I’ve got a couple of additional thoughts on the ongoing discussion about reparations, which hopefully I’ll have time to get down on pixels today.
In the meantime, check out today’s “Room for Debate” at The New York Times for a continuation of said conversation involving yours truly.
Home news: my review of The Library of America’s new collection, Shakespeare in America, edited by James Shapiro, appears in the New York Times Book Review this weekend. It’s on-line now, though, here.
I finally got around to reading Ta-Nehisi Coates’s case for reparations on the plane down to New Orleans (where I am now, working on a film; blogging may be even more sporadic than usual this summer). I’ve been eager to do so since I heard about it, both because I admire Coates as a writer and because I have always felt the discourse around reparations to be somewhat odd, skipping past the actual case presented and advancing immediately to a meta-analysis of why someone would make such an argument. And that oddness has very much extended to the reception of the Coates’s piece.
Before diving into the case for reparations specifically, though, I need to make a somewhat theoretical digression into different ideas about justice.
When an injustice has been done, there are, speaking in very general terms, four possible models for response. The retributive justice model assumes that there is a single legitimate authority whose job it is to assess whether a crime – a violation of positive law – has been committed, and, if it has, to punish the violator with a punishment commensurate with the crime. The injured has no direct interest in the proceeding – their injury is merely evidence to prove that a transgression has occurred. This is, broadly speaking, the way we approach criminal law – although we often justify punishments with theories about communal defense or rehabilitation, these are add-ons to a system that is conceived, at a fundamental level, as retributive.
The civil law, by contrast, deals with tort liability. The single legitimate authority’s job is not to punish transgression, but to assess the degree of liability for harm and to determine adequate compensation. The injured has a direct interest in the proceeding, but submits to the authority’s determination of what is fair compensation, if any. You can have a civil law system without reference to statute, based entirely on common law, but you can’t have such a system without a judge, an independent authority who both parties are obliged to respect.
The above two models are generally understood to be improvements on a third, older model: the vendetta. Here, there is no authority, and so when an injustice is perpetrated those close to the injured – relatives and other allies – wreak harm on the malefactor and those close to him. Precisely because vendetta leads to an endless cycle of violence, models that posit an authority are generally seen as advances in civilization.
But the establishment of a binding independent authority is not the only alternative to endless vendetta. A fourth model, or, actually, collection of models, begins from a different place: from an understanding of justice as a sense of achieved fairness that can restore social peace. Rather than posit a single legitimate authority that can punish malefaction and/or assess due compensation, the job of the community – or of its designee – is to mediate between injurer and injured, to find the formula that satisfies both sides that justice has been done. This is a model of justice asserted to obtain in a variety of traditional societies; modern variants under this same rubric, I would argue, include restorative justice (in the context of domestic criminal law) and transitional justice (in international human rights contexts).
Where does the idea of reparations fall on this spectrum?
Well, if the model is retribution – punishing wrongdoers – then reparations are clearly a non-starter. The wrongdoers are dead, to start with. Then, there’s the little matter of the Civil War, which meted out quite a bit of punishment to the slave-owning portion of the country. The statute of limitations isn’t terribly relevant given that we’re not talking about crimes that violated a statute in the first place; nonetheless, we are ultimately talking about harms that were inflicted generations ago. Similar problems bedevil a tort approach.
But if the model is the last – of justice conceived as reconciliation between injured and the inflicter of injury within a single political community – then reparations are readily comprehensible. The goal, fundamentally, is not to assess liability in a precise way. It is to establish the general magnitude of the wrong, the manifest injustice thereof, and for that claim of injury to be satisfied so that both parties can put it behind them.
If you think about the analogy to Holocaust reparations, it’s clear that this is the model that makes the most sense, notwithstanding the meticulousness with which the harms of the Holocaust were calculated. Reparations were controversial in Israel precisely because they implied some degree of satisfaction, and precisely because they were offered by Germany rather than being imposed by an outside authority. If the United States Army had simply handed the territory of East Prussia to the Jewish people and said: here, this is yours, as compensation for the suffering inflicted upon your brethren by the Nazis, I doubt Begin or anyone else would have said: no, we’ll never take blood money. Because it wouldn’t be blood money – it would be recompense extracted by an authority in a position to impose judgment. Reparations, on the other hand, were an offer of compensation to end the formal claim. (I note, as an aside, that prior to World War II, “reparations” actually referred to the assets claimed by the victor in war to compensate for to cost of the conflict – see, for example, the reparations imposed on Germany after World War I. But the meanings of the word has changed.)
It’s not hard to imagine how a slavery reparations scheme would work. The United States government would assume the responsibility for reparations; slavery only persisted as an institution because it had the protection of law. Some formula would be negotiated to determine the total aggregate compensation due to former slaves – or, rather, their descendants – probably based on a combination of lost wages and pain and suffering. And then individual descendants of slaves would have to establish descent to make claims against that communal property, and some court process would be set up to adjudicate such claims. Depending on the formula, the aggregate numbers could be very large, but they could be calculated.
The social purpose of reparations would not be to restore a level playing field between blacks and whites, or to eliminate social or economic disparities, much less to eliminate invidious discrimination. The purpose would be to establish both the fact of manifest injustice and of adequate compensation for that injustice as mutually agreed upon between the descendants of former slaves and the government of the United States.
Why isn’t this self-evidently a good idea?
Nobody in their right mind disputes that slavery was a great evil. I’ve heard plenty of people argue that African Americans have been adequately compensated since the end of slavery, but it’s very easy to demolish such claims – and Coates does an excellent job of that in his article. (And, I should stress, that this is the real point of his voluminous articulation of the ways in which African-Americans have been disadvantaged in the years since the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment. If reparations are intended to compensate for all the ways in which African-Americans have been disadvantaged over the decades, then we’re dealing with a much more amorphous subject. So I understood Coates’s point in including so much material about the post-slavery years to be making the case that proper recompense for slavery itself has never been made, but that the injury has, rather, been more often compounded.)
The most common objections are that reparations would be looking backward rather than looking forward; that they would be logistically impossible to set up; and that it would be unfair to punish the living for the sins of the dead, particularly when the living may have no biological link with the dead. None of these objections strike me as very telling. Questions of justice are always backward looking, after all. The logistics of reparations get much simpler if the structure worked the way I described above – most important, there would be a clear incentive to limit the potential number of claimants, since we’d be talking about distributing a fixed-size pie. And there is nothing unjust about the United States as a communal entity making reparations for wrongs committed by that entity – indeed, reparations is far more obviously just on that score than the various hacks we apply to our purported meritocracy. You can’t justly opt out of the burdens of American citizenship any more than you can opt out of the benefits.
