part one
part two
Towards the beginning of Gran Torino, a dorky young Hmong boy is ambling along the sidewalk, reading a book. He is hassled from a car by a Hispanic gang, whom he totally ignores. A Hmong gang rides up, and drives off the Hispanic gang (a .38 just won't cut it when the other guys have Uzis). They then demand that Thao get in the car; he owes them, and the leader is his cousin, etc. This time, when they call his name, he pauses, dithers for a moment, before moving on. The gang continues to hassle him, trying to induct him (they show up at his house, etc.)
Christine Korsgaard writes, "If I call out your name, I make you stop in your tracks... Now you cannot proceed as you did before. Oh, you can proceed, all right, but not just as you did before. For now, if you walk on, you will be ignoring me and slighting me." And then later: "For [the act of calling out your name, more or less] to fail in that way, I would have to hear your words as mere noise, not as intelligible speech."*
The exchange in Gran Torino makes Korsgaard's point very effectively, though it does have its complications. In a way, I want to say that Thao does hear the Hispanic gang's taunts as mere noise, and the Hmong gang's words as intelligible speech (at the very least, there's a qualitative difference for him between the two). It's easy enough to give no weight to the Hispanic words, but because he has a certain connection with the Hmong (i.e. his is a Hmong), it is much harder in that case. (Korsgaard would say that mere humanity is sufficient connection, but history sometimes makes me doubt this).
This may be the reason that wear headphones that make it impossible for me to hear what's going on around me. The odd thing is that they're just as effective at enabling me to ignore people when they're off as when they're on. What this seems to indicate is that part of the pressure comes from the knowledge that the other party knows that I've heard and understood them (intent can come through even across a language barrier): there's an element of mutuality that makes the whole thing work.
What all this indicates (this is another thing you can see throughout Gran Torino) is that even in nearly purely adversarial mattters, it can be hard (though not necessarily hard, not universally hard), it can be hard to get away from treating other humans as humans. The Hmong gang takes the actions it does because it feels it has a claim on Thao; in a way, this enables them to show up at his house and try to take him in. (And the other characters acknowledge the claim, as it were: if it were a different gang, one with no claim, they'd call the police). (Perhaps this accounts for why it's so hard to deal at all with, why it's so hard to react to, people who don't default to treating humans as humans).
* Christine Korsgaard, The Sources of Normativity, pp141, 143. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
doubt, part two; kantian ethics
part one
The second particularly striking aspect of the movie comes in two parts. The first opens the movie; it is a sermon delivered by Father Flynn on the subject of doubt. He preaches that "doubt can be a bond as strong as certainty;" that we can be united by the fact that we are uncertain about our faith, about whether we have judged correctly, about whether there is hope for the world, etc.
The second comes at the end of the movie. In this, Sister Aloysius, who has until now demonstrated an inquisitor's absolute certainty in Father Flynn's guilt and the appropriate way to handle it, confesses to Sister James "I have such doubts." These two moments bookend Sister Aloysius' relentless prosecution of Father Flynn; the two characters are systematically unable to find that common ground: they are strictly adversaries.
This is an example, a fictional illustration, of something that I've been mulling for a while now, a certain issue in neo-Kantian ethics. Here's the short version: most Kantians think that the basis of their moral theory is something variously called freedom, autonomy, reflectivity, etc. The way I would have of cashing this out is with the thought that any of our commitments are subject to revision; we need to realize that we might be wrong - very wrong - concerning the things about which we feel the greatest certainty. (To steal a bit of deep wisdom from Donald Rumsfeld, there are unknown unknowns.) What this enables is a certain kind of relationship between people: a relationship of inquiring together after what the good is.
Now, most Kantians think that this sort of relationship is necessitated by our freedom; they also think it is one in which there isn't so much conflict between people. The way in which we work together prevents essential conflict from coming between us. Put another way, these Kantians think that from this formal fact about ourselves (freedom) certain substantive conclusions follow (morality, as it is traditionally understood). I am starting to wonder about whether this conclusion actually follows from the premises.
