I've been doing more videos! But I haven't posted them here...until now.
"Think for a Change (10): What We Don't Know About Ignorance"
This one is especially important to me. Charles Mills' concept of an epistemology of ignorance flipped my world when I first read about it in 2007. It's stayed in the back of my mind ever since when I learn and read and think about new things...
"Think for a Change (11): Freedom to Think Differently, or At All"
This is why I do philosophy.
"Think for a Change (12): Re: Trans Woman Attacked at McDonald's"
Unfortunately, there have been some recent events that led to recent videos and I just had to say something about this.
Thanks for reading and watching!
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Trust: Treading Water in the Deep
Philosophy: This week I read Jean-Paul Sartre's "Being and Nothingness." As philifesophical serendipity would have it, he has a whole chapter on bad faith, i.e., lying to ourselves.
Life: Lately, I've been listening to Radiolab's podcasts. With some sifting through their shows, I picked this really interesting one on deception to listen to a couple of days ago. I liked the segment on catching liars by noticing micro-facial expressions, and the last piece on self-deception (ahem, little bits of delusion) and how it might relate to personal successes. It actually reminded me of my blog post on Heroic Imaginings and Reality Checks. The middle story about Hope, the charming pathological liar, was fascinating, but it also made me sad to think about the people who trusted and supported her, and how they have struggled to trust people after all of her scams. It's not just that they can't trust others as they might have before, but that they no longer trust their own judgment of people's characters.
This podcast led into numerous conversations with friends about deception and trust, and in these conversations I felt a slight lingering of something weird come up within myself. For a while now I've left open the possibility that I myself am not a good judge of character, even though I would really like to think that I am (more on this second piece in a minute). I haven't slipped into any extreme forms of paranoia or anything, but through numerous experiences I guess, I have a heightened sensitivity to the ways that others can try to hide themselves, their intentions, manipulate situations, control another's emotions or reactions, placate, appease, etc... Perhaps more than usual, over the past year I have remained quite attentive to my doubts and worries over what other people were saying, doing, showing me, and thanks to that attentiveness, I have really worked on putting more energy into trusting people. I guess this is one reason why the vulnerability stuff from my last post speaks to me--trusting others is something I have to consciously work on.
So, to begin, we can wonder why people like me would want to be a good judge of character. I imagine it has something to do with not getting hurt, used, or disrespected. In other words, if you know that someone is a jerk, you know what to expect of them. But if someone seems nice, respectful, admirable even, like someone on whom you can depend, or with whom you can share yourself, to suddenly realize that that trust was misplaced might leave one feeling shocked, betrayed, insecure. That makes some sense, right?
This image came to mind: Meeting someone is like getting into a pool. Once you're in, you know that you're in the pool, but it's not the pool itself that can raise unsettling feelings. It's the depth that matters. I like swimming in pools when I know where the bottom is, when I can touch it with my toes. There's a certain lightness and ease that comes with being in the shallow end, like when you're only in 3 feet of water and you know that it's not going to go any deeper, but I tend to like swimming best when there's a little more depth, more room to explore. Eight feet deep means that the water is over my head if I try to get to the bottom of the pool, but I can still see it from the surface of the water.
But what happens when you get into a pool and realize that it's a pretty deep one and you can't see the bottom? Maybe it's 25 feet deep, or maybe even be more, but now it might be hard to even imagine how deep it actually goes. You can't see the bottom and you don't know what else might be lurking beneath you in the depths of this pool. There's an uneasiness attached to not knowing what surrounds you, what might come up, and that you don't have a bottom surface to ground you. What's worse, imagine that you got into this pool thinking it was six feet deep only to realize once you got in that you couldn't put your foot down and touch the bottom even if you held your breath and tried. This one's deeper that you had anticipated.
So what do you do?
Well, when you find yourself in water that is too deep for you to stand in, you have to tread. In other words, you have to learn to support yourself without having any ground to support you. It requires some skill, rhythm, breathing, technique, and if you do it well, you can tread water for quite a long time. Regardless of whether it's 10 feet or 100 feet of water that you're in, if you can tread, it all feels the same: just water passing around your feet and through your toes. It doesn't really matter where the bottom is.
I think that people can be thought of like pools. Some are shallow, some are deep, and perhaps most people don't even really know the reaches of their depth. Most people probably don't know what you might find in the deepest waters either. If it's the case that people don't know their depth, it's probably not reasonable to expect that they could reveal this to another person("Hi. I'm about 12 feet deep."), let alone expect oneself to be able to see the true measure of their depth by way of our own judgment or perception.
What this metaphor reveals, I think, is that requiring that one have "an accurate judge of character" before placing trust in another person might be missing the point. On one level, if I actually knew your depth and could see the bottom of your pool with clarity, if this constitutes my ability to judge your character, then it wouldn't really be my *trust* that I was giving you. Presumably, I would already seem to *know* you, and there would be less a sense of vulnerability, which is part of what it means to truly trust another. If I proceed in this way and think that I have trusted you, I have done so all in bad faith. I have fooled myself into thinking that I can trust you so that I feel like I do trust you. But already I have canceled out the very possibility for truly trusting.