So why is it obviously not a self-evidently good idea?
Coates himself thinks that resistance to reparations has to do with denial of the sheer extent and power of white supremacy. There’s probably some truth to that, but I think the explanation is a bit more complicated.
First of all, as noted, the number could be very, very large. As such, it could represent a substantial change to the distribution of property generally. Such changes are never looked upon with equanimity by people who actually own property. Nor should they be – once you start questioning the existing distribution of property in a fundamental way, it’s never clear where it will end. In a deep sense, property rights as such depend upon a willful ignorance about the sordid way in which property is often acquired in the first place. That’s an ugly truth – but it’s still a truth.
And if the number were not extremely large, then the effort at reconciliation would backfire – reparations would be perceived not as justice but as an insult.
This applies doubly if the assumption going in is that reparations would merely be studied. A study that concluded that the descendants of former slaves were owed, say, $10 trillion in aggregate compensation, and which then stopped with a study, with no follow through – that would not lead to reconciliation, but to fury. You can call that fury just, but you can’t be surprised if there’s a lot of resistance to going down that path.
Second, while Coates undoubtedly thinks of slavery as a unique evil, particularly deserving of reparations, it’s not at all obvious that other groups would see it that way. Indeed, it strikes me as extremely likely that a host of other aggrieved groups would jump on the bandwagon and press their own cases, citing slavery reparations as a precedent. We can all, I hope, intuit that slavery was sui generis, but it is not so easy to articulate a legal rationale for denying the applicability of the precedent that slavery reparations would set. The history of equal protection jurisprudence, and of affirmative action, is instructive in this regard.
Moreover, I wonder whether Native American groups wouldn’t have a real point in arguing that slavery wasn’t the only monumental collective injustice perpetrated by the United States government.
Third, I suspect that many observers question whether reparations would actually bring about the desired reconciliation, at least on terms that many white Americans would recognize. Suppose, for example, that reparations did not lead to a sudden and substantial narrowing of the socioeconomic gap between white and black Americans. Suppose, instead, that the gap proved relatively intractable; that the assets distributed through reparations were substantially lost in a generation through some combination of poor management or predation. There is an awful lot of evidence that lottery winnings do not generally lead to lasting socioeconomic gains for the winners. Might that not be predictive of what would happen after reparations? And, if so, wouldn’t we wind up having the same conversations we have now as a society?
I should stress that I don’t view this as a dispositive point against reparations. If a particular segment of society suffered disproportionately from heart disease, we would find it completely normal and just for the healthier segment to subsidize the care of the less-healthy. Indeed, we would think so particularly if the disparity proved intractable. It’s not obvious, therefore, why the justice of the case for reparations should be affected by the reasonable suspicion that reparations would not eliminate, and might not even make that much of a dent in, the socioeconomic gap between black and white in America. But it’s clear that the point is very telling for many people who expect to be on the subsidizing end of things.
Finally, and from my perspective most-tellingly, the case for reparations presupposes an organized community of descendants of former slaves who can argue the case, and, most important, accept the settlement. Consider, again, the negotiation over reparations in the aftermath of the Holocaust. There was a Jewish State, and a variety of diaspora Jewish organizations, including organizations explicitly structured to speak for the survivors and for the families of victims. There is no comparable representation for the descendants of former slaves. If the social purpose of reparations is to effect reconciliation, each “side” must be in a position to accept the settlement. It’s not obvious that this is the case with respect to the descendants of American slaves. And it’s not obvious that black Americans would want to divide themselves between beneficiaries of such a settlement and those who have no proper claim.
I’ve made the argument before that much of what exercises Coates these days feels like it leads logically to black nationalism. Coates appears to me to be looking for an alternative to nationalism that would have a similarly cathartic effect, something that would transform America itself in a revolutionary manner. I’m very sympathetic to that particular search – it’s a reflection of Coates’s seriousness both about his sense of history and of his Americanness. But I’m not sure that such an alternative exists. Nationalism is, for better or worse, the principal way a community establishes a level of equal dignity vis a vis other communities – particularly another community that oppressed it in the past. There can be no reconciliation without first a sundering.
If you close the door to nationalism, you’re left looking for ways to make your existing nation – America – the kind of place with which you can wholly and unequivocally identify, notwithstanding all that you know about the past. But that path puts a great deal of psychic power into the hands of other Americans who don’t necessarily feel the urgency that you do. Outside the context of black nationalism, that’s the psychic risk of the reparations movement.
Is it a risk worth taking? I leave that to Coates to decide for himself.
I’m torn as to how to react.
On the one hand, I’m one of those people who feel the great problem with the EU is the democratic deficit – that it wants to evolve into something resembling a true government, but agglomerates power by stealth, without transparency, and won’t give any real power to representatives directly elected by the people.
On the other hand, it’s notable that the most dramatic votes for Euro-skepticism were from countries who are fundamentally opposed to remedying that democratic deficit – because they are more concerned about protecting their own national sovereignty. France thinks of Europe as a French-led union of states, and has historically opposed that vision to the German notion that the EU would evolve in the direction of a federation (modeled, naturally, on Germany itself). The UK, meanwhile, has always been ambivalent about the EU – understandably, since for three centuries the UK’s primary foreign policy objective was to prevent the emergence of a single, dominant power on the European continent.
According to The Economist, extreme Euroskeptic parties gained 63 seats in the European parliament as a result of these elections. Of those, 31 – 50% – were from France and the UK. By contrast, all of the states who have joined the EU since 1986 put together added only 9 extreme Euroskeptic seats. Germany’s Euroskeptic representation also increased – from zero to 7 seats – but that’s still only 7% of the German delegation. A far cry from France’s or the UK’s over 30% showing.
Solving Europe’s core structural problems might well make the EU more popular in Germany, and also more popular in Poland and Belgium and Spain. But those same reforms would probably make it even less popular in France and the UK, because they would necessitate a sacrifice of even more national sovereignty in exchange for reducing the democratic deficit.
Similarly, immigration pits the interests of National Front and UKIP voters against the interests of citizens of EU members like Poland and Romania that benefit from the free movement of labor.
So it’s probably wrong to see this election as a European referendum against Europe. If anything, the differential results feel like another bit of proof that there is not a single “Europe” to vote one way or another.
Tom Friedman takes aim at a basic mathematical concept when he declares that”average is over.” He then proceeds to demonstrate that he doesn’t understand how averages work.
