Tag Archives: Barack Obama

Why I will not be watching: Inauguration Day Reflections

Eight years ago, I poked my head out of my little apartment on a Minnesota lake in what felt like the middle of nowhere, and was greeted by a crystal-clear sky and minus-10 degree temperature. I had arrived the previous night for a four-month sabbatical stay at the Collegeville Institute for Ecumenical Research on the campus of St. John’s University, where I was intending to write a book and be a “resident scholar,” whatever that meant. I had arrived late in the evening, had not yet met anyone, and was already missing Jeanne and the dogs. Some people on this bitterly cold morning would have headed for the common area a few doors down to meet and greet other new arrivals (our official activities were not scheduled to begin until dinner that evening), but I did what any extreme introvert facing the prospect of meeting a dozen or so strangers all at once would have done—I turned around and went back inside my apartment. Not only was I not ready to meet new people, but the day ahead was going to be filled with “must-see TV.” It was Tuesday, January 20, 2009—the day that Barack Obama was to be inaugurated as the 44th President of the United States. I did not intend to miss a minute of it.

For the millions of Americans who voted for him, Barack Obama represented hope, change, renewal, and evidence that this country actually had, incrementally, changed for the better in its attitudes and actions. For most of my life I had told people that I thought the first woman President was more likely to happen in my lifetime than the first African-American President–the rise of this dynamic, multi-ethnic man to the highest elected position in the nation not only proved me wrong, but seemed also to prove that we had collectively made progress. I had tears in my eyes more than once on that Tuesday eight years ago, as Aretha Franklin and Yo-yo Ma performed, a record crowd cheered, and the new President was sworn in. I remember feeling particularly happy for my two sons, one of whom had actively campaigned for Obama. The convoluted and tortured election of 2000 had been their first opportunity to vote in a Presidential election; I was worried at the time that the debacle might sour them forever on political engagement. Yet here we were, eight years later, celebrating a day of historic importance.

I believe Barack Obama has been a fine President. This is not primarily because of his many positive accomplishments, achieved in the face of the most concerted and organized opposition imaginable from his political adversaries. Given the visceral resistance from some quarters, for reasons that often failed to rise above entrenched racism, it is remarkable that the 44th President of the United States achieved anything politically or economically at home or abroad. But what I will always be grateful for, and what I will remember this President for until I die, has nothing to do with political achievements or failures.

Last week Jeanne and I watched any number of retrospectives on the past eight years of the Obamas in the White House; I was reminded again and again of President Obama’s grace, intelligence, sense of humor, honesty, and strength of character. These qualities never wavered as he inherited an economic disaster not of his making, faced two terms worth of “just because” resistance at every turn from lawmakers who never seemed able to accept what happened in November 2008 and 2012, questions about whether he is truly an American citizen, and a clear refusal in some quarters to accept that an African-American had been elected President—twice. His Presidency was not only scandal free—his family provided a model for us all to aspire to. I agree with Vice President Joe Biden, who said last week that he believes Michelle Obama to be the greatest First Lady in our history. I will miss Barack Obama as President, not because I agreed with every one of his decisions (I didn’t), but because he has been an exemplar of the sort of personal character and strength needed in the Oval Office.

I will not be watching the inaugural events today. This is not unusual—I did not watch either of George W. Bush’s inaugurals, and I doubt I watched much, if any, of Ronald Reagan’s. I apparently only watch the inaugurals of Presidents who I voted for. But this is the first time that my not watching seems to be principled. I am worried for our country because the man who takes the oath of office today has demonstrated none of the personal characteristics of quality and character that were on daily display during the outgoing President’s eight years in the White House. I believe that our country is strong and resilient enough to withstand just about anything a given President might do or try to do, but am not as confident that our country has not taken a large step backwards in its commitments to the issues that I, both as a Christian and a human being, consider to be indispensable components of freedom and justice.

Donald Trump’s presidency is unlikely to have a strong, direct impact on Jeanne’s and my lives. But “how will this affect me?” has never been the most important question to ask when considering our country’s future. How would I be feeling today if I were not white? If I were Muslim? If I were an undocumented resident of our country? If I were a woman? Everyone, of course, must answer such questions for themselves—as I consider them, I find nothing to celebrate today. I hope that I am wrong. I hope that Donald Trump surprises me and turns out in actions to be very different than the man that his words have shown him to be. But at the moment, as I wrote in this blog the day after last November’s election, I am feeling “the weight of this sad time.”

