Many have argued that the removal of Confederate monuments will soon lead to the destruction of statues honoring Jefferson, Washington, and Andrew Jackson. One could argue, however, that the statutes of Robert E Lee and Jefferson Davis did not just seek to honor slaveholders. They were deliberately erected to memorialize Jim Crow and thus intimidate blacks. What about The Alamo?
According to myth, The Alamo honors the resilience and courage of Anglos and Tejanos pitted against Mexican centralism, brutality, and corruption. In fact, The Alamo is all about emancipation and slavery.
Slavery separated the Republic of Mexico from the United States. American Freedom led to one of the largest hemispheric spikes of Black captivity as British industrial demand for cotton led to an upsurge of racialized plantation slavery in the US South. In Mexico, on the other hand, the Wars of Independence (1808-1824) led to the almost complete eradication of slavery in the zones where it most mattered, the Mexican Bajio, the economic engine of the late Spanish viceroyalty.
Texas was a region long used to indigenous slavery. To Tejanos, the Apache and Comanche were both cousins and captives. Industrial racialized slavery, however, arrived in Texas with entrepreneurs like the Austins who persuaded the impoverished Tejanos in San Antonio to become their lobbyists in Saltillo to delay the implementation of state legislation outlawing chattel slavery. Besieged and brutalized by Comanche raids, Tejanos became Austin’s lobbyists in Coahuila, a federal province deeply skeptical of plantation slavery.
For a full decade (1825-1835), leading Afro-Mexican generals and politicians in Mexico City witnessed with growing concern the expansion of racialized plantation slavery in Texas. In 1835, Mexico passed a centralizing constitution abolishing slavery in every state in the Union, including Coahuila, and sent an army led by Santa Ana to dismantle the Texas Cotton Kingdom. Anglo settlers fled to Louisiana, including the retreating armies of Sam Houston. Santa Ana split his cavalry to cut off Houston at the Sabine. In a serendipitous last moment decision, Houston turned around to confront the weakened Santa Ana. Houston won. The Lone Star Republic was born.
Until 1845, Texas was a pariah state, shunned by the British, the French and the USA. It accomplished little, except avoiding Comanche raids. Steamboats could not ply the waters of the Sabine, Natchez, Trinity, and Brazos that went undragged. Galveston did not become a deep-water port and cotton moved on rafts to neighboring New Orleans. The public infrastructure to secure plantation slavery was financed after 1845 with federal dollars (a lesson to keep in mind in the wake of Harvey). The only thing Texas did well as an independent republic was to draft the constitution of 1841. It made it illegal for any manumitted Black to remain physically in the state, let alone aspire to citizenship.
In 1836, John Quincy Adams described the Texas Revolt as the first civil war "between slavery and emancipation." The Alamo memorializes the first battle of the American Civil War, full twenty-five years before the battle of Fort Sumter. It is the first Confederate monument to slavery.
For the last five years I have been working on a project on the idea of the Renaissance in the work of Erich Auerbach. I have discovered that there is a peculiar irony in the scholarship: the author whose signature phrase was the “serious representation of daily life” has been regularly treated as a decorous academic aristocrat: Mount Auerbach, the Virgil of criticism. One of the pleasures of research has been, in contrast, discovering an Auerbach of daily life. Kader Konuk’s study of Auerbach in Istanbul has helped give some texture to his biography in wartime Istanbul (despite the old story, there were, in fact, books). What interests me more, though, is the daily life of his critical writing, so to speak—the quotidian in his style and in his arguments. One thing I am trying to do with the study of the Renaissance is draw out the mix of decorum and quotidian in Auerbach’s writing style. Peering beneath the polish of Auerbach’s critical art, reading him as less a master than a master of a mixed style, reveals an academic regularly struggling to figure out what his thesis is—that is, reveals a person in history, not above history.
That struggle applies to something Auerbach is justly famous for—his mastery of languages. His command of languages has often made Auerbach seem inimitable. Auerbach knew German, French, Italian, Latin, Greek, English, Spanish, Provençal, and probably a few others (not counting the many medieval versions and dialects of all of these), and he knew them all very well. But his language proficiency was hardly effortless. In October 1949, his third year in the United States, Auerbach gave the very first of what would come to be called the Gauss seminars at Princeton (the topics were Pascal, Baudelaire, and Flaubert; the story comes from a memoir by Robert Fitzgerald). During the q&a at the second lecture, someone in the audience remarked that an artist “always had formed material on his hands, was stuck with it.” “Stuck with it?” asked Auerbach, “all polite attention but puzzled by the idiom” (28).
This sort of moment reminds me why I like Auerbach so much—it is the type of scene he himself was so good at reading. In April 1948, Auerbach wrote to Benedetto Croce from “The Pennsylvania State College” (Auerbach’s first teaching position in the United States; he’d left Istanbul for America with no secure employment, though he received offers to return to Germany), in part to tell Croce he has sent him a copy of Mimesis. But, adds Auerbach, “vedo bene che non trova tempo, con tanto lavoro, nella nona decade della Sua bella vita, di leggere un volume di 500 pagine”; “but I know that you won’t find time, with so much work, in the ninth decade of your beautiful life, to read a 500 page book.” A very charming sentence, but Auerbach is worried it doesn’t sound quite right:
Scusi, prego, il mio ‘cativo stile.’ Da quindici anni, parlo tutte le lingue—scrivo in tedesco, francese, italiano, inglese, latino—ho insegnato in francese a Istanbul, vi ho parlato ogni giorno quattro o cinque lingue—persino un po’ di turco—ed adesso ho da insegnare in inglese. E di tutta questa ‘poliglotnia’ ho imperato che non si può saper bene una lingua sola, la lingua materna.
Please excuse my “terrible style.” For fifteen years, I’ve been speaking all the languages—I write in German, French, Italian, English, Latin—I taught in French in Istanbul, I spoke four or five languages everyday—even a little Turkish—and now I have to teach in English. And in all this “polyglotness” I have learned that you can only know well one language alone, your mother tongue.
Auerbach has received some criticism that he was too Eurocentric (these are not “tutte le lingue”), that he wasn’t interested enough in Turkey, that he kept writing all his research in German after he’d moved to the United States. But it is not unlike the young Milton proclaiming “Hail native language”: you only say what you want to say, to the extent that you ever can, in the language that made you into yourself. Auerbach knew a lot of languages, but, in the end, even he knew only one, the one that, as Milton puts it, “Didst move my first endeavouring tongue to speak.”
That sentiment appears elsewhere in his correspondence with Croce (sixty letters survive), which was conducted entirely in Italian, with one crucial exception. Over the course of twenty-five years, they formed what seems to have been a close, if professional, friendship. From beginning to end, they were both great fans of Vico—the relationship began in the 1920s, with Auerbach, a largely unknown librarian in Berlin (but with powerful academic advisors), writing to Croce about the publication and translation of Croce’s book on Vico. In these early letters, Auerbach is at times painfully obsequious, or at least overly polite. He learns at one point that Croce will be in Berlin, and he writes (it is in italics in the edited version): “I am always at your disposal if you have need of me. I am at the library every day until 3pm, and then almost always at home.” (letter 18) The correspondence ends in 1952, with Auerbach writing a simple, touching note to Croce’s widow: “his was one of the most beautiful lives with which I’ve had acquaintance” (letter 61).
The relationship was sometimes tense, and the stress manifests itself in the one notable linguistic shift. Auerbach writes on 18 December 1928 that he has sent a copy of his first book, Dante als Dichter der irdischen Welt, to Croce, but Auerbach is clearly nervous: he mentions the book only in the middle of the letter. A week later—Christmas Day, 1928—Auerbach writes to Croce again. He has received a letter (apparently lost), in which Croce must have written something sharply critical about Auerbach’s book (did Croce really read it that fast?). The letter begins by declaring, in Italian, “Please permit me to write today in German.” Auerbach then proceeds, in German, to explain that the main point of his book is on page 108 in the paragraph that starts, “Allein die Menschen” (page 86 in the English version, if you are interested) and that the argument is both the fruit of, and an absolute opposition to, Croce’s writing on poetry and expression. I should add that he also says, in German, that it is more of an honor to be refuted by Croce than to be praised by someone else; and Auerbach inserts into his German a phrase in Greek that, to the best guess of experts in the classics department at Toronto, makes no sense at all (whether the fault of Auerbach or the editor of the correspondence, who knows). When Croce’s review finally comes out, Auerbach writes again, in Italian, and is remarkably chipper. “Thanks for your most friendly review! I expected your opposition, but not the courtesy with which you expressed it.” Maybe too chipper: others have not found Croce’s review very courteous—Riccardo Castellana calls it “una vera e propria stroncatura,”—a real trashing. To me Croce’s review sounds a little petty, but often fair, and it is clear that Auerbach took his criticism very seriously. Still, when it came to defending (or simply repeating) his thesis, Auerbach did not trust to Italian. You only have one mother tongue, and to defend himself he turned back to it.
Auerbach probably felt more comfortable writing in French than Italian. In May 1936, for instance, he wrote to Giulio Bertoni, the editor of the Italian journal Archivum romanicum, about putting together a festschrift for Leo Spitzer. Bertoni was friends with Spitzer, and Archivum romanicum was one of the only journals in which German Jewish authors could publish. Complicated times: the journal was funded in part by Mussolini. But Auerbach wrote to Bertoni in French, not Italian. He apologized for doing so on the grounds that it was the language he was speaking everyday in Geneva, where Auerbach was practicing speaking in preparation for his move to Istanbul, where he would teach in French. When he wrote to Bertoni two years later (April 1938) to offer his essay “Figura” for publication, Auerbach again wrote in French: “je l’ai écrits en allemand et avant de le traduire je cherche un moyen de le publier en allemand, puisque la traduction serait assez difficile à faire”; “I wrote it in German and before translating it I am looking for a way to publish it in German, given that the translation would be rather difficult to do.” He does not add what language he was thinking of translating it into, but I imagine it was Italian. Unsurprisingly, Bertoni accepted it in German (a common language in Archivum romanicum). But imagine what “Figura” would look like were it originally published in Italian, rather than simply in an Italian journal.
I don’t mean to overemphasize Auerbach’s language troubles; they are, in some respects, a sign of his astonishing auto-didacticism. His languages are less a result of his training than his temperament, his urge to learn what he needed to learn in order to write what he wanted to write… in German. And the occasional slips in his letters to Croce (he gets the odd preposition wrong) might be taken as signs that you do not need to be a specialist, or be perfect, to make a point. I had had a fantasy that the reason there are only two chapters in Mimesis on English language writers (Shakespeare and Woolf) was that English was Auerbach’s worst language; when Harry Levin met Auerbach in Cambridge, MA in fall 1947, they spoke mostly French. But then I heard an audio recording that has resurfaced of Auerbach delivering a lecture on Dante—in English—at Penn State just a few months later, in March 1948. Auerbach spoke English very, very well. Apparently, he learned fast.
The best part of the recording? Hearing him read passages in Dante’s Tuscan: he sings them. A mixed-style on the page and on audio tape, and the result is the image of the man eclipses the image of the God. That eclipse in Dante, Auerbach argued in Mimesis, was the inauguration of the Renaissance. There is the Auerbach that interests me.
Epicurus supposed that even in the midst of the void the atoms declined slightly from the straight line, and from this, he said, arose freedom.
-Pierre Bayle, quoted by Karl Marx
Money is no object.
In previous contributions to Arcade, I have drawn sharp distinctions between the heterodox school of economics known as Modern Monetary Theory (MMT) and the Marxist tradition that dominates the critical humanities. My intention was neither to flatly oppose MMT and Marxism, nor to wholly discount the latter’s impulses and insights. Rather, I sought to illuminate MMT’s expansive conception of money as a limitless public instrument and develop its transformative implications for contemporary thought and practice. In so doing, I criticized Marxism’s preoccupation with decentralized exchange relations for barring such possibilities from leftist critique and contestation.
Working out these claims, I set aside the complex entanglements that link MMT's and Marxism's histories and methods. In this essay, I explore some of these entanglements and lay bare the divergent ontological commitments that, on my analysis, fundamentally separate MMT’s critical project from the Marxist one.
Viewed from afar, MMT and Marxism appear opposed. Contemporary Marxists such as The New School's Anwar Shaikh reject MMT and, typically, MMT is disassociated from Marxism when presented to the public. In truth, however, MMT and Marxism share an entangled history that thwarts neat distinctions and oppositions.
For one, Karl Marx’s intervention stands at the origin of critical political economy. Protesting that the modern money systems that mainstream economics deem natural and self-correcting are in truth politically constructed and destabilizing, Marxism functions as a philosophical torchbearer for the heterodox post-Keynesian tradition from which MMT arises. What is more, post-Keynesianism itself comprises a kaleidoscopic conflagration of Keynesian and Marxist impulses, which cannot be sharply disarticulated.
In terms of direct influence, MMT owes many specific insights to the history of Marxist thought. MMT relies heavily on post-Keynesian theories of effective demand and stock-flow consistency, both of which are traceable to the second and third volumes of Marx’s Capital. Moreover, MMTers such as Bill Mitchell, Mathew Forstater, and Peter Cooper regularly draw upon Marxist concepts and arguments in their writings, paying express heed to Marxism’s ongoing relevance for MMT.
Meanwhile, post-Keynesian circuitist theory has increasingly prioritized state credit money in their analyses of the monetary circuit (M-C-M) outlined in the first volume of Capital. Especially interesting in this regard are European Marxist circuitists like Riccardo Bellofiore who overtly utilize MMT’s insights. Forging novel connections between Marxism, post-Keynesianism, and MMT, Bellofiore and his followers continue to uncover important genealogical and theoretical linkages among these projects.
One might say far more about the linkages and discordances that riddle heterodox economics. For the time being, however, I indicate the folly of treating MMT and Marxism as unrelated or categorically opposed. To do so is to overlook post-Keynesianism’s paramount role within the history of heterodox economics and to repress the contested field of inquiry to which both MMT and Marxism belong.
Still, when it comes to questions of social ontology, it becomes necessary to reckon with what genuinely distinguishes MMT from Marxism and thus what cuts through the genealogical entwinements sketched above. Generally speaking, scholarly and public debates skirt around MMT’s and Marxism’s competing ontological commitments. Instead, they argue over the technical operations of political economy and the political responses various crises necessitate. Upon closer inspection, however, it turns out that tacit ontological divisions structure such contests from start to finish.
Ontology is embarrassing. It is embarrassing because it announces plainly what is uncouth to admit in ordinary discourse. Yet it is especially embarrassing because it means exposing the unexamined desires that drive everyday discursive struggles. For these reasons, ontological claims are often met with skepticism, disavowal, or scorn.
Nonetheless, I wish to risk articulating outright the underlying rift that cleaves MMT and Marxism. Marxism attributes the greatest degree of being to immediate material relations, imagining monetary abstraction as a volatilization and estrangement of conscious local associations. By contrast, MMT hangs collective existence on a community's political center and maintains that money is an inexhaustible government instrument for socializing relations of production and distribution at a distance. Instead of condemning money for disrupting and evacuating otherwise self-subsistent local activities, MMT treats a people's remote obligations to a centralized polity as ontologically prior to any immediate association and sees monetary abstraction as a powerful public mechanism for variously coordinating and enlarging such obligations. Hence, while Marxism assumes that money is a private, alienating, and crisis-ridden exchange relationship that ought to be overcome, MMT holds money to be a boundless public utility that, though by no means untroubled, is well-equipped to actualize radical collectivist ends.
This ontological cleavage becomes clearest in the ways that Marxism and MMT explain employment and unemployment. For the Marxist, employment comes into being through private wage contracts between firms and workers. Unemployment is then understood principally as a negative relation, functioning as a constitutive excess that reciprocally shapes capitalist production and exchange from the outside. For the MMTer, however, unemployment is a positive relation that results from the tax obligation. As Rohan Grey and Raúl Carrillo describe it, "the state creates unemployment by imposing a non-reciprocal liability (i.e. a tax) that can only be satisfied by obtaining its tokens (i.e. tax credits)." No unemployed person sits outside this public obligation. And since government is both the source of money and the cause of unemployment, it alone is ultimately responsible for determining the employment level.
As I have already noted, some Marxists embrace MMT's grounding of money in centralized governance and a handful of MMTers work in a Marxist idiom. Yet beneath this exchange of ideas looms an irreconcilable split over political economy’s center of gravity. That is, despite their shared histories and convergences, Marxism and MMT offer two very different Gestalts of the macro-economic order.
Perhaps the best way to make sense these contrasting pictures is to take seriously the turn of phrase center of gravity. For all its dubiousness, Marxism has adopted a literal and curiously pious relation to physical gravitation. Strewn with gravitropic metaphors meant to exhibit the value-form’s concealed “laws of motion,” Marxist criticism tends to subordinate macro-economic reality to material gravity, whereby far-flung abstractions always come down to material interactions between particular individuals.
In The German Ideology, for instance, Marx repeatedly insists that critical political economy must attend to production's "earthly" bases. He ridicules German idealists for fleeing from social reality, arguing that they proceed as if material gravity were merely a superstition. And he characterizes communism as the impulse to gather abstractly dispersed social activities back to their immediate tellurian origins. “The reality that communism creates," Marx writes, "is precisely the true basis for rendering it impossible that anything should exist independently of individuals, insofar as reality is nevertheless only the product of the preceding intercourse of individuals.”
To be sure, Marx's own critical methodology is comprised of abstract concepts and complex dialectical reasoning. Yet, for Marx, this abstractive method is no end in itself. It is, rather, a way to expose the terrestrial injustices precipitated by money's abstract movements. It also means to make way for a directly associated, free society that is liberated from monetary alienation and its diremptive phantoms.
Eschewing Marxism’s gravitropic metaphysics, MMT locates the center of macro-economic activity in an abstract legal rapport between the currency issuing center and the body politic that depends upon the currency to physically survive and thrive. On this model, the totality issues from money’s governing center and unfolds as an interlocking cascade of mediation that conditions economic life as a whole. “[T]he hierarchy of money can be thought of as a multitiered pyramid where the tiers represent promises with differing degrees of acceptability,” explains Stephanie Kelton (née Bell). “As the most acceptable money in the hierarchy, the state’s debts serve as both a means of payment and a medium of exchange in private transactions.” Despite its “ideal” status, money’s topological hierarchy is no second-order phenomenon, according to MMT. Money is not a mere “expression” or “representation” of aggregate private value creation, "ascend[ing] from earth to heaven," as Marx asserts in The German Ideology. Instead, MMT supposes that money’s featherweight fiscal center and macro-economic cascade together mobilize a shared material horizon of production and distribution.
There is no treatise on physical gravitation in the MMT corpus. The term “gravity” appears nowhere in MMT’s myriad publications, as far as I have seen. Yet a careful reading of MMT’s texts reveals a subtle inversion in the topological relationship between the ideal and the real that not-so-subtly downgrades gravity’s metaphysical import for critical political economy.