I’ve been arguing for a while now that “average is over.” It has to be when every boss has cheaper, easier, faster access to software, automation, robots, cheap foreign labor and cheap foreign genius that can produce above-average so easily. Everyone needs to find their unique value-add, their “extra,” and be constantly re-engineering themselves if they want to obtain, or advance in, a decent job that can’t be digitized.
Consider this article published in The New York Times on April 23: “EASTON, N.Y. — Something strange is happening at farms in upstate New York. The cows are milking themselves. Desperate for reliable labor and buoyed by soaring prices, dairy operations across the state are charging into a brave new world of udder care: robotic milkers, which feed and milk cow after cow without the help of a single farmhand.”
Overnight, an average farmhand went from knowing how to milk a cow to having to learn how to program and operate the robotic cow-milker — to keep a job. That takes above-average skills.
Average cannot be over. The average can move, and any individual’s position on the distribution relative to the average can change. But there will always be an average. Friedman is like the living embodiment of that Garrison Keillor joke about the town where all the children are above average. Tom: if everyone learns how to program and operate the robotic cow-milker, that becomes an average skill, and whatever economic advantage accrued to that skill will disappear. If everyone actually had “their ‘extra,’” then it wouldn’t be an extra. The sentence “Everyone needs to find their unique value-added” might as well be the sentence “I do not know what the word ‘unique’ means.” You can tell individuals to get ahead and say screw the rest and blather on about unique value-added skill sets. But those everyones just don’t work, Tommie.
If you teach every kid to code, there’s no value in knowing how to code. If a college education becomes a universal public good, it’s great for democracy, for our communal intellectual and aesthetic fulfillment, and for the moral principle of equal opportunity to explore, think, and create. But it means there’s no more economic value in having a college education. Average may be over, Tom, but the three sigma rule sure isn’t, and so what are you gonna do about the 68% of people who are always going to be pretty close to average?
So: in the spirit of my last post, I will proceed to defend the indefensible Tom Friedman.
Here are some possible meanings to “average is over” that are not mathematical nonsense:
- While it will always be possible to calculate a variety of different “averages” for American wages, the colloquial meaning of “average” assumes that these numbers are similar. And they are decreasingly so. The mean, for example, may be rising, while the median may be falling – and the mode may be getting less and less meaningful as a number at all. All of which would mean that, as an analytical tool for talking about the health of the economy, the “average” wage is becoming less and less useful.
- America has an above-average per-capita income relative to the rest of the world. If we want to maintain that above-average income, we need to upgrade the skills of our workforce so that our workforce’s skills remain above-average relative to the rest of the world. Otherwise, the relatively-unskilled portion of our workforce will see its income degrade toward the global average. Which would be substantially below-average relative to the historic American experience.
- Unskilled or semi-skilled labor may be obsolescing on a global basis, as more and more tasks, not only in manufacturing, come to be automated. The “average” person in terms of cognitive ability has, for centuries, relied on readily-transferable but extremely limited skills to provide a limited livelihood, first as farm workers, then as industrial laborers, finally in a variety of low-level white- and pink-collar service jobs. Recent stages in this process have required meaningful cognitive advances simply to stay put and remain productively employable. In the future, nobody will remain productively employable without more specialized skills and the ability to acquire new specialized skills in a rapid timeframe. What will happen to those who don’t make the cut remains unspecified.
I don’t know for sure, of course, because Friedman speaks in buzzwords rather than in language intended to convey actual meaning, but it’s plausible that all three of the above meanings are floating around somewhere in his brain when he says “average is over.” And all three of those meanings are reasonably plausible.
But what they all point to, as deBoer’s piece is intended to point out, is the question of distribution. If “average is over” means that a smaller percentage of Americans have incomes close to the average – the bell curve is flattening, or the center of the curve is moving down as the right-hand tail gets longer and fatter – then that’s an important fact about our economy that demands explanation. And action.
What that action should be depends in part on our understanding of why it’s happening. If the main driver of stagnating median wages and rising inequality is the rise in the average skill level in China and India (the second meaning of “average is over”), then upgrading the average skills of the American workforce is a plausible response.
But if we’re going to ask the question in that form, it’s worth noting that some of the countries that have done a better job than America of moving up the value chain and keeping median wages up approach their workforces very differently than we do. Japan has a quasi-feudal corporate culture dominated by large conglomerates, with strong two-way loyalty and effective lifetime employment. Germany’s economic engine, on the other hand, is mid-sized firms, and the Rhenish model of capitalism gives workers an explicit seat at the table in the management of enterprises – as opposed to managing enterprises exclusively to maximize shareholder value. Finland couples a flexible labor market and relatively easy entrepreneurship with a very generous welfare state and effectively universal unionization. Canada’s boom has been driven substantially by natural resource wealth, but they also have a highly protected and regulated financial sector, and an immigration policy that, while it attracts more immigrants per-capita than the USA does, also focuses on attracting the most-skilled.
In other words, it’s all well and good to say “we have to upgrade our skills to stay ahead,” but we don’t have a political culture that presents a good way of pursuing that goal. We have a hard time talking about unionization, immigration, finance, etc. as relevant factors in determining the actual skill level of the American workforce, or the incentive structure that drives that skill level. We assume, instead, that upgrading skills is a matter of individual initiative, and that the state’s role, if any, is to facilitate that initiative, whether by reducing regulation or providing opportunities for retraining and the like.
And if automation is the driver – as Friedman’s example suggests – then upgrading skills may not be enough. In a utopian future where robots wind up doing most of the work, we simply won’t need that many people to manage the robots, or to design better robots. In that scenario, questions of ownership of the means of production once again become central, just as Marx predicted.
I’m skeptical of the last notion – that we’re simply going to make most humans obsolete – for reasons that deBoer would no doubt agree with (basically, that I think we’re nowhere near true artificial intelligence, and hence nowhere near the creation of robots that could truly replace the most essential human capacities). But the second proposition points in a variety of potential directions, not all of which are dreamt of in Friedman’s philosophy. So let’s take the opportunity to talk about that. Maybe Friedman will eventually even listen, and open up his mind a bit.
Reading Rod Dreher’s piece on NPR, in which he hypothesizes the kind of show he’d love to listen to regularly, I was struck with inspiration. You know what I would listen to?
The Devil’s Defense Attorney.
An absurd proportion of our discourse today is devoted to outrage porn (Dreher has been known to indulge in this himself). You read a news story that sounds outrageous, you declare yourself outraged, and you proceed to suck your thumb about how the significance of this new outage. It’s a reliable business model, the perfect match for the other reliable business model, smarm.
This is a bi-partisan pastime; the outrage could be the latest excrescence from the fever swamps of the right or the eye-rollingest drivel from some left-wing fruit loop – or, for that matter, the purest expression of Friedman-Gladwell conventional (as in convention center) wisdom.