The Weight of this Sad Time

I’ll be spending today preparing my classes for next week, getting ready to watch the Friars play the #1 team in the country tomorrow on television as well as the Patriots’ game tomorrow night, and—when I think of it—sending a quick prayer out for our country and for all who are fearful about what the upcoming weeks and months may hold. But that’s just me.

 

Is He My President?

Jesus spoke the truth AND confronted those who used their position to justify their lies, self-righteousness, vitriol and hate. As a Christian, I am called to do the same. A Very Wise Person

Late in 1992, in the wake of Bill Clinton’s winning the Presidency, I noticed an interesting phenomenon. Jeanne and I were living in Memphis at the time, working at a small Catholic university that was my first teaching position after graduate school. Over the weeks following the election, more and more vehicles on the road were sporting a new bumper sticker: He’s Not My President.not-my-president Apparently, some Tennesseans were not happy with the election result. Eight years later, now happily working and living in southern New England, similar bumper stickers started popping up in the wake of George W. Bush’s contested victory over Al Gore: He’s Not My President. In 2008 and 2012 similar bumper stickers broke out like a rash: He’s Not My President.

I’ve had the opportunity over the years to raise this phenomenon to my students’ attention in various classroom contexts. “If you had a chance to talk with the person with that bumper sticker on her or his car, what would you say?” I ask. Invariably my students answer, correctly, that the person who won the election is your President, whether you like it or not. That’s one of the problems with democracy—often the person or policy that, in your estimation, makes the most sense doesn’t win. But as long as the election was run according to lawful procedures, everyone is supposed to deal with the results and move on.protest

And then last Tuesday happened. In the aftermath of the most stunning and shocking Presidential election result in my lifetime, and one of the most unexpected in American history, protests are not waiting for bumper stickers to get printed. Protest rallies in cities nationwide have broken out with chants of “We don’t accept the President-elect!” and “Not my President.” #NotMyPresident is trending on Twitter. My youngest son, in Denver with a couple of friends last Thursday evening, called me while I was watching a soccer game on campus. “DAD!” he yelled excitedly so I could hear him over soccer fan noise. “My friends and I are eating dinner and heard a bunch of noise in the street outside! It’s an anti-Trump rally! We’re going to finish dinner and head out to join in!” Later that evening he posted a video on his Facebook page of he and his friends doing just that.trump-and-obama

And yet during the day on Thursday the President-elect and the sitting President sat together in the Oval Office after meeting for the first time and having what they both described as a constructive conversation, looking normal, calm and collected, and laying the groundwork for a peaceful and efficient period of transfer of power. Never mind that this President has been arguing over the past few weeks that the President-elect is thoroughly unqualified to occupy the Oval Office or handle the nuclear codes. Never mind that the President-elect rose to political attention eight years ago by questioning loudly and publicly whether the President was even born in this country. On Wednesday, the person who everyone thought would be the President-elect, the person who won more votes on Tuesday than the President-elect, in the aftermath of the nastiest and most brutal election contest in anyone’s memory, hillary-concessionsaid that everyone owed the victor their support as he attempts to figure out how to do a job that millions of people consider him to be grossly unqualified for. As philosophers like to say, we are living in a time of cognitive dissonance—on steroids.

The brutal fact for many of us, for those of us who fear that what the President-elect said and did during the campaign might be a more accurate indicator of who he really is than the remarkably human-sounding person who sat with the President on Thursday and delivered his acceptance speech in the wee hours of Wednesday, is that Donald Trump is the President-elect and will be my President—our President—starting on Inauguration Day in January. As I discussed the election with a room full of stunned students on Thursday, young adults trying to come to grips with how the first Presidential election they voted in turned out, I was reminded of something a colleague of mine in the history department once said.

