Friday, June 9, 2017

Thoughts on Ideological Purity

A couple of times recently I've heard the phrase "ideological purity", and thought, "That's really what some people want, isn't it?" Part of the reason our country is so polarized, I think, is that there are vocal minorities on both sides of the political spectrum who insist on ideological purity. They have an orthodoxy, and they try to enforce it. They view moderate and independent members of their own party as heretics (or at least dangerously lapsed), and they view the other party as infidels and villains so irredeemable that it's a waste of time to engage with them.

On the far right is a vocal minority that refuses to compromise on anything, and attacks more moderate conservatives, calling them "Republicans in Name Only" or even "cuckservatives". Or they accuse them of being slaves to political correctness. 


Which brings us to the far left. While some conservatives have distorted the meaning of political correctness beyond recognition, and claim they're "not bowing to political correctness" when they're really just being rude or hateful, some on the left really do insist on a rigid form of political correctness. It is an orthodoxy, and they do try to enforce it. After all, the literal meaning of the words "politically correct" implies that there's a political viewpoint--and manner of speaking--which is indisputably the "correct" one. We've all seen the conservative speakers shouted down on liberal campuses, and even "ideologically impure" liberal professors have been targeted for their heresies. And have you noticed there's a whole genre of articles circulating on social media entitled "Why You Need to Stop Saying ________."?

Some on the far left really do try to tell others, across the political spectrum, exactly how they should be thinking and speaking. It may be worse on the left than the right, and I say that as a moderate liberal. Even as I write this, I'm wondering who will be offended by it, and whether they will write me off as a heretic. Do moderate conservatives have similar fears?

In any case, I think there are many problems with these attempts to enforce orthodoxy. One is that more moderate and independent types on both sides (who are actually the majority) are afraid to speak their minds, not for fear of being attacked by the other side, but for fear of being attacked by the orthodox wing of their own side. So there's fragmentation and bad blood within as well as between political parties, and the country grows more fragmented and dysfunctional. 

But there's another problem with ideological orthodoxy that I want to focus on here, and it is this: Once you declare that one particular stance on an issue cannot be wrong, and should not be questioned, you have stopped reasoning about that issue. And once you declare that others can't question an ideology, you've said that they must stop reasoning, too. People with rigid ideologies may still be "thinking", in the sense of spending mental energy defending or elaborating that ideology, but if there is no possibility of changing their ideology, they aren't really reasoning. Because the whole point of reasoning is to discover truths you didn't already know. Isn't it?

And chances are, there's a lot we don't already know. What are the chances that either extreme on the political spectrum (which is an artificial construct anyway) in this particular country, at this particular time in history, has finally got it figured out? Not very high, if you ask me. The universe is far bigger and more complex than our little primate brains can easily grasp. I have undergraduate and graduate degrees in psychology, and if there's one clear lesson to be learned from psychology it's that the human mind is easily fooled. Our senses are woefully limited, and we fall prey to dozens of different perceptual illusions, cognitive biases, and logical fallacies. As a species, our ability to see the world clearly is so pitiful that for most of human history we didn't know the shape of the planet we spent every day of our lives on. We were so sure it was flat that we attacked the people who said it wasn't. We probably burned a few at the stake for it.

We know more now, of course (and we're slightly more tolerant of opposing views). There are things we can be confident of, but they're mostly things which can be empirically verified. We're confident enough now that the world is round, for example, that we can call it a fact. But most ideologies aren't entirely, or even mostly, factual. They're full of opinions about complex systems like economies and social dynamics that can't easily be pinned down empirically, as well as value judgments and ethical stances that may never be empirically testable. But you wouldn't know this when talking to the ideologically orthodox on both sides of the the political spectrum. They sound for all the world like they're talking about established facts, when they're usually just expressing opinions and forgetting the difference. (I've been guilty of this myself, of course).

And perhaps we can be confident of some things we can't really call facts. As I stop and think this over (that's the main reason I write these--to clarify my thoughts), I suppose there are some moral opinions that we can be pretty confident in, too. We can be confident that murder, rape, and slavery are wrong, for example--confident enough to enforce legal penalties against them. But these are clear cases that most people agree on, whereas many of the opinions people express as though they were facts really are just opinions, and not ones that most people can agree on. 

So here's the question I want to ask people at both far ends of the political spectrum: Are you really that sure that your opinions are right? So sure that you can stop reasoning about them? So sure that you can tell others to stop questioning and reasoning as well? Should anybody be THAT confident in their opinions?

Thursday, May 11, 2017

Sagan's Dust Mote: An Evening Reflection

Tonight I sat on my couch just as the evening sun was streaming through my west window, and I noticed a few dust particles glowing and dancing in the light. It made me think of Carl Sagan's famous reflection comparing the Earth to "a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam."

