Dear Mr. Dawkins,
You’ve said lately that fairy tales are quite harmful. Your reason for thinking this is simple, and true: you told attendees at the Cheltenham Science Festival, “I think it’s rather pernicious to inculcate into a child a view of the world which includes supernaturalism … Even fairy tales, the ones we all love, with wizards or princesses turning into frogs or whatever it was. There’s a very interesting reason why a prince could not turn into a frog – it’s statistically too improbable.”
But shortly after, you did add a caveat to those statements—you noted that you do not “condemn fairy tales. My whole life has been given over to stimulating the imagination, and in childhood years, fairy stories can do that.” But you still wondered, understandably, if fairy tales “inculcate into a child’s mind supernaturalism … that would be pernicious. The question is whether fairy stories actually do that and I’m now thinking they probably don’t.”
There are two reasons I think fairy tales are important, and I wonder if you’d consider them—especially the first reason. I don’t know if you’ll like the second reason—because I think it could bring life to your worst fears.
The first reason is one that C.S. Lewis (I know you’re probably not a fan of his, but bear with me) first posited. In a longer essay on writing for children, he suggests that fairy stories present important—and very real—courage to their readers, through a metaphorical means:
… Since it is so likely that [children] will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter but darker. Nor do most of us find that violence and bloodshed, in a story, produce any haunting dread in the minds of children. As far as that goes, I side impenitently with the human race against the modern reformer. Let there be wicked kings and beheadings, battles and dungeons, giants and dragons, and let villains be soundly killed at the end the book. … It would be nice if no little boy in bed, hearing, or thinking he hears, a sound, were ever at all frightened. But if he is going to be frightened, I think it better that he should think of giants and dragons than merely of burglars. And I think St. George, or any bright champion in armour, is a better comfort than the idea of the police.
Lewis saw a potent metaphorical force in the fairy tale: it helped children battle the pains and frustrations of reality through its images of valor and heroism. None of us ought to read children news stories about serial killers and tragic accidents. These things are too graphic and frightening for their young minds. But by reading them stories of evil monsters, and by telling them of knights and heroes who bravely stood up to such monsters, they receive greater mental and moral strength. When they grow older, they’ll have to fight their own real-life villains and calamities. The fairy tale’s metaphorical power gives real strength to them as they grow. Read More…
There has never been a time in human history when knowledge was so readily available to the average person. The vast annals of the Internet beckon to each person with infinite possibility. But this limitless compendium, despite its many good qualities, has its dangers as well. Karl Taro Greenfeld explained some of these drawbacks in a New York Times article last Saturday:
What we all feel now is the constant pressure to know enough, at all times, lest we be revealed as culturally illiterate. So that we can survive an elevator pitch, a business meeting, a visit to the office kitchenette, a cocktail party, so that we can post, tweet, chat, comment, text as if we have seen, read, watched, listened. What matters to us, awash in petabytes of data, is not necessarily having actually consumed this content firsthand but simply knowing that it exists — and having a position on it, being able to engage in the chatter about it. We come perilously close to performing a pastiche of knowledgeability that is really a new model of know-nothingness.
He is right to point out that our knowledge is often of a shallow sort: the kind that’s gleaned from a swift perusal of headlines, or a lunchtime browsing of 140-character tweets. But even if our knowledge is elementary, it is necessary that we have it. Ignorance—or at least, a humble acknowledgment of ignorance—is largely taboo. If we are ignorant about something, it’s usually best to hide it.
Leah Libresco noted in a recent TAC article that the satiating of curiosity via Google has encouraged a pervasive ignorance-guilt in our culture. Libresco notes that the website “Let Me Google That For You” (LMGTFY.com) “exists to rebuke those who ask a friend something that they should have googled … The unstated premise is that asking for help is a rude imposition, one that reveals incompetence or laziness.”
Outside the realm of friendship, this fear of “incompetence” seems to run very deep. In the career world, it’s almost dangerous to be ignorant. When writing resumes, going to job interviews, talking to colleagues, or chatting at happy hours, we must be—above all else—knowledgeable. It seems imperative that we know the code words, the vague cultural or technical references. And in the larger cultural conversation, a minute awareness of the literary, musical, and artistic world is paramount to proper participation. “Whenever anyone, anywhere, mentions anything, we must pretend to know about it,” Greenfeld writes. “Data has become our currency.”