One way of putting this is: the argument itself doesn't make so much sense. The original point was that we can question any values; the conclusion is that there are certain values we can be absolutely sure of. If we really can put any commitment to the question, then you and I may very well wind up with very different moral views.
In other words, while I think it is possible for freedom to underwrite a very specific kind of relationship, one that I think is truly valuable, I don't think that freedom necessitates it. After inquiring together, you and I may go our separate ways; we may even be enemies. In a way, this is what happened with Sister Aloysius and Father Flynn: despite both being free, doubting creatures, they held to radically different conclusions, and were in that way adversaries.
(another way of putting this discussion is that there is a difference between the sort of possibility for doubt that constitutes freedom, and the specific doubts we may entertain about a certain possibility - such as whether or not the Krispy Kreme in Chatham is open tonight).
see also
The second particularly striking aspect of the movie comes in two parts. The first opens the movie; it is a sermon delivered by Father Flynn on the subject of doubt. He preaches that "doubt can be a bond as strong as certainty;" that we can be united by the fact that we are uncertain about our faith, about whether we have judged correctly, about whether there is hope for the world, etc.
The second comes at the end of the movie. In this, Sister Aloysius, who has until now demonstrated an inquisitor's absolute certainty in Father Flynn's guilt and the appropriate way to handle it, confesses to Sister James "I have such doubts." These two moments bookend Sister Aloysius' relentless prosecution of Father Flynn; the two characters are systematically unable to find that common ground: they are strictly adversaries.
This is an example, a fictional illustration, of something that I've been mulling for a while now, a certain issue in neo-Kantian ethics. Here's the short version: most Kantians think that the basis of their moral theory is something variously called freedom, autonomy, reflectivity, etc. The way I would have of cashing this out is with the thought that any of our commitments are subject to revision; we need to realize that we might be wrong - very wrong - concerning the things about which we feel the greatest certainty. (To steal a bit of deep wisdom from Donald Rumsfeld, there are unknown unknowns.) What this enables is a certain kind of relationship between people: a relationship of inquiring together after what the good is.
Now, most Kantians think that this sort of relationship is necessitated by our freedom; they also think it is one in which there isn't so much conflict between people. The way in which we work together prevents essential conflict from coming between us. Put another way, these Kantians think that from this formal fact about ourselves (freedom) certain substantive conclusions follow (morality, as it is traditionally understood). I am starting to wonder about whether this conclusion actually follows from the premises.
One way of putting this is: the argument itself doesn't make so much sense. The original point was that we can question any values; the conclusion is that there are certain values we can be absolutely sure of. If we really can put any commitment to the question, then you and I may very well wind up with very different moral views.
In other words, while I think it is possible for freedom to underwrite a very specific kind of relationship, one that I think is truly valuable, I don't think that freedom necessitates it. After inquiring together, you and I may go our separate ways; we may even be enemies. In a way, this is what happened with Sister Aloysius and Father Flynn: despite both being free, doubting creatures, they held to radically different conclusions, and were in that way adversaries.
(another way of putting this discussion is that there is a difference between the sort of possibility for doubt that constitutes freedom, and the specific doubts we may entertain about a certain possibility - such as whether or not the Krispy Kreme in Chatham is open tonight).
see also
doubt, part one
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0918927/
Doubt
directed by John Patrick Shanley
2008
The movie centers around the possibility that Father Flynn has molested an altar boy. He vigorously denies it; Sister Aloysius is certain of it, based on the slightest insubstantial evidence (in the end, just the briefest of moments when Flynn grabs another boy's arm). In the end, she engineers his resignation - though he is moved to another parish, as pastor.
The first moment in the movie that really struck me is when Flynn is angrily lecturing her about the proper way to approach these sorts of problems (the movie makes clear the institutionalized power differential between the nuns and the priests); he tells her that she is a nun, that she has taken vows, and that one of them is obedience. In response, she tears the cross from her robes and shouts that she will do what is right, whether or not that means walking out on the Church (and, it is suggested at the end of the movie, God). What I found interesting about this was the way it changed the way I saw her (almost literally). In every scene, Sister Aloysius is shown wearing a habit, and she seems to almost be that habit. One way of putting this is that there seems to be no gap between her will and the role of a nun: she is a nun.
