Blog Feed

Updates

Regular readers know that I have three areas of interest that frequently occupy my attention: the impact of the pandemic on education, the ever evolving role of AI and technology on teaching and learning, and the strong current of anti-intellectualism in our society.  Well, this summer has been a busy one for all three of these topics; so it’s time for some updates.  We’ll start with the pandemic.

Early on, when COVID was actively disrupting all of our lives, I made some sober predictions about the cost of this disease to our children, and it saddens me to report that it turns out that things are even worse than I had prognosticated.  Teachers are now reporting that many of our littlest ones are arriving at school barely able to speak, that they are unable to remain still for brief periods, and that some do not even to know how to play with others.  Rudimentary pre-school skills such as how to hold a pencil or identify simple shapes (think circle, triangle, etc.) are missing, and caregivers of all kinds are reporting symptoms of anxiety and depression in children as young as four or five.

However, the situation appears even grimmer in our older children.  The gap in national test scores between recent and pre-pandemic scores has actually grown wider than anticipated, and “the gaps are so large that the average eighth-grade would need about nine months of additional schooling to catch up to pre-covid levels in math and about the same extra time to catch up in reading.”  The realities of human development simply do not allow for nine extra months, and so we are confronting an entire cohort of children who will be put at some degree of permanent disadvantage moving forward.  At least the little ones “only” need “2.2 more months of school to make up the reading gaps and 1.3 months for math.”

On the AI and technology front, the status of things is a little less “doom & gloom,” with interesting research about why paper remains better than screens.  The data about the advantages of handwriting versus typing when notetaking has been known for some time, but it turns out that even the simple act of reading something that is on paper versus reading the exact same thing on a screen produces better brain engagement and comprehension.  Scientists around the world have been analyzing the brains of early elementary age children with EEG and fMRI, and it turns out that “when children read on paper, there was more power in the high-frequency brainwaves” associated with higher-order cognitive function.  Why the brain acts differently between paper and screens remains a mystery, but that it does is now documented by multiple studies.

Of course, the creep factor of AI remains, with a company in China now offering to make avatars of dead loved-ones so that you can continue to “communicate” with the deceased.  But that’s a different issue for another day.  For now, “pencil & paper” are clearly winning, and those of us working with children simply need to pay attention accordingly.

Finally, it demoralizes me to have to report that the ACT has now made the science section of their exam optional and have even reduced their core exam by 44 questions, with shorter reading passages.  While I am not a fan of standardized tests, with their well-documented biases and other problematic features, I am also not a fan of dumbing things down even further in our general society than we already have.  The ACT rationalizes their decision by arguing that with this new flexibility—students can now sign up for four different varients of the exam (two of which do still include science)—that students can focus on their strengths and showcase their abilities in the best possible light while avoiding the fatigue of the longer, original exam.  But I am confident that the proverbial “bottom line” (pun intended) is simply that fewer students were signing up for the test, and that this was the organization’s way of trying to keep the dollars flowing—all at the expense of actually demanding that our children actually know something.

Well, that’s it for now.  For those of us in the classroom, important reminders of the challenges facing us as we adapt to the children in front of us (not the ones we might wish were in front of us), and for those not in the classroom, important reminders of matters impacting the society in which we all live.

Until next time.

References

Archie, A. (July 19, 2024) The Science Section of the ACT Exam Will Now Be Optional.  NPR.  https://www.npr.org/2024/07/19/nx-s1-5045587/act-exam-test-science-optional.

Barshay, J. (June 24, 2024) This Is Your Brain.  This is Your Brain on Screens.  The Hechinger Report.  https://hechingerreport.org/proof-points-neuroscience-paper-v-screens-reading/.

Feng, E. (July 11, 2024) Chinese Companies Offer to “Resurrect” Dead Loved Ones.  It Raises Questions.  NPR Morning Edition.  https://www.npr.org/2024/06/17/nx-s1-5001751/chinese-companies-offer-to-resurrect-dead-loved-ones-it-raises-questions.

Meckler, L. & Lumpkin, L. (July 23, 2024)  Four Years After COVID, Many Students Still Losing Ground.  The Washington Post.  https://www.washingtonpost.com/education/2024/07/23/covid-test-scores-learning-loss-absenteeism/.

Miller, C.C. & Mervosh, S. (July 1, 2024) The Youngest Pandemic Children Are Now in School, and Struggling.  The New York Times.  https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2024/07/01/upshot/pandemic-children-school-performance.html.

“Prognostic Myopia”

Corporate executives are under immense pressure
to deliver quarterly earnings,
not to save science, democracy, or the planet.
—Jennifer Jacquet

Evolution is still deciding what to make
of the human capacity for causal reasoning.
—Justin Gregg

For most of my career, when I have taught my unit on the brain to my advanced biology courses, I have challenged my students to recognize that the “evolutionary jury” of natural selection is still out when it comes to the value of our large prefrontal cortex.  I point out that every other species of the genus Homo has gone extinct (and in the case of our closest cousins, neanderthalensis, directly because of we sapiens), and that, therefore, the ultimate survival value of our proportionally bigger brains amongst the animals is still very much up for grabs.

Recently, though, I came across a book by animal behaviorist, Justin Gregg, that systematically makes the case that the uniquely human cognitive capacities that set our brains apart from those of the other animals actually puts us at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to the process of natural selection.  Gregg does not mince words when he challenges that the human mind puts us at greater risk of extinction as a species, and as he puts it, “what if we acknowledge that sometimes our so-called human achievements are actually rather shitty solutions evolutionarily speaking?” (p. 16).

The case he makes is quite compelling, and he starts with the relative value of our capacity for causal thinking.  As he puts it, we are “ ‘why?’ specialists,” who can determine how the world works in ways no other animal can, and yet the world is full of animals making successful decisions all the time without needing to know the “why?” of things.  Moreover, the paleontological data shows that for the first roughly 200,000 of our quarter of a million year heritage, we got by just find as well without answering questions of cause and effect.  Hence, causal thinking doesn’t seem to add much survival value for animals in general (including us), and in fact, a strong argument can be made that as we humans have employed this unique capacity of ours more and more in the past 50,000 years, we have steadily decimated the environments in which we live because “with an understanding of how the world has been built comes the knowledge to break it” (p. 15).

Compounding our brain’s ability to do deliberate damage and harm, Gregg argues, is the fact that the human mind has taken the animal capacity for deception to whole new levels.  “Lying” is nothing new in the animal kingdom; from unintentional mimicry to deliberately “playing dead” to the tactical deceptions of male mourning cuttlefish (check it out!), animals of all kinds engage in generating a variety of falsehoods for purposes of survival and reproduction.  However, as Gregg puts it, “our species has taken it to absurd lengths” (p. 59) because of our capacity for language and the theory of mind.  We can lie about any thought we have, and we don’t just lie to protect ourselves; we lie to try and change other people’s thoughts and beliefs.  Furthermore, because we are a social species, we are hard-wired for credulity—to believe what other people tell us to maintain our bonds—and therefore, “we cannot remove the human capacity to both produce and believe lies anymore than we can remove our capacity for walking upright.  It’s who we are” (p. 88).

Yet in a world of social media, 24/7 news cycles, and the world-wide web, the scale of human lying now has the capacity to threaten our very survival.  Misinformation, disinformation, propaganda…we live emersed in lies, and we can employ all of it to justify whatever harm our causal thinking has enabled us to do—from climate change to genocide.  What’s more, our capacity for lying has started to attack the very tools we use to generate actual truth—science, scholarship, public institutions—and therefore, as Gregg puts it, “the question is: can we save us from ourselves before the firehose of falsehoods washes our species from the planet?” (p. 89).

Interestingly enough, I think Gregg’s response to his own rhetorical question would be a qualified “maybe.”  He is not a cynic; he simply takes a non-blindered approach to examining our uniquely human cognitive capacities through the lens of evolution and finds no grounds at all for our self-declared exceptionalism as a species within the animal kingdom. 

Moreover, where he finds this delusion of exceptionalism most problematic is our cognitive tendancy for what he calls “prognostic myopia.”  Basically, he argues that “because our minds evolved primarily to deal with immediate—not future—outcomes, we rarely experience or even understand the consequences of these long-term decisions [i.e. burning fossil fuels, modern food production methods, etc.].  It is the most dangerous flaw in human thinking” (p. 195), and it is compounded by the reality revealed through modern neuroscience that we make nearly all our daily decisions at the subconscious level.  Those parts of our brains involved in this process, he points out, evolved over hundreds of millions of years to deal with the needs of the immediate present for survival; there is no “future” for these mental elements.  Therefore, “our capacity to understand the future and even envision ourselves in it is competing with decision-making systems whose component parts do not truly understand what they are being asked to do” (p. 207).

Or to put it another way:

urgent survival needs mean that we still engage in impulsive behaviors.  And those behaviors, which once promoted our survival and reproductive success, are now suboptimal because we live in an environment in which long-term contingencies play an increasingly important part in our lives (p. 212).

Basically, our brains did not evolve to live in the world those same brains have now created, and Gregg’s ultimate point is that “depending on where we go from here, human intelligence may just be the stupidest thing that has ever happened” (p. 256) from an evolutionary perspective. 

