Wanting a candidate to win...

... doesn't mean he/she will.

Living in Utah, I sometimes have political conversations with people. A typical trajectory for these conversations involves me advocating anything left of far-right extremism, while whoever I'm talking to uses a bristling arsenal of logical fallacies to refute my points.

But sometimes in these conversations I encounter the view that something is going to happen, but for no apparent reason. In other words, people want it to happen, therefore it will (they think).

A good example of this — and something I've seen countless times lately — is the notion that Mitt Romney is going to be the next president. Romney, though perhaps the current Republican front runner, is not doing great now and I think he'll only do worse and worse as the election season gears up. Here is why:

1. He's Mormon. Though Romney is sometimes compared to JFK, Mormons don't enjoy anything close to the status that Catholics did in the mid twentieth century. I simply don't think Romney will survive a Republican primary, where his religion will be viewed with great skepticism. I think Mormons sometimes don't realize that just because people have a generally favorable impression of the religion they won't automatically be willing to put up with a Mormon leader. And, despite the impression within Mormonism that the church is widely recognized and respected, a lot of people know nothing about the church, while others hold negative or wildly distorted views of it.

2. Slipperiness. Even if Romney did overcome the religion issue, no one really knows where Romney stands on anything, and the general sense is that he's willing to say and do whatever it takes to win. In other words, he's viewed by many as someone without integrity.

3. His record. Romney is ultimately a moderate. The Onion recently posted a funny article about this. But the problem is that it's absolutely true. Romney did some impressive things in Mass., but now he has to try to "overcome" most of the political accomplishments he's had.

These are basic facts that anyone who spends ten minutes a day reading political news would know.

But strangely, I keep running into people who either A) aren't aware that these perceptions exist, or B) don't think they'll matter.

If someone thinks that these points are wrong, or if they think they have counterpoints that they think addresses them, well then fair enough. But I've been surprised a lot of people I meet don't fall into either of those categories. They want Romney to win, so they think he will. When I ask them why, they usually just give some vague answer. (I wish someone would just be honest with me and say "he's Mormon, and he looks like a president.") And even when they have good reasons, they have no good response to the fact that Romney has perhaps more obstacles going into a Republican primary than any other major candidate.

I can testify to the fact that wanting a candidate to win doesn't ensure anything (Obama's victory was the first time in my life that my candidate won).

But more interestingly, I think that this attitude actually is self-defeating. I don't think that Romney has a chance. But I think that in four or eight years, Huntsman might. He's a moderate and a Mormon, but he doesn't yet have a reputation for flip-flopping and political two-facedness. If moderate Republicans, Mormons and others wanted to elect a candidate like Romney, they would do well to abandon him and begin supporting Huntsman. In 2012 he can raise his profile, and by 2016 he'll be a strong candidate.

In the end, I don't really care if my friends, family and neighbors support Romney. I'll be voting against whoever gets the Republican nomination anyway.

But think the situation is illustrative of the fact that wishful thinking alone is not enough.

Monday Movie: Topaz

You've probably at least seen clips of Psycho and The Birds. Maybe you've seen those films in their entirety. And you may even have watched Vertigo and North by Northwest. But have you seen Topaz?

Topaz is an Alfred Hitchcock classic, albeit a lesser known one compared to some of the director's other work. Still, almost everything of Hitchcock's is fantastic (though I didn't really enjoy The Trouble With Harry), and Topaz stands out for being especially vibrant and colorful. It's also much more expansive in it's setting than some of Hitchcock's more spatially restrained work. (Rope and Lifeboat being two extreme examples of Hitchcock restricting the action of a film to a singular location, but there are others.)

I first saw this movie one summer when I checked out literally dozens of Hitchcock films from the Provo Library. And though it's not as well-known as some, it's actually one of my personal Hitchcock favorites.

The plot involves Russian missiles in Cuba, a French diplomat traveling to and from Cuba, trying to get information—and some extramarital lovin on the side—and a spy ring called "topaz." In general, however, the plot is basically all about the intrigues of the cold war and how different people and governments tried to manipulate them to their own ends. (Read wikipedia if you actually want a real summary of the plot. Or, watch the movie).

