, or the adolescent angst and soap-operatics of Marvel comics in the 1970s and 1980s–as opposed to the kind of superficial “darkness” and “maturity” that largely appeals to the kind of 18-year old who thinks that stories where a supervillain attacks a member of the Authority by beaming back in time and molesting her as a young girl or where Giant-Man has a violent sexual relationship with the Wasp are really sophisticated, deep and daring.

But one interesting trend over the last decade has paralleled the cinematic de-emphasis on the secret identity. Superman stopped playing games with deceiving Lois Lane and married her. For substantial chunks of time, characters like the Flash and Iron Man have operated with identities known to their entire fictional world, though in both cases there were eventually fairly silly attempts to magically reset the storyline so as to restore the secret identity. A lot of the old staple stories about secret identities have been set aside. In a few cases, there have even been really compelling narratives about the dangerous consequences of a revealed identity: the comic book Daredevil has more or less been centrally focused on that issue for many years now. I would say the only character where the secret identity remains a major narrative theme is Batman, and even here, the circle of characters around him who know who he is (including some antagonists) is now quite large. More in this case, psychological duality (or questions about his lack of duality) is a staple of Batman narratives.

There’s one other character where “secret identity” has always been a defining part of his comic-book adventures: Spider-Man. Now that’s over, too, and in dramatic fashion. In the current Marvel “event” comic Civil War #2, Spider-Man reveals his identity to the entire world.

I’m feeling mixed about Civil War, not so much because of the editorial dictates that have shaped it (e.g., the major events that are being hyped, the reveals and the deaths and so on). The underlying story is a much more coherent one than DC’s recent “blockbuster” series Infinite Crisis: the US government decides that all superheroes need to register with the government in order to legally operate. Yes, it’s very consciously intended to invoke stories ripped right out of today’s headlines. Sometimes with all the subtlety that Stan Lee used to evince when he did stories about Commie supervillains or what have you. Sometimes it’s a bit richer and more nuanced in its potential. Partly though it’s because the characters aren’t terribly consistent with about thirty years of development. I’ve always liked Mr. Fantastic, for example, but he seems unrecognizable to me in this series: a servile wuss. (I’m wondering where my other long-time favorite, Dr. Strange, has gone to, after declaring his opposition to super-hero registration in the first book of the storyline.)

It’s Spider-Man that I really wonder about, though. Almost everyone regards it as inevitable that they’ll undo this story in some fashion given what a deep part of the character’s mythology his secret identity has been. But you know, Spider-Man hasn’t been a neurotic, guilt-ridden young adult for a while now. He’s married to a supermodel, is basically successful, and even Aunt May knows about his career as Spider-Man. I tend to think what a lot of other folks are suspecting: they’re going to kill off Mary Jane and Aunt May as a way to reboot Spider-Man’s guilt and anxiety.

In a larger sense, I wonder if comic-book superheroes really work without secret identities. The costumes become even odder than they already are, unless they’re basically utilitarian the way the Fantastic Four’s costumes always have been. It isn’t just the “protecting loved ones” that makes the genre work, it’s also the tensions that arise from characters pursuing individual action in a world where institutions provide neither safety nor justice.

Posted in Popular Culture | 14 Comments

Middlebrow Video Game Criticism

Unfogged links to a Chuck Klosterman essay in which he asks why there isn’t more mainstream video game criticism in various newspapers and magazines.

I’ve thought about this issue myself. There’s a huge difference between what a magazine like Entertainment Weekly does with movies and games. Even in the very short two-paragraph movie reviews, the critics often try to say something about the aesthetic worth and design of the film, about its social or cultural meaning, about the effects it has (or fails to have) on its audience. In a game “review”, it pretty much amounts to a repetition of the press kit or prerelease hype and a few remarks on technical problems or issues, in a straightfoward consumerist mode (e.g., buy or no buy). More like a report on refrigerators than a cultural commentary.

There are a lot of possible reasons for this absence, some of which came up in the Terra Nova thread I link to above. Games make more revenue than films, but with a much more concentrated and restricted audience. The general public may not follow older cultural forms that have small audiences, like opera, but they understand what opera is. And opera has built-in cultural cachet: video games do not. It’s still perfectly ok for most educated middle-class people over 30 to regard video games with undifferentiated contempt, based on little to no personal experience with the medium.

However, it’s also just difficult to describe a game in the context of a mainstream review. I like the suggestion from Steven Johnson in the Klosterman piece that the closest useful analogy isn’t a film review but an architecture review. An architecture critic has to write in such a way that you can imagine a space, and the effects of being in that space. A mainstream game criticism would have to write about video games so that you could understand the experience of playing a given game. I tend to think this is the more profound problem with inventing mainstream video game criticism: not the cultural image of games, but the technical issues involved in inventing a rhetoric and voice for that criticism.

When you strip away the experience of play, not just how sound and image come together, but the interactivity that defines the medium, a lot of the greatest video games (great both in the sense of being pleasurable to play and in their aesthetic achievement) can sound, well, stupid. Plot and narrative matter in games, meaning matters in games (at least I think so: this gets into the terrain of the simmering “narratology vs. ludology” debate in academic game studies) but games are less reducible to plot, to narrative, or even to meaning than films or novels.

Let me give four examples of video games that really deserved a mainstream criticism, that even people who don’t play games should know about in the way that we know about important films, novels, music and so on that we don’t directly consume–and then try to identify what such a criticism would need to zero in on or communicate to a mainstream readership.

1) Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Yes, this certainly got lots of mainstream attention, but it’s a good example of how reducing a game to its content can leave a lot of people misunderstanding what it is as a game. As a story, it’s a relatively formulaic gangster tale. Visually, it’s laden with stereotypes. There is plenty to find offensive in the game. What makes it interesting to many players is not the setting or narrative but the sheer openness of the play experience. There are games which are amusement park rides, where you experience the game as if you’re riding on rails. Grand Theft Auto is the opposite: it’s an environmental game with very few constraints on your movement through the spaces that the game models. The narrative sets some boundaries on the kinds of action you can take within those spaces: you can’t convert other characters to Buddhism, you can’t become an up-market real-estate developer in northern San Andreas, you can’t write a book about your experiences in prison and become an inspirational speaker for high school students. But neither are you required to beat up prostitutes. A lot of people who “play” Grand Theft Auto just drive around its open spaces, explore its world, change channels on the car radio within the game. Grand Theft Auto’s closest sibling as a game isn’t any number of other ultra-violent gangster games with more constrained architectures of play; it’s a game called Shenmue.

2) Planescape: Torment. You could describe this game as a conventional role-playing game in which you control a fantasy character who gains in power as the game progresses through its storyline, with this power described as a series of statistics and discrete abilities that the player has some ability to choose between during the game. Or you could describe the storyline: your main character is an amnesiac immortal who awakes in a morgue in a strange interdimensional city and seeks clues to his past. The storyline isn’t quite hackneyed but neither does it sound wildly original. The gameplay conventions of a role-playing game are largely appealing to devotees. To anyone who has never played such a game, they seem peculiar and unwieldy. But Planescape is an amazing game that I would readily recommend to anyone. Partly it is that its whole is so much more than the sum of its parts. The voice acting, the music, the look of the setting, and the elements of the plot as they unfold are all powerful, but the real achievement of the game is to take a necessary feature of a game and turn it into an aesthetic asset. You have to be able to restart a game, otherwise you’d have to play a 40 or 60 or 100 hour game in a single setting and never make a mistake. When you can save and reload a game, you tend not to experience it in an unbroken and continuous manner. Any time you think something bad is going to happen, or has happened, you just go back to the last save point and do it again. When a game has a ridiculously difficult portion, that becomes a punitive, masochistic ritual of play: you will have to repeat the same sequence again and again and again.

Planescape takes that mechanistic fact and makes it an aesthetic virtue. You play an immortal: he’s supposed to die. In fact, if you always save and reload every time the character might die, you can’t finish the game. He has to die for the plot to progress. Moreover, the game takes the open possibilities of interactivity and writes them into the core narrative structures of the game. Role-playing games often give you choices when you interact with characters within the game: will you be gruff? hostile? Smooth-talking? Altruistic? Players will play each encounter several times to see all the branching possibilities that precede from a dialogue. The cost is that the protagonist is a kind of plastic, generic figure who changes personality depending on what the player perceives to be advantageous. In Planescape, you’re an amnesiac who has lived many lives. If you’re kind to the people you meet, you sometimes find that at some past moment in your long career, you’ve been cruel or thoughtless or dangerous to the very same person, or left a very different reputation behind you, and the same in reverse. You can redeem past sins, or decide to be heartless in your pursuit of the truth. It’s not just that the game gives you the option, and make the option meaningful, it is that this openness of choice is consistent with the character and narrative underlying the game. Play reinforces meaning here: something that is not true of the vast majority of games, where the experience of play often awkwardly intrudes into the representational space of the game.