His comparison was inspired by a photo of the Earth taken by the Voyager 1 space probe in 1990, just as it was leaving the solar system. That's it, in the image I've posted here. That little dot in the band of light at the top is Earth, as it looks from beyond the orbit of Neptune. The "sunbeams" are actually bands of refracted sunlight created by the camera's optics, but that's a justifiable bit of poetic license. After all, Earth really is suspended in sunlight.

As I watched the dust motes in my living room swirling in that same sunlight, I thought about Sagan's comparison, and wondered how accurate it was. Is our whole world--the home of every known living thing--really that tiny? To find out, I did some figuring. I'll spare you the math and skip to the results--I think you'll find them impressive.

Imagine the Earth really were the size of one of those dust particles floating in my living room--a big one; about 30 millionths of a meter across. That speck of dust would be about 15 inches from the sun, which would be about the size of a BB. Neptune would be orbiting that BB at a distance of about 37 feet.

And the nearest star? It would be 63 miles away.

That's about the average distance between all the 100 billion or so stars in the Milky Way galaxy. If Earth were a speck of dust, the Milky Way would still be over a million miles across. And that's just one galaxy, in a universe filled with uncountable galaxies.

It seems, then, that Carl Sagan wasn't exaggerating at all. If anything, he was being too generous. On the scale of the stars, our planet is unimaginably tiny--a little speck of nothing. And yet, it's not nothing; not to us. But don't listen to me. Listen to Dr. Sagan, because he said it better than I ever could:
Consider again that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar", every "supreme leader", every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there — on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. 
The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. 
Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. 
The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand. 
It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.

Saturday, May 6, 2017

Darkness, Light, and Prairie Dogs

This past Thursday I was off work on a beautiful day in Colorado, and I was depressed. It was the National Day of Prayer, and Donald Trump was using it to sign an executive order promoting "religious freedom", which all too often these days means using religion as an excuse to discriminate. Meanwhile, the House of Representatives was using the day to vote for a bill that--if it passes the Senate and gets signed--will result in millions of people losing meaningful health insurance. And then there as a tweet by a former Republican congressman named Joe Walsh, saying "Your sad story doesn't obligate me or anybody else to pay for somebody else's health care." I figured that was a good summary of the way many Republican politicians think, and that was depressing.

So, I did what I always do when I get depressed and cynical about the human race, and took a hike. Getting out in nature always restores me. But this time, it was taking a while. I was walking along, stewing about the news and human cruelty, when I saw a litter of prairie dog pups playing, while their mother watched over them from their burrow. Every once in a while one would run back and nuzzle its mama, and then go play again. They were having a blast, and my dark mood vanished instantly. 

I thought, "However ugly humans can be, there's still all this joy and beauty in the world" Prairie dog pups have been spilling out of their burrows to play in the spring sun for millions of years. It's an ancient, rhythmic cycle of happiness that's older than humanity. And that's a beautiful, awe-inspiring thing.

So nature did its trick, and I was soothed. And I stayed that way, but my thoughts soon grew darker and more realistic. And here I need you to bear with my for a while, because I'm going to sound really cynical, but my ultimate point is not cynical at all. So buckle up--it gets ugly for a second. As I kept walking, I realized I shouldn't romanticize the prairie dog pups too much. I'm convinced they were feeling real joy as they romped, but their lives are hard. Coyotes, rattlesnakes, and hawks are out there hunting them, and not all the pups are likely to make it to adulthood. Plus, prairie dogs are plagued with disease. Literally--they get bubonic plague. And they're no angels themselves--they often kill smaller rodents who compete with them for food. 

So I kept walking, still soothed but more sober. As I came around a small hill, I heard a strange snorting sound. I started looking in the bushes, hoping to see a badger (for some reason I was imagining badgers sound like that). But it turned out to be a deer. There was a group of mule deer browsing on the hillside, and one of them was snorting, shaking its head, and pawing at its face. And here was another reminder not to romanticize nature. Most likely, the deer had been attacked by a deer bot fly. While it was grazing on bushes, the fly--which mimics a bumblebee almost perfectly--had flown up and sprayed its eggs into the deer's nose, and its young had grown into bullet-shaped worms in a cavity in the deer's head. Now the deer was slowly snorting and coughing them out, so they could go on with their horrid little life cycle. The deer will probably be fine, but it's safe to say its life is no bowl of rose petals. That's why I always scoff when I see products that say they're safe because they're "all natural". Have people SEEN what nature is capable of?

