This week, my ENG 100 students will be reading, blogging about, and discussing Adam Gopnik's essay, "The Caging of America," published 2 years ago in The New Yorker. Gopnik analyzes two important trends in American society that have taken place since the early 1980s: the massive increase in America's prison population and the impressive decline in urban crime. For many Americans, our national system of mass incarceration, fueled by the failed policies of the War on Drugs, is alarming--no other nation puts so many people behind bars. (No other nation even comes close.) From both an ethical and economic perspective, this is a major problem. But would decreasing the prison population erode the gains that have been made against crime? Are the lowered crime rates that we enjoy now only made possible by the ruthlessness of our "tough on crime" justice system?
Gopnik convincingly argues that this is NOT the case. Nationally, the most dramatic decrease in crime since the 1970s has been seen in New York, which, ironically, is one of the few places that has not seen its rates of incarceration rise. As Gopnik points out, "While the rest of the country, over the same twenty-year period, saw the growth in incarceration that led to our current astonishing numbers, New York, despite the Rockefeller drug laws, saw a marked decrease in its number of inmates. ... Whatever happened to make street crime fall, it had nothing to do with putting more men in prison." The reduction in crime had more to do with smart, preventive policing strategies than locking up all the "bad guys."
But if we were to start letting incarcerated Americans out of prison in large numbers, would they have the skills and opportunities to maintain their freedom and thrive? According to Ellen Condliffe Lagemann, a senior fellow for the Bard Prison Initiative, "Of the roughly 600,000 people released from US prisons every year, 50 to 70 percent return to prison." In order for America to deal with its mass incarceration problem, we will need to do more than simply lock up fewer people; we will need to help those who have been locked up access the education they need to transform their lives and obtain stable employment. Nothing has been proven to do this more effectively than higher education programs offered in prisons.
Just last month, in New York State, Governor Andrew Cuomo has announced a promising, but controversial plan to invest state money into college-in-prison programs. I'm interested to find out what my students think of this idea. Many college students, I'm guessing, would not think favorably about convicted felons getting free college classes while they have to work or take out loans to pay their own tuition bills. Yet, these programs, over the long-term, will likely save taxpayers money by keeping released inmates from returning to prison. Perhaps it depends on how you view "justice" -- is it more about rehabilitation or punishment?
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Is Rhetoric Overrated?
As an English professor who teaches mostly composition classes, I am constantly urging my students to think in terms of argument and persuasion. How is your writing going to get your reader to accept your position on this issue as the best one? How can you convince your audience that you are right and that those who disagree with you are wrong? But frequently I wonder if thesis-driven, rhetorical writing really deserves its central place in college classrooms.
Of course I see the benefits of it. Being able to articulate one's ideas clearly and forcefully can be an empowering skill. But is something lost when we teach students to view a "counterargument" only as that-which-must-be-logically-dismantled-in-order-to-prove-one's-own-point, rather than what it is: another person's legitimate point-of-view? Granted, more sophisticated rhetorical pedagogies do just that. Respecting opposing viewpoints and taking them seriously is, itself, a sign of persuasive writing. But should our underlying goal always be to persuade?
Recently, while listening to a podcast of one of my favorite radio shows, Jonathan Goldstein's Wiretap, I heard a "conflict resolution expert" by the name of Misha Glouberman speak about how trivial disagreements between people can transform into ugly, prolonged feuds precisely because both parties become fixated on proving that they are right. I instantly recognized that I am super-guilty of this myself. At times, I exhibit a compulsive and obnoxious need to demonstrate my rightness when caught in the midst of a debate, big or small. It's one of my ugliest character traits, and I try my best (though often fail) to keep it in check. For the first time, while listening to this podcast, I began to wonder if this is actually a result of making rhetoric such an important part of the way I write and think. After all, this is a character flaw which I undoubtedly share with a lot of other people in my line of work.
Glouberman went on to make a great point about how a firm commitment to proving your "rightness" in a dispute almost never works, precisely because that is what your "opponent" is trying to do as well. The result is stubborn entrenchment and divisiveness, rather than resolution or enhanced understanding. You are wrong and stupid and that's all there is to it; I'm not going to waste my time discussing this with you any further. Such an attitude is a critical failure precisely because it is incapable of being self-critical.