And on another level, if one's depth and whatever might be lurking down there are some of those things that many people don't even know about themselves, this doesn't mean that we can't still swim in their pools and enjoy it. For the most part, I would like to believe, people do the best that they can, even when they don't know the measure of their depth. In order to make all of this less scary, then, one just needs to learn how to tread on her own so that she can swim, regardless of any pool's (known or unknown) depth.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Whole-Hearted Vulnerability
If there is one theme that I have followed in my personal and professional and philosophical life, it is that of vulnerability. Being open and willing to be imperfect, to be dependent on and affected by others, to recognize that we are shaped by our experiences and that we close ourselves off to those experiences when we seek to control everything, especially in the effort to avert "difficult," "hard," or even painful emotions--this is the stuff of life.
For the past few months, I have been reading philosophical texts on embodiment, phenomenology, and affect. I am studying notions of intercorporeal existence, authentic love and radical generosity in the face of alterity, and psychosomatic examples of aphasia as not just a refusal to speak, but a more existential refusal of the ontological relations we have with others and the world. In other words, we are not independent, autonomous, isolated beings who can be characterized as pure minds or mechanistic machine-bodies. Rather, we exist--in body, mind, psyche, and even biochemically--in relation to others, history, culture, nature, and the world. When the conversation turns to ethics, many philosophers suggest that this leads us to notions of freedom, responsibility, and forgiveness.
All of this reminds me of my thought process during the summer before coming to graduate school. As I was familiarizing myself with theories in feminist philosophy and more "Continental" thinkers like the existentialists, there was a distinct moment when I thought, "Hasn't all of this stuff on interrelationality already been said, like thousands of years ago?" I was pretty sure that it had been, at least by one person (Seriously, though, I know there are many more).
Over 2,500 years ago, the Buddha's key insights were that nothing is permanent and all things are interdependent. This means that there is a transitory nature to reality and everything that *is* comes out of a conditional, dependent arising. There is nothing eternal, independent, or separate--no soul, no essence, no simple "I" to be found. Once again, I will say that I am grateful that I was assigned to teach "Asian Philosophies" this semester, in part because I am able to have conversations with my students about what these insights mean for us in terms of our daily lives. We've talked about reframing our values, our participation in global economic markets, and even our conceptions of mental health by way of non-attachment, compassionate understanding, "seeing more clearly" the nature of things, and bearing witness to the parts of life that often lead us into dis-ease, anxiety, fear, and unhappiness--the hard facts like sickness, old age, and death. We talk about alleviating "dukkha," which is very roughly translated as "suffering," through compassion, wisdom, and non-attachment. Through practicing a bit of mindfulness and meditation, we have tried to recognize when we are motivated out of fear, aversion, confusion, or craving, even as students who need good grades to get good jobs, or boyfriends and girlfriends who might get cheated on, or (like me) food lovers who have to face that the key-lime gelato simply can't last forever. It's been a good class. I've learned a lot.
And now, I finally had time to watch this video. Some of my more "whole-hearted" friends and family members were passing it around a couple of months ago, but the delay in my viewing is not important. The message is still a good one. She's not a Continentalist philosopher who speaks with impenetrable language, and she's probably not enlightened like the Buddha, but I do think that she, as a social worker, is touching on something very fundamental about our human experiences. Turns out there may be many paths to some basics of life.
As Dr. Brene Brown notes, we live best when we feel loved, worthy, and connected to others. And yet, this is hard because it requires that we also make ourselves vulnerable. In fact, we have to face that vulnerability with an honest, courageous authenticity. And when our vulnerability enables us to feel gratitude, joy, and love in life, it also means that we must risk feeling other emotions as well, including disappointment, rejection, and being misunderstood.
Maybe there is some comfort in knowing that almost all of the people who think on this theme seem to agree on one thing: Ironically enough, it is by making oneself vulnerable that one finds the strength to deal with more difficult experiences. And more ironic still, if one's strength stems from vulnerability, one might actually be met with even greater love, belonging, and connection with others, which in turn might make even the most difficult experiences in life more manageable, or less difficult.
As great as this is, I wonder how much the less "whole-hearted" get it? Especially after trying to talk to a room of thirty 19-21 year olds for the past thirteen weeks about these ideas and frequently having to myself admit that I have hit some brick pedagogical walls when they admit that they just don't get it, these insights seem less like the kind of stuff that can be taught. We can talk about it, but that does not mean that it will be heard and understood, although I wish it would. I have the sense that these sort of things have to be figured out and experienced for oneself. And that might take some time. Probably more than a semester. Perhaps even a lifetime.
So, here's to the practice and the journey!
For the past few months, I have been reading philosophical texts on embodiment, phenomenology, and affect. I am studying notions of intercorporeal existence, authentic love and radical generosity in the face of alterity, and psychosomatic examples of aphasia as not just a refusal to speak, but a more existential refusal of the ontological relations we have with others and the world. In other words, we are not independent, autonomous, isolated beings who can be characterized as pure minds or mechanistic machine-bodies. Rather, we exist--in body, mind, psyche, and even biochemically--in relation to others, history, culture, nature, and the world. When the conversation turns to ethics, many philosophers suggest that this leads us to notions of freedom, responsibility, and forgiveness.