Like Marxism, MMT situates value in the construction and maintenance of a collective material reality. It accordingly rejects Neoclassical utility theory, which roots value in the play of individual preferences. Only, in contrast to Marxism, MMT contends that the production of value is conditioned by money’s abstract fiscal capacity and the hierarchy of mediation it supports. MMT hardly dismisses the pull of physical gravitation on human existence. Rather, it implicitly de-prioritizes gravity’s causality in political and economic processes, showing how the ideal conditions the real via money’s distributed pyramidal structure.
As a consequence of this inversion, MMT lends greater acuity to economic analysis. Still more important, it radically expands the political horizon concerning what is possible under a modern money economy. Indeed, by abandoning physical gravitation as the origin and telos of politics, MMT keys the struggle for political power to a commodious public abstraction, while refusing one-sided denunciations of money as some inevitable fall from grace.
Such ontological distinctions matter for critical work in the humanities. Humanists take pride in scrutinizing the terms and logics that make historical realities intelligible. Frequently, however, when humanists take on the history and potential futures of monetary relations, Marxism’s gravitropic materialism severely contracts the voluminous topology that MMT strives to hold open.
Take the recent work of David Harvey, “Marx, Capital, and the Madness of Economic Reason,” a talk based on his forthcoming book of the same title. Harvey has made important contributions to the overlapping realms of humanities scholarship and social criticism, from his historical-geographical critiques of modernity to his widely-read examinations of postmodern ideology and neoliberal political economy. I have little doubt that Harvey has much to offer us in the future. What worries me about Harvey’s latest project, however, is that it doubles-down on the Marxist laws of motion. In so doing, it blocks the capacious macro-economic Gestalt that MMT makes perceptible, along with the radical political possibilities it makes immediately actionable.
Rather than affirming state spending as the macroeconomic backbone of production and distribution and a powerful weapon for political transformation, Harvey deems decentralized private exchange the threshold of value’s realization and public money as mere “anti-value” and “fictitious capital.” As a result, he imagines the contemporary money relation as an unruly global flux and renders government money just as reckless and ineffectual as private speculation.
Worst of all is the explicit metaphor that anchors Harvey’s forthcoming publication: the water cycle. Appealing to a punishingly gravitropic image, Harvey at once metaphorizes and diagrams the monetary circuit as a water cycle that is spiraling out of control. Drawing on G. W. F. Hegel’s terminology, he brands money’s endless unraveling a “bad infinity,” an infinite regress that leads nowhere but into further crisis. With this, Harvey surmises that our collective future becomes like so many underwater mortgages after the 2007-8 financial crash: foreclosed.
In a sense Harvey is correct: contemporary neoliberalism is grim. Seen through the eyes of MMT, however, the future hardly looks foreclosed. Private debt can become a “bad infinity.” But public money is the best kind of infinity and it constitutes the center around which this forsaken system turns.
Marxism is a rich, heterogeneous project that continues to bear fruit across disciplines. Yet I fear that, unless critical humanists begin to relinquish their own gravitropic attachments, and learn to perceive and think otherwise, Harvey’s bleak diagnosis will almost certainly turn into a self-fulfilling prophesy.
An earlier version first appeared on the site Radical Political Economy.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Thomas Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”
Nes Wordz : Photo Sharon Colbert
It was his smile that first struck me. I was biking home in July, 2016, hearing as I neared the garage my son’s band, New Thousand, practicing their synthesis of hip-hop, classical, and Mediterranean. A young man I didn’t know was coming out: African-American, tall, lanky with a beard, probably in his early thirties. “This is Nes Wordz,” my son Adrian called, introducing me as it turned out to perhaps one of the best hip-hop artists in Ohio. We shook hands; mine slightly sweaty from the long bike ride. But this didn’t matter to Nes.
He had a pharaonic majesty about him without the sneer of judgment, both conciliatory and welcoming. When he smiled, you felt the tensions and contortions of the universe give way, and then a breeze of exaltation.
Nes, it turned out, had come over to talk to Adrian and the others in the band, Max and Alex, about their upcoming performance in a hip-hop festival to be held that weekend in the Wineland Park area of Columbus.
To support them the following week I went down to hear the show, though I felt out of place in every way: race, class, and age. But it was Nes who, in a wordless way, made me feel welcome, lean against the telephone pole and take everything in.
They had set their “stage” in front of someone’s porch and in the twilight of that July evening they began: Adrian on electronic violin, Alex on electronic percussion and Max on synthesizer, Nes, in hip-hop style, improvised on everything.
Photo Adrian Jusdanis
Thrown any word or phrase, without missing a beat, Nes could turn it into a rhyme. It was not only his linguistic virtuosity but also his presence that turned his shows into magnetic, mesmerizing spectacles.
Feeling rapt by the magic, I began to think about how I could bring Nes and his word-craft to the large lecture class I was about to teach at Ohio State, an introduction to classical literature. The improvisation of music and words I had witnessed that evening was Homeric, a street performance without previous planning. It had its roots in a time when art was part of life, not something detached and termed “art,” which you paid money to hear and see.
I considered asking Nes and New Thousand to compose an episode of the Odyssey for my class, to demonstrate how Homer might have functioned in his own society. Wondering if this was a crazy idea, I approached Nes who grinned and told me he loved it. He had enjoyed the Odyssey in school and remembered many details of the poem. As my wife said of Nes, he would put the “rap” back in the “rhapsode,” the Homeric performer.
The next weekend I invited Nes and his manager, Darrio, over for beer and pesto, which turned out to be one of Nes’s favorite meals, so that we could go over various scenarios. Nes wanted to rap about Polyphemus, the one-eyed creature Odysseus blinds in his cave. He seemed taken by the possibility of not simply reciting Homer in hip-hop rhythms — that would have been easy — but of reimaging the Greek bard, of setting him in the “hood,” in Columbus, of translating his language in Nes’s own idiom.
As we approached the day of the performance, Nes seemed maniacal in his determination, changed his approach, revised drafts, called often, stayed up late at night. He wanted to get it right.
When we met we often talked about the seeming incongruity of our collaboration. I was twice his age and we came from parts of the city that hardly communicated with each other. And then there was our race. “Can you believe it, Mr. Jusdanis, you working on Homer with a black rapper!” he once said over dinner. It was Homer and Nes’s heart that made our relationship possible.
On the day of the performance in October 2016 my fingers jittered as I introduced my class to our guest artists, before taking a seat among the students. The magic began. Nes rapped about Big O and the One-eyed P. “I'm a man, tryna reap the spoils of the land, with a big torch placed in my hand.” He made Odysseus into an arrogant “gangsta,” someone selfishly moving through the neighborhood for his own benefit, subjecting everyone around him to his own experience and domination. Nes had given a different slant on Odysseus from that we had taken in class.
In the ensuing discussion he told the students he hoped to rewrite the entire Odyssey and the take it to schools to bring the classics to the street, to unify the high and low, the abstract and the concrete, the black and white. He wanted to call this project “The Black Odyssey.”
When New Thousand migrated to New Orleans, their winter home, I met often with Nes to talk about the next episode: Odysseus’s journey to the land of the dead where he was reunited with his deceased mother and his fallen comrades from Troy. Nes would set this episode in a funeral home where Big O would pay his respects to a dead friend.
We discussed various possibilities the day I invited him over again to share with him some designer clothes my relatives had passed on to me from their own wardrobes. Since I could not wear everything myself, I wanted to share them with my two sons and friends. Sitting on the floor of our sunroom, I threw out to him Brioni shirts, pants by Armani, Versace jackets, and shoes by Salvatore Farragamo. Nes would take them and try them on and reappear with a big grin as comfortable in Christian Dior as in street clothes. “You’ll be the best dressed middle-school teacher in Columbus,” I told him. What he really loved was a leather jacket by Hugo Boss which he wore going out into the cold night.
By early spring our meetings stopped, Nes becoming silent. There was another bag of clothes I wanted to show him and, of course, I wanted to talk about our project. With Adrian in New Orleans, I thought it was best to wait for Nes’s semester at the middle school to end.
The weeks passed. In May I went overseas to a conference and to conduct research. On June 28, 2017 out of the blue I asked Adrian if he had seen Nes in the meantime. And he told me that indeed he had a few days earlier at ComFest, an annual music festival in Columbus, which I had to miss because I was out of town. Just by coincidence Nes had the slot before New Thousand.
Adrian said that Nes was dressed in white, brought his oldest son on the stage, rapped about the difficulties of being black in America, and mentioned his many dead friends. People were dancing on the stage and hundreds on the ground. At one point Nes came forward and threw a stack of dollar bills onto the crowd.
In retrospect, I can only wonder. Did Zeus know? Did God know? Did the cruel fates know that this was going to be his last concert?
At the end of the show and before Adrian got on the stage Nes approached him and said: “I can explain everything.” It was a literary moment, a prelude to the next act. But it was not to come. That night Nes fell and suffered a cerebral hemorrhage. He died a few days later, roughly at the time that Adrian and I were talking about him.
I was in the office when Adrian called and told me to sit down. But I couldn’t. I remember hearing his words but not being able to comprehend them, my mind preferring to think about the sharp pain in my right thigh. That was graspable. Nes’s death was not.
It was not difficult to love Nes, his incomparable smile, his capacity to turn breath into song, and his courage to wear his heart like a Hugo Boss jacket for all to see. As the seventeenth-century poet, Abraham Cowley said about his dead friend, William Hervey, “Large was his soul, as large a soul as e’er/ Submitted to inform a body here.”
When I finally raised my head from my desk, I thought about the books around me that dealt with the dead friend. In the ancient Sumerian epic Gilgamesh asked “What now is this sleep that has seized you?/ Come back to me! You hear me not.” And David in the Hebrew Bible wailed, “I am distressed for thee my brother Jonathan.” John Dryden perhaps captured best my feelings: “Once more, hail and farewell, farewell thou young, / But ah too short, Marcellus of our Tongue.” Nes was like Marcellus, a talented, future Caesar who died without fulfilling his promise.
I sought solace in Tennyson who wrote of his friend, Arthur Hallam:
For I am but an earthly Muse
And owning but a little art
To lull with song an aching heart,
And render human love his due.
In times of grief I have often said to myself that love conquers death. But in the case of Nes, poetry also overcomes life’s passing. Throughout history poetry has attempted to make sense of death by rendering the friend immortal through song. Achilles and Patroclus live forever in Homer’s enchanting verses.
Sometime in the winter Nes sent me a copy of the “Black Odyssey.” I include it here so that it can continue, a first draft, subject to revision.
The Black Odyssey
I'm a man, tryna reap the spoils of the land, with a big torch placed in my hand, I could light up the whole block ya understand, so hot I could make glass from the sand, I'm big O you ain't know who I am, we'll get familiar cuz I'm bout to go in....
From a fight I never ran, I fought many battles and I didn't lose a hand, hopped out the Trojan horse and guns went blam, flawless victory, I'll make you a memory, I'm a king so I know they envy me? Hop out my chariot, all black tints so you haters can't stare in it, tryna get back to my queen that I married got son that I cherish it's crazy I could have anything I want staying at the Marriott, roaming Zeus green earth, tryna get back to my native dirt, but I really can't cuz I know I'm cursed, but I won't never stop now, ima keep trying till my lights out, cuz I got a family that miss me and I fly house, it all started when I put that sucka P's eye out, called his pops up on his celly to tell him bout it , thought he was tough but all in the end he started pouting, should've heard the way he his screams when I did it, he was crying and shouting, asking me what name is, like I was a lame kid, if I didn't do that I could've got away with it, funny how these things happen, who would've thought I'd let somebody get that beat of catch me slippin.
Let me tell you about P from up the street his pops a old school gangsta he be running wit g's, he be holding down the block counting all of the cheese, everybody who cross his path say he is mean, while me and my men we grinding hard, trying to eat, I got a plan to go and get him tie em up for his cream, it's survival, I don't really look at him at as rival, better for him to get it than to do somebody I know, we go in his palace take what we can manage, no more than we can handle, from the jewelry to the chalice, we make our way into the crib, nobody was in, so we took everything that we seen and raided the fridge, time passed, I forgot where I'm at, I'm just chilling in this big house like it's my pad, heard the latch on the door, keys jingle, it's about to go down, gave the signal to my people.
He came in quick, big dude at least 6'6", when he seen us, he was eager to scrap with his fist, didnt flinch put my homies head in the wall, he was putting ppl down left and right with no prob, it was amazing, I couldn't just run in guns blazing, and I wasn't gonna go out with the white flag waving, we should've been in and out to count up at the days inn, but instead we partied in another persons haven, just let me think, what do I do I can't blink, I'm caught red handed my futures looking bleek, everybody round me getting bodied, while I was in hiding I spotted me a shotty, grabbed it up checked it for shells making sure I got a shot, got one, came from round the wall, aimed at his top, caught him in the eye now he blind and he's on the ground, screaming out "who shot me in my eye" I'ma get you clown, I told that my name was no man, he vowed revenge, even if wasn't until he was old man, time to run, dropped the gun, gather up my duns, feeling like a dunce but happy that air still in my lungs, turned around I left and said loudly, my name big O, I'm a king and I say it proudly, he laughed hard and said you made a big mistakes, my father won't be happy to hear what happened today, I hope he find you and kill you he's as powerful as gates, more richer than Buffett, more gangster than frank, better watch ya back and better watch ya place, cuz what you done today it prolly sealed your fate, I look and reply wit a grin that I can't wait, but what he said was real and more problems awaits.
Anyone wishing to contribute to the Nes Wordz Memorial Fund in support of his family please visit this link.
How many of your favorite haunts are going to survive 120 years? Would you be able to recognize your neighborhood in a century? I reflected on these questions when, in May, I flew to Alexandria in search of traces of the Greek-Egyptian poet, C. P. Cavafy (1863-1933), who had spent most of his life there. Collecting information for a biography, I wanted to get a sense of where he had lived and worked, the cafes he had frequented, and the streets he had walked on.
Cavafy’s apartment, my first stop, has been converted into a museum and contains some of his furniture. His office of employment is part of the majestic Metropole Hotel on the Alexandrian waterfront, or corniche. On the ground floor of the Metropole, I visited the “Trianon” restaurant, where Cavafy often dined amidst its art nouveaux splendor.
From there it was only about five minutes back to his house, the Orthodox Church where his funeral was held and then still further to his grave, where, according to one of the guards, a woman comes from Cairo each month to lay fresh flowers.
But the “Billiards Palace,” where he spent much of his time, is long gone along with the cinema, “Rialto,” and his favorite bookstore. Much has disappeared.
Life does go on, however. Next to the hospital where Cavafy died, and around the corner from his house, now stands the “Apollo” gym with huge posters outside of bulging men. What would Cavafy, the poet of homoerotic desire, have made of this irony? But he would have had a hard time recognizing his neighborhood.
It is easy to be nostalgic in Alexandria, to yearn for the literary city created by Cavafy, E. M. Forster, Lawrence Durrell, Naguib Mahfouz, Ibrahim Abdel Meguid, Edwar al-Kharrat, Robert Liddell, Stratis Tsirkas, and Harry E. Tzalas. Writing of the elegant Rue Rosette, today Rue Fouad, Forster said, “it wants to be smart and of a Parisian smartness. Eternally well-dressed people driving infinitely in either direction.”
A visitor can become disenchanted by the crumbling facades, the pollution, and the loss of the city’s multicultural past, when up to the 1950’s it was home to thousands of Greeks, Jews, Italians, Syrians, French, and Lebanese. Alexandria today (like Izmir and Thessaloniki – two other multiethnic cities of the Mediterranean) has become largely monocultural. To mourn the passing of this ethnic diversity has been a trope for westerners who have written about this city and who can’t reconcile today’s poverty and congestion with past grandeur.
We forget, however, that this cosmopolitanism did not accommodate the bulk of the Egyptian population. Cavafy himself knew little Arabic. While his poetry treated Alexandria like a modernist poem, a utopia of “faultlessly beautiful” young men, it was blind to the actual city. “And naked feet unheard of in your verses,” wrote the English poet, D. J. Enright in his “To Cavafy, of Alexandria.”
Most Europeans had very little to do with the Egyptian masses. But then when do intellectual or economic elites mix with the lower social orders? Do they do so in today’s Columbus, Istanbul, Lagos, or Quito? We blame Cavafy’s Alexandria for practices of exclusion we tacitly accept in our own lives.
Is this cosmopolitanism really dead today In Alexandria? I used to think so until I went there and experienced the vestiges of ethnic and religious mixing and an openness to the Other. Emblematic of this attitude was Zahraa, who spent two days showing me around the city, including – much to my surprise – the house of Daphne du Maurier, where she had made initial sketches for Rebecca. Her family has been in Alexandria for seven generations, with her various grandparents being of Greek-Sudanese, Turkish-Moroccan, and Judeo-Greek background.
Sitting with her in the tranquil courtyard of the Orthodox Patriarchate of Alexandria, I spoke with a priest who ministers to the Orthodox faithful in Mali, Burkina Faso, Sierra Leone, and Ghana. A Jordanian Bedouin and fluent in Arabic, Greek, and English, he argued passionately — via a video on his phone — that no one is ethnically or racially pure. His life’s mission has been to embrace the Other as someone different from oneself.
And when we climbed up the two flights of stairs to Cavafy’s house afterwards, Mohammed, who has been the keeper of the museum for 25 years and who has taught himself Greek and English, also promoted this perspective. He wanted to be known as Mohammed Cavafy, to show that the Greek and the Egyptian, Muslim and Christian could coexist, that Alexandria was a “hybrid,” as Durrell said in Justine. When I asked people what Alexandria means today, they pointed to this peaceful interaction among communities.
This sense of mutual coexistence was forced upon me one evening. Looking for a restaurant along Salah Salem St., I felt someone yanking my arm into a shop. Feeling generally safe in the city, I was startled by this act of violence and tried to pull away. But when I turned around to look at my assailant, I saw the smiling grin of Mahmoud, my barber.
I had appeared in his shop the day before, pointed to my hair and made scissor-like movements with my two fingers. Not knowing Arabic, I sat silently in the chair until he asked awkwardly “where from?” When I answered “Younan” (Greece), I could see his face beaming in the mirror. Then he tried to explain, I think, that his grandfather was Greek. At one moment he blurted out the only Greek he knew: “S’agapo” – I love you.
I understood that he wanted to link us with this powerful phrase. Without the self-consciousness and worldly knowledge of the priest at the Patriarchate, he too strived for moments of global empathy.
So did the architect who was described to me as the city’s last cosmopolitan. On the eve of Ramadan, this cultivated and humane man, who has struggled to preserve the city’s architectural past, invited me to dinner. In his sumptuous villa, filled with objects and art of the city’s past, I met people who represented the ethnic and religious mixing of the Mediterranean. In their sixties and seventies, they were a connection to Cavafy’s world, speaking primarily Arabic but easily switching to English or French and a few in Greek.