But please stay with me, and don't get me wrong. Nature is beautiful and endlessly awe-inspiring, and I love it as much as anyone I know. But it isn't benevolent. It's not malevolent, either. It just IS. Organisms in nature evolve because they find a niche that's stable. That niche may be the "playful, lovable otter" niche, or it may be the deer bot fly niche (or the bubonic plague bacterium niche, for that matter.) Evolution doesn't have a preference, because it doesn't feel empathy. It doesn't say, "I can't make a fly that does that to a deer!" Nature as a whole does not feel compassion. What happens just happens, and sometimes it's pretty awful. 

And I think many Republicans with a social-Darwinist outlook, like Joe Walsh of the Mean Tweet, think that's something humans should emulate. While some liberals romanticize nature by seeing it as benevolent, there's a subset of conservatives who look to the callousness of nature for an ethical example. And both are committing that most common of fallacies, the appeal to nature fallacy. The fact that nature does something doesn't mean we should. Mammals often commit infanticide. Male ducks practice what's euphemistically called "forced copulation". These things are absolutely natural, because they happen in nature all the time. Does that mean we should do them, too?

Hell no.

And that's my non-cynical point, if you've stayed with me this long: even if nature as a whole is pitiless, compassion and empathy do exist, and they can be cultivated. It doesn't just exist in humans. I believe a mother prairie dog feels compassion (and maybe even joy) as she watches her babies play. Many animals seem to be compassionate toward their close relatives. A few of the more brainy mammals and birds form friendships with non-relatives, occasionally even from other species. There's a whole theory of why this happens, called reciprocal altruism, but the point is that they've widened the circle of care beyond family. Humans have widened it even further. We, or at least most of us, are capable of looking at other sentient beings and realizing they are capable of joy and suffering, just like we are. If nothing else, sheer, cold logic should tell us that other people's hopes, desires, fears, and pains are just as real and intense to them as ours are to us. Why wouldn't they be? 

Even if other animals are capable of this sort of realization (and I bet some are) there's not much they can do about it. We're different. We can look at nature's dearth of kindness and compassion and say, "That's not good enough." Once I came upon a dog stranded on a pillar of rock. Its owner told me later it had been missing for a week. Nature would have let that dog die, but I didn't. I got it off that rock and got it some food and water. And you would have too. And that is an amazing thing. Think about it: we are a part of nature that is actually capable of seeing suffering in the world, and deciding to do something about it. We are, at least in this part of the universe, nature's conscience. 

Or we could be. We have that potential. But history has shown that we sharpen nature's hardest edges as often as we smooth them. The worst of us have invented cruelties nature could never match, because nature isn't cruel. It may be mostly compassionless, but it doesn't revel in the pain of others. Some people unfortunately do. So, cruelty, like kindness, is also a rare element in the universe, and I think most of us are capable of both under the right circumstances. There's a darkness in us darker than anything in nature, but there's a light in us, too. That light is composed of things like compassion, kindness, and the ability to make the world a better place; to make life in it more worth living. Maybe it's a divine light, I don't know. Maybe it's the light in the Jewish idea of the broken vessels, and gathering and cultivating that light is the act of tikkun olam--repairing the world. Maybe that light is what Jesus meant when he said the kingdom of heaven is within. And maybe it's a happy accident? I don't know the answer, and I don't know that it matters. But I am pretty sure that humans have a choice between the darkness and the light inside of us. And I know which one we had better choose.

Saturday, February 25, 2017

Hidden Beauty

At times when science is questioned and threatened, as it is currently, its defenders remind us of the many reasons science is vital: Science cures diseases and improves our quality of life. Science education and funding helps the US stay competitive in an increasingly technology-driven global economy. Science helps us understand how the world works; uncovering nature's deepest laws. All these things are true and crucial, but I think there's another gift science gives us that's widely underappreciated, even by many scientists. Science shows us the hidden beauty and wonder of nature. Science can make the mundane awe-inspiring.

Consider, for example, the rock in the picture above. It doesn't look like much, does it? It sits in a parking lot at a trailhead near Boulder, Colorado, and people walk by every day without ever noticing it. But that rock has a story to tell.

It comes from a layer of rock in the canyons above Boulder known as the Coal Creek Formation. If you look at it closely, you see that it's made of smaller rocks--it's a type of rock called conglomerate. The constituent rocks are slightly rounded, like river rocks, because that's exactly what they once were. Long ago, they were part of a rocky riverbank a few miles from a mountain range. But no animals roamed that bank, and no trees shaded it. Animals and trees didn't exist yet, because that riverbank existed 1700 million years ago.