This cultural tendency is dangerous for a couple reasons. First, it encourages a deemphasis on “longhand” knowledge. But while a miniature collection of various facts and curiosities is a useful toolbox to have at one’s disposal, the best knowledge—the sort that guides our souls and enlightens our minds—ought to run a bit deeper. As Greenfeld notes, we must allow ourselves to be “lost in the actual cultural document itself,” whatever it might be, rather than the more popular alternative: “to mine [the document] for any valuable ore and minerals — data, factoids, what you need to know — and then trade them on the open market.”
Additionally, our emphasis on bloated erudition has created an atmosphere in which it seems impossible to say the words, “I don’t know.” They almost seem rude. They convey all the things our society despises: technological incompetence. Lack of erudition. Shallow-mindedness. Amateurishness. In this world, the ignorant are scorned—even if theirs is a thoughtful or humble ignorance.
Taking back the words “I don’t know” is important—for while such words can imply intentional ignorance or apathy, they can also signal a bevy of virtues: humility, teachability, an eagerness to truly learn. Unfortunately, a website like LMGTFY.com exists to deride and sneer at such humility. It leaves us thinking that, in a technological age, all knowledge—even the specialized sort—has become common knowledge. And in this world of common knowledge, humility is no longer a virtue anymore.
The New Trad is a poetry journal and self-described experiment, published by a small press in Sydney, Australia. This little literary platoon is determined to revive poetry’s place in the public consciousness, come what may. They are well aware that they face an uphill battle, but their resolve to eschew free verse and highlight the importance of place and rootedness is admirable.
The introduction makes a valiant effort—and largely succeeds—in describing the two-part decline of poetry in the public sphere. On the public side, the song and novel largely replaced the poem’s literary value during the second half of the twentieth century:
The people’s poet of the nineteen-sixties was not Ted Hughes but Bob Dylan. The popular song is what impinges on the traditional territory of the poem, forcing it to deform itself to justify its existence, much as the photograph did to painting, film to theatre, or science to philosophy. (p.9)
But changes in popular taste are not solely responsible for poetry’s endangerment. The editors accurately observe a recalibration amongst the intellectual milieu and academia writ large from a vertical to horizontal orientation: “Above was replaced with ahead; the promise of a kingdom of heaven was exchanged for the promise of the Enlightenment: a self sufficient humanity, striding forward into a future of progress, peace and self-mastery.” (p.7) The unfortunate byproduct of this rearrangement is the poem’s obfuscation; there is a resulting lack of connection between poet and reader. A true commitment to form is replaced with lines devoted to the author’s own internal monologue, decreasing the impact on his readers.
Now that the poem is more a means of expressing individualism, it has lost much of its original potency of evoking a particular time and place. Poetry is a cultural heirloom in a way the novel is not. Novels, by design, are narratives subject to the author’s vision. Poetry, even in epic poems that have a narrative, is imbued with historical and cultural ties that are tantamount to identity. Homer’s cultural influence on the Ancient Greeks, for example, was inestimable not only in terms of its artistic contribution, but also in its cultural legacy. In other words, poetry has a rootedness—both in its structure and in the themes it evokes.
In its first volume of poetry, New Trad seeks to bring back the locality of metered verse, mostly modeled on the Ancient Greek rhyme and meter patterns. What the editors describe as the raw emotional power of the confessional poetry that dominated post-modern poetry (Ariel by Sylvia Plath was the groundbreaking work in this arena) is preserved in the poems printed in this edition, but the rhyme scheme and meter is the invisible structure holding it all together. The journal’s first edition is divided into three parts: the first is a spate of a few short poems submitted by writers and academics; the second contains two academic papers on meter. The second paper is an introduction to a segment of an epic poem written in an Icelandic style that constitutes the final section of the journal. You can get through the volume in an afternoon. Read More…
Ian Marcus Corbin’s excellent book review on Albert Camus brought to mind some important—and easily forgotten—truths on the intersection between the abstract and the particular, specifically as they apply to the realm of writing. One of my favorite parts from the article:
There is no way for a thinker—or indeed, a user of language—to eschew abstraction entirely, of course, but Camus was deeply attuned to the dangers of excessive abstraction. This may not sound particularly heroic, but it can be, and it certainly was in Camus’s day. Camus’s peers, mid-century French intellectuals, were all too susceptible to the raptures of abstraction. The Left Bank bien pensants were, with few exceptions, stalwart armchair Marxists, obliquely aware that the divine dream of the worker’s paradise was exacting a brutal toll on the actual humans of the Soviet bloc, but blissfully unmoved by this fact. Camus publicly, angrily, charged that their fixation on beautiful ideas made them insensate to the ugly cost such ideas imposed on the much-beloved proletariat. And indeed, it is now difficult—impossible—to think Camus wrong.