And an excellent “case study” of this potential truth is the behavior of modern corporations.  In another book to cross my path recently, New York University professor, Jennifer Jacquet, has written a scathing satire in the vein of Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal in which she “advises” corporate leaders on how to prevent costly safety and product regulations to maximize profits by attacking the researchers and science that support these regulations.  Some highlights of her “advice” to corporations include:

  • There are few communication products that money cannot buy.  Does the Corporation need a scientific journal sympathetic to its research? Fund an editor.  Does the proper journal not exist? Create it.  Establish a popular magazine.  Build a website.  Host a scientific gathering. Put together a group of people who appear to be grassroots activists.  The digital media landscape in particular offers limitless options for shaping public perception (p. 71).
  • Another way to make the problem go away is to change the language.  The tobacco industry referred to ‘cancer’ as ‘biological activity.’ A consultant to the fossil fuel industry found that ‘climate change’ sounded less frightening to a focus group than ‘global warming’ and recommended the switch in 2002 (and the switch succeeded).  The chemical manufacturers insisted on the term ‘biosolids’ instead of ‘toxic sludge’ (p. 96).
  • The policy might not just hurt people, it could kill them, or already has.  Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring, which generated hysteria that led to the banning of DDT, and as a result millions have died of malaria.  In addition, many of the world’s poor died of hunger because the benefits of pesticides were not realized (ignore the unsavory problem of unequal food distribution) (p. 144).
  • We cannot fix a problem because we’re not hardwired to fix the problem.  (Never mind that we were also not hardwired to read or to scuba dive or to drink milk) (p. 153).

There is much more like this in Jacquet’s book, but as an example of Gregg’s “prognostic myopia,” I can think of nothing better than the headlong pursuit for immediate corporate profit at the expense of the long-term consequences of corporate actions.  And at the scale of corporations, this use of human intelligence is not only stupid, but I would argue that it is stupidity at its worst because in normalizes and even rewards being shortsighted at a societal scale.  As Jacquet concludes in her appendix to her book:

in the same way that a casino can affect the character of a town, corporate-funded scientific denial has contributed to the erosion of scientific authority and mistrust in the government.  In this casino, however, we are gambling with our health, the planet, and our most reliable way of knowing the world.  The stakes could not get higher (p. 174).

Of course, not only are the stakes as high as Jacquet states them, they are as high as Gregg states them: the potential extinction of our species.  And the problem for all of us is that we are all, in fact, trapped in our own “prognostic myopia.”  My entire retirement portfolio, for example, depends on corporate profits; Gregg writes about raising his daughter and taking her to school each day, knowing that “even though that’s what awaits my family in the future [i.e. ecological collapse from climate change], here I am, driving my Subaru around like everything is fine” (p. 220).  We have no choice but to live in the now, even when that “now” may be preventing “someday” from being possible

Which brings me to teaching, to what I do for a living and whether it is even possible to have any positive impact in the classroom anymore.  Because what actually triggered all this epistolary activity and my reflecting on Gregg’s and Jacquet’s work was some recent stories in the news.

The first, heard on NPR, was about how love songs are in trouble and what this tells us about how younger generations are viewing relationships.  Apparently, the top term searched for in music by Gen Z listeners is the word “sad,” and BYU researcher McKell Jorgensen-Wells has found that 86% of love songs in the recent Billboard Top 100 profess an insecure attachment style, have replaced emotional longing with overt sexuality, and leave the listener assuming that their romantic relationships are supposed to be toxic.  As one of the people being interviewed put it, “one of the songs in the top 100 right now is from a tremendously gifted and talented and beautiful artist named SZA, and she has a song called ‘Saturn.’ In the first verse, she says, I hate this place.”

And if people raised on toxic love songs aren’t bad enough, the other story that caught my attention in the NYT was about a group of middle schoolers in Pennsylvania using TikTok to create an organized and systematic on-line attack of their teachers, creating fake accounts in the teachers’ names and then posting ugly falsehoods about those same teachers as if the teachers had generated the content themselves.  I knew it was only a matter of time before something like this happened, but what disturbed me the most was the fact that when caught and confronted with the evidence, the overwhelming response of the students was that their teachers couldn’t take a joke—as if accusations of pedophilia and spousal infidelity are somehow “joking” matters. 

Taken together—the prognostic myopia of our species, the corporate greed that takes that myopia to world destroying levels, media of all types that empower dysfunctional and destructive relating—it has me pondering if we’ve reached the point as a society where what we do as educators in the classroom is irrelevant.  And what disturbs me most about that thought is that I know I have had a positive impact for most of my career.  I have been blessed to mentor former students into the profession, to attend their dissertation defenses and weddings, and to hold their children in my arms.  I know the good I have helped send out into the world. 

But between my own struggles this past year with my 9th graders, reading Gregg and Jacquet, and seeing many of my concerns about social media come to pass over the last few months, I find myself compelled to ask whether any of us in education, myself included, can still do that anymore.  Can teachers still have a positive impact? Or are the children now arriving in our classrooms already too damaged by the world we’ve created for them? Right now, I do not have an answer.  I wish I did, but I don’t.

However, what I do know is that I have is an almost congenital compulsion to try, and that itself may have to be my only answer for now.

References

Gregg, J. (2022) If Nietzsche Were a Narwhal: What Animal Intelligence Reveals About Human Stupidity.  New York:  Little, Brown and Company.

Jacquet, J. (2022) The Playbook: How to Deny Science, Sell Lies, and Make a Killing in the Corporate World.  New York: Penguin Books.

Martin, M. (July 3, 2024) Love Songs Are Changing.  What Today’s Love Songs Say About Us.  NPR Morning Edition.  https://www.npr.org/2024/07/03/nx-s1-4983933/love-songs-are-changing-what-todays-love-songs-say-about-us.

Singer, N. (July 6, 2024) Students Target Teachers in Group TikTok Attack, Shaking Their School.  The New York Times.  https://www.nytimes.com/2024/07/06/technology/tiktok-fake-teachers-pennsylvania.html?unlocked_article_code=1.5U0.kN8_.kvXU-e-H7SD-&smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare.

Catechism and AI Revisited

This is the nature of the razor-thin path of scientific reality:
there are a limited number of ways to be right,
but an infinite number of ways to be wrong.
Stay on it, and you see the world for what it is.
Step off, and all kinds of unreality become equally plausible.
—Phil Plait

Two stories about artificial intelligence recently caught my attention.  The first, out of the University of California, Irvine’s Digital Learning Lab, examined how successful ChatGPT could be at grading English and history essays when compared to an actual teacher.  The second, an editorial about the AI revolution in general, exposited on the very practical and financial boundaries all AI technologies are rapidly finding themselves running up against.  Together, I found these stories causing me to revisit some themes from my very first posting about AI, and as I reflected more on all of these items, some shared threads between the two stories rapidly became apparent that I want to discuss here today.

But first, a quick synopsis of each article.

In the story about grading, researcher Tamara Tate and her team sought to compare ChatGPT’s ability to score 1,800 middle school and high school English and history essays against the ability of human writing experts to do so.  Their motive was to see if ChatGPT could help improve writing instruction by allowing teachers to assign more of it without increasing their own cognitive load.  If, for example, teachers could use AI “to grade any essay instantly with minimal expense and effort,” then more drafts could be assigned, thereby enabling the quality of student writing skills to improve. 

What they found was a lot of variability, with ChatGPT’s scores matching the human scores between 76% and 89% of the time, which Tate summarized as meaning that ChatGPT was “roughly speaking, probably as good as an average busy teacher [and] certainly as good as an overburdened below-average teacher. [But that] ChatGPT isn’t yet accurate enough to be used on a high-stakes test or on an essay that would affect a final grade in a class.”  Furthermore, she cautioned that “writing instruction could ultimately suffer if teachers delegate too much grading to ChatGPT [because] seeing students’ incremental progress and common mistakes remain important for deciding what to teach next.” Bottom line, as the title of the article states, the idea “needs more work.”

In the editorial about the AI revolution, technology columnist, Christopher Mims makes the strong case that the pace of AI development is hitting three walls: a rapidly slowing pace of development, mounting prohibitive costs, and what I will call the productivity boundary.  In terms of development, Mims points out that AI works:

by digesting huge volumes of [data], and it’s undeniable that up to now, simply adding more has led to better capabilities. But a major barrier to continuing down this path is that companies have already trained their AIs on more or less the entire internet, and are running out of additional data to hoover up. There aren’t 10 more internets’ worth of human-generated content for today’s AIs to inhale.

As for costs, training expenses are in the tens of billions of dollars while revenues from AI are, at best, in the billions of dollars—not a sustainable economic model.  Finally, the evidence is mounting that AI does not quite boost productivity the way its evangelists have touted because “while these systems can help some people do their jobs, they can’t actually replace them.”  Someone still has to check for AI hallucinations, and “this means they are unlikely to help companies save on payroll.”  Or to put it another way, “self-driving trucks have been slow to arrive, in part because it turns out that driving a truck is just one part of a truck driver’s job.”

Which brings me back to why I think these two articles share common threads of thought and what made me revisit my original posting about AI.  Both articles obviously point to AI’s limitations, and the grading one is simply a specific example of the “productivity boundary” Mims discusses.  Both articles have a cautionary tone about AI being the be-all-end-all solution to “all life’s problems” the way its many proselytizers want to claim it can be, and the grading one even brings up the economics of AI as it warns about schools jumping on the proverbial bandwagon and purchasing AI grading systems too quickly.

But it was the analogy of the truck driver that caused all the metaphorical gears in my head to click into place.  English and history teachers don’t just teach writing, and when they grade the writing, it is not just the quality of the writing they are grading.  They are not “just driving the truck.”  I am confident that ChatGPT could be a marvelous tool for catching run-on and incoherent sentences or for catching disorganized paragraphs and poor thesis statements, and if using it for that would enable an already overburdened teacher the chance to get a few additional drafts for an essay accomplished in their class, I’m on board.  The only way you get better at writing is to write.

However, what ChatGPT cannot catch (and here is where I suspect at least some of those discrepancies in the percentages found in the grading research come from) is the quality, the originality! of thought and ideas that a given piece of writing expresses.  Only the human teacher can do that because only the human teacher has actual intelligence as defined by biology:  the capacity to use existing knowledge to solve an original, unique, and novel problem.  No AI can solve a problem it hasn’t already seen—which is part of what Mims hints at with his remark about “10 more internets;” only a human mind could create them—and that is why we will still need the human teacher to do the final grading.