Even then, the pebbles inside that rock were ancient by our standards. They had eroded out of rocks formed millions of years before, when the ancient core of North America colliding with a line of volcanic islands, which slowly smashed together to create the first land that would become Colorado. Mountains rose in the collision, and then began to erode away, as mountains constantly do. The riverbank was eventually buried, and the pebbles and sand solidified into a layer of conglomerate. Then it was buried deeper and deeper, until eventually it was miles underground, where the heat and pressure fused the pebbles and sand together into a metamorphic rock called quartzite. The conglomerate had become a metaconglomerate. In some places where this rock appears today, you can see where the original river pebbles were warped and stretched in its journey through the depths.

A billion and a half years ago, then, our boulder was part of a layer of rock buried deep in the earth. And there it stayed, for hundreds of millions of years. Up above, single-celled life slowly evolved into complex organisms like early plants and animals. Some of the fish came onto the land and became amphibians, and some of the amphibians evolved into early reptiles. Finally, after 1400 million years, our rock began to rise again. Far-off tectonic forces were lifting a new mountain range, called the Ancestral Rocky Mountains. The Coal Creek formation rose to the surface, and was then hoisted into the air as a part of the mountains. Once again, erosion set in, and parts of the formation eroded into pebbles in mountain streams. Aprons of rocky debris spread out of the dwindling mountains onto the flatlands. One day, they would become the soaring red cliffs of Red Rocks Amphitheater and the Boulder Flatirons. Finally, the Ancestral Rockies crumbled into a sea of sand dunes (which would one day form the rocks at Garden of the Gods), which was in turn covered by an actual, shallow sea.

Elsewhere, dinosaurs evolved and grew into giants, who eventually migrated across the Jurassic coast of Colorado, leaving their huge footprints and bones in the sand. The seas rose again, and giant reptiles patrolled the waters, while pterosaurs soared above the waves like scaly pelicans. Then the sea retreated again around 67 million years ago, as a third set of mountains--called the Laramide Rockies--started to rise. Triceratops and T rex roamed the rainforests below, leaving more bones and footprints along the Front Range, before they were killed by an asteroid that firebombed North America. All the while, the Coal Creek formation kept rising with the mountains.

The Laramide Rockies began eroding as soon as they started to rise, and parts of the Coal Creek Formation again fell into mountain streams, creating a new generation of river rocks. Giant boulders southwest of Denver tell us that enormous floods once roared out of the mountains, powerful enough to carry refrigerator-sized rocks for nearly fifty miles. Eventually, all the erosion nearly buried the Laramide Rockies in their own debris. The high plains rose nearly to the tops of the mountains in a smooth incline, as they still do in southern Wyoming. The surface of the plain was high above the current sites of the cities along the Front Range. Our boulder was still part of a larger rock, which was (probably) buried once again.

Finally, around 5 million years ago, the land began to rise again (or perhaps the climate grew wetter) and rivers began carving up the landscape once again. The hard rock in the buried mountains resisted erosion, and the mountains began to emerge from their debris. These were the modern Rockies--the fourth mountain range our rock has seen. Earth entered one of its periodic ice ages, and glaciers began to descend from the mountains. They would stick around for 100,000 years or so, carving the high peaks into their current dramatic form, and then retreat for a few millennia during a brief, warm recess. Human civilization has arisen during the latest recess.

Down lower, when the ground around Boulder was still a few hundred feet higher than it is today, our rock finally eroded out a cliff and fell into Coal Creek. Its rounded shape tells us that floods knocked it against other rocks and ground away its edges, and its large size tells us these were powerful floods--only a flood can carry a rock that big. One of these floods finally carried it out of the mountains and deposited it on a flat plain. That plain was left standing by erosion around it, and now it's a mesa (technically a pediment) known as Rocky Flats. Rocky Flats is now notorious for being radioactive, due to careless handling of nuclear waste by some recently-evolved primates. At some point, those primates built a parking lot, and put our boulder there as a decoration. And there it sits. For now.

Will it still be sitting there when we are gone? It certainly could be--we are ephemeral things by its standards--but how long we last will depend on how wise and lucky we turn out to be. In any case, in the short time we've been here, we've discovered science. And science has allowed us to look at that nondescript rock in a parking lot and see beyond its initial appearance, to the amazing, eons-long story it can tell. The rock can't appreciate the grandeur of its own story, but we can. That's a major reason science is so important--it gives us the knowledge we need to appreciate the hidden beauty of nature.

Of course, some people don't see science this way. They think science kills the wonder of nature by reducing it to equations and theories; by "unweaving the rainbow" as Keats put it. And science can be dry and boring, when it isn't communicated well. But it doesn't have to be. When it is communicated well, science can show us the astounding majesty of nature. I think the physicist Walter Lewin put this best (in a lecture on the beauty of rainbows): "Knowledge always adds. Knowledge never subtracts. Knowledge is hidden beauty." That nondescript rock in a parking lot is full of hidden beauty, once you know how to see it.

