As much as I like teaching, it’s often frustrating, seemingly relentless (part of why I’m buried and not blogging as much these days) and short of tangible rewards. On top of that, criticism of higher education is common, from employers to students. Why? What prevents colleges and universities from performing better?
I’ve thought about writing a series of reflections about this for over a year. At that time, however, I was also angry at a handful of related issues, and it wasn’t the time for clear thinking. Now that I’m merely buried in work, though, I’m ready to explain. The problem, in no particular order, is students, professors, high schools, parents, taxpayers, administrators, government, employers, guidance counselors, economics, culture, and society at large. Did I leave anybody out?
As I find a moment here and there, I’ll explore these areas one by one, labeling them when I do as part one, part two, etc. But here’s a start.
Higher education exists for one purpose--to continue. Seriously, no irony. It always has, since its inception in the 12th century. Sure, if research occurs, if education happens, if knowledge expands, terrific. But the system is set up not to reward those endeavors, but to continue. In fact, not only have many new ideas originated outside of supposed intelligentsia, but also those institutions often opposed the new approaches. Despite its more recent “liberal” label, college is a thoroughly conservative institution.
All the other stakeholders have much the same focus--to survive. Admittedly, lots of people throw themselves into endeavors for lots of commendable reasons. But the bottom line is survival, not growth. What growth does occur is a byproduct. Add a healthy dose of self-justification, and we have a system of higher education.
So join me on an exploration, and I look forward to your comments along the way.
Writer
Showing posts with label government. Show all posts
Showing posts with label government. Show all posts
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Apricot Tree
My apricot tree is in bloom—a beautiful burst of pinkish white flowers. Apricot flowers appear before the leaves (which are appearing in bud form), presenting a glorious flash of color with nothing to dull the display. First nothing but grey sticks, and then, suddenly, technicolor. It’s a wonderful harbinger when so much else warns of dreary pointlessness. Our artificial world is not so fruitful.
My classes are going well. My students repeatedly win awards, both on campus and in the community, honored by the Provost, the college President, the Writing Committee, the town Mayor and a host of agency heads. The badly needed redesign of the Composition Program is ½ my ideas (I’m on a nine person committee), and the journals my students have created are the “poster child” for our new 200-level writing initiative. But my Peer Review Committee denied my promotion, noting that the criteria specifies an emphasis on successful teaching (although the Personnel Committee had no problem at all). Huh?
The woman I anticipated sharing the rest of my life with not only didn’t show up, but disappeared, and when I finally called just to inquire as to why, informed me she felt “abandoned” (although she did seem glad to hear from me). The irony that I can never reach her by phone (she turns it off) or even leave a message, that she didn’t answer my email, that she no longer uses her Yahoo IM, and yet makes no effort to contact me appears lost on her (other than apparently sending me a letter, when we already know that mail across the Canada/U.S. border has become a joke during the Bush administration). She loves me, she keeps saying. To quote one of my friends, “I’ll believe it when she shows up.” And now? She has another reason for a delay. My friend’s point is well taken.
My government is insane. The economy no longer works well. The elective wars in Afghanistan and Iraq aren’t conforming to the administration’s fantasies. Looming but solvable problems with Social Security, Medicare/Medicaid, Unemployment, Global Warming, Rising Energy Costs, Rising Food Costs, Insufficient Health Care—all are lost to jockeying for short term political gain, and the only consistent push seems to be for cutting taxes, as if no taxes would magically solve all this.
I was finally able to get some sleep, and after rising, I took my dog to Stoney Pond for a longish run. She quickly found some deer parts—the forequarters of the front feet, fur still attached. Poachers, probably. We run on, and when deep into the woods, her demeanor alerts me to the presence of wildlife—but clearly not prey. We run on, and her nose and ears track the changing direction. Finally I hear it—once, then twice. Certainly not a dog (and without an owner out here). Coyote, I suspect. We run on. Then I see it—or at least a swish of tail for a moment. My dog, a few seconds later, sharply turns her head once she catches the scent. We run on, repeating the pattern a few times.