Amongst them was Georges a product and symbol of this Mediterranean crucible. To my astonishment, his grandmother had actually known Cavafy, even though she had disapproved of him, probably because of his homosexuality. When she discovered that young Georges had been reading Cavafy’s poetry in school, she dismissed it curtly, saying “c’est abominable!” On my last evening I met Georges in the Greek Athletic Club for a final conversation about Cavafy and about Lawrence Durrell whom he met one morning at the famed Cecil Hotel.
Before sitting down at our table, Georges pointed across the field to his former school, built in the late-nineteenth century by the Greek community. Largely empty, it had only a handful of pupils now.
After our meal we rode the tram back to the Metropole Hotel, the tram that Cavafy and his friends used to take to the Casino in Ramleh (now torn down for a new Four Seasons Hotel), the same tram-line where E. M. Forster met Mohammed, his first and only passionate love who died in his early twenties. It was hard not to be melancholic – Mohammed’s premature death, the probable closure of the Georges’ school, the demise of the Greek community, the dilapidation of once-grand architecture. So much loss.
Yet the streets around us were filling up with people celebrating the end of the day’s fast. The cafes and restaurants, empty the whole day, were suddenly alive. The Athineos restaurant, refurbished and modernized, was beckoning another generation of Alexandrians. While it was not the place Cavafy frequented, it used the name nevertheless and served similar food, along with hamburgers, its neon sign projecting Greek words!
Nostalgia is our reaction to rapid social change, expressing our desire to return back to a time we imagine as happier and more innocent. Cavafy’s cosmopolitanism was an ideal we cannot recreate. But neither should we dismiss it, as many are want to do, because of its imperfections and injustices.
In a week when Isis terrorists had butchered scores of Coptic Christians in Upper Egypt and when Trump withdrew from the Paris Accord on climate change, we ignore this model of coexistence at our peril.
How this ends:
a) Mossad activates sleeper agent Rahm Emanuel, who takes out Trump with quiet efficiency; or
b) Rogue elements of the FBI, probably the New York office, flip and reveal both October surprise and Comey firing arranged by a Cypriot mafia associate of Kushner; or
c) Russian Chekists take out Priebus and Kellyanne with polonium-tainted TV bronzer, leave Bannon in place; or
d) Steve Miller flips, takes out Bannon, Mercer, and UKIP while he’s at it; or
e) CIA activates secret dossiers on 5 Republican Senators, who suddenly out of patriotic conscience decide to turn on Trump; or
f) Mutiny against Paul Ryan in the House by just enough imperilled GOP Reps to join with Democrats in impeachment articles; or
g) Melania and Ivanka stage a coup to save i) Barron and ii) The Brand; or
h) Ivanka and Jared persuade him the jig is up; all flee to newly-created posh golf resort somewhere in the Crimea; or
i) The George III Option: Trump declared unfit by reason of insanity and a dissolute Regent is named (probably Jared); or
j) KGB assassins blocked in the Rose Garden by Shaolin monks sent by Chinese oligarchs who want to protect their exclusive path to visas; or
k) Both parties realize that a cabal within the GOP has been totally corrupted by the billionaire donor class, belatedly enact campaign reform; or
l) Billionaires squeezed by the CIA, all forced to flee to Cayman Islands where they live out lives in increasingly dismal FyreFestival scenario; or
m) Both parties realize that the core of irrational white supremacy that Nixon bought so dearly for the GOP must be combatted root and branch, like the “constitutional protections” prohibitions against Nazism in postwar Germany; or
n) Fox News labelled an enemy of the state; whole operation flees to Quebec where it starts dismantling Canada; or
o) Rupert Murdoch revealed as Russian agent, all property seized and forfeited; The Guardian buys Sky; or
p) Evangelicals kill Trump to install their Messiah Pence; blame Obama; theocratic regime installed; or
q) Trump, stressed, overdoses on diet pills and has a stroke; or
r) Twitter taken down by massive hacking wave, during which everyone in the line of succession UP TO ORRIN HATCH disappears; or
s) Trump’s second scoop of ice cream is sprinkled with arsenic by the person who runs Rogue Potus Staff twitter account (who is probably a cook); or
t) Louise Mensch and Jill Stein join to form a ruling cabal of Bad Women; or
u) Obama recalled from retirement by popular acclaim, like Cincinnatus called from the plow; National Unity Government formed; or
v) Inspired by Thankful Flower emoji, massive emotional popular movement drives people into streets in praise of empathy and welcome to strangers; they give ecstasy to the GOP and all the guns melt; or
w) French army troops land on Cape Cod; greeted with grateful tears and flowers; or
x) Russian democracy activist kills Putin, is instantly strangled by Putin’s pet bear; or
y) Malia and Chelsea rob Wall Street, use the money to instate Universal Basic Income, or finally
z) Law is passed that no men may vote; women assume all elective office and country returns to normal.
The debate between Juan Gines de Sepúlveda and Bartolomé de Las Casas held in Valladolid, Spain in 1550 was the culmination of some forty years of agonizing policy discussions over the rights of Spain to the New World. The encounter at Valladolid has produced numerous influential critical interpretations in the centuries since. Lewis Hanke, for example, reads it as a prolonged discussion over “justice” pitting Aristotelians against each other. Anthony Pagden cast the debate as one aimed at either justifying or undermining dominium via evolutionary and comparative ethnographies. Rolena Adorno, more recently, argued that it was a polemics not over how to identify the “truth,” but over persuasion. Every party involved in the debate sought to move powerful patrons to change policy, engendering different literary genres in order to push their agendas. 
In The Matter of Empire: Metaphysics and Mining in Colonial Peru (Pittsburgh, 2017), Orlando Bentacor approaches this debate differently. Betancor frames Iberian Neo-Scholasticism as a “metaphysics of handiwork” and invites the reader to see Aristotle not only as an interpreter of “barbarians” but also of matter itself. Aristotle’s notions of causation and change are strange: an artisanal nature handcrafts each individual object with specialized tools and blueprints. Nature uses tools (efficient cause) to give form (formal cause) to shapeless matter (material cause), always with a purpose in mind (final cause).
Nature behaves like an artisan. Diego Saavedra Fajardo-Idea Principis Christiano-Politici (Brussels,1649)
Betancor complicates the picture by highlighting that Nature was seen not as a lone artisan but as a guild. Nature was organized along a hierarchical scale of artisanal skills in a world in which not all trades were equal. A navigator who used portolans and cross-staffs to sail a ship was above the shipbuilder who used saws and hammers to build it. The ship-builder, in turn, was above the woodcutter who used axes to fell trees. Aristotle’s Nature was a complex, hierarchical community of materials, blueprints, tools, and guilds.
This thoroughly anthropomorphic Aristotelian model of causation, in turn, not only interpreted nature but sociology and political philosophy as well. Humans were artisans who created polities in the same way that nature transformed objects. To explain the workings of societies, scholars set out to find material, formal, efficient and final causes. Laws were the “form” that shaped the “matter” that were communities. Rulers were the “efficient” cause; the common good was the “final” cause. Princes were craft makers of commonwealths.
The Prince as artisan-weaver. Juan Solórzano Pereira- Emblemata regis politica in centuriam (Madrid, 1653)
Betancor shows that Neo-Scholastics deployed this metaphysics of handiwork to justify conquest and colonization. The Matter of Empire begins with Francisco de Vitoria, the famous Dominican professor at the University of Salamanca whose ideas about the Spanish rights to conquest allegedly shaped modern international law. The Aristotelian that he was, Vitoria understood America as an artisanal workshop. Vitoria saw the differences between Europeans and Indians as those between “form” and “matter.” The natives were the clay upon which the artisanal Europeans would sculpt new men. Vitoria posited that polities could not only be an “efficient cause” for the commonwealth but also a "material cause" upon which outsiders could impose blueprints.
Betancor analyses how Vitoria understood the autonomous polity through the prism of the four Aristotelian causes. Laws were the “form” that shaped the “matter” that were communities. Princes were craft makers of commonwealths. They were also artisans of war. According to Betancor, Vitoria did not justify mindless dispossession and slavery in the Americas. He did, however, justify the natural rights of Europeans to travel, trade, and evangelize in lands over which Europeans had no sovereignty. Indigenous resistance to these alleged European rights justified just war, and, thus, slavery and dispossession. Bentancor sees Vitoria caught in a contradiction of his own making: the sovereign was summoned to declare war to maintain trade and commerce (and mining). Trade and commerce, in turn, was necessary to maintain the sovereign. Vitoria posited an endlessly mutually-reinforcing cycle of colonial expansion and violence all in the name of peace.
Betancor seizes on Vitoria’s aporia to explore Juan Gines de Sepúlveda’s solution to the problem of justifying colonialism through reason. Sepúlveda, he argues, simply understood the Indian to be the matter-clay over which the law-reason of Spanish “form” should act. The Spanish commonwealth was to be the artisan who would stamp form-law onto the pliable matter that was Indian polities. Natural slavery was justified through the metaphysics of handiwork. This was a position that would be refuted by Sepúlveda’s opponent at the Valladolid debate, Fray Bartolomé de las Casas.
Juan Gines de Sepulveda. Opera, cum edita, tum inedita, 4 v. (Madrid, 1780)
Las Casas understood indigenous communities as perfect, autonomous communities with formal, material, efficient, and final causes of their own. Indians were full artisans of their commonwealths. To postulate otherwise was heretical since it implied that God had created an entire continent of incomplete humans. To be a human was to be an autonomous creator of communities. According to Las Casas, the perfection of nature ruled out the very category of the incomplete barbarian or natural slave whose teleological purpose (final cause) could only be realized through the exertion of outside force. The natives were the efficient cause of perfect polities, not the material cause upon which others could impose blueprints.
Betancor’s interpretation of another colonial theorist, José de Acosta, is just as intriguing. He argues that Acosta shifted constantly between soft Lascasian and harsh Sepulvedan justifications of colonialism. The novelty, however, is that Acosta incorporated the peculiar nature of New World metals into his political analysis. Acosta found America full of metals waiting to realize their teleological purpose (final cause), namely, their transformation into currency. Acosta found in the continent the providential reason (final cause) for its own colonization. The precious metals of America were the material foundation (matter) upon which the efficient cause that that was the Monarquía de España could be built. Betancor highlights the aporia haunting Acosta’s understanding of colonialism: labor in the mines meant certain death and, yet, was necessary for the global monarchy to exist.
For Spain to rule the world, Providence and the Sun have produced veins of gold within mountains. Diego Saavedra Fajardo-Idea Principis Christiano-Politici (Brussels,1649)
Betancor then offers a fascinating study of the Toledan reforms in Peru in the 1570s, which included the introduction of the mita in the mines of Potosí (silver) and Huancavelica (mercury), the resettlement of entire indigenous communities, and the destruction of the neo-Inca state of Vilcabamba. Betancor offers a persuasive interpretation of a critical juncture in the history of the Iberian Empire. He sheds light on how Spain shifted the justification of empire away from the transcendental (saving the soul of the natives) towards the instrumental. At this turning point, the goal of empire was no longer to convert and save souls but to keep silver flowing to save the imperial whole from its numerous enemies, Protestant and Ottoman.
The Toledan reforms had two central goals. One the one hand, the demotion of the Inca as the natural lords of Peru into newly arrived tyrants. On the other, the shift from silver obtained through smelting and furnaces to silver obtained through amalgamation in patios. The shift from furnaces to amalgamation signified a shift into economies of scale in silver production. It also brought about the introduction of a discourse of alchemy and the self-generation of metals in veins of the earth.
Indigenous furnaces. Antonio Barba, Arte de los Metales (Madrid, 1645)
Images of the patio amalgamation system. In Bartolomé Arzáns de Orsúa y Vela, Historia de la Villa Imperial de Potosí. (1705-1736). Archivo y Biblioteca Nacionales de Bolivia
But amalgamation could only work through the forced mobilization of indigenous communities into the man-eating silver and mercury mines of Potosí and Huancavelica. For this to happen, the Lascasian Peruvian project of devolving power to the Inca elites had to be crushed. Juan de Matienzo, Pedro Gamboa de Sarmiento, and other intellectuals surrounding the Viceroy Toledo created new, powerful historical accounts that sought to delegitimize the Inca as natural lords while at the same time legitimating age-old Andean systems of labor mobilization. The consequence of all these changes, Betancor argues, was the justifying of the scale of suffering in the mines as the unintended yet necessary consequence of maintaining the empire. Instrumental reason thus became Machiavellian reason-of-state.
Juan Solórzano Pereira. Disputationem de Indiarum Iure (Madrid 1629)
In the final chapter, Betancor turns to Juan de Solórzano Pereira as an early seventeenth-century figure who did away with Vitoria’s reason and natural law as justification for possession. Solórzano saw history and time as sufficient foundation, even for empires that could have originated though illegal and tyrannical means.
Like Acosta, Solórzano found the mita system to be aberrant and possibly illegal. Yet, in the midst of a general decline and malaise that enveloped Spain, Solórzano found it to be, well, unavoidable. In fact, Betancor argues that Solórzano found the solution to the exploitation of the mita in the opening of even more mines. The crisis of Potosi, produced by both the exhaustion of veins and indigenous demographic collapse, could only be resolved by the opening of new mines and by the alchemical re-production of the mineral veins within the earth. Sepúlveda’s vision was one of an endless recreation of labor exploitation and ecological exhaustion. Betancor closes this fascinating book by observing that Andean vitalism that sees minerals as self-generating cannot naively be read as “decolonial” answers to Spanish colonialism. They were just part of the unraveling system of contradictory discourses.
Betancor succeeds in bringing together Heidegger and Marx’s apparently antithetical understandings of the crisis of modernity, either as “enframing” (the reduction of the toolmaker into a tool) or as “deterritorialization” (a self-perpetuating loop of capital accumulation for accumulation’s sake that destroys institutions and communities). His prose is abstruse and demands from readers a full understanding of Aristotelian theories of causation. Yet underneath his dense yet unrelentingly rigorous analysis lies a powerfully gripping new interpretation of colonial imperial discourses.
Review of Orlando Bentacor’s The Matter of Empire: Metaphysics and Mining in Colonial Peru (Pittsburgh, 2017).
 Lewis Hanke, The Spanish Struggle for Justice in the Conquest of America (Southern Methodist University Press, 1949); Anthony Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man: The American Indian and the Origins of Comparative Ethnology (Cambridge University Press, 1982); Rolena Adorno, Polemics of Possession in Spanish American Narrative (Yale University Press, 2007)
I met Irakli on the flight from Munich to Tbilisi. Being used to the indifference of fellow passengers on American flights, I did not expect more than a perfunctory greeting upon taking my seat. But rather than ontological rejection, Irakli offered conversation and later dinner in one of his restaurants.
I was coming to Tbilisi, along with my son, Alexander, to give three talks at various universities, get to know the city, and visit some monasteries in the eastern part of the country. Since Georgia seemed to be opening up as a travel destination, I thought I should see Tbilisi before it became another Prague, inundated by westerners writing their first novels.
Even in our first walk, we were taken by the city’s topography and architecture. Built along the banks of the Kura River, Tbilisi shows the influences of the many peoples and empires that have marched through the area. The old city, where we stayed, follows the here-and-there street pattern of medieval times. Brick houses have balconies that are sometimes enclosed and painted in Ottoman fashion. Other houses have multicolored roof tiles that add to the whimsical effect.
The museums tend to be in the modern part of the town, especially along the elegant Rustaveli Avenue, where the neoclassical lives along the art nouveau, pseudo-Moorish, and the Soviet Stalinist. Surrounding the city we saw churches erected on high hills or rocks that, when illuminated at night, seemed suspended in air.
The interior spaces were just as fanciful. On our fist day we stopped for tea in a café on the third floor of a brick building that resembled a Victorian parlor and before my first lecture we had lunch in a restaurant whose interior décor and fixtures indicated Iranian influences.
Sitting in this café I tried repeatedly to call Irakli with no success. Frustratingly my emails to him had also bounced back. I finally reached him the next day by phone as we descended a steep mountain whose summit housed a monastery so isolated that not even our Georgian driver had seen it previously. Relieved that I finally called, Irakli told me that he and his wife, Anna, would pick us up that evening.
After a day of hiking and, in my case after being almost bitten by two dogs, we looked forward to dinner in one of our host’s restaurants, an energetic, modern space with high ceiling and an open kitchen that specializes in Georgian cuisine. As we sat down Irakli explained that, since we would be toasting quite a bit during the meal, he ordered a light rosé.
“How much is in that carafe,” I asked after the waitress brought it to the table. “About a liter and a half,” he responded, adding that we would need two more during the whole evening. Although we as guests were not expected to do so, it was traditional to gulp down the entire glass with each toast.
The feast lasted four hours, one delicacy after another, in what must have been about 16 to 20 plates. But for Alexander and me what was remarkable was the ritual of the toast. As we discovered, toasting in Georgia is not a gesture of hurriedly mumbling “to your health.” Each round is an elegant process that can last as long as five minutes. Never abruptly introduced, every toast is incorporated naturally into the dinner.
As tamada master, Irakli determined when and what we would drink to. In the course of the conversation he would turn to the next toast unobtrusively, say about peace, motherhood, or Georgia, and then go into a long and eloquent discourse. We would finish the toast and then return to the dialogue while more plates were brought to the table.
I listened to Irakli’s lovely words, also appreciating the diversity of flavors we were offered. But, as a foreign guest, I began to worry about my own role in the process. Should I make a toast myself? So without the deftness of my host, I simply raised my glass to friendship. At that point Anna and Irakli looked at me with surprise. What had I done, I wondered? Had I committed a faux pas?
With the same finesse that he introduced his toasts, Irakli explained that only the tamada is permitted to make toast and, on top of that, a drink to friendship requires distinctive vessels. So we stopped everything as Irakli ordered special clay bowls that he filled with wine for this occasion only.
When this distinctive toast was over, I asked Irakli about his friends. He told me that he saw his two to three times a week. “How is it possible,” I asked, “that as an owner of so many restaurants, a husband, and father of three children, that you could see friends so often?” My questions seemed incomprehensible to him. How he could not see them, he wondered. To his horror I said that I did not know a single person in the United States past their early twenties who met friends with such frequency.
So I turned to Anna, a well-known surgeon. She couldn’t possibly have much time for friendship, given her professional and family obligations. Before answering, Anna smiled impishly, turned her head to the right, blew out some cigarette smoke and then said that she saw her friends twice a week.
What gives? How can they see their friends so often and we don’t? Of course, Irakli’s and Anna’s situation is not unique. In other parts of the world a friendship culture seems to thrive. In Salta, Northern Argentina, for instance, our guide, Mario, who led us through mountain hikes a couple of years ago, told me that his group organized an asado (outdoor grill) every Wednesday. It was assumed that everyone would attend and friends only texted Mario if they could not.
