Looking Across the River

The following essay was published on The Caesura Letters on November 11, 2015 in response to the following prompt:

Write about Oliver. Not any Oliver you know personally, of course, but a fictional guy named Oliver. Any of the following might be true about Oliver: he might believe something radically different than you do; he might appear to you be completely unable to critically assess his own beliefs; he might be what you consider ‘dogmatic’ or ‘brainwashed’ or ‘fundamentalist’; he might have reasons for his beliefs that have nothing to do with being reasonable or logical as you define ‘reason’ and ‘logic’. Now, how are you going to have a constructive conversation with Oliver? Why does Oliver think the way he does? Why is Oliver invested in his beliefs? Introduce us to your Oliver, explain your differences, and show us how to move a dialogue forward.

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Imagine you are standing on a corner with a clipboard that clearly marks your purpose: voter registration. There’s an upcoming election and you want to make sure everyone has the chance to participate. A young man — let’s call him Oliver — heads in your direction. Seeing your clipboard, his face contorts into a grimace. You steel yourself.

“Good morning! Are you registered to vote?” you ask.

“I don’t vote,” Oliver shoots at you.

The moment freezes. You repeat Oliver’s statement in your head. I don’t vote. Immediately, your mind meets a torrent of frustration and outrage. In this moment, the two of you couldn’t be further apart: a non-voter and a volunteer helping people register to vote.

For the sake of argument, let’s assume Oliver’s position as a non-voter is wrong: voting is an essential component of what it means to be a citizen and it is the only way a system like democracy can function. After all, as the United States Supreme Court noted in the landmark case of Reynolds v. Sims (1964), the free exercise of the franchise is, “preservative of other basic civil and political rights.” Put another way, voting is the scaffolding upon which our society is built.

Given the strong case for the value and importance of the individual’s vote, your intuitive response to Oliver is understandable. However sympathetic we might be to your response, there exists an important distinction between Oliver’s position and the path to that position. To understand how to engage in a dialogue with Oliver (and ultimately, to convince him of the merit of your viewpoint), we have to put in the effort to understand the nature of his position, including how he arrived there. There are many trails to the position of non-voting.

Could it be that Oliver believes that there is no daylight between the parties in competition, meaning elections present meaningless choices? Perhaps, from Oliver’s viewpoint, there are no real consequences to elections and the systems in which we live in are controlled not by the government but other forces? Does Oliver feel like his vote doesn’t count given the demographics of the area? Did he arrive at his position by way of a particular ethical framework?

Each of these different trails leads to the same position: Oliver is not a voter. However, the work of moving Oliver from this position is radically different depending on which path he took to arrive there. For example, it is easier to convince Oliver that there are real differences between the candidates — say, one supports universal health care and the other doesn’t — than it would be to change his mind about our responsibilities towards others within a particular ethical framework.

Regardless, the key to changing Oliver’s mind is to meet him where he is. Persuasion is an art of building bridges. When we build a bridge, we invite someone to cross the river — to change their position — to the other side. It’s only when we exhaust questions about the nature of someone’s understanding that we can locate where to build the bridge. In that process of location, you also do two important things. First, you garner trust with the person: even though you still stand across the river from them, at the very least you see where they are on the other side. Second, you might find that you’re not up against the demon that you thought you first encountered upon hearing their position.

In a speech in Paris, Teddy Roosevelt famously proclaimed, “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena” (1910).

We can go further than Roosevelt: it’s not the critic who counts, nor the man in the arena, but the man in the correct arena. The Oliver in the encounter above can come in many forms in our day to day. No matter Oliver’s position, we must remember that in the battle of ideas, where we choose to stage the battle is important. Today, remember that true persuasion requires that we explore how we arrive at our deeply held positions, not just the positions themselves.