3) Shadow of the Colossus. Here I could talk some about the narrative structure of the game, which puts your protagonist in a morally ambiguous position. He has to travel across a faded landscape hunting truly huge giants who in many cases seem largely innocent or innocuous and kill them in order to satisfy an essentially selfish goal. But I think more this is a game to talk about for its visual feeling, for the way it makes you feel: the hugeness of the colossi, the richness of their visualization, the sparseness of the world around them. Maybe an SAT-style analogy will help: Shadow is to conventional “kill the monster” fantasy games as spaghetti westerns or the western “Unforgiven” are to the Lone Ranger television show. The experience of a hero questing for his dragons is moved into a morally evacuated space and the protagonist is reduced to literally a miniscule parasite flitting about a blasted and haunted land, and yet the overall feeling of play is for some reason beautiful, full of a kind of aching melancholy.

4) Katamari Damacy. It’s the game you’d give to someone who had never played a game. It’s also one of the hardest games I can think of to describe, particularly in a way that captures its charm and makes clear why it’s one of the greatest examples of the medium to date. If I were going to make a list of the ten most original, compelling game designs, I’d put Katamari on it, even if we were including non-video examples of games like chess or backgammon. And yet Katamari is possible only within a video space. The basic mechanic is that one is trying to roll up balls composed of very different shapes in the most symmetrical and rapid manner possible. But the whole package involves a quirky narrative background, memorable music, and a surreal visualization of the balls and objects (you progress from rolling up teeny-tiny objects on a desk to rolling up entire cities). In a way, Katamari shows how “open” the medium still is. In comparative terms, video games are still back in a creative era roughly similar to film at the time that directors were only first discovering that you could move the camera around, or radically change its perspective. This is also a dreary comparison in some ways, because for all the open potential of the medium, there are very few Katamaris out there: most game design is heavily path-dependent, recycling a very narrow range of arcane or baroque mechanics and structures that largely make sense only to those who have played many, many games.

—–

In any event, I do think there are a goodly number of games that come out each year that deserve some kind of mainstream criticism which could be read and appreciated even by people who do not play games and do not intend to play them.

Posted in Games and Gaming, Popular Culture | 9 Comments

Rentiers of Sovereignty

I’ve had to deal with a situation this week that involves some complicated transactions over the title to a used car, on behalf of someone else. The mechanisms of title transfer are a hassle, but I’m also largely glad that we have them. This seems to me a function of a modern state that even a libertarian has to love: mechanisms ensuring that people who claim and transfer expensive property are entitled to those claims and rights, that the property they hold is in fact theirs.

If you read this morning’s New York Times you may have seen a story about Angola. Its details are familiar in their broad outline to many, conforming to the conventional wisdom that Africa defines the worst of the human condition in the 21st Century. I wouldn’t challenge that conventional wisdom in this case, or many others. Angola’s tiny governmental elite is raking in huge sums from smaller multinationals involved in pumping out offshore petroleum, and virtually none of that money is going to any public function of any kind. Even a small percentage of those revenues would suffice to revolutionize the water, garbage and waste disposal infrastructure of Luanda.

In all likelihood, none of it will ever be spent for that purpose in any meaningful way. International institutions will spend money studying the problem and making recommendations. Powerless or mendacious Angolan civil servants will pretend to implement those recommendations, handicapped by puny budgets or taking a hand in siphoning what little money actually flows to taking action. The people of Luanda will do what they can to survive, and many will not. There isn’t really much they can do in political terms: I don’t even see what kind of revolution might be possible in this case. The companies with investments will profit from the situation, and the companies which might invest more constructively in a different kind of nation and economy will prudently stay away.

Angola is the kind of situation that made me think very differently about sovereignty, and about the kinds of politics, both conservative and leftist, that mark the achievement of sovereignty as the initial and necessary condition of achieving prosperity and freedom. Sovereignty is the material resource that the Angolan elite controls and sells, not oil. They are rentiers who extract wealth from selling permission for extraction. But they’re no different than a car thief who hotwires a car parked outside a suburban home, drives it fifty miles, and then sells the car on eBay. The difference is not in what they do, but in the legal and governmental mechanisms that permit what they do. The car thief is going to run into trouble establishing a title that can be transferred legitimately. The Angolan elite has no such difficulty.

All the international institutions which exist recognize them as possessing title to sovereignty. They’re the ones who send representatives to the United Nations. They’re the ones who fill embassies around the world. They’re the ones that the World Bank or NGOs speak to and reach agreements with. That’s not a conservative or liberal thing, not a failure of the United Nations or of the Bush Administration. It’s an indictment of the entire interstate system built up over the course of the 20th Century, in all its parts and particulars. That system gives titles and ownership to thieves, and allows thieves to sell their goods to supposedly legitimate businesses.

I’m profoundly skeptical about the kind of quasi-governmental aspirations embedded in a lot of international development efforts, about the desire to govern local communities in quite profound ways in accordance with visions and plans sketched out a thousand miles away from the places where they will be implemented. But why not ask that the interstate system of the 21st Century, including non-governmental organizations, serve a few of the most minimal functions of government with regard to property and commerce? I can’t buy a hot car and expect the government to sanction my ownership. If I pass cash under the table to get the car, the car stays hot, and I can expect it to be taken from me at any time to be returned to its rightful owner. All the petroleum that comes out of Angola today is equally stolen. The people who peddle Angola’s sovereignty have no right to sell it, and those who buy it know that perfectly well. We need some kind of global system that refuses that transfer of title.

I still feel, for all the water that has flowed under this particular bridge, that this is one case where dissatisfactions with sovereignty on both the right and the left ought to be able to meet productively. The problem of Angola and the problem of Iraq before the war have some real resemblances, and in both cases, passive defenses of sovereignty are unacceptable answers. The war in Iraq wasn’t the right alternative; neither would be an extensive ambition to govern Angola through international institutions in productive ways that its own elite will not. The gut-wrenching truth of the human condition in the 21st Century is that some suffering cannot be easily abated or forcibly relieved. But we should imagine what we can do, not merely accept what we cannot. I think that the beginning of a new era of action involves a steady contempt for sovereignty and the claims made in its name, and the construction of a new international system that reflects that contempt. Let’s call Angola’s elite what they are: thieves. Let’s call the companies pumping oil out of Angola what they are: the purchasers of stolen property. Let’s make it as difficult as we can for thieves to fence stolen sovereignties, and for purchasers to buy the same.

Posted in Africa, Politics | 13 Comments

Live the Future You Want

I’m not especially fair-minded by nature. I have to struggle against temper, a quick tongue, an instinct to mock. Some of the long-windedness here is my way of guarding against those inclinations, getting myself to inhabit the obligations I’ve set for my public self, my scholarly self.

More than anything else, this is what disappoints me about some of the turn in criticism of academic institutions of late, particularly from people whom I previously read sympathetically. It’s one thing to criticize. It is another thing to describe and then live the alternatives. In much recent criticism, I don’t see an alternative to herd mentality, to close-mindedness, to groupthink, to callow invocations of political positions, to slanted or one-sided selections of material and evidence, to an aversion to exploration and complexity.

I see the mirror image of what the critics abhor. I don’t see folks trying to reach for something better, something different, trying to imagine and practice how we will debate and teach and write in some better kind of academic culture. That’s really what I’m trying to do in this blog, more than anything else: to try, even when it is against my nature, to constrain myself to what that better practice might be.

Posted in Academia, Uncategorized | 8 Comments

Twenty Years

Off to celebrate my 20th wedding anniversary. You can overlook in the day-in, day-out hustle of life what a mighty and lasting thing you’re building with someone and then wake up one day breathlessly startled at the cumulation of your good fortunes. Or just relieved that there’s someone out there who knows you better than you know yourself and still puts up with you even so.

Posted in Domestic Life | 9 Comments

“Many” Is a Numbered Word and Other Miscellaneous Replies

Part II of further thoughts on teaching, politicization and the like, this time in reply to the defenders of ACTA’s report.

1) Erin O’Connor, writing at ACTA’s blog, offers a useful reconceptualization of the ACTA report’s claims. O’Connor writes that the report shouldn’t be held accountable for lacking quantitative evidence, that anecdotal or interpretative evidence is sufficient to raise concern about politicized teaching. She points to an observation by David French that even a few politicized classes in a four-year program of study should be sufficient to provoke our concerns; O’Connor suggests further that we adopt a standard that says even a single course of this sort ought to be unacceptable.

