Travels in America, Part One

I was on the Atlanta-Greensboro leg of a trip to Wake Forest University for a conference on Law and Violence.  The man seated next to me and I struck up a conversation, starting with the usual small talk. “What takes you to Greensboro?”  “Work. I have a conference at Wake Forest. How about you?”  “I’m visiting my nieces. I’ve got three of them there.” “You are a nice uncle to make a trip just to visit your nieces.”  “Well, they’re great and we’re very close. So what kind of work do you do?” “I teach at a law school.” “You’re a professor? Really? You don’t look old enough to be a professor. I would guess…. You are in your thirties.”  “That is very kind! But I’m 49, so more than 20 years older than most of my students now.”  Then he asked me, “How old do you think I am.”  I turned so I could see him straight on. He was African-American, with dark skin and a smooth complexion, but some small wrinkles around the eyes. “I would say, in your thirties?”  “No, I’m just a few years younger than you—44.” “Well we’re just the mutual admiration society then!” I said, and we laughed about that, and then settled in a bit.  I took out my book and started reading. He opened a magazine. At some point we started chatting again. (Some flights are like that. People are open and friendly. Others are not; everyone dives into a book or device and pretends they are not in elbow to thigh proximity.)

He told me he was from Milwaukee. I told him I grew up in New Jersey, but now lived in Colorado. I asked him about his work, and he told me that he is a general contractor and works mostly on renovations. He had been a realtor in Atlanta, but when the market crashed he left and had to start over. He asked me if I had ever traveled outside of the country.  I said yes, including recently to Rome.  He said he would love to go to Rome some day. Two years ago he visited Finland and Latvia, and caught the travel bug.  “Really? Latvia?” I asked.  “I was there once too, but ages ago.”  “No kidding!  I was in Riga, you know, the capital.”  “That’s where I was!”  We agreed it was a beautiful city, with its cobblestone streets and medieval European look. “I loved it,” he said. “It was cool, and the food was good.” This surprised me, I told him, because the food in the former USSR was uniformly awful when I was there decades ago. He laughed and said, “Well it’s good now. And I’ll tell you what. They have hardly any Black people there, and so that was interesting.”  I asked him about that.  “What was that like? Was that kind of refreshing, because they don’t have all of our baggage? Or was it weird?”  “No, it was great. Because the only Black people they see are the ones on television, the Michael Jordans, Will Smiths, and so they think we are all rich and famous!  They see me and think… ‘he must be like Jay-Z.’”  This made us both laugh, and then he said, “But the coolest thing, and I’m going to tell you this because you seem like you get it, was that I walked out of a night club at 2:00 in the morning, and a group of women, White women—because they were all White women there—was coming toward me.  And they walked right by me without even blinking, without crossing the street.  And I saw a cop too, and same thing. He just nodded and said hello.” So I said something like, what a relief that must have been, and what a drag that he had to come home to the same old racist treatment here. And from then on, he started leaning in to talk to me, whispering almost, because he didn’t want all the (White) people around us to hear.  And what he talked about was, in short, the vast gap between what his life is like as a Black man in America and what most White people think his life is like. At one point I asked him if he thought things were better or worse now than when he was younger, or could he tell. And he leaned in close again and said, “I’m going to be completely honest with you, because I can tell you care. Things are not better but they are different. They are more underground, you know what I’m saying? But are they better? They are not going to get better because people like to hang on to what they have. And I’ll tell you something, this goes way back. In the South, they made poor white people feel better by making them think that at least they weren’t Black.  And that’s where it all starts, dividing up people by making some people feel, well at least I’m better off than they are.” No historian or social theorist could put it any more concisely or clearly than this man sitting next to me on a flight from Atlanta to Greensboro.

We talked for the rest of the short trip, quietly and intensely, about race in America, but other things too. He asked about my family, and I asked about his, and we talked about all of it, from the mundane to the personal to the deeply political. And when the plane was landing I told him that I hoped he would travel to Rome someday, as he said he wanted to, and wished him the best. He said he hoped I had safe travels, and that it was good to meet me and to talk, to really talk. We shook hands. I got off the plane feeling deeply sad about my country and its color line that has never been erased, and yet at the same time filled with wonder and a small flame of hope. Hope fueled by the sense that, despite the embedded structures of racism that divide us, strangers can connect, at least for a short while on an airplane where we are crammed elbow to thigh and provided an opportunity, if we choose to take it, to talk, to really talk.