So here’s my show format: every week (or, heck, every day), the producers scour the internet for the most outrageous story – and build a show around defending the apparently indefensible.
You’d have to be assiduous about being fair-minded, picking things that outrage right and left, sensible center and radical center. And, because the same host would have to argue from wildly different premises each week (or day), she couldn’t promote a specific ideology. Rather, she’d merely have to make the case that a defense existed out there, one that was deserving of some degree of respect even if it wasn’t endorsed.
Would the show always succeed in convincing people of that defense? I hope not – some outrages are genuinely outrageous, and even among those that aren’t there are plenty of non-outrages that are nonetheless simply wrong. But maybe, just maybe, it would force those who profit by outrage to reckon with the possibility that, before the week was out, they would be obliterated by the devil’s defense attorney, and would therefore be forced to, you know, make actual arguments – and, more to the point, present the facts in something more closely resembling a neutral manner.
That’s a utopian hope, perhaps. But hey, if it had no effect on the discourse, then it would never run out of material. So as a business proposition . . .
What happens when you take a camp premise seriously?
I once saw a production of a musical adaptation of Dracula that did that. Dracula’s leitmotif was sombre and doomy, Van Helsing sang forcefully about the urgency of combatting “the children of Satan” – it was all played utterly straight. And, of course, it was unintentionally very funny. Bram Stoker’s original novel is wonderful, but it’s also lurid and outlandish right from the get-go, and you have to acknowledge that, and not pretend that you can treat it as straight melodrama, or you’ll wind up with something very silly indeed.
The question came to my mind again when I recently went to see “Under the Skin,” the Scottish science fiction fable from director Jonathan Glazer starring Scarlett Johansson. The premise of the film: Johansson is an alien life form whose task it is to seduce solitary human males to their dooms. She drives around Glasgow in a white van, asking directions of the men she passes and then offering them a lift. When they get in, she flirtily chats with them and ultimately invites them back to a secluded cabin, whose interior I will not describe because it is one of the signature horrors of the film.
This is, as I say, a pretty campy premise – actually, the seductress picking up men in her white van is worse, a low-budget porn premise. And I worried: won’t the characters in the film understand that? If they do, won’t that spoil it for the rest of us? And if they don’t, won’t that spoil it worse, by making them seem idiots?
I went in hoping, in fact, that the film would be cleverly conscious of its own campiness, and thereby transcend it – that it would be an updating of “Liquid Sky,” the early ’80s cult classic. There are some obvious points of comparison, after all. Both films are about female visitors to a strange and hostile city. Both films identify sex with violence and death, both reverse the trope of male predation and female victimhood, and both show us that reversal from the female perspective. And both involve aliens with a taste for human flesh, albeit in the case of “Liquid Sky” the woman is not herself the alien – she just has aliens living on her roof.
“Liquid Sky” was self-conscious – but no less-affecting for that. It’s a highly idiosyncratic nightmare portrait of New York at a certain point in time, a lot more distinctive and convincing than, say, “Escape From New York” if not nearly as coolly accomplished as, say, “After Hours.” And, taken seriously, it has something real to say about the despair of that sexual moment as well:
So I was taught that I should come to New York, become an independent woman. And my prince would come, and he would be an agent, and he would get me a role, and I would make my living waiting on tables. I would wait – till thirty, till forty, till fifty. And I was taught that to be an actress, one should be fashionable, and to be fashionable is to be androgynous. And I am androgynous not less than David Bowie himself. And they call me beautiful, and I kill with my c—. Isn’t it fashionable? Come on, who’s next? I’ll take lessons. How to get into show business: be nice to your professor. Be nice to your agent. Be nice to your audience, be nice. How to be a woman: want them when I want you. How to be free and equal: f— women instead of men, and you’ll discover a whole kingdom of freedom. Men won’t step on you anymore, women will. So come on, who’s next? Who wants to teach me? Come on, teach me. Are you afraid? You’re right, because they’re all dead. All my teachers.
That sure ain’t Shakespeare, but it’s not “The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension” either. It’s something that has gone through camp and come out the other side, into something like sincerity. Is that what “Under the Skin” aimed to do?
As it turns out, “Under the Skin” does almost the opposite. It does an exceptionally good job of threading the narrow eye of the needle that avoids camp entirely, in spite of its outlandishly camp premise. It does this by emphatically identifying us with Johansson’s alien perspective.
We first glimpse Johansson when she receives her skin, from what appears to be the corpse of the human she’s modeled on (it’s a bit vague what’s precisely going on, but the emotional tone is clear). But this skin is provided her by a male handler, a kind of evil Power Ranger, complete with dopey motorbike. He’s effectively her pimp – so from the beginning, we’ve avoided identifying Johansson with a kind of male horror fantasy of female sexuality. And we’ve also avoided the porn fantasy by showing us the existence of a power structure of some kind behind that fantasy’s enactment.
Then we travel around with Johansson in her white van, observing as she does – and the crowded streets are shot in such a way that we never get a sense of purpose to any of the activity we observe. Johansson’s eyes flit about, looking for prospects; she isn’t trying to understand what these creatures are doing, and so we never understand. They’re just a mass of humanity, a herd from which she culls a gullible few.
Moreover, we’re in Glasgow, and the male citizens of Glasgow speak in an almost impenetrable accent, while Johansson’s accent is vaguely London – the kind of accent someone might learn to play a British character in a not-very-good film. She’s not trying to fit in; she’s barely trying to pass. She speaks what sounds like a script, and barely varies it; when she picks up a severely deformed man, she shows no sign of noticing any difference from her other marks. If she weren’t so good-looking, there’s no way she’d pass the Turing Test. And yet she’s the only one we can reliably comprehend.
All of these factors help us forget the camp absurdity of the premise, which no longer feels like it is even terribly important. It’s certainly never explained at all; the movie seems completely uninterested in motive. It’s just a given that this is her social role, and the movie is interested in what it’s like to be her.
But who is she? Why invent this person, and ask us to spend time with her? About half an hour in, after an exceptionally horrific scene of callousness on Johansson’s part, where she kills an unequivocally good person and leaves another innocent to die without even noticing, I began to wonder what this film meant on a metaphoric level. It didn’t seem to be interested in satirizing the sexual dynamics of contemporary Scotland, not in any direct way.
And then Johansson’s character changed, abruptly. She felt pity on one of her victims, and allowed him to escape, and as a consequence became completely unmoored from herself. She wandered in a daze, eventually to be taken under the wing of a sympathetic (and strangely incurious) Scottish man, before fleeing him in turn and winding up the victim of yet another man, one as one-dimensionally predatory as she had been.