All of this reminds me of my thought process during the summer before coming to graduate school. As I was familiarizing myself with theories in feminist philosophy and more "Continental" thinkers like the existentialists, there was a distinct moment when I thought, "Hasn't all of this stuff on interrelationality already been said, like thousands of years ago?" I was pretty sure that it had been, at least by one person (Seriously, though, I know there are many more).
Over 2,500 years ago, the Buddha's key insights were that nothing is permanent and all things are interdependent. This means that there is a transitory nature to reality and everything that *is* comes out of a conditional, dependent arising. There is nothing eternal, independent, or separate--no soul, no essence, no simple "I" to be found. Once again, I will say that I am grateful that I was assigned to teach "Asian Philosophies" this semester, in part because I am able to have conversations with my students about what these insights mean for us in terms of our daily lives. We've talked about reframing our values, our participation in global economic markets, and even our conceptions of mental health by way of non-attachment, compassionate understanding, "seeing more clearly" the nature of things, and bearing witness to the parts of life that often lead us into dis-ease, anxiety, fear, and unhappiness--the hard facts like sickness, old age, and death. We talk about alleviating "dukkha," which is very roughly translated as "suffering," through compassion, wisdom, and non-attachment. Through practicing a bit of mindfulness and meditation, we have tried to recognize when we are motivated out of fear, aversion, confusion, or craving, even as students who need good grades to get good jobs, or boyfriends and girlfriends who might get cheated on, or (like me) food lovers who have to face that the key-lime gelato simply can't last forever. It's been a good class. I've learned a lot.
And now, I finally had time to watch this video. Some of my more "whole-hearted" friends and family members were passing it around a couple of months ago, but the delay in my viewing is not important. The message is still a good one. She's not a Continentalist philosopher who speaks with impenetrable language, and she's probably not enlightened like the Buddha, but I do think that she, as a social worker, is touching on something very fundamental about our human experiences. Turns out there may be many paths to some basics of life.
As Dr. Brene Brown notes, we live best when we feel loved, worthy, and connected to others. And yet, this is hard because it requires that we also make ourselves vulnerable. In fact, we have to face that vulnerability with an honest, courageous authenticity. And when our vulnerability enables us to feel gratitude, joy, and love in life, it also means that we must risk feeling other emotions as well, including disappointment, rejection, and being misunderstood.
Maybe there is some comfort in knowing that almost all of the people who think on this theme seem to agree on one thing: Ironically enough, it is by making oneself vulnerable that one finds the strength to deal with more difficult experiences. And more ironic still, if one's strength stems from vulnerability, one might actually be met with even greater love, belonging, and connection with others, which in turn might make even the most difficult experiences in life more manageable, or less difficult.
As great as this is, I wonder how much the less "whole-hearted" get it? Especially after trying to talk to a room of thirty 19-21 year olds for the past thirteen weeks about these ideas and frequently having to myself admit that I have hit some brick pedagogical walls when they admit that they just don't get it, these insights seem less like the kind of stuff that can be taught. We can talk about it, but that does not mean that it will be heard and understood, although I wish it would. I have the sense that these sort of things have to be figured out and experienced for oneself. And that might take some time. Probably more than a semester. Perhaps even a lifetime.
So, here's to the practice and the journey!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The End of the World: Undertaking Whatever is Hardest
This reflection was written in response to a paper by Ladelle McWhorter, which she presented at Penn State last week for a conference that honored the work of Charles Scott.
Reflecting on Charles Scott’s role as one of her most influential teachers, Ladelle McWhorter focused her paper, “Whatever is Hardest,” on the ethical question of teaching. Looking back on her own experiences in Scott’s classes, McWhorter described Scott’s practice of philosophy as one that enacts an experience and creates a philosophical event. It is a practice that opens up possibilities for seeing, feeling, and thinking. While describing her experiences of sitting through his lectures, McWhorter reflected that “something philosophical had happened to me.” This, she explains, is because Scott’s practice of philosophy is a kind of undertaking that requires a willingness to turn toward that which we do not know and what we fear that we will never understand. It is a willingness to turn toward and stand with the excess, with whatever is hardest.
Teaching undergraduate students is hard. It may even be one of the hardest things to do because, as McWhorter noted, one of the central goals of teaching is to make students aware of their intellectual and ethical freedom, that is, to make thinking in general and thinking on particular questions possible again. Nearly any teacher can attest to just how challenging it can be to get students thinking, and thinking freely. To make things even harder still, McWhorter discussed her recent experiences of teaching environmental ethics to her students. The difficulty of this task does not stem from the controversy of intrinsic value or anthropocentrism, but rather from the fact that if one pays attention to the consequences of human production and consumption and the state of our planet’s water, ground, and atmosphere, one has to face the gravity of our environmental crisis. The thousands of poisonous toxins in our ecosystems and bodies, the increase in cancer rates, sea-level rise, thawing permafrost, gigatons of carbon dioxide being released into the atmosphere, and the utter necessity of petroleum to power anything and everything in our current lifestyles, all of this leads to what was frequently referred to as “impending catastrophes of epic proportions.” Acknowledging these statistics and likelihoods while taking on the responsibility to teach young minds and answer their questions of “What do we do?” in the face of Armageddon, doomsday, the end of life as we know it—this is hard, perhaps one of the hardest things to do.