The Stoic Activist

The Stoics (a school of philosophy in the 3rd Century BCE) often used the image of the 'Stoic Sage' as a way of imagining their ideal philosophic practitioner. While recognizing that it was an unattainable ideal, the Stoics found it one nonetheless worth contemplating. Through this contemplation, the individual aims him or herself towards the blissful state of tranquility in which the Stoic Sage resides. This end -- ataraxia -- is very much about the individual and their state of mind. Ultimately, however, Stoicism has much to offer those interested not just in tranquility for themselves but in providing the opportunity for tranquility to arise in others. Put another way, one particular iteration of the Stoic Stage might be the 'Stoic Activist', a vision of Stoicism in the trenches of every day life, taking part in the shaking and moving of history.

A student of Stoicism might give pause here, doubtful of the link between Stoicism and activism. After all, trying to shape the story of the world is bound to lead any Stoic away from the path towards tranquility and into the underbrush of frustration. We can begin to address these doubts by looking to the lives of the great Stoics themselves: a prisoner-in-chains to renowned philosopher in Epictetus, a political advisor and an investment banker in Seneca, and the ruler of the known world in Marcus Aurelius. Certainly, these Stoic thinkers did not sit by idly as the world passed them by; they were change makers, fiercely engaging in the story of a transforming world through their ideas, politics, and governance.

Consider the thoughts of one of these Stoics in particular, Marcus Aurelius. Marcus recognized that in the morning it might be easier to stay under the covers, lingering in the pleasant warmth. Despite this, he counseled himself that to do so was folly: man must do the work of man. And what, then, is that work? Marcus answers, "I am bound to do good to my fellow-creatures and bear with them" (Meditations 5.20, trans. Staniforth, 1969). Even though as he steps out of bed Marcus reminds himself that he will be met with all the awfulness of humanity throughout the coming day, he reaffirms his commitment to others because man is a social animal and to connect is to be human.

Now, then, we can set aside the seeming paradox of the Stoic Activist and imagine what she might look like. The Stoic Activist actively visualizes all sorts of mishaps -- organizing snafus, shifts in public opinion, or more timely matters arising -- and, in doing so, is able to navigate around some and prepare for the cases where they are unavoidable. The Stoic Activist constantly evaluates what is within her control, focusing her energy entirely on what is and not diverting any attention to what isn't. At the end of the day, following one of Seneca's practices, the Stoic Activist reflects on the steps taken to make sure they were in line with her principles. That pause of reflection grows the space of tranquility from which she can be the most effective advocate. Finally, when the cause meets failure, the Stoic Activist is not slowed down by the shortcoming but energized by the existence of any awareness of the issue in the first place.

You might not consider yourself an activist. The word might have all sorts of connotations that you feel do not apply to who you are. Whether you like it or not, though, the world is changing on every level, every day; each rise of the sun you have the chance to exercise whatever control you have, to be part of the unfolding story. To choose not to engage is still a choice. You are an activist, in one form or the other. Today, will you act as a reflective, contemplative agent of change?

This essay was originally published by The Caesura Letters on October 22, 2015 as part of ongoing reflections on Stoicism. This submission marks my second published piece on the site (the first being The Adjacent Possible) and I'm grateful for the chance to share my writing more widely on such a wonderful site.

We Need More Animal Farms

I recently re-read Animal Farm. It's a short, compelling story that serves as a reminder of the pitfalls of perusing utopia. I think it has a lot of parallels to that of the tech world, but that's not the point I want to explore. (One could consider Dave Eggers's "The Circle" an attempt -- ineffectual, in my opinion -- to port Orwell's piercing satirical style to a book about a tech dystopia.)

I think we need more Animal Farms. We live in a world where the domain of facts is too easily manipulated. You have your facts; I have mine. Climate change skeptics are perhaps the most prominent example of this. Despite the overwhelming scientific consensus, climate change deniers are simply not seriously considering the immense importance of the issue of climate change. Even among those who don't deny it, what's at stake isn't fully in view. For example, I think only one Democratic presidential candidate on the stage really got this question right.

The skeptics are suffering from epistemic closure ("closed systems of deduction, unaffected by empirical evidence), a phrase I first came across from reading Andrew Sullivan They exist in their own universe where the agreed upon rules of logic, evidence, and reason simply don't apply.