Goodbye Academia Part 7: What I'll Miss

This series has to end sometime, and that time is now. Though I could probably write indefinitely on the topics of academia and my life, I'd like to conclude by mentioning what I'll miss about not being a part of academia. After all, I did spend a massive amount of time, a ton of money, and a lot of stress trying to get into a PhD program. Obviously, I wanted to go, even if there were other things I was (and am) interested in doing. So here are a few things that I'll really miss about not being an academic.

1.(Producing) Big ideas. I can't think of another profession where people are paid to sit around and think about big ideas like "ethics" or "humanity" or "art" or a lot of other things. Whether it's researching, teaching, etc., academics are supposed to turn a critical eye on culture. They're supposed to make connections and see things about the big picture that are hidden from others. That's something that journalistic writing—as well as many other things I've done—don't really do. They're more interested in presenting information. Scholars, on the other hand, produce information. That really appeals to me, and is probably the thing I will miss the most.

2. Being on campus. Have you ever seen a sappy, poorly-made movie about high school seniors about to graduate. Its the best time of their lives! As silly as those depictions are, that's largely how I feel about being in college. I was cutting across BYU's campus to get to the Daily Herald the other day, for example, when I realized just how enjoyable it is to be in the bustle of a college campus. There's always a bunch of interesting things going on. Living near a college provides similar opportunities, but I've found that not being in school makes it harder to know about them and participate.

3. Teaching. This might be a strange thing to put on here, given my previous posts, but there are great parts of it too. If I could teach one course a semester, for the rest of my life, while doing other interesting things, that might be ideal. In any case, while I won't miss grading, I will miss being in a classroom with students.

4. Discussion. Obviously, discussion can go on anywhere, but at a college it is supposed to happen. I've also found that many people outside of the classroom/college don't have the time or inclination (or stomach) for heated, passionate discussion. Most workplaces, church settings, etc. aren't really set up for people to bring up ideas and argue out their disagreements. Though I try to have discussions with people where ever and whenever I can, I find that A) it still happens much less often post-college than during college, and B) a lot of people just get offended or defensive when people push back against their ideas. There's probably a lot of reasons for this fact, but my experience is that there are few thick-skinned intellectuals outside of the academic setting.

5. Flexibility. This is a practical concern, but an important one. Being a professor allows people to largely determine their own schedules. As long as they get things done, they can work early or late, or whatever. I think I thrive in that sort of environment. I like working, for example, at 2 a.m., and sleeping in late. One day I might be one fire with ideas, and the next I might be lacking. I like how academia, though busy, gives professors a greater degree of flexibility than many jobs. I'm sure everyone wants a job like that, but until recently, I was actively pursuing one.

6. The Political Orientation. Let's be honest, most academics are liberal. And though I hate labels, I typically find myself in agreement with liberal politics. The prospect of being surrounded by people with whom I agree is immensely appealing. That's probably because I currently live in Utah, and I'm constantly surrounded by conservative fanatics who claim the Tea Party isn't racist or idiotic. But seriously, I'm so tired of being a lone liberal on a sea of hyper-conservatism. Some people want academia to be more politically diverse, and objectively I know that's a good thing, but secretly I just want to go to a place where people seem to care about each other, are willing to sacrifice for the good of others, and see government as a collective choice to help the less fortunate. Also, the conservatives I know in academia (or in my program) are smart, insightful, and decorous about their views. So, ultimately, academia is conducive to being a liberal, and if nothing else values respect and rational justifications for whatever conclusions people arrive at. (Maybe what I want is to be surrounded by people who investigate and are interested in politics, regardless of their orientation.)

7. The Culture. The people who go into academia are a self-selecting bunch, and they're into certain cultural things. Even the most mainstream of my professors had a decent understanding of pop culture, for example, and I remember having several interesting conversations with different professors about growing and preserving food at home. Academia isn't hipster-ville, of course, but the professors I admire take a holistic approach to culture and seem to think it is important to be conversant in things outside their disciplines. Obviously there are people like that outside of academia, but in the college community that approach to culture is common, even expected. If nothing else, academics seem to be interested in trying new things. Those things may be approaches to literary theory, or something like twitter or Lady Gaga.

Well, this could go on and on, but it's already a lot longer than I wanted it to be. Also, none of things are necessarily unique to academia, but I think they're all present there, and in abundance. I'm not sure there's another field where that is the case.