Before I continue on with the rest of McWhorter’s paper, it is worth noting what was coming up for me as I listened. While sitting through her descriptions of the very sad and scary state of affairs in which we live, it was hard not to feel at least a little bit overwhelmed, if not completely panicked. Thanks to her diligent research, McWhorter was able to paint a detailed picture with facts and numbers (often too large in size and effect to really comprehend) that illustrated the interrelated risks which threaten our lives and the planet. It must have been about forty-five minutes of relentless evidence explaining how we are hopelessly doomed because even if we deal with poison in the water, we still have to worry about rising temperatures, and so on... The magnitude of our problems, the level of crisis facing our planet, is so large and so great that describing these “impending catastrophes of epic proportions” as “the end of the world” would be no exaggeration. I can imagine how the sheer act of sitting through her paper could easily have been enough to put some people over the edge.
But as I started to shift around in my seat and feel my palms sweat, exchanging nervous glances with those next to me, I couldn’t help but notice that it was really hard to sit through McWhorter’s paper. It was hard because her descriptions put us face to face with the most difficult realities, the most terrifying statistics, and the most uncertain of futures. Much like her descriptions of Scott’s lectures, McWhorter’s paper gave me the distinct sense that “something philosophical” was happening to us. And as if this one-hour paper paralleled the experiences of her class on environmental ethics, I found myself echoing her students and wanting to ask, “What do we do? What can we do? What should we do?” When McWhorter described her answers to her students, it seemed that now they were also appropriately directed to us, those in the audience who evidenced a willingness to turn toward these difficult realities and a future full of frightful uncertainties. She said, “I don’t know.”
It was at this point when McWhorter returned to the ethical question of teaching. When the future of the world is not going to be the same for her students as it was for previous generations, different even from their parents’ and professors’ generations, what might teaching be at this juncture? McWhorter even wonders if it is wrong to lead her students in the environmental ethics class to the end of this road, where they stand together and look out onto a future without being able to see how it looks, perhaps if it is even there.
These questions are interesting for me because as McWhorter described a type of “border” relationship that separates her from her undergraduate students—they belong to the future in a different way than she does—I immediately recognized myself as living on the border. I am part of this generation that is growing up in the face of what is yet to come, but I also have my own students to whom I feel responsible to equip for the future. With the double weight of student and teacher on my shoulders, I listened closely to what McWhorter said next.
McWhorter offered her students (and me, and perhaps even my students through me) this much: You will have to live and face the unimaginable. We can’t prepare you for the challenges and problems that you will have to meet and try to overcome. Don’t let your parents and your teachers dictate your choices. In short, you’re free.
With a moment to let the words sink in, I felt something. Better? Not really. But I did feel something. Something philosophical? There was a moment, I guess, and in that moment I had the increased sense that teaching at the turn of the 21st century is an especially unique task. But there was something more. I know that I am not only teaching, but I am also a student. I am also learning. And the freedom involved in teaching and learning in this moment is a freedom of release, of openness, of possibility. It’s not just a freedom to vote or a power to choose to live green, but a different kind of freedom, grounded in contingency, and with that, not-knowing.
I can’t help but agree that one of the most important goals of teaching is to make students aware of their intellectual and ethical freedom, to make thinking possible again. This was one of the most significant reminders that I gained from listening to McWhorter’s paper, in part because it reminded me that my own thinking is also free. But I can’t forget that the paper was written and presented to honor the work of her own teacher, Charles Scott, especially in celebration of his practice of philosophy, a practice that pursues whatever is hardest. So maybe, after all of this, I actually was feeling a bit better. I was feeling better because for that hour I was put back in a place of acknowledging that I am also a part of a "lineage" of sorts of people who seek to embrace how studying and teaching philosophy as a transformative practice can open up new ways of seeing, thinking, and feeling. Approached in this way, philosophy is already an ethical undertaking. And there is something important contained within that attitude and approach. Part of me was relieved to know that I am shaped by and following in the footsteps of others, that despite the hugeness of it all, there is a way to move in the world. So, in addition to freedom and a bit of philosophical company, one might also find there a small sense of hope.
Reflecting on Charles Scott’s role as one of her most influential teachers, Ladelle McWhorter focused her paper, “Whatever is Hardest,” on the ethical question of teaching. Looking back on her own experiences in Scott’s classes, McWhorter described Scott’s practice of philosophy as one that enacts an experience and creates a philosophical event. It is a practice that opens up possibilities for seeing, feeling, and thinking. While describing her experiences of sitting through his lectures, McWhorter reflected that “something philosophical had happened to me.” This, she explains, is because Scott’s practice of philosophy is a kind of undertaking that requires a willingness to turn toward that which we do not know and what we fear that we will never understand. It is a willingness to turn toward and stand with the excess, with whatever is hardest.