But in that moment, I was reminded (she reminded us) that she is a person who chose to be a nun, that she took vows, and that she is not her vows. Suddenly she seemed like a person, one who might take off that habit and put something else on. It was a startling moment - to realize that she reserved for herself, in a very deliberate way, the right to judge what is right and worth doing.
(Schlegel responded to Kant by arguing that it is not our capacity to give ourselves laws that is most essentially human, but rather our capacity to break the laws that we have given ourselves).*
* Raymond Geuss, "Morality and Identity," p192. In The Sources of Normativity, ed. Onora O'Neill. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.
Doubt
directed by John Patrick Shanley
2008
The movie centers around the possibility that Father Flynn has molested an altar boy. He vigorously denies it; Sister Aloysius is certain of it, based on the slightest insubstantial evidence (in the end, just the briefest of moments when Flynn grabs another boy's arm). In the end, she engineers his resignation - though he is moved to another parish, as pastor.
The first moment in the movie that really struck me is when Flynn is angrily lecturing her about the proper way to approach these sorts of problems (the movie makes clear the institutionalized power differential between the nuns and the priests); he tells her that she is a nun, that she has taken vows, and that one of them is obedience. In response, she tears the cross from her robes and shouts that she will do what is right, whether or not that means walking out on the Church (and, it is suggested at the end of the movie, God). What I found interesting about this was the way it changed the way I saw her (almost literally). In every scene, Sister Aloysius is shown wearing a habit, and she seems to almost be that habit. One way of putting this is that there seems to be no gap between her will and the role of a nun: she is a nun.
But in that moment, I was reminded (she reminded us) that she is a person who chose to be a nun, that she took vows, and that she is not her vows. Suddenly she seemed like a person, one who might take off that habit and put something else on. It was a startling moment - to realize that she reserved for herself, in a very deliberate way, the right to judge what is right and worth doing.
(Schlegel responded to Kant by arguing that it is not our capacity to give ourselves laws that is most essentially human, but rather our capacity to break the laws that we have given ourselves).*
* Raymond Geuss, "Morality and Identity," p192. In The Sources of Normativity, ed. Onora O'Neill. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.
more misuse of statistics
http://www.imdiversity.com/Villages/Woman/dialogue_opinion_letters/amoruso_alpha_girls_0313.asp
"ALPHA GIRLS: Is Today's 'Perfect' Seriously Flawed?"
by Carol Amoruso
retrieved December 31, 2008
IMDiversity.com
The article criticizes a new book (Alpha Girls by Dan Kindlon) which describes a new sort of girl, as it were: (about 20% of the 18-22 female cohort) young women who are confident, assertive - aggressive - driven overachievers (roughly). I have a complaint; let's start with some quotes.
"Surely, the picture is more nuanced than this. Nowhere is mentioned the fact—nor its impact--that 50% of first marriages end in divorce, 48% of all heads of households are unmarried, nor that 43% of today’s weddings (2002 figures, culled from U.S statistics by Divorce Magazine). These and other indications of great upheaval in the family dynamic cannot but redefine in dramatic ways a girl’s relationship to her father."
"Kindlon peers out from behind rose-colored glasses, while around him are stories of the frightening malaise gripping Generation Next’s young women. Overwhelmed by unreasonable expectations and emotional disconnect, they are characterized by Courtney E. Martin as “outwardly high-achieving and inwardly self-hating.” Writing for Alternet before the publication of her book, Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters, Martin reports that “7 million American girls and women have eating disorders, women account for twice as many panic disorders and depression and are plagued by 75% of autoimmune diseases.” Other sources cite that 75% of all anxiety attacks befall young women. Sadly, studies on growing narcissism among young women in particular predict impaired ability to achieve deep, intimate relationships."