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The Anthropocene: Everything and Nothing New

We have been kind of quiet here at brazenandtenured. Maybe it’s better that way. A friend of mine once disclosed that his goal as a professor was to write as little as possible as well as possible. Most of the world, and especially the professoriate, is going the other way. Prose–good, bad, and indifferent–flies at us from all directions. So maybe our recent silence has been a welcome counterbalance. If so, then I apologize for starting back up.

I couldn’t resist because it appears that a term that I have been using for a few years now in my writing (including in a chapter in an edited volume published by Cambridge University Press) has taken off (not at all because of me, I should add.) The term is the Anthropocene, coined by Eugene Stoermer and Paul Crutzen. It stands for the era of ubiquitous human influence on the planet. Climate change is the number one example, and all the more so now that the world’s leading scientists have prescribed a carbon budget for the planet, which we are likely to exceed in the coming decades. But there are several other indicators as well. We humans and our marks are everywhere. What does this mean? Should it change the way we think about our obligations to one another, other species, and future generations?

I am now immersed in working on a book on these questions, which fold in many others, including more than a few legal ones.  Here is an excerpt from the preface and introduction. (All the usual copyright protections apply.)

Parenting the Planet DRAFT

Preface

Like more than half of the people in the world, I did not grow up in a pastoral, rural, or remotely wild setting.  Englewood, New Jersey, where I was raised, is one of hundreds of tightly clustered suburban towns that fan out from New York City. To provide one highly idiosyncratic measure of the region’s density, from the front door of my childhood home, I could do several different eight to ten mile runs that took me through at least three other towns. The closest thing to a trail run was the route that my high school track coach called the Manhattan Touch, which went up the hill to Englewood Cliffs, through the trash-strewn strip of trees on the Palisades overlooking the Hudson River (I think this was some kind of park or protected space), into Fort Lee, across the George Washington Bridge, and then reversed course back home. For me and my tri-state peers, the night sky had just a handful of stars. Wild animals lived in zoos. Food came in packages, often in the form of miraculous powders that became pudding, coffee, or Kool Aid.

By the time I became aware of the awesome beauty and complexity of non-human nature, it had just been pronounced dead.  I was 23 when Bill McKibben wrote the End of Nature, an early assessment of climate change and its ubiquitous influence on planetary systems. Missing out on the good times, the peak, the in-thing, is endemic to my generation. We were born in the sixties, but came of age during the eighties, the decade of yuppies and conspicuous consumption.  For labeling purposes, we warranted only an X. You would think we would be used to it, this business of being always too late.  But barely missing out on nature? That’s pretty harsh, even for the generation weaned on rap, disco, and punk. Of course I didn’t realize I had missed it until much later. Little did I suspect that as I learned to love sleeping under a glittering night sky, scrambling through obscure canyons, and walking for days without seeing asphalt, I was falling in love with a zombie: Nature, the Walking Dead. By the time I got the news, I was already smitten.  As a result, in part this book is about how to stay in love with a damaged planet. My generation and the ones after, having only had the opportunity to get to know the Earth in its compromised state, may be best situated to figure out how to move forward, soberly yet playfully, without doomed illusions of restoring the past.

There is more to it than that though. Another effect of being embarrassingly oblivious to the environment (a word that stands in for nothing less than “the physical world that sustains us”) throughout my alienated suburban youth was that I came to know nature after I came to know politics. The great discussions in my household and social circles were about civil rights, poverty, and injustices of race, class, and gender.  The issues that motivated me to become a lawyer and then to pursue a career in legal services for low-income clients were steeped in the political, legal, and social structures that caused and perpetuated inequality and injustice among human communities. For a long time, even as I became increasingly green in my personal life, including in terms of causes I supported and individual actions I took, I could not quite marry the environmentalist with the lawyer/activist. Surely my immaturity and naiveté prompted my reactions at the time, which were that environmental law was a somewhat a-political, highly technical field that did a lot of important things, but was the province of earnest hikers, the kids who joined the outdoor activity club in college instead of the protests against apartheid.