My colleague is a professor-emeritus and a specialist in American Presidential history. I taught with him in an interdisciplinary program a couple of times early in my career, and I’ll never forget when he told our students during a lecture that the American Revolution did not come to a successful conclusion until the Presidential election of 1800. jefferson-and-adamsBitter rivals John Adams (the incumbent President) and Thomas Jefferson were pitted against each other, both believing that the future of the fledgling United States of America depended on his rival being defeated. The electoral college was tied, sending the contest to the House of Representatives where Jefferson was elected on the 36th ballot. For the first time, the provisions in the Constitution for the transfer of power from an outgoing to an incoming administration were put to the test. Would Adams actually turn the reins of power over to his bitter rival? According to my colleague, the American Revolution came to a successful conclusion only when the peaceful transition of power from Adams to Jefferson did indeed take place, the very transition process that both President Obama and Hillary Clinton referred to as “enshrined” in our national history and political processes.peaceful-transfer-of-power

After telling this story in class the other day, I reminded my students that at one point in the summer a document was made public, signed by dozens of former generals and foreign policy experts, warning that Donald Trump must not be elected President, due to his shocking lack of knowledge about even the most basic details of foreign and military policy. And yet he was elected last Tuesday. My students quickly noted that what happened last week, in another country or in another part of the world, would have opened the door to a military coup. In the interest of national security, the argument would go, this man must not be in charge of the military, foreign policy, or the nuclear code. But such a coup will not take place—couprespect for the rule of law and due process remains strong, even though millions of people are convinced that what happened last Tuesday was one of the worst decisions the American electorate has ever made.

Based on what he has said and done over the past many months, I find little in the President-elect to support or endorse—he does not represent me or any of my deepest interests or commitments. But he will be President for the next four years, barring unforeseen events. Already there is evidence of misogyny, xenophobia, and racism rearing their ugly heads as certain Americans feel empowered and are emboldened by the election of a man who they have taken at his word. The anti-Trump rallies are at least partially fueled by persons like myself who fear that the country we love and its most important values will be under serious attack over the next few years. And then there’s my faith—what direction might it provide for how to frame my thoughts and attitudes going forward? In a Facebook post a few days ago, my wife Jeanne provided a beautiful and promising answer.

The anti-Trump protesters are angry. Their anger has motivated them to action. Perhaps anger is a fruit of love, love that has been abused, ignored, invalidated, spat upon. Love’s voice is powerful. Love’s voice screams at injustice. Love’s voice demands that we “DO justice, love kindness and walk humbly with our God.”

I am a Christian. My Jesus was marginalized. He did not favor those who marginalized others. He spoke the truth AND confronted those who used their position to justify their lies, self-righteousness, vitriol and hate. As a Christian, I am called to do the same.

So am I. So are we all.

Preparing for the Clown Invasion

I suppose that, given that Halloween is only a couple of weeks away, we should not be surprised by reports that more and more clown sightings worldwide have caused people to become nervous. Where are they coming from? What are they up to?

Increased clown sightings

Concerns about clowns have been part of my life for the past thirty-five years or so, as I reported not long ago . . .

Isn’t it rich? Are we a pair?
Me here at last on the ground,
You in mid-air.
Send in the clowns.

I get most of my news piec2072985-e6f7-5e3e-994a-74990d3f595b.preview-300cemeal from NPR while riding in the car. Since Jeanne has the car most of the time, this is not a daily event. Even when I am “listening” to “Morning Edition,” I generally am only paying slight attention. It takes a lot for me to listen carefully. Civil war in Syria? Whatever. The Ukraine is falling apart? Yawn. Ted Nugent calls President Obama a bad name? What else is new? But when Renee Montagne reported this one morning, I was all ears.

Circus folk fear a national clown shortage is on the horizon. Membership at the country’s largest trade organizations for the jokesters has plunged over the past decade as declining interest, old age and higher standards among employers align against Krusty, Bozo and their crimson-nosed colleagues.

A clown shortage?? Really?? Apparently Renee wasn’t privy to the email exchanges flying around campus during the most recent controversy and brouhaha last week. Who knew there were so many clowns with PhDs?  I dismissed the clown report as the sort of filler that even NPR has to come up with on occasion. indexBut then the music for a South Korean skater’s short program the next evening was “Send in the Clowns,” and last Saturday the panelists on “Wait! Wait! Don’t Tell Me,” my favorite radio program, started the show with a couple of minutes of hilarity concerning the impending clown drought. The panel suggested, for instance, that the art history majors dissed by President Obama the other day might want to look into enrolling in clown school as a backup plan for their current careers as Starbucks baristas. Clowns are in the air.