There is something odd about this analysis. Amoruso is clearly aware that we're talking about a rather rare subset of young women - who are presumably rather different from the other 80%. And yet she is happy to take statistics that apply to young women generally, and assume that they apply just as much to this subset. Now, given the emphasis on good relationships with fathers discussed by Kindlon, wouldn't it be reasonable to ask: maybe these girls come disproportionately from non-divorced parents. Maybe the difference is that when these girls' parents got divorced, the fathers didn't step out of their lives entirely. In other words, this is an incomplete use of statistics: it leaves us with a lot of unanswered questions. The point was that these girls are unusual; the question ought to be: why?
"ALPHA GIRLS: Is Today's 'Perfect' Seriously Flawed?"
by Carol Amoruso
retrieved December 31, 2008
IMDiversity.com
The article criticizes a new book (Alpha Girls by Dan Kindlon) which describes a new sort of girl, as it were: (about 20% of the 18-22 female cohort) young women who are confident, assertive - aggressive - driven overachievers (roughly). I have a complaint; let's start with some quotes.
"Surely, the picture is more nuanced than this. Nowhere is mentioned the fact—nor its impact--that 50% of first marriages end in divorce, 48% of all heads of households are unmarried, nor that 43% of today’s weddings (2002 figures, culled from U.S statistics by Divorce Magazine). These and other indications of great upheaval in the family dynamic cannot but redefine in dramatic ways a girl’s relationship to her father."
"Kindlon peers out from behind rose-colored glasses, while around him are stories of the frightening malaise gripping Generation Next’s young women. Overwhelmed by unreasonable expectations and emotional disconnect, they are characterized by Courtney E. Martin as “outwardly high-achieving and inwardly self-hating.” Writing for Alternet before the publication of her book, Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters, Martin reports that “7 million American girls and women have eating disorders, women account for twice as many panic disorders and depression and are plagued by 75% of autoimmune diseases.” Other sources cite that 75% of all anxiety attacks befall young women. Sadly, studies on growing narcissism among young women in particular predict impaired ability to achieve deep, intimate relationships."
There is something odd about this analysis. Amoruso is clearly aware that we're talking about a rather rare subset of young women - who are presumably rather different from the other 80%. And yet she is happy to take statistics that apply to young women generally, and assume that they apply just as much to this subset. Now, given the emphasis on good relationships with fathers discussed by Kindlon, wouldn't it be reasonable to ask: maybe these girls come disproportionately from non-divorced parents. Maybe the difference is that when these girls' parents got divorced, the fathers didn't step out of their lives entirely. In other words, this is an incomplete use of statistics: it leaves us with a lot of unanswered questions. The point was that these girls are unusual; the question ought to be: why?
gran torino, part two
part one
One of the communities that Gran Torino focuses on most closely is that of men of a certain sort - the sort that Clint Eastwood at times exemplifies, the strong silent type. Importantly, it's about the induction (the introduction) of a boy to this community; it's about teaching him to be a man. I just want to highlight two related aspects of this.
The first involves the way Thao is taught to be a man. Clint takes Thao to Clint's barber, whom Clint greets with friendly profanity and racism; the barber responds in kind. Clint then tells Thao, ok, now you do it. Thao comes in and greets the barber with some profanity and racism and is met with a shotgun to the face and some not-so-friendly racism. You idiot, Clint tells him. That's no way to greet a man you barely know.
In other words, you don't get a lot of instruction on how to do this thing called being a man. You get fragments, little hints and experiences and words of wisdom here and there whose meaning you'll spend your life trying to figure out, one way or another. And maybe when you're eighty and dying (like Walt) you'll start to have an idea about what they mean, which you'll do your best to pass on to the next generation. (see also)
Consider another scene. Walt has just found out that he's dying, and he calls one of his sons. But he can't figure out what to say; they chat awkwardly for a moment, then Walt says goodbye and hangs up. He never talks to his son again. As it happens, Walt is pretty aware of this problem. When he makes his last confession, this is one of the three things he confesses: that he doesn't know his sons, doesn't know how to talk to them. (The other two things are not paying taxes on the sale of a boat, which is just theft, and kissing a woman who was not his wife at the factory Christmas party. This is despite the fact that Walt has killed a lot of people in Korea, in brutal ways).