This is potentially useful, except that O’Connor largely breezes past the fact that the language of the ACTA report is suffused with quantitative claims. It’s in the title: how many Ward Churchills, to which the report answers, “Many”. Anne Neal, in her defense of the report, says that such courses are typical, a word that pops up in the report quite a lot. If the report had made the argument that O’Connor makes here, a much more studiously qualitative one, then that would be one thing. But it doesn’t. If ACTA wants to abandon the language of typicality, of “many”, then fine. But even in O’Connor’s defense, she’s not willing to give that up, insisting that ACTA was drawing from a much larger body of similar courses (if so, what’s the reluctance to give a count of them, if the work of collecting that larger body was done in the course of researching the report?) and was speaking to a linguistic pattern in course descriptions (an implicitly quantitative claim: what makes something a pattern?).

2) Let’s suppose ACTA does drop the quantitative claims and the language that comes with them. There is still a problem with the standard that French and O’Connor adopt, that even a few, or a single, case of politicization is unacceptable. I could agree with that, but not given the murky or absent sense of proportionality about the harm involved that O’Connor and French (and ACTA) are offering.

We could agree that a single bad meal in a restaurant is a bad thing, and should never happen. But in a long life of eating out, I’m likely to have a bad meal. If the bad meal involved gives me salmonella because of negligent food handling, I’m entitled to feel that a regulatory response is warranted, as well as civil claims. If it’s just incompetently prepared, then I can certainly grumble about money wasted, vent to the Zagats, tell all my friends, wonder why the chef at that restaurant has so little professionalism, and so on.

On the other hand, a single botched surgery by a doctor is something that should never happen, and which I have every right to expect that a hospital will do anything and everything to prevent. The harm is proportionally enormous.

What is the proportional harm of a poorly taught course? There isn’t a blanket answer to that, which is the problem with what French, O’Connor and ACTA are saying. An elective which has a relatively mild political bias, enough to grate modestly on a student who doesn’t share that perspective, is something different than a requirement for a major that is taught by a ragingly ideological gatekeeper who demands compliance with their own point-of-view as a requirement for a good grade in the course.

The first is regrettable, but not that big a deal. I’ve mentioned some anecdotal cases in my earlier entry, but here’s another: as an undergraduate, I took a course in epic poetry with a very intensely committed devotee of close reading, who passionately hated even the vaguest hint of historicism in literary analysis. After a while, this got kind of annoying, and I certainly could imagine a course on the same topic that was taught with more methodological pluralism from which I would have learned much more. So there’s an opportunity cost to me that this professor taught that class, but it’s a negligible cost.

The second is an urgent problem that demands an immediate remedy. No question about it. It’s bad enough when someone grades to enforce a narrow (political or disciplinary) methodology; worse by far when they’re sitting atop a gate through which a large number of students must pass in order to proceed with their studies.

One bad course in 40 at the price of current higher education is a pretty serious failure, certainly. (Note here my earlier insistence that we should be talking about poor pedagogy in general, rather than politicized pedagogy in specific.) However, another reason to talk about proportionality of harm is to talk about what the costs of ensuring against failure might be. You can design quality assessment for producing a commodity that reduces the failure rate from manufacture and shipping to almost nothing. This is not cost-free, and every reduction of the failure rate from very small numbers to even smaller ones is exponentially more expensive in manpower and organizational effort. It’s relatively cheap to design quality assessment that reduces the failure rate in manufacture from 50% of all produced units to 5% of all produced units. It’s much more expensive to go from 5% to 1%. It’s absurdly expensive to go from 1% to .25%. The nature of the failures one is guarding against have to come into play as well. A television set that explodes and shatters particles of glass into the faces of the watchers is a different matter than a television set that has a single-pixel imperfection in the upper right corner. One failure is intolerable, the other tolerable. It’s worth anything to prevent the first, but not that much to prevent the second. How expensive, in these terms, is it to utterly prevent even the mildest case of political bias from manifesting in a classroom?

The ACTA report flounders on this point because of its refusal to define its terms with any degree of precision or neutrality. “Politicization” is, as O’Connor suggests, about “linguistic patterns”, ergo the report is justified by counting up buzzwords as an indicator of politicization. That’s not good enough. Because proportionality claims can only be made with a more precise sense of what constitutes an actionable harm and why it counts as an actionable harm, by some kind of “reasonable person” test. A flip political remark made in one class session is quickly forgotten by anyone who isn’t an axe-grinding obsessive. A repeated pattern of sneering at intellectual pluralism is a different matter, and acting on that pattern in grading and assessment is yet another issue beyond that.

The failure to define terms with precision, set proportionality tests, talk about what a reasonable person might legitimately view as serious harm that derives from “politicization”, is what allows the report to claim that almost any class that so much as mentions race, class, gender, sexuality, identity and so on in its description is politicized and therefore harmful and worth our concern.

To go back to my restaurant metaphor, that isn’t even comparable to worrying about a badly cooked meal, let alone about a kitchen that causes salmonella. It’s more akin to complaining that because some new American cuisine amounts to teeny portions at high prices justified with pretentious descriptions on menus, all pretentiously described dishes in new American restaurants are a concern that should mobilize diners and lead cooks to a period of sober self-reflection.

3) Anne Neal really seems to misunderstand an important point in my original criticism, and this misunderstanding has been taken up in the comment thread that follows. I’m not going to make as much hash out of remarks made in comments threads as O’Connor and Neal seem to do, though I would say that if I were in that group of ACTA’s defenders, I wouldn’t exactly take comfort in some of the folks piping up in support of the report in those threads. In any event, Neal says that ACTA’s report isn’t an academic study, and so shouldn’t be held to academic standards. Ergo, my complaint that the report refuses to engage in real argument is unfair and misguided.

My observation on this issue was two-fold. First, that whomever wrote the report simply doesn’t understand some of the course descriptions they’re reading. O’Connor refers to “linguistic patterns”; I’d suggest that the real principle being used in some cases is less about linguistic patterns and more about Humpty-Dumpty, about making words mean whatever the report’s author wants them to mean. Hence my comments on Duke University’s course History 75, which is a relatively basic, professional course on world history, but gets read as “political” substantially because it uses the word “Eurocentrism” in summarizing a monograph by JM Blaut which is used in the course. So here I’m not demanding that the report be a work of scholarship, but I’m suggesting that it would be a good idea to be reasonably proficient with the conceptual and intellectual terrain the report means to comment upon.

If Neal thinks that’s somehow an unfair demand for scholarly rectitude, then I have to question why on earth ACTA thinks issuing “reports” is worth their time or ours. This is especially important if we’re to accept O’Connor’s defense that the report just means to sympathetically call upon professors to more rigorously self-regulate, to live up to their professionalism. I wouldn’t get a lot of respect from doctors if I set out to ask them to regulate surgical error more effectively but in doing so, demonstrated I was fundamentally confused about the difference between a death caused by preventable error and a death caused by unavoidable complications. Or if I set out to ask lawyers to self-regulate in cases of probate misconduct but then starting talking about civil rights litigation in my complaints about the legal profession.

Second, I was suggesting that in some cases, explaining why a course is ridiculous or politicized actually takes rolling up sleeves and making an argument. Not a scholarly argument with all the bells and whistles and footnotes and bibliographies. Just a reasoned argument of the kind that anyone operating in the public sphere should be prepared to offer. Let me take the example of human-animal relations, a concept which seems to inspire instinctive eye-rolling from the author of the ACTA report. There’s nothing silly about a course built around that basic concept. It’s one of the oldest concerns of the human species: what’s human? what’s animal? What are animals for? What are we to do with, for and to animals? You could teach that class as philosophy, as history, as anthropology, as literature, as science, or as a mixture of any and all of these. It hasn’t been so long since European peasants put domestic animals on trial for crimes. Just this past month, much of the world watched with grave and heartfelt concern at medical efforts to save a racing horse’s life after the horse broke a leg. The earliest human art put animals alongside humans; among our most technologically sophisticated entertainments today are computer-animated films of talking anthropomorphic animals. And so on.

Now it’s true that at least one of the courses on this topic which gets flagged in the ACTA report, a Penn State course called “Sentient Beings” is more than just a course about human-animal relations. It clearly has a point-of-view, and one that I personally find not terribly exploratory. The point is, I could describe for you what a version of this class might look like were it more exploratory, more open to multiple points-of-view, and if I were writing a report like ACTA’s, I would want to do that, through some kind of reasoned response to the ideas of Peter Singer or Charles Patterson. I’d want to precisely respond to the language and claims of the course description. Not just do a bit of eye-rolling at the language of the course and the books it uses, quote it as if it’s obvious what’s going on. The ACTA report is often reluctant to actually engage in substantive debate or analysis about what makes a book or a course or an idea “politically biased”. If the report is meant to be a qualitative, language-sensitive, anecdotal analysis of course descriptions, what would be so hard about adding that kind of substance to it? Can you explain how to credibly teach a class on the philosophical problem of the status of animals that doesn’t assign Peter Singer? Wouldn’t that be just as “political” as an exclusion as an inclusion? If there’s no drive to make quantitative claims, why not do richer close readings of what makes a course problematic? Much of the time, the ACTA report acts as if the quotes speak for themselves; much of the time, they do anything but speak for themselves. Why this point seems to elude literary scholars like Erin O’Connor or Mark Bauerlein is beyond me.