Isn’t it bliss?
Don’t you approve?
One who keeps tearing around,
One who can’t move.
Where are the clowns?
Send in the clowns.

652223575f794d7cad2bd5347a0f10This is very strange. There seemed to be plenty of clowns around in my childhood, from Howdy Doody’s Clarabell to Bozo, with whom I spent many afternoons after school. I actually thought the Bozo part of the Bozo-the-Clown-300x206“Bozo the Clown Show” was insufferably stupid and boring, but was willing to put up with it for the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. The next generation has its own clowns, most memorably Krusty from “The Simpsons.” There are a number of possible explanations for the looming clown shortage:

KrustytheClown

  • Young people who in the past were interested in clownhood are now going into politics.
  • The procreation rate of clowns is very low. The oversized baggy clothing makes clown sex very challenging.
  • Clown traffic mortality rates are extraordinarily high. Clowns are poor drivers to begin with, and piling twenty-five to thirty clowns into every clown-driven vehicle drives the death rate up exponentially when accidents occur.

Just when I’d stopped opening doors,
Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours,
Making my entrance again with my usual flair,
Sure of my lines,
No one is there.
 

I know one person who will be very happy to hear about the clown shortage. My son Caleb has suffered from a close-to-terminal case of coulrophobia (fear of clowns) since birth. A little over 30 years ago, five years after my BA, I found myself living in a tiny town in an isolated Star Valleywestern Wyoming valley, working in a grocery store, with four- and one-and-a-half year old sons in a marriage that was sure would not survive. Don’t ask.

We had almost no money, but that was okay since in Star Valley virtually nothing worth spending money on ever happened. So when a pitying friend gave me two tickets to the upcoming county fair, I was pleased to have something to do with my older son other than read Dr. Seuss books or watch television. I knew that Caleb was not amused by clowns, but this was a county fair, not a circus. Horses, pigs, cows, a petting zoo—what could go wrong? As we got out of the car and started crossing the parking lot to the entrance gate, I noticed that the ticket taker was . . . a clown. A stereotypical clown with a bald white pate, a bright orange fringe of hair, checked shirt, polka-dotted pants, oversized grin, exaggerated  eyebrows, size forty-two shoes. pennywiseMaybe Caleb wouldn’t notice. But he did. As we approached the entrance, Caleb protested repeatedly in an increasingly loud and panicked voice “DON’T LIKE IT! DON’T LIKE IT!! THERE’S PLOWNS!!!” In order to short-circuit the dragging-a-screaming-kid-with-his-heels-dug-in scenario that is the bane of all parents’ existence, I sighed, we turned around, got back in the car, and drove away.

evilclown7bc8A few weeks ago I told this thirty-year-old story to Caleb’s younger brother. After several moments of uproarious and uncontrolled laughter, Justin realized that he just been given the greatest gift a younger brother can receive—a completely and devastatingly embarrassing story about his older brother. The next time the three of us were together, Justin sprang into action. “Caleb, are you still afraid of clowns?” Justin asked, mimicking in a high voice Caleb’s plaintive “Don’t like it! There’s plowns!” To Justin’s surprise, Caleb not only did not consider this story to be a threat to his carefully protected manhood, but instead doubled down on his lifelong judgment concerning clowns. “Clowns are evil. I hate clowns. Clowns are fucked up.”

Don’t you love farce?
My fault I fear.
I thought that you’d want what I want.
Sorry, my dear.
But where are the clowns?
Quick, send in the clowns.
Don’t bother, they’re here.

What will a clown-less world be like? Probably the same as the one we’ve got—I have to admit that other than the above-mentioned adventure with my son, clowns have not been on my radar screen very often. But generations yet unborn will eventually wonder what the hell Judy Collins is singing about.

Isn’t it rich?
Isn’t it queer,
Losing my timing this late
In my career?
And where are the clowns?
There ought to be clowns.
Well, maybe next year.

Celebrating Life

I recently submitted two grant proposals related to my sabbatical that will begin next July. The stakes are high–especially since I don’t handle rejection well. But I am a bit better at it than I used to be, thanks to something that happened toward the end of my last sabbatical . . .