Teaching undergraduate students is hard. It may even be one of the hardest things to do because, as McWhorter noted, one of the central goals of teaching is to make students aware of their intellectual and ethical freedom, that is, to make thinking in general and thinking on particular questions possible again. Nearly any teacher can attest to just how challenging it can be to get students thinking, and thinking freely. To make things even harder still, McWhorter discussed her recent experiences of teaching environmental ethics to her students. The difficulty of this task does not stem from the controversy of intrinsic value or anthropocentrism, but rather from the fact that if one pays attention to the consequences of human production and consumption and the state of our planet’s water, ground, and atmosphere, one has to face the gravity of our environmental crisis. The thousands of poisonous toxins in our ecosystems and bodies, the increase in cancer rates, sea-level rise, thawing permafrost, gigatons of carbon dioxide being released into the atmosphere, and the utter necessity of petroleum to power anything and everything in our current lifestyles, all of this leads to what was frequently referred to as “impending catastrophes of epic proportions.” Acknowledging these statistics and likelihoods while taking on the responsibility to teach young minds and answer their questions of “What do we do?” in the face of Armageddon, doomsday, the end of life as we know it—this is hard, perhaps one of the hardest things to do.
Before I continue on with the rest of McWhorter’s paper, it is worth noting what was coming up for me as I listened. While sitting through her descriptions of the very sad and scary state of affairs in which we live, it was hard not to feel at least a little bit overwhelmed, if not completely panicked. Thanks to her diligent research, McWhorter was able to paint a detailed picture with facts and numbers (often too large in size and effect to really comprehend) that illustrated the interrelated risks which threaten our lives and the planet. It must have been about forty-five minutes of relentless evidence explaining how we are hopelessly doomed because even if we deal with poison in the water, we still have to worry about rising temperatures, and so on... The magnitude of our problems, the level of crisis facing our planet, is so large and so great that describing these “impending catastrophes of epic proportions” as “the end of the world” would be no exaggeration. I can imagine how the sheer act of sitting through her paper could easily have been enough to put some people over the edge.
But as I started to shift around in my seat and feel my palms sweat, exchanging nervous glances with those next to me, I couldn’t help but notice that it was really hard to sit through McWhorter’s paper. It was hard because her descriptions put us face to face with the most difficult realities, the most terrifying statistics, and the most uncertain of futures. Much like her descriptions of Scott’s lectures, McWhorter’s paper gave me the distinct sense that “something philosophical” was happening to us. And as if this one-hour paper paralleled the experiences of her class on environmental ethics, I found myself echoing her students and wanting to ask, “What do we do? What can we do? What should we do?” When McWhorter described her answers to her students, it seemed that now they were also appropriately directed to us, those in the audience who evidenced a willingness to turn toward these difficult realities and a future full of frightful uncertainties. She said, “I don’t know.”
It was at this point when McWhorter returned to the ethical question of teaching. When the future of the world is not going to be the same for her students as it was for previous generations, different even from their parents’ and professors’ generations, what might teaching be at this juncture? McWhorter even wonders if it is wrong to lead her students in the environmental ethics class to the end of this road, where they stand together and look out onto a future without being able to see how it looks, perhaps if it is even there.
These questions are interesting for me because as McWhorter described a type of “border” relationship that separates her from her undergraduate students—they belong to the future in a different way than she does—I immediately recognized myself as living on the border. I am part of this generation that is growing up in the face of what is yet to come, but I also have my own students to whom I feel responsible to equip for the future. With the double weight of student and teacher on my shoulders, I listened closely to what McWhorter said next.
McWhorter offered her students (and me, and perhaps even my students through me) this much: You will have to live and face the unimaginable. We can’t prepare you for the challenges and problems that you will have to meet and try to overcome. Don’t let your parents and your teachers dictate your choices. In short, you’re free.
With a moment to let the words sink in, I felt something. Better? Not really. But I did feel something. Something philosophical? There was a moment, I guess, and in that moment I had the increased sense that teaching at the turn of the 21st century is an especially unique task. But there was something more. I know that I am not only teaching, but I am also a student. I am also learning. And the freedom involved in teaching and learning in this moment is a freedom of release, of openness, of possibility. It’s not just a freedom to vote or a power to choose to live green, but a different kind of freedom, grounded in contingency, and with that, not-knowing.
I can’t help but agree that one of the most important goals of teaching is to make students aware of their intellectual and ethical freedom, to make thinking possible again. This was one of the most significant reminders that I gained from listening to McWhorter’s paper, in part because it reminded me that my own thinking is also free. But I can’t forget that the paper was written and presented to honor the work of her own teacher, Charles Scott, especially in celebration of his practice of philosophy, a practice that pursues whatever is hardest. So maybe, after all of this, I actually was feeling a bit better. I was feeling better because for that hour I was put back in a place of acknowledging that I am also a part of a "lineage" of sorts of people who seek to embrace how studying and teaching philosophy as a transformative practice can open up new ways of seeing, thinking, and feeling. Approached in this way, philosophy is already an ethical undertaking. And there is something important contained within that attitude and approach. Part of me was relieved to know that I am shaped by and following in the footsteps of others, that despite the hugeness of it all, there is a way to move in the world. So, in addition to freedom and a bit of philosophical company, one might also find there a small sense of hope.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The Gay Science for Life
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| Now you might appreciate my very clever shirt. |
Nevertheless, as I have continued with my (re-)reading of his books, I have felt a distinct shift in the degree of my appreciation for his work. Nietzsche himself noted that his books must be peculiarly read. Some will get it. Most others are bound to misunderstand him, and quite possibly in very dangerous ways. And one can't simply pick and choose among his aphorisms. One must read patiently and slowly, ruminate like cows graze, and get a sense for his tone. And one must not be too serious in the matter. Indeed, this is a key point that is highlighted by the title of my favorite of Nietzsche's books, The Gay Science. Rather than being stale, stuffy, and "academic," our wisdom and knowledge should embolden a sense of lightness, laughter, dancing, and a robust affirmation of life.