4) I’ve discussed in an earlier entry some reasons why it’s important to know what people do in the classroom, why descriptions may be a poor or insufficient guide to the questions that ACTA professes to be concerned with. It’s an interesting point that if such descriptions are a poor guide they may constitute “false advertising”, but that doesn’t seem to me to be the drift of ACTA’s concerns. They’re worried about what happens to students in those courses, not about whether students have adequate information on which to base decisions about their program of study.

But another reason to worry about the link between pedagogy and course description is that the ACTA report frequently takes the mere assignment of a book as indication of bias, as if the presence of an objectionable or political work on a syllabus is a confirmation that the course shares or endorses the views of that work. Take “Sentient Beings”, mentioned earlier. It’s entirely possible that in the actual teaching of such a course, the professor and students together would be developing a serious, sustained critical response to the discourse of Patterson, Singer and so on. There is nothing in the course description that promises an endorsement of their views, after all. I’ve observed that in my own case, I assign works with which I profoundly disagree; in some cases, spend weeks exploring a perspective or discourse that I find wrong, repellant or flawed.

If ACTA is going to go to the trouble of writing a report, and if the goal of that report is as O’Connor reports it, to open a sympathetic dialogue with academics and persuade them to move towards more aggressive self-monitoring and transparency, why not make that dialogue a feature of the report itself? If I spotted a syllabus that I thought looked a bit dubious, and I was writing a substantial report for public consumption to which an institution was devoting serious resources, one of my basic impulses would be to email the person offering the course with a list of my questions or criticisms. Just as a form of fact-checking, to see what the professor’s own explanation or conception of their choices of assigned works might be. If you spotted Afrocentric works on a few of my syllabi, and didn’t bother to find out why they’re there before blasting me as an Afrocentrist, you’d not only be wrong, you would in this case have pissed off a critic of Afrocentrism.

5) A personal note in closing. For me, the best possibilities of academic life are realized in an appreciation of nuance, complexity, subtlety, depth. What has disappointed me most about academia, a disappointment I have written about in my weblogs for three years now, are all the various ways in which a rich appreciation for the messiness and ambiguity of human life get boxed out or bracketed off in scholarly discussions and pedagogical work. If “politicized” courses, and “politicized” scholarship concern me–and they do–it’s largely because they’re part and parcel of the way that the necessary reductions of the unmanageable and incomprehensible variety of human experience turn into instrumental manglings and amputations, into grinding out scholarship and enrollments like sausage in a factory.

I’ve sometimes read Erin O’Connor and Mark Bauerlein and other critics of academia allied with them as sharing my values and concerns in this respect, as being part of the zeitgeist of the Invisible Adjunct’s much-missed weblog. After this particular online discussion, I question my sense of their views and goals.

I also live for anecdote, for stories, for particularisms, and question what wisdom is to be found in assembling massive databases. But as I hope is clear to all my readers, I’m drawn as much to cases that pose discussable and open-ended problems, that raise questions, that are uncertain, to borders and boundaries. I’m not just drawn to cases that I think are instrinsically ambiguous; I’m drawn to see ambiguity and complexity in almost any case or instance. Isn’t that what we rise to defend in academia from “politicization”? The possibility of nuance, of exploration, of arriving at some point different from the place we set out from?

What is the academia that O’Connor or Bauerlein rise to defend? What is the practice they want to free from heavy-handed politicization? What is the free culture of inquiry that David French or FIRE want to insure against the intrusions of speech codes and crude orthodoxies? Wouldn’t ACTA learn as much or more by working the complexities of a single case? I thought we did a pretty good job here in the first discussion of working through Kendall Johnson’s “Legal Fictions”, for example. In the end, I think that discussion demonstrated pretty clearly why it would be a mistake to slap that class description up on a Wanted poster; even Withywindle’s articulate complaints about the class turned on increasingly subtle points as the discussion went on, and I have so much respect for him at this point that I really hope he’d concede the unfairness of defining that course as unprofessional in some fashion based on the readings we developed in dialogue.

Where is that willingness in the larger discussion? Why is ACTA’s report, and ACTA’s defenders, so averse to ambiguity, to boundary cases, to subtlety? I think you have to write, speak and think differently than ACTA does if your goal really is to inspire discussion. I think if your goal is to inspire discussion you have to actually discuss.

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Some Teaching I Have Known

Part I of some further thoughts on academia, teaching and politicization.

Undefined complaints about inappropriately “political” teaching worry me for the same reason that speech codes worry me. They worry me the same way that a draft policy on sexual harassment that we once considered here at Swartmore worried me. The draft policy invited anyone who thought they knew about inappropriate sexual conduct by faculty or staff to report this conduct to the provost. It emerged during the discussion of this provision that some of the faculty drafting it felt that almost any sexual relationship within the community, even between faculty members, was inappropriate, regardless of whether one of the two had a direct supervisory responsibility to the other. So what they were asking for was an open invitation to anyone, to any and all perceptual or conceptual understanding of what constitutes “harassment”, to compel the provost to formally investigate the conduct of others.

Equally, if you don’t have a tight, precise definition of what constitutes “politicized” misconduct in the classroom, if you manage to get a system in place for monitoring and intervening into classroom teaching, you’re going to despoil a lot of good teaching as well as constrain some bad teaching. Moreover, because you’re only interested in “politicization”, you’re going to misperceive what makes bad teaching bad.

I can think through this most clearly in the context of teaching I’ve actually seen or experienced. As an undergraduate at Wesleyan, I took several classes with a remarkable professor who specialized in the British Empire. He was one of the most memorable teachers I’ve ever encountered: eccentric, mercurial, challenging, inventive. He was also unmistakably “political” in that he didn’t hesitate to make his views on imperialism, geopolitics, and the knee-jerk leftism of his students known at any and all opportunities. Yes, that’s right: he was in many ways a conservative, or at least “anti-leftist”. I was often one of the targets of his barbs, and I loved it. He challenged me, and with a terrific sense of humor. “So! There’s one of the chaps who is against penicillin!” and “Ah, I hear you’re against imperialism. So when may we expect your protest march against the Arab conquest of North Africa?”

Yet, under the bill of particulars we’ve heard about lately, a humorless leftist student would have had every right to report him to the politicization monitors. His digressions weren’t advertised in his course descriptions or his syllabus. They were occasionally about events or issues that had nothing to do with his classes. And yes, he sometimes graded you with his politics in mind. I poured my heart and soul into a final paper in his course on imperial military history, and got marked down because he couldn’t “feel the blood and guts” through my analysis, because he had a particular, and somewhat political, vision of what military history ought to be and sound like. This was a wholly unannounced (and yet not unanticipated, if you’d gotten used to his style) criterion for the assignment. I talked to him about it, but I left it at that, with no less admiration or affection for him as a teacher. Any definition of professionalism that would invite me to report a teacher like that is a self-inflicted wound, a demolition of the systemic value it claims to defend.

Another undergraduate professor I knew, not in either of my majors, had a more cult-like following from activist students, and his syllabi were much more brutally constructed to exclude anything resembling a challenge to his own fairly particular views. I sat in for a week on one of his classes and decided to skip taking it for that very reason. So that’s a case where I think you could say something about his professionalism, and yet, even there, the students that he inspired and motivated were affected profoundly by him, and did some surprisingly open-ended things with what they got from his classes. If I were to say that his professionalism was lacking, what I would say is more precise by far than the standard of his being “political”: it is that his courses were not constructed around a principle of exploratory learning, that they were delivering preordained truths. But the classes and teachers I’ve seen about whom that could be said are for the most part not guilty of that sin because of “politics”. I’ve seen classes that could be appropriately criticized in that way which are resolutely apolitical, in fact, many more so than the overtly “political” ones.

Yet another undergraduate professor I had taught a course on the history of sexuality that certainly would have triggered the ACTA alert from its course description. Moreover, this professor was an active member of several groups of politically radical historians. Yet his pedagogy was as fastidiously open-minded as anything I’ve seen. He didn’t let students who seemingly agreed with him off the hook. He played devil’s advocate against all sides, was a studiously Socratic presence in the classroom. He sought to unsettle all the settled positions, including his own. Moreover, he taught about methodological problems in the discipline of history through the lens of sexuality. Even a student with no interest in the history of sexuality itself would have derived great utility from the course: it was “good to think” in terms of historical knowledge in general.