Abortion Surprises

Probably as a result of the health care debate, I've been thinking about abortion lately. And as I thought about it, I was surprised to discover that my feelings on the issue aren't as strong as I imagined.

Here's where I stand: I don't think abortion is murder. I don't think that it should be illegal. I am opposed to overturning Roe vs. Wade. On the other hand, I don't think it's a particularly good thing. For the very few women I know who've had abortions, it was a traumatic and heart-wrenching experience. And while I don't think that abortion equates to killing an innocent baby, it certainly equates with terminating something that can become a baby. Basically, I'd rather see people use (and be educated about) contraceptives, hopefully to reduce the number of women who have to experience abortions.

More importantly, perhaps, abortion as a political topic is something I'd probably be willing to compromise on. I think something like health care (reform), which I support, is important enough to make concessions to people to the left and the right of my views about abortion.

Yet, for a little while there, abortion was a major reform stumbling block, mostly, it seemed, because it became a fundamental moral issue over which people on either side of the aisle supposedly could not compromise. Why is that?

What has surprised me about this whole thing is that I think I've been pushed left by those on the right. When people start yelling "baby killer" or insisting that "abortion is murder," my natural tendency is to adopt an equally firm stance. It's as if when people start trying to shove something down my throat, my natural reaction is to say "Fine. Screw you, I'll shove it right back, if that's how it's going to be."

In other words, the vehemence of anti-abortion movement has galvanized my attitudes about the topic and made me less willing to compromise. Unless I stop to very carefully consider my attitudes (which realistically I can't constantly do), and am removed from any anti-abortionist, I'm adamantly pro-choice. It's only after time and serious contemplation that I'm willing give and take.

This is obviously problematic for the anti-abortion movement because they're currently fighting the status quo (legalized abortion), yet for many people, screaming about morality is exactly the thing that pushes people away.

However, more broadly, I think that this type of situation occurs all the time. Overly zealous people on either side of the political spectrum get worked into a fervor, and as a result their opponents become equally inflexible. It's an interesting phenomenon, which obviously has implications in many areas. And while this is surely no new realization, I was surprised in the case of abortion to find that I don't have as many passionate feelings as I thought I did.

Gay Marriage Doesn't Hurt Children

Here's a question for my conservative friends and family: if scientific research and evidence suggested that children did equally well in heterosexual and homosexual households, would you support gay marriage?

Today MSNBC.com posted this article, which reports on a recent study that basically makes that argument. What's more, this study makes up just a small part of the growing body of research that suggests children do fine in same-sex households. (Click here and look at page four, or here, or here.)

Of course, one study doesn't necessarily prove anything. And even if (or when?) virtually all studies say the same thing (that moment is arriving now, actually) people won't necessarily believe them (just look at all the denialism regarding global warming).

Yet one of the principle arguments against gay marriage is that children will suffer if it's legalized. What if it turns out that that excuse is patently false? Will gay marriage opponents who are generally rational in other regards retreat into mysticism? Will people be willing to base their opinions on evidence? Or will they base "evidence" on opinion?

Honestly, I doubt that most people will change their minds about gay marriage, no matter how compelling the scientific evidence becomes. I think that most same-sex marriage opponents are prompted to act based on religious grounds at best (and bigoted grounds at worst), but won't admit that (probably because the obvious rebuttal to an openly religious argument is that it's inherently un-American because it favors on religious belief system at the expense of another). In the end all the legal, scientific, and rational posturing from the anti-same-sex marriage crowd mostly comes off as a disingenuous veneer concealing the argument "God said this is the way things should be, and no matter the consequences that's what we're for."

Which, I suppose, is a fine argument if that's what people believe. I just wish same-sex opponents would quit lying to themselves (and everyone else) by saying that their position saves society from some great collapse. There is mounting scientific evidence that society doesn't suffer as a result of same-sex marriage. There is virtually no evidence that children suffer as a result of being raised in a homosexual household.

Ultimately, in my own case, this research (and my studying it over the years) has been one of the primary factors in convincing me to support same-sex marriage. I think that if something has a prejudicial effect on society at large, that thing should be restricted. Yet, if something turns out to be relatively harmless and allows people to live and believe as they choose, I think that thing should be allowed. Despite the fact that my religion, most of my family, and a fair number of my friends disagree, I'm yet to find a compelling and convincing argument against gay marriage that relies on a socially shared set of values (such as the need to protect children).