In contrast to other philosophers of his day, Camus couldn’t turn a blind eye to the pain—and beauty—of his world. Corbin notes that he travelled to executions and wrote about them in “excruciating detail.” He was a man “entranced” by the real—a man who once wrote, “There are, before our eyes, realities stronger than we ourselves are. Our ideas will bend and become adapted to them.”
These descriptions of Camus’ focused writing and living reminded me of a New Yorker piece I read yesterday about Nellie Bly—a groundbreaking female journalist who, in her perhaps most well-known feat, pretended to be mentally ill in order to report on maltreatment and abuse in a mental asylum. The sheer grit required for her feat amazes me. Bly’s undercover journalism required courage, persistence, and a deep love of humanity.
But long, person-focused stories like hers seem to dominate the media less and less, unfortunately. And though it’s true that shrinking newspaper budgets may place some part in this, I think technology, nationalization, and “datafication” of the news are primary culprits.
First: it’s becoming increasingly easy for journalists (myself included) to work primarily in front of a computer all day. While some may still go out into the world and interview real people, interviews are increasingly easy to do over the phone or email. And the web is a machine that can dangerously curate our experience of the world: Google weeds out news stories and websites that it thinks users won’t want. While we may interact with people who defy our stereotypical vision of the world, it becomes increasingly difficult to do so. We deal mostly in trends, blog stories, and click bait. It’s much easier to lose the human face in this world.
The primary realm of on-the-ground reporting remains the small town newspaper—and sadly, these newspapers are suffering most in our current economy. I think it’s vital that these small-town presses stay alive. They play an important role in the life of their citizens, and do much of the work that newspapers were principally created for. National newspapers, while still offering us valuable information, focus more on the aggregate than the individual by design. They’ll cover a person, occasionally—but only if the person is notorious, or emblematic of a larger trend or movement.
It is true that there are still beautiful news features that focus on the human person, as an individual. But it often seems more useful, pragmatic, and precise to measure the human species (or voter bloc, or nationality, or gender) as a whole, and write about that. Thus, our stories change—rather than writing about a local single mom, we write about “Why America’s Single Mothers Struggle With So-And-So.” Instead of writing about a young woman struggling to find a good job, we write about “The Confidence Gap.” Instead of discussing gentrification in Seattle or San Francisco, we write about “How Gentrification Hurts People” (complete with pretty graphs).
This rebuke isn’t just for websites like Vox, which focuses perhaps more than most on the quantified news story. Many journalists nationalize and abstract our news stories. After all, we’re told to—the news cycle and commenters reinforce, and even demand, our abstraction and quantification. A writer who speaks from experience, or tells a singular story, may receive the retort, “Well that may be true for you/your source. But where are the numbers? This seems like an isolated incident.” We begin to realize that personal stories no longer matter—unless they fit within a well-known trend or datafied truism.
David Brooks made some excellent observations on this tendency in his Thursday New York Times column:
…[A]cademic research offers a look at general tendencies within groups. The research helps you to make informed generalizations about how categories of people are behaving. If you use it correctly, you can even make snappy generalizations about classes of people that are fun and useful up to a point.
But this work is insufficient for anyone seeking deep understanding. Unlike minnows, human beings don’t exist just as members of groups. We all know people whose lives are breathtakingly unpredictable: a Mormon leader who came out of the closet and became a gay dad; an investment banker who became a nun; a child with a wandering anthropologist mom who became president.
… By conducting sensitive interviews and by telling a specific story, the best journalism respects the infinite dignity of the individual, and the unique blend of thoughts and feelings that go into that real, breathing life.
Thus, Camus and Bly wrote about the individual. They still acknowledged the big picture, and made sure to write about it. But they didn’t forget the inconsistent, unpredictable beauty of the individual.
Neither should we: though we may (and perhaps still should) write stories about “Why Reading Is Important for Everyone Everywhere At All Times,” or “How Women Can Conquer the Inequality Gap,” we should also write stories about Tom, Harry, Mary, and Anne. Because theirs are the stories, says Camus, that are real.
Back a couple years ago, I started using Goodreads: it’s a useful tool to keep track of books read and enjoyed, and it’s a great place to discover books not yet read. But now I’m considering a step away. And it has nothing to do with the social network itself—it has to do with me, and the susceptibility to self-consciousness as a reader.