As a graduate student, I was a teaching assistant several semesters. In one of the courses I worked in, a perfectly decent historian got up and gave mind-numbingly boring, dry, detached lectures about his field, essentially declining to ever offer a reason why the subject should matter to the undergraduates. No one would ever report him for being political, but what he did worried me far more than if he had gotten up and insulted a Republican political candidate gratituously. The harm of that kind of teaching is deeper, longer, more corrosive. Rather than making a segment of the class feel silenced, and falsely cossetting another, this professor killed an entire area of knowledge for virtually his entire class, smothered it, gave them nothing to react to or think about.

Erin O’Connor points to a report by a student about a class where the pedagogy didn’t match the description. This is the kind of data that I think ACTA’s report should have been interested in, and should have been thinking about collecting or investigating beyond the limited usefulness of self-reporting at websites. O’Connor’s entry is a good example of why course descriptions aren’t necessarily good guides to what happens in the classrooms, which is the entire substance of ACTA’s apprehensions, about what happens to students in classrooms. In this case, in fact, going beyond the course description works to the benefit of ACTA’s argument. Neutral descriptions sometimes conceal misconduct in the classroom (though I’d continue to insist that descriptions which appear political, especially by ACTA’s undefined standard, sometimes correspond to challengingly open-minded pedagogy).

The misconduct in the case that O’Connor links to could be called “political”, but my inclination would be more to call it simply bad teaching. When I arrived at Swarthmore, one of my colleagues in the Education Program brought in a videotape that had been prepared at Harvard that was designed to sensitize us to diversity issues in the classroom. My problem with the videotape wasn’t so much its politics as the fact that every staged example of “insensitive teaching” was really just a case of bad teaching. The worst was a staged example of a professor in a course on American constitutionalism talking about the Lincoln-Douglas debates and getting annoyed by an African-American student who wanted to talk about the issue of slavery in the debates. The tape was stopped and we were asked what the professor had done wrong. I said, “The professor’s problem is that he’s an idiot: how could any historian regard slavery as irrelevant to a discussion of the Lincoln-Douglas debates?”.

I don’t think I made any friends that day by breaking the script, but this is the issue that ACTA is missing out on when it comes to conduct in the classroom. Just as critics of the attempt to criminalize “hate crimes” have observed that a person who commits assault with racial hatred as a motive can be convicted already of assault, and given a more severe sentence because of his motive through judicial discretion, that “hate crime” is an unnecessary legal elaboration, so too is “politicization” often an unnecessarily contentious and problematic way to talk about what is in the end simply bad teaching. If we set out instead to talk about what the best practice of pedagogy is, we’d end up with a clearer proportional picture of what violates best practices. When we set out instead in pursuit of an ill-defined or tendentiously close-minded conception of “political” teaching, we not only miss the forest for the trees, we risk doing enormous harm to the kinds of teaching that realizes academia’s best possibilities.

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History 63: The Whole Enchilada

I offer this syllabus from Fall 2003 in contrast to Duke’s History 75. Would I get caught in ACTA’s net if they scanned through the catalog and noticed this course? There are Marxists abounding in this syllabus. A Muslim, too! I use the word “Eurocentrism”!!!

Or would I be judged to be pedagogically legit because Spengler, McNeill, the Bible, Ranke and Fukuyama show up at various points? If so, put me in the bin with the depraved “political”, because I see the difference between this class and Duke’s History 75 as a highly granular difference in pedagogical philosophy. I build my classes differently than they do, sure. I prefer my classes, sure, if you can pardon a bit of self-promotion. But their class and my class, offered on approximately similar subjects, are both well within what I would regard as legitimate professional historical pedagogy.

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History 63
Professor Burke
Fall 2003
The Whole Enchilada

This course is an exploration of world history as a form of historical writing. It is not a survey of events in world history, though we will undoubtedly find ourselves learning quite a lot about certain common topics or issues in world history.

The central question of the class is, “What happens when a historian or writer tries to describe the history of the world, whether limited to a particular time period or theme or encompassing literally everything that has happened to humanity in historical time?” As a genre of writing about history, world history is quite distinctive not just in its scope but in its tone and its outlook. The form has a history all its own. We will focus on the debates between world historians (and between historians writing about global history and historians who are more specialized) that are highly distinctive and particular to the form, ranging from the question of why Western Europe achieved global hegemony after the 1500s to the issue of whether there is a meaningful distinction between “civilizations” and other human societies.

While I typically encourage students to skim readings, and will do so in this class, I nevertheless want to caution that in this course, the reading load is quite heavy and I will expect somewhat closer attention to the reading than I normally require. We are reading world histories as a literary form, and that means we need to understand not just the bare bones of their argument and the evidentiary material they assemble in defense of it, but the rhetorical approach they employ. Reading carefully and working from such readings in class discussion are both important requirements in this course, and I will base the final grade more heavily than I normally do on whether or not students are reading with the appropriate discipline and depth.

Do not take this class if you are unprepared to engage the material.

Attendance, as per History Department policy, is required. Unexcused absences will have a serious effect on your grade. Participation and evidence of careful reading are important to your grade. There will also be three papers: two of them short, one of them a longer assignment requiring a modest amount of independent research.

Sept 2
Introduction

“Global history” and “world history” (scholarly standardization of a field; literary breadth of an idea)
The question of “Eurocentrism”
The global and the local; the big picture and the details
The materialist turn in 20th Century world histories

Sept 4
From the particular to the universal: origin narratives and historical thought

*The Old Testament, Genesis
*Pietro Vannicelli, “Herodotus’ Egypt and the Foundations of Universal History”, in Nino Luraghi, ed., The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus

Sept 9
Tuesday
Ibn Khaldun, The Muqadimmah, pp. Vii-48, pp. 58-68
Mini-lecture: St. Augustine, medieval historians and universal history

Sept 11
Khaldun, Muqadimmah, pp. 91-332

Sept 16
*Jean-Jacques Rousseau, “A Discourse on the Origin of Inequality”
*Georg Hegel, “Introduction to the Philosophy of History”
Mini-lecture: Vico, Kant, Rousseau, Hobbes, Hegel, Marx: The idea of a “universal history” and the European Enlightenment

Sept 18
*Leopold von Ranke, “On Universal History”
*M.C Lemon, “Marx on History”, from Philosophy of History: A Guide For Students
First paper due

The development of world history as a scholarly genre

Sept 23
Oswald Spengler, The Decline of the West, pp. 3-86
Mini-lecture: Toynbee and Spengler

Sept 25
Spengler, Decline of the West, pp. 226-418

Sept 30
William H. McNeill, Rise of the West, pp. Xv-63, pp. 167-248, pp. 295-360
Mini-lecture: The Cold War, geopolitics and world history

Oct 2
McNeill, Rise of the West, pp. 484-507, pp. 565-598, pp. 726-808

Oct 7
Ferdnand Braudel, The Structures of Everyday Life, pp. 23-103, 104-182, pp. 266-333
Mini-lecture: The Annales school and the “longue duree”

Oct 9
Braudel, The Structures of Everyday Life, pp. 385-564

FALL BREAK

The idea of world systems

Oct 21
*Immanuel Wallerstein, The Essential Wallerstein, selections

Oct 23
*Andre Gunder Frank and Barry K. Gills, “The World System: Five Hundred Years or Five Thousand?”

The critique of Eurocentrism in world history: materialist and philosophical

Oct 28
*JM Blaut, The Colonizer’s Model of the World
*Janet Abu-Lughod, Before European Hegemony

Oct 30
*Ashis Nandy, “History’s Forgotten Doubles”

Why didn’t China industrialize first? A case study of debate in world history

Nov 4
Kenneth Pomeranz, The Great Divergence , pp. 3-208
Mini-lecture: Other perennial debates in world history

Nov. 6
Pomeranz, The Great Divergence

Thematic world histories

Nov 11
*Philip Curtin, Cross-Cultural Trade in World History
*Paul Lovejoy, Transformations in Slavery
Nov 13
*Barbara Freese, Coal: A Human History
*John Keegan, The Face of Battle

Hegel and Kant revisited

Nov 18
Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man
Mini-lecture: World history and the idea of progress

Nov 20
Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man
Second paper due.

