Tag: essay

  • Essay on the play “Heroes of the Fourth Turning” (opinion)

    Essay on the play “Heroes of the Fourth Turning” (opinion)

    A brief announcement: After 20 years of writing “Intellectual Affairs” for Inside Higher Ed, I am retiring at the end of the month—from the gig, that is, not from writing itself. The final column will run in two weeks.

    Going to a play at the height of COVID-19 was effectively impossible, but I managed to see two productions of Will Arbery’s Heroes of the Fourth Turning in the fall of 2020. The first performance was via Zoom. The actors did what they could, but the suspension of disbelief was never a viewer option. Heroes was then produced by Philadelphia’s Wilma Theater and “captured digitally as a site-specific production, created in a closed quarantine ‘bubble’ at a private location in the Poconos, following strict health guidelines,” as press materials stated at the time.

    Set at a small Catholic college in rural Wyoming during the first months of Donald Trump’s presidency, Heroes centers on four friends (two men, two women) who reunite at a college function, a few years after graduation. They all admire a professor who has been appointed as president of the college. She joins them around two-thirds of the way through the play; one of the four is her daughter.

    The audience quickly picks up that Transfiguration College of Wyoming has a curriculum based on the Great Books, with a strong dose of conservative theology—not least on matters of sexual morality. And the lessons have gone deep. None of the four has drifted away from the faith, or skewed to the left, although one is clearly more troubled by punitive rhetoric than the rest.

    The play’s title alludes to a pop-sociological theory of history as moving through a cycle of four periods, each about two decades long. Since graduation, one member of the group has become a fairly successful figure in right-wing media (likely she has Steve Bannon on speed dial) and an ardent believer in the apocalypse promised by the fourth turning.

    “It’s destruction,” she says. “It’s revolution, it’s war. The nation almost doesn’t survive. Great example is the Civil War, and the economic crisis before that. Or the Great Depression and World War II. And it’s right now. The national identity crisis caused by Obama. Liberals think it’s Trump. It’s the fight to save civilization. People start to collectivize and turn against each other. It seems like everything’s ending—we’re all gonna die. No one trusts each other. But the people who do trust each other form crazy bonds. Somehow we get through it, we rise from the ashes …”

    The phoenix that emerges? An era of security, conformity and prosperity. The apocalypse has a happy ending.

    When the play premiered off-Broadway in 2019, reviewers often imagined the discomfort it would presumably give New York theatergoers—plunged into a continuous flow of red state ideology, with no character challenging it. But the play did more than that. The figures Arbery puts on stage are characters, not ventriloquist dummies. They have known one another at close proximity for years and formed “crazy bonds” of great intensity.

    Their conversation is rooted in that personal history as well as in Transfiguration College’s carefully tended vision of Judeo-Christian Western civilization. The playwright creates a good deal of inner space for the actors to occupy and move around in. When I finally got to see Heroes of the Fourth Turning onstage, in person, there were moments that felt like eavesdropping on real people.

    What comes out of a character’s mouth at times echoes well-worn culture-war talking points—many unchanged now, almost eight years after when the play is set. At the same time, the characters clash over points of doctrine and ethical disagreement, and express very mixed feelings about the MAGA crusade. The closest thing to an expression of enthusiasm for the new president (then and now) is when a character calls Trump “a Golem molded from the clay of mass media … Even if he himself is confused, he has the ability to spit out digestible sound bites rooted in decades of the work of the most brilliant conservative think tanks in the country.”

    This is cynical, but also naïve. When the president of the college appears before her adoring former students, she recites some points they have undoubtedly heard from her many times:

    “Progressivism moves too fast and forces change and constricts liberty. Gridlock is beautiful. In the delay is deliberation and true consensus. If you just railroad something through because you want it done, that’s the passion of the mob. Delaying is the structure of the [republic], which is structured differently in order to offset the dangers of democracy. I believe in slowness, gridlock.”

    She’s a fictional character, but I still wonder what she’s made of the last few weeks.

    Not long after Heroes opened in 2019, Elizabeth Redden wrote an in-depth article for Inside Higher Ed about Wyoming Catholic College, the not-so-veiled original for the play’s Transfiguration College. Arbery’s father was the college’s president at the time. All of which goes some ways toward explaining how a one-act play can evoke so palpably a college that is also a counterculture.

    Scott McLemee is Inside Higher Ed’s “Intellectual Affairs” columnist. He was a contributing editor at Lingua Franca magazine and a senior writer at The Chronicle of Higher Education before joining Inside Higher Ed in 2005.

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  • Essay on the panopticon (opinion)

    Essay on the panopticon (opinion)

    Not quite a household word (beyond academia, anyway), “panopticon” nonetheless turns up in news stories with surprising frequency—here and here, for example, and here and here. The Greek roots in its name point to something “all seeing,” and in occasional journalistic usage it almost always functions as a synonym for what’s more routinely called “the surveillance society”: the near ubiquity of video cameras in public (and often private) space, combined with our every click and keystroke online being tracked, stored, analyzed and aggregated by Big Data.