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Geology Underfoot Along Colorado's Front Range / Lon Abbott and Terri Cook  I learned about this rock, and the Coal Creek formation, from this excellent book. My copy is falling apart, because I've tromped all over the Front Range with it in my backpack.

The Hidden Beauty of Rainbows / Walter Lewin 


Thursday, February 9, 2017

Facts are not Partisan: A Plea to Honest Conservatives

The party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command. His heart sank as he thought of the enormous power arrayed against him.
- George Orwell, 1984
Still from the film Gaslight
Most of the people I knew growing up were conservatives. I'm from rural Arkansas--a red part of a red state--so many of my friends, extended family, and teachers were very conservative. And most of them were good, honest people. My maternal grandfather, for example, was the very picture of a conservative man's man. He was a cattle-rancher; a big man who was still saddle-breaking horses well into his sixties. He didn't even have to try to be manly. He had that rare kind of effortless masculinity that other men looked up to, and were secretly intimidated by. He was a staunch Republican, from a family that was Republican when most southerners were Democrats. And he was one of the best and most honest men I've ever known. In fact, honesty was something he was known for. Several people made a point to tell me that my grandpa was one of the most honest people they had ever met.

I'm a moderate liberal myself, and my grandfather never liked that (he once peeled a Bill Clinton sticker off my car) but I think he would have been pleased to know he was my main role model for honesty. At times in my life when I've been asked to do something advantageous but dishonest, I've always thought of him. And it's helped me do the right thing. 

That's one reason I'm so disturbed by our new president and his administration. My grandfather was one of many Republican role models I've had in my life, and I don't want to see their party take the path it's taking. I don't want it to become the party of Trump. While most of the Republicans I knew growing up were good people, I truly don't think Donald Trump is. He just isn't like them. He's not modest. He's not polite. He's not kind. He's not respectful of other people. He follows none of the teachings in the Sermon on the Mount. He's an admitted adulterer who's bragged about behavior that the Republicans I grew up around would be sickened by. 

But what I want to focus on here is that he is not honest. 

It's a demonstrable, well-documented fact that our new president is a habitual liar. That's a terrible thing to say, but it's true. Just the other day, he told a group of sheriffs that the murder rate is the highest it's been in 47 years. That wasn't simply untrue; it was almost the opposite of the truth. FBI data show that the murder rate is close to the lowest it's been in 50 years. And that's just one of many of Trump's lies. Recently, he lied about the size of the crowd at his inauguration, saying it was bigger than Barack Obama's, even though anybody could compare pictures of the two crowds and see that this simply wasn't true. And his staff backed him up with their own lies. Kellyanne Conway created a new catchphrase when she claimed they were just "alternative facts", and then created an internet meme with a lie about the Bowling Green Massacre, which, as everybody now knows, never happened.

This administration's lies are so bold and pervasive that they're starting to seem like an intentional strategy to make people question their grip on reality. As many have pointed out, it closely resembles a form of psychological abuse called gaslighting. In the movie Gaslight, a sociopathic man makes Ingrid Bergman think she's going crazy by making her think she can't believe her own eyes. When she sees a gaslight flickering and wonders why, he denies that it's happening, even though she can plainly see it. Soon, rather than believe he could lie that shamelessly, she starts to question her own sanity. That's the reason gaslighting works, ironically. Most people can't imagine lying remorselessly themselves, so they can't believe anyone else could either. They start to doubt their own sanity before believing another person could really be that dishonest. 

Now the Trump administration is taking advantage of that fact, and they're starting to resemble a propaganda ministry in an authoritarian country or dystopian novel. Lately it's been reminding me of the information minister in Iraq during the American invasion in 2003. Remember him? I'll never forget how he looked right at the cameras and said there was no invasion, while American troops poured into the country all around him. I never dreamed we would have an American president and his staff acting like Saddam Hussein's information minister, but here we are.

And that shouldn't be acceptable to any of us--Republican or Democrat. Facts are not partisan. Reality doesn't care what ideology we subscribe to, and facts are facts whether we believe them or not. That's basically what facts are. And facts must be defended, even when it isn't easy. After the Boston Massacre, John Adams almost ruined his career by defending the British soldiers in court. He did the hard and unpopular thing, because he believed that some of those soldiers were innocent. During the trial, he said, "Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence." Both parties should hold themselves to Adams' standard.