Politics and power

Nov 25
*Samuel Huntington, “The Clash of Civilizations?”
*Michael Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Volume 1, pp. 73-178

Sociobiological and materialist world histories

Dec 2
Jared Diamond, Guns, Germs and Steel
Mini-lecture: McNeill’s Plagues and Peoples and other non-Marxist materialist world histories

Narrative world history

Dec 4
Larry Gonick, The Cartoon Guide to the Universe, Volume 3
*Eric Hobsbawm, The Age of Extremes, short selection

Dec 9
The Once and Future World History
Final paper (genre critique) due December 15th

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ACTA Report, “How Many Ward Churchills?”

Are you interested in defending academic standards?

Let me tell you what I consider to be a few important academic standards. These apply across the disciplines. 1. Careful collection of evidence. 2. Constraining claims or arguments to the evidence available. 3. Proportionality of argument or analysis, especially in making demands for action or changes in practice. 4. Careful definition of key terms, concepts and methodologies used in scholarly analysis. 5. Respect for expertise and caution about making claims when you are well outside your areas of specialized knowledge.

Is ACTA interested in defending academic standards? Not judging from their lamely titled report, “How Many Ward Churchills?”.

What’s the method of the report? It’s just as bad as I feared: a casual, lazy, cherrypicking survey of whatever materials the author(s) were able to access on the web. There’s almost nothing beyond that in terms of evidence, except for citing other reports by people who are already well inside the echo chamber of the preordained argument, some of which offer exactly the same kind of “let’s take a quick run through the online catalog” evidence for their claims.

What kind of definitions of politicized content does it offer? Well, to some extent, all you have to do is be teaching about “race, class, gender, sexuality, ‘the social construction of identity’, globalization, capitalism, and US hegemony” (p. 7) to qualify as possessing “remarkable uniformity of political stance and pedagogical approach”. A syllabus that includes work that critiques or interrogates the status quo qualifies you for potential inclusion on the list of “politicized” faculty, as evidence of “remarkable homogeneity”. Having a course which has a point-of-view or argument may do so (as long as it fits ACTA’s ideological predefinition of politicization.)

There’s so much wrong here that it’s hard to know where to begin.

1) Define politicization or any of the cognate terms that the report uses. Why isn’t an economics course that supports mainstream neoclassical argument “political”? It has political implications, it excludes legitimate voices who make economic arguments. Why isn’t a class on the Declaration of Independence that supports or takes for granted the value of the Declaration “political”? Isn’t that a political position? Is a course on military history that doesn’t talk about antiwar protest on the homefront political? Is a course in legal history that doesn’t include critical race theory political? What is a non-political course? What, as I’ve asked here before, is the underlying theory of professional comportment or teaching that the ACTA report relies on? You won’t find a hell of a lot to help you answer those questions here, certainly nothing approaching a definition of terms and concepts at the outset.

2) Would it be professional to teach a subject and exclude major arguments, scholarship, or perspectives which are dominant in that field? I teach African history: how could I possibly ignore Afrocentrist, pan-Africanist, nationalist, or Marxist scholarship or documents in teaching that field? To exclude such materials would be the height of professional irresponsibility: that is what the field is, and what has shaped the subject matter. Yet if my syllabi got a quick and careless read-through, I might end up confirming the sense that I’m part of the “remarkable homogeneity” that ACTA perceives. If I’m teaching the history of the US South, should I not teach Eugene Genovese? If I’m teaching the history of modern Italian politics, should I not teach Antonio Gramsci? Isn’t that part of what we’re supposed to do as professional scholars, teach to or about the scholarship that actually exists? The evidence that exists? The bodies of literature and primary materials that exist? If I’m teaching early modern English literature, should I stick to my Shakespeare and skip “Goblin Market” for fear that I’ll be lambasted as a trendy feminist who is “politicized”?

3) There is zero attention or even curiosity in the report about the issue of what faculty actually do in the classroom with these syllabi. You know a little about my classes from my syllabi, but you’ve really got to see what I do with them day-in and day-out to know whether I’m biased or politicized. A neutral-looking syllabus could turn into a polemic in the classroom; a “biased” looking syllabus might turn out to just be a stimulus to wide-ranging, open-minded and skeptical discussion.

4) Words like “typical” and “representative” are thrown around casually throughout the report, without any sense of how such conclusions were made. So I’m going to be a real bore about this. Bear with me, this is going to be a bit long. Here’s what the report says about Duke University’s Department of History:

“Professors frequently set out to teach students to abandon their ‘Eurocentric’–and implicitly oppressive–perspective. Duke University’s ‘Third World/West’ course ‘calls into question the dominant Eurocentric diffusionist model–what James Blaut calls ‘the colonizer’s model of the world’–by showing how ‘Europe built on powerful older civilizations, at least as advanced as and probably more so than Europe at that time’. ‘In questioning notions of a European miracle,’ explains the course description, ‘this course will also give those older Eurasian and original American cultures their place in an alternative conception of the world, and bring to the fore the amnesia that has informed mainstream views of world history’. Assigned texts include Ward Churchill’s A Little Matter of Genocide–a book whose claims about the US Army’s treatment of Native Americans are implicated in the University of Colorado’s investigation of whether Churchill has committed academic fraud.”

I’m going to come back to this quote a bit later in the context of the report’s author(s) literally having no idea what they’re talking about and no ability to respond to scholarly work in scholarly terms. But let’s stick with the problem of representativeness first.

Ad arguendo, let’s concede that History 75 fits the bill of particulars the report is setting out. How typical is it of the offerings of the Duke University Department of History for Fall 2006? Let’s suppose we take the dumbest possible interpretation of the criteria the ACTA report is using, and any course focusing on race or class, or any non-Western society, qualifies as “politicized”. I count 68 listings; a few of these are multiple listings, such as their first-year seminar, of which there are four for fall 2006, and Lectures in Special Topics, of which there are another eight, so it’s more like 80 or so, on a quick count. What might count under the maximally stupid definition of “homogenously politicized”? Mapping Relations in Colonial India, Readings in Racial Formations, History and Modern Africa, Modern South Asia, Ancient and Early Modern Japan, African-American History, The Modern Middle East, Freedom Stories History of Globalization in the 20th Century, Introduction to Contemporary Latin American History, Islamic Civilization, maybe American Dreams/American Realities, Duke in China, Duke in Andes. There’s a course on slavery and freedom, another on gender and sexuality and another on Latin America under the heading of Lectures in Special Topics. 17 out of 80, again a quick count. About 21%, maybe? Let’s be generous, call it 25%, I like things like “a quarter”. Is “a quarter” typical? representative? Not by my reckoning, but heck, I’m not a quantitative historian.

Let’s try a non-stupid, qualitatively sensitive definition of politicization. Let’s look at the synopses for the courses I just named, where available. Remember that these aren’t even full syllabi. Duke in China and Duke in Andes are just study abroad courses.

History 101G, Islamic Civilization. ” Synopsis of course content
This course is the first of a two-part survey of Islamic civilization and culture from the sixth century to the present (the second part is Reli 147). This part focuses on the first eight centuries of the Islamic era (up to roughly 1500 C.E.), and includes the complex sources of Islamic civilization; the formation of several major empires; and the relation between religion, politics, and culture in different regions. Using historical studies and fictional interpretation of different features of Islamic civilization; through primary sources (religious and literary texts, film, art, music) that illustrate some of the ways in which Muslims and the non-Muslims with whom they interacted established the structures of their societies the exploration will begin.”

History 103 Lectures in Special Topics, Section 3, Gender and Sexuality “This course studies the history of 20th century and early 21st century political movements in which sexuality has played a key role. Starting with the feminist movements of the 20th century, and progressing through the gay rights movement, the lesbian rights movement, and the transgender rights movement, we will study how sexuality has been used to construct the concept of political rights in the modern West. Through studying these political movements, we will learn how broader legal and economic rights in the modern West have been influenced by sexuality. Some examples include access to joining the military, abortion rights, and marriage.”

History 115B History and Modern Africa “In this course, we will directly confront the sad and unjust fact that most Americans hear about Africa through news media depicting various kinds of crises. Because of the nature of journalism, Americans receive very little information about the complexities and historical backgrounds of these crises. In addition, the popular media far too often present Africans as either pathetically helpless victims or unintelligibly evil predators. “History and Contemporary Africa” seeks primarily to rectify that first gap in our knowledge by exploring the historical dynamics that have led to three crises in contemporary Africa: war in Darfur; despotism in Zimbabwe; environment degradation in the Niger Delta. In the process, we will see how Africans have often acted with courage, creativity, strength, and moral purpose. What will students gain from this course (aside from fulfilling University and/or Departmental requirements)? First, understanding these crises in Africa, and the people who live with them, enables us to be better world citizens. Second, an awareness of the history of Africa gives us a fuller comprehension of the varieties of historical experiences and historical sources.”