Then I lived on the Navajo Nation and witnessed two phenomena up close.  The first was the intimate, deep, and genuine connection that Navajo and Hopi people had to their lands and waters, notwithstanding that their homelands could hardly be described as pristine or untouched.  The second was the myriad ways in which laws, policies, and cultural forces aimed, in the present and for centuries before, to sever that connection. From those experiences, a way of understanding how to connect the dots between social injustice, racial subordination, and environmentalism emerged.  There is no formula for it.  The dots, even when connected, do not create a template, a grid, or a table.  At best, they illuminate patterns, beneath which lie very complicated strata of human and natural history.  The key, however, is a very simple insight.  There is no nature free of human politics. This is a very different observation from Mckibben’s, though the two can live together.  To recognize that, as a physical matter, we have influenced the course of natural phenomena everywhere on Earth is different from concluding that we have always interacted with and ordered our relations with nature according to politics.  To highlight the difference, before or during the early stages of the industrial revolution, at least some parts of the planet (deep oceans, the atmosphere, some far flung patches of tundra and rain forest, etc.) had not been permanently altered by human activity. Yet even then, human access to, understanding of, and use of nature’s physical resources (the ones we could and did reach) were mediated through power, law, and culture. A couple of well-known examples should illuminate the point. The “frontier” that was so famously pronounced to be closed in 1890 by Frederick Jackson Turner only existed because the intertwined forces of law, culture and military might created it in the first place.  The western United States was not a terra nullius—a vast empty space—when the first non-indigenous explorers, trappers, and miners stumbled on it.  It became one because of their individual and collective interests, and the pervasive presence of indigenous peoples was rendered invisible by law and violence.  Similarly, two of our earliest and most famous National Parks, Yellowstone and Yosemite, were withdrawn from “settlement” (meaning from homesteading by non-Indians) to protect their natural aesthetic qualities, notwithstanding that indigenous peoples occupied and used both areas regularly. The Yosemite people were forcibly removed from Yosemite Valley, and the Shoshone, Bannock, Sheepeater and Crow from Yellowstone. As historian Mark David Spence put it, “uninhabited wilderness had to be created before it could be preserved.” In other words, even before human actions irreversibly altered the physical course of the planet, our interactions with non-human nature took place in a space mediated and constructed by us rather than by purely physical or scientific criteria. Physical nature may still have existed separate from human influence, but what we described and valued as “natural” was constructed by law, politics, and culture.

Many prominent scholars, William Cronon foremost among them, have long made this point about the political and social construction of nature and wilderness. For a time, some saw it as an argument that threatened the more objective (i.e. scientific) bases for protecting non-human nature, and therefore tried to distinguish or marginalize its import. But today, now that the End of Nature has met the Construction of Nature, perhaps there is more room to see that science, while crucial to the effort to understand, enact, and often guide our values, does not constitute them in the first place.  We may love and want to protect Yosemite, the Mojave, and the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge today in large part because of their ecology, but their ecology did not automatically dictate their protected status.  (If it worked that way, many more places would have the same protected status.) Nature cannot command us to protect it; it has always been just us humans making the commands.  To pretend otherwise only obscures the rocky political and social path that leads to legally protected designations.

So this book, in addition to being about how and why to love a damaged planet, describes how our efforts to protect (or exploit) non-human nature have always taken place within the contested world of politics and power. In a world indelibly altered by human activities, the recognition that we have always constructed the meaning of nature can become liberating instead of straitjacketing.  Given that it is up to us, why not continue to try to save the pika, the polar bear, and even the braken bat cave meshweaver (an obscure species of blind spider)? There are many reasons to do so, including but not limited to scientific ones.  If nature did not command us to preserve these non-human life forms in the first place, the end of nature is not a reason for us to stop trying.  Seeing that ideas about nature derive from ideas about politics and culture also provides all the more reason to marry questions about how to treat each other with how to treat the environment. The dualism that haunts western thinking about nature and the environment has long masked the ways that access to natural resources, whether to exploit or preserve them, has perpetuated (and sometimes also caused or at least exacerbated) existing inequalities within human communities.  As long as nature, this thing other than us, seemed to command us to do certain things (whether exploit or preserve it) we could avoid seeing that these questions arise always in the context of larger webs of political and social ordering. Now that Nature is Us, perhaps we can see that we approach these questions, and have always done so, within existing political and cultural structures and frameworks. We can therefore approach questions about how to create a sustainable world in ways that weave political and social goals together with ecological ones from the outset. We can engage in acts of promoting democracy, freedom, anti-subordination, and human flourishing simultaneous to protecting and nurturing the non-human world that sustains us, instead of treating either set of goals as after-thoughts or appendages to the other. This does not mean, of course, that we will choose this path, or even if we do that we will succeed.  But given what’s at stake, which is nothing less than all of our intertwined fates as creatures on a shared planet, a vision of vibrant, democratic, free, egalitarian, and ecologically sustainable communities is worth aiming for, even if it’s always just beyond our grasp. And in aiming for it, we will be more likely to create the worlds, damaged though they will be, that we would like to inhabit. These, at least, are the paradoxically utopian and tragic thoughts of this Gen-Xer from New Jersey, raised in the shadow of New York City, come of age in the West and on the Navajo Nation’s high desert plateau, now writing from the foothills of the Rocky Mountains in the midst of a changing human/natural landscape.