So what would it mean to teach writing as a means not just for "persuading your reader" or for "argument," but to teach writing as a means of resolving conflict? What if we presented more writing contexts in which the goal was a search for common ground or a negotiated settlement rather than a validation of the writer's thesis? What if the goal was not to prove what we already believe to be true, but to explore how others see the world differently--and sometimes more clearly--than we do? I'm not sure, but I'm interested in brainstorming ways to ask my students (and myself!) to do just that.
Of course I see the benefits of it. Being able to articulate one's ideas clearly and forcefully can be an empowering skill. But is something lost when we teach students to view a "counterargument" only as that-which-must-be-logically-dismantled-in-order-to-prove-one's-own-point, rather than what it is: another person's legitimate point-of-view? Granted, more sophisticated rhetorical pedagogies do just that. Respecting opposing viewpoints and taking them seriously is, itself, a sign of persuasive writing. But should our underlying goal always be to persuade?
Recently, while listening to a podcast of one of my favorite radio shows, Jonathan Goldstein's Wiretap, I heard a "conflict resolution expert" by the name of Misha Glouberman speak about how trivial disagreements between people can transform into ugly, prolonged feuds precisely because both parties become fixated on proving that they are right. I instantly recognized that I am super-guilty of this myself. At times, I exhibit a compulsive and obnoxious need to demonstrate my rightness when caught in the midst of a debate, big or small. It's one of my ugliest character traits, and I try my best (though often fail) to keep it in check. For the first time, while listening to this podcast, I began to wonder if this is actually a result of making rhetoric such an important part of the way I write and think. After all, this is a character flaw which I undoubtedly share with a lot of other people in my line of work.
Glouberman went on to make a great point about how a firm commitment to proving your "rightness" in a dispute almost never works, precisely because that is what your "opponent" is trying to do as well. The result is stubborn entrenchment and divisiveness, rather than resolution or enhanced understanding. You are wrong and stupid and that's all there is to it; I'm not going to waste my time discussing this with you any further. Such an attitude is a critical failure precisely because it is incapable of being self-critical.
So what would it mean to teach writing as a means not just for "persuading your reader" or for "argument," but to teach writing as a means of resolving conflict? What if we presented more writing contexts in which the goal was a search for common ground or a negotiated settlement rather than a validation of the writer's thesis? What if the goal was not to prove what we already believe to be true, but to explore how others see the world differently--and sometimes more clearly--than we do? I'm not sure, but I'm interested in brainstorming ways to ask my students (and myself!) to do just that.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
When Is It OK to Kill By Remote Control?
Tomorrow my ENG 100 students will be discussing Mark Bowden's article "The Killing Machines: How to Think about Drones," published last summer in The Atlantic. The essay begins by paraphrasing the Biblical story of David and Goliath in order to establish that technologies of violence which make fights unfair are nothing new--they go all the way back to this infamous slingshot. It's hard, however, to think of the U.S. military's Predator drone as a 21st century slingshot, or the U.S. as David. After all, the U.S. is not an underdog--it's the world's only remaining military superpower. No other nation on the planet spends even half as much as the U.S. does on its military. (China, #2 on the list, spends about 1/4 as much as the U.S. does.)
In other words, imagine Goliath had the slingshot. And a nuclear bomb. That's the scenario.
Bowden goes on in his essay to show his readers that many of the common conceptions about drones are, in fact, misconceptions. There is no reason to believe that law enforcement would start to use them to kill domestic criminals; the police don't have snipers take out drug dealers, after all. While the use of drone strikes may inadvertently lead to civilian casualties, ground strikes and manned air strikes on comparable targets actually tend to produce more such casualties. Other nations are not going to use drones against the U.S. on American soil because drones would be easily noticed and intercepted. The most innovative aspect of drone technology is not, in fact, its capacity to blow things up, but its capacity to gather sustained, accurate surveillance leading to unprecedented military intelligence.