This issue is far from settled of course. But I think it's worth asking ourselves what happens if our arguments turn out to be wrong. What if they are disproved?

What Gets Reported

For the last few weeks I've been workig as a feature reporter for the Daily Herald. As I may have mentioned in earlier posts, I'm an intern and I write two articles per week. Because I'm highlighting various arts and cultural events around northern Utah, the stakes are relatively low. However, the experience continues to emphasize to me the incredible power that the press has in determining what information gets out into the public sphere.

For example, I've been writing on some local music events and as I work through the story I have to make countless decisions about what gets included in the story and what gets cut. On virtually every story, a lot more gets left out than what gets included. And though the fact that reporters decide what to include in their stories is fairly common knowledge, I'm not sure everyone knows just how much freedom they have. At least with my stories, I can pretty much write whatever I want as long as it meets basic length, format, and style requirements. That meanst that I can choose to highlight a band's new CD, for example, or on the other hand I could completely disregard their CD (say, if I didn't like it) and chose to focus on something else. I could make the main focus of the article how that band innovates, or I could reverse it and focus on how they're a rip off. In the end, it's really just up to me.

As I mentioned, most people are probably aware that this sort of thing goes on all the time. However, what facinates me even more is the fact that a whole slew of other biases impact my reporting without my even thinking about it. For example, as a result of my playing in bands I tend to want to highlight certain things. In all of my bands I've tried to think very specifically about what kind of experience an audience will have and how to specifically shape that experience. It's one of my personal interests and other musicians don't nessecarily place as much importance on it as I do (and others don't think about it in the same way). Yet whenever I've interviewed musicians (or just performers generally), I always ask a lot of questions about audience. Those people who can answer those questions intelligently come off sounding better. Those who can't either don't sound as good or get left out entirely.

I think this is a really good example of my personal biases shaping my reporting without it being a overt decision. Though I recognize it, it wouldn't occur to me to not ask about audience interaction, even if that's the last thing that matters to a band. (What's more, my interest in audience interaction is probably at least partially influenced by my work as a graduate student and teacher of English, which has nothing to do with the bands I'm interviewing).

Of course, this isn't a big deal for my stories. Some bands sound cooler than others, but ultimately I'm spotlighting them not trying to expose their flaws. However, I think it is illuminative because reporters covering health, politics, crime, war, etc. also have to make these same decisions. Plus, they're also bound by their pre-acquired biases and, whether they recognize that or not (many probably do), there's little they can do to escape it. Again, I know these observations aren't revolutionary, but that doesn't make the power of the press any less amazing.

Debate

Hands down my favorite activity in the world is debating. In reality, it doesn’t matter what I’m debating, as long as it’s relatively interesting and can be approached from a few different angles. However, I’ve found that the more time goes by, the less inclined I am to actually engage people in a rousing debate. Why is that?

Probably part of it has to do with the fact that for the last four months I’ve basically been sitting in a room by myself. I was writing, applying to grad schools, editing video, and sometimes just wasting time. However, do that long enough and your social skills are bound to suffer.

Yet, if deteriorating social skills can partially explain my waning motivation to debate, a bigger reason might be my writing itself. In the last six months or so I’ve started this blog, begun writing for Rhombus Magazine, and (as of a few days ago), become a features writer as the Daily Herald.

All this writing takes a lot of time, but it has also changed the way I think about issues. Whereas in the past I’ve been content to debate an issue with someone, each side making logical points that emerge from pre-existing knowledge, I’ve come to see that approach as frustratingly uninformed. As a result of all the writing I’ve been doing (and just because I’m a news junkie) I spend hours and hours reading different websites, newspapers, and commentary. Consequently, when I casually debating something I can usually recall specific articles that I’m drawing from. I typically want to “cite my sources” as a way to prove that my points are valid (which, admittedly, might be a rhetorical cop-out).

For example, Laura and I frequently go to dinner at my parents’ house on Sunday evenings. On one of our recent visits someone mentioned that the “United States was the country with the most opportunity in the world and the highest standard of living.” Debate often ensues at these dinners, and my dad and I found ourselves taking up opposing positions on this topic; he supporting it, and I opposing.