Which brings me back to some of the themes I first addressed in Catechism and AI.  In looking back at that essay (where I first wrote about this misuse of the word “intelligence” in computer science), I realized that what the technological breakthroughs since then have made possible is the deepening of the illusion of intelligence.  Once something like ChatGPT could be trained on the entire internet, pretty much every prior human answer to a problem was now part of the algorithm, and so when you present it with a problem that is novel to you, it appears like it can solve it on its own.  It appears intelligent.  And since problems truly novel to everyone who has ever lived grow exponentially fewer each day, AI can appear intelligent quite a bit of the time.

However, present it with a problem that is novel to both you and the AI and suddenly you get one of those hallucinations Mims points out you need an actual human to fix.  That remains the limitation of AI:  it cannot handle the truly novel, the genuinely unique.  Nor can it create it.  As I’ve written before, AI may be capable of producing a mimic of a Taylor Swift song, but it cannot produce an actual Taylor Swift song.  The challenge is in remembering that the mimic isn’t really Taylor Swift.

Again, here is where the technological breakthroughs since I first wrote about AI have deepened the illusion.  The content generated by AIs such as ChatGPT may look novel because that particular arrangement of words, images, etc. happens to look novel to you.  But somewhere, at some time, some human mind already put those same words, images, etc. together; some human mind created.  And you are just now on the receiving end of a tool that we can now train on what every human mind has created to date for the past 10,000 years. The ultimate catechism! And a lot of prior human creativity with which to fool someone.  We see a parallel in the development of the performance of magic shows:  one hundred years ago, we only had the technology to create the illusion of a woman sawn in half; forty years ago, David Copperfield has the tools to make the Statue of Liberty appear to disappear.  None of it is any less illusory; it just gets harder to tell.

And where that fact may grow increasingly problematic is in the realm of another theme from my earlier writing:  interpersonal relationships.  When I first wrote about AI five years ago, Her was only a movie; now it’s a reality.  For a monthly subscription, I can have the AI companion of my choice (romantic, platonic, and/or therapeutic), and have “someone” in my life who will never push back on me.  Add DoorDash, Amazon, and Netflix, and I could spend the rest of my life once I retire (or get a work-from-home internet job) in my own solipsistic bubble without any need for any direct human contact ever again.  Not gonna happen as they say, but the fact that I can write those words should be sobering (and shuddering) to anyone reading them. Because if we are ultimately successful at reducing our most basic humanity to an illusion, climate change and the next pandemic are going to be the least of our concerns.

Yet if Christopher Mims is correct, then AI may rapidly be approaching its illusory limits, and if Tate and her crew are correct, then watchful use of AI may help teachers give their students more practice improving their writing skills—and therefore their thinking skills—while not adding to their grading loads. So perhaps there is cause for optimism.  The key, I think, is always to remember that the “I” in AI is—at least for now—a biological falsehood, and what I now realize was missing from my earlier work on AI is the necessary emphasis on novelty being at the core, the essence of what it means to be intelligent.  That doesn’t mean the CS folks may not eventually pull off an algorithm that truly can create.  But for now, we do not live in that world, and we just need to keep reminding ourselves regularly of the reality of that fact.

References

Barshay, J. (May 20, 2024) AI Essay Grading Could Help Overburdened Teachers, But Researchers Say It Needs More Work.  KQED/Mind Shift  https://www.kqed.org/mindshift/63809/ai-essay-grading-could-help-overburdened-teachers-but-researchers-say-it-needs-more-work.

Mims, C. (May 31, 2024) The AI Revolution Is Already Losing Steam.  The Wall Street Journal.  https://www.wsj.com/tech/ai/the-ai-revolution-is-already-losing-steam-a93478b1?mod=wsjhp_columnists_pos1.

The (Hand)Written Word

Every time you invent a technology,
you also invent a responsibility.
—Aza Raskin, Co-founder
Earth Species Project

As someone who does a lot of thinking, values thinking, and does quite a bit of thinking about thinking, it can be hard sometimes to look at the general state of thinking in our society and not become demoralized.  When 20% of voters believe President Biden is responsible for ending the constitutional right to abortion in this country, it can look like the conspiracy theorists have won.  When a third of those aged 18-29 are getting 100% of their “news” from TikTok, it is little wonder that half the nation remains convinced that the unemployment rate is the highest it has been in 50 years (despite being at a near record low).  And when we have people forming intimate relationships with AI companions rather than fellow human beings (at great risk to your national security it turns out), it can simply feel like it is time to toss hands in the air and start researching survivalist bunkers on-line.

Furthermore, adding fuel to all this has been one of my classes this academic year in which I have observed almost no collective intellectual growth from last September to today—something I have never witnessed in my now 35-year career.  And lest I be accused of subjective bias, I am not alone in this empirical observation; the grade-level dean and others at my school are concerned by what we have failed to see happen over the past 9 months in so many of these students’ courses.

With one exception: math.  Math classes have all seen growth—sometimes simply COVID recovery—but growth nonetheless and across the board at all levels.

Why?

My hypothesis is based on an observation.  There were, of course, individual exceptions in my class in terms of growth over the year, and when identifying what both the act of learning math and these individual growth exceptions have in common, it is one thing:  writing by hand.  My students in my biology class that grew intellectually over the year completed all their work by hand—just as they would have had no choice but to do in their math courses; you can’t readily manipulate equations on a screen.

The science behind my hypothesis is pretty solid and grows with each new study.  We have known since 2014 from research done at Princeton University that students who take notes by hand do demonstrably better on tests than student who only type their notes on a laptop.  But recently, using fMRI to perform brain scans, we are discovering what is actually different in the brain between handwriting and typing and why writing by hand is so central to better learning outcomes.  For starters, handwriting produces significantly higher levels of electrical activity across many more interconnected brain regions than typing does—perhaps most significantly in the motor cortex.  While typing and handwriting both employ movements in your hands and fingers to generate words, writing by hand demands significantly more communication between the motor cortex and visual cortex, engaging the brain more deeply as it must constantly align each finger’s position with the mental models of the letters and words being written.  Put simply, as neuropsychologist Audrey van der Meer says, “when you are typing, the same simple movement of your fingers is involved in producing every letter, whereas when you’re writing by hand, you immediately feel that the bodily feeling of producing an A is entirely different from producing a B.” 

The implications for younger children are profound.  Those, for example, who learn to trace out the alphabet by hand have significantly better and longer-lasting recognition and understanding of words, which when combined with the improvement in memory and recall handwriting produces, leads to better reading skills—the very foundation of all education.  As van der Meer puts it, “if young children are not receiving any handwriting training, which is very good brain stimulation, then their brains simply won’t reach their full potential”—with all the scary possible long-term consequences that can come from that.  It is, perhaps, why several states are passing laws to require handwriting lessons again in elementary schools and why California is going so far as to require training in cursive once more.

But it is not just the youngest who benefit from writing by hand.  Having laid a foundation of literacy through the handwritten word, older children and adults who continue this practice have a better understanding of whatever material they are studying because the act of writing by hand causes the brain to engage with said material more intensely (their brains are literally working harder at the task).  Thus, note taking with pencil, pen, or stylus (it is the physical motion that counts) leads to significantly richer, deeper learning as well as better memory formation and recall, and it is why, though I compose using a keyboard, I still always outline my thoughts for these essays by hand:

It is the only way I can assure that I am presenting my best thinking.

Which brings me back to my class that doesn’t seem to have demonstrated any collective growth this year and a world in which good thinking seems in short supply.  I have watched for over a decade now as many individuals—and especially my students—have increasingly off-loaded cognitive tasks to their digital devices (taking a picture of something, for example, rather than trying to remember it), and I am left wondering if we have not reached a critical tipping point in that process.  Yadurshana Sivashankar of the University of Waterloo in Ontario reminds us that “if we’re not actively using these areas (those involved in these cognitive tasks), then they are going to deteriorate over time, whether it’s memory or motor skills,” and my ah-ha moment with this particular class came when I recently had them correct a quiz in my presence rather than as homework.  Instead of looking back at their notes to work out what they had done wrong, nearly all of them simply googled their questions and wrote down verbatim what appeared on their screens.  It was not about learning from mistakes (or learning at all, for that matter); it was about completing a task and checking off a “to-do” box.

Well, that is something I can try to change as an educator.  Starting next year, no more off-loading.  Just a really, really big supply of paper, pencils, and pens, and a lot of higher quality thinking.  Together, we’ll all write by hand.

References

Campbell, R.M. (Dec. 2023) “AI Chatbots Could Weaken National Security.” Scientific American, pp. 73-74.

Glueck, K. & Corasaniti, N. (May 28, 2024) Eyeing Trump, but on the Fence: How Tuned-Out Voters Could Decide 2024.  The New York Times.  https://www.nytimes.com/2024/05/28/us/politics/trump-biden-voters.html.

Hu, C. (May 2024)  Hand-on: Writing by Hand Comes with Learning Benefits.  Scientific American, p. 13.

Lambert, J. (May 11, 2024) Why Writing by Hand Beats Typing for Thinking and Learning. NPR. https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2024/05/11/1250529661/handwriting-cursive-typing-schools-learning-brain.

Mueller, P. & Oppenheimer, D.  (April 23, 2014) The Pen is Mightier Than the Keyboard: Advantages of Longhand Over Laptop Note Taking.  Psychological Science.  https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/0956797614524581.

Plait, P. (Dec. 2023) “Conspiracy Theories Then and Now” Scientific American, pp. 80-81.

