Charlottesville

I have a slurry of thoughts about Charlottesville, VA.

First Thought: I’ve seen a few tweets from Alt-Right accounts saying that the hate of the Left is just as dangerous and worthy of condemnation as the hate of the Alt-Right. A few posts from liberals quoting religious figures who say that we can’t fight hate with hate. There’s an MLK Jr. quote: “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

If we’re defining “hate” as “hostile actions motivated by intense dislike or prejudice” (from Google), then I’m inclined to agree with this idea. The decisive losers of a violent conflict don’t automatically start agreeing with the winners – if they did, we would never have put Confederate statues up in the first place.

But what if we think about “hate” as just meaning “intense or passionate dislike”?

It seems to me that we cannot get anywhere without this. We need the capacity to label ideas as morally repugnant. You can’t say “Being a white nationalist means that you aren’t a good person” without this kind of hate. (I mean, maybe you’re able to make moral judgments without attaching emotion to them? That’s probably a pretty rare ability to have…)

To say “I am entitled to my beliefs – if you judge me for them, you’re being hateful” is sort of an appeal to moral relativism. Which is weird, since usually liberals are thought of as being the moral relativists, the “anything goes” gang.

Second Thought: I’ve seen quite a few tweets about publicizing the names of the White Supremacists in pictures. If you search “ruin his life” on Twitter, you’ll get a bit of a taste of this.

Eichenwald tweet
One example of a “ruin his life” tweet.

I’m of several minds. The first mind is that if you attend a Nazi rally and you’re photographed, you are an automatic liability to your workplace – they’re completely justified in firing you.

The second mind is that this explanation looks at whether the firm is justified in firing you, but it doesn’t really make a claim about whether you deserve to lose your job. Suppose you attended a Nazi rally and you wore a hood, and your supervisor somehow found out that you’d attended, but no one else knew and there was no chance that anyone would find out. You might still be a liability – your supervisor knows that you have beliefs that make equal treatment of your coworkers and customers unlikely.

What if, in talking to your supervisor, you disavowed your beliefs, promised never to attend a rally again, and generally swore to not be a dick either at work or out. Would your supervisor still be justified in firing you?

I guess the question I’m trying ask is: where does the punishment of “deserving to lose your job” come from? Does it come from a company’s profit maximizing choice, or does it exist outside of that? Do we care about the consequences of you losing your job? We probably don’t care about the consequences to you, since you attended a Nazi rally, so we’re not feeling super charitable, but do we care about the consequences to your family, your firm, etc?

Would we think it was “okay” to keep an avowed Nazi on-board at the company if that company could show that firing him would sink an entire division, leading to more job loss? Would we think a firm was justified in keeping him employed if he was the sole provider to three kids?

And if these kinds of circumstances matter, aren’t we just kind of doing a “maximize the general welfare,” utilitarian calculation? Seems like we should be able to reach a more uniform judgment than this.

Third Thought: “Ruin his life.” Okay, yes, he loses his job. But then when should he be able to get a job again? Should he never be able to get a job again?

I think this isn’t so different from “Ban the Box”. If it is right that someone convicted of second-degree murder who has served their time should be able to get a job, then it must also be right that someone convicted (in the court of public opinion) of bigotry after some time should be able to get a job. Maybe we have different standards for the convict because they actually went to jail and so we can be certain that “justice was served,” whereas the Nazi may or may not have suffered by his association?

I’ll have to think about this one more – I don’t think you can favor banning the box and favor ruining someone’s life for his involvement in a Nazi rally and still be logically consistent, but maybe I’m missing something.

Competing Obligations

I’ve just finished reading Justice by Michael Sandel.

Near the end of the book, Sandel talks about reparations. In a Rawlsian framework of justice, which allows for universal obligations and particular obligations created by consent, reparations cannot be justified. As far as I understand it (and this is the first time I’ve encountered all of the political theories that Sandel is covering, so I may very well be misunderstanding), a system is just if all participants would have chosen it, if they’d been in a contracting situation where no one knew their role in society, what talents they were endowed with, etc. People probably wouldn’t agree to reparations in this kind of society, since they’d know that there’s some chance they’d end up paying for something their parents did, and so reparations cannot be part of a just system.