This is closely related to the first aspect: the way boys are taught to be men. In a way, that way of teaching someone is a very lonely way, as it involves a lot of working things through on one's own (and I don't necessarily mean sitting down and thinking about them), and not asking for help or guidance. In other words, there's not a lot of dialogue, discussion, conversation. It's a problem.
One of the communities that Gran Torino focuses on most closely is that of men of a certain sort - the sort that Clint Eastwood at times exemplifies, the strong silent type. Importantly, it's about the induction (the introduction) of a boy to this community; it's about teaching him to be a man. I just want to highlight two related aspects of this.
The first involves the way Thao is taught to be a man. Clint takes Thao to Clint's barber, whom Clint greets with friendly profanity and racism; the barber responds in kind. Clint then tells Thao, ok, now you do it. Thao comes in and greets the barber with some profanity and racism and is met with a shotgun to the face and some not-so-friendly racism. You idiot, Clint tells him. That's no way to greet a man you barely know.
In other words, you don't get a lot of instruction on how to do this thing called being a man. You get fragments, little hints and experiences and words of wisdom here and there whose meaning you'll spend your life trying to figure out, one way or another. And maybe when you're eighty and dying (like Walt) you'll start to have an idea about what they mean, which you'll do your best to pass on to the next generation. (see also)
Consider another scene. Walt has just found out that he's dying, and he calls one of his sons. But he can't figure out what to say; they chat awkwardly for a moment, then Walt says goodbye and hangs up. He never talks to his son again. As it happens, Walt is pretty aware of this problem. When he makes his last confession, this is one of the three things he confesses: that he doesn't know his sons, doesn't know how to talk to them. (The other two things are not paying taxes on the sale of a boat, which is just theft, and kissing a woman who was not his wife at the factory Christmas party. This is despite the fact that Walt has killed a lot of people in Korea, in brutal ways).
This is closely related to the first aspect: the way boys are taught to be men. In a way, that way of teaching someone is a very lonely way, as it involves a lot of working things through on one's own (and I don't necessarily mean sitting down and thinking about them), and not asking for help or guidance. In other words, there's not a lot of dialogue, discussion, conversation. It's a problem.
skepticism
A long time ago, Descartes wondered if he could really be sure that he was sitting in front of a warm fire on a cold night, or whether an evil demon had deceived him, and that it merely appeared that way. He concluded, for a moment, that he could know nothing at all about the world around him. Eventually, though, he thought he could: this step has been criticized ever since, because it reeks of circularity.
Ever since, people have been having fits about this skeptical argument. The real problem has been that everybody knows that it has to be wrong, and nobody can figure out why that's the case. But these days, I want to say that the argument is sound. It's just that the conclusion is different than has been thought. What it reveals is a fact about ourselves - not that we can't know anything, or that we can't have reason to believe anything - but that any knowledge or reason is always subject to revision.
I mean to contrast this with most people who have thought that we need to overcome the skepticism by finding something immune to skeptical doubt - that is, something final, something immune to revision. Moore thought that he knew he had a hand in front of face - and I agree, he did know, or at leas had good reason to believe, was justified in believing. But he might not have had a hand in front of his face; he might have been wrong.
It is however important to realize that the "uncertainty" or "lack of knowledge" embodied in being subject to revision is a little different from straightforward uncertainty, pragmatic uncertainty, ordinary uncertainty. Given that it is a generic feature of all our knowledge, I can't be more or less certain of any particular piece of knowledge, in this sense. It doesn't figure into our decisions in the way that ordinary uncertainty does. But it does play a role in our lives; someone who is aware of this sort of uncertainty will live a different life than they would otherwise.
(I want to say that a very similar sort of thing is true of our ethical views, but the argument for this proceeds differently, I suspect.)
There's an upshot to all this, but I'm still working on it. The short answer comes from Father Flynn: doubt can be a bond as powerful as certainty.
Ever since, people have been having fits about this skeptical argument. The real problem has been that everybody knows that it has to be wrong, and nobody can figure out why that's the case. But these days, I want to say that the argument is sound. It's just that the conclusion is different than has been thought. What it reveals is a fact about ourselves - not that we can't know anything, or that we can't have reason to believe anything - but that any knowledge or reason is always subject to revision.