* * *

Introduction (excerpt)

Since the first trip to the moon, we have seen images of planet Earth as a big blue marble, something any child could hold in one hand. The image is often invoked to instill a sense of our obligations to our single and shared home.  Today, the marble metaphor might also evoke a more worrisome thought: the Earth is under our thumb. Global warming is the latest example of how human activity has reached every nook and cranny of the earth’s natural systems, but it is not the only one.  The effects on the ozone layer, the collapse of fisheries throughout the world, and the accelerated species extinction rate, among many other phenomena, indicate the planetary scope of human impacts.   As Nobel prize winner Paul Crutzen has put it, we have entered the “Anthropocene,” the era of ubiquitous human influence on the earth’s geological systems. Physicist Robert Socolow similarly has suggested that today we might think of ourselves as “planetarians,” due to our wide ranging impacts.

This stage, the Anthropocene, the Planetarian, or whatever label we choose to apply, provides the occasion to reconsider our relationship with the natural world.  Just as importantly, it provides the occasion to dwell on what it means to be human and whether our capacities for moral thought and action can match our physical imprint. While there is a desperate need for sophisticated technological and legal solutions to address climate change and other global environmental challenges, ultimately our decisions will reflect our moral and ethical commitments to other humans and to the natural world, even if they will not reflect them perfectly.  Our decisions will mirror our ideas about what matters, what constitutes a good and meaningful life more than they will enable humanity to restore, preserve, or conserve (insert any number of environmental verbs here) nature as it was. This is so for two reasons.  First, our ideas about nature have always been a reflection of our ideas about society and culture, even when vast parts of the planet remained relatively unaffected by human actions.  Second, now that we are in the Anthropocene, the physical aspects of nature are and will continue to be profoundly affected by human activity regardless of the choices we make to manage, protect, regulate, or do nothing.

We should think hard about this double-whammy of “it’s all about and dependent on us.” Doing so will not lead us inexorably to shared conclusions about what actions to take any more than the image of the Earth as a blue marble automatically evokes feelings of global responsibility. To the contrary, realizing that we are the adults in charge may only sharpen the differences among us about which values should guide our decisions and actions. If nothing else, however, a fleeting glance at the awesome responsibilities of the Anthropocene may unsettle us into seeing our values clearly, reflecting on them for a moment, and, for some, jostling the recognition that the sum total of a life is nothing more or less than the effort to live in accordance with those values.

This book attempts to take that fleeting glance. It explores examples of human communities attempting to implement moral, ethical and legal commitments that reflect concern for social justice, other species, natural systems, and future generations in contexts that highlight the unavoidable challenges of the Anthropocene.  A recurring theme is that conventional notions of progress are not sufficient to evaluate whether these efforts are worthwhile.  This may sound utterly counter-intuitive.  Since the industrial revolution, progress has gone hand-in-hand with technological innovation.  For roughly the past forty years (dating from the early 1970’s, when many of the United States’ major federal environmental laws were passed), technology has, in significant measure, also allowed us to rein in some of the negative environmental consequences of industrialization.  The western developed world made substantial progress towards addressing, for example, air and water pollution through a mix of regulation and technology.  Even in less obviously technology-dominant areas such as species preservation, the combination of scientific knowledge and human ingenuity resulted in important conservation victories, such as bringing the Bald Eagle, the California Condor and other less telegenic species back from the brink of extinction.  The goals and measures of environmental law have been oriented, quite understandably, toward success that is quantifiable.

More recently, technological frames of thought, including welfare economics, market liberalism, and other rationalist/individualist approaches, have monopolized politics and decision-making in much of the western developed world. These frames have in common an outlook of perpetual economic growth that is dependent on unstated assumptions about boundless resources and/or our technological capacity to overcome any resource limitations. They also tend to instantiate a highly refined type of utilitarian calculation, often in the form of cost-benefit analysis, as their method. This has taken the notion of quantification as the measure of progress to a whole new level.   The idea is that if we reduce everything in the world that has (or detracts from) value to a fungible measure, we can calculate our way to optimal decisions, environmental and otherwise. We thereby avoid messy and contested discussions about which core values should form the bases for our actions, and instead simply run the numbers and await the optimal and efficient operating instructions.