How then, do we pierce epistemic closure? Stories. Trojan horses with all the logos, pathos, and ethos to break them free. Neil Gaiman, in a truly wonderful seminar at the Long Now, neatly captures this idea:

The reason why story is so important to us is because it’s actually this thing that we have been using since the dawn of humanity to become more than just one person… Stories are ways that we communicate important things, but … stories maybe really are genuinely symbiotic organisms that we live with, that allow human beings to advance.

(some more transcribed highlights here)

We need more Animal Farms. If we don't find a way to pierce the epistemic closure of others, or spread stories to inoculate the unaffected from those who already suffer from a narrowed universe, we might not have a future in which to share more stories. Or, at the very least, we will constantly be wondering about the road not taken. We need more stories.

Lincoln, reader

I'm slowly making my way through Doris Kearns Goodwin's Team of Rivals, which illuminates the sharp mind of Abraham Lincoln.

Early on, Goodwin explores Lincoln the reader, a cemented identity far before he came a lawyer and then a fabled American president:

Books became his academy, his college. The printed word united his mind with the great minds of generations past. Relatives and neighbors recalled that he scoured the countryside for books and read every volume “he could lay his hands on."

Lincoln found true power in text, I think. His mind was one domain of his life in which he could control regardless of his unprivileged circumstance. Goodwin writes a few pages later:

What Lincoln lacked in preparation and guidance, he made up for with his daunting concentration, phenomenal memory, acute reasoning faculties, and interpretive penetration. Though untutored in the sciences and the classics, he was able to read and reread his books until he understood them fully. “Get the books, and read and study them,” he told a law student seeking advice in 1855. It did not matter, he continued, whether the reading be done in a small town or a large city, by oneself or in the company of others. “The books, and your capacity for understanding them, are just the same in all places. . . . Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed, is more important than any other one thing."

At the time, "law school" meant apprenticing under a practicing lawyer. Lincoln just read the books. As I go through "rigors" of law school in the modern era, it's worth taking a moment and truly absorbing just how devoted Lincoln was before his rise to prominence. The advice Lincoln gave the law student -- "Get the books, and read and study them," -- is probably a good recipe for more than just law school (the full letter can be found here). I'm inspired by passionate readers and slowly, I'm awakening that part of my own identity and little tidbits like these add fuel to that fire to read carefully, widely, and well.

This is Water

I've read and/or listened (full; animated excerpts) to this commencement speech from David Foster Wallace many times in the last few years. I read it again recently and the capital-T Truth of it all hit me like a brick, as it always does. Maria Popova often calls the commencement speech the "secular sermon of our time", and this Sunday I soaked up the words of the preacher.

In the beginning, DFW states clearly the hard mental work of the every-day:

This is not a matter of virtue -- it's a matter of choosing to do the work of somehow altering or getting free of my natural, hardwired default setting, which is to be deeply and literally self-centered, and to see and interpret everything through this lens of self.

On the value of a liberal arts education, DFW points to the power of choice:

But if you've really learned how to think, how to pay attention, then you will know you have other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars -- compassion, love, the subsurface unity of all things. Not that the mystical stuff's necessarily true: The only capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it.

DFW closes with some simple yet powerful truths that are especially important for me to keep close to my chest as I wade through law school (with all its trappings of prestige):

It is about the value of real education, which has nothing to do with grades or degrees and everything to do with simple awareness -- awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, that we have to keep reminding ourselves over and over:

"This is water."

"This is water."

Personally, I've found that meditation is the best way to remind myself, "This is water." Regardless, we all need to find our way to some sort of awareness.

The Adjacent Possible

Stuart Kauffman, a complex-systems biologist, coined the term “adjacent possible” to explain the progression of simpler chemical structures to more complex ones. When simple chemical structures occupy the same space, they network with one another, each chemical structure talking to the others. The potential products of this mingling — new, more complex chemical structures — are possible realities that exist in a space Kauffman calls the adjacent possible. When new chemical structures do emerge, their very existence defines a new adjacent possible: a new mingling network with a new set of potential products.