Tania Unsworth, an author of three books, described this tendency well in her recent post on Nerdy Book Club. She reminisces on reading as a child, the utter abandonment it proffered, and compares it with her reading now:
There was an intensity to reading then, a kind of total involvement in story that is hard to reproduce as an adult. I know too much now about tired plots and clichés. I am always comparing one thing to another, recognizing devices, identifying styles. No matter how good or bad I find something, I’m always aware of my response, slightly detached, consciously enjoying or not enjoying.
She writes of a time when she was a “girl of eleven, with a flashlight under the covers, devouring The Chronicles of Narnia”—when there was a complete immersion in the world of the novel, when one connected with a book’s protagonist and experienced the world through the eyes of the “other” in a powerful, beautiful way.
Why do readers lose this sort of joyous abandonment?
Perhaps it starts with book-based essays and college papers: with the constant call to analyze, quantify, and measure what we’re reading. This is, to some extent, unavoidable. But it doesn’t end there: the social media world encourages us not to do things for their own sake, but rather for the approval and attention of our burgeoning online audiences. We don’t just read according to the suggestions of others; we don’t just join book clubs. Rather, we Instagram pictures of ourselves reading, join a social network where we can show off our huge bookshelves, and post smart-sounding quotes on Facebook. I’ve done this—perhaps we’ve all done this. The problem is that it uses the author, the book, and the protagonist for our own personal, selfish ends. It makes the book about us, rather than about the story itself.
There’s also the siren call of list-making: we all love watching a list of accomplishments grow and grow. This is perhaps the largest reason I find Goodreads dangerous, personally: it enumerates the books I’ve read, and organizes them into admiration-worthy lengthy lists. It encourages me to look not at the quality of reads, not at the specific beauties of various works, but to admire and venerate the amalgamated monstrous whole. Thus, I begin to rush: I want to finish this book, that book, and the next—not to meet a deadline, necessarily, not because I’m so engrossed in the book I can’t stop—but merely because I want to check another book off my list.
Perhaps, as a writer and occasional book critic, this sort of self-conscious reading will be somewhat inevitable in the future. But I do want to re-experience the animation and passion that Unsworth describes in her article. There is a beauty to the imagination that deep-reading requires. Whenever we read for criticism, for an audience, or for the joys (and dangers) of list-making, we will always have another besides the story in mind: whether it be ourselves, or our audience. Read More…
Conservatives have developed a tendency to deify the rural, as Matt K. Lewis noted in a Thursday story at The Week. This idolization probably stems from a variety of influences—Lewis mentions “the influence of religion (think the Garden of Eden versus the Tower of Babel), philosophy (Rousseau’s notion about noble savages), and various ideas during the time of America’s founding (Thomas Jefferson’s agrarianism, for example).”
But what of the city? Isn’t the city one of the classical bastions of culture? Indeed it is. And Lewis argues that rural-worship is not, in fact, true to the roots of classical conservatism’s past:
Much of conservatism — free markets, for instance — is premised on the notion that more people equals more ideas. (This, of course, is inconsistent with a more traditional, populist strain of conservatism.)
This more optimistic brand of conservatism gained a foothold when economists like Julian Simon and Ester Boserup took on the Malthusian catastrophe argument (which erroneously predicted that global overpopulation would lead to mass starvation), and instead argued that more people equals more ideas, innovation, and yes, prosperity.
When you think about it, it makes sense. Rural societies tend to work on subsistence (you eat what you grow), but cities lead to things like cooperation, specialization, and trade. These things make us rich. Cities are the areas where these things are magnified. More people — constantly bumping into each other — leads to all sorts of inventions and human flourishing.
He adds a bit later,
Perhaps the most ironic thing about other conservatives adopting an anti-city worldview is that it is partly based on a pernicious lie advanced by the high priest of romanticism, Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
Rousseau essentially invented his own creation myth out of whole cloth. It differed greatly with the Christian understanding of creation, inasmuch as instead of viewing man as a fallen creature (due to original sin), Rousseau envisioned early man as a sort of noble savage. It wasn’t until man recognized the concept of property and ownership, Rousseau argued, that he became greedy and corrupted. In that view, a simple life is good and pure. A modern urban life is dirty and wrong.
… As a boy growing up in rural western Maryland (seriously, this was physically and stylistically closer to West Virginia than Baltimore), it was instilled in me that country folks were God-fearing, salt-of-the-earth types and that big city folks weren’t. The sense wasn’t just that cities were different, but that they were somehow morally inferior.
