You used to be said that the best way to initiate a romantic encounter is to get a dog, because dogs always attract attention and interest, and once you have that it's just a short step to going out for a dinner and a movie.
The same can be said for civic engagement. If you want to connect with your community, to get to know people in your neighborhood, and to start doing something worthwhile with others, the best thing you can do is start walking your dog regularly. You'll meet lots of people who love dogs and want to hang out with them, and before you know it, they'll be hanging out with you as well. And, hey, while you're at it make your first project together a public dog run so that while all the doggies are running and jumping at each other you can be hatching all sorts of interesting plans to improve the community. Before you know it, you'll have more community projects to follow through on than you can handle, and more than anyone you'll have that wonderful dog of yours to thank.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
Supporting the Working Poor
Labor Day weekend is coming up and along with it dreams of getting away for an extra long weekend with few worries or cares to burden us. For many, many people in this country, however, lack of employment and low wages are constant concerns, taking their toll on families everywhere and preventing them from enjoying a holiday that is truly care-free.
Of course, the causes of this problem are complex and multifaceted, but it is pretty clear that one of the strategies at our disposal that could help a great deal in reducing the plight of the working poor is to raise the minimum wage. The federal minimum wage is currently $7.25 an hour, somewhat higher in some states and localities, but this is what prevails in most places. For a 40-hour work week, a $7.25 an hour wage translates to $290 a week or $14,500 a year. You can perhaps skimp by on this as an individual, depending on where you live, but this is tantamount to poverty wages for a family of 2 or more. It just isn't sustainable without extra support and a generous allocation from SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program), better known as Food Stamps. In fact, we know more confidently than ever that the best ways to fight poverty and hunger are to raise the minimum wage and to fully fund SNAP. Yet it often seems we are moving in the opposite direction, as if it were the fault of the people who work so hard for a living despite their ability to command a living wage.
We hear often about the problem with raising the minimum wage, how it can actually depress employment and undermine economic growth, but it turns out that the evidence for this is surprisingly slim. Moreover, don't we owe it to people who work incredibly hard in fast food restaurants and Walmarts to be able to count on a salary that allows them to live at least somewhat reasonably? Having a decent apartment, relatively unworn clothing, and nutritious, healthy food is hardly a lot to ask. But even these things are impossible without a greatly increased minimum wage.
This tendency to defend policies that make a few people rich, while hoping ingenuously that somehow the wealth created will trickle down to benefit everyone, seems on the face of it to be absurd. There just isn't any evidence that it works even for the middle income worker. The evidence for trickle down is still flimsier for the working poor. So why do we cling to it?
Primarily because we simply don't care about poor people. We want them as far removed from our lives as possible and thus, because they are so detached from our everyday realities, their welfare becomes quite irrelevant to our own well being. They just don't matter to us. How do we make them matter?
Through stories, I think, of what it is like to be a worker who works hard but remains poor. A few years ago, the fine journalist and New Yorker editor, David Shipler, wrote a book called "Working Poor: Invisible in America" in which he recounts the stories of people who are struggling to make ends meet but who nevertheless work long hours and are, in fact, reliable, loyal workers.
Here are the words Shipler uses to introduce his book: "The man who washes cars does not own one. The clerk who files cancelled checks at the bank has $2.02 in her own account. The woman who copyedits medical textbooks has not been to a dentist in a decade."
"This is the forgotten America. At the bottom of its working world, millions live in the shadow of prosperity, in the twilight between poverty and well-being."
Note the subtitle, by the way. Like many people of color, the working poor are invisible, forgotten, neglected, not people to be concerned about. They help us to do all the things that make our better remunerated work possible, but they are, for the most part, ignored, left behind, and really kind of looked down upon. And, amazingly, I don't think they mind this treatment all that much. But when it comes to having enough to eat, being able to afford seeing the doctor when necessary, enjoying a decent roof over their heads, they do expect some kind of minimum that allows a decent existence. But again, the invisibility theme helps to explain why this doesn't happen. Bringing attention to the plight of the working poor is the first step. Maybe we can start this Labor Day. It is about labor, but fairly compensated labor that respects workers as humans, family breadwinners, and important contributors to our public good.
Of course, the causes of this problem are complex and multifaceted, but it is pretty clear that one of the strategies at our disposal that could help a great deal in reducing the plight of the working poor is to raise the minimum wage. The federal minimum wage is currently $7.25 an hour, somewhat higher in some states and localities, but this is what prevails in most places. For a 40-hour work week, a $7.25 an hour wage translates to $290 a week or $14,500 a year. You can perhaps skimp by on this as an individual, depending on where you live, but this is tantamount to poverty wages for a family of 2 or more. It just isn't sustainable without extra support and a generous allocation from SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program), better known as Food Stamps. In fact, we know more confidently than ever that the best ways to fight poverty and hunger are to raise the minimum wage and to fully fund SNAP. Yet it often seems we are moving in the opposite direction, as if it were the fault of the people who work so hard for a living despite their ability to command a living wage.
We hear often about the problem with raising the minimum wage, how it can actually depress employment and undermine economic growth, but it turns out that the evidence for this is surprisingly slim. Moreover, don't we owe it to people who work incredibly hard in fast food restaurants and Walmarts to be able to count on a salary that allows them to live at least somewhat reasonably? Having a decent apartment, relatively unworn clothing, and nutritious, healthy food is hardly a lot to ask. But even these things are impossible without a greatly increased minimum wage.