Sandel’s response to this is that it points out a flaw in Rawls’ political philosophy – we do think that there’s a third category of obligation – we think there’s universal obligation, obligation because you consented or made some contract, and then there’s a type of particular obligation that’s situational. Like, I’m obligated to vote, because I’m a citizen. Or I should call my mother, because I’m her daughter – not because I need to call everyone in the world, and not because I made some kind of contract with her to call her, but simply by virtue of our relationship.

I might be obligated to pay reparations or to make apologies for the sins of my ancestors because I recognize that I’m a member of this society. I recognize that the government from which I now benefit was built on the backs of slaves, and I recognize that many of the prejudices from that time are still held, making it difficult for black Americans to receive equal treatment in society.

So, let’s talk about taking statues honoring Confederate generals down. Sometimes people make the argument that we need to keep these sorts of monuments up in order to remember history. These are clearly people who don’t understand the basic purpose of Wikipedia. Or a public library. Or a museum.

But what about the folks who are more open about keeping such monuments? These are the ones who will tell you that they are proud of legacy of their ancestors. They want to keep these monuments up to honor them. [Peek on a Facebook comment thread about monument removal if you don’t believe that this opinion exists.]

However, I will bet anyone $500 that I don’t have that the very same people who want to honor and preserve the legacy of their ancestors are the ones who would not want the United States government to issue an official apology for enslaving Africans and their descendants. And I’ll bet you another $500 that if you asked one of those people why the government doesn’t owe black Americans an apology for slavery, they would say, “I didn’t own slaves.”

Look – I haven’t fully worked out this screed yet, so I’m not 100% sure that this is entirely logically consistent, but it seems to me: You Can’t Have It Both Ways. You cannot say that you are honoring the legacy of your region and your ancestors without accepting some modicum of responsibility for their actions. What, then, are you honoring? If you completely disavow their actions, then you wouldn’t want to preserve their statues. If you do not completely disavow their actions, then you probably do owe an apology to black Americans, because you’re actively contributing to a prejudiced society.

Now, I think you might be able to get around this conundrum if you were super specific about what it was that you wanted to honor. If you said, I want to honor my great-great-grandfather’s commitment to his children, then it’d be acceptable to have a statue of him, even if he was a slave-holder. But Confederate monuments aren’t honoring some aspect of men unrelated to slavery – they are honoring this man’s willingness to die in defense of slavery. So either you support that or you don’t.

Is Specialization the Point of Life?

(Note: this post might not make a ton of sense – I am ravenously hungry and struggling to make my thoughts connect in a coherent-ish way.)

When I was deciding to take a leave of absence, one of the professors I spoke to said, in the course of our conversation, that the point of life is to specialize. My gut response, then and now, is that this isn’t true. But I haven’t really pinned down why I don’t think this is true.

I guess we need to define some things to determine whether this claim is all the time true, sometimes true, or never true. I’ll define “the point of life” as “an action without which a life is ‘worse.’” This is a lower bar than we could set – I think “the point of life” sounds strong enough that we could define it as “an action without which a life may as well have never been lived.” But if specialization doesn’t pass the threshold set by the first definition, it certainly won’t pass the second.

Then, what do we mean by “specialization,” here? In the context of the conversation, “specialization” meant content expertise. But I think we can be more general with it – you’ve specialized if you have one subject that you know more about than others. Translated: your life will be less worth living if you do not have some subject that you favor over others.

I can’t evaluate this, because there’s no practical way to know exactly the same amount about everything – you’re always “specializing” in something, if only by choosing not to know something else. That is, the only way to not specialize at all is by either knowing everything or knowing nothing.

So, I clearly screwed up on defining specialization. Specialization definitely means knowing more about one thing than others, so let’s say that there’s some threshold. For instance, if you know twice as much about cheese as you know about the next thing you know a lot about, then you are specialized in cheese. But then, we’re saying that if you increased your knowledge of the next category (the thing you know the second most about), all of a sudden you will not be specialized, and your life will be “worse.”