So why not in the US? Is it because in western societies marriage and family have become antagonists of friendship, making people subservient to family at the expense of non-kinship relations? (Surely in no other part of the world do exhausted parents drive their over-booked children to ever more soccer games and piano lessons.) Has the American family become a suffocating institution, not tolerating any competition? Or has geographical mobility undermined the tight relationships of friendship? After all, Irakli, Anna, and Mario can get together so often because they live so close to each other. Or has friendship been converted into a luxury, like literature and art, activities which people pursue only when they have spare time?
I thought about these questions during our drive the next day to eastern Georgia, in search of monasteries below the snowy Caucasus Mountains and almost on the border of Azerbaijan. Over many hours we visited fanciful structures with cone-shaped domes either perched on high hills or guarded by tall walls. When just before sunset we stopped for tea in the house of our driver, along with Mariam and Diana, our hosts, I wondered whether in western societies the family has become the new monasticism. Is the American family the equivalent of these remote monasteries in the Caucasus, isolating people from the outside world?
I addressed this issue during my presentation at the Caucasus International University where a working group on peace and conflict resolution had invited me to consider how literature could contribute to world peace. During the discussion earnest students asked me how works of literature could enable coexistence between peoples, say, between Armenia and Azerbaijan.
While I could not offer any direct hope in that situation, I tried to argue that literature promotes empathic thinking by encouraging people to step out of their consciousness and enter the mind of characters in a story. I suggested that if readers could put themselves in the shoes of a literary character, they could also try to do so with respect to real people — their enemies, refugees, or anyone they are not familiar or related to.
I also proposed that this is what friendship does as well. Friends are the first links we form as children outside of the family. Our friends urge us to open up to individuals beyond our house by encouraging us to acknowledge that other people have their own perspectives, just as we do. At the very least, friendship is a way of recognizing that those next to us have a valid way of looking at the world, even though it’s different from our own. The friend, as Aristotle has suggested, is a version of the self. We form friends by interacting with others.
Friendship somehow linked our dinner with Irakli and Anna, our drive to the Caucasus Mountains, and our final discussions in Tbilisi on conflict resolution. Friends inspire us to escape the monasticism of our thinking by asking us to embrace people who live outside our home.
There’s all this talk that robots will replace humans in the workplace, leaving us poor, redundant schmucks with nothing to do but embrace the glorious (yet terrifying) creative potential of opiates and ennui. (Let it be noted that bumdom was all the rage in the 19th century, leading to the surging ecstasies of Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and the crown priest of hermeticism (and my all-time favorite poet besides Sappho*), Stéphane Mallarmé**).
As I’ve argued in a previous post, I think that’s bollocks. But I also think it’s worth thinking about what cognitive, services-oriented jobs could and should look like in the next 20 years as technology advances. Note that I’m restricting my commentary to professional services work, as the manufacturing, agricultural, and transportation (truck and taxi driving) sectors entail a different type of work activity and are governed by different economic dynamics. They may indeed be quite threatened by emerging artificial intelligence (AI) technologies.
So, here we go.
I’m currently reading Yuval Noah Harari’s latest book, Homo Deus, and the following passage caught my attention:
“In fact, as time goes by it becomes easier and easier to replace humans with computer algorithms, not merely because the algorithms are getting smarter, but also because humans are professionalizing. Ancient hunter-gatherers mastered a very wide variety of skills in order to survive, which is why it would be immensely difficult to design a robotic hunter-gatherer. Such a robot would have to know how to prepare spear points from flint stones, find edible mushrooms in a forest, track down a mammoth and coordinate a charge with a dozen other hunters, and afterwards use medicinal herbs to bandage any wounds. However, over the last few thousand years we humans have been specializing. A taxi driver or a cardiologist specializes in a much narrower niche than a hunter-gatherer, which makes it easier to replace them with AI. As I have repeatedly stressed, AI is nowhere near human-like existence. But 99 per cent of human qualities and abilities are simply redundant for the performance of most modern jobs. For AI to squeeze humans out of the job market it needs only to outperform us in the specific abilities a particular profession demands.”
Harari is at his best critiquing liberal humanism. He features Duchamp’s ready-made art as the apogee of humanist aesthetics, where beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
This is astute. I love how Harari debunks the false impression that the human race progresses over time. We tend to be amazed upon seeing the technical difficulty of ancient works of art at the Met or the Louvre, assuming History (big H intended) is a straightforward, linear march from primitivism towards perfection. While culture and technologies are passed down through language and traditions from generation to generation, shaping and changing how we interact with one another and with the physical world, how we interact as a collective and emerge into something way beyond our capacities to observe, this does not mean that the culture and civilization we inhabit today is morally superior to those that came before, or those few that still exist in the remote corners of the globe. Indeed, primitive hunter-gatherers, given the broad range of tasks they had to carry out to survive prior to Adam Smith’s division of labor across a collective, may have a skill set more immune to the “cognitive” smarts of new technologies than a highly educated, highly specialized service worker!
This reveals something about both the nature of AI and the nature of the division of labor in contemporary capitalism arising from industrialism. First, it helps us understand that intelligent systems are best viewed as idiot savants, not Renaissance Men. They are specialists, not generalists. As Tom Mitchell explains in the opening of his manifesto on machine learning:
“We say that a machine learns with respect to a particular task T, performance metric P, and type of experience E, if the system reliably improves its performance P at task T, following experience E. Depending on how we specify T, P, and E, the learning task might also be called by names such as data mining, autonomous discovery, database updating, programming by example, etc.”
Confusion about super-intelligent systems stems from the popular misunderstanding of the word “learn,” which is a term with a specific meaning in the machine learning community. The learning of machine learning, as Mitchell explains, does not mean perfecting a skill through repetition or synthesizing ideas to create something new. It means updating the slope of your function so as to better fit new data as it arrives. In deep learning, these functions need not be simple, 2-D lines like we learn in middle school algebra: they can be incredibly complex curves that transverse thousands of dimensions (which we have a hard time visualizing, leading to tools like t-SNE that compress multi-dimensional math into the comfortable space-time parameters of human cognition).
t-SNE reminds me of Edwin Abbott’s Flatland, where dimensions signify different social castes.
The AI research community is making baby steps in the dark trying to create systems with more general intelligence, i.e., systems that reliably perform more than one task. OpenAI Universe and DeepMind Lab are the most exciting attempts. At the Future Labs AI Summit this week, Facebook’s Yann LeCun discussed (largely failed) attempts to teach machines common sense. We tend to think that highly skilled tasks like diagnosing pneumonia from an X-ray or deeming a tax return in compliance with the IRS code require more smarts than intuiting that a Jenga tower is about to fall or perceiving that someone may be bluffing in a poker game. But these physical and emotional intuitions are, in fact, incredibly difficult to encode into mathematical models and functions. Our minds are probabilistic, plastic approximation machines, constantly rewiring themselves to help us navigate the physical world. This is damn hard to replicate with math, no matter how many parameters we stuff into a model! It may also explain why the greatest philosophers in history have always had room to revisit and question the givens of human experience****, infinitely more interesting and harder to describe than the specialized knowledge that populates academic journals.
Next, it is precisely this specialization that renders workers susceptible to being replaced by machines. I’m not versed enough in the history of economics to know how and when specialization arose, but it makes sense that there is a tight correlation between specialization, machine coordination, and scale, as R. David Dixon recently discussed in his excellent Medium article about machines and the division of labor. Some people are drawn to startups because they are the antithesis of specialization. You get to wear multiple hats, doubling, as I do in my role at Fast Forward Labs, as sales, marketing, branding, partnerships, and even consulting and services delivery. Guild work used to work this way, as in the nursery rhyme Rub-a-dub-dub: the butcher prepared meat from end to end, the baker made bread from end to end, and the candlestick maker made candles from end to end. As Dixon points out, tasks and the time it takes to do tasks become important once the steps in a given work process are broken apart, leading to theories of economic specialization as we see in Adam Smith, Henry Ford, and, in their modern manifestation, the cold, harsh governance of algorithms and KPIs. The corollary of scale is mechanism, templates, repetition, efficiency. And the educational system we’ve inherited from the late 19th century is tailored and tuned to farm out skilled, specialized automatons who fit nicely into the specific roles required by corporate machines like Google or Goldman Sachs.
Frederick Taylor pioneered the scientific management theories that shaped factories in the 20th century, culminating in process methodologies like Lean Six Sigma
This leads to the core argument I’d like to put forth in this post: the right educational training and curriculum for the AI-enabled job market of the 21st century should create generalists, not specialists. Intelligent systems will get better and better at carrying out specific activities and specific tasks on our behalf. They’ll do them reliably. They won’t get sick. They won’t have fragile egos. They won’t want to stay home and eat ice cream after a breakup. They can and should take over this specialized work to drive efficiencies and scale. But, machines won’t be like startup employees any time soon. They won’t be able to reliably wear multiple hats, shifting behavior and style for different contexts and different needs. They won’t be creative problem solvers, dreamers, or creators of mission. We need to educate the next generation of workers to be more like startup employees. We need to bring back respect for the generalist. We need the honnête homme of the 17th century or Arnheim*** in Robert Musil’s Man Without Qualities. We need hunter-gatherers who may not do one thing fabulously, but have the resiliency to do a lot of things well enough to get by.
What types of skills should these AI-resistant generalists have and how can we teach them?Flexibility and Adaptability
Andrew Ng is a pithy tweeter. He recently wrote: “The half-life of knowledge is decreasing. That’s why you need to keep learning your whole life, not only through college.”
This is sound. The apprenticeship model we’ve inherited from the guild days, where the father-figure professor passes down his wisdom to the student who becomes assistant professor then associate professor then tenured professor then stays there for the rest of his life only to repeat the cycle in the next generation, should probably just stop. Technologies are advancing quickly, which open opportunities to automate tasks that we used to do manually or do new things we couldn’t do before (like summarizing 10,000 customer reviews on Amazon in a second, as the system my colleagues at Fast Forward Labs built). Many people fear change and there are emotional hurdles to having to break out of habits and routine and learn something new. But honing the ability to recognize that new technologies are opening new markets and new opportunities will be seminal to succeeding in a world where things constantly change. This is not to extol disruption. That’s infantile. It’s to accept and embrace the need to constantly learn to stay relevant. That’s exciting and even meaningful. Most people wait until they retire to finally take the time to paint or learn a new hobby. What if work itself offered the opportunity to constantly expand and take on something new? That doesn’t mean that everyone will be up to the challenge of becoming a data scientist over night in some bootcamp. So the task universities and MOOCs have before them is to create curricula that will help laymen update their skills to stay relevant in the future economy.Interdisciplinarity
From the late 17th to mid 18th centuries, intellectual giants like Leibniz, D’Alembert, and Diderot undertook the colossal task of curating and editing encyclopedias (the Greek etymology means “in the circle of knowledge”) to represent and organize all the world’s knowledge (Google and Wikipedia being the modern manifestations of the same goal). These Enlightenment powerhouses all assumed that the world was one, and that our various disciplines were simply different prisms that refracted a unified whole. The magic of the encyclopedia lay in the play of hyperlinks, where we could see the connections between things as we jumped from physics to architecture to Haitian voodoo, all different lenses we mere mortals required to view what God (for lack of a better name) would understand holistically and all at once.
Contemporary curricula focused on specialization force students to grow myopic blinders, viewing phenomena according to the methodologies and formalisms unique to a particular course of study. We then mistake these different ways of studying and asking questions for literally different things and objects in the world and in the process develop prejudices against other tastes, interests, and preferences.
There is a lot of value in doing the philosophical work to understand just what our methodologies and assumptions are, and how they shape how we view problems and ask and answer questions about the world. I think one of the best ways to help students develop sensitivities for methodologies is to have them study a single topic, like climate change, energy, truth, beauty, emergence, whatever it may be, from multiple disciplinary perspectives. So understanding how physics studies climate change; how politicians study climate change; how international relations study climate change; how authors have portrayed climate change and its impact on society in recent literature. Stanford’s Thinking Matters and the University of Chicago’s Social Thought programs approach big questions this way.
The 18th-century Encyclopédie placed vocational knowledge like embroidery on equal footing with abstract knowledge of philosophy or religion.
Michael Lewis does a masterful job narrating the lifelong (though not always strong) partnership between Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky in The Undoing Project. Kahneman and Tversky spent their lives showing how we are horrible probabilistic thinkers. We struggle with uncertainty and have developed all sorts of narrative and heuristic mental techniques to make our world make more concrete sense. Unfortunately, we need to improve our statistical intuitions to succeed in the world of AI, which are probabilistic systems that output responses couched in statistical terms. While we can hide this complexity behind savvy design choices, really understanding how AI works and how it may impact our lives requires that we develop intuitions for how models, well, model the world. At least when I was a student 10 years ago, statistics was not required in high school or undergrad. We had to take geometry, algebra, and calculus, not stats. It seems to make sense to make basic statistics a mandatory requirement for contemporary curricula.Synthetic and Analogical Reasoning
There are a lot of TED Talks about brains and creativity. People love to hear about the science of making up new things. Many interesting breakthroughs in the history of philosophy or physics came from combining together two strands of thought that were formerly separate: the French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, whose unintelligibility is besides the point, cleverly combined linguistic theory from Ferdinand Saussure with psychoanalytic theory from Sigmund Freud to make his special brand of analysis; the Dutch physicist Erik Verlinde cleverly combined Newton and Maxwell’s equations with information theory to come to the stunning conclusion that gravity emerges from entropy (which is debated, but super interesting).
As we saw above, AI systems aren’t analogical or synthetic reasoners. In law, for example, they excel at classification tasks to identify if a piece of evidence is relevant for a given matter, but they fail at executing other types of reasoning tasks like identifying that the facts of a particular case are similar to the facts of another to merit a comparison using precedent. Technology cases help illustrate this. Data privacy law, for example, frequently thinks about our right to privacy in the virtual world through reference back to Katz v. United States, a 1967 case featuring a man making illegal gambling bets from a phone booth. Topic modeling algorithms would struggle to recognize that words connoting phones and bets had a relationship to words connoting tracking sensors on the bottom of trucks (as in United States v. Jones). But lawyers and judges use Katz as precedent to think through this brave new world, showing how we can see similarities between radically different particulars from a particular level of abstraction.
Does this mean that, like stats, everyone should take a course on the basics of legal reasoning to make sure they’re relevant in the AI-enabled world? That doesn’t feel right. I think requiring coursework in the arts and humanities could do the trick.Framing Qualitative Ideas as Quantitative Problems
A final skill that seems paramount for the AI-enabled economy is the ability to translate an idea into something that can be measured. Not everyone needs to be able to this, but there will be good jobs—and more and more jobs—for the people who can.
This is the data science equivalent of being able to go from strategy to tactical execution. Perhaps the hardest thing in data science, in particular as tooling becomes more ubiquitous and commoditized, is to figure out what problems are worth solving and what products are worth building. This requires working closely with non-technical business leaders who set strategy and have visions about where they’d like to go. But it takes a lot of work to break down a big idea into a set of small steps that can be represented as a quantitative problem, i.e., translated into some sort of technology or product. This is also synthetic and interdisciplinary thinking. It requires the flexibility to speak human and speak machine, to prioritize projects and have a sense for how long it will take to build a system that does what it needs to do, to render the messy real-world tractable for computation. Machines won’t be automating this kind of work anytime soon, so it’s a skill set worth building. The best way to teach this is through case studies. I’d advocate for co-op training programs alongside theoretical studies, as Waterloo provides for its computer science students.Conclusion
While our culture idealizes and extols polymaths like Da Vinci or Galileo, it also undervalues generalists who seem to lack the discipline and rigor to focus on doing something well. Our academic institutions prize novelty and specialization, pushing us to focus on growing the new leaf at the edge of a vast tree wizened with rings of experience. We need to change this mindset to cultivate a workforce that can successfully collaborate with intelligent machines. The risk is a world without work; the reward is a vibrant and curious new humanity.
*Sappho may be the sexiest poet of all time. An ancient lyric poet from Lesbos, she left fragments that pulse with desire and eroticism. Randomly opening a collection, for example, I came across this:
Afraid of losing you
I ran fluttering/like a little girl/after her mother
**I’m stretching the truth here for rhetorical effect. Mallarmé actually made a living as an English teacher, although he was apparently horrible at both teaching and speaking English. Like Knausgaard in Book 2 of My Struggle, Mallarmé frequently writes poems about how hard it is for him to find a block of silence while his kids are screaming and needing attention. Bourgeois family life sublimated into the ecstasy of hermeticism. Another fun fact is that the French Symbolists loved Edgar Allen Poe, but in France they drop the Allen and just call him Edgar Poe.
***Musil modeled Arnheim after his nemesis Walther Rathenau, the German Foreign Minister during the Weimar Republic. Rathenau was a Jew, but identified mostly as a German. He wrote some very mystical works on the soul that aren’t worth reading unless you’d like to understand the philosophical and cocktail party ethos of the Habsburg Empire.
****I’m a devout listener of the Partially Examined Life podcast, where they recently discussed Wilfrid Sellars’s Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind. Sellars critiques what he calls “the myth of the given” and has amazing thoughts on what it means to tell the truth.
This particular terminological game is just about up, I think, and it's no surprise that Anthropos has won again. I don't think we'll be using any word but Anthropocene to describe the ecological present anytime soon. More's the pity, perhaps—but the Anthropocene is here to stay.
But as we environmental humanists embark on necessary efforts to pluralize the Anthropocene!, it might be worth assembling a list of the alternative preterites whose names are even now being passed over in our efforts to make sense of the changing eco-now. There may never be a more neologism-filled moment in the environmental humanities. What do all these 'cenes have to say? What pluralities can we try to recover and value while facing the onrushing tide of the Anthropocene?
Here's my stab at a list of also-ran 'cenes. Suggestions and additions welcome!
Agnotocene: Derived from the term "agnotology" in sociology and the history of science, which studies "the production of zones of ignorance" (198), this jaw-breaker is one of the many alternative 'cenes suggested by Christophe Bonneuil and Jean-Baptise Fressoz in their stunningly-wide ranging and brilliant book, The Shock of the Anthropocene (Verso, 2016).
Anglocene: In a side-note within their chapter on the Thermocene, Bonneuil and Fressoz remark that another possible term would be the "Anglocene," a name chosen to emphasize the outsized contributions of Great Britain and the United States to global carbon emissions. Or, as they put it in slightly more political terms: "The overwhelming share of responsibility for climate change of the two hegemonic powers of the nineteenth (Great Britain) and twentieth (United States) centuries attests to the fundamental link between climate change and projects of world domination" (117).
Anthrobscene: Jurri Parrika's coinage, which appeared in 2015 via U Minnesota Press's Forerunners series, emphasizes the obscenity in today's 'cene. I wrote a bit about it on the Bookfish a couple years ago.