    Originally, though, the panopticon was what the British political philosopher Jeremy Bentham proposed as a new model of prison architecture at the end of the 18th century. The design was ingenious. It also embodied a paranoid’s nightmare. And at some point, it came to seem normal.

    Picture a cylindrical building, each floor consisting of a ring of cells, with a watchtower of sorts at the center. From here, prison staff have an unobstructed view of all the cells, which at night are backlit with lamps. At the same time, inmates are prevented from seeing who is in the tower or what they are watching, thanks to a system of one-way screens.

    Prisoners could never be certain whether or not their actions were under observation. The constant potential for exposure to the authorities’ unblinking gaze would presumably reinforce the prisoner’s conscience— or install one, if need be.

    The panoptic enclosure was also to be a workhouse. Besides building good character, labor would earn prisoners a small income (to be managed in their best interest by the authorities), while generating revenue to cover the expense of food and housing. Bentham expected the enterprise to turn a profit.

    He had similar plans for making productive citizens out of the indigent. The panoptic poorhouse would, in his phrase, “grind rogues honest.” The education of schoolchildren might go better if conducted along panoptic lines; likewise with care for the insane. Bentham’s philanthropic ambitions were nothing if not grand, albeit somewhat ruthless.

    The goal of establishing perfect surveillance sometimes ran up against the technological limitations of Bentham’s era. (I find it hard to picture how the screens would work, for instance.) But he was dogged in promoting the idea, which did elicit interest from various quarters. Elements of the panopticon were incorporated into penitentiaries during Bentham’s lifetime—for one, Eastern State Penitentiary in Pennsylvania, opened in 1829—but never to his full satisfaction. He was constantly tinkering with the blueprints, to make the design more comprehensive and self-contained. He worked out a suitable plumbing system. He thought of everything, or tried.

    Only in the late 20th century did the panopticon elicit discussion outside the ranks of penologists and Bentham scholars. Even the specialists tended to neglect this side of his work, as the American historian Gertrude Himmelfarb complained in a book from 1968. “Not only historians and biographers,” she wrote, “but even legal and penal commentators seem to be unfamiliar with some of the most important features of Bentham’s plan.” They tended to pass it by with a few words of admiration or disdain.

    The leap into wider circulation came in the wake of Michel Foucault’s Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (1975). Besides acknowledging the panopticon’s significance in the history of prison design, Foucault treated it as prototypical of a new social dynamic: the emergence of institutions and disciplines seeking to accumulate knowledge about (and exercise power over) large populations. Panopticism sought to govern a population as smoothly, productively and efficiently as possible, with the smallest feasible cadre of managers.

    This was, in effect, the technocratic underside of Bentham’s utilitarianism, which defined an optimal social arrangement as one creating the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people. Bentham applied cost-benefit analysis to social institutions and human behavior to determine how they could be reshaped along more rational lines.

    To Foucault, the panopticon offered more than an effort at social reform, however grandiose. Its aim, he writes, “is to strengthen the social forces—to increase production, to develop the economy, spread education, raise the level of public morality; to increase and multiply.”

    If Bentham’s innovation is adaptable to a variety of uses, that is because it promises to impose order on group behavior by reprogramming the individual.

    From a technocrat’s perspective, the most dysfunctional part of society is the raw material from which it’s built. The panopticon is a tool for fashioning humans suitable for modern use.

    The prisoner, beggar or student dropped into the panopticon is, Foucault writes, “securely confined to a cell from which he is seen from the front by the supervisor; but the side walls prevent him from coming into contact with his companions.” Hundreds if not thousands of people surround him in all directions. The population is a crowd (something worrisome to anyone with authority, especially with the French Revolution still vividly in mind), but incapable of acting as one.

    As if to remind himself of his own humanitarian intentions, Bentham proposes that people from the outside world be allowed to visit the observation deck of the panopticon. Foucault explains, with dry irony, that this will preclude any danger “that the increase of power created by the panoptic machine may degenerate into tyranny …” For the panopticon would be under democratic control, of a sort.

    “Any member of society,” Foucault notes, had “the right to come and see with his own eyes how the schools, hospitals, factories, prisons function.” Besides ensuring a degree of public accountability, their very presence would contribute to the panopticon’s operations. Visitors would not meet the prisoners (or students, etc.) but observe them from the control and surveillance center. They would bring that many more eyes to the task of watching the cells for bad behavior.

    As indicated at the beginning of this piece, nonscholarly references to the panopticon in the 21st century typically appear as commentary on the norms of life online. This undoubtedly follows from Discipline and Punish being on the syllabus, in a variety of fields, for two or three generations now.

    Bentham was confident that his work would be appreciated in centuries to come, but he would probably be perplexed by this repurposing of his idea. He designed the panopticon to “grind rogues honest” through anonymous and continuous surveillance, which the digital panopticon exercises as well—but without a deterrent effect, to put it mildly.

    Bentham’s effort to impose inhibition on unwilling subjects seems to have been hacked; the panoptic technology of the present is programmed to generate exhibitionism and voyeurism. A couple of decades ago, the arrival of each new piece of digital technology was hailed as a tool for self-fashioning, self-optimization or some other emancipatory ambition. For all its limitations, the analogy to Bentham’s panopticon fits in one respect: Escape is hard even to imagine.