This tendency to defend policies that make a few people rich, while hoping ingenuously that somehow the wealth created will trickle down to benefit everyone, seems on the face of it to be absurd. There just isn't any evidence that it works even for the middle income worker. The evidence for trickle down is still flimsier for the working poor. So why do we cling to it?
Primarily because we simply don't care about poor people. We want them as far removed from our lives as possible and thus, because they are so detached from our everyday realities, their welfare becomes quite irrelevant to our own well being. They just don't matter to us. How do we make them matter?
Through stories, I think, of what it is like to be a worker who works hard but remains poor. A few years ago, the fine journalist and New Yorker editor, David Shipler, wrote a book called "Working Poor: Invisible in America" in which he recounts the stories of people who are struggling to make ends meet but who nevertheless work long hours and are, in fact, reliable, loyal workers.
Here are the words Shipler uses to introduce his book: "The man who washes cars does not own one. The clerk who files cancelled checks at the bank has $2.02 in her own account. The woman who copyedits medical textbooks has not been to a dentist in a decade."
"This is the forgotten America. At the bottom of its working world, millions live in the shadow of prosperity, in the twilight between poverty and well-being."
Note the subtitle, by the way. Like many people of color, the working poor are invisible, forgotten, neglected, not people to be concerned about. They help us to do all the things that make our better remunerated work possible, but they are, for the most part, ignored, left behind, and really kind of looked down upon. And, amazingly, I don't think they mind this treatment all that much. But when it comes to having enough to eat, being able to afford seeing the doctor when necessary, enjoying a decent roof over their heads, they do expect some kind of minimum that allows a decent existence. But again, the invisibility theme helps to explain why this doesn't happen. Bringing attention to the plight of the working poor is the first step. Maybe we can start this Labor Day. It is about labor, but fairly compensated labor that respects workers as humans, family breadwinners, and important contributors to our public good.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Another Dreamer's Dreams
Today is a good day for thinking about dreamers, as it is the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington in which Dr. Martin Luther KIng, Jr. declared: "I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."
But, of course, Dr. King wasn't the only one who had a dream. Another prominent and highly talented African American who started writing poetry prolifically in the 1920s also had a dream. His name was Langston Hughes and he often invoked the image of a dreamer who struggled to find himself within the outmoded tradition of the American dream.
For instance, in a relatively early poem that he called "Dream Variations," the poet imagines himself free to dance, to whirl, to play, to let himself go, to be liberated from all constraints, conventions, and restrictions. When he was writing in the 1920s, such a dream for a Black man was simply impossible, completely out of reach. To be oneself, to go natural, to release oneself from inhibitions was to risk upsetting the white man, to appear as if you wanted to unend the whole white power structure. At least until well into the 1960s, such boldness wasn't likely. In the 1920s it was utterly taboo.
In the poem "America," Hughes again sees the Negro striving, reaching, straining for the stars, not letting himself be held back by anyone. He identities the Negro with the European immigrant similarly striving, but there are hints of how unfairly he is actually treated, and how stained democracy is as a result. At the same time, Hughes as poet wants to declare himself absolutely unique, not so much like a European immigrant or even a Black man bludgeoned by another round of unrelenting discrimination, but somehow his "own sole self" in an America where dreams come true and where everyone is freed to "seek the stars."
Or in "The Negro Mother," we learn of the universal Black mother, the one "beaten and mistreated" by slavery and racial oppression whose dream is achieved through her children. She kept trudging on because she had to, because she so desperately sought to become the "seed of the coming free." At times she had nothing to live for except the dream of her children making things anew. But now she returns to see her dream come alive through her children, but issues this caveat to them to never weaken or to take for granted how hard won this dream of freedom has been.
Or in "Let America be America Again," we hear again of the dream and the dreamers who dream it. We hear of the poet's call for America to "be the dream the dreamers dreamed," where love is strong and true and lasting. In this poem we also hear the parenthetical refrain "America never was America to me." Meaning, presumably, that the dream the white man takes for granted has never even been a glimmer of hope for the Negro. He goes on: "For all the dreams we've dreamed/ And all the songs we've sung/ And all the flags we've hung/ The millions who have nothing for our pay---Except the dream that's almost dead today." In the midst of this rising despair, the poet rescues the possibility that the dream may yet be lived out: "O, yes,/ I say it plain,/ America never was America to me,/ And yet I swear this oath--/American will be!"
And then perhaps most famously and desperately of all there is his poem simply called "Harlem" in which the quest for the dream has reached its endpoint with no hope in sight and no sign of redemption or progress. It begins with a question and seems somehow to address this opening question with still more questions: "What happens to a dream deferred?/ Does it dry up/ like a raisin in the sun/ Or fester like a sore--/ And then run?/ Does it stink like rotten meat?/ Or crust and sugar over--/ Like a syrupy sweet?/ Maybe it just sags / like a heavy load/ Or does it explode?
King may have had his dream, but no African American writer dreamt with as much intensity and persistence as Langston Hughes. Sometimes the dreams were hopeful and sweet, but as the years dragged on and the hopes for real progress seemed to bog down in an everyday racism that would be hard for anyone to bear, the dreams grew fewer and darker. Why do the dreams of our youth so often become the nightmares of our all too seasoned adulthood?
But, of course, Dr. King wasn't the only one who had a dream. Another prominent and highly talented African American who started writing poetry prolifically in the 1920s also had a dream. His name was Langston Hughes and he often invoked the image of a dreamer who struggled to find himself within the outmoded tradition of the American dream.