Of course, Democrats and Republicans can disagree about many things and remain decent, honest people. They may honestly disagree about what's right and wrong, and even what's true (if the evidence is inconclusive, or made to seem that way). But when it comes to truth and facts, there are two things both parties should agree on: 1. There's no such thing as alternative facts. If a claim contradicts the evidence, it's a falsehood, not an alternative fact. 2. Facts matter. Truth matters. Both parties should consider it unethical to tell lies, and grossly unethical for a leader to gaslight citizens as a political strategy.

Any party that can't accept or follow these principles has gone badly astray. Any party that tolerates habitual, blatant disregard for truth will either self-destruct or betray the democratic principles it was created to uphold. Believe it or not, I don't want to see either of these things happen to the Republican Party. Obviously I don't want to see the Republican Party to damage our country with a wildly unethical president, but I also don't want to see it self-destruct. I really don't. Even if I disagree with Republicans about most things, I wouldn't want to live in a one-party country ruled by the left. I think opposing factions are necessary to keep either side from sacrificing basic rights and liberties to their ideology, and I think there are people on both sides who would do just that if they could. History has shown that either the right or the left can descend into tyranny when unopposed.

So, if you're the kind of decent, honest conservative that I grew up around, I'm not going to plead with you to abandon your party. I know that's not going to happen. But I am going to plead with you to take a stand, and fix it. Don't let Trump become the face of the Republican Party. Don't let it become the first party in American history to abandon truth completely. Don't let that happen to the party of Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, and Eisenhower. Please...don't let that happen on your watch. 

You may be getting defensive right now, and if so I don't blame you. I probably would be too if I were in your shoes, and believe me, I don't envy your position. I genuinely feel bad for the many Republicans I know who are as horrified by Trump as I am. To my knowledge, nothing quite like this has happened before in American history. Even Nixon didn't try to make the American people disbelieve their own eyes and ears. No national politician has ever seemed truly devoid of honesty the way Trump seems to be. 

You may also be thinking I'm a hypocrite, asking you to do something about a lying politician in your party, when there have been plenty of lying Democrats. After all, Lyndon Johnson lied about the Gulf of Tonkin incident. Bill Clinton did, in fact, have sex with that woman. Hillary Clinton never came under sniper fire. Yes, "my" politicians have also lied. But I don't think they've ever lied like Trump does, because I can't think of any politician in American history who has. 

But let's say I'm wrong. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that Hillary would have been just as dishonest as Trump. If that were true, you and I both know two wrongs don't make a right. Another politician's lies don't make Trump's lies OK. So, call me a hypocrite if you like. Believe Hillary lied as much as Trump if you must. And then show me why you're better than that, even if I'm not.

I wouldn't make such a plea in normal times, but these are not normal times, and this is not a normal Republican president. What's at stake here is not just the future of your party, but the future of the entire country...perhaps the future of the entire world. You can think what you like about me; that's not important. What's important is that Republicans take a stand and tell Trump that his lies are unacceptable and have to stop. That simply has to happen, and I'm hopeful that it will. Here's why: if you're one of the many good, honest conservatives like the ones I grew up around, I know you. You're in the same party as my tough, honest Republican grandfather, and he was nothing like Donald Trump. He was so much better than that, and I believe that you are too. 

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Saturday, January 28, 2017

What Patriotism Means to a Liberal

The other day I was taken aback when I heard a nice, intelligent-sounding young woman explain why she disapproved of Barack Obama and supported Donald Trump: she said she thought Trump has more pride in America. I think it really jolted me because I had just listened to Obama's farewell address, and it was absolutely packed with patriotic themes: with references to American history, to freedom, to the Constitution and Declaration of Independence, and much more. It seemed like the essence of patriotism to me.

Of course, it was a very different kind of patriotic expression than Trump's, and maybe that's why it didn't seem like patriotism to her at all. And Trump's approach, with its appeals to fear and jingoism, had never seemed like patriotism to me. Frankly, Trump's idea of American pride scares me. We all know that pride has a dark side. In people and in nations, pride can be healthy self-respect, but it can also be a destructive arrogance. Trump's American pride strikes me as the second kind--the kind of belligerent, uncritical nationalism that has caused untold suffering in recent centuries.

Patriotism can simply be another word for nationalism, and I think anybody will agree that nationalism also has a dark side. The most extreme example, of course, is Nazi Germany; a case of runaway nationalism that caused one of the greatest tragedies in human history. After living through it, Albert Einstein called nationalism "the measles of mankind". I can see his point.

But I want to be clear. I'm not saying Trumpism is equivalent to Nazism. I'm just saying it leans in that ultra-nationalist direction much more than I am comfortable with. At the same time, I think patriotism can be a good thing. Patriotism can simply mean loving one's country, and I do love my country. Many conservatives have the idea that liberals don't love America. I've even heard some say that liberals like Obama hate America. We don't. We love our country, but we simply have a different idea of what that means, and how to express it. Our love of country--our patriotism--doesn't look the same as the conservative version, and I think that's why conservatives sometimes have difficulty recognizing it.