Other writers have skillfully parried assumptions about boundless resources and cost benefit methodology. Doug Kysar in particular has challenged the concept of a value-free starting point for implementing these forms of utilitarianism. This book relies on these important contributions for its inquiry, which involves exploring a conception of how we relate to the planet, its human and non-human constituents, in ways that might supplant the dominant frames with a timelier and yet also enduring vision of ourselves and our obligations. The starting point is not value-free. There is a core normative assumption, and it is simple: we should take care of where we live. The human capabilities that accompany that assumption immediately render it more complicated, however. As human beings, we have the intellectual capacity to understand that “where we live” is both very nearby, and at the same time expands across space and time. In the Anthropocene, we live locally, yet our effects are planetary and enduring. Taking care of where we live therefore includes connecting our daily actions to their planetary effects. Yet it also implies that how we live with one another is just as important as the end goal of a healthy and sustainable planet, in no small part because we may not achieve the planetary goal, and at any rate will certainly not know in our lifetimes whether we will or not. To foster the norm of taking care of where we live in the Anthropocene, we need political institutions and legal arrangements that connect local and egalitarian resource governance with the planetary scale of environmental challenges.

* * *

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The New Normal

So is this the New Normal?   The question gets asked about lots of things—Washington politics, the economy, terrorism, infrastructure, the financial markets.   And the question gets asked anxiously because as a normal—as a baseline—this new normal (whatever it may be) is less than entirely believable.   To be sure, the New Normal is recognized in conversation—as in “Well, you know, this could be the new normal.”   But most often, it’s offered as a theoretical possibility acknowledged, but then quickly bracketed, because not quite believable.

Well, why isn’t the New Normal believable?

One reason, of course, is that it flies in the face of deep-seated American myths about collective and personal progress—about things getting better because well… things are supposed to get better.  Problems are supposed to get fixed.  Solutions are supposed to be found.  That’s the way it’s always been (not true) and that’s the way it always will be (surely not).

A second and more interesting reason that this New Normal isn’t quite believable is that we recognize that things are going to change.   Quantitative easing can’t go on forever.   Climate change will get worse.  Infrastructure, if we do nothing, will not remain at a D+.    Structural corruption of politics is self-compounding.  MOOC’s really are waiting in the wings to displace the traditional university.  Meanwhile in almost every field, (journalism, politics, business, etc.) the people who lead really are, for the most part, mediocre.  And unfortunately for us—it’s systemic: The triage, certification, and screening mechanisms designed to promote excellence and ward off decadence are themselves decadent—incapable of controlling for self-promotion effects, image manipulation or other forms of gaming.  More broadly, the mechanisms we usually rely upon to recognize, name, and correct for institutional breakdowns (e.g. mechanisms such as law, politics, journalism) are themselves broken.

The upshot?  Well, the affirmation that this is the New Normal really isn’t believable.   Unless, of course, the New Normal is defined as 1) a precarious state of affairs that will soon change radically but 2) in ways that are utterly out of our control (and out of the control of our institutions).   Now this “dynamic” conception of the New Normal, arguably does capture the moment—the recognition that things are slated to change, but in ways utterly out of our control.

And so we are waiting—essentially spectators waiting to see what is going to happen to our collective lives (and thus our individual lives).  It’s not apathy or indifference.   Nor is it that jaded 80’s or 90’s sense of postness—that everything worth happening already has.   It’s more a sense that we are profoundly irrelevant—except, perhaps in our own micro-activities.   It’s also a sense that the mindsets of the people who are relevant (think for example: Supreme Court Justices) are so historically askew to our times, so outdated in their frames, their preoccupations, their concerns, that they couldn’t possible help.

What then is this?  Full circle: It is the recognition that we are a very (very) old society and that the institutions and practices we have created over the decades (the  centuries) are too exhausted to deal with what they have wrought.   They are incapable of naming and comprehending—they have neither the language nor the motivation to register and articulate—the cultural, political, and economic forces and agencies that our constructing us and our world.    And so they just drone on (Supreme Court opinions) or they foment angry self-referential tirades (the media blogosphere) or pose and posture (Congress) or document the trivial with exacting rigor (academia) or… and so on.   And so meanwhile, we (who are also them) wait, wistfully wishing for a return to the old normal and yet knowing it’s not going to happen.

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Notes in Support of the Liberal Arts Law School

Here are a few ideas for how law schools that are not in the top ten (or not in the fifteen that are in the top ten) might respond to the structural forces bearing down on legal education. For those who haven’t been keeping up, the structural forces include: defunding of public education; rising tuition (in part due to defunding of public education but also for other reasons); increasing student debt loads; diminishing job opportunities; diminishing pay; and changes to the format and delivery of legal services. These forces have unearthed some longstanding shortcomings in legal education, and also have brought new pressures to bear. When law schools, particularly public law schools, were cheap, students did not have to worry much about how their legal education was or was not serving them.  They also did not have to worry much about landing a legal job.  The credential was helpful for a variety of career paths, and most options remained open financially. Now, students have to think very seriously about whether to go to law school and incur significant debt, and therefore become channeled into narrower career options, if they have options at all.