Capitalocene: This term has been taken up by the eco-Marxist historian Jason W. Moore, among others, to argue that the environmental villain is Capitalism, not Humanity or even Man writ large. Moore's Capitalism in the Web of Life (Verso, 2015) explores the progress of capitalist exploitation of the natural world from roughly 1500 until the present.
Chthulucene: Donna Haraway's term, from Staying with the Trouble (Duke, 2016), asks for more-than-human alliances with "diverse earthwide tentacular powers and forces" (101), though she pointedly rejects the label "posthumanist" and isn't writing about Lovecraft's cosmic figure. (She emphasizes that her Chthulu does not equal his Cthulhu: "note spelling difference.") She proposes the slogan: "Make Kin not Babies!" (102). She also makes the case that our current era may be well-described by Kim Stanley Robinson's term, "The Dithering" from the sci-fi novel 2312—but since that word has no 'cene in it I'll leave it out.
Homogenocene: I first found this one in Charles Mann's brilliant work of popular ecological history, 1493: Uncovering the New World that Columbus Created (Vintage 2012); Mann cites his scholarly source as M.J. Samways, in a 1999 article in Journal of Insect Conservation. The Homogenocene presents a horrifying vision of a world in which all things in all places grow increasingly homogeneous in physical, ecological, and even cultural terms. (See also Plantationocene.)
Naufragocene: My own invention, in Shipwreck Modernity (Minnesota, 2015), this 'cene uses shipwreck—naufragia—as a master-trope for the age of catastrophic environmental change that exposed itself through ecological globalization in the early modern period and, in different forms, continues today.
Oliganthrocene: I can't locate my source for this one, but the name tells a clear enough story: the age of (political) oligarchy, the form of elite domination typical of, but not limited to, capitalism, colonialism, and industrial modernity.
Phagocene: Another 'cene from Bonneuil and Fressoz, the Phagocene puts consumerism and "disciplinary hedonism" (157) at the center of climate destruction. They diagnose modernity as "a throw-away culture" (159), which they connect primarily to twentieth-century American mass-production of consumer goods, especially the automobile and its cognate, the suburb.
Phronocene: One of Bonneuil and Fressoz's more paradoxical coinages, the Phronocene explores the longstanding awareness by European central planners and early ecologists of environmental vulnerability. They conclude ruefully that "our ancestors destroyed environments in full awareness of what they were doing" (196). In this view, efforts to increase our "environmental awareness" seem futile, because although such awareness has been plentiful in the historical record, it has not yet succeeded in slowing humanity's destruction of nonhuman systems.
Plantationocene: I first spotted this one on twitter via Tobias Menley, but it also appears in recent articles by Donna Haraway and Anna Tsing. In Tsing's compelling formulation, "Plantations are machines of replication, ecologies devoted to the production of the same." (See also Homogenocene.) The Age of the Plantation reformulates the Capitolocene so that the slave plantation, rather than the factory, represents the dominant economic and ecological engine of progress and disaster.
Planthropocene: A coinage of medievalist ecocritic Rob Barrett, for a work in progress about which I'm eager to hear more.
Polemocene: Bonneuil and Fressoz use this 'cene to emphasize a long history of political struggle motivated by social justice and "environmentalism of the poor" (253). Resistance to industrialism and "progress," they show, is as old as the industrial revolution, which means that political resources and histories are available to continue this struggle today. #resist!
Sustainocene: As championed in a TED talk by Harvard professor Daniel G. Nocera, this neologism proposes an era of "personalized energy" made possible though compact photosynthesis devices.
Symbiocene: I found this one via the artist Cathy Fitzgerald, who cites Glenn Albrecht's 2016 article in Minding Nature. As an alternative to the "ecocide of the Anthropocene", the symbiocene "emphasizes ideas and practices to enhance the mutual flourishing of all life."
Thalassocene: My other original-ish coinage in Shipwreck Modernity, I neologize this 'cene by way of the "new thalassology" of the environmental historians of the premodern Mediterranean Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell (The Corrupting Sea 2000). In my global rather than Med-centric sense, the Thalassocene writes human history through and on the World Ocean, whose currents and storms shape exchanges of cultures, products, creatures, and stories.
Thanatocene: Bonneuil and Fressoz's term for an Age of Death reads the twentieth century's signature contributions to climate catastrophe through deadly global wars and ecological devastation. They emphasize that the "petrolization of Western societies" owes a powerful debt to, and is perhaps unthinkable without, the global mobilizations of the Second World War (138).
Thermocene: In Bonneuil and Fressoz's "political history of CO2," familiar hockey-stick climate curves get placed in the larger context of industrial modernity. Insisting that we must "denauturalize the history of energy" (107) requires also acknowledging that the history of energy regimes is "political, military, and ideological" (107).
Trumpocene: [OK, I just made this one up. I leave its elaboration as an exercise for the reader.]
Devising an adequate response to the vast plurality of all this 'cene-salad comprises one of the essential questions for this moment in the environmental humanities. Let's get started on it!
In class today we were talking about the differences between Vergil and Homer. The difference between the deep administrative state that Vergil is describing, and the unchanging, contextualizing hierarchical background against which Homeric personal relations play out. Dr. Johnson (Rambler 121) sees the silence of Dido in Book VI of The Aeneid as one of the clearest ways in which Vergil ornaments his poem with sparkling Homeric lusters that he can't resist, and complains that it is much less affecting than the silence of the painfully ineloquent Ajax in Book XI of The Odyssey. But he misses the lesson of one of his own points: Vergil unites the beauties of The Iliad and The Odyssey, as he says, but he reverses their order: the intense personal experience that burgeons more and more throughout The Iliad and culminates in The Odyssey is in Vergil a turn away from that intensifying depiction of private experience, and a turn to the always emerging possibilities of political violence that the administrative state develops from and resists. The end of the Vergilian Odyssey is in Book VI of The Aeneid, at which point Aeneas turns away from the Homeric characters in the underworld and leaves them behind forever. Dido's silence is a recognition of this: she has fallen in love not with Hector but with a proto-Roman, which is why it adumbrates Lavinia's equally conspicuous silence in the last six books. The story is not about her, and barely about Turnus or Pallas or even Lausus and Mezentius, the Vergilian equivalents of Hector and Priam. We get a similar reversal when Vergil gives us his version of Achilles's point of view, remembering his own father when Priam supplicates him, as Aeneas thinks of his own son when he kills Lausus and sees Mezentius's intense mourning and desire to die. Achilles threatens to kill Priam but takes pity on him and gives him safe-conduct back to Troy; Aeneas takes pity on Mezentius by killing him, so he needn't outlive Lausus very long: a final farewell to the Homeric characters.
The deep state administers and monopolizes and so restricts the violence that threatens everywhere. That insight is what leads to the proto-Miltonic moments in Vergil, in particular when the Vergilian narrator speaks, for the only time, from the perspective of the first person plural: we Romans, in Vergil, "nostra vita" in Dante (who must be knowingly alluding ot this), we fallen humans ("all our woe") in Milton.
We can measure the modernity of this moment by hearing its not too distant echo in Henry James, in The Golden Bowl. Vergil's narrative innovation (I don't think this is too strong a phrase) is to describe any intense incident, and more and more as The Aeneid progresses, from the perspective of those in distress or pain or despair. This is particularly true in the shifts in perspective in the last moment of The Aeneid, Vergil's recapitulation of the death of Hector, when Turnus loses his single combat against Aeneas, and Aeneas kills the suppliant. We go from his despairing perspective to Aeneas's when the latter sees Pallas's belt and is filled with uncertainty and guilt and grief and resolves these passions by violence. And then the very last moment is the flight of Turnus's indignant (indignata) soul down to the shades.
But even before that Turnus has the nightmarish experience of being unable or barely able to hold his own:
...velut in somnis, oculos ubi languida pressit
nocte quies, nequiquam auidos extendere cursus
velle videmur, et in mediis conatibus aegri
...as in dreams, when languid rest has pressed our eyes at night, we seem in vain to wish to stretch forth our eager running, and in the middle of our efforts we sink down exhausted.
As has been pointed out (e.g. by Christine G. Perkell in her helpful account of this scene), this is a Vergilian recasting of a description of the dream-frustration described, in the third-person, in The Iliad (22.199-200).
James's omniscient (or near omniscient) narrator uses the first person fairly frequently (singular and plural, though the plurals are a bit more specific, designating narrator and readers, not all human beings), but not like this, except perhaps for this passage near the end of The Golden Bowl:
He was so near now that she could touch him, taste him, smell him, kiss him, hold him; he almost pressed upon her, and the warmth of his face — frowning, smiling, she mightn't know which; only beautiful and strange — was bent upon her with the largeness with which objects loom in dreams. (Chapter XLI)
"...pressed upon her": is that a memory of Vergil's "pressit"? For though the first person here is latent, it is all the more powerful for that: James knows, and we know, what our experience of dreaming is like. This is James’s version of the Proustian nous, as impersonal a first person plural as we ever find in Proust, since it applies to all of us in our lonely and isolated dreams: a universal loneliness, a universal separation. So too is Turnus all alone, as all are. For Vergil this is the birth of the administrative state, the real entity that has replaced Homeric human relation. Blanchot (commenting on Priam's supplication of Achilles) says the choice in Homer is violence or speech. In Vergil, in the modern state, our choice is only violence or the silence, whether of Dido or Ajax, imposed upon us by our isolation within the emptiness of our dreams (Milton).
Steve Bannon recently articulated the task of the Trump Administration as “the deconstruction of the Administrative State.” Just like landing on the longest square in the Snakes and Ladders game, this phrase has the power of taking you down some dark corridors in the pre-history of World War II. More specifically, the phrase makes a stark reference to an ideology of hate espoused by proponents of the Nazi party, and noted in the Black Notebooks of Martin Heidegger (1889-1976).
Hate is an ideology in the sense that all ideologies constitute an imaginary relationship to a real. Like racism, which is predicated on a considerable amount of animosity and aversion based on skin color, hate is a negative emotion, an aggressive predisposition and the polar opposite of empathy and compassion towards someone or a class of people. Hate is so perverse that it cannot only consume an individual’s entire life, but, when circumstances are favorable enough, can also blur into moral judgment, seep into philosophical discourses and be passed on from an individual to whole institutions and nations, as was seen in Nazi Germany.
When hate becomes a dominant ideology and a “mission,” administered by government officials, passed into laws, executed by the police and border protection officers, what in reality is being policed and protected is the pathology of hate itself, now metamorphosed into law and order, administratively funneled through social institutions and practiced without misgivings on a daily basis. At stake is the shifting of the moral compass and the transformation of hate into a lived reality, a banality à la Arendt, no longer questioned, an everyday systemic practice, like taking the train to work or lining up for coffee at Starbucks. Hate wants to control everything, especially the media, in order to gain access to the population and slowly suture citizens into conformity and normalization. Oppose the politics of hate and you become the enemy of the state.
What do you do if you wake up one morning and find yourself the enemy of your own state as you witness a not so tacit decline into authoritarianism? What do you do when someone is inviting you to take part in a new national project, namely, “the deconstruction of the administrative state?” If you haven’t read Heidegger, or Derrida, or even Shakespeare’s Hamlet, and if you haven't sympathized with a tormented young prince on the brink of madness struggling to make sense of his father’s death and the chaos that has now become the state of Denmark, then you would probably want to know the meaning of “deconstructing the administrative state.” I don’t believe that Bannon wants us to understand as much as he would like us to sing and revel in the rhetorical charm and captivating jingles of such a platitudinous catchphrase. It’s a phrase that calls for a movement, a phrase with a telos if you will: let’s all go and deconstruct the administrative state. But the ghost of Hamlet looms large in this unfolding drama of hate. When the apparition appears to the dejected young prince, it is dressed in full armor, only not facing its enemy, Norway, but Denmark the homeland, thus turning the tragedy inwards. The enemy is inside, and Shakespeare has always been ahead of us. The way out of darkness is the rekindling of our conscience, leading to a deconstruction different from that of Bannon's, a deconstruction of greed, hate and monopoly. In a world of questioned realities and alternative facts, the voice of the dead, the killed, the banned, the demonized, the hated, comes back to remind Prince Hamlet of who indeed the true carrier of the hate and greed pathology is and who is causing the rottenness in the state of Denmark.
The Executive Order, the banning that many BCP officers continue to impose on citizens and foreigners in defiance of the law, and for which the administration is mobilizing even 15,000 more Border patrol and ICE agents, is nothing but a shameful externalization of deep-seated hate. Hate is a sign that a chronic disease in our body politic has gone dormant but was never treated; the symptoms are back, strong and visible; the ghost of Hamlet needs to be beckoned yet again to show us where to find the antidote before the body becomes immune to its cure and begins to die.
In Snakes and Ladders, Steve Bannon has thrown the dice and landed it perfectly on the 90th square. To believe that the mission of the White House is the “deconstruction of the Administrative State” is a steep fall into ridicule and insult. This hate-charged phrase constitutes an affront not only to our intelligence but to our recent social history, the very history which brought about deconstruction as a method of thought. But one cannot expect less from Bannon, whose statement is neither shocking nor surprising but predictable and quite appropriate for his agenda. Just a short prehistory of the word “deconstruction” will give us the clue.
The word “deconstruction” resurfaced and took substance in Jacques Derrida’s déconstruction, a term he adapted from Martin Heidegger’s Destruktion, which essentially means “destruction,” though more literally “un-building.” Heidegger was a controversial Third Reich German intellectual whose scandalous endorsement of Nazism led to a huge post-war uproar and a court hearing that resulted in banning him from teaching in Germany between 1945-1951. Germany banned Heidegger because, despite his original “philosophy,” he was proven to be a staunch anti-Semite and a Hitler devotee, as his own words testify in the Black Notebooks. The scholar in Derrida wanted to save Heideggerian “deconstruction” from falling prey to anthropocentrism, so he took a different linguistic turn and adopted the term in Of Grammatology, using it to un-build binary oppositions between the signifier and the signified, signaling the birth of poststructuralism. Derrida advocated a “historicality” to Heidegger’s Dasein in Being and Time in order to save it, and although the planned meeting of 1972 between the two never materialized, Derrida’s “historicality” remains blind to itself, which-despite my admiration of his work and thought during my years in graduate school, I can neither understand nor forgive, but that’s a different topic altogether.
The main reason behind the banning of Heidegger in post-war Germany was his anti-Semitic white supremacy complex, a pathology that tainted his philosophy and for which he never apologized. This is not news. Many academics and historians, including but not limited to Günther Figal and Heidegger’s own student Victor Farías, have called for a philosophical banning of Heidegger. Farías’s important work Heidegger Under Nazism not only exposes Heidegger’s fascist anti-Semitism but digs deeper into his embrace of racialism as early as the 1920s, culminating in joining the Nazi party in 1933. Farías has called for all of Heidegger’s work to be taken out of the philosophy section in libraries and re-shelved under the history of Nazism next to Hitler’s Mein Kampf and the anti-Jewish 1935 Nuremberg Race laws which outlawed sex and marriage between Aryans and non-Aryans (basically Jews) in order to preserve racial purity.
In our current context, we will want to hold onto the word "deconstruction," which underscores the historical associations of a supremacy fantasy, allowing us to put Bannon’s statement into a mise en scène that makes it neither innocent nor coincidental. It's a term charged with what Lacan in a different context would call "primary narcissism," referring to a child going through a mirror stage of aggressivity towards an alien and non-identical self. In his case, the aggression is rooted in a dangerous and pernicious epistemology, aimed at American Muslims, Jews, and every off-white population in the United States. Bannon’s “deconstruction” brings back, and unabashedly so, the agonizing history of white supremacy to make it the new ideology of the White House. But that is not all. “The Deconstruction of the Administrative State” gets even more shocking: Does Bannon want us to believe that “the administrative state” — which in this context could only refer to the American system of government, its inclusivity, its Constitutionality, its anti-discriminatory amendments, its separation of powers, its democratic electoral process which has put him and Trump in the White House in the first place — does all this need to be “deconstructed,” i.e., destroyed, un-built, taken apart?
What is wrong with our current “administrative state” to deserve this new call for deconstruction? Deconstruction entered the sphere of our literary theory in the 1970s as a rigorous tool for self-critique. As an educator, I welcome a deconstruction of our educational system and a critique of the intrusion of economic imperatives into our universities, turning student success into a catch-22 and higher education into a “hunger games,” reducing faculty and diminishing the number of classes we have to offer in order to graduate our students on time. I would also welcome a deconstruction of the brutal market systems that have created soul-crushing bureaucracies, reshuffled our lives and resulted in massive pockets of poverty in every state and widening the gap between the 1% and the 99%. This, however, is not Bannon’s idea of deconstruction. His is a sordid pastiche, a platitudinous re-hashing of staggering European reflections on postwar malaise we find in the writings of Habermas and others. Listen closely and you will hear the ghost of Heidegger whispering into the ears of Bannon’s palimpsest pathology. After all, it was Heidegger who criticized America’s wishful slogan to embrace inclusivity in a “free world” and accused America of threatening to end the world, a lapse into a melting pot, a foreshadow of the end of whiteness, which in his mind was tantamount to the destruction of the earth:
18th of August, 1941
Dear Fritz, dear Liesel, dear Boys! […] It is not Russianism that will bring about the destruction of the earth but Americanism, not just the English but all of Europe has fallen prey to it as it represents modernity in its monstrosity.
If the “deconstruction of the administrative state” is nothing but a methodical re-codification of white supremacy, then expect an entire cabinet sleeplessly dedicated to a systematic un-doing of the last 60 years, a re-administration of hate of which the banning of Muslims, the rejection of refugees, the burning of mosques, the desecration of Jewish cemeteries, and the massive deportation of undocumented immigrants is only the beginning. Against all hate, against the disciplined “purification” of America and against summoning the ghost of Heidegger, we must summon an army of ghosts, not just the ghost of King Hamlet, but the ghost of Martin Luther King Jr., of Bayard Rustin, Dorothy Height, Hosea Williams, Gloria Richardson, James L. Farmer Jr., Medger Evers, Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, Cesar Chavez, James Baldwin, and Muhammad Ali. We must remind ourselves that their struggle for equality and freedom was well worth the fight, that the dream they had for an inclusive and tolerant America, the dream that sent bullets into some of their bodies, was worth dying for. We must remind America that its hard-fought “deconstruction of the segregated state” was not achieved in vain and cannot be reversed by the ghost of a Nazi philosopheme.