There’s nothing more pitiful than a grown man feeling sorry for himself. But that’s where I found myself a few years ago while on sabbatical. My first conscious thought upon awakening was of the email I received the night before informing me that Icollegeville-inst1[1] had not been accepted into a summer writing workshop at the Ecumenical Institute where I was spending my sabbatical, a workshop that I really really really wanted to be part of. My career in academia has mercifully been almost rejection free, and it’s a good thing because I don’t handle rejection well. Despite learning from the email that there had been 141 applications for 12 slots, I took the “no” as a negative judgment about the whole me, from my ponytail to my shoes. This, in addition to my second conscious thought–“I only have nine days left here on sabbatical and then I’m leaving this place I’ve come to love”–and my third thought– “I have an exit interview this morning with the Institute program director”– made for a less-than-fabulous morning.

Slouching in my usual seat in the choir stalls for noon prayer, I was definitely not in the mood. For the first time in the dozens and dozens of liturgies in which I had participated from that seat over the previous four months,100_0331 I didn’t feel like being there. The hymn was lame, followed as usual by a section from Psalm 119 extolling the wonders of God’s law and how fabulous it is to obey God’s word. Whatever.  One minute of silence. The second psalm was entirely forgettable, until the end when the solo monk for the day sucked some phlegm down his windpipe the wrong way. After several seconds of coughing and throat clearing, he finished the last three lines sounding like he’d been sucking on helium. No biggie, dude—happens to me all the time. One minute of silence. The third psalm, number forty-something, included the line “it is good that I was afflicted.” Oh really? Well if you were as afflicted as poor rejected me you wouldn’t have written that. Stand up and bow your head as you recite “Give praise to the Father Almighty . . .”.  Disobediently, I didn’t bow my head—what do they think I am, a sheep?

Sit back down, another minute of silence. Solo monk says “Blah, Blah, Blah, Alleluia,” and we respond in kind, “Blah, Blah, Blah, Alleluia.” Stand up for the final prayer, which sounds like the grownups in the old Charlie Brown cartoons on television.charlie%20brown%20teacher[1]

“Wah, Wahwah, Wahwah, Wah,

Wawah, Wah, Wahwah, Wah,

Wahwahwahwah, Wah, Wahwah, Wah,

In the name of Your Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ,

Who lives and reigns and celebrates life

With You and the Holy Spirit,

One God, forever and ever, Amen.”

“Lives and reigns and celebrates life”??? That one I’d never heard before—I think solo monk added it impromptu for my benefit. In any event, it worked like the face slap in the old Aqua Velva commercials and got my attention—“Thanks, I needed that!” I guess I’d never thought of the Father, J.C., and the Holy Spirit celebrating life together as one God forever and ever. What would that look like? My first image is of a Gary Larson-like cartoon. Imagine a round table. Seated on the left is an old, somewhat overweight guy with shoulder-length white hair and big white beard, wearing a white robe and drinking 18-year-old Balvenie neat (he saves the 21-year-old for Sundays). In the middle facing you is a sandaled younger guy with dark hair, skin and beard, hoisting a pint of Guinness and saying “Brilliant!!” imagesCAR35IOXOn the right, facing the white-haired old guy, is a dove standing on the table and dipping her beak into a martini with two olives. I guess it says something about me that my first image of celebrating life involves the consumption of alcoholic beverages, but it’s definitely a way of celebrating life.

Well if they can celebrate life forever and ever, amen, I guess I can try it too. And the evening before the day in question, for five hours before reading the email that shall no longer be mentioned, I had been doing just that with friends. Two of my good buddies (a married resident scholar couple), 100_0369a guitar-picking monk who is a native of Montana and tends the monastery orchard, and me. Our conversation ranged from still-new President Obama’s controversial commencement speech at Notre Dame to abortion to politics at the Abbey, while eating salmon, potatoes, salad, and drinking lots of wine. We ended up sitting on the back patio overlooking the lake as it got dark.  100_0366In the dusk the lake became still and as calm as glass, reflecting the trees along the shore in upside-down perfection. Brother John serenaded us with Bob Dylan and Joan Baez tunes, and talked about our colleague Conrad who had unexpectedly died (while pouring himself a martini) just a few days earlier. Acoustic guitar lessons Toronto taught me to be inspired by music. Conrad had loved this place, and thought it was a little bit of heaven. “I think this a bit of heaven too,” my friend said. If I believed in heaven, I would have agreed—but wait, that’s a different essay.