What did this reversal mean, this reversion to female victimhood that seemed to flow inexorably from the alien’s minimal concession to humanity? There was something dark and sad being said here, something that harkened back to the junkie-eat-junkie landscape of “Liquid Sky,” where our protagonist, primed to be a perfect victim, discovers new powers of predation, and gets no satisfaction or release from them. Johansson seemed to me to be representing yet another new womanhood, not the worn-out androgene of 1982, but something lush and overtly feminine, but as scripted, anhedonic and cold as the men who follow seduction guides. She has no history that brought her to this state – it’s not a choice, but a role she is given by others. But having learned that role, she’s lost and helpless when first she tries to be human. That’s a heck of an abyss to find at the bottom of a movie with such a camp premise.
But if stare into a camp premise long enough, it seems, eventually it will stare back at you.
Climate Change Isn’t Just About Sea Levels, And Adaptation Will Require Action, Not A Sense Of Futility
The latest four alarm fire on the climate change front is the melting of a chunk of west Antarctica’s ice sheet, which appears to have passed the point of no return. Should that unstoppability encourage us to surrender to the siren song of futility?
I don’t think so. I have long maintained that we need to focus at least as much on the adaptation front as we do on the emissions-control front, because a lot of climate change is already “baked in.” And some rise in sea levels and increases in storm surges are particularly certain in the near term. Coastal cities like Miami, New Orleans, New York, etc. are going to have to invest heavily in infrastructure to keep the sea at bay, and the allocation of the cost of adaptation is going to become a significant political issue in the years and decades to come.
But though a rise in sea levels and an increased incidence of extreme weather are the easiest parts of climate change to understand, they aren’t actually the most important. Human beings adapt pretty readily to flooding. We know how to build sea walls, and ecologically-sophisticated systems of flood control. In the extreme, we know how to move – we are a highly mobile species.
It’s less clear how well we’d adapt to wholesale changes in the ecology attendant on changes in CO2 levels. An increase in the acidity of the oceans, for example, could significantly disrupt the marine food chain (what’s left of it after over-fishing). A wide variety of land-based species are also sensitive to changes in the climate; global changes could have an unpredictable global impact on overall biodiversity. The earth, of course, will adapt just fine; the terrestrial climate has seen some pretty huge swings over geological timescales, and the diversity of life has recovered from multiple mass-extinctions. Human beings, though, have only been around for a million or so years (much less depending on how picky you are about what counts as “human”), and large-scale civilization is only a few thousand years old. We have no idea how well that civilization would adapt to widespread ecological disruption.
Moreover, there is a synergy between efforts to reduce the impact of human activity on the environment and efforts to repair or adapt to the consequences of that activity. The slower the rate of CO2 and methane emissions, the slower these changes will progress; in effect, we’d be buying time to adapt. Adaptation efforts cost money; it makes more sense to raise that money through Pigovian taxes on the kinds of activities that contribute to the problem than to pile up debt or impose taxes that impose more of an economic drag. And breakthrough technologies that could radically reduce emissions would be just as useful to China and India as they are to countries on the developmental frontier. China will certainly not sacrifice economic development for the sake of the environment; take a look at their air quality if you doubt that. But could they be bribed to continue development on a greener path? I don’t see why not – it’s a question of price. Could we afford to pay the bribe? That depends on how big the bribe has to be, which in turn depends on the state of alternative energy and emission-capture technologies – which, in turn, is an argument for spending money to move that frontier.
None of the above is news. So why do the points need to be made over and over again?
Or, let me ask the question another way. Why are so many conservatives comfortable with arguing that it’s good for the rest of the world to free-ride on a collective-security regime where the bulk of the costs are born by the United States (to be sure, TAC-style conservatives are much less-likely to do so), or that it’s good for the rest of the world to free-ride on a pharmaceutical research regime where an outsized share of profits are generated on the backs of the American taxpayer, but balk at applying the exact same logic to fighting climate change? What kinds of threats spur us to action and what kinds make us numb with futility? What kinds inspire us to bear any burden and pay any price, and what kinds make us worry about being played for a sucker?
I see this weekend is high school debate weekend over at TAC. On Thursday I reminisced about my old high school debate coach, on the occasion of his passing, and yesterday Rod Dreher lamented the state of college debate, a discussion he continued this morning. Dreher ends his most recent entry thusly:
I think it’s indisputable that people will employ all sorts of rhetorical strategies to win, but I cannot bring myself to believe that we should be training people to “win” by overwhelming their opponents with information or bizarre rhetorical gamesmanship, e.g., ignoring the stated topic of the debate and using it to yammer on about racism, nuclear war, or whatever you’d rather talk about. What is the underlying moral lesson in teaching kids that debate has nothing to do with logic, eloquence, or, above all, an exploration of the truth, and everything to do with winning?
My point wasn’t that we should teach students to win at all costs – and that wasn’t how we were taught. We knew the difference between someone who played to win in a sportsmanlike manner and someone who was just a jerk. If we faced an opposing team that was obviously less-proficient, we would slow down, go out of our way to explain ourselves, and try to stick to arguments that they might comprehend. We tried not to humiliate people. If we faced a team that was particularly clever, we tried to match them in cleverness; if we faced a team that had a more “meatball” approach – a few big, hulking arguments backed with huge amounts of evidence – we’d show that we could play the game that way, while also demonstrating that we were maybe a bit more clever. We tried, that is to say, both to be courteous and to show a sense of style. But we certainly played to win, always. It’s a competitive activity.
What I was arguing against was whining, either in a debate or outside it. Debaters should be prepared for other people who are willing to use strategies that are, arguably, less than sporting, or less educationally rewarding, or wildly at variance with your expectations, or what have you. You could face a jerk who reads his evidence so fast you can’t understand a word, or a debater who makes a meta-argument about how we shouldn’t discuss the topic, but rather his preferred subject, or whatever. You’ve got to figure out, on the fly, how to handle whatever is thrown at you.
But I was also making a point about the value of understanding that diversity of rhetorical strategies as such. In fact, I was packing a bunch of notions together into a single point – so allow me to tell three anecdotes from the glory days to illustrate different some of the different parts of my argument.
* * *
Anecdote #1: “The Cat’s Meow”
Among the most prestigious tournaments of the year on the high school circuit is the Tournament of Champions at the University of Kentucky. For both the National Forensic League and the Catholic Forensic League, each district held its own qualifying tournament. For TOC, to qualify you had to get to a certain level at a qualifying tournament – could be semifinals, could be quarterfinals or even octafinals if the tournament is big enough. These qualifying tournaments were not purely regional; big national programs competed at most or all of them. So to get to TOC, you had to be competitive on a national level.