History 126D American Dreams, American Realities. “This course examines the role of such myths as “rags to riches,” “beacon to the world,” the “frontier” and the “foreign devil” in defining the American character and determining the hopes, fears, dreams and actions throughout American History. Attention will be given to the surface consistency of these myths as accepted by each immigrant group versus the shifting content of the myths as they change to reflect the hopes and values of each of these groups.”

History 139B Modern South Asia. “This course is a survey of South Asian history from the Rebellion of 1857 to independence and partition in 1947. While following the chronology of political events during this crucially important period in South Asian history the course-will seek to introduce students to important and often contentious issues in South Asian history and also to major historiographic traditions. Topics for in-depth examination will include: the impact of coloru’al rule on the economy, politics and social formation of the subcontinent; the rise of nationalism; religion and politics; the position of women. Readings will comprise historical texts, biographical and creative works that illustrate features of the culture and experiences of contemporaries who lived during this period. In addition, films and documentaries of the subcontinent will be used as an integral part of the course.”

History 150ES Freedom Stories (doesn’t have a full synopsis): “Documentary writing course focusing on race and storytelling in the South, using fiction, autobiography, and traditional history books. Producing narratives using documentary research, interviews, and personal memories. Focus on twentieth-century racial politics.”

History 152 The Modern Middle East: “This course surveys the historical development of the modern Middle East. Attention is focussed on the transformation of the Ottoman Empire in the nineteenth century and the emergence of nation-states in the Middle East after World War I. Among the topics covered are the following: traditional and modern structures of political authority; historical relations between outside powers and the region; social and economic patterns of communal development; the role of religion; the rise of nationalism; the development of state systems in the twentieth century; the degree to which the Arab world forms a system and how regional relations have developed since World War II. In conclusion, current pressures in the region will be discussed.”

Do I need to continue? Read these descriptions. Then go on and read the other 75% or so of the synopses, for crazy and politicized classes like Ancient Greece, Tudor/Stuart Britain, Civil War and Reconstruction, Western Warfare Since 1789, Introduction to Oral History, American Constitutional Development I, and Classics in Western Civilization: German Tradition. Knock yourself out. You’ll see a few classes (including some you wouldn’t necessarily pick out) that have arguably “politicized” language in their synopses, but a lot that are utterly, even boringly, professional and detached. Including those I’ve reprinted here. How could anyone argue that the synopses for Modern South Asia, Modern Middle East, Islamic Civilization, etcetera, are “political” or “biased”, unless it is automatically political to merely study such topics. If so, go right back to my first objection: by that definition, “Classics in Western Civilization” is equally political and suspect. So is everything that everyone in the humanities and social sciences teaches.

5) Much as I suspected, there is a huge amount of evidence that the report’s author(s) frankly don’t have the faintest idea what they’re talking about when they engage some of these classes, that all they’re looking for are some buzzwords that they attach preordained, fixed meanings to. Let’s take History 75, the Duke course, once again. The smoking gun here is that the course assigns one of Ward Churchill’s books. Ok, granted, that seems a dumb idea to me, though without knowing how it’s used or taught, I can’t say for sure. I assign Molefi Kete Asante’s work in a few of my classes, both because I think it’s responsible to do so (my lamentable commitment to intellectual pluralism trips me up again) and because I’m kind of hoping that the students will see that a lot of his work is really weak or problematic. (Confession! I do have opinions!) Somebody who came along and said, “Jeezus, here’s a course where someone assigns Molefi Asante, it must be Afrocentric indoctrination”, couldn’t be more wrong.

But ok. What’s the rest of the problem with History 75, according to the report? Well, the synopsis and at least one of the texts in the course uses the word “Eurocentric”, and promises to challenge the “dominant Eurocentric diffusionist model” of world history. The report’s authors obviously think “Eurocentric” is one of those buzzwords that means somebody who uses it is a doubleplus nogoodnik. I’ll let them in on a little secret: it can also be just a plain-old technical term for historiographical models that argue that modern world history has primarily been determined by factors that are endogamous to Europe itself. E.g., if I argue that the expansion of the West is primarily a consequence of economic or political institutions within European societies, or some kind of distinctive cultural outlook or belief within Europe, that’s Eurocentric. That the term is also used as a fairly dumb epithet by nitwitted activists doesn’t erase this other use of the term. And as I read the synopsis for History 75, it’s clearly the technical use that’s important. The course is clearly working around Jim Blaut’s The Colonizer’s Model of the World, which argues strongly that European expansion after 1550 was determined by exogenous factors (geography, the structural development of the world economy between 1200 and 1500, the impact of silver from the New World on the Chinese economy, and so on.) This is an interesting argument, to be sure. When I have taught on world history, I tend to be a little more noncommital about these debates, a little less wedded to any single view. But that’s just a mild pedagogical difference. The big point is, you get the sense that the ACTA author(s) don’t know about Blaut, about the debates involved, about the issues the course is concerned with, and that they don’t much care.

That pervades the report. It isn’t just that they see what they want to see, and ignore context or specificity, but also that they want to avoid REAL argument of the kind that scholars routinely engage in.

Let’s look at a course close to home that the report discusses, a first-year seminar taught by Kendall Johnson in the Department of English at Swarthmore, called “Legal Fictions in America”.

Here’s the synopsis from the catalog: “In 1776, Thomas Jefferson asserted the self-evident truth that ‘all men are created equal.’ But, in a country committed to ideals of property, what does this maxim mean? Beginning with the ‘Declaration of Independence,’ the recognition of full personhood in the United States has depended on privileges related to race, class and gender. In this course we will read autobiographies, novels, slave narratives, plays, and poems written by people who found their humanity challenged by federal law. Through their stories we will examine how these authors used words to resist the historical circumstances in which they had to fight for legal and even social identity. We will also consider the particular logics that enable different kinds of writing — legal, scientific, and autobiographical non-fiction as well as drama, film, novels, and poems — to persuade their audience in establishing what the Declaration called ‘truths.'”

Now here’s what the ACTA report says by way of describing the course: it “takes as its point of analytic departure the putative bad faith of the Declaration of Independence”. Excuse me? Is that a good faith summarizing of that course description? The course readings include that notorious hater of the Declaration of Independence, Benjamin Franklin. But more importantly, the course’s argument (and all courses have them, and ought to) seems to me to address a real, genuine, question or problem. Is the report arguing that from the perspective of Frederick Douglass the Declaration of Independence didn’t seem like an oddly contradictory document? Isn’t it legit to observe the “self-evident” truths the Declaration proclaims were a little less than self-evident at various moments in American history to slaves, to Native Americans, to European immigrants, to Chinese railroad workers, to women? The course sets out to study those tensions and ask what they produce in written and literary works, especially autobiographies or accounts of the self. It doesn’t say, “We’re going to read a bunch of people crapping all over the Declaration of Independence and cheer them on!!!” In fact, a lot of the texts he uses are all about ambivalence, about the desire to claim the ennobling language of the Declaration for oneself even when one has been excluded in practice or statute from its promises.

The report’s author(s) don’t want to roll up their sleeves and get into the guts of any of these issues, because then they’d have to actually slug it out on the scholarly specifics, have to make real arguments.

I would say well over half the critical remarks in the report about specific courses (there I go with the quantities again: one number pulled from nowhere deserves another) basically are responses to buzzwords of the report’s own imaginings, as if they’re complaining about signs at a leftwing protest on the Mall rather than bodies of scholarly thought. They treat subjects like an interest in the philosophical and historical problem of human-animal relations as if they’re self-evidently risible and partisan, without bothering to make the argument.

The report treats someone who defines themselves as a “scholar-activist” as if that definition is self-evidently, independent of conduct or practice, a violation of professionalism. Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t, but laying out why it is is going to take a serious, sustained argument about what academic professionalism ought to be and why it ought to be, not just a couple of pages of drive-by shootings. I mean, hell, take the example of Robert Jensen at the University of Texas, which the report dwells on. I myself don’t care at all for the kind of pedagogy attributed to him, and I think I could say why in both personal and professional terms. But even within the terms of the ACTA report, you could make a pretty good argument that he actually is training students who disagree with or oppose him to be better and smarter in their disagreements: the president of UT is quoted as observing that Jensen’s students should use him as an opportunity to learn to effectively dismiss what people like Jensen say. I know that at least one of the flakiest activists at Wesleyan when I was an undergraduate was actually helpful in the same way for me, in giving me a clear picture of something I was not and didn’t want to be. If the report is for pluralism, shouldn’t a pluralistic academy actually include such scholar-activists? Don’t they actually serve a useful function? Doesn’t a good ecosystem include a pretty wide variety of temperments, pedagogical philosophies, and so on? I know, I know, the report says that such scholar-activists are “all too common”, or omnipresent, but I’ve already kicked those kinds of claims in the nuts sufficiently, I hope.