This definition of specialization also leads to crazy outcomes. It should not be the case that learning more makes my life “worse” than it was if I’d known just a little less. Clearly thresholds won’t work. But we’re close – we could say that you’re worse off spending that additional hour working on something that isn’t cheese than you would’ve been if you’d spent that hour learning more about cheese. I think this is probably what my professor was referring to (not about cheese, obvs, but about the marginal benefit of an hour doing something you’re expert in versus something you’re not).

I’ll need to think about this about more, but my feeling is that this would imply kind of weird preferences. You certainly wouldn’t have Cobb-Douglas preferences about your knowledge – you’d prefer to invest in one thing, rather than a mix. You’d also need to see increasing returns to knowledge. We’d be able to recreate it with a utility that’s equal to the maximum of time spent across every possible field. So, I guess technically there’s some preference for which this claim is true, but it certainly isn’t all the time true. And this is all assuming that personal utility is the best way to assess whether a life is better or worse.

Is It Wrong to Do a Half-Assed Job? (Part 2)

A few days ago, I asked, “Is It Wrong To Do a Half-Assed Job?” I concluded that “if you have the enormous privilege of being a professional writer… you also have the obligation to actually write original material,” and founded this conclusion on the fact that you’re crowding out other writers if you sign a book deal. Wasting an opportunity that someone else would not have wasted is wrong.

There’s a lot that I didn’t pin down in here – what does it mean to “waste” an opportunity? Is it alright to put in a lower amount of effort if you know that your competitors, even at full effort, still wouldn’t produce something as good as you did? What if you’re not crowding anyone else out with your work – do you still have an obligation to put in full effort then?

I’ve been thinking about this whole idea more because, as you might know from reading the “About” page of this blog or the first post, I am a PhD student at Harvard who is considering leaving without my PhD. If I’m going to condemn Kroese for doing a shit job that someone else might’ve done better, then I could just as easily condemn myself. There was almost certainly someone I displaced by taking this slot in the PhD program – am I thus obligated to finish my PhD?

My guess is that this relates back to another question that I’ve been bouncing around for a while. (Warning, spoilers ahead for “Saving Private Ryan.”)

At the end of “Saving Private Ryan,” as Tom Hanks’ character, Captain Miller, is dying, he tells Private Ryan to “earn this.” When I was watching this film for the first time a few years ago, I was immediately irritated with Captain Miller’s injunction. It seemed to me like the character of Private Ryan was already set up to be sensitive enough to the sacrifices people were making for him. Would the additional weight of a dying man’s orders make his life any better?

I guess it just seems to me that, if you’re going to save someone, you’d probably prefer that they live their best possible life. And I think telling someone that they have an obligation to do more with their life because people sacrificed for them is counterproductive to that end. Even the movie suggests that this order weighed heavily on Ryan: when he’s an old man, he asks his wife to tell him that he’s led a good life and that he is a good man.

In any case, for me it raised the question: what do we owe to the dead? What promises to the dead are we required to keep? (Thankfully, I’m not the only one who was bothered by this – this article in the Atlantic by John Biguenet has a pretty similar reaction.)

This idea of obligation is further complicated by the fact that Captain Miller’s health is failing – he has a tremor throughout the movie. We can’t be sure that he would’ve made it home to his wife even if he hadn’t been sent to rescue Private Ryan. If he was going to die either way, is Private Ryan still obligated by his death?

(Do Ryan’s grandchildren owe something to Captain Miller, for their lives?)