The top 10 or so schools will likely be able to continue with a law school business-as-usual scenario, with the possible exception that they will be engaged in global competition for students and faculty. Otherwise, a few tweaks to financial aid and loan forgiveness and a few nods to improving the quality of the educational experience should do it for them. The schools in the lowest tier will likely face an equally foregone, though diametrically opposite, future. The pressure will be great to dramatically decrease faculty scholarship and emphasize skills training and bar prep approaches to teaching. Many schools will follow this vocational-technical route in order to remain cost efficient and therefore survive.

What about the schools in the middle?  Can they, and should they, pay for faculty to write articles and books?  Can they, and should they, continue to teach theory, jurisprudence, and critical approaches to law?  Can they, and should they, pay for expensive in-house clinics where students can acquire skills in the context of intensive feedback accompanied by opportunities for critical reflection?  Here is a short outline, a sketch really, of an argument in support of the answer “yes.”  A significant caveat exists, however.  It is this:  yes, if at the same time these schools can increase the value of legal education by requiring higher quality teaching and in other ways demanding more of their faculty, without doing so in unimaginative ways that lead solely to a vo-tech model.  Law teaching can continue to be one of the last great jobs, but only if faculty can respond constructively to the changes facing us and our students.

The Case for the Feisty Liberal Arts Law School, in Outline Form:

–Our society is riddled with law, and will continue to be so indefinitely.

–People, poor and rich, will always need excellent lawyers when things go wrong (divorce, death, catastrophic injury, foreclosure, injustice, etc.)

–The top ten schools cannot produce enough excellent lawyers for all of society.

–Excellent lawyers not only have the best skills, they understand how to dissect arguments and to cut through layers of obfuscation and preconception.  They are, in other words, interpreters and translators.

–The ability to interpret and translate requires critical thinking skills and a deep understanding of the structures of language and argument.

–Excellent lawyers also know how to make their arguments resonate with deeply held beliefs.

–Knowledge of history, including legal and intellectual history, is necessary to speak in a register consonant with people’s deeply held beliefs.

–A legal liberal arts education, along the lines of what is available at all good law schools, provides access to professors (both clinical and non-clinical) who can teach critical thinking, legal and intellectual history, and legal theory, all of which are necessary to produce excellent lawyers as described above.

–Professors inclined to teach in these ways can add knowledge to the world (through their scholarship), that most judges, lawyers, and law-makers cannot.  Academics can take the time to study a field of law in its historical sweep. They can dissect the moves and unearth the assumptions in a line of legal argument that have, sometimes dangerously, been left unexamined. Not all of what academics do will illuminate or enlighten, but much of it will.  And if the machinery of law grinds along, with no one minding the gaps, all the skills in the world will do nothing for those who might be crushed in its wake.

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Facts (The)

These little items are trouble.   Let me state right off that I have not always been on entirely friendly terms with “the facts.”  We have had a long and, at times, uneasy relation.   Things took a bad turn early.  I was prepared to be French—to deduce (and occasionally refute) large aspects of the world without ever having to leave the Latin Quarter. Instead I had to become an American.  Pragmatic.  Fact-focused.  (I don’t want to talk about it.)

But let me explain about the facts.  First, notice, that the most factish of facts (apologies to Latour) are actually factoids—trivial data bits shorn of any actual narrative.  CNN had it down cold: “America has had five presidents who ate fish for breakfast.”  What, I ask you, could you possibly do with that qua fact?

Still, Americans like facts.  It was Joe Friday on Dragnet who first said, “all we want are the facts, ma’am.”

Just the Facts, Ma'Am: The Authorized Biography of Jack Webb

Really? That’s all?   I don’t think so.  He was on a mission.   He wanted facts on a mission. And we, the viewers, did too.

So I have to say, as a preliminary matter, things already don’t look too good for the facts. Indeed, the possibility that in their most prototypical factishisness, facts are nearly useless while in their most desirable state they are on a mission—well, that’s not an auspicious start.  For a fact.