This leads to an important point in Nietzsche's philosophy, which is also an important point that I am trying to keep in mind for myself as I continue reading and living my day to day life: When we act in the world and with others, when we place value on certain ideas or experiences, when we relate back to ourselves, Nietzsche explains that, if we are strong and healthy free spirits, we will do so out of an overabundance of life, passion, enthusiasm, and gratitude. Not from fear or pity or shame, and not from a duty or obligation, but from the celebratory joyfulness and childlike brightness that comes from being able to cast off inhibiting social values, metaphysical comforts, and by renouncing the seriousness of the error that we call "Truth." Once we come to see life for what it is--the will to power, that is, the will to discharge energy, to grow, to expand, to become more, to go higher, to become new--we will be able to live more vibrantly, more healthily. As Nietzsche explains in Section 4 of the Preface to The Gay Science, "one returns newborn, having shed one's skin, more ticklish and malicious, with a more delicate taste for joy, with a tenderer tongue for all good things, with merrier senses, with a second dangerous innocence in joy, more childlike and yet a hundred times subtler than one has ever been before." Emerging out of the depths of life with this fresh skin is likened to finding "happiness in being for once like a flying fish, playing on the peaks of waves" (Section 256). Can't you just feel the tickle from dancing along the surface of things with such lightness and sensitivity to these feelings?
As wonderfully exuberant as this all sounds, it is immensely difficult for us to live and act with such levity because, according to Nietzsche, we are bogged down and made literally unhealthy, literally depressed, by our values which reflect seriousness, gravity, and the negation of life. Pity orients much of our actions and beliefs in debilitating ways. Equally heavy are feelings of revenge. Or to sum it up, Nietzsche explains that weakness leads us to act out of ressentiment. The French usage is important because it captures the sense with which these negative feelings are felt over and over, again and again. The English equivalent, resentment, is similar in meaning, so long as it still carries the quality of feeling feelings and being unable to let them go. If we are healthy and act out of our own abundance of energy, power, gratitude, and liveliness, we will be able to fully experience certain passions, emotions, and events, let this discharge and expel our energy, and then carry on. Even, or especially, when another tries to harm or injure us. We can take the blow. Nietzsche's descriptions of digestion help make the point. One with healthy digestion will consume, incorporate, metabolize, and then expel food, and it will be a nourishing process. Otherwise, if you internalize and hold on to your food (like, hold it in and do away with nothing), you will become constipated, nauseous, and ill. That is ressentiment.
The difference, then, is in how one handles life with all of its pains and pleasures, hurts and joys, violence and passion. Do we roll with the punches (out of an affirmation for all of life--not just the "good stuff"), or hold on to them and continually outline our bruises? This difference contains implications for political life, personal life, and how one engages in philosophy.
People commonly misunderstand Nietzsche's notion of the will to power as being terrifyingly violent. They assume that he glorifies murder and pillage. But to think this way is to already mishear his words and get tangled in a web of values that he is trying to reveal. For Nietzsche, it is the case that all of life is the will to power, and this means that "Benefiting and hurting others are ways of exercising one's power over others; that is all one desires in such cases. One hurts those whom one wants to feel one's power, for pain is a much more efficient means to that end than pleasure" (Section 13). But he goes on to explain, "Certainly the state in which we hurt others is rarely as agreeable, in an unadulterated way, as that in which we benefit others; it is a sign that we are still lacking power, or it shows a sense of frustration in the face of this poverty; it is accompanied by new dangers and uncertainties for what power we do possess, and clouds our horizon with the prospect of revenge, scorn, punishment, and failure." If the will to life is the will to power, then what matters is "how one is accustomed to spice one's life." The main point is that, although others will hurt us and try to bring us down, if we want to be healthy, if we are already strong, we will not respond by hurting others, especially not those who are weaker than us. Instead, one shows control and power over oneself.
It is for this reason, then, that Nietzsche goes on to give a 'new caution,' which I think has clear connections to many aspects of our lives, including how we might deal with others, lovers, and ourselves. "Let us stop thinking so much about punishment, reproaching, and improving others! We rarely change an individual, and if we should succeed for once, something may also have been accomplished, unnoticed: we may have been changed by him. Let us rather see to it that our won influence on all that is yet to come balances and outweighs his influence. Let us not contend in a direct fight--and that is what all reproaching, punishing, and attempts to improve others amount to. Let us rather raise ourselves much higher. Let us color our own example ever more brilliantly. Let our brilliance make them look dark. No, let us not become darker ourselves on their account, like all those who punish others and feel dissatisfied. Let us sooner step aside. Let us look away" (Section 321).
This may seem like just another instance of "turning the other cheek," but one cannot be so quick to make these connections. In just the same way that Nietzsche reproaches the desire to punish, especially out of revenge, he is equally disdainful of a "Christian morality" that operates out of weakness and pity. Pity, for Nietzsche, is really a twisted form of vanity--it makes us feel better about ourselves to help others because it marks our superiority over them (again, harking back to the will to power, but it is a weak will).