Lewis’s post struck many chords for me. As a “crunchy con“-leaning girl with strong ties to farmland and agrarian culture, I love to champion a Wendell Berry-esque conservatism that savors the beauty of fields, farmland, and small-town community. Indeed, Wendell Berry’s writings—though excellent and full of good thoughts—do have this tendency to reverence the rural and unfairly criticize the cosmopolitan. Sadly, many conservatives (myself included) confuse this love of the “pastoral” with a proper love of “place.” We think that, in order to be “rooted” to a specific plot of land, we must be rooted in a country haven.
However, when one really considers the urban nature of America, it makes no sense—and indeed, it would be detrimental—for all of America’s conservatives to abandon urban areas and cosmopolitan centers for a secluded country lifestyle. We may need our countryside Benedictine havens—but we might also need a few similar havens within the city itself. Read More…
It’s Saturday—the day of waiting, the day of quiet. The day when disciples quaked behind closed doors, and darkness covered the lands, and the Son of God lay in a tomb. The day of aching, grieving, seething pain.
That 24-hour cycle of numbness and fear throbbed through Jesus’ disciples, through the people who were “looking for the kingdom of God,” like Joseph of Arimathea. It was after Jesus was dead that Joseph and Nicodemus finally exposed their allegiances—they took Jesus’s body, wrapped it in a linen shroud, wrapped it in 75 pounds worth of spices. They wrapped his body in their own allegiance and love, telling the world who they followed.
And the women followed and saw—the women who had cared for Jesus, ministered to his traveling troupe—they followed him from road, to cross, to tomb. They didn’t fear the blood or turn away. They didn’t run and hide. They followed and watched, then went to prepare their spices and ointments for His body. But first, on the Sabbath, “they rested according to the commandment.”
How do you rest when your hopes and dreams are lying in a grave?
We live in a culture of pain. So often, our response to the world’s pain and death is either cynicism or despair. Author Leslie Jamison writes in her essay, “Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain,” that we live in a post-wounded culture (she limits this to women, but I think it could apply to much of our world):
The post-wounded posture is claustrophobic: jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick on the heels of anything that might look like self-pity … Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects: sarcastic, jaded, opaque; cool and clever.
This is a world that has screamed with the pain of genocide, holocaust, terror and war. It’s a world in which 55 million babies have been aborted since Roe v. Wade in 1973. It’s a world of shunning and racism, hate and abuse, violence and fear. We grow accustomed to the stories—we look back on anniversaries and shrug our shoulders: What could we have done differently? Perhaps nothing. We sit in the silence and nurse our aching wounds. We begin to believe the lie: we were made for this bleak, hostile, hurting world. We were made for death and destruction.
Though often mistaken for a partisan ideology, true conservatism represents a much richer intellectual tradition.
We’ve just published a new Kindle ebook, The Essence of Conservatism. It contains a series of classic essays written by thinkers like Andrew J. Bacevich, Roger Scruton, and Daniel McCarthy. The collection addresses the legacies of Irving Babbitt, Wilhelm Roepke, and Evelyn Waugh, examines forces of rising inequality and militarism, and points to local stewardship and “high church” conservatism.
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I once tutored a student who could write an A+ essay, and then get a D on her multiple-choice tests. In working with that student, I learned that these two different exercises required entirely different skills. I learned that not all students test well—an unfortunate trait in this age of testing frenzy. The SAT and ACT rule supreme over the futures of prospective college students across the U.S. Want to attend an Ivy League? The tests will determine your fate.
Thanks to a new experiment being conducted this year, liberal arts school Bard College is breaking this mold. While students can still submit a standard application, with the traditional list of SAT scores, GPA, extracurriculars, etc., the New York Times reports that students can also opt for a different (and in many ways, more difficult) project:
… Bard for the first time invited prospective freshmen to dispense with all the preamble, and just write four long essays chosen from a menu of 21 scholarly topics. Very scholarly topics, like Immanuel Kant’s response to Benjamin Constant, absurdist Russian literature and prion disorders. The questions, along with the relevant source materials, were all available on the Bard website. As for the four essays, totaling 10,000 words, they were read and graded by Bard professors. An overall score of B+ or better, and the student got in.