After a few minutes however, I began to be frustrated because all the supporting evidence seemed to be abstract ideas about patriotism (i.e. opinion with no supporting evidence). On the other hand, I could recall dozens of articles discussing how the U.S. has lower life expectancy than most the world, lower happiness, worse health, high unemployment, no health care system to speak of, etc., etc., etc. In the following days I actually posted a whole bunch of links to news articles and Wikipedia entries supporting my position on my dad’s Facebook page. My point: if the U.S. has fallen behind in every quantifiable way, it doesn’t make sense to keep saying it’s the best. (And by extension, we need to make changes.)

Similarly, last time Laura and I went to dinner global warming can up and the point was made that because the recently stolen emails revealed fudged numbers global warming was a myth. Now to me this simply seemed absurd; it’s like saying that if we found out Newton was a phony there is no gravity. Regardless of Newton’s honesty, someone only has to look around to realize that gravity does indeed exist. However, more to the point I’ve read extensively about global warming and despite the stolen emails there is still scientific consensus on it.

I bring up both of these issues not because I’m trying to debate them here, but to demonstrate that a casual debate simply isn’t going to work in these instances. My family members are good debaters, but without any hard evidence their points simply seemed like uniformed opinion (as mine probably did to them). What's more, in a conversation around a dinner table its really hard to actually have any hard evidence. I could certainly be swayed on either issue, but for that to happen I’d have to see some clear evidence that I’m wrong. Simply insisting that global warming is a myth, or that American is a land of opportunity, isn’t enough. It doesn’t bring anything new to the table and is wholly inadequate in the face of so much readily available information.

My conclusion is that verbal debate among friends and family is typically a fruitless endeavor because it so often fails to incorporate evidence into the argument. In the end, it’s just people’s opinions and both sides can always question the reliability of “facts” recalled from memory. Unlike a scientific study or even a newspaper article (which should cite studies), the evidence available to people in a casual debate is pretty shaky. On the other hand, if people actually want to understand an issue (or persuade others about it), it is important to “cite sources,” which is easier done online where it’s possible to link to actual evidence.

I still love debate for the sake of debate (and for the sake of sharpening my rhetorical skills). However, I think that the Internet (and in my case my writing/research) has emphasized to me the importance of debate supported by mutually accepted “facts.” Hopefully that means that as our lives become increasingly digital, our debates become more intellectually rigorous.

Teen Pregnancy and Choosing to Believe

A couple of years ago a friend and I started talking about teen pregnancy.  The conversation started out with this friend arguing in favor of teen pregnancy.  Of course I (and those with us) were initially very skeptical.  However, after a little discussion I began to see the many advantages to teen pregnancy.  In fact, before I knew it, I was actually one of the most ardent supporters of this controversial idea.

 

Before I get to the point of this story, let me explain the argument itself.  First, teen pregnancy as it exists today is indeed a tragic phenomenon that disrupts the lives of many teens.  But, if society were to reevaluate itself and radically change, teen pregnancy could actually increase the standard of living and help maintain America’s position in the world.  That would happen because as soon as teenagers were physically capable of having children, they would be encouraged to do so.  However, as soon as a couple had a child they could return to school for college or go directly into the work force.  They could also spend time traveling or exploring their interests, like many twenty-somethings do today.  While all this was going on the babies would be cared for simultaneously by multiple generations, who would all be living close by. Because a generation would only be about fifteen years, instead of thirty, there would actually be more people to care for kids.  Ultimately, this would also produce more workers, which would add to a strong economy and American wealth. 

 

There was more to the argument than that—we talked about this for days—but that was the gist of it.  I think the underlying assumption was that people should be as productive as possible, and that “adolescence” is an artificial stage in life where most people don’t contribute much.  This plan would eliminate that relative unproductiveness. 

 

Whether you’re convinced by this argument or not (and probably you are not), I bring it up to illustrate how we can convince ourselves that something is a really good idea, even if that idea is normally ridiculous or even quite repugnant.  Though the discussion was never quite serious, I found myself believing that, given a radical enough social paradigm shift, the idea could work.  In other words, I convinced myself to believe in this silly idea. 

 

Though I haven’t thought much about this idea since, the experience itself led me to ask hard questions about belief in general.  How often do we (or at least, I) allow lop-sided evidence to persuade us of outlandish things?  How often do we choose a particular set of values based on something completely external to those values?  For example, I remember when I first came to college and discovered that I was slightly more liberal in my politics than my peers.  Once I realized this, and once I was labeled a “liberal” by my friends, I also found that I liked feeling different.  I liked the style of being liberal.