1852724[1]Then Brother John  started playing “Summertime” from “Porgy and Bess” and I knew my friend was right—this was heaven. “Summertime” is a song that Jeanne sings beautifully; she had sung “Suzanne” with Brother John after a group dinner when she had visited me for a few days over Easter and he fell in love with her (he told me so in an email). I can understand that because over twenty years ago, two days after we met, Jeanne, my dad, and I were having drinks in a Wyoming lounge attached to the restaurant where we’d just had dinner (my boys went back to my folks’ condo with Grandmaw).Jeanne singing Jeanne went to the front and, accompanied by the resident lounge lizard on the piano, sang another Gershwin tune, “Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man Of Mine.” I decided she was singing it to me and I fell off the edge of the cliff I’d been balancing on for the previous two days. I was in love. I didn’t tell her for another month, but hey, that’s pretty quick for me.

When I got back to my apartment that evening, I checked my email, got rejected, and stopped celebrating life. How stupid. I am an introverted celebrator—IMG_9677I’ll never suck the marrow out of every minute and second like my dachshund Frieda and some other people I know. My kind of celebration expresses itself in what Anne Lamott says is one of the two best prayers ever: “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” (The other one is “Help! Help! Help!’) I have a lot to celebrate, as do we all, if I just remember to find it. I can’t promise that I can stick to it forever and ever, amen, but I can at least finish out the day.

Barack Obama is an Elf, or More Things I Have Learned About Myself from Facebook

You beautiful, aloof creature. You’re one of the most revered and honored creatures . . . but you’re also very hard to pin down. You’re an interesting mix of empathetic politician and pragmatic dreamer. You believe in the power of justice, but you also believe in the power of protecting yourself. You’re always willing to lend a hand, but not to the point where it will negatively affect you.elrond

The message in a birthday card from my wife or one of my best friends? A text I sent to myself on a day when I needed cheering up and no one was cooperating? No—this is what followed “You are an Elf,” the result of the latest Buzzfeed quiz Which Mythical Creature Are You? You can’t beat these quizzes for putting a positive and uplifting spin on every possible result. I have a Facebook acquaintance who was fine with finding out from the Which One Of Jesus’s Disciples Are You? quiz that she is Judas Iscariot (I’m Thomas, of course), because the description affirmed that she is comfortable with being an outsider and dancing to the beat of her own drum. Each of these quizzes affirms something about me that others might not be happy to find out about themselves—being aloof and self-interested, for instance. GaladrielBig deal—I embrace it and my elfhood. And Elf-Queen Galadriel (known to mere mortals as Cate Blanchett) won this year’s Best Actress Academy Award. Elves are on a roll.

It has been a Buzzfeed quiz pretty much every other day for a while now. For instance, in the Which U.S. President Are You? quiz, I learned that You are Barack Obama! GWWell that’s not a surprise (although my cousin told me that my high school senior picture looked like George Washington on the dollar bill).

You are pure class and shy away from drama. You are very charismatic and eloquent, and you find it natural and easy to communicate your ideas and opinions to people. You’re a pioneer, a glass ceiling breaker in effect. Here’s to you.

Here’s to me indeed, especially since my son Justin got Ronald Reagan. I avoided that by not clicking on jellybeans as my favorite candy (although they are). I really don’t know where I went wrong with that kid. But the above description of my Barack Obama-ness was clearly written by a progressive liberal. If it had been written someone who attended the i4j0fdhR9C6IConservative Political Action Conference this week, the description would have read something like this:

You are evil incarnate and are on a temporary, eight-year leave from one of the lower circles of hell. You are a socialist, hate people who have made successes of themselves without government help, and are a socialist. You are responsible for everything bad that happens, from Benghazi to snow storms. You secretly wish you were the King of Kenya. You are both a tyrant and a wimp. And you are a socialist. Benghazi. Obamacare. Socialist.

Sometimes I get contrary information, such as when I find out from the Which Character From Shakespeare Are You? quiz thatindex

You are Hamlet! You are a tremendously complex character: thoughtful, complex, indecisive, impulsive, careless, melancholy, and more, all at once. So let’s hope you don’t die after being stabbed by a poisoned sword, while learning from the What Period of History Do You Really Belong In? quiz that

You got Revolutionary France: You don’t want to eat any cake, thank you very much, because that is too mainstream. You’re edgy, passionate, and outspoken. When you want something, you go out and get it. Now off with some heads! Hamlet during the French Revolution—I can’t see that working.