For instance, in a relatively early poem that he called "Dream Variations," the poet imagines himself free to dance, to whirl, to play, to let himself go, to be liberated from all constraints, conventions, and restrictions. When he was writing in the 1920s, such a dream for a Black man was simply impossible, completely out of reach. To be oneself, to go natural, to release oneself from inhibitions was to risk upsetting the white man, to appear as if you wanted to unend the whole white power structure. At least until well into the 1960s, such boldness wasn't likely. In the 1920s it was utterly taboo.
In the poem "America," Hughes again sees the Negro striving, reaching, straining for the stars, not letting himself be held back by anyone. He identities the Negro with the European immigrant similarly striving, but there are hints of how unfairly he is actually treated, and how stained democracy is as a result. At the same time, Hughes as poet wants to declare himself absolutely unique, not so much like a European immigrant or even a Black man bludgeoned by another round of unrelenting discrimination, but somehow his "own sole self" in an America where dreams come true and where everyone is freed to "seek the stars."
Or in "The Negro Mother," we learn of the universal Black mother, the one "beaten and mistreated" by slavery and racial oppression whose dream is achieved through her children. She kept trudging on because she had to, because she so desperately sought to become the "seed of the coming free." At times she had nothing to live for except the dream of her children making things anew. But now she returns to see her dream come alive through her children, but issues this caveat to them to never weaken or to take for granted how hard won this dream of freedom has been.
Or in "Let America be America Again," we hear again of the dream and the dreamers who dream it. We hear of the poet's call for America to "be the dream the dreamers dreamed," where love is strong and true and lasting. In this poem we also hear the parenthetical refrain "America never was America to me." Meaning, presumably, that the dream the white man takes for granted has never even been a glimmer of hope for the Negro. He goes on: "For all the dreams we've dreamed/ And all the songs we've sung/ And all the flags we've hung/ The millions who have nothing for our pay---Except the dream that's almost dead today." In the midst of this rising despair, the poet rescues the possibility that the dream may yet be lived out: "O, yes,/ I say it plain,/ America never was America to me,/ And yet I swear this oath--/American will be!"
And then perhaps most famously and desperately of all there is his poem simply called "Harlem" in which the quest for the dream has reached its endpoint with no hope in sight and no sign of redemption or progress. It begins with a question and seems somehow to address this opening question with still more questions: "What happens to a dream deferred?/ Does it dry up/ like a raisin in the sun/ Or fester like a sore--/ And then run?/ Does it stink like rotten meat?/ Or crust and sugar over--/ Like a syrupy sweet?/ Maybe it just sags / like a heavy load/ Or does it explode?
King may have had his dream, but no African American writer dreamt with as much intensity and persistence as Langston Hughes. Sometimes the dreams were hopeful and sweet, but as the years dragged on and the hopes for real progress seemed to bog down in an everyday racism that would be hard for anyone to bear, the dreams grew fewer and darker. Why do the dreams of our youth so often become the nightmares of our all too seasoned adulthood?
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Not Getting Over It
Even as I write, Wagner is suffering through one of the worst
things that can happen to any close-knit community. A Wagner student named
Justin Stevens has died under tragic circumstances and the news has hit everyone hard, even those who knew
him only briefly. A popular member of Wagner's junior class, an accomplished
theatre major, who also recently served as co-coordinator of new student
orientation, he was found dead in the East Bronx earlier this afternoon. You
can tell he will be greatly missed
It is always hard to make sense of such tragic occurrences. You
can't quite believe something like this can happen and you wonder whether it could
have been avoided if he hadn't been alone. But such speculation does little
good and the exact circumstances of the event don't matter all that much
either. What does matter is that a wonderful human being has been lost to the
world and to the Wagner community, and those who knew him well and loved him
greatly cannot be consoled. They need to let the full impact of
their emotions take hold of them, even if those emotions include despair, rage,
and desolation.
Death is always hard under any circumstances and time for mourning
should never be cut short. But when a person in the prime of life who has so
many things to live for and to look forward to is cut down, everyone, even
those who barely knew him, recognize that this creates a crack in the
universe, a hurt, a laceration from which we do not easily heal. There will be
time for healing and getting on with our lives. In the meantime, we mourn
openly, passionately, unapologetically. We do so because we are human and
because we have no other choice. But most of all we do so to remember and to
cherish an important person who made a difference and whose loss, for the time
being, is unbearable.
Monday, August 26, 2013
30 Million Words and Counting...
Being exposed to Words - the right words, the most expressive words, just a very large number of words - can make the difference between success and failure in American life. It turns out that many highly privileged children hear as many as 30 million more words by the time they are 3 than do children from poor or underprivileged environments. Furthermore, this much higher volume of words can lead to a greatly increased chance of their doing well in school, being well adjusted, and even enjoying a higher level of self-esteem.
Whether these exact numbers are right or not, we know that some children hear and use many more words than other children in their early years and that this discrepancy can spell the difference between school success and failure. It is therefore incumbent upon those of us who want to equalize the beneficial effects of early childhood development to explore options for increasing word exposure and word use for all children.
One promising way to do this is through parental education. The Harlem Children's Zone has been holding Baby Colleges for many years now in which parents are given training and practice in interacting with their children more intimately and creatively. The focus of this practice is on conversations in which parents are guided in learning how to draw out their children through questions, by making personal statements, and by encouraging enthusiastic exchanges regarding the world around them. The more parents can get their children to observe and think about and act upon the larger world, the more their children will develop the language skills they need to do well in school and in life.