A Letter to the Class of 2024

We are not educated for darkness.
—Constance Fitzgerald

It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery,
but a savage and beautiful country lies in between.
—Diane Ackerman

Winners play hurt.
—Vince Lombardi

Dear Members of the Class of 2024,

When essayist and author, Robert Fulghum, was once asked why all his books were so similar, he replied that he returned again and again to just a few common themes because only these were central to his thinking.  Hence, he went on to say:

If you notice phrases, ideas, and anecdotes that closely resemble those that appear elsewhere in my writing, it is not a matter of sloppy editing.  I’m repeating myself.  I’m reshuffling words in the hope that just once I might say something exactly right.  And I’m wrestling with dilemmas that are not easily resolved or easily dismissed.  I run at them again and again because I’m not finished with them.  And may never be.  Work-in-progress on a life-in-progress is what my writing is about.  And some progress in the work is enough to keep it going on (p. 30).

I share these words because I find myself once again authoring this annual letter to all of you, knowing that I still do not yet have it quite right.  And while there are only so many ways for those of us who have loved and cared for you to send you on to the next chapter in your narrative—and usually clichéd ways at that!—I, like Fulghum, feel compelled to try. 

So here goes: one final set of lessons from the heart for the soul.

To begin with, like Fulghum, I too have found certain common themes arising regularly as I have written this epistle each year, and an especially big, “elephant-in-the-living-room” one is the fact that the world your elders and I are leaving you is one hot mess—both literally and figuratively.  I do not need to itemize the details of the disasters; you get enough of that from your daily feeds.  However, it can be quite challenging not to give in to despair in the face of such dysfunction, and “too often we either submit and surrender our souls to the social consensus [that originates it], or withdraw in passive narcissism” (Radical, p. 34).  Worse, “the temptation in hard times is to become the inferno” and burn it all down in one great Götterdämmerung (Garden, p. 21; my emphasis).  Hence, in a world where—as Billy Joel once wrote—“we didn’t start the fire,” how do you find the resilience and inner resources to become an effective agent for positive change?

It starts by attending to, deeply listening to, and embracing the Stranger (what in neuroscience terms is the prefrontal cortex encountering the totally new).  Only interaction with the unfamiliar can challenge us to grow and to change, and more importantly, only interaction with the Stranger enables us to realize that “other people are not required to perform roles in one’s internal play, no matter how wise, good, or reasonable the script may seem” (Garden, p. 18).  When you gain this perspective, you realize that each of us is caught up in our own narrative and can only revise that narrative when we allow another’s narrative to enter into our own.  When that happens, suddenly the “jerk” cutting you off at the traffic light could be the parent frantically heading to the hospital with a seriously injured child, or the distant and seemingly dismissive waiter could be struggling to manage chronic pain that is in no way their fault. 

Is the “jerk” at the light probably still actually a jerk? Of course.  But once you’ve embraced the Stranger—and there will be lots of opportunities as you leave the familiar for the unknown in the coming years—you can no longer judge another with the righteous certainty you once did.  You have a more expansive, compassionate narrative guiding your life, making you a more effective agent in this world.  What’s more, since this is a graduation moment and clichés are mandatory, the cliché for this lesson is:  learn to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes; it will make you a better walker.

Granted, all this learning can be discomfiting—especially in the alien and uncharted waters where you are all next headed. As Mary Rose O’Reilley puts it, “to be stretched almost beyond where you can go is acutely painful.  One often fails and failure brings pain.  One must court doubt and despair in the process of learning anything at all” because as a neuroscientist might put it, “if your brain isn’t uncomfortable, you aren’t learning anything” (Garden, p. xii).  Or to put it another way, if you are not heavily invested in the change you wish to see, there will be no change—in you, in others, or in the world.  Hence, in a very real way, to learn is to love enough to let whatever you are loving fundamentally alter your narrative, alter who you are.

Ah! But any act of love—even the smallest—leaves us vulnerable to being wounded, opening up the possibility for darkness in our lives, and that brings me to a second theme I have found myself returning to again and again over the years:  the reality of Constance Fitzgerald’s words at the start of this letter.  Too often, we do not teach about the character of darkness, that is has a purpose and a value in our lives.  Instead, we tend to revile it or try to pretend it’s not there because confronting it can be so difficult. Yet, the simple truth is that “darkness interrogates us at the places where our knowledge of reality is most deficient, our illusions most entrenched” (Garden, pp. 70-71).  It is what “comes along to tell us we’re worshipping an inadequate object…to loosen us from the bondage of a devotion we’ve offered to an unworthy object, a false god” (Garden, p. 21).  Thus, it is only through our encounters with moments of darkness that we truly stretch who we are as a person, truly grow, and I can share from firsthand experience that it is the only path to wisdom.

However, occassionally a time of darkness will take on a life of its own, and that is when you must discover the power of wintering.  We all do it at some point in our lives, and no matter how it arrives, it is usually unexpected, isolating, and emotionally raw.  Yet, as author Katherine May puts it so eloquently:

It’s also inevitable.  We like to imagine that it’s possible for life to be one eternal summer and that we have uniquely failed to achieve that for ourselves.  We dream of an equatorial habitat, forever close to the sun, an endless unvarying high season.  But life’s not like that…Even if by some extraordinary stroke of self-control and good luck we are able to keep control of our own health and happiness for an entire lifetime, we still couldn’t avoid the winter.  Our parents would age and die; our friends would undertake minor acts of betrayal; the machinations of the world would eventually weigh against us.  Somewhere along the line…[winter will come] (p. 11).

And when it does, you must remember that it is actually the crucible for life, not its ending.  There can be no spring without the rejuvenating and healing power of winter, and “since [its] pain will come to us anyway, why not figure out how to deal with it.  It’s hard to grasp the connection between suffering and spiritual growth if we think of [living] only as a way to gain peace and tranquility” (Garden, pp. 74-75).  The proverbial bottom line is that you have to engage the world as you are at any given moment, and sometimes that means you will “play hurt.”  It is not one of the “fun” lessons of adulthood, but it is one of its more vital ones.

What’s more, as you “play”—both hurt and healthy—I hope you will begin to learn the lesson which all of you, my students, have taught me over these many years.  Experiencing both aching and healing, alienation and grace, sin and salvation throughout the coming years, you may start to notice the paradox that you actually need all of these to become fully human and that it is only out of that full humanity that you can affect the change you wish to see in the world.  The yin and yang of life is like breathing, and it is what you do with the life which this breathing makes possible that matters. Therefore, learn to breathe well and then choose what to do with the life that results in a thoughtful and self-reflective manner.

And, yes, while modern neuroscience may have demonstrated that the agency to do this choosing may simply be a cognitive illusion generated by the brain, that doesn’t mean that the character of the illusion isn’t important. As Mary Rose O’Reilley argues, “it matters what metaphors we use to describe ourselves to ourselves” (pp. 26-27), and as Norman Vincent Peale once wrote, “change your thoughts and you change your world.” Hence, as you now journey forth, I pray for each of you that you choose your individual metaphors and thoughts well. They will define you (however illusory that may be) and, consequently, they will define your impact on this world.

Finally, always remember that “somewhere there is a great mystery that wants to come live in your house and change everything” (Radical, p. 48).  Be open to it when it arrives; welcome it.  It will have much to teach you; you will have much to learn. Reject it at your peril (spoken from hard-won experience) and always remember that the obvious and predictable are not always the safest road to travel: you can get just as disoriented and lost in the familiar as you can in the unknown. Therefore, consider the road less traveled as you let your next great mystery into your life, and remember that Frost was right when it wrote all those years ago about how it can make all the difference.

Congratulations, then, and may the coming celebrations be joyous ones!

References

Fulghum, R. (1991) Uh-Oh: Some Observations from Both Side of the Refrigerator Door.  New York:  Villard Books.

May, K. (2020) Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times.  New York: Riverhead Books.

O’Reilley, M. R. (2005) The Garden at Night: Burnout & Breakdown in the Teaching Life.  Portsmouth, NH:  Heinemann.

O’Reilley, M. R. (1998) Radical Presence: Teaching as Contemplative Practice.  Portsmouth, NH:  Heinemann.

Some Disheartening Developments

If you have raced with men on foot
and they have worn you out,
how can you compete with horses?
If you stumble in safe country,
how will you manage
in the thickets by the Jordan?
—Jeremiah 12:5

Despite what my title might suggest, today’s essay is not about the educational costs of the pandemic.  I have already written extensively about that topic (see the LoC Archives page for anyone interested), and if you want the most recent data, I suggest checking out the NYT’s article available in the references.  In fact, the only thing I will lift up about the latest findings is that we now know that all the school closings had nearly zero impact on slowing the spread of the virus; we could have kept them open and avoided nearly all of the learning damage.

No, what I want to focus on today are some recent developments in the world of education that are worth bringing to everyone’s attention because as I ended my last posting pointing out:  we are all in this together.  So here goes.

The most recent item to cross my attention was an article this past week about the expense of repairing the educational costs of the pandemic, as well as the—yet again—absence of political will to address it.  As all Marylanders (and my regular readers) know, our state has recently legislated and initiated a massive 10-year, eventually $3 billion dollars per year education reform movement called the “Blueprint for Maryland’s Future.”  In it are requirements to expand public Pre-K schooling for all children ages 3-4 and to provide all schools with high-quality and diverse educators (with an emphasis on National Board Certification).  In addition, there are requirements for preparing students for college and career readiness, more resources for low-income students, and the necessary governance and accountability programs to oversee the entire effort.

However, in a state already facing a teacher shortage of 2,000 unfilled positions and now facing a projected revenue shortfall of $255 million dollars in the coming fiscal year, teachers and educational leaders are currently being asked to triage their biggest challenges in implementing the Blueprint before the process has even started.  Here we are, in one of the richest states in the richest society in the history of humanity, and we are already shorting the necessary investment in our children because no one wants to state the obvious:  you get what you pay for, and in this case, that means additional taxation—America’s “third rail” in politics.   