I did my PhD in Comparative Literature at Stanford. There is likely no university in the US with a culture more antithetical to the humanities: Stanford embodies the libertarian, technocratic values of Silicon Valley, where disruptive innovation has crystallized into a platitude* and engineers are the new priestly caste. Stanford had massive electrical engineering and computer science graduate cohorts; there were five students in my cohort in comparative literature (all women, of diverse backgrounds, and quite large in contrast to the two- or three-student cohorts in Italian, German, and French). I had been accepted into several graduate programs across the country, but felt a responsibility to study at a university where the humanities were threatened. I didn't want the ivory tower, the prestigious rare book collection, the ability to misuse words like isomorphism and polymorphic because they sounded scientific (I was a math undergrad), the stultified comfort that Wordsworth and Shelley were on the minds of strangers on the street. I wanted to learn what it would mean to defend a discipline undervalued by society, in an age where universities were becoming private businesses tailoring to undergraduate student consumers and the rising costs of education made it borderline irresponsible not to pursue vocational training that would land a decent job coding for a startup. Stanford's very libertarianism also enabled me to craft an interdisciplinary methodology—crossing literature, history of science and mathematics, analytic philosophy, and classics—that more conservative departments would never entertain. This was wonderful during my coursework, but my Achilles heel when I had to write a dissertation and build a professional identity more conservative departments could recognize. I went insane, but mustered the strength and resilience required to complete my dissertation (in retrospect, I’m very grateful I did, as having a PhD has enabled me to teach as adjunct faculty alongside my primary job). After graduation, I left academia for the greener, freer pastures of the private sector.
The 2008-2009 financial crisis took place in the midst of my graduate studies. Ever tighter departmental budgets exacerbated the identity crisis the humanities were already facing. Universities had to cut costs, and French departments or Film Studies departments or German departments were the first to go. This shrunk the already minuscule demand for humanities faculty, and exponentially increased the level of anxiety my fellow PhDs and I experienced regarding our future livelihood. In keeping with the futurism of the Valley, Stanford (or at least a few professors at Stanford) was at the vanguard for promoting alternative career paths for humanities PhDs: professors discussed shortening the time to degree, providing students with more vocational communications training so they could land jobs as social media marketers, extolling the values of academic administration as a career path equal to that of a researcher. Others resisted vehemently. There was also a wave of activity defending the utility of the humanities to cultivate empathy and other social skills. I've spent a good portion of my life reading fiction, but must say it was never as rich a moral training ground as actual life experience. I've learned more about regulating my emotions and empathizing with others' points of view in my four years in the private sector than I had in the 28 years of life before I embraced work as a career (rather than a job). Some people are really hard to deal with, and you have to face these challenges head on to grow.
All this is context for my opinions defending the utility of the humanities in our contemporary society and economy. To be clear, in proposing these economic arguments, I’m not abandoning claims for the importance of the humanities in individual personal and intellectual development. On the contrary, I strongly believe that a balanced liberal arts education is critical in fostering the development of personal autonomy and civic judgement, to preserve and potentially resurrect our early Republican (as political experiment, not party) goals that education cultivate critical citizens, not compliant economic agents. I was miserable as a graduate student, but don’t regret my path for a minute. And I think there is a case to be made that humanities will be as—if not more—important than STEM to our national interests in the near future. Here’s why:
Technology and White-Collar Professions — In The Future of the Professions, Richard and Daniel Susskind demonstrate how technology is changing professions like medicine, law, investment management, accounting, and architecture. Their key insight is to structurally define white-collar professionals by the information asymmetry that exists between professional and client. Professionals know things it is hard for laymen to know: the tax code is complex and arcane, and it would take too much time for the Everyman (gender intentional) to understand it well enough to make judgments in her (gender intentional) favor. Same goes for diagnosing and treating an illness or managing the finances of a large corporation. The internet, and, perhaps more importantly, the new machine learning technologies that enable us to use the internet to answer hard, formerly professional, questions, however, levels this information asymmetry. Suddenly, tools can do what trained professionals used to do, and at a much lower costs (contrast the billed hours of a good lawyer with the economies of scale of Google). As such, the skills and activities professionals need are changing and will continue to change.
Working in machine learning, I can say from experience that we are nowhere near an age where machines are going to flat out replace people, creating a utopian world with universal basic income and bored Baudelaires assuaging ennui with opiates, sex, and poetry (laced with healthy doses of Catholic guilt). What is happening is that the day-to-day work of professionals is changing and will continue to change. Machines are ready and able to execute many of the repetitive tasks done by many professionals (think young associates reviewing documents to find relevant information for lawsuit—in 2015, the Second Circuit tried to define what it means to practice law by contrasting tasks humans can do with tasks computers can do). As machines creep ever further into work that requires thinking and judgment, critical thinking, creativity, interpretation, emotions, and reasoning will become increasingly important. STEM may just lead to its own obsoleteness (AI software is now making its own AI software), and in doing so is increasing the value of professionals trained in the humanities. This value lies in the design methodologies required to transform what were once thought processes into statistical techniques, to crystallize probabilistic outputs into intuitive features for non-technical users. It lies in creating the training data required to make a friendly chat bot. Most importantly, it lies in the empathy and problem-solving skills that will be the essence of professional work in the future.
Autonomy and Mores in the Gig Economy — In October, 2015, I spoke at a Financial Times conference about corporate sustainability. The audience was filled with executives from organizations like the Hudson Bay Company (they started by selling beaver pelts and now own department stores like Saks Fifth Avenue) that had stayed in business over literally hundreds of years by gradually evolving and adding new business lines. The silver-haired rich men on the panel with me kept extolling the importance of "company values" as the key to keeping incumbents relevant in today's society. And my challenge to them was to ask how modern, global organizations, in particular those with large, temporary 1099 workforces managed by impersonal algorithms, could cultivate mores and values like the small, local companies of the past. Indeed, I spent a few years helping international law firms build centralized risk and compliance operations, and in doing so came to appreciate that the Cravath model, an apprenticeship culture where skills and corporate culture and mores are passed down from generation to generation, as there is very low mobility between firms, simply does not scale to our mobile, changing, global workforce. As such, inculcating values takes a very different form and structure than it did in the past. We read a lot about how today's careers are more like jungle gyms than ladders, where there is a need to constantly revamp and acquire new skills to keep up with changing technologies and demand, but this often overlooks the fact that companies—like clubs and societies—used to also shape our moral characters. You may say that user reviews (the five stars you can get as an Uber rider or AirBnB lodger) take the place of what was formerly subjective judgment of colleagues and peers. But these cold metrics are a far cry from the suffering and satisfaction we experience when we break from or align with a community's mores. This merits much more commentary than the brief suggestions I'll make here, but I believe our globalized gig economy requires a self-reliant morality and autonomy that has no choice but to be cultivated apart from the workplace. And the seat of that cultivation would be some training in philosophy, ethics, and humanities. Otherwise corporate values will be reduced to the cold rationality of some algorithm measuring OKRs and KPIs.
Ethics and Emerging Technologies — Just this morning, Guru Banavar, IBM's Chief Science Officer for Cognitive Computing, posted a blog admonishing technologists building AI products that they "now shoulder the added burden of ensuring these technologies are developed, deployed and adopted in responsible, ethical and enduring ways." Banavar's post is a very brief advertisement for the Partnership on AI created by IBM, Google, Microsoft, Amazon, Facebook, and Apple to formalize attention around the ethical implications of the technologies they are building. Elon Musk founded OpenAI with a similar mission to research AI technologies with an eye towards ethics and safety. Again, there is much to say about the different ethical issues new technologies present (I surveyed a few a year ago in a Fast Forward Labs newsletter). The point here is that ethics is moving from a niche interest of progressive technologists to a core component of large corporate technology strategy. And the ethical issues new technologies pose are not trivial. It's very easy to fall into chicken little logic traps (where scholars like Nick Bostrom speculate on worst-case scenarios just because they are feasible for us to imagine) that grab headlines instead of sticking with the discipline required to recognize how data technologies can amplify existing social biases. As Ted Underwood recently tweeted, doing this well requires both people who are motivated by critical thinking and people who are actually interested in machine learning technologies. But the "and" is critical, else technologists will waste a lot of time reinventing methods philosophers and ethicists have already honed. And even if the auditing of algorithms is carried out by technologists, humanists can help voice and articulate what they find. Finally, it goes without saying that we all need to sharpen our critical reading skills to protect our democracy in the age of Trump, filter bubbles, and fake news.
This is just a start. Each of these points can be developed, and there are many more to make. My purpose here is to shift the dialogue on the value of the humanities from utility in cultivating empathy and emotional character to real economic and social impact. The humanities are worth fighting for.
*For those unaware, Clayton Christensen coined the term disruptive innovation in The Innovator's Dilemma. He contrasted it was sustaining innovation, the gradual technical improvements companies make to a product to meet market and customer demands. Inspired by Thomas Kuhn's Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Christensen artfully demonstrates how great companies miss out on opportunities for disruptive innovation precisely because they are well run: disruptive innovations seize upon new markets with an unserved need, and only catch up to incumbents because technology can change faster than market preferences and demand. As disruption has crystallized into ideology, people often overlook that most products are sustaining innovations, incremental improvements upon an existing product or market need. It's admittedly much more exciting to carry out a Copernican revolution, but if we consider that Trump may well be a disruptive innovator, who identified a latent market whose needs were underserved only to topple the establishment, we might sit back, pause, and reconsider our ideological assumptions.
Originally appeared on February 20, 2017 on quamproxime.com.
The large mall at its busiest. Everyone runs around, picking up last-minute gifts. Christmas carols ring through the air, but hardly anyone listens. I watched the shopping frenzy from afar while drinking coffee. A few days ago a man had ploughed a truck into a crowded market in Berlin, murdering twelve and injuring many more. German investigators believe the perpetrator is an ISIS allegiant from Tunisia. I scrolled through the latest updates on the carnage on my mobile phone, and took another sip from my cup. … What if another ISIS allegiant was about to detonate himself and blow this place up? The number of potential fatalities sent shivers down my spine.
I scanned the surrounding area for possible suspects. It’s quite warm in here, why is that man over there wearing a puffer jacket? I gasped when he turned around. He had a long beard, and looked Indian. No, he’s probably from Afghanistan. An al Qaeda operative? … Oh my God! He’s pulling something out. That’s it, we’re finished! Should I take cover under the table? The man sneezed, rubbed his red nose with his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket, obviously struggling with a bad cold, or maybe hay fever. Just like me.
I felt a twinge of guilt, but then caught a glimpse of a short lady in a black burka, eyes barely visible. What’s in that huge stroller she’s pushing? Why is she hurrying? She looks confused. Who’s she waving her hand at? An accomplice? Are they signaling zero-hour? Is a machine gun going to come out of that loose garment to shoot everyone down? A little girl came running and clung to the shrouded woman, clasping her arms around what seemed like a waist. A tiny hand from the stroller stretched upwards too. Enough with this Paranoia! But, why am I excluding Caucasians? ISIS has been recruiting them to fight in the Middle East as well, hasn’t it? What about that pale-faced girl with the nose piercing? Maybe she’s a junkie who’s willing to do anything to get her fix. And that tattooed young man, he looks stoned too. In the middle of my scrutiny, I came across my reflected image in the opposite mirrored wall. … I stared into my sad eyes and serious face for a while, and the reality hit me: Why not you?
What? Me? Just because I have Arab features doesn’t mean I’m a prospective killer. I’m an advocate for secularism, women’s and minorities’ rights, and have written extensively against the tyranny of the clergy. Also, I stopped practicing Islam a long time ago; how can I be a terrorist? … Nonsense! What difference do my beliefs make? They don’t show on my forehead. Even if they did, what significance do they have in the split-second decisions people make when facing a lurking disaster? I grabbed a newspaper to distract myself from disturbing thoughts. An Arab-American was booted off his flight for no other reason than speaking in his mother tongue, one of the headlines read. Unfair! Those Westerners are punishing us, victims of terrorism, for the monsters their politicians and strategists have created and enhanced over the past decades. I should write about that.
But, who—in this shamelessly visual age—would bother to read an analysis of the Muslim world’s modern history when ISIS is swamping social media with ghastly short videos whose impact on their viewers is often irrevocable? What’s the point, and what can my apologetic writings change if the Pandora’s Box has been opened and is indiscriminately spreading poison? No time for blame or alibis! People are running for their lives, and many are doomed to get crushed in the stampede. The disconcerting gaze of the other patrons followed me as I walked out of the coffee shop. A burning sensation washed over my body as if stung by a swarm of bees. I took a moment to breathe and reflect: this is not likely to change anytime soon, and since there isn’t much for me to do, I might as well get used to living with it….
The recent controversy surrounding the travel ban to the United States from several Muslim-majority countries reminded me of my pre-Christmas fright and rekindled my confusion. President Trump’s executive order didn’t come as a surprise to millions of Iraqis who have been suffering humiliation and rejection at world airports and embassies since Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990. It did raise questions though about the validity of such measures when the Middle East is bristling with American schools, universities, military bases, financial institutions and other companies. Terrorists nowadays don’t need to travel all the way to the United States to attack American interests and individuals, they have them right there in their own backyard. But does the ban at least guarantee the safety of American citizens inside their borders? I don’t think so.… Less than three weeks after Berlin’s Breitscheidplatz attack, a gunman went on a shooting rampage at the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport, killing five passengers and wounding several others. The twenty-six-year-old suspect is an army veteran of white Hispanic descent, the media reported. He’s neither Arab nor Muslim.
This article first appeared in Global Research (Centre for Research on Globalization)
How to start discussing an HBO series like The Young Pope? There are many rabbit holes in which to plunge. Some reviewers have fallen for Pius XIII's (Jude Law) Cherry Coke Zero breakfast diet or Sister Mary's (Diane Keaton) infamous "I'm a virgin but this is an old shirt" bedtime garment. Others have been struck by the exotic kangaroo hopping around the Vatican Gardens or the very skilled group of young nuns playing soccer between lauds. If it comes to frivolously delicious scenes, my "Oscar" goes to the one with the Vatican stairs flooded by red streams of cardinals heading to the Sistine Chapel for a Papal speech, all this while Pius tries on his holiest attires and dons his most bejewelled tiara and everybody is moving to "I am sexy and I know it" by LMFAO! For sure, it is dazzlingly sexy, it is deviously divine, and it shows that white is the new camp.
But The Young Pope is more than mere frivolity and memes.
Others have addressed the show’s political undertones. This lens produces a House of Cards comparison stressing how the show depicts a puppet gone rogue. Indeed, in the series one can see the US cardinal Lenny Belardo, Pius's name before the investiture, coming to St. Peter's chair after an intricate set of conspiracies from older cardinals, who were only looking for a PR strawman that would allow them to govern from the shadows. But the joke was on them, as Pius turns out to be a young ultraconservative despot who decides to erase any sign of aggionarmiento from the Church and go back to the terrible splendours and ineffable mysteries of Medieval and Renaissance Papacies (the ones before the Protestant Reform). With the temper of the Old-Testament God, we can see a complacent Pius proclaiming the new Church's agenda to the cardinals at the Sistine Chapel: "There is nothing outside your obedience to Pius XIII. Nothing except Hell". As it is, Pius has the supernatural unpredictability of a pagan divinity. When confronted with it, the whole cardinalate, and even the Italian Prime Minister, invariably succumb to his commands.
Unsurprisingly, after the political watersheds of 2016, a host of commentators fell into the comfortable heresy of drawing parallels between Pius XIII and Donald Trump. The temptation was too strong. Sorrentino, however, was quick to bring them back to the true doctrine by explaining that the resemblance is just a casual one. The show was conceived long before these events, though the Italian director acknowledges it might have come with the gift of prophecy. Not just for global politics, but also for the Catholic Church after Francis. Sure enough, for some theocons, the Argentinean Pope's call for mercy has gone too far; and, accordingly, they plot in the dark and passionately dream for a Pius XIII, so that their Earthly will can be carried on into the Heavens.
Still, there is more to The Young Pope than worldly politics.
There is that uncomfortable realm of the miracles, the visions, and the unsettling dreams. All these being messengers of the divine at times. At other moments becoming great stirrers of painful memories and sexual desires. There is something certainly psychotropic and promiscuous in Sorrentino's able use of grotesque dreams, daily hallucinations, the flashback, EDM and the Vatican's decadent exquisiteness. These elements are all used to portray a Church that not only struggles with outrageous paedophilia cases, but also deals with political and monetary prevarications, along with priestly addictions and carnal infidelities. All amid supernaturally holy scenes, miraculous healings, eerie piles of babies (!) and portentous pregnancies. In this series, the most holy is deeply mixed with the vilest things. Certainly no blow is held back as we get privileged seats in the dramatic staging of all moral issues, even those that make Catholicism a religion of scandal nowadays: its position on homosexuality and abortion. We must thank God for Sorrentino as only his disaffected genius could explore these ethical conundrums within the own tenets of the Church. In the process he even gives us discussions worthy to those held by the Church's First Fathers, back then, when the institution was still young, like this Pope.
And yet, The Young Pope manages to transcend our Post-Truth Secularised world.
It takes us to the lands of missions deep in Africa, to the terrors of war, poverty, thirst, and hunger. It is in this desolate territory of extreme injustice, far from the opulence of the selfish West, that the biggest miracle of all is shown. A Pius incapable of account for any sin in luscious Rome can now, in the African wilderness, open his soul to a black humble priest in a cabin made of straw. At last, his Papal infallibility falls to the ground and this proud bishop of Rome strips away his imperial might to accept the inevitable: he doubts himself. The catharsis doesn't last long. In yet another burlesque move of the series, we immediately learn that Pius's poor confessor knows no English, but the phantom of doubt has already seeped into the cracks.
As it is, The Young Pope has many rabbit holes in which to plunge. But deep down, Sorrentino shows us a broken and orphaned man in doubt. Sure, it starts with the diabolical notion of a Pope that may not believe in God. It carries on with a Machiavellian despot, and portrays an intransigent priest that shuns all believers away while using celibacy and seclusion as shields to avoid the pains of heartbreak. However, the frivolous, the moral, the political, the supernatural, the developing world scenes... all these are put on stage to unveil that deep down Pius doubts himself. He is not alone in that. We all doubt ourselves at some point. In that, only in that perhaps, we are all the Young Pope. Sure, he might still manage the dubious miracle of praying for the untimely death of evil nuns, but after that confession in Africa, Pius is no longer able to unleash the wrath of God in all its fury. Whether he likes it or not, Belardo sees himself gradually welcoming again mercy, that tenant he tried so hard to evict from the Church. He also starts becoming a devout follower of blessed Juana, the show's Central American saint-to-be that died loving the world.
Sorrentino may be a firm believer. He may be not. But he has decided to portray one of the most ancient and divinely powerful posts on the planet through an afflicted man that suffers from the most mundane problems of all: self-doubt and loneliness. We must thank God for that. In the process, The Young Pope explores all the lights and shadows of human experience, while it subtly uses beauty as a bridge between faith and disbelief.
This is the second installment of a series that started last week.
What is difficult for this new administration to accept is not the idea that Muslims are different, because Jews are different, agnostics are different, LGBTQ communities are different. What is difficult for this new administration to accept is not the difference, but the sameness and the equality that they share under the Constitution. This is what is provoking the hatred, the aggression, and the Executive Order of the new administration. There is no democracy without equality, without treating the most drastically different and most remotely othered as a peer enjoying the same rights under the law.