To guillotine, or not to guillotine–that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageously overprivileged aristocrats

Or to take arms against a sea of peasants

And by opposing them let them eat cake.

Les MizI suspect that the creator of the historical period quiz needs to take my Development of Western Civilization course, since the background picture to “Revolutionary France” was a still shot from the recent Les Miserables movie. That was set during the 1832 revolution, while the one where they cut heads off began in 1789. Oh well—I’m sure the French were obnoxious in both of them.

Against all odds, the Who Were You In Your Past Life? test revealed that

You were an ancient philosopher! You are a quiet soul who enjoys reading and writing above all else. Yplatoandariou spend a lot of your time thinking about religion, philosophy and how to make the world a better place. Just like your past-self, you are likely to influence others around you.

Wow, who knew that I like to think about all of that stuff? Who knew that I like to read and write? I should start a blog! So when the Which Philosopher Are You? quiz came along the next week, I waited breathlessly for the result. Socrates? Thales? Plato? Anaxagoras? Aristotle? Epicurus? Lucretius? Heraclitus? Parmenides? Protagoras? Marcus Aurelius? Not exactly.

KantYou are Immanuel Kant! When making moral decisions, you try not to have double standards and always ask yourself whether you’d be happy for others to act in the same way as you do. You always try not to be selfish.

These quizzes need to coordinate their results. Not only is Immanuel Kant not an ancient philosopher, he’s not even in my top ten favorite philosophers—for the very reasons revealed in the description—although I’ve taught him many times. First of all, Kant’s philosophy is a monument to consistency and certainty at the expense of reality, but I have often suggested—even in this blog—that both certainty and consistency are vastly overrated. Kant_und_seine_Tischgenossen._Kolorierter_Holzstich_von_Klose_&_WollmerstaedtFurthermore, Kantian concerns for others conflict with my elvish concerns for my own self-interest. Finally, rumor has it that Kant was a wonderful host and threw great parties, hardly something that my elvish aloofness or my Hamlet-esque melancholy could tolerate.

I probably got Immanuel because he was Prussian, and according to the What European Country Do You Actually Belong In? quiz,

mgermanyYou got Germany! You’re incredibly hardworking, efficient, and disciplined. If you promise to get something done, you absolutely will. You can come across as a bit too serious, but deep down you’re great fun.

These people are truly plugging into my psyche. I’m currently team-teach1379556_10202284079242854_547898063_ning a colloquium that is spending a full semester in the middle of Nazi Germany, my daughter-in-law Alisha is from Germany, I have referred to Kevin, my personal trainer at the gym, as the “red-headed Nazi” on recent Saturdays after Friday morning torture sessions, and I was told by a previous quiz that I am Johann Sebastian Bach. Deutschland Über Alles.

Keep the quizzes coming—they are better than therapy (and a lot cheaper)! In a comment thread following a colleague’s report that the “mythical creature” quiz revealed he is a Phoenix, some humorless person wrote “You do know that these things are fraught with phishing scams, malware, and other hacking attempts, right?” Shut up—no one likes a Buzzfeed kill.

Hedgehogs and Foxes–A Primer

The hedgehog knows one big thing, but the fox knows many little things—Archilochus

Over twenty-plus years of teaching, I have collected several useful lines, phrases, conceptual frameworks, and gimmicks that serve as centering, organizational references when introducing students to the wonderful and largely unfamiliar territory of philosophy. The unity/plurality debate of the early pre-Socratics, aristotle3[1]Aristotle’s form/matter distinction, Descartes’ mind/body dualism, the simple basics ofdarwinism-theme[1] Darwin’s theory of natural selection—each of these can be used as sorting devices, kind of like the change-sorting machines of my youth, into which a conglomeration of confusing items can be poured, with a useful, preliminary organization emerging on the other end. None of these devices is intended to produce irrefutable truth; rather, they serve as rudimentary roadmaps to new terrain, each highlighting different aspects of what is to be explored.