6) Worse, when it gets down to recommendations, the report either talks about issues it has literally no basis, even by its own lights, speaking to, or offers medicine that would flat-out kill the patient on the operating table. The report talks about the need to guarantee that students have unrestrained rights to the free exchange of ideas in the classroom. Seriously, unless you bother to get off your ass and stop reading catalogues online, you have no idea what happens in classrooms. Some of the most domineering, unfree courses I’ve ever sat in as a student (or observed as a faculty member) would appear unremarkable in terms of the blinders that ACTA is wearing. Some of the courses that might appear to take a position exalt skepticism and the maximization of free exchange when it gets down into the classroom. The report even acknowledges this, that it has no basis for speculating on this point except for some course descriptions (often not even full syllabi) that it has carelessly and superficially read off the Web, but that doesn’t stop the report from sounding strident alarms about a plague of Ward Churchills under every rock and stone.

There’s also an implied solution in the critiques of various courses. Take Kendall Johnson’s course above. What would be the “solution” to it as a course? 50% writings from authors struggling to make sense of why the Declaration’s language doesn’t seem to apply to their personal historical situation and 50% writers who write uncomplicated or unambivalent encomiums to the Declaration? Balanced, sure. Is that a good course, or just a kind of dog’s breakfast designed to make everyone happy and thus pleasing no one? This is the same stupid kind of “politically correct” sense of “balance” that has so thoroughly crippled mainstream popular culture, where every possible aggrieved constituency has to feel like there’s something celebrating their own point of view. Not only does Johnson’s class open up a conversation in which it is perfectly possible to say, “The only reason that Frederick Douglass can write what he writes is the underlying conceptual framework of Enlightenment reason and human rights that suffuses the Declaration”, I feel utterly confident in telling you all that Kendall Johnson would be delighted by a smart student who took that position, that his course is intended to open up a space of discussion where that is a possible response. One of the defining features of good pedagogy is an intelligent principle for the selection of texts, especially in a humanities class. You want to look for texts that are related to one another historically and thematically, that rub up against each other in complimentary and contradictory ways. You don’t want to be saddled with a kind of Orwellian checklist of obligatory points-of-view that need their own special week to shine in the sun.

7) Yes, there are some genuinely dumb classes out there, and ACTA found some of them. Yes, some of them are genuinely dumb because of their political content or bias. Yes, some are horrible courses because they clearly suppress rather than open up honest, free-thinking inquiry. Though frankly a few of the ones they highlight are dumb because, well, they’re dumb. E.g., I’m not so much worried about the bias in a few of the described classes as I am worried by the apparent stupidity of the person who put the course together. But that’s not what ACTA is writing about in this report: it’s not an attempt to think about the problem of superficial or simple-minded professors, because if it were, they’d have to include a lot of people with no perceptible political bias, or even (gasp) right-wing political bias.

And yes, there is a problem with smug insularity and groupthink in academia. But as I’ve said many, many times, it’s not easily correlated to the kinds of superficial indices of “politicization” or “bias” that the ACTA report employs. Often that insularity isn’t about politics at all. There are courses that I think of as being quite apolitical or even conservative that have the same kind of self-confirming, closed-loop character in the knowledge they offer and the knowledge they exalt. Politics is part of that insularity, but a lot of academics can be just as self-congratulating or inward-turning if they’re talking about the television shows they like, about what constitutes good disciplinary methodology, or about college budgetary policy.

To be honest, the ACTA report strikes me as being more part of that problem than providing an honest look at it. It has the same self-confirming, self-congratulating avoidance of open debate, the same fixed or loaded reliance on a way of reading the world so that it always ends up being just as it was suspected of being, the same aversion to ambiguity and contradiction.

I’m sure that its authors and defenders will just reply that I’m replying at length because the report really struck home, or that the gentleman doth protest too much. That’s the same bogus stunt that Freudians and Marxists of various flavors honed to perfection in the last century: a critic must be repressing the truth to react so strongly. No, not at all. I react strongly and at length because in fact I agree with some of the criticisms of the academy that resemble the ones ACTA is trying to write about here. Because I do want to see the academy substantially reformed, because I do want to see academics learn to break up their insularity, because I do hate classes that have fixed or polemical answers to complex problems. I react strongly because I’d love to read a really smart, interesting, thoroughly researched, wholly responsible report that made the case for reform. I’m pissed by this document because I think those of us who are trying to push and pull for change need real help, not this kind of weakly argued, weakly substantiated begging for applause from the right-wing peanut galleries.

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Online Syllabi

If you’ve been following news of ACTA’s imminent release of a report opportunistically entitled How Many Ward Churchills?, and you’ve looked at the comments thread, you can tell I’m finding the early excerpts irritating. I’m waiting for the full report to be faxed to me (I find it annoying that a report that’s being promoted online isn’t available online). Update at 2:50 pm, May 17th: the report has just been made available online. Good. That ought to be standard operating procedure. It may well be that the full document will be more satisfying in some respect. I’ll read it carefully and reserve further comment until then.

However, a side question came up out of a conversation at Cliopatria regarding the report. KC Johnson complains that many faculty do not post their syllabi online, which complicates the task of anyone wanting to systematically review the content of curricula. This is true enough. I talked about this problem at the recent Free Culture meeting here at Swarthmore. There are some amazing exceptions, most strikingly MIT.

There are probably more syllabi online than Johnson thinks, or maybe even than I think. One problem is that even those that are online are often behind a CMS wall, such as Blackboard. I have a few years of syllabi that are tied up in Blackboard, for example, including a year where I extensively experimented with using the tools it provides. Bad idea on my part, but I don’t feel like undertaking the labor to haul those courses out of the archives, extract the syllabi and post them here. If you don’t have an open-access platform that is aggressively mandated by the institution, as in MIT’s case, you’re going to get a hodgepodge of idiosyncratic locations where online syllabi might be found.

I think the case for putting syllabi online comes close to being a mandatory obligation for scholars. It ought to be especially so for faculty with a strong interest in social justice. MIT’s syllabi have done as much for some developing nations as many hugely expensive development projects. Regardless of your political or social commitments, however, it just seems to me to be a basic part of the professional requirement to disseminate knowledge. Nobody is going to “steal” anything meaningful from you out of your syllabus: your distinctive craftwork as a teacher is what really distinguishes a course, not the bare bones framework.

So why don’t faculty routinely put syllabi online? There are some basic, simple reasons, such as lack of access to a suitable platform or architecture, lack of relevant information literacy, and uneasiness or lack of familiarity with online environments in general

These can be overcome with institutional help.

There are deeper issues rooted in institutional culture, however. Some faculty may be uneasy or nervous about the kind of careless ideological cherrypicking that some critics of academia regularly carry out. Maybe ACTA’s report is a case of that, maybe not (the odds are looking favorable that it is) but there’s other cases that are unambiguously sloppy, such as David Horowitz or the Young America’s Foundation. So for faculty that don’t really care to have a high public profile or engage in debate with tendentious outsiders who do not have any respect for evidence, proportionality, nuance or context, I can well see why the prospect of having a basically innocent course plucked out and offered up as raw meat for partisan axe-grinding might be intimidating.

I don’t think that anxiety is a legitimate reason not to put your courses online. That’s part of the burden of living in a free society, especially if you teach at a publically-supported university.

I think a deeper, and more common, anxiety comes from the extent to which most academics, even the best-informed and most competent, sometimes feel unable to keep up in their own fields, unable to manage the flow of knowledge, feel as if they are imposters. When you get into that mental space, it can feel very scary to have your syllabi out in the open, available for anyone to see. It’s unlikely that anyone from your own field of specialization is going to scrutize your syllabus with a hostile or critical attitude, but I suspect that’s what some faculty are afraid of.

In some cases, maybe they really do have something to fear. A few years back, I had occasion to see a syllabus from a well-known figure in a field that I know pretty well, from a student who was asking for transfer credit. It was on paper at least an embarassing course that met about six times for an hour or so, had one short paper and no other assignment, and largely consisted of reading the works of the person teaching the class, with clear prompts towards adulation of those works. This wasn’t a directed reading: it was a standard course listed in the catalog. I’ve occasionally seen syllabi in various fields that really are embarassingly dusty or poorly built.

Any other working hypotheses out there about why many faculty do not make syllabi available online?

It would be a benefit to the overall profession, to educational institutions, if all syllabi had to be available to outside scrutiny, because I suspect that those faculty who don’t bother updating or thinking about their courses would feel more of a compulsion to do so. Mind you, this isn’t about politicization: I strongly suspect the embarassing cases are evenly distributed across disciplines and political postures. I would certainly like to move towards making the online publication of syllabi a professional and institutional norm, at any rate.

Posted in Academia | 3 Comments