But when is it legally and ethically justifiable to use drones as "killing machines"? Bowden seems to imply that if drones are used only in times of war against verifiable enemies and with transparency and accountability, then the Commander-in-Chief ordering such executions should be on strong moral and legal ground. From my own perspective, I worry about the slippery definitions of "war" and "enemy" in our current political climate. The U.S. has been at "war" with al Qaeda since 2001, though war was never officially declared and al Qaeda is a network of international criminals--not a nation. Many people have been killed by U.S. drone strikes who were not members of al Qaeda. Even the ones who were killed--why aren't they entitled to a trial before execution, like any other serious, suspected criminal?
If this technology can keep American troops safer, then it certainly has a purpose and a valid use. But as a means of executing international criminals? I think that contradicts American values. Let's work with local and/or international law enforcement to capture and prosecute those plotting to do us harm. If we have enough evidence to convince the President that someone is a legitimate target, then we should have enough evidence to convict that same guy in a court of law.
In other words, imagine Goliath had the slingshot. And a nuclear bomb. That's the scenario.
Bowden goes on in his essay to show his readers that many of the common conceptions about drones are, in fact, misconceptions. There is no reason to believe that law enforcement would start to use them to kill domestic criminals; the police don't have snipers take out drug dealers, after all. While the use of drone strikes may inadvertently lead to civilian casualties, ground strikes and manned air strikes on comparable targets actually tend to produce more such casualties. Other nations are not going to use drones against the U.S. on American soil because drones would be easily noticed and intercepted. The most innovative aspect of drone technology is not, in fact, its capacity to blow things up, but its capacity to gather sustained, accurate surveillance leading to unprecedented military intelligence.
But when is it legally and ethically justifiable to use drones as "killing machines"? Bowden seems to imply that if drones are used only in times of war against verifiable enemies and with transparency and accountability, then the Commander-in-Chief ordering such executions should be on strong moral and legal ground. From my own perspective, I worry about the slippery definitions of "war" and "enemy" in our current political climate. The U.S. has been at "war" with al Qaeda since 2001, though war was never officially declared and al Qaeda is a network of international criminals--not a nation. Many people have been killed by U.S. drone strikes who were not members of al Qaeda. Even the ones who were killed--why aren't they entitled to a trial before execution, like any other serious, suspected criminal?
If this technology can keep American troops safer, then it certainly has a purpose and a valid use. But as a means of executing international criminals? I think that contradicts American values. Let's work with local and/or international law enforcement to capture and prosecute those plotting to do us harm. If we have enough evidence to convince the President that someone is a legitimate target, then we should have enough evidence to convict that same guy in a court of law.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Meaty, Ethical Questions
I don't know how this is possible, but tomorrow my ENG 100 students are scheduled to discuss only their second professional essay of the semester. And it might not even happen, as another 6-10 inches of snow are forecasted overnight and into the morning. This semester has been such a mess; thank God I only teach English, nothing more important. ;)
The essay they will be blogging and chatting about is "In the Belly of the Beast" by Paul Solotaroff, published just a couple months ago by Rolling Stone. This essay looks at the investigative work done at meat farms and slaughterhouses by undercover associates of the Humane Society, and it raises a lot of interesting questions about ethics and consumerism. I'm hoping it will provoke my students to think critically not just about animal rights, but also about the rights and responsibilities of consumers, citizens, and food suppliers.
A philosophical question that I've often posed to myself (without ever definitively deciding what I think) is what does it mean to have an ethical relationship with animals--especially the animals that humans typically eat? Some people would probably argue that it doesn't make sense to talk about ethics in relation to animals; if animals don't think ethically about us, why should we think ethically about them? Others (mostly vegetarians and vegans) argue that it is never ethical to kill an animal for food when plant-based food is abundantly available (and generally healthier). Even though I haven't made up my mind on this question, I think my own sentiments are somewhere in between these two views. Solotaroff, too, seems to argue that there's nothing wrong with eating meat per se, just as long as the animals are treated in a humane and environmentally sustainable way while alive.