Dana Suskind, a researcher at the University of Chicago, is now engaged in a series of research projects to see if the 30 million word gap between high SES children and low SES children can be bridged through ambitious interventions involving intensive, supervised practice between parents and their children. Parents are first and foremost taught that learning happens from birth and that language development, in particular, is a key part of early learning. Parents are also coached to engage in prolonged conversations that go in creative and unanticipated directions. That means offering more personal testimony about what one is seeing, doing, or thinking, asking children about what they are experiencing, and encouraging them to make connections between the past and the present. This also means that when parents and children are reading together, they don't just report the words in a story in a straight, linear fashion. They talk about the story, explore where it seems to be going, consider more deeply what it might mean, and investigate how the pictures in the story add to what the words are telling them. Such reading should also provide opportunities to reflect on stories and to share personal experiences that relate to the words that are found there.
In this research, parents and children together are engaged in absorbing everything around them, finding a variety of ways to talk about how it feels to take all this information in, and to relate it to what they think they already know. There is a very real sense here in which parents in this model of interaction are romancing their children, wooing them, seducing them to engage in this beautiful and mysterious process of confronting a rich, disorienting, and multifaceted world.
At first, at least, there is something a little unnatural about engaging our children so extensively. Sometimes adults don't feel like talking or don't want to make still another effort to describe at length what they're thinking and what they're experiencing, but given the high stakes, parents, in most cases, don't really have that option. In this case, talk is anything but cheap. It may be the single most valuable thing we can do to develop children's minds and boost their self-esteem. If this turns out to be true, what a small price to pay for making a large step toward ensuring their well-being and happiness.
Whether these exact numbers are right or not, we know that some children hear and use many more words than other children in their early years and that this discrepancy can spell the difference between school success and failure. It is therefore incumbent upon those of us who want to equalize the beneficial effects of early childhood development to explore options for increasing word exposure and word use for all children.
One promising way to do this is through parental education. The Harlem Children's Zone has been holding Baby Colleges for many years now in which parents are given training and practice in interacting with their children more intimately and creatively. The focus of this practice is on conversations in which parents are guided in learning how to draw out their children through questions, by making personal statements, and by encouraging enthusiastic exchanges regarding the world around them. The more parents can get their children to observe and think about and act upon the larger world, the more their children will develop the language skills they need to do well in school and in life.
Dana Suskind, a researcher at the University of Chicago, is now engaged in a series of research projects to see if the 30 million word gap between high SES children and low SES children can be bridged through ambitious interventions involving intensive, supervised practice between parents and their children. Parents are first and foremost taught that learning happens from birth and that language development, in particular, is a key part of early learning. Parents are also coached to engage in prolonged conversations that go in creative and unanticipated directions. That means offering more personal testimony about what one is seeing, doing, or thinking, asking children about what they are experiencing, and encouraging them to make connections between the past and the present. This also means that when parents and children are reading together, they don't just report the words in a story in a straight, linear fashion. They talk about the story, explore where it seems to be going, consider more deeply what it might mean, and investigate how the pictures in the story add to what the words are telling them. Such reading should also provide opportunities to reflect on stories and to share personal experiences that relate to the words that are found there.
In this research, parents and children together are engaged in absorbing everything around them, finding a variety of ways to talk about how it feels to take all this information in, and to relate it to what they think they already know. There is a very real sense here in which parents in this model of interaction are romancing their children, wooing them, seducing them to engage in this beautiful and mysterious process of confronting a rich, disorienting, and multifaceted world.
At first, at least, there is something a little unnatural about engaging our children so extensively. Sometimes adults don't feel like talking or don't want to make still another effort to describe at length what they're thinking and what they're experiencing, but given the high stakes, parents, in most cases, don't really have that option. In this case, talk is anything but cheap. It may be the single most valuable thing we can do to develop children's minds and boost their self-esteem. If this turns out to be true, what a small price to pay for making a large step toward ensuring their well-being and happiness.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
You and the end of the world
The great and versatile actress, Julie Harris, died on Saturday at the age of 87. She will be sorely missed, truly one of the great ladies of the American stage. At the conclusion of the New York Times tribute to her, a story is recalled about what she said she would do if she learned the world were about to come to an end. Simply and predictably, she replied, "I'd go to the theatre."
In my opinion, a very good answer. Theatre is entertaining and thought provoking, but more than anything it gives life. Why not do the thing in the face of annihilation that most gives life? For me, nothing quite duplicates the power of theatre to remind us of our common humanity and of our struggles, usually resulting in failure, to aspire to something higher and more worthy of our noblest ambitions.
But then that made me wonder even more, what would others say? In fact, please let me know what you think by leaving a comment. In the meantime, though, in the absence of such answers, what might be the range of responses we could expect in reply to such a question?
I can imagine someone who might want to read an inspiring book or watch a memorable film. But which ones? What books or films would be powerful enough to draw people to them for a final time? Would they be sad and tragic? Or uplifting and inspiring? Would they be an opportunity to experience that nearly perfect work of art one more time, or something that would somehow prepare you for the disaster ahead? Somebody else might want to attend a sporting event or make one final attempt to bowl that perfect 300 game. Or perhaps a golfer would want to challenge himself for the last time to achieve his lowest score yet. Perhaps even that frustratingly elusive hole in one would be in the back of his mind.
I am guessing there are a few people, though, admittedly rather unusual people, who would not be thinking of themselves at all in such a moment, but would be concerned about the thousands, even the millions, who would be experiencing the most excruciating terror at the prospect of their destruction. Such a person would want to comfort those fearful ones and find a way to make their final hours not painful but peaceful, not terrifying but somehow enjoyable, even beautiful. Would such a thing be possible given the horrible expectations? And how would someone go about comforting people in such a situation?