As a scholar of the humanities, I tell my students that I do not have a medical doctorate. I cannot fix them if they get sick, but I can help them fix a line of thought, appreciate a literary experience, adhere to logical argument, expose fake ideologies, see through the falsity of exclusivism and conquer the lethargies of stereotyping. In all humility, I am no legal historian. I lack the knowledge, the training and the tools to explain the constitution. But the last ten days have reinforced in me the belief that this country has an amazing capability of redeeming itself and conquering hate.
The new administration invokes 9/11 in Section III of the Executive Order as a rationale for the Muslim ban despite the glaring fact that there have been no terrorist attacks or arrests made of any of the nationals, refugees or other immigrants from the seven counties listed in the ban. Let’s take a second to digest an unequivocal fact: since 9/11 not one single person among the population of the seven countries listed in the ban, not one single person in 213 million people has committed or plotted to commit an act of terrorism against the United States of America.
Why, then, does the White House feel the need to protect the United States from individuals coming from these countries in the first week of the new president’s term in office? What urgent work of intelligence prompted the new administration to choose the path of an executive order effective immediately, sending unsettling shock waves across the entire nation and beyond? Was the Obama Administration so remiss and negligent that it ignored obvious signs of imminent danger unknown to the American people, or was this just an impulsive act by a president wanting to appeal to his base? Did Rudy Giuliani lie on air when he stated that the president asked him “how to legally create a Muslim ban,” or was he simply presenting an “alternative fact”?
Obviously Executive Orders exist for a reason and serve an important function. Have no doubt, the President has the authority to declare suspensions of certain individuals from entering the US. The relevant section of Act 212 (f) of the INA reads as follows:
Whenever the President finds that the entry of any aliens or of any class of aliens into the United States would be detrimental to the interests of the United States, he may by proclamation, and for such period as he shall deem necessary, suspend the entry of all aliens or any class of aliens as immigrants or nonimmigrants, or impose on the entry of aliens any restrictions he may deem to be appropriate.
This “whenever” is not a discretionary condition and to interpret it as such is irresponsible. A key word in this clause is “finds.” The burden of proof, i.e., of finding must be based on facts, not fiction. In other words, a president cannot think, feel, or opine that some aliens or a class of aliens are detrimental to the interests of the United States. This section is written precisely to protect the nation against personal biases. The President must first “find,” i.e., discover and have strong and indisputable evidence that a certain alien or a class of aliens would be detrimental to the interests of the United States before making a proclamation. Such is not the case of the Executive Order whose premises are based solely on fear. The order desires rather than verifies information supporting its action. Interestingly, the term “aliens” refers to a small group of people while “a class of aliens” refers to a category of people having a certain property or an attribute in common and differentiated from others by kind, type, or quality. It is the same word we use at schools to distinguish people’s social status or economic rank. Seven countries with a total population of 213 million is not a class of aliens unless the President is willing to admit that the common property these listed countries share is Islam.
The only rationale for a president to issue an executive order of this magnitude is if the country is indeed in an active state of war with said countries. Even during WWII, Franklin D. Roosevelt did not issue an executive order of such a sweeping magnitude. He did, however, observe order 9066 (1942), an infamous post-Pearl Harbor order that gave the military the ability to mark out areas in order to exclude “any and all persons." The horrifying and tragic results of that order were more than 100,000 Japanese-Americans and Japanese immigrants (women, men, and children) sent to internment camps. An unspeakable tragedy happening on American soil at the same time the Holocaust was taking place in Europe.
The Japanese-American Historical Plaza in Portland, Oregon, which presents poems of Japanese experiences is a constant reminder of the value of the U.S. Constitution and the Bill of Rights. The last of the thirteen stones made from basalt and granite in the Park has a bronze plaque with excerpts from the Civil Liberties Act of 1988. Engraved on the plaque is an apology for the unlawful imprisonment of people of Japanese ancestry during World War II. Here’s the apologetic Statement of Congress printed on that plaque. I cite it in full because every word of this apology is worth citing in full:
The Congress recognizes that, as described by the Commission on Wartime Relocation Internment of Civilians, a grave injustice was done to both citizens and permanent resident aliens of Japanese ancestry by the evacuation, relocation, and internment of civilians during World War II. As the Commission documents, these actions were carried out without adequate security reasons and without any acts of espionage or sabotage documented by the commission, and were motivated in part by racial prejudice, wartime hysteria, and a failure of political leadership. The excluded individuals of Japanese ancestry suffered enormous damages, both material and intangible, and there were incalculable losses in education and job training, all of which resulted in significant human suffering for which appropriate compensation has not been made. For these fundamental violations of the basic civil liberties and constitutional rights of these individuals of Japanese ancestry the Congress apologizes on behalf of the Nation.
Public Law 100-383, passed August 10, 1988 by the 100th Congress
Seeing the alarming parallels between the Muslim ban and Roosevelt’s infamous Order of 1942, the conscientious Japanese-American actor and activist George Takei immediately started a petition to “stand up for Muslims.” Takei, who grew up as a child in a United States internment camp for four and a half years during World War II has taken it upon himself “to raise awareness of this chapter in American history in order to make sure this never happens again.” “To characterize all Muslims as potential terrorists,” continues Takei, “is ridiculous, as ridiculous as it was to call us the enemy back then when we were Americans.” Roosevelt did this during World War II exactly two years after the United States refused to admit over 900 Jewish refugees sailing from Hamburg, Germany. The ship appeared off the coast of Florida and was denied permission to land in the United States. After returning to Europe in despair, nearly 30% of the passengers on board, a total of 254 Jews, sailed back to their death in the Holocaust.
When the US opened its doors to Jewish refugees after World War II, the State Department and the Immigration and Naturalization Department (now known as USCIS), gave Jewish refugees from Central Europe Anglicized cognomens under the Integration Law to protect them against external Nazi retaliation as well as perverse and codified internal prejudices. In other words, the United States entered two wars: an external war against Nazi Germany and fascism and an internal war against its own recalcitrant white supremacy and policies of racial discrimination. This is the history we seem to have forgotten. This is the history that is repeating itself now. We cannot allow neither our historical amnesia nor our own cynicism to deceive us into normalizing and repeating this dark chapter in our history.
All fascisms and totalitarianisms rest on two core principles: the exaggeration of a looming sense of danger and the invention of a perpetual enemy. It is absolutely crucial to emphasize that fascism relied on the utter trustfulness of its citizens to the ridiculous point of enticing them to accept everything they are told, thus wholeheartedly embracing even the most obvious of contradictions.
These two principles are what fascism poured into the ears of its citizens in order to garner their consent. Hannah Arendt has underscored this point quite forcefully in her 1951 Origins of Totalitarianism:
In an ever-changing, incomprehensible world the masses had reached the point where they would, at the same time, believe everything and nothing, think that everything was possible and nothing was true… The totalitarian mass leaders based their propaganda on the correct psychological assumption that, under such conditions, one could make people believe the most fantastic statements one day, and trust that if the next day they were given irrefutable proof of their falsehood, they would take refuge in cynicism; instead of deserting the leaders who had lied to them, they would protest that they had known all along that the statement was a lie and would admire the leaders for their superior tactical cleverness.
This is why we must hold on to and fiercely defend the moral compass that allows us to distinguish fact from falsehood. If we allow ourselves to believe uncritically “the most fanatic statements,” the loss will be incalculable. If we cast doubt on this a priori faculty, this radar of conscience and morals that allows us to separate facts from lies, especially in our political system which we inherited from the founding fathers and which we feel proud to teach to our children, then we will be dealing ourselves a blow that nothing can remedy.
One of the most cherished qualities of the US democratic system is not just the peaceful transfer of powers, but also the separation of powers and the system of checks and balances. As James Madison reminded us in 1788, “the accumulation of all powers, legislative, executive and judicial in the same hands, whether of one, a few, or many, and whether hereditary, self–appointed, or elective, may justly be pronounced the very definition of tyranny.” This statement is of crucial importance in understanding the Judiciary’s intervention to put a Temporary Restraining Order (TRO) on the President’s Executive Order. The separation of powers protects democracy against the accumulation of power by a single person or body of government, which, if it happens, will constitute the greatest threat to civil liberty.
If we recall the exchange between Seattle Federal Judge James Robart and Michelle Bennett, the trial attorney for the Justice Department’s Civil Division, an interesting debate takes place. Bennett insists that the President’s Executive Order is issued on national-security grounds, that the court should not deny it, because on the balance of equities, the order falls well within the President’s national-security powers, who is acting pursuant to congressional authority. In other words, the President has access to knowledge and agency discretion that the judge is unaware of and therefore his Executive Order should not be blocked by the Judiciary.
It’s true that Judge Robart may not have access to agency discretion, but this has nothing to do with his ruling. A federal judge has every right to a judicial review and to checking not just the executive but also the legislative branch by declaring a law or an order unconstitutional or harmful to the interests of the American people if deemed so. If the President decides there is a need to protect the United States from individuals coming from these countries, a federal judge has the authority invested in the Judiciary to determine if the order is rationally-based and grounded in facts as opposed to fiction. Judge Robart’s response is civil but firm:
The role assigned to the court is not to create policy and it is not to judge the wisdom of any particular policy promoted by the other two branches. That is the work of the legislative and executive branches and the citizens who ultimately by exercising their rights to vote exercise democratic control over those branches. The work of the judiciary is limited to ensuring that the actions taken by those two branches comport with our laws and most importantly our Constitution…. I find that the balance of equities favors the State and lastly I find that a Temporary Restraining Order is in the public interest. As such, I find the court should and will grant the Temporary Restraining Order. The court concludes that the circumstances that brought it here today are such that we must intervene to fulfill the judiciary's constitutional role in our tripartite government.
Judge Robart reminds us that the Judiciary has the ability to hold everyone accountable to the rule of law, including the President of the United States. But there is more to the judge's ruling than meets the eye. His ruling weighs facts over fiction and proof over fears and speculations. In other words, Judge Robart yielded neither to “alternative facts,” whatever those might have meant, nor to the Justice Department attorney’s implication that it is not his place to question the President’s Executive Order. The stakes are too high to stay idle. The shadow of the Holocaust and the internment of Japanese-Americans compel us to resist the blocking of refugees and the discriminations against Muslims, not because this is about Muslims, but because we cannot afford to tamper with the core constitutional values and principles that bind this nation together.
Hypocrisy is the worst of all political enemies. It is the claim to serve the nation while in reality one uses the public office to promote bias and further one’s personal agenda, displacing patriotism with supremacy, moral values with conspiracy theories, and national interest with partisanship and prejudice.
True patriotism is the antidote to hypocrisy. We must understand patriotism as the relentless defense of civil liberties and as an unyielding resistance to the normalization of discrimination, numbness, paralysis, cynicism, and detachment. This is the time when we must all heed the lessons of the Holocaust, revere the memories of Japanese-Americans, and venerate the integrity of the Judiciary.
In the wake of the Muslim Ban, I've struggled to find words adequate enough to express my dismay as a long-term resident of the US and someone of the Muslim faith whose intentions towards my chosen home are far from sinister. It is not that Muslims haven’t had their challenges in the United States even before 9/11. The uphill struggle Muslims and other minority groups continue to face in this country appears endless. Imagine having to go to work knowing that you must challenge or prove wrong misconceptions that daily tweets from the president's office and a steady drip of Islamophobia from Fox News are helping to crystallize in the American population.
“We don’t want them here,” said the President decisively after signing the Ban. I thought the vapid ideology of “us vs them” and the Machiavellian clash of civilizations thesis of the Bush era, vetting Christianity or Europe against Islam, had long been exposed and defeated. I thought that after an incalculable loss of innocent lives as a result of belligerent policies we are heeding the lesson and on a sound track towards pluralism and inclusivity. I thought we agreed that invading Iraq had been a mistake, that accusing all Muslims of terrorism because of a wanted fugitive trained by the CIA to fight the Russians in the Cold War was the worst and most tragic generalization in recent history.
How does a Muslim living in the USA today feel about the Muslim Ban and President’s tweets? Defeated? Depressed? Indignant? Resigned? Or optimistic that the resistance is going to make some headway in pushing back against this tidal wave of hate? I say ‘hate’ because I cannot find any other explanation for the unprovoked suspension of seven Muslim countries. The hate part is what kept agonizing me since I arrived here. It is almost as if there is an inherent tendency or a recessive autoimmune gene that makes America hate. Take a look at the last century: hate has managed to live with and through America’s presidential history from Theodore Roosevelt (1901-1908) to Donald Trump (2017-), from the Segregation Era (1900-1939) to anti-Semitism, from WWII to the horrific internment of Japanese-Americans, from the constant persecution of Black Americans to the Cold War, from the hatred of Russia and everything Russian to the hatred of Muslims. Hate is a tenacious virus that never dies but always metamorphoses and replicates itself as it finds new hosts to feed on. Hate is the enemy of America.
Don’t get me wrong. Hate is the enemy of our species. Racism for instance is a human disease that knows no borders and can be found anywhere on earth. It is also the most difficult act of wickedness to acknowledge. Despite all this, the promise of living in a democratic society has rekindled in me the desire to persevere. My hope in democracy has never dwindled. I survived the Bush years by finding consolation in Reinhold Niebuhr’s beautiful words: “man's capacity for justice makes democracy possible, but man's inclination to injustice makes democracy necessary.” When I made the choice to immigrate and make America home, I left behind a hopeless despotic regime in a third world country and sought solace in a democratic system that does not know or understand hate or malice. But I also left behind my ailing parents—now deceased—my family, my familiar Arabic tongue, my childhood memories, my favorite beach and the feeling that I am not a foreigner. All in all, a rift that cannot really heal but that I managed to endure. These feelings were compounded by a creeping sense that someone will always reject me in my new home: a stare on the bus or at a restaurant, a joke in the workplace corridor. Regardless, I have learned to ignore and move on because no matter what the pleasure of the promise is much more rewarding than the dissatisfaction of the present.
Hope has been and continues to be the principle that governs my life. When you have children, you see things differently: this is not about inheriting the earth from your fathers, but about borrowing it from your children. I hope that they will be alright, that they won't have to change their last names to guarantee equal opportunities in education and work, that they will continue to live in a system that rejects hate and that will be kind and fair to all of them, that they will continue to live in a land where the rule of the people by the people and for the people governs through direct voting and electoral representatives. As someone who grew up and lived under shameless tyranny, the mere prospect of moving to America was my American Dream, just being here and living in a society that honors hard work and uphold the rule of law is its own reward.
I was all alone when I arrived at San Francisco Airport to resume my job after being barred from entry and forced to spend 90 days in Canada because of my religion back in 2006. I am not alone now. Last week, there were close to 2,000 people at SFO protesting the ban. People from all walks of life in the Bay Area gathered to support their Muslim fellow citizens, refugees, immigrants, students visa workers, who were detained and unable to enter the country. Protesters did not leave until the last detained Muslim person was released. There were public figures in the audience alongside youths and children. The energy was beautiful and contagious. People brought food and fruits and water for everyone to share. This peaceful gathering represented what is beautiful and humane about American democracy. The chants were mesmerizing as people came together and formed one big heart. This is the spirit of America. I felt hopeful, grateful, and proud of everyone chanting beside me whether they were Jews, Christians, Muslims, atheists, agnostics, LGBTQ, white, black, Latinos, Asians: they all sing America!
Despite its divisive intent, the Muslim Ban has brought this nation together like the smiling cupid boys of a Shakespearean play: fanning Cleopatra against the heat unaware that in the act of cooling her off they fed the flames of Antony's desire. What the Muslim ban did, it undid a la Shakespeare. The comparison is not fair to Shakespeare nor is the aesthetic grandeur of his image remotely comparable to the banning of millions of people. But it points to a moment when attempts to incise Muslims from America has awakened the country to the pain of the division. This is a moment when the story has become not just a Muslim story but an American story, when the struggle is no longer confined to the ostracizing of Muslims, but includes for many the expulsion of Hispanics and the shunning of LGTBQ communities who join with organizers of BLM and the Women’s March. These communities do NOT for one moment allow themselves to be cornered, defined, dehumanized, or effaced by an alt-right ideology that is too afraid to face its fears head-on and actually look into the face of the "other" it so reviles.
James Livingston has responded to my critique of his Aeon essay, “Fuck Work.” His response was published in the Spanish magazine Contexto y Accion. One can find an English translation here. What follows is my reply:
Livingston and I share many political aims. We each wish to reverse wealth polarization, to alleviate systemic poverty, and to enable diverse forms of human flourishing. The professor and I disagree, however, on the nature of contemporary economic reality. As a consequence, we propose very different political programs for realizing the sort of just and prosperous society we both desire.
In his rejoinder to my critique, Livingston proudly affirms his commitment to Liberalism and makes a Liberal understanding of political economy the basis of his proposed alternative to the neoliberal catastrophe. Deeming government an intrinsically authoritarian institution, he situates civil society as a realm of self-actualization and self-sufficiency. The problem, as he formulates it, is that while capitalist innovation has made it possible to increasingly automate production, the capitalist class has robbed us of our purchasing power and preserved a punishing wage relation. This prevents us from enjoying the fruits of automated labor. Livingston’s solution is to reject an outmoded Protestant work ethic; tax the unproductive corporate profits that fuel financial markets; and redistribute this money in the form of a Universal Basic Income (UBI). The result: each member of civil society will be liberated to associate, labor, or play as they please.
Like Livingston, the left has long flirted with Liberal dreams that autonomous and self-regulating associations might one day replace the difficulties of political governance. After the Great Recession, these dreams have returned. They imagine algorithms and robots to be politically neutral. They seek a life of shared luxury through automatically dispensed welfare payments. This sounds nice at first blush. However, such reveries are at best naive and, at worst, politically defeatist and self-destructive. Abandoned and abused by neoliberal governance, today’s pro-UBI left doubles down on neoliberalism’s do-it-yourself caretaking. It envisions delimited forms of monetary redistribution as the only means to repair the social order. Above all, it allows anti-authoritarianism to overshadow the charge of social provisioning.
Livingston’s articulation of this dream is especially fierce. As such, it crystallizes UBI’s central contradiction: Demanding a no-strings-attached welfare system, the left seeks to cut government out of social provisioning while at the same time relying on government for regular financial support. This position, which fails to rethink the structure of social participation as a whole, leaves disquieting political questions unanswered: How will we provide adequate human and material resources for our growing elderly populations? How can we meaningfully restructure social production to address climate change? How do we preserve a place for the arts outside of competitive MFA programs and speculative art markets?
Such questions are unforgivingly realistic, not pie-in-the-sky musings. And no amount of volunteerism, goodwill, or generous welfare payments can adequately meet these demands. Indeed, only government can afford to mobilize the persons and materials needed to answer such demands. And while algorithms and robots are powerful social instruments, we cannot rely on automation to overcome extant logics of discrimination and exclusion. To do so is to forget that social injustice is politically conditioned and that government alone holds the monetary capacity to transform economic life in its entirety.