As a consequence, TOC was the venue where debaters set out to impress each other, by coming up with brand new, fiendishly clever arguments that nobody else would be prepared for. Our sophomore year, the team we most idolized was a team of juniors from our rival, Stuyvesant High School, and at TOC we saw them set a new standard in cleverness. That year, the resolution was, “RESOLVED: that the Federal government should establish a comprehensive national policy to protect the quality of water in the United States.” This was how Stuyvesant’s A team began their first affirmative that year at TOC:
Krebbs was a bearded man, a platinum blond Jesus with spaniel eyes. He was no close friend of mine. I had met him at a cocktail party where he presented himself as National Chairman of Poets and Painters for Immediate Nuclear War. He begged for shelter, not necessarily bomb proof, and it happened that I had some.
When I returned to my apartment, still twanging with the puzzling spiritual implications of the unclaimed stone angel in Ilium, I found my apartment wrecked by a nihilistic debauch. Krebbs was gone; but, before leaving, he had run up three-hundred-dollars’ worth of long-distance calls, set my couch on fire in five places, and torn the door off my medicine cabinet.
He wrote this poem, in what proved to be excrement, on the yellow linoleum floor of my kitchen:
I have a kitchen
But it is not a complete kitchen.
I will not be truly gay
Until I have a
There was another message, written in lipstick in a feminine hand on the wallpaper over my bed. It said: “No, no, no said Chicken-licken.”
There was a sign hung around my dead cat’s neck. It said, “Meow.”
That’s from chapter 36 of Kurt Vonnegut’s novel, Cat’s Cradle, and the team from Stuy went on to propose, by way of protecting America’s water, to ban “Ice Nine,” a fictional form of ice that appears in the novel and that has the unfortunate characteristic of transforming liquid water into this peculiar form of ice at any temperature. Needless to say, if such a chemical ever got loose, it would wreak havoc on the environment (not to mention being a formidable weapon of war if it could be controlled).
Of course, Ice Nine is entirely fictional. Which is why their first affirmative ended with a one-minute “underview” arguing that science fiction is good for expanding your mind, and debate is all about hypotheticals anyway, so it’s good to debate as if science-fictional inventions and occurrences were potentially real.
The opposing team in the round I watched was apoplectic. How were they supposed to debate a ban on a fictional substance? It’s absurd!
I thought it was the coolest debate strategy ever. All I wanted out of the activity, from then on, was to figure out how I could possibly top that.
Now, you might disagree and say that changing the topic, meta-argumentation, and the like are just empty sophistry, and a waste of intellectual talent. If you were the judge, you’d have dropped Stuy like a rock for not taking the activity seriously. In other words, you’d have been the man, a suit, Principal Ed Rooney - and bully for you. But we knew what was cool and what wasn’t, and Stuy were the coolest cats in Kentucky that weekend, whether they won or lost.
But here’s the thing: what’s cool to one cat ain’t necessarily cool to another. What I see as cool, the kids who won CEDA might have seen as a bunch of posturing and signifying in a language that meant nothing to them. And vice versa. What’s the principled argument for saying that quoting Kurt Vonnegut shows wit while quoting Chuck D shows contempt for the activity? I can’t see one.
Which is why I have less sympathy for opponents who sputter about traditional standards than I might – because I know how I reacted to similar sputtering against Stuyvesant. Their opponents didn’t have to roll over. They had to fight back. Argue that banning a science fictional substance would lead to concrete harms. Or that Ice Nine would have benefits. Or that debating banning a science fictional substance was not the right way to get the benefit of reading science fiction. Or all of the above.
Convince me, in the moment, that you deserve the win. That’s your job as a debater. And try to be cool about it.
* * *
Anecdote #2: “One Fish, Two Fish”
Junior year, the topic was: “RESOLVED: that the Federal Government should implement a comprehensive agricultural policy for the United States.” A more boring topic could not have been invented, in the opinion of all of us debaters from New York City, Chicago, Boston and other major agricultural centers. But by the middle of the year, we’d come up with a pretty cool way of changing the topic. On the affirmative, we argued for subordinating America’s agricultural policy to the needs of our European allies, effectively requiring “pre-clearance” of all such policies with their trade negotiators before doing anything. The goal was to avoid a trade war, which, if it erupted, would weaken NATO, which in turn would encourage the Soviets to invade Turkey en route to Iran and Iraq’s oil fields, sparking World War III. Now we were talking!
Unfortunately, on the first day of one tournament, news broke of a big new trade accord. The threat of trade war had receded; our case was no longer compelling. What to do? We decided to pull out a warhorse from summer debate institute: soil erosion prevention. We couldn’t prove that soil erosion would cause World War III, but at least we had a card (from Paul Ehrlich, I think) claiming that soil erosion would be worse than World War III. That was some consolation.
We weren’t thrilled, but we didn’t really have a choice. And then, as we debated from round to round, we noticed something. Nobody actually had any good arguments against preventing soil erosion. Indeed, nobody had bothered much to research soil erosion – it was boring. Instead, we faced a series of preposterous arguments claiming that, for example, adopting our policy would strengthen the Federal government, which would scare China into shifting to the Soviets – which would cause World War III. (Or maybe I have that backwards – it’s been a while.) Rather than jump at the chance to debate whether, in fact, detente with China was going to lead to World War III (by encircling the Soviets), we decided to point out just how preposterous this argument was.
Round by round, I honed a little speech, my “one fish dies” speech, which said, in effect, that everything the negative was claiming was transparently ludicrous (don’t worry, we went into chapter and verse on what was ludicrous about it), and that nobody was even trying to argue that soil erosion caused no harm, or that our plan wouldn’t, in some measure, improve the situation. Therefore, if even “one fish dies” as a result of your voting negative, you’ve made the wrong choice.
Opponents hated this speech – but they, generally, didn’t know what to do about it. It moved them out of their comfort zone of technical tit-for-tat, and questioned fundamental assumptions of the activity. It was, in a sense, a meta-argument – just a traditionalist one. But it wasn’t a whine. It was an attack – an attack delivered both with the kind of rhetoric that laypeople assume debate should foster, and the technical point-by-point delivery that people immersed in debate expected.
And we won the tournament with it.