Steven Johnson took Kauffman’s concept and applied it to ideas. “The adjacent possible,” Johnson writes in Where Good Ideas Come From, “is a kind of shadow future, hovering on the edges of the present state of things, a map of all the ways in which the present can reinvent itself”. When the right components mingle in the same space, they chart out new territory of possible innovation. As an example, Johnson examines the isolation of oxygen as a component of air. Two pieces — the idea of viewing air as not a void but a substance with elements and the development of sensitive enough scales — connected to create an adjacent possible that included the isolation of oxygen. It was only when those two components were together that the adjacent possible was created and then made into reality. When that discovery was made, the scientists redefined both the edge of our knowledge and the edge of our potential knowledge.

Education is the means of getting to the edge. The raison d’être of education isn’t the raw accumulation of knowing; it’s interplay between what’s known, knowable, and possible. After all, knowledge by itself isn’t intrinsically useful. It’s only when, with that which is known firmly in hand, we enter into the shadow future and pull something back into the present that we actually create value. Humanity’s progress may simply be the process of trading glimpses into the adjacent possible for reality. With this in mind, education must equip us with the tools to tell the stories of the future. Standing at this edge of the possible, we are constantly remaking what the world is and what it could be.

What, then, does a good education look like in light of our role as storytellers of the future? To start, we recognize education’s role as a facilitator of new adjacent possibles. With this role, education becomes as much about better questions as is it is about better answers, as much about connecting ideas as it is creating new ones. An interdisciplinary education becomes a requirement, not a luxury. Problem solving looks less like looking for solutions and more like changing the recipe. A good education, then, is like a a good party planner, providing for the student a space for ideas to network and plenty of modes of transportation for the student to arrive at the edge.

This very essay could be a transport vehicle. The thoughts here -- Kauffman's and Johnson's ideas and what education ought to do for society -- are not new ones, per se; however, the paragraphs become playgrounds when the ideas come together. Through the play -- the connections between ideas -- the adjacent possible transforms. Old ideas, unlike old dogs, can learn new tricks.

Today, consider your own education. For your personal development, your knowledge as a member of a team, or for your studies in a particular discipline, what “structures” could you add in order to alter the adjacent possible? Who knows what could come from it? According to Johnson, you cannot know until you try.

This essay was originally published by The Caesura Letters on September 22, 2015 here as part of a week of pieces on the theme of education. The site is one of the most thoughtful spaces on the Internet (more about it here) and I'm very grateful for having my submission published.

Just Stories

As Asha and I wandered through the Colosseum, we came across an exhibit detailing ancient mythology. Both of us took real delight in the stories we encountered about the gods of old.

Why was I able to enjoy them so much? Part of it has to do with the fact that they're thrilling stories wrapped in an incredible amount of symbolism. The stories we encountered were the way in which the beginnings of modern civilization made sense of a changing world. The turning of the seasons, for example, can be explained by the tale of Persephone.

Besides the fact that they're examples of good storytelling, I think that another reason why I was able to enjoy them was that we have all decided that they are just stories. No one professes belief in Zeus anymore. Because no one stakes meaning on the veracity of these stories, we are free to appreciate their poetry.

I've spent a lot of this trip wandering through religious landscapes. The exhibit at the Colosseum was the first time that I could really lose myself in the religious story before me because it was just that: a story. The day after the Colosseum, we visited the Vatican and all the usual mental roadblocks took up their position. It was hard for me to appreciate the beauty of the Sistine Chapel when I knew that so much meaning and the foundation of many people's lives rides on the truth of the stories depicted. Unlike with the stories of the old gods, to not buy into the stories on those ceilings comes at a cost. In that beautiful space, my lack of belief and the faith of the onlooking true believer are locked in a zero-sum game. Each of our perspectives implicitly returns a negative judgement on the other. Trapped in this zero-sum game, I lack the freedom to just enjoy the story.

I don't have any of the answers but I do believe stories will always be how we move the world and make sense of it. The tools of our storytelling -- and the stories themselves -- will naturally change and adapt. That much is certain. I wonder, though, which of the stories we tell ourselves today will withstand the test of time.

Our Colosseums

I visited the Colosseum the other day. Its history is rich, but I want to focus on one detail in particular: it was a creation intended for the masses.