Things get worse.  In law and social science (that’s my domain limit here—I feel really cramped) facts generally function as poseurs.  The facts, are nearly always posing as the truth about “what-is-actually-going-on.”  Facts are frequently presented as “the-real-story” or  “the bottom line.”    One is no doubt supposed to conclude from this that “facts are facts”—that they are the veritable bedrock of truth.  But notice that this doesn’t make any sense.    Notice that the “bottom line” is an accounting metaphor.   Consider that, “the real story” is an oxymoron deliberately composed of both truth and fiction.   Note that “what-is-actually-going-on” is a problematic state hanging precariously on the ungrounded and notoriously unreliable  reality/appearance pair.   All of this is to say, that the appeal of “getting down to the facts,” (or some such thing) often rests on situating the facts in some initially alluring rhetorical space (e.g. “the real story” “the bottom line”) that turns out, upon further inspection, to be constructed of images, metaphors or fictions of questionable philosophical countenance.  (See, Nietzsche, On Lies and Truth in a Non-Moral Sense)    Now, it’s not that these metaphors, images or fictions turn facts into non-facts.   But still, I ask you: what could be more humbling to a fact then to learn that it has been selected for our attention by a metaphor, an image, or a fiction?

Not only do facts frequently function as poseurs, but, when they are at their most factish, they’re often not all that interesting.   Factish facts don’t really tell you much of anything you want to know.  Imagine a party.  Here are some exemplary factish facts: There were 19 people at the party.   9 were women.  10 were men.   While the party was happening, gravity exercised a constant force of 32 feet per second/per second.  Everyone standing stayed connected to the ground.    Not the greatest narrative is it?  And notice here that if you stick strictly to the facts (if you admit only of truly factish facts) adding more of these little items will not markedly improve your story line.  (For you editors of university press books and law review articles, please pay special attention here.)

The only time facts are really interesting (remember law and social science is the domain limit)  is when they’re something more than just the facts.  Go back to the party.   Here’s another fact:  Jill left the party with Tom.   This fact is more interesting.   Well, mildly so.  With this sort of fact, you can start imagining possible implications (amorous, murderous, whathaveyou).  But note that now we’re no longer talking about “just the facts.”   We’re talking about facts with implications, facts with attitude.

Why then are facts ever interesting?    Well, ironically  it’s because they’re not functioning as “just facts,” but something more.  And that something more (call it a narrative?) is very often not terribly factish.

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Gun Culture, Part 2

The national spotlight is on Colorado, where Governor John Hickenlooper, a moderate democrat, has endorsed the idea of tightening gun control regulations. Hickenlooper and members of the democratically-controlled state legislature have indicated plans to introduce laws that would require universal background checks and ban the sale of high capacity magazines.  Colorado is rightly seen as a bellwether because, despite the current democratic state majorities, the politics here are purple in two important ways.  First, Colorado swings between republican and democratic in national elections.  Second, the current cultural and political zeitgeist is an arranged marriage between progressive and conservative forms of libertarianism.  Different factions of left and right exist, of course, but to make headway politically in Colorado is to walk that line between “let them do their own thing,” and “don’t make us do a damn thing.” (That’s why we can smoke pot legally, carry concealed weapons just about everywhere, and hardly pay any income tax!) If we can pass even these modest forms of gun regulation, maybe the federal government will be able to pull it off too.

First, a brief word of support for these modest regulations is in order. It may be the case that as a general matter it is difficult to show that local gun control measures lead to less gun violence.  But one thing is certain: fewer children would have died in Newtown if Adam Lanza had stormed the elementary school with a regular handgun instead of a semi-automatic weapon.  And fewer children would have died in Newtown if, even if armed with his military-style assault rifle and his semi-automatic handgun, he had not had high capacity magazines.  So even if we cannot prevent all Bad People from accessing guns in the future in any scenario consistent with the Second Amendment, we can prevent the hideously opportunistic nature of the mass slaughter that occurred in Connecticut by making it illegal for people like Mrs. Lanza, a law abiding gun owner and the person from whom Adam got the guns, to own the means for it.  For many of us, the prospect of saving even some of those very young children is well worth the small price of restricting what some people think of as their liberty in this way.  (And the same can be said about the Aurora Theater shooting.  Without the capacity to shoot repeatedly simply by pulling the trigger, James Holmes would have killed fewer people.  We might even, just for the moment, grant the “Good Person with a gun” fantasy it’s due, and acknowledge that such a person might have at least a snowball’s chance to stop the Bad Person, but only if the Bad Person had to pause for a second to reload before killing again.)  These legal measures, in other words, might not accomplish much with respect to our national problem of excessive gun violence.  But they are well tailored to the events that occasioned their consideration:  a “Bad” (or Mad?) Man intent on inflicting as much harm as possible with the means readily available.