    Scott McLemee is Inside Higher Ed’s “Intellectual Affairs” columnist. He was a contributing editor at Lingua Franca magazine and a senior writer at The Chronicle of Higher Education before joining Inside Higher Ed in 2005.

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  • Alternatives to the essay can be inclusive and authentic

    Alternatives to the essay can be inclusive and authentic

    I lead our largest optional final-year module – Crime, Justice and the Sex Industry – with 218 registered students for the 24–25 academic year.

    That is a lot of students to assess.

    For that module in the context, I was looking for an assessment that is inclusive, authentic, and hopefully enjoyable to write.

    I also wanted to help make students into confident writers, who make writing a regular practice with ongoing revisions.

    Inspired by the wonderful Katie Tonkiss at Aston University, I devised a letter assessment for our students.

    This was based on many different pedagogical considerations, and the acute need to teach students how to hold competing and conflicting harms and needs in tension. I consider the sex industry within the broader context of violence against women and girls.

    The sex industry, sexual exploitation, and violence against women in girls are brutal and traumatic topics that can incite divisive responses.

    Now more than ever, we need to be able to deal well with differences, to negotiate, to encourage, to reflect, and to try and move discussions forward, as opposed to shutting them down.

    Their direction and pace

    During the pandemic, I designed my module based on a non-linear pedagogy – giving students the power to navigate teaching resources at a direction and pace of their choosing.

    This has strong EDI principles, and was strongly led by my own dyslexia. I recognised that students often have constraints on their time and energy levels that mean they need to engage with learning in different patterns during different weeks – disclosing that they “binge watch” lecture videos, podcasts, or focus heavily on texts during certain weeks to block out their time.

    The approach also honours the principles of trauma-informed teaching, empowering students to navigate sensitive topics of gender-based and sexual violence.

    As I argue here with Lisa Anderson, students are now learning in a post-pandemic context with differing expectations, accessibility needs, and barriers including paid work responsibilities.

    The “full-time student” is now something of an anachronism, and education must meet this new reality – there are now more students in paid employment than not according to the 2023 HEPI/Advance HE Student Academic Experience Study.

    We have to meet students where they are, and, presently, that is in a difficult place as many students struggle with the cost of living and the battle to “have it all”.

    Students may not be asked to write exam answers or essays in their post-university life, but they will certainly be expected to write persuasively, convincingly, engaging with multiple viewpoints, and sitting with their own discomfort.

    This may take the form of webpage outputs, summaries, policy briefings, strategy documents, emails to stakeholders, campaign materials. As such, students are strongly encouraged to think about the letter from day one of semester, and consider who their recipient will be.

    They are told that it is easier to write such a letter to somebody with an opposing viewpoint – laying out your case in a respectful, warm and supportive way to try and progress the discussion. Students are also encouraged to acknowledge their own positionality, and share this if desirable, including if they can identify a thinker, document or moment that changed their position.

    Working towards change

    An example is a student who holds a position influenced by their faith, writing their letter to a faith leader or family member, acknowledging that they respect their beliefs, but strongly endorsing an approach that places harm-reduction and safety first. Finding a place of agreement and building from there, and accepting that working towards change can be a long process.

    Another example is a student who holds sex industry abolitionist views, writing to a sex worker, expressing concern and solidarity with the multiple forms of harm, stigma and violence they have experienced, including institutional violence.

    They consider how the law itself facilitates the context that makes violence more likely to occur. This is particularly pertinent at the moment as we experience a fresh wave of digital “me too” and high-profile cases of sexual violence and victim-blaming.

    In this way, students are taught to examine different documents and evidence, from legal, policy, charity briefings and statements, journal articles, books, reports, documentaries, global sex worker grassroots initiatives, news reports, social media campaigns and footage, art, literature, etc.

    By engaging with different types of sources, we challenge the idea that academic material is top of the knowledge hierarchy, and platform the voices who often go unheard, including sex workers globally.

    The students cross-reference resources, and identify forms of harm, violence and discrimination that may not make official narratives. This also encourages students to be active members of our community, contributing to each workshop either verbally or digitally, in real-time, or asynchronously via our class-wide google doc.

    Students are also taught that it is OK to not have the definitive answer, and to instead ask the recipient to help them further their knowledge. They are also taught that it is ok to change our position and recommendations depending on what evidence we encounter.

    Above all, they are taught that two things can be true at the same time: something might be harmful, and the response to it awful too.

    Students responded overwhelmingly in favour of this approach, and many expressed a new-found love of writing, and reading. Engaging with many different mediums including podcasts, tweets, reels, history talks, art exhibitions, gave them confidence in their reading and study skills.

    Putting choice and enjoyment in the curriculum is not about “losing academic rigour”, it is about firing students up for their topics of study, and ensuring they can communicate powerfully to different audiences using different tools.

    Dear me, I wish we had tried this assessment sooner. xoxo

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