There's an idea that was part of my study of international relations at Carnegie Mellon called selectorate theory. The theory describes, explains, and predicts both the internal and external policy of a country through a focus on the leaders of individual states. In a few words, the theory pays attention to the relationship between the groups that are involved in electing a leader or keeping a leader in power. Of particular interest is the smallest subset of the group that selects a leader, the winning coalition. When leaders have a small number of people to win over, say, in a dictatorship, the theory predicts the distribution of private goods. When leaders have a large number of people to win over, say, in a democracy, the theory predicts the creation of public goods.

In some sense, the emperor had to pay attention to the masses. They did not select him, but the sangunity of the public was still important. As a result, the building of the Colosseum, while extravagant, could arguably be a smart investment on the part of a ruling emperor. Providing a space for entertainment like gladiatorial contests was sure to have made the public a happy bunch.

Politics has changed quite a bit from the kind we might find in Rome during the time where the Colosseum was in actual use. However, it hasn't changed completely: far from not having to pay attention to the masses anymore, the rise of democracy has made it more important that leaders focus on satisfying the masses. In a sense, then, democratic society still has its metaphorical Colosseums: "projects" already completed, under construction, or promised by potential future rulers in order to sway our opinion.

The Colosseum as it was long ago is no longer, but it leaves a distinct impression of dramatic and public violence as the opiate of the masses. That is, at least in part, the Colosseum's legacy. Today, we can choose our Colosseums indirectly through the power of the vote. What structures will be built to appeal to the masses? We must choose carefully the legacy we intend to leave. Thousands of years from now, will the Colosseums we choose today still stand? What will they say about us? It's up to us.

Go the Other Way

Go the other way.

Is it deep into the night or creeping into the early morning? Get out there and witness the different rhythm.

Is it raining? Head somewhere popular and observe its character in the state of desertion.

Is there an escalator? Take the stairs. They will be less crowded, you'll get some exercise, and probably get where you're going faster.

Are people burdened with luggage like pack mules? Pack light and go fast through crowds.

Are there massive lines? Skip them by planning ahead, going during a different time, or skipping the thing altogether. Sometimes the collective hype is just hot air.

Is everyone heading into subways and taxis? Walk, if you can. You'll see a fuller picture of things.

Do people unquestionably believe something? Double-check if the wisdom of the crowds has true wisdom.

Do you unquestionably believe something? Ask yourself what it would take for you to change your mind.

Go the other way.

Skimming Stones to 10,000 Hours

Writing this blog has been an experiment ever since I first ventured to Malawi in 2009. I didn't think that much about creating the (then) Wordpress site and sharing my thoughts about the first time I left the United States. My writing from that summer is sweetly pure.

Over time, however, I've become more self-conscious of putting my writing out there. We get older and wiser, but we also get more afraid. What will my family, friends, and peers think of the words I put on the page? Am I saying something worthy of people's attention?

Even though I've always seen the project of writing online as a way of navigating my own sense of becoming, pulling my thoughts to the page as a way to make sense of them, these doubting questions can weigh me down sometimes.

The common advice about art is to just churn out more of it, to get your 10,000 hours in any way you can. I think I worry about my art -- writing -- producing beautiful "hours" in the process. The truth of it is that it's all likely to be ugly, with only a few gems to come from it. I know, for example, what's good in something that I write and what's bad. It's only the smallest bits -- a turn of phrase here, or a run of thoughts there -- that I can hold up proudly. I recently read a short essay where someone compared the exercise of a writer's morning pages to that of skimming stones:

You spend a couple of seconds looking for a good stone and you throw. There’s no concern about the quality of the throw, a few throws is all that’s needed to get better.

Most of the stones I throw these days are crap. But if I just keep all these throws to myself and wait until I've reached some sort of self-certified mastery, what's the point of it all? To connect is to be human. We have to show our work of being human. I hope that by putting out at least some of my crap on display, I can nudge myself to keep logging the hours and occasionally stumbling upon beautiful. Maybe others will reach a point where they extend bits of their soul out for others to see, too. What I say doesn't have to be profound and it doesn't have to be inspiring, it just has to be honest. I've just got to keep skimming stones.