The animals I eat most often are fish and deer. My wife and I love salmon, mahi mahi, tuna, swordfish, and we try to get "wild caught" (usually from Wegmans) whenever possible (and affordable). The venison we are lucky enough to get for free, courtesy of my wife's father, a generous and skilled hunter. I feel good about the fact that these animals lived freely--not in cages, not covered in excrement, not pumped full of hormones--before they met their demise. Yet, I certainly could sustain myself without them. There's plenty of protein in nuts, lentils, beans, avocados, chia seeds, etc. What's stopping me from becoming a complete vegetarian? Habit alone? The sensual pleasure of sinking my teeth into fish and deer flesh?
The other question raised by this article--the more practical one, considering it's unlikely that Americans, who eat more meat per person than any society in the history of human beings, will suddenly become vegetarians--is how to get people to be willing to pay a little more money for meat that comes from humane and sustainable farming practices? Americans love a bargain, and we are willing to turn a blind eye to fairly horrifying business practices if it means low prices for whatever we crave. (Who cares about the paltry wages of the Bangladeshi workers who cut and sew our trendy Old Navy sweaters, if we can get those sweaters for $16.99 each?) Now some might argue that most Americans can't afford to pay more for their meat--after all, organic, free-range, grass-fed meat can be expensive. But if we eat less meat, we can afford to eat better meat, and most nutritionists, at least according to food journalists like Michael Pollan, agree that Americans would be healthier if they ate "mostly plants."
Still, it's a hard sell. How To Eat Less Meat and Pay More For It is not exactly a catchy ad campaign. I look forward to hearing how convinced my students were...whenever the snow stops and we actually get to have class again.
The essay they will be blogging and chatting about is "In the Belly of the Beast" by Paul Solotaroff, published just a couple months ago by Rolling Stone. This essay looks at the investigative work done at meat farms and slaughterhouses by undercover associates of the Humane Society, and it raises a lot of interesting questions about ethics and consumerism. I'm hoping it will provoke my students to think critically not just about animal rights, but also about the rights and responsibilities of consumers, citizens, and food suppliers.
A philosophical question that I've often posed to myself (without ever definitively deciding what I think) is what does it mean to have an ethical relationship with animals--especially the animals that humans typically eat? Some people would probably argue that it doesn't make sense to talk about ethics in relation to animals; if animals don't think ethically about us, why should we think ethically about them? Others (mostly vegetarians and vegans) argue that it is never ethical to kill an animal for food when plant-based food is abundantly available (and generally healthier). Even though I haven't made up my mind on this question, I think my own sentiments are somewhere in between these two views. Solotaroff, too, seems to argue that there's nothing wrong with eating meat per se, just as long as the animals are treated in a humane and environmentally sustainable way while alive.
The animals I eat most often are fish and deer. My wife and I love salmon, mahi mahi, tuna, swordfish, and we try to get "wild caught" (usually from Wegmans) whenever possible (and affordable). The venison we are lucky enough to get for free, courtesy of my wife's father, a generous and skilled hunter. I feel good about the fact that these animals lived freely--not in cages, not covered in excrement, not pumped full of hormones--before they met their demise. Yet, I certainly could sustain myself without them. There's plenty of protein in nuts, lentils, beans, avocados, chia seeds, etc. What's stopping me from becoming a complete vegetarian? Habit alone? The sensual pleasure of sinking my teeth into fish and deer flesh?
The other question raised by this article--the more practical one, considering it's unlikely that Americans, who eat more meat per person than any society in the history of human beings, will suddenly become vegetarians--is how to get people to be willing to pay a little more money for meat that comes from humane and sustainable farming practices? Americans love a bargain, and we are willing to turn a blind eye to fairly horrifying business practices if it means low prices for whatever we crave. (Who cares about the paltry wages of the Bangladeshi workers who cut and sew our trendy Old Navy sweaters, if we can get those sweaters for $16.99 each?) Now some might argue that most Americans can't afford to pay more for their meat--after all, organic, free-range, grass-fed meat can be expensive. But if we eat less meat, we can afford to eat better meat, and most nutritionists, at least according to food journalists like Michael Pollan, agree that Americans would be healthier if they ate "mostly plants."
Still, it's a hard sell. How To Eat Less Meat and Pay More For It is not exactly a catchy ad campaign. I look forward to hearing how convinced my students were...whenever the snow stops and we actually get to have class again.
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