There is no question that one popular choice would be to resort to religion and the prospect of eternal life. To remind people that time on earth is fleeting in any case, and that this is merely a simple case of speeding up what is inevitable anyway. You could argue that facing up to the end of the world is like being in a foxhole, only worse. And how does the saying go? There are no atheists in foxholes. So, yes, of course, turning to God or to organized religion and the promise of an afterlife would be appealing to a broad, broad swath of people. And that's fine. But I don't find it terribly interesting. It is pretty much what we would expect from the vast majority of people.
So what about the nonreligious and the non-believers, how would you comfort them in the face of sure annihilation? What would the caring person say to someone who has no belief in God and is nevertheless terribly agitated about their coming demise? And you know what? I think I know the answer.
The response I propose is, I guess, similar to going to the theatre or reading a favorite book or seeing a special movie. But the answer I have in mind is simply to tell a story. Most likely, a story of the past, of what we have done together or meant to each other or even once had together. It would be both tragic and happy, both sad and funny, both enlivening and sobering. It would be a reminder of who we are, what we tried to achieve, and what makes us glad to be alive. For me anyway, this is a revelation. It is one more reminder of the power of stories and of the line from writer Joan Didion that haunts me every time I hear it. "We tell ourselves stories in order to live." Even in death, especially in death, we tell the stories that give meaning and purpose and shape to who we are and who we have tried to be.
In my opinion, a very good answer. Theatre is entertaining and thought provoking, but more than anything it gives life. Why not do the thing in the face of annihilation that most gives life? For me, nothing quite duplicates the power of theatre to remind us of our common humanity and of our struggles, usually resulting in failure, to aspire to something higher and more worthy of our noblest ambitions.
But then that made me wonder even more, what would others say? In fact, please let me know what you think by leaving a comment. In the meantime, though, in the absence of such answers, what might be the range of responses we could expect in reply to such a question?
I can imagine someone who might want to read an inspiring book or watch a memorable film. But which ones? What books or films would be powerful enough to draw people to them for a final time? Would they be sad and tragic? Or uplifting and inspiring? Would they be an opportunity to experience that nearly perfect work of art one more time, or something that would somehow prepare you for the disaster ahead? Somebody else might want to attend a sporting event or make one final attempt to bowl that perfect 300 game. Or perhaps a golfer would want to challenge himself for the last time to achieve his lowest score yet. Perhaps even that frustratingly elusive hole in one would be in the back of his mind.
I am guessing there are a few people, though, admittedly rather unusual people, who would not be thinking of themselves at all in such a moment, but would be concerned about the thousands, even the millions, who would be experiencing the most excruciating terror at the prospect of their destruction. Such a person would want to comfort those fearful ones and find a way to make their final hours not painful but peaceful, not terrifying but somehow enjoyable, even beautiful. Would such a thing be possible given the horrible expectations? And how would someone go about comforting people in such a situation?
There is no question that one popular choice would be to resort to religion and the prospect of eternal life. To remind people that time on earth is fleeting in any case, and that this is merely a simple case of speeding up what is inevitable anyway. You could argue that facing up to the end of the world is like being in a foxhole, only worse. And how does the saying go? There are no atheists in foxholes. So, yes, of course, turning to God or to organized religion and the promise of an afterlife would be appealing to a broad, broad swath of people. And that's fine. But I don't find it terribly interesting. It is pretty much what we would expect from the vast majority of people.
So what about the nonreligious and the non-believers, how would you comfort them in the face of sure annihilation? What would the caring person say to someone who has no belief in God and is nevertheless terribly agitated about their coming demise? And you know what? I think I know the answer.
The response I propose is, I guess, similar to going to the theatre or reading a favorite book or seeing a special movie. But the answer I have in mind is simply to tell a story. Most likely, a story of the past, of what we have done together or meant to each other or even once had together. It would be both tragic and happy, both sad and funny, both enlivening and sobering. It would be a reminder of who we are, what we tried to achieve, and what makes us glad to be alive. For me anyway, this is a revelation. It is one more reminder of the power of stories and of the line from writer Joan Didion that haunts me every time I hear it. "We tell ourselves stories in order to live." Even in death, especially in death, we tell the stories that give meaning and purpose and shape to who we are and who we have tried to be.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Be the Change...
Many of us have grown attached to the famous Gandhi aphorism: "You must be the change you wish to see in the world," but I wonder what people would say if they were asked to explain Gandhi's meaning. Below is a brief exchange between a few high school kids who were recently struggling with their understanding of Gandhi's words.
Student One: It means what it says it means. Be the change. Be just like the change you want in the world.
Student Two: But I still don't get it. How can you be a change? How can anybody be a change?
Student Three: Well, you're not really the change. You behave the way people would behave if a change happened.
Student Four: What kind of change is that? What sort of change are we talking about?
Student Three: Think about what was important to Gandhi. It would be those kinds of changes.
Student One: Peace for one, right? You would be a person of peace, who brings peace to every situation.
Student Three: Yes, definitely peace. But not just peace in a quiet, passive way. It is peace that also involves nonviolent resistance, that encourages people to resist situations that are unfair and unjust.
Student Four: Like what? Like the untouchables being total outcasts?
Student Three: Exactly. If you are the change you wish to see, you fight nonviolently for making sure untouchables have rights, that they are treated decently by others.
Student Two: I'm starting to get it. If you want certain things, you can't just talk about them, you have to act like they matter to you.
Student One: I think that's right. But it's also true that Being the Change means you ARE the change, that you embody the change, that you do things all the time that show what you stand for.