This series of questions is the most extreme version of “is it wrong to do a half-assed job?” I don’t have an answer to it yet, but my feeling is that:

  1. There’s some kind of statute of limitations on obligation that’s proportional to the size of the sacrifice and the certainty that the sacrifice could’ve been avoided – if someone gives me half of their lunch, I’m obligated to them for a much shorter period of time than I would be if they sacrificed their life. If I knew that that half of their lunch would’ve been wasted if I didn’t eat it, I have an even shorter obligation.
  2. You probably aren’t obligated to put your best effort into exactly what was sacrificed – you aren’t required to “have the best life” because someone sacrificed their life or to really savor a meal that someone else gave you or to write your best book because you’ve taken someone else’s spot.
  3. You probably are required to put that obligated effort in somewhere – if you aren’t going to enjoy the meal you’ve been given, then you’d better take the energy from that meal and do something useful with it. If you aren’t going to have a “good life,” maybe you’re required to help someone else have a good life?

So, in the case of Kroese, maybe it is alright that he copy-and-pasted those three pages, as long as he spent the time he saved well. Maybe it is alright if I leave without a PhD, as long as I leave to do something meaningful?

Is It Wrong To Do a Half-Assed Job?

Earlier this week, I read “The Big Sheep” by Robert Kroese, a funny detective novel set in future L.A. after some kind of economic apocalypse. It was good enough that when I saw that there was a second book out and in the library with the same characters, I eagerly snatched it up.

I was settling down to read this book, “The Last Iota,” yesterday. The first few pages were engaging, but then I hit a chunk of background that sounded very familiar. In fact, identical. I still had “The Big Sheep” checked out from the library, and a quick comparison showed that Kroese literally copied and pasted three pages worth of background from the first book into the second.

My gut reaction was that this is clearly wrong. But upon thinking about it, it’s not obvious that it is. Clearly this self-plagiarism passed editorial muster, so it can’t be that Kroese is violating his publisher’s rights to that material.1 It isn’t possible that he’s violating his own copyright by plagiarizing.

Still – something about copy-and-pasting material from one book into another seems deeply, deeply wrong to me. I would never copy and paste a paragraph from one blog post into another – and this isn’t even my job. I’m just writing for fun.

I asked my Facebook friends what they thought, and the most that we could agree on is that it’s lazy.

Which brings me to the question posed in the title: do you have a moral obligation to put in your best effort at your job?

The Internet hasn’t been very helpful in answering this question for me, probably because in order to answer the first question, you’d need to answer a lower-level question about what we’re morally obligated to do in general.

Here’s what I’m thinking so far: it might be less than a “moral obligation,” but we should put in our best effort at work. [I’m imagining that “should” indicates less serious consequences for not doing this than “moral obligation” would imply.] My thinking is that, one of the main points of being alive is to know yourself, and one of the ways you get to know yourself is by your work. If you put in a half-assed effort at work, you will not know what your capacity is – you’re effectively choosing not to know yourself.

This can’t be a complete account though, because it still doesn’t explain why I feel so angry about “The Last Iota.” Maybe part of it is that, if you’re choosing not to exercise your full capacity, you are occupying a space that someone else who is willing to exercise their full capacity would be happy to have. If you’re shuffling through your work day, checking Facebook and Instagram every time the coast is clear, that’s a job that someone else cannot have.

If you have the enormous privilege of being a professional writer, don’t you also have the obligation to actually write original material?


1. Of course, this is assuming that his editor did see that he copied. Either way, it seems like the editor is sort of implicated, since you’d hope that someone would’ve realized this would turn readers off. Back

The Ask

This morning, I settled down with my cat, Padfoot, and finished reading Mary Roach’s fantastic new book, Grunt: The Curious Science of Humans at War.

It is, like much of her work, laugh-out-loud funny. My favorite part was the chapter about scents where someone declared a scent titled “U.S. Standard Bathroom Malodor” to be “wearable.” My second favorite part was a chapter where Roach plays on the concept of a “missile defense luncheon” by altering the phrase to describe other unpleasant kinds of luncheons. I didn’t know what was happening until the second time I saw it, but once I caught on, I loved it. I would adopt it for everyday life, if I thought anyone would get was I was referring to.

(Side note, and similar to this: in the book Fourth of July Creek, by Smith Henderson, one of Henderson’s characters uses “Wyoming” as a verb to substitute for sobbing. This made such an impression on me that I remembered that turn of phrase but couldn’t remember the details of the story it came from. I only found it by searching “Best Books of 2015” and “Best Books of 2014” until I saw something that looked like it might be the right book.)