In my experience the most effective of these devices, a tool that semester after semester turns out to be the gift that keeps on giving, is the simple hedgehog/fox distinction from Archilochus’ observation that “the hedgehog knows one big thing, but the fox knows many little things.”fox-n-hedgehog[1] I am unaware of the context of this phrase in Archilochus or what he intends by it; I first came across the line in a famous essay by Isaiah Berlin, entitled (amazingly enough) “The Hedgehog and the Fox.”8596208507_b2c0ef96f3_o[1] It is a lengthy essay primarily about Tolstoy’s theory of history as developed in War and Peace; Berlin argues that while the other competitor for the title of “greatest Russian novelist,” Dostoyevsky, was a hedgehog, Tolstoy was something like a fox trying to be a hedgehog or a hedgehog trying to be a fox (I forget which). But my interest in Archilochus’ observation was raised by the first two pages of Berlin’s essay, in which he suggests that the hedgehog/fox distinction actually identifies two very different ways of thinking about and investigating texts and the world at large. I have come to believe that the hedgehog/fox distinction is primal, hard-wired in each of us, and shapes each of our natural ways of addressing reality as fundamentally as the more familiar extrovert/introvert distinction.

Pascal, 18 days oldHedgehogs, on the one hand, are big picture, top-down thinkers who approach everything with an organizational scheme already in hand. Hedgehogs are attracted to permanence rather than change, to certainty rather than doubt, to clarity rather than fuzziness, to answers rather than questions. The hedgehog prefers conclusions to the process of getting to them, a clear map of the territory rather than wandering without specific direction or goals. The hedgehog brings the organizational scheme to the details, sifting through and sorting those details into categories that are largely already fixed. Hedgehogs generally organize everything they believe, indeed their whole world, around a small handful of basic, big ideas, and strive to keep these big ideas logically consistent with each other. Hedgehogs tend to be “either/or” in their attitudes toward everything.

foxFoxes, on the other hand, are small picture, detail-oriented, bottom-up thinkers. Foxes are attracted to open-endedness rather than closure, questions rather than answers, process rather than conclusion, skepticism and doubt rather than certainty and dogmatism. The fox tends not to have a well-developed organizational framework at the beginning of an investigation, letting organization and structure percolate from the bottom up rather than imposing structure from the top down. Foxes are far more willing to discard previous convictions and beliefs than hedgehogs are, and are endlessly fascinated by variety rather than similarity. In keeping with “knowing many little things,” foxes are not concerned when their various interests and beliefs do not fit seamlessly or consistently into a “big picture,” preferring a “both/and” attitude to the hedgehog’s “either/or.” Foxes are comfortable with inconsistency and disorder, both of which can be the bane of a hedgehog’s existence.

A quick example is instructive, taking us no farther than our current President and his predecessor. President George W. Bushgeorge-w-bush-picture-2[1] was predominantly a hedgehog surrounded by fellow hedgehogs. Armed with big picture frameworks considered as self-evidently true, his hedgehog presidency proceeded with conviction and certainty, even occasionally in the face of details and facts that resisted categorization and even contradicted the pre-set categories of President Bush’s hedgehog agenda. Note that hedgehogery and conservatism are not synonymous, although they can and often do go together. Being a hedgehog is not about the content of what you believe—it is about how you frame and organize that content and, more basically, about how you see the world and process new information. To find a liberal hedgehog, one needs look only as far back as FDR.

gty_barack_obama_dnc_2_ll_120906_wg[1]President Barack Obama is a fox extraordinaire, so much so that he has the capacity to offend hedgehogs both conservative and liberal. From a hedgehog’s perspective, President Obama’s willingness to compromise, to be a pragmatist, to find common ground rather than draw lines in the sand—all fox traits—are signs of weakness to either be exploited or ignored. A willingness to let the truth show itself or even to create the truth going forward is an offense to those who believe that the truth tends to show itself clearly and then is to be defended uncompromisingly at all costs. Foxes such as President Obama see complications as opportunities to be taken advantage of and learned from rather than threats to be ignored or overcome. A noted journalist recently wrote an essay entitled “It’s Not Easy Being Barack Obama,” just as Kermit the Frog used to sing that “it’s not easy being green.”kermit[1] Indeed it must be difficult being President Obama. He’s trying to lead as a fox in a political world that increasingly is defined by hedgehog stances on both extremes of the political and social spectrum. Even an apparently dedicated conservative hedgehog such as former President Ronald Reagan had fox characteristics that would have served him poorly in today’s political climate. Continue reading