 

As time has gone on and as I’ve studied more, I genuinely think I believe in ideas that align with the left side of the political spectrum (though I dislike political labels).  In fact, I find myself drifting farther left the more I know.  Still, I have to ask myself how genuine my beliefs really are.  Would I have come to the same conclusions if I first hadn’t initially been attracted to the aesthetics of the ideology?  Is there any way to adopt a set of values that doesn’t include, at least initially, a simple and visceral satisfaction with those values?  I don’t know, but it seems that just about everyone—and I’m a prime example of this—chooses to believe something and then goes about justifying and explaining that belief.  This can happen with hypothetical ideas about teen pregnancy, or it may be higher stakes ideas about politics, religion, social behavior, etc.  In the end, what do we believe and how deep do those beliefs go?  I think I am as earnest as anyone, but I have to wonder, how much can we trust ourselves?  What does it mean to be genuine?  How true are our truths, beliefs, and values?

Patriotism verses Politics

Is patriotism inevitably political?  As I’ve learned what Provo has in store this year for its annual Freedom Festival I’ve been surprised at how political it all seems.  Though I initially wished the city had gone in a more ideologically neutral direction, I’ve also been wondering lately if such a direction even exists.   

 

This year’s Freedom Festival includes a few things that strike me as overtly political.  For example, when I received the free Freedom Festival Magazine in the mail I was surprised to see the words “Family, Freedom, God, Country” printed just below the title.  In retrospect I probably shouldn’t have been surprised.  Provo, Utah, is supposedly one of the most conservative places in the nation, and I know there is a whole segment of the population that has no problem whatsoever with intertwining ideas about God, family, and country.  Moreover, while some people might make the argument that these words aren’t in themselves all that political, I would disagree.  They are keystones of the conservative lexicon and thusly connote the ideology that lexicon is commonly used to propagate.  If nothing else there are also many people who would feel that “God” shouldn’t be construed with “country” (atheists are only one, obvious example), and I think the recent controversy over Proposition 8 has revealed the political weight of a word like “family.”

 

If the language used to describe Provo’s Freedom Festival left a faintly sour taste in my mouth, the performer list for the Stadium of Fire (which is a concert, firework show, and big part of the Freedom Festival held in BYU’s football stadium) left me in stunned silence.  Of course the event includes the usual list of generic pop stars (this year it’s the Jonas Brothers), but in this case it also includes Glenn Beck.  When I discovered this fact I realized I had apparently been under the wrong impression all these years; I thought the Stadium of Fire was supposed to be wholesome family fun.  Bringing in Glenn Beck (a kind of poor-man’s Rush Limbaugh who, like Rush, peddles in the basest kind of demagoguery) clearly politicizes the event.  I don’t care what he says during his performance, as a political figure he inevitably brings all the baggage of his public persona.  In that light, I would never bring my family to listen to someone like Beck and its no wonder that this year’s event still isn’t sold out. 

 

Despite my personal frustration, the point here isn’t really to single out Provo’s Freedom Festival but to use it as an illustration: one person or group’s idea of a  (non-political) celebration can also be another’s definition of an offensively partisan activity.  In this light it’d be easy to see other, less overtly political, performers at the Freedom Festival as expressions of one ideology or another.  Someone like Miley Cyrus (who came in 2008) may seem fairly benign, but she does represent certain values and those values would be both painfully apparent and offensive to people who don’t agree with them. 

 

So is it possible to celebrate patriotism without politics?  More specifically, is it possible to find activities that accurately represent all, or at least most, members of a given community?  I don’t know, but as I perused the list of performers from previous Stadium of Fire celebrations the answer seems to be a qualified no.  In each case I can easily imagine people whose values would not be represented by the performers.  (In fact in almost every case I can think of specific people in my actual community who would object to the guests and what they represent.)  Because every statement, public figure, or event brings with it an ideological baggage, and because no community is ideologically homogenous, celebrations that purport to represent “our values” or “our community” end up being political statements that alienate people as well.  In the end then, patriotism and politics may not be the same thing, but if recent events in Provo are any indication, they are inextricably intertwined.