So you can send in your reading lists, club activity, academic references, and transcripts. Or you can write 2,500 words on the topic, “What is the Relationship Between Truth and Beauty?” Which exercise, do you think, is more beneficial to the student? Which measures their creativity—and which demonstrates their ability to jump through hoops?
Bard’s president, Leon Botstein, said the experiment is an act of “declaring war on the whole rigmarole of college admissions.” The typical admissions process picks students based on their best set of quantifiable skills. But this essay method requires and reveals students’ resilience, creativity, and erudition.
Not surprisingly, it’s a rigorous exercise, and many students did not complete the process. The Times reports that only 50 people ended up submitting essays—applicants aged 14 through 23, hailing from seven countries and 17 states. Nine submissions were not complete. All three homeschooled applicants were accepted.
However, as awareness of the program grows, it seems likely they’ll receive more applicants—from students who delight in thinking and writing, or perhaps from students who struggled with tests and classes, and want a second chance. Of course, this process defies the quantifiable designations of a normal application process, and one must applaud Bard for defying the automatous ease of the modern era. This application process, if it grows, will mean more work for all parties.
But it also offers greater goods to those involved: it stretches the application process from a mere filling out of forms, into a learning process itself. As one student essayist told the Times, “I thought about other colleges, but when I started working on the essays, I became sort of obsessed.” Bard’s experiment takes learning out of the classroom, and challenges students at the very outset of their academic career.
While the traditional college application process isn’t wrong, it does leave important knowledge—and important people—out in the cold. Perhaps this experiment will encourage other institutions to look with greater depth at students’ ideas, not just their GPA.
Last Saturday I had the honor of addressing the 50th anniversary meeting of the Philadelphia Society. The title of the meeting was “The Road Ahead—Serfdom or Liberty?” My remarks sought to suggest that conservatives should be more circumspect about their rote incantation of the word “liberty,” and that there may even be something to be said for “serfdom,” properly understood. My remarks in full are printed, below.
“The Road Ahead—Serfdom or Liberty?”
The Philadelphia Society Annual Meeting—50th Anniversary
Patrick J. Deneen, The University of Notre Dame
I would like to begin my remarks by calling to mind two commercials that aired at different points during the last five years. The first aired in 2010, and was produced by the Census Bureau in an effort to encourage Americans to fill out their census forms. It opens with a man sitting in his living room dressed in a bathrobe, who talks directly into the camera in order to tell viewers that they should fill out the census form, as he’s doing from his vantage as a couch potato.
Fill out the census, he says, so that you can help your neighbors—and at this point he gets out his chair and walks out the front door, past his yard and the white picket fence and points at his neighbors who are getting into their car—You can help Mr. Griffith with better roads for his daily car pool commute, he says—and then, indicating the kids next door, “and Pete and Jen for a better school,” and continues walking down the street. Now neighbors are streaming into the quaint neighborhood street, and he tells us that by filling out the census, we can help Reesa with her healthcare (she’s being wheeled by in a gurney, about to give birth), and so on… “Fill it out and mail it back,” he screams through a bullhorn from a middle of a crowded street, “so that we can all get our fair share of funding, and you can make your town a better place!”
The other ad, produced in 2012, was produced by the Obama re-election campaign, though it was not aired on television and has today disappeared from the internet. It was entitled “The Life of Julia,” and in a series of slides it purported to show how government programs had supported a woman named Julia at every point in her life, from preschool funds from a young age to college loans to assistance for a start up to healthcare and finally retirement. In contrast to the Census commercial—which portrayed a neighborhood street filled with people who knew each others’ names—“The Life of Julia” portrayed a woman who appeared to exist without any human ties or relationships, except—in one poignant slide—a child that had suddenly appeared but who was about to be taken away on a little yellow school bus, and as far as we’re shown, is never seen again. No parents, no husband, a child who disappears.
The first ad is a kind of Potemkin Village behind which is the second ad. The first ad shows a thriving community in which everyone knows each others’ names, and as you watch it—if you aren’t duped by what it’s portraying—you are left wondering why in the world would we need government to take care of our neighbors if we knew each other so well? Why is my obligation to these neighbors best fulfilled by filling out the Census form? The commercial is appealing to our cooperative nature and our sense of strong community ties to encourage us to fill out the Census form, but in fact—as the commercial tells us—it is in order to relieve us of the responsibility of taking care of each other; perhaps more accurately, it’s reflecting a world in which increasingly we don’t know our neighbor’s names, and instead turn to the government for assistance in times of need.
The second commercial is what lies “behind” the Potemkin village of the first. Read More…