Not that Maryland is alone.  The same morning that I read the Blueprint article, NPR had a story on the negative impact that losing the $190 billion dollars in pandemic emergency relief funds from the Federal government will have on schools across the nation.  As John Gies, a high school principal in rural Ohio put it, “while those pandemic dollars are running out, the problems the pandemic exploded, like missed learning and a student mental health crisis, are still here…we just really need some help from the government.”  Help that all interviewed for the story openly acknowledged is not likely to come, leaving reporter Cory Turner musing at the story’s end:

So what happens now? It seems unlikely that Congress will be in the mood to agree on even more funding for schools. Which means in the coming months, districts across the country will face some hard choices about whether they can afford to keep giving students all the help they need.

All the help they need.  Need.  Not “help-full.” Not “beneficial.” Not “useful.”  Need.  As in necessary, critical, vital to their well-being.  I know I have written before about how fundamentally anti-child our society is, but as both these news items came to my attention this past week, I was reminded once again of a quote of Barbara Kingsolver’s that bears repeating here:  “if it takes a village to raise a child, our children are knocking on a lot of doors where nobody seems to be home…where we seem to regard children as a sort of toxic-waste product: a necessary evil” (pp. 102 & 100).  Until we see our children in a different light than we currently do, then we will reap what we sow, and right now, I fear we are sowing our own dissolution.

And we seem to be doing so in more ways than one when it comes to what’s happening in the world of education.  Another recent item in my in-box was Jessica Grose’s op-ed about a middle school in California where students have employed AI technologies to manufacture false pornographic photos and short videos of their female classmates by taking head shots from existing, decidedly non-pornographic on-line photos and combining them with nude photos and videos from other sources.  Of course, the students involved then shared these digitally constructed items with others—making them a permanent part of the lives of both the victims and the victimizers (as well as violating numerous laws)—and all because these children don’t yet have pre-frontal cortices developed enough to know how truly stupid, irresponsible, and harmful they have been.  Yet legislation at any level can’t seem to get out of even committee to put guardrails on such technology, let alone simply acknowledge the danger it poses—especially the threat to our children’s very capacity to become healthy adults.

Not that all adults in children’s lives are themselves of sound and rational mind.  While we might consider as “sins of omission” the failure to adequately fund schools across this land and to protect developing minds from digital technologies that trigger the same neural pathways as cocaine does, the actions of Escambia County in Florida (home to Pensacola) most definitely could be considered “sins of commission.”  There, elected officials have taken upon themselves the “obligation” to “protect young minds” from such “dangerous material” as the following:  The American Heritage Children’s Dictionary, Webster’s Dictionary for Students, and Merriam-Webster’s Elementary Dictionary.  All of which have now been removed from every school library in the county and placed into storage along with “eight different encyclopedias, two thesauruses and five editions of The Guinness Book of World Records.”

Fortunately, some sanity still exists in Florida, and two parents in the county—yes, 2! out of a population of 322,390 as of the 2021 census—have joined in a lawsuit against the county school board to return these alleged “hazards” to their schools’ libraries.  Hopefully, as Heidi Stevens puts it, “the children of Escambia County [will soon] once again [be] allowed to look upon words.”  But even more importantly, they will hopefully be allowed to learn that “definitions are not the enemy.  Dictionaries are not the enemy. Thesauruses are not the enemy.  Encyclopedias are not the enemy.  Knowledge is not the enemy” (my emphasis).  What is the enemy is ignorance, “and it should go without saying, but apparently it doesn’t: A child is far better served looking up a word—any word—in a dictionary than typing that word into Google, where a world of images, videos and misleading garbage awaits” (Stevens).

Which brings me to my last disheartening development of the past few weeks.  This one is strictly anecdotal, but I do not think that makes what happened any less compelling.  It was during one of my scheduled meetings with my advisory, and we were playing Pictionary as a way of unwinding right before spring break.  It is a favored game of ours, and to make it a little competitive, I divide the group into two teams, with the winning team allowed to decide which confectionary treat I bake for them—which is itself an inside joke because the winning team always chooses my lemon bars—but nevertheless, they can still get quite competitive about it.

Well, on this occasion, the competition was a little more intense than usual, and both teams were trying to pick particularly challenging words for the other to draw.  Or more accurately, they were googling on their phones for challenging words to use, and when I saw the terms they were picking, I was stunned.  These are 10th graders, most of who are at least 16 years old, and they were needing an on-line search engine to find words that were part of my basic vocabulary by the time I was in 5th grade—vocabulary that I was expected to know and assessed for by the time I was 12. I knew my students of the past decade were not developing the same long-term memory storage banks as in the first two decades of my career, and I had seen the practical consequences of this reality in my classroom.  But here, that ignorance—and the degree of it!—was staring me existentially in the face in a way it never has before, and the despondency that settled over me for the rest of the day was profound.

However, it was not my final outcome, nor can it ever be.  No matter how disheartening the recent developments in schools, none of us in our society can afford to ignore them nor to be ignorant of them.  Anyone who has read my project updates since their inception in the spring of 2020 knows that I regularly use these essays in part to process the realities of teaching in the 21st Century, in part to share these realities to challenge others to action, and in part as an act of hope.  The truth is: dispelling the darkness is never easy.  But if we do not know the nature of its current character, we cannot know what type of flame to bring to the task.  Thus, if any of this essay’s revelations have sparked a response in you, I encourage you to determine how you can fan it into a fire to light your own way forward.

I will keep offering these reflections to keep fanning mine.

Coda

Since I first drafted this essay, two things have happened that bear on it.  The first is the tragic collapse of the Key Bridge into the Baltimore harbor.  In addition to the pain of the families who lost their loved-ones that morning will come the economic pain that will reverberate in my adopted home for years to come.  The region is losing $15 million dollars a day in revenue for every day the port remains closed, and even once re-opened, the impact of rerouting over 10 million cars and trucks annually will be felt for at least a decade (one woman interviewed shared that her commute is now an hour longer, and she will not be alone). The new reality is that in a state already struggling with how to pay for school reforms before this catastrophe, that $255 million shortfall is going to look like a pittance.

Yet, amidst this tragedy, I received an e-mail from a former student of mine from the class of 2010, informing me that her lab team was just selected to build the seismometers going with the astronauts to the Moon on the Artemis III mission in 2026.  She was writing to thank me (as well as another friend and former colleague), and in her own words, “you both are the most influential teachers I have had over a *very* long time spent in school, so I wanted you to be the first of my non-space community to know other than my parents. Thank you for getting me here, even if it has been a while. :)”

Now, I do not wish to suggest that these two events are even remotely on the same scale.  However, I share them because together they are intimate reminders that life’s journey is fundamentally the paradox of BOTH tragedy AND triumph, and if we spend too much time consumed with one or the other, we lose the necessary balance to navigate our “4,000 weeks” successfully.  The same is true of teaching; if I cannot find ways to harmonize the heartening with the disheartening, I lose the ability to engage authentically in the classroom.  It is a lesson worth relearning; it is a lesson worth remembering.

I suspect the same could be said of us all.

References

Grose, J. (March 2, 2024) A.I. Is Making the Sexual Exploitation of Girls Even Worse.  New York Times.  https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/02/opinion/deepfakes-teenagers.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare.

Haidt, J. (March 13, 2024) End the Phone-Based Childhood Now: The Environment in Which Kids Grow Up Today is Hostile to Human Development.  The Atlantic.  https://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2024/03/teen-childhood-smartphone-use-mental-health-effects/677722/.

Kingsolver, B. (1995) Somebody’s Baby.   High Tide in Tucson: Essays from Now or Never. New York: HarperCollins.

Mervosh, S.; Miller, C.; & Paris, F. (March 19, 2024) What the Data Says About Pandemic School Closures, Four Years Later.  New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/18/upshot/pandemic-school-closures-data.html.

Price, L. (March 20, 2024) School Leaders Outline Effort: Implementing Blueprint Law is Going to be ‘Herculean’ Task.  The Baltimore Sun, pp. 1-2.

Schmitz, R. (March 19, 2024) Standardized Test Scores for Teens in Germany are Down. Teachers aren’t Surprised.  NPR Morning Edition.  https://www.npr.org/2024/03/19/1239388574/standardized-test-scores-for-teens-in-germany-are-down-teachers-arent-surprised.

Stevens, H. (Jan. 21, 2024) Now Dictionaries? Do Better, Grown-Ups.  The Baltimore Sun (Life & Travel), p. 6.

Turner, C. (March 20, 2024) The $190 billion in Emergency Funds Given to Schools During the Pandemic is Ending.  NPR Morning Edition.https://www.npr.org/2024/03/20/1239609135/the-190-billion-in-emergency-funds-given-to-schools-during-the-pandemic-is-endin.

The Good Teacher

We have committed what to the republican founders was the cardinal sin:
we have put our own good as individuals ahead of the common good.
—Robert Bellah

We can defend whatever image of man we choose to defend.
—Norris K. Smith

In their book, The Good Society, Robert Bellah and his team followed up their ground-breaking research about the negative impacts of unrestrained individualism in our society with a presentation of a case for how we as Americans might once again live more in accordance with the republican values argued for by our Founders—values in which the benefits of personal freedom are not found at the expense of the common good.  They, like Alasdair McIntyre in After Virtue, make similar arguments that what has gone missing from our society today is a shared understanding of the purpose of communal life and an absence of the internalized personal qualities needed to achieve this purpose.  Bellah, et al do not use the actual language of “telos” and “virtue” as McIntyre does, but a teleological understanding of what it means to be a good society and the character needed to achieve it inform their entire case.