So again, the main issue becomes one of identifying the underlying source of our actions. "Every art, every philosophy may be viewed as a remedy and an aid in the service of growing and struggling life; they always presuppose suffering and suffers. But there are two kinds of sufferers: first, those who suffer from an over-fullness of life [and thus they must find ways to discharge and empty themselves, like when one is so filled with gratitude that one creates a god to whom one can give their thanks]...and then those who suffer from the impoverishment of life and seek rest, stillness, calm seas [and thus take comfort in metaphysical errors, like that the good and evil in the world can be explained by the presence of a god who punishes and rewards us for our actions, which is a mark of one who "revenges himself on all things by forcing his own image, the image of his torture, on them, branding them with it"]" (Section 370). Depending on their source, our actions will carry a different effect...of health and vitality or of sickness and weakening.
If we think about our interactions with one another, whether we act out of gratitude and strength or resentment and an inability to expend our energies in productively healthful ways, we can check ourselves against this distinction by following Nietzsche when he asks, "'is it hunger or superabundance that has here become creative?' At first glance, another distinction may seem preferable--it is far more obvious--namely the question whether the desire to fix, to immortalize, the desire for being prompted creation, or the desire for destruction, for change, for future, for becoming (in case you are a bit lost, on the most superficial level, Nietzsche is pulling for the latter, but he notes that this can still be broken down even further since...) The desire for destruction, change, and becoming can be an expression of overflowing energy that is pregnant with future...: but it can also be the hatred of the ill-constituted, disinherited, and underprivileged, who destroy, must destroy, because what exists, indeed all existence, all being, outrages and provokes them."
I have quoted Nietzsche at length in the hopes that his words will resonate with personal experiences. For myself, thinking of these important distinctions about the sources of my own actions and the actions of others helps me reconsider not only how I will act, and want to act, but how to respond to others who might lash out at me from their own sources of pain or constipated ressentiment. (Thus, this is a related note, and perhaps a follow up, to my previous post "Breathe Love.") And it also is generating in me questions about how I will continue to pursue philosophy.
Nietzsche lived with his ideas day in and day out, and he was the first to acknowledge the need to be personally involved in great problems because they require great love. And Nietzsche, too, was sick for much of his life. And he philosophized about health... Nietzsche notes, "For a psychologist there are few questions that are as attractive as that concerning the relation of health and philosophy, and if he should himself become ill, he will bring all of his scientific curiosity into his illness. For assuming that one is a person, one necessarily also has the philosophy that belongs to that person; but there is a big difference (AND HERE IT IS AGAIN, one last time, for my own purposes perhaps...). In some it is their deprivations that philosophize; in others, their riches and strengths. The former need their philosophy, whether it be as a prop, a sedative, medicine, redemption, elevation, or self-alienation. For the latter it is merely a beautiful luxury--in the best cases, the voluptuousness of a triumphant gratitude that eventually still has to inscribe itself in cosmic letters on the heaven of concepts." He concludes: "What was at stake in all philosophizing hitherto was not at all "truth" but something else--let us say, health, future, power, life" (Section 2).
I hope to keep a handle on these distinctions as I continue to expand my own philosophical thinking and work, especially because I know of the therapeutic dimension of philosophy. But am I seeking to heal (myself and others), as if with a palliative? Or am I seeking to grow, to become more, to be healthy? Can I? And of course, this is my hope as I continue to grow in and out of my relationships, my environments, and my self. I hope that I am, or if not yet, that I will be, strong enough to let go of certainty and faith and truth, and be able to swim joyfully across the crisp peaks of life's waves with a childlike levity.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
On Asian Identities and Anti-Asian Racism
This is my latest video. I thought some of my readers might appreciate it.
Description: "A UCLA student anti-Asian racist comments provides us with a great opportunity to think through other forms and operations of racism than what most people consider as "racist."
I appreciate the feedback that has already been posted in light of my video. Let me be clear, though. My only hope in posting these videos is to encourage people to *think* about important issues, not to prove myself right or others wrong. Youtube provides a way to get ideas out there, but it's not ideal. A 13 minute video is too long! But it's also too short in that it will necessarily be an incomplete message. And it's just me and a camera; not a real dialogue that would be enriched by a back and forth discussion with different ideas and examples. A video can only do so much. I hope, then, that this will be sufficient for starting conversations and an exchange of ideas. Even though I can't respond to each individual comment, I hope that you take these ideas further by exploring them with others in a thoughtful, open-ended dialogue.
And regarding this topic in particular, my point is that racism is complex, which is not to say that anti-black racism is a non-issue, or any other kind of racism for that matter, but that much of racism in America goes under-appreciated as such. My experiences help shed light on some of the "strange" occurrences of racist attitudes, like for instance, when a (white) professor of mine exclaims, "Well, if you're half-Chinese then I'm half-Chinese." Comments like these indicate that "looking Asian" is often equated with being Asian, but to say that I don't look Asian, and that I'm somehow not Asian, means that another assumes the power to undermine and determine my family, my history, and my experiences. Of course others have different (and often times more hostile) experiences, like when people who do look Asian are assumed to be not American (which means, what? not white?). The point to emphasize again is that racism is real, and it affects lots of people in different ways that exceed the more common conceptions represented within a black-white binary.