Student Four: But didn't we say that. You would work for civil rights. You would rally people so that they support the idea that everyone enjoys a decent standard of living.
Student One: Yeah, yeah, all that. But you also live your whole life as if nonviolence and justice are the most important things. You give people another chance, you avoid yelling at them or frightening them. You try not to eat too much or talk too much, because you want others to be able to use the resources you might be using up
Student Two: You're losing me again. What resources are those?
Student One: All of them. Everything that helps to make life good: food, housing, healthcare, education, speaking time in a meeting. We who are privileged must use all these things moderately, so that there is more for others who have less.
Student Three: I don't know if I could live like that.
Student One: It goes with being the change, with sharing the planet's riches with others.
Student Four: What if we can't do this, if we can't find the patience and the generosity to pull this off?
Student One: I don't know, but I think it's possible that we might slowly destroy ourselves.
Student Two: That's horrible. There has to be another way.
Student One: Be the change, brother. Be the change you wish to see in the world.
Student One: It means what it says it means. Be the change. Be just like the change you want in the world.
Student Two: But I still don't get it. How can you be a change? How can anybody be a change?
Student Three: Well, you're not really the change. You behave the way people would behave if a change happened.
Student Four: What kind of change is that? What sort of change are we talking about?
Student Three: Think about what was important to Gandhi. It would be those kinds of changes.
Student One: Peace for one, right? You would be a person of peace, who brings peace to every situation.
Student Three: Yes, definitely peace. But not just peace in a quiet, passive way. It is peace that also involves nonviolent resistance, that encourages people to resist situations that are unfair and unjust.
Student Four: Like what? Like the untouchables being total outcasts?
Student Three: Exactly. If you are the change you wish to see, you fight nonviolently for making sure untouchables have rights, that they are treated decently by others.
Student Two: I'm starting to get it. If you want certain things, you can't just talk about them, you have to act like they matter to you.
Student One: I think that's right. But it's also true that Being the Change means you ARE the change, that you embody the change, that you do things all the time that show what you stand for.
Student Four: But didn't we say that. You would work for civil rights. You would rally people so that they support the idea that everyone enjoys a decent standard of living.
Student One: Yeah, yeah, all that. But you also live your whole life as if nonviolence and justice are the most important things. You give people another chance, you avoid yelling at them or frightening them. You try not to eat too much or talk too much, because you want others to be able to use the resources you might be using up
Student Two: You're losing me again. What resources are those?
Student One: All of them. Everything that helps to make life good: food, housing, healthcare, education, speaking time in a meeting. We who are privileged must use all these things moderately, so that there is more for others who have less.
Student Three: I don't know if I could live like that.
Student One: It goes with being the change, with sharing the planet's riches with others.
Student Four: What if we can't do this, if we can't find the patience and the generosity to pull this off?
Student One: I don't know, but I think it's possible that we might slowly destroy ourselves.
Student Two: That's horrible. There has to be another way.
Student One: Be the change, brother. Be the change you wish to see in the world.
Friday, August 23, 2013
1963
As we find ourselves in this year commemorating the 50th anniversary of one momentous event after another, it grows increasingly clear just how transformative the year 1963 turned out to be. We know a lot was going on during the late 50s and early 60s, especially with regard to civil rights, but until we look very closely at the year 1963 itself, we can lose sight of how blinding the rate of change was in that one remarkable year. For one thing, it begins with George Wallace's inauguration speech as the governor of Alabama when he defiantly declares: "Segregation now, Segregation tomorrow, Segregation forever." It ends in a haze of tragedy and mourning with the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. In between these two horrifying bookends, sadness and tragedy abound, even as great leaps forward also occur.
For instance, April of 1963 marks the imprisonment of Dr. Martin Luther King in a Birmingham, Alabama jail, even as this very imprisonment helps to make possible Dr. King's great contribution to world literature - his Letter from a Birmingham Jail. That letter, as much as any document he ever produced, persuaded skeptics and so-called moderates alike that justice delayed when it comes to civil rights is ultimately justice denied and that true justice demanded a new push for full racial integration.
Only two months later, President Kennedy delivered his greatest and most ambitious civil rights speech. In it, he said, "We are primarily confronted with a moral issue...It is as old as the scriptures and as clear as the American constitution. One hundred years of delay have passed since President Lincoln freed the slaves, yet their heirs...are not fully free. They are not free from the bonds of injustice and this nation will not be fully free until all its citizens are free." He proposed strong legislation that finally passed under the guiding hand of President Johnson, not long after President Kennedy's assassination.
I turned 13 in 1963 and had virtually no clue of the turmoil of that year. For me, it was all about baseball - both playing and following. But, like so many of my contemporaries, I have distinct memories of President Kennedy's death and all the ways in which that death broke the country's heart and yet, at the same time, helped it mature into something wiser, less sentimental and more genuinely caring as well.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Why Read?
There is an exchange between the mother and son in Will Schwalbe's "The end of your life book club" about cruelty and meanness as they are portrayed in books that has stayed with me today. It goes something like this. When the son asks his mother who is dying of pancreatic cancer how she feels about reading books that are depressing because they harp on cruelty, especially now that she herself is suffering from such a cruel disease, she answers that although, of course, she hates cruelty, it is important to read about it in order to know it, to recognize it when it occurs, and to learn how actions which begin as ordinary and harmless can gradually grow into cruelty. Presumably, gaining familiarity with the evolution of cruelty through literature is important, because doing so can assist us in avoiding it in the first place or perhaps in resisting it once it begins to spread.