* * *
Anecdote #3: “The Last Days Of Disco”
That spring, we faced our old rivals from Stuy at TOC. We were hoping to be affirmative – we had worked up a new, super-cool case, in imitation of them: time capsules. We began with an overview of ten reasons the earth is utterly doomed, from nuclear war to global cooling to species extinction to AIDS to asteroid strike – we had a list of ten completely different plagues any one of which would wipe out human civilization. But not humanity: we argued that some human beings would likely survive, and rebuild. But rebuild what?
Well, hopefully not agricultural civilization, as we went on to argue that agriculture was the bane of human existence, and that humans had been much happier and healthier when we were hunter-gatherers. Therefore, we would compile a comprehensive study to prove the perniciousness of agriculture, and bury the study in time capsules in a variety of strategic locations chosen to maximize the chance of surviving the various cataclysms to come. Hopefully, when future humans dug the capsules up, they would learn the lesson and avoid developing agriculture.
It was a great case. You could argue anything you wanted about how it would lead to World War III or whatever – we didn’t care, because we said World War III was inevitable. All we cared about is the aftermath. And, needless to say, nobody else was prepared to debate whether agriculture was a good idea in the first place.
We lost the coin flip, and had to take the negative. But that was ok. We were ready for them.
Their case was almost the mirror image of ours. It was something called “Foresight,” which meant doing big studies to try to predict the future, and then basing our national policies on those studies. This, they claimed, would prevent all kinds of disasters that would affect the economy and environment, and, of course, wreck American agriculture.
We had a two-pronged attack in response. First, we argued that the studies would never be completed, would never work, and would just add a thick layer of bureaucracy over every decision. Rather than protecting us from disaster, they would leave us incapable of responding to any contingency. Second, we argued that though they wanted to use the studies to protect the environment, all anybody in government would actually care about was boosting economic growth, so that’s what the studies would be used to accomplish – and the relentless pursuit of economic growth was the biggest threat to the world of all. We had lots of cards that said this.
Our first negative was pretty stoked when he finished his speech. We had obliterated their case.
And then their second affirmative stood up, and conceded both arguments. Yes, we were right, their studies would fail, would create more bureaucracy, would prevent anything from getting done. And yes, we were right, all the government really cared about was promoting economic growth, and would bend any new knowledge to that end. And relentless pursuit of growth would destroy the planet. Therefore, the only hope for the planet was gumming up the works of government with endless studies so nothing could be accomplished. Vote affirmative.
We never recovered. Oh, we did our best – we fell back on secondary arguments of various kinds, fought hard on badly reduced ground. But our heart wasn’t really in it. They had “discoed” us – turned our own arguments against us. We were simply outclassed.
After we lost, we talked about the round with our assistant coach. We told him there was nothing we could do – we were discoed. And he forcefully disagreed. Why, he asked, didn’t you run a counter plan to simply halt economic growth? If they conceded your argument that ending growth was the most important thing, then your plan is better than their plan, by definition, and you win.
My initial response was, “okay, I hear you, but that’s a weird argument, and a really weird thing to do, to run a new counter plan that late in the game. How could we have thought of that?” But I was blinded by jargon and convention. It took me months to understand what he was really getting at. You can’t legitimately win by conceding that your own plan will fail. If that’s a plan’s only virtue, then there is surely a more direct and efficient route to get the positive results associated with that failure. So why adopt the plan? Say that, and it will become clear to the judges that voting for this plan is absurd.
Now, that’s a very subtle argument on one level. But on another level it’s bone obvious. The former is the level of formal argumentation that dominates policy debate. The latter is normal human thinking.
Both modes of thinking are valuable for debaters – and, for that matter, lawyers, politicians, anybody who needs to make arguments on a regular basis. We get into trouble when we lose sight of one or the other – when we think that the formalisms of argument are meaningful in and of themselves, or when we dismiss those formalisms cavalierly and suggest that anything “real people” can’t understand is nonsense. Without those formalisms, we wouldn’t have been able to argue at the level that we did. But if we forgot what those formalisms stood for, we’d lose sight of obvious truths that could win us a debate, and even teach us something.
* * *
Arguments about the worth of argument are as old as argument itself. Socrates wandered about Athens proving, to his own satisfaction, that nobody knew anything, except him, who at least knew that he didn’t know anything. Was that productive? Was it more or less productive than what the Sophists were up to? We tend to lionize the former and anathematize the latter, but it’s worth recalling that the Athenians weren’t always clear that there was much of a difference (other than that Socrates didn’t charge a fee).
Did the style of debate I practiced warp our intellectual development? You can judge my case from this blog. Our Stuyvesant rivals? One, Hanna Rosin, is a far more prominent opinionatrix than myself. The other, David Coleman, is, from his perch at the head of the College Board and through his leadership in designing the Common Core, in the process of reshaping the contours of American education. So I guess we have to hope not!
But we don’t have to rely on hope as a strategy. There’s plenty not to like about how high school and college debate is practiced – perhaps it’s worse now than there used to be, or perhaps not; I’m not close enough to the activity to be able to say. But I can say that the only way to shape the future is to engage with it, directly.
Earlier this week, I learned that my old high school debate coach, Richard Sodikow, had passed away. After my actual parents, it’s hard for me to think of an adult who had a greater impact on my adolescence, and as a consequence it’s hard for me entirely to fathom his departure from the world. Consider this blog post an attempt to do just that as best I can.
Richard – which we never, ever called him, until suddenly, upon graduation, we could; that transition was itself hard enough to fathom – was, like most great teachers, a man too passionate to be properly balanced. Where most of us live compartmentalized lives, with boxes for work, for family, for social and for solitary pursuits, Richard was consumed by one overriding passion: for high school forensics, and for the students who competed under his tutelage. We were his work, but also his family (he never married), and his primary social pursuit. I’m not sure he had much use for solitude.
That tutelage was administered primarily at the Bronx High School of Science, where he founded the debate and speech program in 1969. (Richard himself had graduated from that high school fourteen years previously, and graduated well shy of his 18th birthday, as was the custom in those days with bright hardworking youngsters.) The team rapidly grew to one of the largest and most consistently competitive in the country. His philosophy as coach was strictly meritocratic, on the old City College model. Anyone could join the team, provided they put in a minimum number of hours; there were no tryouts. They could compete at any tournaments that allowed for unlimited enrollment; only when there were limited available slots did he show preference for the “top” competitors on the team. And no one was ever cut because they didn’t perform well enough in competition. It wasn’t his responsibility to tell you whether it was worth your time and effort to compete; it was yours.