Consider for a moment how many (or, more likely, how few) Asian celebrities, pop icons, or role models come to mind who are not stereotyped as martial artists, super nerds, desexualized side kicks, or over-eroticized prostitutes. You might have to think for a while. In terms of Asian representation, we have a long way to go, which means going beyond Bruce Lee, expecting more from Jackie Chan, and recognizing that even the guy who does back-flips on Iron Chef is a disservice to Asian representation. It would be fantastic if one day there could be Asians in our cultural consciousness who are not just considered Asians in America, but Americans who are also Asian."
Description: "A UCLA student anti-Asian racist comments provides us with a great opportunity to think through other forms and operations of racism than what most people consider as "racist."
I appreciate the feedback that has already been posted in light of my video. Let me be clear, though. My only hope in posting these videos is to encourage people to *think* about important issues, not to prove myself right or others wrong. Youtube provides a way to get ideas out there, but it's not ideal. A 13 minute video is too long! But it's also too short in that it will necessarily be an incomplete message. And it's just me and a camera; not a real dialogue that would be enriched by a back and forth discussion with different ideas and examples. A video can only do so much. I hope, then, that this will be sufficient for starting conversations and an exchange of ideas. Even though I can't respond to each individual comment, I hope that you take these ideas further by exploring them with others in a thoughtful, open-ended dialogue.
And regarding this topic in particular, my point is that racism is complex, which is not to say that anti-black racism is a non-issue, or any other kind of racism for that matter, but that much of racism in America goes under-appreciated as such. My experiences help shed light on some of the "strange" occurrences of racist attitudes, like for instance, when a (white) professor of mine exclaims, "Well, if you're half-Chinese then I'm half-Chinese." Comments like these indicate that "looking Asian" is often equated with being Asian, but to say that I don't look Asian, and that I'm somehow not Asian, means that another assumes the power to undermine and determine my family, my history, and my experiences. Of course others have different (and often times more hostile) experiences, like when people who do look Asian are assumed to be not American (which means, what? not white?). The point to emphasize again is that racism is real, and it affects lots of people in different ways that exceed the more common conceptions represented within a black-white binary.
Consider for a moment how many (or, more likely, how few) Asian celebrities, pop icons, or role models come to mind who are not stereotyped as martial artists, super nerds, desexualized side kicks, or over-eroticized prostitutes. You might have to think for a while. In terms of Asian representation, we have a long way to go, which means going beyond Bruce Lee, expecting more from Jackie Chan, and recognizing that even the guy who does back-flips on Iron Chef is a disservice to Asian representation. It would be fantastic if one day there could be Asians in our cultural consciousness who are not just considered Asians in America, but Americans who are also Asian."
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Reckoning with the Differences
You don't know that tonight I watered this down with my tears. The pillow-top dreamscape became a sad bed and me, I was a sad scene. Eventually nested in a cold and empty hotel bathtub, I settled with the company of a pillow-substitute towel and the sharp reverberations that came out shaky with my breathing, tight like my core's contractions while muscling through the sadness of letting us go.
I already miss your hands skimming the curve of my shoulder, your face whispering on the back of my neck, and that you know before I'm crying. And how you smell my skin as you spoon me, and hold me, and brush away the hair on my head.
Languages between us favored your hands.
And by that, I mean your touch, and by that I know your love.
And still, I know that these tears I have to let flow because maybe they have been held back like so much that was never allowed to show. Maybe this is like a leaking dam, and these tears are being forced out of the holes that they, temporarily, had served to fill to keep me air-tight, water-sealed.
Maybe tonight is the night to let the walls reveal their pores.
Water surfaces through the openings of my body. This time, through my eyes. But you should know, that never before has a Chinatown felt so lonely. Tonight I felt like a foreigner in my own present due to the adjustment of my world. The past is just close enough that I could still imagine how this was supposed to be different. Five years from now is too far forward for me to picture in my head, but today I knew too well that you would have been smiling as we ate fried chicken, loving the Malaysian pancake, and that I would have felt the touch of your hand.
I already miss your hands skimming the curve of my shoulder, your face whispering on the back of my neck, and that you know before I'm crying. And how you smell my skin as you spoon me, and hold me, and brush away the hair on my head.
Languages between us favored your hands.
And by that, I mean your touch, and by that I know your love.
And still, I know that these tears I have to let flow because maybe they have been held back like so much that was never allowed to show. Maybe this is like a leaking dam, and these tears are being forced out of the holes that they, temporarily, had served to fill to keep me air-tight, water-sealed.
Maybe tonight is the night to let the walls reveal their pores.
Water surfaces through the openings of my body. This time, through my eyes. But you should know, that never before has a Chinatown felt so lonely. Tonight I felt like a foreigner in my own present due to the adjustment of my world. The past is just close enough that I could still imagine how this was supposed to be different. Five years from now is too far forward for me to picture in my head, but today I knew too well that you would have been smiling as we ate fried chicken, loving the Malaysian pancake, and that I would have felt the touch of your hand.
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