There are two interesting assumptions about the view that Schwalbe's mother advances. One is that a literary portrayal of cruelty must be subtle and life-like, not crude and obvious, for us to be able learn anything meaningful from it. Villains who are depicted as classic bullies or stereotypically wicked aren't going to enlighten us very much. A study of cruelty, then, only becomes interesting when it is examined in literature by highly skilled authors who have also accumulated a rich store of experiences with a wide variety of individuals, including those who could be characterized as cruel.
The other assumption is the one I want to use the rest of this space to elaborate on. And that is simply that one of literature's main functions is to teach us how to live. I'm sure that Mrs. Schwalbe isn't saying it's the only function. Literature, after all, does a lot of things that include showing us how to use language well, giving us experiences that we could never have directly on our own, and helping us understand how artistic and literary traditions wax and wane. But it also teaches us about love and compassion and jealousy and betrayal and rapture and loss and, well, a whole lot of other things, too, including cruelty.
And as we read about these things, especially in the hands of our finest writers, we gain insight into the stuff that makes people tick. What drives them to make sacrifices for others or compels them to strike out against innocent people or enjoins them to become part of something much greater than themselves. We learn how they think about these things, how they talk about them, how they respond to a conflict or crisis, and finally what brings them to a boil or to some sort of turning point in their lives.
We read for pleasure. Of course. We read to make ourselves more interesting. Undoubtedly. We read to have something else to talk about. No question. And some of us read because we are addicted to language, to the magic words conjure up through their choice, sound, arrangement, and cumulative impact. But I think we read most of all for enlightenment, for understanding, for guidance, and, yes, for wisdom. And it isn't as if the finest writers are necessarily the wisest people. I don't think that's quite it. Rather, it is that these writers are so skilled and so masterful with words that they have the ability to offer a reflection or representation of how we actually live that is true, powerful and concentrated (usually novels can be consumed in anywhere from a few hours to a couple of days of continuous reading). In so doing, each artistically rendered book that we read is a kind of slice of life, usually not with an obvious moral or lesson, but with enough rich context and character development to offer insight into how people grow, how they become the people they are, for better or for worse.
That portrait of a life lived for good or ill, it really doesn't matter which, introduces us to another person and the choices they make, and as with any experience, especially if we take the time to think about and reflect on that experience, we are helped to see the world more clearly and the challenges people face more vividly. Each book that we read, then, especially when read with care, serves as a guide to how we might live our own lives in a more wide-awake manner, with greater sensitivity and perhaps a heightened sense of responsibility as well. Maybe writers don't set out to teach us how to live and certainly they aren't expected to. But when a book is great, it is great, in part, because it reveals something to us about the human condition that makes each of us just a little bit wiser than we were before. And that's not a trivial thing.
There are two interesting assumptions about the view that Schwalbe's mother advances. One is that a literary portrayal of cruelty must be subtle and life-like, not crude and obvious, for us to be able learn anything meaningful from it. Villains who are depicted as classic bullies or stereotypically wicked aren't going to enlighten us very much. A study of cruelty, then, only becomes interesting when it is examined in literature by highly skilled authors who have also accumulated a rich store of experiences with a wide variety of individuals, including those who could be characterized as cruel.
The other assumption is the one I want to use the rest of this space to elaborate on. And that is simply that one of literature's main functions is to teach us how to live. I'm sure that Mrs. Schwalbe isn't saying it's the only function. Literature, after all, does a lot of things that include showing us how to use language well, giving us experiences that we could never have directly on our own, and helping us understand how artistic and literary traditions wax and wane. But it also teaches us about love and compassion and jealousy and betrayal and rapture and loss and, well, a whole lot of other things, too, including cruelty.
And as we read about these things, especially in the hands of our finest writers, we gain insight into the stuff that makes people tick. What drives them to make sacrifices for others or compels them to strike out against innocent people or enjoins them to become part of something much greater than themselves. We learn how they think about these things, how they talk about them, how they respond to a conflict or crisis, and finally what brings them to a boil or to some sort of turning point in their lives.
We read for pleasure. Of course. We read to make ourselves more interesting. Undoubtedly. We read to have something else to talk about. No question. And some of us read because we are addicted to language, to the magic words conjure up through their choice, sound, arrangement, and cumulative impact. But I think we read most of all for enlightenment, for understanding, for guidance, and, yes, for wisdom. And it isn't as if the finest writers are necessarily the wisest people. I don't think that's quite it. Rather, it is that these writers are so skilled and so masterful with words that they have the ability to offer a reflection or representation of how we actually live that is true, powerful and concentrated (usually novels can be consumed in anywhere from a few hours to a couple of days of continuous reading). In so doing, each artistically rendered book that we read is a kind of slice of life, usually not with an obvious moral or lesson, but with enough rich context and character development to offer insight into how people grow, how they become the people they are, for better or for worse.
That portrait of a life lived for good or ill, it really doesn't matter which, introduces us to another person and the choices they make, and as with any experience, especially if we take the time to think about and reflect on that experience, we are helped to see the world more clearly and the challenges people face more vividly. Each book that we read, then, especially when read with care, serves as a guide to how we might live our own lives in a more wide-awake manner, with greater sensitivity and perhaps a heightened sense of responsibility as well. Maybe writers don't set out to teach us how to live and certainly they aren't expected to. But when a book is great, it is great, in part, because it reveals something to us about the human condition that makes each of us just a little bit wiser than we were before. And that's not a trivial thing.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Democracy and Flourishing
Today I was teaching a class about leadership in which I found myself claiming that democracy as a way of life or everyday practice is one of the things every person needs to be fulfilled, to thrive, to flourish as a human being. It is the sort of thing you sometimes say (or at least I do) when you get caught up in the heat of a teaching moment, when you find yourself speaking so passionately that you fall prey to hyperbole and exaggeration. So once the class was over and there was time to consider the situation more soberly, I wondered: Is it really true that democracy as a way of life is one of the conditions that makes human flourishing possible?