In the acknowledgments section of the book, Roach highlights something that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. She recounts her many asks that allowed this book to happen. “Hey… could you work me into combat simulations where I don’t belong?” and “Could you find someone to approve my spending a few days at sea…?” among others. She expresses gratitude that time after time, people said yes.

This stuck out to me because, as I’ve been working on blog posts for the past ten days, there have already been a few times where it would’ve been handy to ask someone else a question. I’ve thought about surveying political science professors on Facebook to get their sense of when it’s appropriate to schedule appointments. I have some future posts rattling around in my head that would clearly be made stronger and more interesting if I talked to someone first.

I’ve been noticing that all of the media I consume, at one point or another, requires its author to reach out and ask a stranger for a favor. And then to ask them questions!

To be fair, I’ve reached out and asked random people questions before – and when I did, I hid behind the badge of Harvard University. If you can lead an email by saying, “I am a graduate student at Harvard and I’m researching…” then you’ve bought yourself a badge of credibility. I assume the same is true for the folks at NPR and Mary Roach; they never really need to explain why they’re asking a question. They only need to show that it’s part of their job to ask questions.

All this to say: if I’m going to keep working on this for another 354 days, I’d better start getting comfortable with asking questions. The posts are worse for not interacting with anything.

(My second thought is that if you start asking questions, you have to producing a product that you’d be willing to share with the person who donated their time. I’m not sure that I’d be willing to share this blog with anyone as it currently stands. I can’t tell whether I’m being extra thoughtful here or just being cowardly.)

Did I Do That?

I’m writing this blog post from a public space. I often enjoy listening to music while I write – I put on Pandora’s “Today’s Alternative Radio” station and am rewarded by music that is generally upbeat and unsurprising. It’s not inspiring, but that means that it’s not distracting.

But just now when I was trying to put this music on, it wasn’t coming from my headphones. Instead, it was coming from the computer.

For me, this is a nightmare scenario. I am playing music and people can hear it. One of my biggest pet peeves is when a person on the bus plays music loud enough on their headphones that I can hear it. The small, tiny rhythm makes it difficult for me to focus on anything else, and I can’t turn up my music loud enough to block it or I’ll be an offender too!

This public space has some regulars, and one of them is an older lady who listens to the news on her computer without any headphones. It enrages me. I steam about the lack of awareness. Doesn’t she see that other people are trying to work here? Does she not care?

So anyway, having music come out of my computer puts me in exactly the same category of rude distractors that I judge. The hunter becomes the prey!1

What’s worse about this is that, usually, this is an error in the order of operations. If music isn’t playing in my headphones, it’s usually because I plugged them in before logging into my account. But this time, I’d plugged them into the wrong port – they were in the mike port.

Here’s why this is terrifying: I was watching tutorial videos about Python for about an hour this morning. Since then, I got up, taking my headphones, and got lunch. So, it’s not necessarily certain that I’ve been playing Python tutorials for an entire group of people today – but there’s this little crumb of doubt now. A persistent voice, whispering, “But what if you plugged your headphones in incorrectly this morning too?”

I like to think someone who tell me if I had.

I’d like to ask someone whether I did. But I don’t know anyone here well enough to voice this question, especially since it betrays that I put little stock in my own perception of reality. So what if I believed I was listening to headphones this morning? Isn’t it possible that it was playing out loud?

The uncertainty of others’ perceptions is something that troubles me nearly as much as the possibility that I might’ve been irritating everyone around me. There are an awful lot of questions about what other people perceived that we never get answers to.

Maybe our best bet is to be Ira Glass and the crew of This American Life? They ask friends and family what they perceived or how they felt and then put it on the radio. I’ll come back to this idea in another post.


1. This, in itself, is a good reason not to be so fucking judgmental all the time. You never know when you’re going to err, and if you turn the intense laser beam of your judgment on yourself, you’re going to get burnt.