In addition to the prospect of legislation, there is another indicator of a shift toward sanity about guns. A national outdoor retail chain, Jax Mercantile, recently announced that it would stop selling semi-automatic weapons and high-capacity magazines.  Jax will still sell plenty of guns, including hand guns, hunting rifles, etc., in addition to the full range of other outdoor gear.  But Jax President Jim Quinlan said it was a matter of conscience to stop selling assault-style weapons and magazines, and that 80% of the reaction to his decision has been positive.  There is likely no swaying the minority of gun owners who have convinced themselves that the core of liberty is the ability to own any and all manner of firearms in order some day to compete with a potentially tyrannical government in an imaginary (and let’s face it, unwinnable) arm’s race.  But it is reassuring to think that many proponents of gun ownership, including those who make their living off of selling guns, understand that a “right,” whatever it may mean, does not have to entail unlimited and slavish devotion to the ever-evolving technology of mass killing.

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Mayan End of the World Canceled (A Brazenandtenured Exclusive)

Apparently, through some rather incredible and oddly parallel set of mistakes, the ending of the world will not happen on December 21st.   Instead, it appears the world has already ended on November 10th.     The mistake is a moment of some embarrassment for the experts involved–all of whom seem to have been taken in.

Protests have broken out throughout the globe demanding that leaders cease their war efforts.   As one German Green Party member noted, “Look if the world has already ended, what’s the point of going on with all these wars.  I mean, really.  Think about it.  All this killing—how can it possibly help now?”

Fox News, MSNBC, and other cable shows have turned to academic philosophers to help explain the implications.  In the main—and the Anglo-American philosophical community seems to be of one mind here—whether the world ends on December 21st or has already ended on November 10th is, as one Oxford don put it, “really (really) inconsequential.  Mere facticity.   One thing is clear, however: Insofar as the world ended on November 10th,  nothing that has happened since is of any significance.”  As another Oxford don put it,  “After November 10th,  it’s all been gravy actually.   So if you’ve won an award or you got an article placed somewhere really good, well bully for you.  It’s extra.   A little bit more.   Of course, it doesn’t count.”

I asked the Oxford don, what philosophical strains looked promising in light of the world having ended.  At first, he was non-plussed by the question, but quickly recovered:  “Basically, if the world were to go on—which quite clearly, it can’t because, well you know, it’s ended—existentialism would be the only remaining option.   Asked what he thought about this, the Oxford don replied, “Well, you know, existentialism—it’s mostly French.”

Brian Leiter posted one final entry on his blog:  “The rankings are in.  The final world rankings are in.  Chicago is number one.  I AM NUMBER ONE.”

The most negatively affected group are the Nihilists who seem to have lost their entire program.  “We all feel really deflated here,” said Karl Osmann—the red-haired German leader of Nihilism Plus.    I caught up with him in a condo in East Frankfurt.   He was sitting an overstuffed chair in a darkened room gulping single malt from a bottle of Laphroaig.  “How would you feel?” he added.   “We’ve lost everything.   Everybody else had their day, you know.  The Christians.  The Marxists.  The Hugenots.   They all had their shot.  And now for us—it’s too late.  It’s like nihilism never really had a chance.   We’re all really bummed here.”

I interrupted my interview with Karl to take a phone call from  Tom Frades, CEO and Chairman of NASCAR.    His outlook seemed more upbeat.   Frades announced that NASCAR will continue the Indy 500 as scheduled—except basically the race will now go on forever.

“You mean around and around?”

“Yes,”

“So, uninterrupted—forever? ”

“Yes.”

I mentioned the NASCAR news to Karl Osmann.   He cracked a weathered smile around his smoldering Gitanes and said, “Well, we’ll take support anywhere we can get it.  We love NASCAR.  And we are grateful that people are still trying.”

“Any thoughts of a possible merger?”

“Not at this time,” said Osmann.

Thomas Thompson, President and CEO of the Chamber of Commerce, was also contacted He was characteristically succinct:  “You know the Mayans were also small businessmen.  You get that—right?”

Sisyphus was contacted by phone by my assistant, Francesca.  (Francesca is new with us and is just getting started so please be patient. ) In any event, Francesca reported a tense conversation.   Apparently, Sisyphus exploded in fury as soon as he got on the phone: “I knew it. I f-ing JUST knew it,” he said.   “I’m just glad that the end didn’t happen before November 10th.  Otherwise,  well—you see the point?  But does anybody ever think of calling me?  Uh?  ‘Hey let’s give Sisyphus a call?  Make sure, he doesn’t waste his time?’  No.  Never happens.  They never give me a thought.   I am outta here.”

The world was asked why it had ended and what would take its place.   As to the former, apparently, there is no reason.  “Just a change.   Last year, we all went down to Aruba.   This year, we just decided that ending it all would be nice.  Don’t read anything into it.”   As for the anticipated replacement, the world thinks it will look a lot like a 1950’s bubble gum machine.   No one knows why–indeed, no one knows why generally and the world expressed the weary hope that, in the future, people will stop asking.

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