I mean to contrast this with most people who have thought that we need to overcome the skepticism by finding something immune to skeptical doubt - that is, something final, something immune to revision. Moore thought that he knew he had a hand in front of face - and I agree, he did know, or at leas had good reason to believe, was justified in believing. But he might not have had a hand in front of his face; he might have been wrong.
It is however important to realize that the "uncertainty" or "lack of knowledge" embodied in being subject to revision is a little different from straightforward uncertainty, pragmatic uncertainty, ordinary uncertainty. Given that it is a generic feature of all our knowledge, I can't be more or less certain of any particular piece of knowledge, in this sense. It doesn't figure into our decisions in the way that ordinary uncertainty does. But it does play a role in our lives; someone who is aware of this sort of uncertainty will live a different life than they would otherwise.
(I want to say that a very similar sort of thing is true of our ethical views, but the argument for this proceeds differently, I suspect.)
There's an upshot to all this, but I'm still working on it. The short answer comes from Father Flynn: doubt can be a bond as powerful as certainty.
gran torino, part one
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1205489/
Gran Torino
directed by Clint Eastwood
2008
The basic plot of the movie involves the growing friendship between aging veteran Walt (Eastwood) and two teens next door, Sue and Thao; all are menaced by a gang. Walt takes Thao under his wing and teaches him how to be a man - and I don't mean that sarcastically. It's actually a very funny movie; a lot of it involves Walt / Clint complaining about everything.
At the beginning of the movie, this gang essentially saves Thao from being harassed by another gang. They then want him to initiate into their gang by stealing Walt's Gran Torino. Walt stops this - stops Thao from being initiated into this particular gang. What's interesting, though, is that what this really results in is Thao getting initiated into a very different gang, one with different rites - what the movie depicts as the community of men (of a certain sort - not every male is a man).
Actually, one major theme of the movie is these sorts of communities. You can see this in so many places - when the white wannabe gangsta calls a young black man "bro" and gets rebuffed; when the Hmong gang saves Thao from the Hispanic gang (they each start shouting at each other to go back to their own country), and then expects something in return. You see it when Sue tells Walt that Thao needs someone to look after him, because Hmong girls do better in the States than Hmong boys: "Hmong girls go to college, Hmong boys go to jail."
In other words, the movie is an interesting exploration of how we find ourselves in these communities, some of our choosing and some not, what serve as the passwords of entry, the perks of membership, the sort of actions we're inclined to take, and how we relate to others in other communities. And, of course, they all overlap.
Gran Torino
directed by Clint Eastwood
2008
The basic plot of the movie involves the growing friendship between aging veteran Walt (Eastwood) and two teens next door, Sue and Thao; all are menaced by a gang. Walt takes Thao under his wing and teaches him how to be a man - and I don't mean that sarcastically. It's actually a very funny movie; a lot of it involves Walt / Clint complaining about everything.
At the beginning of the movie, this gang essentially saves Thao from being harassed by another gang. They then want him to initiate into their gang by stealing Walt's Gran Torino. Walt stops this - stops Thao from being initiated into this particular gang. What's interesting, though, is that what this really results in is Thao getting initiated into a very different gang, one with different rites - what the movie depicts as the community of men (of a certain sort - not every male is a man).
Actually, one major theme of the movie is these sorts of communities. You can see this in so many places - when the white wannabe gangsta calls a young black man "bro" and gets rebuffed; when the Hmong gang saves Thao from the Hispanic gang (they each start shouting at each other to go back to their own country), and then expects something in return. You see it when Sue tells Walt that Thao needs someone to look after him, because Hmong girls do better in the States than Hmong boys: "Hmong girls go to college, Hmong boys go to jail."
In other words, the movie is an interesting exploration of how we find ourselves in these communities, some of our choosing and some not, what serve as the passwords of entry, the perks of membership, the sort of actions we're inclined to take, and how we relate to others in other communities. And, of course, they all overlap.
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