My temptation is to say both yes and no. No in the sense that I am sure we can all think of people who have led very fulfilling, self-realized lives without the support of a democratic environment. But yes is also a defensible answer in that democracy makes such self-fulfillment so much more likely. Why should that be the case?
Democracy, at least in the sense I mean it, is form of interaction that allows you to speak openly and freely in conversation with others, invites you to listen closely and profitably to what those others say to you, encourages you to learn from and build on what other people contribute, gives you at least some say in the decisions that a group of people arrive at, and helps you gain new appreciation for what individuals can add to a group and can accomplish together as a community of thinkers and doers.
Without democracy, our speaking skills aren't quite as sharp nor is our listening ability nearly as well developed. Our capacity for learning also isn't quite as large, and our experiences in making decisions that affect our life not quite as great. Finally, our opportunities to appreciate what it means to be part of a collaborative group also end up being much more limited. In other words, I don't think we can reach our potential as people without the experiences that define democratic practice.
As usual, John Dewey probably said it most comprehensively (if not best) in that famous speech he gave during his 80th birthday celebration in 1939. Titled "Creative Democracy: The Task Before Us," Dewey spoke of his grounded faith in the ability of human beings to reach sound decisions through reason and practical judgement that grow out of continuous and increasingly expansive dialogue. He noted that when democracy is absent, the contacts, the exchanges, the communications, the interactions which make learning and growth possible are greatly constrained. When democracy is present, the points of contact between individuals through communication proliferate, leading to a body of experience that enlarges and enriches, and supports us in overturning our unexamined and untenable assumptions.
Perhaps most relevant of all to the argument that democracy makes human flourishing possible are these words from Dewey: "The democratic faith in human equality is belief that every human being, independent of the quantity or range of personal endowment, has the right to equal opportunity...and the democratic belief in the principle of leadership is a generous one. It is universal. It is a belief in the capacity of every person to lead his own life free from coercion and imposition by others provided right conditions are supplied."
To the extent that democracy grants us control over the direction and purpose of our own life and to the extent that such control is the key to human self-realization, so the connection between democracy and human flourishing is established. Hyperbole? Hardly. As Dewey has said countless times in hundreds of different contexts, Democracy and growth go hand in hand. We cannot develop as learners, nor as people in relationship with others without the school that democracy provides. What motivates us most as humans and as practitioners of democracy is what Dewey called our "generous belief in [our] possibilities as human beings, a belief which brings with it the need for providing conditions which will enable these capacities to reach fulfillment."
We thus embrace democracy, especially in its everyday form, as the path that makes the pursuit of happiness possible. Jefferson understood this as well as Dewey. Emerson most assuredly did, too. If scientists advance by standing on the shoulders of giants, then practitioners of democracy advance by sitting in a circle with other practitioners of democracy. It is an endless, dizzying, exhilarating, and ultimately life-giving process that continually opens the way, in Dewey's own words "into the unexplored and unattained future."
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Two-Eyed Theory of Human Development
If I told you I had a two-eyed theory of human development, would you want to hear more about it? Well, here it is in a nutshell. In the two-eyed theory of human development, you keep one eye focused on your own expanding well being, on the connection between what you are giving your time to and your own quest to rediscover your authentic but often misplaced self. You train the other eye on what you are doing to help others further their own well being, to help them achieve their own self-fulfillment. Now, even though the two eyes are separate and focused on two different things, they are, at their best, entirely compatible, part of the development of a human being's full integration. The two eyes, as separate as they may appear, have a way of merging into one holistic vision in the end. Not always, of course, but in a surprising number of cases, those who enjoy a sense of fulfillment find they are devoting a good part of their lives to helping others fulfill themselves as well.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Changing the World
Margaret Mead once said: "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has." This is the sort of quote that many people love. It seems so wise, so perceptive, so appreciative of what can be accomplished by just a tiny band of outsiders. And it came to mind tonight when we met for the first time with Wagner College's first group of Bonner Leaders. Bonner refers to the Bonner Foundation, a national network of Leadership programs at over 90 colleges and universities focused on nurturing community activists who learn to strategize for social change, particularly around issues relating to poverty, hunger, education, healthcare, immigration, and environmental sustainability. Most Bonner programs at full capacity do not exceed 80 students. Wagner, which is beginning with 12 students, will achieve its capacity three years from now with 48 Bonners. A small band of leaders indeed. But can they change the world? Who knows? But I will be watching their progress with interest.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Except for all the Others...
Remember the Winston Churchill line that "Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others." Well, we know pretty clearly what makes democracy terrible, how exasperatingly slow it can be, how riddled with obstacles and roadblocks, how difficult to reach a final outcome. It takes forever to get anything accomplished, and even then, the final result is ordinarily just a pale version of our original intent. Yes, we know all that, but what makes it better than all the others? I would say it is the wisdom of crowds principle. When the populace has a chance to be heard, when the full range of peoples' opinions is aired, the outcome comes pretty close to what is best for all of us. Democracy can be laborious and frustrating, but the real problem of democracy is simply that we have never had enough of it. The more we can do to get people actively involved in thinking through and acting on what is best for their communities, the better off all of us will be.
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