So, I'd like to clarify what patriotism means for liberals (or at least this liberal), and why I can't agree with Trump's version of it. My purpose here isn't to denounce anybody, but to explain why I, and millions of other liberals, love our country, and what that means.

Let me start by saying what is NOT my idea of patriotism, and then explain what is:

My patriotism isn't about declaring that my country can do no wrong. Clearly, it has done wrong. Look at slavery. Look at Jim Crow. Look at how we treated Native Americans. It serves no purpose to pretend those things never happened. Nothing good can come of declaring, "My country, right or wrong". To do so lets us excuse whatever we do, right or wrong, simply because it is us doing it.

My patriotism isn't about an aggressive belligerence toward other countries. It isn't the "my way or the highway" attitude George W. Bush showed the world, and Trump is now showing. Many other countries, and their citizens, have achieved great things, and deserve our respect. America shouldn't act like a swaggering high school bully any more than the bully should. If that approach is wrong for an individual, why should it be right for an entire nation? Besides, as I mentioned above, history has shown that we aren't always in the right.

My patriotism isn't about thinking our leaders and their policies can't be criticized. This was also a view of patriotism that developed during the Bush years, and many times before. Remember the Dixie Chicks? I suspect it's going to make a comeback under Trump. But what kind of sense does such an idea of patriotism make in a democratic republic? Ours is a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, and as the Declaration of Independence says, it "derives its just powers from the consent of the governed". That means the governed should always be able to speak their conscience, whether in dissent or agreement with official policies or with the opinion of the majority.

My patriotism isn't necessarily militaristic. Of course I honor the sacrifices and bravery of the people who have fought and died on behalf of this country. Their sacrifice is greater than any I'm ever likely to make. At the same time, not every military action our country has engaged in, or might engage in, is justified. Some of our wars should not have been fought, and that can't be changed by the terrible fact that Americans died fighting them. That is tragic, but it's true. Politicians learned long ago to suppress dissent by starting wars and then claiming that questioning those wars is equivalent to disrespecting our troops. It isn't equivalent, and we should never let politicians use our soldiers' sacrifice as a tactic of manipulation. And we should never let them send our soldiers off to risk their lives in an unjust war.

My patriotism isn't about a quasi-religious reverence for symbols like the flag. It seems to me that what's really important isn't the symbol, but the principles it represents--the principles expressed in the Declaration and Constitution. Similarly, my patriotism isn't about forced expressions of allegiance to those symbols, as in the Pledge of Allegiance. I've never thought it made sense to affirm our freedoms by requiring people to stand up and recite a pledge in unison. Where is the freedom in that? Besides, the Pledge isn't a founding document like the Declaration of Independence or the Constitution. It was created by a Christian socialist Baptist minister (imagine that!) in 1892, as a part of a campaign to sell American flags. The "under God" part wasn't added until 1954--around the same time that "In God We Trust" was added to our money. And that brings us to religion...

My patriotism isn't about linking American pride or identity to Christianity, or any particular religion. Many of our founders were freethinkers, not orthodox Christians, and they were careful to separate religion and government, on the theory that good fences make good neighbors. James Madison modeled the First Amendment on the Virginia Statute of Religious Freedom, written by Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson later said that mention of Jesus was expressly left out of that statute, because it  was "meant to comprehend, within the mantle of its protection, the Jew and the Gentile, the Christian and Mahometan, the Hindoo, and Infidel of every denomination." Freedom of religion is one most precious things we have in this country, but today the phrase has been twisted to mean the freedom to discriminate against others. That's the very opposite of what freedom of religion is about. It's about the freedom to believe, or not, according to your conscience, not to impose your belief on others. As a freethinker myself, I'm following a tradition that goes back to Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, Ethan Allen, and Thomas Paine. Should those original patriots be considered unpatriotic because they weren't orthodox Christians?

Similarly, my patriotism isn't about imagining that "real" Americans come in any particular race or religion. A white Baptist cowboy born in Texas is not one speck "more American" than a gay Filipino Muslim in born in California...or a Hindu born in India and naturalized as an American citizen. To think otherwise is to misunderstand what this country is about. It's about freedom, diversity, and opportunity; not any particular race or religion. If you want to see a truly deep kind of patriotism, go to a business owned by a naturalized immigrant with an accent. Very often you'll find a picture of them proudly standing in front of the flag on the day they became an American citizen.