This brings me to Modern Monetary Theory (MMT). Far from an “obscure intellectual trend,” MMT is a prominent heterodox school of political economy that emerged from post-Keynesian economics and has lately influenced the economic platforms of Bernie Sanders, Jeremy Corbyn, and Spain’s United Left. For MMT, money is not a private token that states amass and hemorrhage. Rather, it is a boundless government instrument that can easily serve the needs of the entire community. International monetary agreements such the Eurozone’s Maastricht Treaty may impose artificial limits on fiscal spending, but these are, MMT argues, political constraints. They are not economically inevitable and can immediately be dissolved. In truth, every sovereign polity can afford to take care of its people; most governments simply choose not to provide for everyone and feign that their hands are tied.
To be sure, Liberalism has debated the “designation and distribution of rival goods,” as Livingston explains. In doing so, however, it has overlooked how macroeconomic governance conditions the production of these goods in the first place. MMT, by contrast, stresses money’s creative role in enabling productive activity and places government's limitless spending powers at the heart of this process.
In lieu of Liberal “redistribution” via taxation, MMT calls for a politics of “predistribution.” Redistributive politics mitigate wealth disparity by purportedly transferring money from rich to poor. This is a false and deeply metaphysical gesture, however, since it mistakes the monetary relation for a finite resource instead of embracing government’s actual spending capacities. MMT’s predistributive politics, meanwhile, insist that government can never run out of money and that meaningful transformation requires intervening directly in the institutions and laws that structure economic activity. MMT does not imply a crude determinism in which government immediately commands production and distribution. Rather, it politicizes fiscal spending and the banking system, which together underwrite the supposedly autonomous civil society that Livingston celebrates.
MMT maintains, moreover, that because UBI is not sufficiently productive, it is a passive and ultimately inflationary means to remedy our social and environmental problems. It thus recommends a proactive and politicized commitment to public employment through a voluntary Job Guarantee. Federally funded yet operated by local governments and nonprofits, such a system would fund communal and ecological projects that the private sector refuses to pursue. It would stabilize prices by maintaining aggregate purchasing power and productive activity during market downturns. What is more, by eliminating forced unemployment, it would eradicate systemic poverty, increase labor’s bargaining power, and improve everyone’s working conditions. In this way, a Job Guarantee would function as a form of targeted universalism: In improving the lives of particular groups, such a program would transform the whole of economic life from the bottom up.
Unlike the Job Guarantee, UBI carries no obligation to create or maintain public infrastructures. It relinquishes capital-intensive projects to the private sector. It banks on the hope that meager increases in purchasing power will solve the systemic crises associated with un- and underemployment.
Let us, then, abandon UBI’s “end of work” hysteria and confront the problem of social provisioning head on. There is no escape from our broken reality. We do better to seize present power structures and transform collective participation, rather than to reduce politics to cartoonish oppositions between liberty and tyranny, leisure and toil. Technology is marvelous. It is no substitute, however, for governance. And while civil society may be a site of creativity and struggle, it has limited spending abilities and will always require external support.
It is essential, therefore, to construct an adequate welfare system. On this matter, Livingston and I agree. But Livingston’s retreat from governance strikes me as both juvenile and self-sabotaging. Such thinking distracts the left from advancing an effective political program and building the robust public sector we need.
Motion disorients bodies.
When they are moved, bodies seek stable refuge—whether the bodies in question comprise shipwrecked sailors, strife-torn nations, dislocated asylum-seekers, or even confused students. Poetry offers a partial, not always effective, response to motion sickness. In disorienting times and places, we imagine refuge—while not averting our eyes from roiling seas. Dislocation demands poetry.
In September 2016 I was walking back from the apocalyptic landscape of Dead Horse Bay in Queens after hearing Craig Dionne read to my grad class from his new book Posthuman Lear when, for some reason, we all started talking about seasickness. It’s a universal human response to the sea’s motion, I offered. Investigating the cultural and historical forms seasickness assumes might lead toward a shared language for responding to disorientation. One student replied that she’d seen a program that described the most common scientific hypothesis for motion sickness as the body’s defense mechanism against perceived neurotoxins. In this view, the conflict between a body’s felt motion and lack of physical control over that motion leads the brain erroneously to suspect the presence of neurotoxins, which can be cleared by vomiting. Hence, seasickness. We walked back to the parking lot speculating about cultural motion sickness, a collective response to dislocation and change. What purgation does motion invite? What refuge waits on the far side of seasickness?
I’ll hazard some responses to these questions through brief engagement with three experimental revisions of classical maritime literature, the kinds of stories that speak to the human experience of unstable seas. These three trans-historical poems all respond to cultural motion sickness. They offer poetry’s comfort: not false stability but forms that can endure change.
I’ll start with the opening of David Hadbawnik’s great new translation of Virgil’s Aeneid. I’ll float for a time with Caroline Bergvall’s Drift, a multi-media work that mashes up the Anglo-Saxon elegy “The Seafarer” with the story of the Left-to-Die boat of Algerian refugees, abandoned in the Mediterranean in 2011. Last I’ll explore Stephen Collis’s “The Lawyer’s Tale,” a revision of Chaucer’s “Man of Law’s Tale” that takes aim at the collectivizing violence of the pronoun “we” in an effort to uncover shared forms of complicity. These modern authors reanimate premodern texts to demonstrate how stories respond to unsettling movements. Motion sickness results from the conflict between a body’s need for refuge and the sea’s disorienting flux.
I love Homer more, see more of Ovid in Shakespeare, and probably judge Dante the greater artist, but let’s not kid ourselves: Virgil is the poet who built our world. Today’s global geopolitical order and its attendant conflicts spill out from Virgil’s epic of imperial conquest, consolidation, and sacrifice. The Aeneid tells the story of a sometimes reluctant imperator, one whose heart may remain in burning Troy or perhaps in a North African cave with Dido, Queen of Carthage, but who nonetheless does his job, sails for Italy, and founds Rome.
Poet and medievalist David Hadbawnik’s stripped-down translation of Virgil’s epic, the first six books of which appeared in print in 2015 and which I taught for two semesters in a row last year, unravels Virgil’s stateliness. This version of the imperial hero responds to being a sea-tossed refugee the way so many human bodies do, with fear and nausea:
Aeneas gets scared.
Limbs loosened in fear, he
groans, bends over and
pukes over the boat’s
The short staccato lines, chiseled out from the Latin poet’s rich hexameters, remake epic suffering as motion sickness. Hadbawnik’s modern vernacular retelling of the Rome-founding epic reminds us that Virgil tells a still-familiar story, in which war in the Middle East pushes refugees out onto the stormy Mediterranean in frail boats. Empires arise on the far shore, where the puke washes up.
Caroline Bergvall’a 2014 book Drift, recently praised by Marina Warner in TLS as the best book she read in 2016, yokes together an anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem with a harrowing tale of modern refugees. In spring 2011, the Left-to-Die boat, though plainly visible to other boats and to NATO aircraft, drifted in the Mediterranean for fourteen days without food or water, resulting in the death of all but nine of the seventy-two mostly Algerian refugees on board. Bergvall engages this horrific tragedy to show the human cost of migration. In response, her poetry crafts a language of witness. “I can make my sorry tale right soggy truth,” Bergvall sings in the Seafarer’s voice. In the Nordic context of the medieval poem, the drifting boat enters “hafville, sea wilderness, sea wildering” (153). It’s a painful place and a place we recognize:
Did not know where I was going hafville Had fear wildering hafville
For a minute there I lost myself Totally at sea lost myway tossed misted
lost myself in the fog hafville hafville my love
Major Tom hafville
Li Bai hafville
Amelia Aerhardt hafville… (42-43)
The list of loss continues as the poem memorializes drowning. In an extraordinary typographical experiment a few pages earlier (pp 36-42) the text visually fractures to display the human encounter with killing waters.
When I taught this poem last spring alongside Hadbawnik’s Aeneid, students fixated on the plight of the seventy-two passengers. As we spent time with Bergvall’s spare language and medieval source, we recognized her effort to make art respond to tragedy. The poet offers both drowning and singing. “To north oneself,” she writes, “To come into song” (156). The project requires intimacy: “Let me come in from the cold, cold way, Seafarer” (166). Her verse dwells in the hortatory imperative, insisting “Let the tides shake your life” (110). Being shaken can be upsetting.
“The Lawyer’s Tale”
The poet Stephen Collis’s contribution to the volume Refugee Tales in 2016 rewrites Chaucer’s “Man of Law’s Tale” as a lawyer’s brief that re-defines the porous borders of legal and literary language. He asks that Chaucer’s tale of forced migration unsettle us:
knowing the truth
one does not always
nor does the truth
always remain intact
and the borders
are no longer
at the border
Collis’s project echoes Bergvall’s mashup of medieval and modern sea-wilderings, but the lawyerly pose also produces analytical questions. Who is the “we” that watches suffering human bodies move? Might “we” be an “empty category” (110), a category we need to disavow (111), or a collective whose desire to form and re-form itself constitutes an act of collective violence through exclusion? Collis assumes an ecological perspective: “’We’ (things that are living) are all carbon-based beings, but ‘we’ (active and passive participants in waves of economic violence) don’t all do unto others as ‘we’ would accumulate various and unequal wealths and debts to ourselves” (115). The prosecutorial conclusion names us all complicit: “What if complicity is a form of relationship—of negative connection—the realization that we are all in (or near) the same drunken boat?” (118). We have options, Collis reminds us: “Gather at the stern. Organize the disembarkation into unkempt regions of permanent asylum” (118). It’s possible, perhaps, to respond to complicity with poetry.
* * * * * *
By way of conclusions, I offer three dramamine tablets. Human bodies need help enduring motion. Maybe these little pills can do the trick?
First pill: I’m the kind of person who goes through life constantly being reminded of moments from Moby-Dick. Right now I’m thinking of the coffin-turned-life-buoy that saves Ishmael from the whirlpool at the story’s end. The ship has gone down, Queequeg has drowned, and the last survivor drifts toward the vortex’s center. Just before he’s pulled under an object splashes into view, “rising with great force, the coffin life-buoy shot lengthwise from the sea, fell over, and floated by my side. Buoyed up by that coffin, for almost a whole day and night, I floated on a soft and dirge-like main. The unharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths; the savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks.”
Second pill: Poetry can be that coffin life-buoy, building communities and imagining refuge. Melville’s lone survivor knows what Hadbawnik and Virgil and Bergvall and Chaucer and Collis know too, that poetry wells up in fractured communities. Verses are edge-revealers and form-makers.
Last pill: I’m left feeling a little seasick, still. There’s a nausea that never goes away. Disorientation captures an inescapable component of being in the world, at least if we really look at the world we’re in. I cling to poems and sometimes to life-buoys. I practice swimming and drifting. I tell and listen to and teach stories about people who survive and people who don’t. And, whether I’m thinking about Aeneas or the Seafarer or Constance or about my own body, I’m struck by one truth about motion sickness:
We always feel a little better after we vomit.
[first presented at REFUGE: A GWMEMSI Symposium, 10/28/16, in Washington, DC]
 M. Treisman, “Motion Sickness: An evolutionary hypothesis,” Science 29 (1977) 493-95.
 Virgil, Aeneid, Books I-VI, David Hadbawnik, trans., Carrie Kaser, illus., Chris Piuma, for. (Bristol: Shearsman Books, 2015) 15.
 Caroline Bergvall, Drift, (Brooklyn: Nightboat Books, 2014) 25. Further citations in the text.
 Stephen Collis, “The Lawyer’s Tale,”, Refugee Tales, David Herd and Anna Pincus, eds., (Manchester: Comma Press, 2016) 107-24.
 Herman Melville, Moby-Dick, Hershel Parker and Harrison Hayford, eds. (New York: Norton, 2002) 427.
In the wake of Donald Trump’s alarming election to the White House, historian James Livingston published an essay in Aeon Magazine with the somewhat provocative title, “Fuck Work.” The piece encapsulates the argument spelled out in Livingston’s latest book, No More Work: Why Full Employment is a Bad Idea (The University of North Carolina Press, 2016).
In both his book and the Aeon essay, Livingston sets out to address several overlapping crises: an alienating and now exhausted “work ethic” that crystallized during the Protestant Reformation; forty years of rampant underemployment, declining wages, and widening inequality; a corresponding surge in financial speculation and drop in productive investment and aggregate demand; and a post-2008 climate of cultural resentment and political polarization, which has fueled populist uprisings from Left to Right.
What the present catastrophe shows, according to Livingston’s diagnosis, is the ultimate failure of the marketplace to provision and distribute social labor. What’s worse, the future of work looks dismal. Citing the works of Silicon Valley cyber-utopians and orthodox economists at Oxford and M.I.T., Livingston insists that algorithms and robotization will reduce the workforce by half within twenty years and that this is unstoppable, like some perverse natural process. “The measurable trends of the past half-century, and the plausible projections for the next half-century, are just too empirically grounded to dismiss as dismal science or ideological hokum,” he concludes. “They look like the data on climate change—you can deny them if you like, but you’ll sound like a moron when you do.”
Livingston’s response to this “empirical,” “measurable,” and apparently undeniable doomsday scenario is to embrace the collapse of working life without regret. “Fuck work” is Livingston’s slogan for moving beyond the demise of work, transforming a negative condition into a positive sublation of collective life.
In concrete terms, this means implementing progressive taxation to capture corporate earnings, and then redistributing this money through a “Universal Basic Income,” what in his book is described as a “minimum annual income for every citizen.” Such a massive redistribution of funds would sever the historical relationship between work and wages, in Livingston’s view, freeing un- and underemployed persons to pursue various personal and communal ends. Such a transformation is imminently affordable, since there are plenty of corporate funds to seize and redirect to those in need. The deeper problem, as Livingston sees it, is a moral one. We must rebuff the punishing asceticism of the Protestant work ethic and, instead, reorganize the soul on more free and capacious bases.
Lest we get the wrong idea, Livingston maintains that social labor will not simply disappear in a world organized by a tax-funded Universal Basic Income. Rather, he envisions an increasingly automated future, where leisure is our primary preoccupation, social labor becomes entirely voluntary, and ongoing consumption props up aggregate demand. Eschewing utopian plans or prescriptions, he wonders,
What would society and civilisation be like if we didn’t have to ‘earn’ a living—if leisure was not our choice but our lot? Would we hang out at the local Starbucks, laptops open? Or volunteer to teach children in less-developed places, such as Mississippi? Or smoke weed and watch reality TV all day?
Enraged over the explosion of underpaid and precarious service work? Disaffected by soulless administration and info management positions? Indignant about the history of unfree labor that underwrites the history of the so-called “free market”? Want more free time? Not enough work to go around? Well, then, fuck work, declares Livingston. Say goodbye to the old liberal-democratic goal of full employment and bid good riddance to misery, servitude, and precarity.
“Fuck work” has struck a chord with a diverse crowd of readers. Since its release, the essay has garnered more than 350,000 clicks on the Aeon website. The Spanish publication Contexto y Acción has released a translation of the piece. And weeks later, Livingston’s rallying cry continues to resonate through social media networks. “Fuck Work” has been enthusiastically retweeted by everyone from Marxists and small “l” liberals to anarchists and tech gurus.
The trouble is that Livingston’s “Fuck Work” falls prey to an impoverished and, in a sense, classically Liberal social ontology, which reifies the neoliberal order it aims to transform. Disavowing modern humanity’s reliance on broadscale political governance and robust public infrastructures, this Liberal ontology predicates social life on immediate and seemingly “free” associations, while its critical preoccupation with tyranny and coercion eschews the charge of political interdependence and caretaking. Like so many Universal Basic Income supporters on the contemporary Left, Livingston doubles down on this contracted relationality. Far from a means to transcend neoliberal governance, Livingston’s triumphant negation of work only compounds neoliberalism’s two-faced retreat from collective governance and concomitant depoliticization of social production and distribution.
In a previous contribution to Arcade, I critiqued the Liberal conception of money upon which Marxists such as Livingston unquestionably rely. According to this conception, money is a private, finite and alienable quantum of value, which must be wrested from private coffers before it can be made to serve the public purpose. By contrast, Modern Monetary Theory contends that money is a boundless and fundamentally inalienable public utility. That utility is grounded in political governance. And government can always afford to support meaningful social production, regardless of its ability to capture taxes from the rich. The result: employment is always and everywhere a political decision, not merely a function of private enterprise, boom and bust cycles, and automation. There is therefore nothing inevitable about underemployment and the misery it induces. In no sense are we destined for a “jobless future.”
Thus upon encountering Aeon Magazine’s tagline for Livingston’s piece—“What if jobs are not the solution, but the problem?”—I immediately began wondering otherwise.
What if we rebuffed the white patriarchal jargon of full employment, which keeps millions of poor, women, and minorities underemployed and imprisoned? What if, in lieu of this liberal-democratic ruse, we made an all-inclusive and well-funded federal Job Guarantee the basis for a renewed leftist imaginary?
What if we stopped believing that capitalists and automation are responsible for determining how and when we labor together? What if we quit imagining that so-called “leisure” spontaneously organizes itself like the laissez-faire markets we elsewhere decry?
What if we created a public works system, which set a just and truly livable wage floor for the entire economy? What if we made it impossible for reprehensible employers like Walmart to exploit the underprivileged, while multiplying everyone’s bargaining powers? What if we used such a system to decrease the average work day, to demand that everyone has healthcare, and to increase the quality of social participation across public and private sectors? What if economic life was no longer grounded solely in the profit motive?
What if we cared for all of our children, sick, and growing elderly population? What if we halved teacher-student ratios across all grade levels? What if we built affordable homes for everyone? What if there was a community garden on every block? What if we made our cities energy efficient? What if we expanded public libraries? What if we socialized and remunerated historically unpaid care work? What if public art centers became standard features of neighborhoods? What if we paid young people to document the lives of retirees?
What if we guaranteed that Black lives really matter? What if, in addition to dismantling the prison industrial complex, we created a rich and welcoming world where everyone, citizen or not, has the right to participation and care?
What if private industry’s rejection of workers freed the public to organize social labor on capacious, diverse, and openly contested premises?
What if public works affirmed inclusion, collaboration, and difference? What if we acknowledged that the passions of working life are irreducible to a largely mythical Protestant work ethic? What if questioning the meaning and value of work become part of working life itself?
What if we predicated social critique on terms that are not defined by the neoliberal ideology that we wish to circumvent?
What if we radically affirmed our dependence on the public institutions that support us? What if we forced government to take responsibility for the system it already conditions?
What if we admitted that there are no limits to how we can care for one another and that, as a political community, we can always afford it?
Livingston’s argument cannot abide such questions. Hence the Left's reply to “fuck work” should be clear: fuck that.