I share all this because as I have thought about how I want to make my case from last time that we humans have some common—even transcendent—conceptions of what living a good life entails, I have come see that I may need to follow a similar path in my arguing.  I inherit the language of “virtues” and “purpose” and “ends” from thousands of years of human thought, and while it jerks this Kantian’s chain to do so, I find myself needing to employ some pseudo-Aristotelian elements in my argument.  Just didn’t want any of my readers with formal training in philosophy to suddenly go “Hey! Didn’t he say he’s an anti-Aristotelian??” and simply dismiss me as a hypocrite.

Okay.  Enough digressing.  What I want to do today is to explore the nature of the “good,” starting with a narrow lens and working my way out from there, and therefore, I want to start with something I am intimately familiar with and to examine:  what makes the good teacher? I’ve clearly written plenty about what I think constitutes good teaching, but what about the character of the individual doing it? In the language of Aristotle, what virtues must one possess to achieve the end, the telos, of being a good teacher? I want to identify three (though I think there are more), and I will explore them individually to try to make my case.  They are:  integrity, courage, and compassion; so let’s start with integrity.

First, when I use the term “integrity,” I am employing it in its fullest meaning—not just the notion of accurate, honest, and truthful but the concept of having a fully integrated self—and I employ it that way because one of the fundamental tasks teachers have to do nearly every second of every moment in the classroom is to judge other human beings.  From grading to classroom management to disciplining, teachers are judging those in their care nearly nonstop, and if a teacher does not have the self-reflective capacity that comes with a fully integrated sense of self, they cannot recognize those moments when they have mis-judged.

Which is, second, why I claim integrity is one of the virtues of the good teacher.  Not only do all those judgements need to be made as accurately, honestly, and truthfully as possible, the reality is that when they are not (or are made poorly), that fact needs to be recognized immediately and the necessary steps taken right away to repair a now broken relationship.  Because all the research shows that the quality of the teacher-student relationship directly determines the quality of the learning occurring; hence, without integrity, a teacher cannot provide the best environment for student success.

The next virtue I am suggesting is “courage,” and again, I mean it in the fullest sense of the word—everything from bravery to resilience to resolve.  Effective teaching involves determination, caring, vulnerability, and appropriately intimate rapport, and as a co-learner, it involves risking and making mistakes, not always knowing an answer to a question, and other similar moments of exposure to the judgement of others.  Furthermore, on a pragmatic note, the profession also involves long hours for subpar renumeration compared to similar levels of training, as well as these day enduring the proverbial “slings & arrows” of education’s stakeholders (we do not get a lot of respect from society at large).  Yet again, though, it is all about the quality of the teacher-student relationship, and if an educator cannot find the courage to put their best self into that relationship, learning suffers.  It is with much reason that renowned educator, Parker Palmer, titled his magnum opus, The Courage to Teach.

Finally, I want to argue that the good teacher has the virtue of compassion—also meant in the fullest sense of empathy, kindness, and forgiveness. I believe that they must have this virtue because to know others truly as we ourselves are known requires love.  Without love, the trust children need to risk willingly withers, and without willful risks, growth and change are simply not possible.  Hence, the good teacher loves their students and seeks constantly to draw out in their students the power and strength to create the meanings that will surpass the teacher’s, and it is therefore in this gift of loving that the strongest teacher-student relationship can arise and the very best learning can occur.  Without compassion, fully effective education just doesn’t happen.

However, the same can be said of a lot of human activity, and that is my ultimate point.  Place the word “good” in front of almost any descriptor of a human—good coach, good waiter, good person—and the qualities of integrity, courage, and compassion are central to our understanding of their goodness.  Indeed, I suggest that what all those millennia of crowd-sourcing I referenced in my last essay have determined to be true is that integrity, courage, and compassion are intrinsic a priori to any human understanding of the “good.” 

Take compassion.  Variants of the Golden Rule are found in every religion, culture, and philosophical tradition on the planet.  Or integrity. A social species may or may not be able to survive without it (though probably not for long without it), but as countless civilizations that have risen and fallen have empirically demonstrated, such a species will never thrive without it.  Courage, of course, is the tough one on my list because synonyms of the word have regularly been associated heavily with militaristic roles and behaviors.  Yet even there, I would suggest that the historical moments of nonviolent resistance have demonstrated what true courage actually is and have even regularly evoked the virtue of compassion in others (images such as those from the Edmond Pettus Bridge on Bloody Sunday helped make the success of the Civil Rights movement possible).

Which brings me back to where I left off the last time I wrote.  I made the claim that humans have determined that to live a good life is our telos, and that certain qualities of what that means—a life of integrity, courage, and compassion—are transcendent.  You can decide for yourself if I’ve now made good (no pun intended) on the second claim; therefore, I want to conclude by turning my attention to the first one, that the good life is our telos. 

But to do that I first need to remind us that the original Greek word as understood by Aristotle was that anything and everything has an ultimate end or purpose and that you cannot understand an object or a structure without discerning what this end or purpose is.  A hoe, for instance, has the ultimate purpose of cutting soil in a particular fashion, and the difference between Aristotelian teleological thinking and modern teleology is that Aristotle thought that this telos was inherent to the hoe itself, baked in to the very essence of its structure.  A hoe could literally not be a hoe without its telos.

Well, humans can literally not be humans without making meaning.  Our brains are genetically hardwired to take our sensory input and add narrative to it.  And as I argued last time, billions of minds over millennia of millenniums have regularly, consistently, and continually constructed the narrative—made meaning—that the ultimate purpose of being human is to live a good life.  Thus, if something innate to our very nature keeps doing the same thing, I want to suggest that maybe we’re on to something after all.

Why then, though, has our society seemingly either abandoned this telos entirely or reduced it to the isolated “my good life?” This is where the critiques of Bellah, et al and MacIntyre hold up a powerful mirror for us to learn from, and we fail to pay attention to them at our peril.  All virtues, of course, are aspirational, never fully achievable. But if we stop aspiring—as the minute by minute news barrage would seem to indicate too many of us have already done—then we are in real danger. As Bellah and his team put it in The Good Society:

We have never before faced a situation that called our deepest assumptions so radically into question.  Our problems today are not just political.  We have assumed that as long as economic growth continued, we could leave all else to the private sphere.  Now that economic growth is faltering and the moral ecology on which we have tacitly depended is in disarray, we are beginning to understand that our common life requires more [of each of us]… and if [individual] power is our only end, the death in question may not be merely personal, but civilizational (p. 295). 

I plan to hold up my end of the proverbial bargain and keep striving to be a good teacher who seeks to help their students learn how to be human well, and I am confident that many of my fellow educators will continue to do likewise as well.  But we are going to need some allies.

Any takers?

References

Bellah, R., et al. (1991) The Good Society.  New York:  Alfred A. Knopf.

Bellah, R., et al. (1985) Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life.  Berkeley:  University of California Press, Ltd

MacIntyre, A. (1984) After Virtue, 2nd Ed.  Notre Dame, IN:  University of Notre Dame Press.

Palmer, P. (1998) The Courage to Teach: Exploring the Inner Landscape of a Teacher’s Life.  San Francisco: Jossey-Bass.

Our Moral Nature

The idols of the nations are silver and gold,
made by the hands of men.
They have mouths, but cannot speak,
eyes, but cannot see;
they have ears, but cannot hear,
nor is there breath in their mouths.
Those who make them will be like them,
and so will all who trust in them.
—Psalm 135:15-18

To a bibliophile, old-fashion bookstores can be dangerous. 

Dangerous, that is, to the pocketbook. 

Surrounded by shelves and shelves of the most marvelous and magnificent objects in the world, it can be terribly tempting to walk out with more than you intended, and the Siren call of some title or dustjacket is just waiting to make you take a second look until you succumb.  Hence, I am confident that I am not alone in having more than one unread book occupying space on my own shelves at home.

However, courtesy of the pandemic, I have a lot fewer of them than I used to (what with libraries closed and other forms of social distancing), and while the habit of consuming the “unread” started as a time-killer during lockdown, it has become a type of quest on my part to have nothing on my bookshelves that has not also occupied my synapses.  Since I’m also continuing to read new stuff as well and to keep up in my professional discipline, I am not accomplishing this quest very rapidly.  But I am, so far, making progress.

And my most recent now-read book has made me realize that there are some books which you aren’t meant to read in your youth.  Alasdair McIntyre’s After Virtue has occupied a spot on various shelves in my various domiciles since I was 21-years old, and though I have started it on two separate occasions that I can recall, I could never get past the opening chapters before my distain for all things Aristotelian caused me to exile it once more to gathering dust in my philosophy collection.

However, a quest is a quest, and so I approached reading it this time with a different type of determination and—as I discovered—with a different level of intellectual maturation.  Because what I discovered was that there in McIntyre’s book was effectively a now nearly half-a-century old philosophical roadmap for how and why we, as a society, would end up with the utterly dysfunctional mess we find ourselves in today.  The cognitive mess…the environmental mess…the political mess…. The intellectual roots of them all are analyzed and made available in those pages, providing fair warning to anyone willing and able to listen—which I couldn’t do back then because I was too busy being an unwitting part of those same roots.

I won’t recap everything McIntyre has to say (in part because some of it involves some very technical and formal philosophical writing), but if I can do him justice, I would summarize his core thinking like this:

when the Aristotelian thought paradigms employed for most of Middle Ages (and prior to that) were abandoned in favor of the scientific paradigms of the 1600s, it became necessary to discover new rational and secular foundations for defining moral behavior (i.e. what makes a good human).  But this Enlightenment project failed “because the views advanced by its most intellectually powerful protagonists, and more especially by Kant, could not be sustained in the face of the rational criticism that Nietzsche and all his existentialist and emotivist successors were able to mount,” (p. 117) leaving us with a world where “good” is simply whatever passes for “good.” 