That's why my patriotism also isn't about suspicion of foreigners, or the idea that my life is more important than anyone else's because I was lucky enough to be born in this country. I recently heard a Trump supporter say he thinks one American life is worth millions foreign lives. Millions! I once heard someone say, "I'm a nationalist. I don't care what happens to foreigners". I'm appalled by that attitude. It seems both cruel and nonsensical to me, and here's why: imagine that a Muslim child is adopted from Syria and raised as an American Christian. Does that event magically change something and make her life more important than if she had stayed in Syria? More important than if she had stayed Muslim? If so where does that happen? At the border? When she is baptized? Does it make her hopes and fears, her pains and aspirations, less real? Of course it doesn't. My birthplace might make me luckier than others, but it doesn't make me better than others, or my life more valuable.

OK. Enough about what my idea of patriotism isn't. Now let me say what it is.

My idea of patriotism and pride in my country was best stated by a German immigrant named Carl Shurz, who became an American citizen, a Union general, a United States senator, and Secretary of the Interior. In 1899, he spoke in opposition to people using patriotism as an excuse to annex land after the Spanish-American war.
I confidently trust that the American people will prove themselves … too wise not to detect the false pride or the dangerous ambitions or the selfish schemes which so often hide themselves under that deceptive cry of mock patriotism: ‘Our country, right or wrong!’ They will not fail to recognize that our dignity, our free institutions and the peace and welfare of this and coming generations of Americans will be secure only as we cling to the watchword of true patriotism: ‘Our country—when right to be kept right; when wrong to be put right.'
That's my idea of patriotism: not to declare that our country is always right just because it's our country, but to strive to make sure it actually is right. What patriotism means to me is a continuing struggle to achieve the promises our country was founded on: that we are all created equal, that governments are created by the people and derive their just powers from the consent of the governed, that we have inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; to freedom of speech, freedom of religion and conscience, freedom of the press, assembly, petition, and all the other principles in the Bill of Rights. Those are principles that generations of Americans have have fought--and still fight--to turn into realities.

It's a continuing struggle. I think that's important to remember. The principles in the Declaration and Constitution were set down over 200 years ago by people we rightfully call founders, but that was only the beginning. When the Declaration was written, its authors had no intention of treating all men--or all people--as if they were created equal. Only property-owning white men had all the rights of citizens, and millions were enslaved--the Constitution referred to them as "three fifths of all other persons". The Bill of Rights was widely ignored, and didn't even apply to the states at first. What had to happen next, to begin achieving the promise of our founding documents, was best expressed by Martin Luther King: people had to "cash the check" those documents had written.

People had to fight to hold their country to its promise that we are all created equal, and have inalienable rights. It's often said that we owe our freedom and rights to our veterans who fought for them, and that's absolutely true, but we owe them to others as well. We owe them to the people who fought with words and activism instead of guns; who fought in the courts, in Congress, in the newspapers, and on the streets to abolish slavery, to secure the vote for women, to gain citizenship for Native Americans, to overturn Jim Crow, to fight discrimination based on sexuality and gender identity, and on and on and on. Many of those people died before they ever saw the fruits of what they fought for. Think about that. Dred Scott died before slavery was abolished. Elizabeth Cady Stanton never saw women voting. Homer Plessy didn't live to see Rosa Parks win the fight he lost. I consider these people, and many others like them, to be the founders of our country just as much as Jefferson or Madison, because they helped fulfill the promises those original founders made, but didn't keep.

So that's my idea of patriotism. I love my country, and because of that, I want it to fulfill its promise. And I don't think it's unpatriotic to say it still has work to do. I want my country to keep the principles it was founded on, and the rights and freedoms its citizens have won since then. My patriotism is about fighting to make sure we achieve a country with real freedom of religion, real freedom of expression, real due process of law, real government by the people, and real equality for all Americans. That's what patriotism means to me.

But it means something else, too. As I wrote the words above just now, I realized I haven't really earned the right to attempt soaring rhetoric. How much have I really sacrificed to make the principles of the Declaration and Constitution a reality? What have I done, compared to people like George Washington, Susan B. Anthony, Martin Luther King, Harvey Milk, or scores of others? Not much. Not yet. Yes, my patriotism is about pride, because I'm proud of what my country has achieved,but it's also about modesty: modesty on the national level in recognizing that our country has not fully realized its promise, and modesty on a personal level, in recognizing that my contribution so far has been slight. My patriotism, then, is about recognizing that what's truly great about America are the rights and freedoms people before me have fought for in struggles I can hardly imagine.

Finally, my patriotism is about understanding that those rights and freedoms have to be protected. It's about realizing there will always be people like Donald Trump, who will try to chip away at them, and perversely claim to do so in the name of patriotism. And if I ever want to think of myself as a patriot--as someone who works to make his country right and keep his country right--I have to do everything I can to keep that from happening.