He was an inspiring but terrifying teacher of the old school, someone gleefully eager to show you up but never small-souled enough to want to put you down. But you didn’t want to be shown up – and he wouldn’t let you back down. If you made a foolish remark or response to a question, for example, and tried to get out of it by saying you were “just kidding,” Richard would bellow: “KIDDING is an obnoxious operation performed upon a female goat to remove her otherwise unbearable YOUNG!” And he was as awesome as an English teacher as he was as a debate coach. I remember, he began his first lecture on Henry IV part 1 (yes, a high school teacher who gave lectures), by writing on the blackboard the lecture’s title: “Everything You Need To Know.” This turned out to be a chronicle of the Kings and Queens of England from William the Conqueror down through James I – not, you would think, the most auspicious beginning for a bunch of restless high school students, but he had such a commanding voice that we were riveted. We then proceeded to read the play closely, analytically – and also out loud, theatrically. Richard always played the part of Falstaff himself, a character with whom he identified to an alarming degree. My lifelong love of Shakespeare I owe to him, more than to anyone else in my life.
I owe him as well for giving me a proper perspective on my own talents. Debate came very naturally to me, and in plenty of programs I would have been encouraged to believe myself one of the elect – pushed to excel further, of course, but not to question a hierarchy of values according to which my talents were the worthiest of admiration. Richard did, of course, value those same talents very highly – he wouldn’t have been a high school debate coach if he didn’t. But he understood our activity as being embedded in a larger social framework, not as a thing in itself and capable of making a proper estimation of its own worth.
I can best explain what I mean by this by reference to a particular peeve of his: student complaints about judging. Again and again, debaters would come to him complaining that they didn’t deserve to lose a particular round. The judge wasn’t experienced enough, or was biased, or simply didn’t understand their argument. Maybe she was somebody’s mother – somebody who knew nothing about debate. To which Richard invariably would reply, as if issuing the first commandment: “The judge is always right.” It was the cornerstone of his philosophy of debate. Your job, as a debater, was not to make the cleverest or deepest or in-some-sense “truest” arguments, but to convince the judge. If you failed to do that, you lost – and you deserved to.
This was a more radical perspective than it might seem. By the time I was engaged in the activity, high school policy (or “cross-ex”) debate had evolved in a highly technical direction. Arguments followed a rigid formal structure, replete with obscure lingo, and delivered at the speed of a tobacco auctioneer. From the perspective of most of us debaters, the winner of a debate could only be discerned by someone experienced enough to accurately record the flow of argumentation, who could understand the lingo, who knew the arcane rules of the debate world. Richard understood the lingo – he taught it to us. He understood the formal structure – a lot better than any of us young upstarts did. But he was also a lonely voice reminding us that our notions of what mattered were so much idle chatter, because we were not the judges.
There’s been a lot of that kind of chatter lately about the decline of debate, at the high school and college level, into a combination of “meta” argumentation (debate about the rules of debate, rather than about the topic) and the abandonment of structured argument entirely in favor of “personal testimony” (see here for a good example of such chatter). I understand the laments – but I also understand the other side, inasmuch as I remember what debate was like in my day. Our vaunted technical rules were not designed to persuade, nor were they designed to force us to learn about the topic; rather, they honed our skills where we were already strongest, and were designed to make it easier to shift the ground from the official topic to what we would rather talk about – which was usually global thermonuclear war.
Don’t get me wrong: I learned an enormous amount from researching, and an enormous amount from practicing the art of argument. If I were running a program, as Richard did, I would tilt strongly in the direction of traditional practice, and against newfangled approaches that scant the development of those vital skills. But if I, as a debater, had ever lost to someone who, instead of arguing back, recited a poem, or testified about her personal experience, and had complained to Richard about the loss, I know what he would have said. The judge is always right. If I couldn’t convince the judge that my argument was more deserving than my opponent’s poem, then I had failed. And I deserved to lose. Because here’s the thing: out there in the real world, people will employ all sorts of rhetorical strategies to win, and you need to be prepared for all of them, not just the ones you enjoy the most or think are the most intellectually rewarding.
My debt to Richard is not only intellectual. His impact on my emotional development was more complex, but I recognize a substantial debt of gratitude there as well. Like many people who spend their lives among adolescents, Richard had a bit of the arrested adolescent about him. His emotions were all out on the table. When he was depressed – and he could get deeply depressed – he would stare at us across the desk and ask, in all sincerity, “I want to die; why won’t you people let me die?” And he cared more about our lives than, frankly, an adult ought to do – he lived through us. But he did care, and we – at least I – really appreciated knowing that.
I was a pretty hormone-addled teenager, far too embarrassed by that fact to actually talk about it, and far too addled not to have to do something about it. As the James Spader character put it in the movie, “sex, lies and videotape,” “Well, at that time, uh… I… I used to express my feelings nonverbally, and often scared people that were close to me.” I got mocked by Richard for my . . . nonverbal expressions of feeling often enough, in the way that I got mocked by my peers. But I also got accepted, in the way that I got accepted by my peers. And that meant a great deal, at the time. Teenagers go through all kinds of emotional dramas, some ridiculous and some deadly serious. He rode through the rapids with us; for some of us, he’s a major reason we made it safely ashore. I can think of any number of other students, bright kids who were failing out of school, who were struggling with abusive parents, or who had attempted suicide, who found in him a deep well of empathy under that monumental edifice of erudition. But empathy never meant being a willing accomplice to folly. When I think of some other coaches I know who implicated themselves in their students’ vices, even acting as their procurers, I appreciate all the more how different Richard was, how seriously he took his responsibilities, as a teacher, mentor, and true friend to his students.
That empathy, that caring, took its own toll, sometimes, because teenagers are capable of extraordinary feats of ingratitude. I remember coming to the debate room once and finding a chair had been thrown through the window of the closet. What had happened? I asked another student. Oh, so-and-so failed his final, so Mr. Sodikow threw a chair. I knew the situation: Richard had been tutoring this kid, practically dragging him bodily over the line to pass this class, to no avail. Did he throw the chair at the student in rage, or in an empty classroom in frustration? I assume the latter – the student in question showed no signs of fear or hurt. But even so, it tells you something about how badly we could hurt him, and how ill-equipped he was to absorb that hurt. Kind of like us.
Richard mellowed quite a bit in retirement. He enjoyed his status as a living legend on the debate circuit. But though he was forced to slow down, he never actually rested. That’s part of why it’s so hard to think of him at permanent rest now. If you want to get a sense of the man, the power of his voice and his impish sense of humor, even in his frail latter years, take a look at this speech he gave at Emory University, a bit over a year ago.
For years after his retirement, he continued to keep tabs on us, his former students, far better than we, or at least I, kept tabs on him. That failure of mine is something I will regret until I follow him where he has gone.
May his memory be for a blessing.