Put simply, virtues (and therefore virtuous behavior) require a telos, an ultimate end or purpose, for what it means to be a good human, and when a teleological understanding of the world is tossed out, we are left with a world without virtues (hence—to state the obvious—the title).

Now, I have no desire go into the nitty-gritty of how McIntyre defends all of this or his reasoning for why his solution is to defend a variant of Aristotelian ethics and politics (it is a very dense and long book, and the reason why I have not written in quite a while).  However, what I am going to suggest is that his arguments are strong enough to give this Kantian pause and that his analysis of the logical social consequences of the rejection of the Aristotelian paradigms for the scientific ones are so spot on that, as I said earlier, they are a road map to today.  Hence, I am left wondering after finally reading this book whether the notion of a teleological vs. non-teleological approach to our understanding of ourselves may not explain a lot about the current world we live in and therefore might merit further exploration.

For starters, a teleological paradigm does not presuppose an Aristotelian version of one (the self-inflicted mental error in judgment which kept me from reading this book for so long).  As a scientist, I understand well why the Aristotelian approach to studying the natural world was deposed (as does McIntyre).  Without the fallibilism of the experimental method, it is not possible to determine the laws and rules governing our planet, our universe, and ourselves.  That aspect of Aristotelianism had to be tossed to make any progress in our understanding of how the empirical world functions—something, again, that McIntyre does not dispute. 

What makes me sympathetic to McIntyre’s general thesis, though, is his suggestion that maybe we didn’t have to throw the proverbial baby out with the proverbial bathwater.  That same scientific “progress” has also led to an overpopulated, over-polluted planet baking in our unrestrained individualism that McIntyre does a strong job of tracing back to the rejection of the political and ethics portion of Aristotelianism. 

Or more precisely, I want to argue, to the teleological nature of those political and ethical ideas.  As an educator, a certain amount of teleology is built into my system.  Lessons have goals; curricula have purposes; degrees have ends.  Even the educational planning process known in the profession as “backward planning” has the “ideal graduate” of a given program as its navigational beacon.  Furthermore, I remain convinced that education’s ultimate telos remains wisdom and to learn to be human well.  Hence, I would argue that a teleological understanding—at least to some degree—infuses any and all teaching and learning.

But if a teleological understanding is part of something so central to our society as education, then why is it so absent from the rest of our cultural life? I suspect that it has to do with how we are asking the question, “what does it mean to be a good human?”  We have externalized this ideal, assessing someone’s amount of consumption and productivity rather than the worthiness of their character, and we no longer cultivate a shared set of internalized qualities “because success is whatever passes for success [and therefore] it is [merely] in the regard of others that I prosper or fail to prosper” (p. 115).  We have made what it means to be a good human independent of an individual’s integrity and so the notion of someone having a telos, a fundamental purpose or end, becomes a meaningless notion.

Furthermore, we see this problem not just in our culture at large but also even in our institutions for education as well.  In public schools, the quality of learning is now judged almost exclusively by test scores and other external accountability measures, not by the kind of person we are producing; while in private schools, the focus is on college and university admissions, again not necessarily what sort of individuals we are sending out into the world.  In practice, we have divorced our lofty ideals for learning from our actual measures of learning, and the results, I fear, speak for themselves in the abundantly evident dysfunctionality of our general society right now.

Which is not to claim that teachers and schools do not care about the moral character of their students or the graduates they produce.  Nearly every educator I have ever met is deeply committed to nurturing worthy and worthwhile inner habits and qualities of mind in the children under their care.  They simply do so frequently in antagonism to or in spite of the larger social constraints currently placed upon them.  Attempts to cultivate good humans are alive and well in America’s classrooms; they’re just often being done undercover—and if you live in Florida, illegally.

Yet if all these efforts are underway as I claim, then a thoughtful reader might ask what exactly is being fostered? Haven’t I simply backed myself again into the problematic dilemma of what counts as “good” which is what McIntyre is arguing is the central issue for which the Modern (and now Postmodern) eras have no answers that don’t devolve to whim? Can I or anyone determine a purpose or end, a telos, to being human that is innate and not external, and if so, what good(s) does one need to possess to achieve it? And how might teaching and learning be involved?

I think the answers rest on how we want to define “determine.”  In both psychological and moral development, every single one of us goes through the stage where we become aware of the relativity of everything and the absence of certainty—the fundamental fallibilism of all human knowledge.  Much grist has been milled about this reality, and it has even caused some to declare that truth of any kind is impossible, that all human thought is simply about emotion and will.  However, as psychologists such as Lawrence Kohlberg have pointed out, most of us move past the stage of relativity to the stage of commitment—to where we treat a body of knowledge as truthful and live our lives accordingly.

Which as Jonathan Rauch points out in The Constitution of Knowledge does not mean there is neither actual truth nor real knowledge; it just means that we have to find it in the crowd sourcing of the reality-based community.  And that brings me back to “determine.”  Do I think that we can rationally discover with absolute certainty for all time a telos for being human? No.  David Hume dismantled that philosophical quest a long time ago.   However, do I think there is a purpose to being human that can be determined and known, that can be committed to? Yes.  Because literally billions of minds have been wrestling with this idea since minds first evolved, and after tens of thousands of millennia of crowd-sourcing this fallible proposition, I would argue that humanity has determined that our telos is to live a good life and that our understanding of good has some determinates that transcend culture, place, or time.

What those are and how they relate to teaching and learning I leave for next time.

References

Hume, D. (1977) An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding.  Indianapolis:  Hackett Publishing Company.

Kohlberg, L. (1981) The Psychology of Moral Development.  New York:  Harper & Row.

MacIntyre, A. (1984) After Virtue, 2nd Ed.  Notre Dame, IN:  University of Notre Dame Press.

Rauch, J. (2021) The Constitution of Knowledge: A Defense of Truth. Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution Press.

The Inner Journey

The sun rises and the sun sets,
and hurries back to where it rises.
The wind blows to the south and turns to the north;
round and round it goes, ever returning on its course.
What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.
—Ecclesiastes 1:5-6, 9 (NIV)

What are the conditions
that might make it possible for us to operate
at a modest level of prophetic inspiration,
to bring a daily beauty to our lives,
sustaining to ourselves, our students,
and our communities?
—Mary Rose O’Reilley

If you have read even elements of Part I or Part II of this project of mine or followed any of my updates since I finished the body of my e-book in the spring of 2020, you know that I have focused nearly 100% of my attention on either discussing how to improve what takes place in our classrooms or examining the very pragmatic challenges we confront in education today.  Only rarely have I addressed some of my personal motivations for why I teach or spoken about the teaching sojourn itself.

Yet I find myself struggling this school year with one of my classes in ways that I have not had to in a very long time—which is both proof-positive that you never fully master this profession and a humbling reminder of my own “work-in-progress” as an individual even after six decades of existence.  Granted, the value of so many years (both in and out of the classroom) is the insight that this is not my first time feeling utterly ineffectual with a group of students nor am I likely to fail to have some modicum of positive impact on some child under my care (I must never forget Mark!).  However, what those decades of insight also bring is the recognition that it is possible to “stay too long at the party.”  Effective teaching requires authentic engagement, and authentic engagement demands:  embracing the role of co-learner; appropriately intimate rapport; and a thorough understanding of the neuroscience of the brain.  And it doesn’t matter how good you may be at any one of them individually, without all three, the “stool” doesn’t stand and genuine learning doesn’t happen.

Which is what I find myself wrestling with right now.  I cannot seem to generate the necessary rapport to generate the necessary investment on the part of a group of my students, and what I’m not sure about at this moment is whether I’m simply dealing with a situational issue or a generational one.  If the former, I can accept a transient failure.  Those moments of loss are painful and to be fought against at all costs.  But my finitude can never be completely overcome, and I have had and will have classes where I perform inadequately in my keystone niche as the teacher.  Sin is real, and I will not succeed with every class or every child I encounter during my career. 

However, if the issue is a generational one, that gives me greater pause.  In a world where many in the younger generations openly prefer an AI chatbot for a romantic partner—and get upset when software updates alter their “significant other” (oddly enough simulating what can happen between actual human beings)—I don’t know that I have the cognitive tools to develop appropriately intimate rapport anymore.  Nor do I think I would want the tools that might be needed today. As was once wisely observed, “the ‘secrets’ of good teaching are the same as the secrets of good living:  seeing one’s self without blinking, offering hospitality to the alien other, having compassion for suffering, speaking truth to power, being present and being real” (O’Reilley, p. ix).  None of which are possible in the zombified digital realm that seems to consume today’s young (and, in fairness, many of their elders as well).

The simple truth is that I choose not to live unable to read a map, perpetually terrified of FOMO, attending to conspiracy theories, and addicted to a screen.  Yet in doing so, am I making it no longer possible to relate existentially to the realities of my students in the ways needed to develop authentic engagement’s required rapport? For example, for decades, I deliberately listened to their music because I knew the connections it could bring.  However, for the last five years, I have been unable to bring myself to do so because I cannot find the tolerance within me to expose myself to something I find totally banal and empty of all meaning.  Has my own personal journey, therefore, reached a relational wall through which I can no longer construct a door?

I wish I had an answer to that question—it is obviously part of my conundrum—yet what truly unsettles me about the current situation is the memory it stirs of my grandfather.  He and my grandmother acquired a VCR sometime in the late 1980s (the recall of how alludes me), and I remember my dad trying to show my grandfather how to program it to record TV shows.  To which my grandfather firmly declared, “NO.”  At nearly 80, he had simply reached the end of his willingness to learn yet-one-more-thing in a lifetime that had started before most homes in this country had plumbing and which had eventually witnessed humans on the moon and space probes taking pictures of Neptune.  He was done, and he was okay with being done.

Have I, I wonder, reached a similar moment in my teaching? Have I reached the point of “done” with the generation of students now entering my classroom? That is what I find myself struggling to resolve, and it is a disquieting experience as anyone who has read my work can well imagine.  On the one hand, the wisdom of Ecclesiastes reminds me not to take my challenge with this one class too seriously; as my maternal grandmother oft said, “this, too, shall pass.”  On the other hand, the wisdom of Mary Rose O’Reilley reminds me that “it’s impossible to hear a subtle call if you do not create a conscious time to listen to it” (pp. 43-44); so what might I not be hearing that I should be?

One answer, of course, is that it is perhaps my disquiet itself to which I should be listening.  The fact that I have kept trying to connect with this class, one thing after another, attempting to breathe life into what feels daily like a black hole of ennui, is probably indicative that I am not “done” in the way my grandfather once was.  If I did not care, I would not be so dissatisfied with my efforts to educate this collection of students.  Hence, maybe I need to “cut myself a little slack,” as they say, and accept that working my hardest this year is simply going to have to be the best I can do with this group for this year.

And I think I would be okay with that if not for the fact that I am not experiencing this challenge with my other courses.  I’m co-learning, rapporting, and neurosciencing just fine with my juniors and seniors, and in fact, on my course evaluation this past week for my Genetics class, one of my students—in response to my query “what is one thing you would never want me to change about this course?”—replied “you as the teacher.”  Hence, I am clearly engaging authentically with at least a subset of the population at my school; it’s just the 9th grade which is proving so intractable this year.

Which pivots me back to the generational question.  Ninth graders have been my area of expertise for nearly my entire career.  Indeed, for 14 years on the 9th Grade advisory team at my former school, my friend and Grade Dean, Paige and I would jokingly refer to ourselves as each new class’s “mom & dad.” Therefore, finding myself alienated from a group I have historically been so effective with as an educator is dispiriting and begs for an answer to “why?” that has so far alluded me this year.  I do recognize that I could simply be struggling with the learning fallout from the pandemic (this specific group would have been in Middle school throughout it), and I recognize that I may just not have fully evolved and adapted my teaching toolkit yet to meet such a need.  But that recognition doesn’t make it any easier to watch still another attempt to generate the conditions for meaningful learning in this class fall short, and I cannot avoid wondering what in this situation am I missing? And how does that “what” need to inform my future as a teacher?

The school year, of course, is not over, and I am too much the scientist not to finish collecting all the data before coming to any final conclusions.  Furthermore, those same decades of insight mentioned earlier also remind me that this is not my first time questioning whether I should still be at the “party,” and it is unlikely that it will be my last.  Again, it is when I am no longer having this internal dialogue about my capacities as a teacher that I should probably be bringing the journey to an end.

Until then, I have another lesson to plan.

References

O’Reilley, Mary Rose (1998) Radical Presence: Teaching as Contemplative Practice.  Portsmouth, NH:  Boynton/Cook Publishers.

Plait, P. (Dec. 2023) Conspiracy Theories Then and Now.  Scientific American. Pp. 80-81.

Campbell, R. M. (Dec. 2023) AI Chatbots Could Weaken National Security. Scientific American. Pp. 73-74.

The Pulse (Jan. 5, 2024) Virtual Worlds, Virtual Lives.  NPR.  https://www.npr.org/2024/01/05/1200586530/virtual-worlds-virtual-lives.

The New Year

We can judge our progress by the courage of our questions and the depth of our answers,
our willingness to embrace what is true rather than what feels good.
―Carl Sagan

While my experience of the new year traditionally aligns more with that of the Jewish calendar due to its chronological affiliation with the start of school each fall, the simple truth is that, technically, each day any of us wakes up is the start of the next year of our life.  In fact, for most of human existence, the chronological documentation of the passage of time was a nebulous process at best, recognizing and adapting to seasonal changes but little more than that (hunter-gatherers don’t have weekends).  However, with the rise of agrarian cultures—with their scribes and accounting systems—calendars were born, and we now have atomic clocks that lose only 1 second every 300 billion years.  Which means one might argue that each moment of “now” you experience is officially the start of a new year.

Yet, the conscious marking of another year can have value as a means for taking stock of ourselves as individuals and ourselves as a society, and when we do that here at the start of 2024, what confronts us is sobering.  Here are just some of the “highlights:”

  • We face a war of aggression and attrition in the Ukraine, with frightening parallels in our current U.S. response to that of Britain and France to the Nazi invasion of the Sudetenland in 1938—threatening democracy now as it did then—and we face a war of retaliation and revenge in Gaza that threatens to degenerate into a genocide of the Palestinian people (and these are just the armed conflicts that get all the international press). 
  • We have destabilized the planet’s climate to where once extreme weathers are now annual events—the correction of which would require the complete upheaval of our totally fossil-fuel dependent world economy—and we have generated an international migration “crisis” in response (that shouldn’t shock anyone familiar with basic organism population dynamics) as the animal, Homo sapiens, leaves untenable environments for more tenable ones.
  • We are currently engaged in a blind, headlong rush to develop AI technologies that threaten everything from jobs (both so-called “white-” as well a “blue-collar” ones) to national security to our very capacity to determine what is true versus what is false (and if we think the tech companies are suddenly going to regulate themselves, we have only to look at the $11 billion dollars they made off of our children in 2022 to dismiss that “magical thinking”).
  • What’s more, here in this country, we have an avowed authoritarian indicted with 91 felony charges running for President, aided by power seekers willing to “burn the village down to save it,” who is the front-runner for his party’s nomination and who joins all the other authoritarians he so admires, posing the greatest risks to democracy since the Second World War.

Add in a population so polarized by social media and “cancel culture” (both from the Right and the Left) and we have a society ripe for civil conflict.  Indeed, for those of us who know our American history, the last time this country was this divided over its values—unable to compromise and to govern (with actual physical threats being made in our chambers of power)—it was the year 1860.  Also, a Presidential election year. And arguably the most important election year in our nation’s history.  Until maybe now.  Is 2024 our next 1860?

As always, I look at this question through the lens of an educator as well as that of a citizen, and for the past couple of years, through work I have done as a teacher fellow with the Mill Institute (whose mission statement might best be summarized as “less certain, more curious”), I have worked with others in the profession to identify key features of constructive dialogue around contentious issues and to develop methods for nurturing such dialogue in schools.  Like others before us, we have recognized that most value disagreements involve well-intentioned positions on both sides and that demonizing the other reduces their story and oversimplifies ones’ own, resulting in the diminishment of everyone.  Thus, finding ways to engage students and educators alike in practicing these two tenents has been the focus of our work (and we have developed a number of training resources for anyone interested).

But what has come out of this work for me regarding this essay’s primary topic is the awareness of two dilemmas.  The first is that—as former Stanford dean, Julie Lythcott-Haims, puts it—“we’re in desperate need of humans who can grapple openly with ideas, and disagree, as reasonable people will, without villainizing each other,” and yet developmentally, “today’s adolescents aren’t making it all the way” to this capacity for “adulting” because the cultural bubble of social media promotes a rigid understanding of right and wrong.  The reality is that you never have to listen to the other person anymore, never entertain any truth claim their position might have on you, because you can simply scream your own sense of rightness (and righteousness) on these platforms instead.  Hence, dilemma number one for me is whether we have the necessary critical mass of individuals in our society capable of the constructive dialoguing we will need to prevent a repeat of 1860.

The other dilemma for me, though, is that the value’s contest of 1860 forces the acknowledgment that some conflicts in values are beyond dialogue.  The impasse over slavery did not allow for a constructive compromise; there is no possible positive spin on slavery.  One part of our society held and defended an utterly abhorrent set of values and were prepared to kill and to die for them.  When values become that diametrically opposed, the resolution, I fear, boils down to power—as it did for four of the ugliest years of our nation’s history—and I am left wondering whether today’s culture wars have not reached that same equivalent point.

However, I remain committed to paradoxical thinking—to “both/and”—and if the young person who wrote about his generation’s developmental conundrum was capable of the necessary self-diagnosis to change his own personal growth path, I have optimism for others to do likewise (especially if exposed to the training available through the Mill Institute as well a similar organizations committed to constructive change).  Moreover, if the people of Poland can use their demographic power to peacefully overturn the illiberal values of their country’s authoritarian leadership—interestingly enough for our own 2024 election, mainly over laws outlawing abortion—then perhaps our society can successfully resist the illiberalism threatening our own historical ideals. 

The choice in the New Year is ours.

References

Bensinger, K. (Dec. 21, 2023) Troll Army for Trump Spins Online.  The Baltimore Sun.  https://digitaledition.baltimoresun.com/html5/desktop/production/default.aspx?&edid=b0dd69b9-e81e-4555-beba-da94f444f1f2.

Gottlieb, Z. (Dec. 10, 2023) Listen Up. The Closing of the Teenage Mind is Almost Complete.  The Los Angeles Times.  https://www.latimes.com/opinion/story/2023-12-10/los-angeles-high-school-cancel-culture-free-speech.

Harvard School of Public Health (Dec. 27, 2023) Social Media Platforms Generate Billions in Annual Ad Revenue from U.S. Youth.  https://www.hsph.harvard.edu/news/press-releases/social-media-platforms-generate-billions-in-annual-ad-revenue-from-u-s-youth/.

Schmitz, R. (Dec. 11, 2023) Poland Elects New Prime Minister, Ending Right-wing Party’s Rule.  NPR.  https://www.npr.org/2023/12/11/1218635775/poland-elects-new-prime-minister-ending-right-wing-partys-rule.