Then I see, directly in my path, neatly laid out, a feather from a red-tailed hawk. I pick it up. My Native American friends (who associate me with a red-tailed hawk totem) would say I was given a gift from the deer (I let my dog take the bone home), the coyote, and the red-tailed hawk. Once, in my younger mystical days, I’d have thought so too. It’s a wonderful, and probably healthy belief, one of reverence to things greater than ourselves. It’s spring, though, and I run virtually every day. The odds of our coming across such things are high, and when we do, it’s just nature playing itself out—just as we all are living the course of our lives.
But I took the feather home, accepting the gift, real or imagined. And for all else that happens, my apricot tree is in bloom.
Writer
My classes are going well. My students repeatedly win awards, both on campus and in the community, honored by the Provost, the college President, the Writing Committee, the town Mayor and a host of agency heads. The badly needed redesign of the Composition Program is ½ my ideas (I’m on a nine person committee), and the journals my students have created are the “poster child” for our new 200-level writing initiative. But my Peer Review Committee denied my promotion, noting that the criteria specifies an emphasis on successful teaching (although the Personnel Committee had no problem at all). Huh?
The woman I anticipated sharing the rest of my life with not only didn’t show up, but disappeared, and when I finally called just to inquire as to why, informed me she felt “abandoned” (although she did seem glad to hear from me). The irony that I can never reach her by phone (she turns it off) or even leave a message, that she didn’t answer my email, that she no longer uses her Yahoo IM, and yet makes no effort to contact me appears lost on her (other than apparently sending me a letter, when we already know that mail across the Canada/U.S. border has become a joke during the Bush administration). She loves me, she keeps saying. To quote one of my friends, “I’ll believe it when she shows up.” And now? She has another reason for a delay. My friend’s point is well taken.
My government is insane. The economy no longer works well. The elective wars in Afghanistan and Iraq aren’t conforming to the administration’s fantasies. Looming but solvable problems with Social Security, Medicare/Medicaid, Unemployment, Global Warming, Rising Energy Costs, Rising Food Costs, Insufficient Health Care—all are lost to jockeying for short term political gain, and the only consistent push seems to be for cutting taxes, as if no taxes would magically solve all this.
I was finally able to get some sleep, and after rising, I took my dog to Stoney Pond for a longish run. She quickly found some deer parts—the forequarters of the front feet, fur still attached. Poachers, probably. We run on, and when deep into the woods, her demeanor alerts me to the presence of wildlife—but clearly not prey. We run on, and her nose and ears track the changing direction. Finally I hear it—once, then twice. Certainly not a dog (and without an owner out here). Coyote, I suspect. We run on. Then I see it—or at least a swish of tail for a moment. My dog, a few seconds later, sharply turns her head once she catches the scent. We run on, repeating the pattern a few times.
Then I see, directly in my path, neatly laid out, a feather from a red-tailed hawk. I pick it up. My Native American friends (who associate me with a red-tailed hawk totem) would say I was given a gift from the deer (I let my dog take the bone home), the coyote, and the red-tailed hawk. Once, in my younger mystical days, I’d have thought so too. It’s a wonderful, and probably healthy belief, one of reverence to things greater than ourselves. It’s spring, though, and I run virtually every day. The odds of our coming across such things are high, and when we do, it’s just nature playing itself out—just as we all are living the course of our lives.
But I took the feather home, accepting the gift, real or imagined. And for all else that happens, my apricot tree is in bloom.
Writer
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
The Truck, the Law, and the U.S.
During hunting season, I take my husky out to the state land after dark. Sure, this makes running on forest trails a bit tricky, but if not that, I’d have to run along the canal trail with endless headlights in my face, or not run at all, or risk the hunters. So I run at night.
About seven o’clock, on my way to the dirt road down to the Stoney Pond trails, I passed a pickup in the parking area, apparently with someone there. I slowed my car and turned the headlights to check it out—some guy in an orange vest just sitting on the tailgate, patiently waiting. I had my suspicions, but he seemed fine, and since I could do nothing, continued.
After parking and running for about a quarter of a mile, my suspicions were likely confirmed. Blam! Blam! Just two shots, and this guy presumably got his deer, illegally, probably even driving over to pick it up. And not unique—a friend who lives 20 miles south of here reports that she hears shots daily before dawn (also illegal), and another woman I frequently run across walking her dog reports chasing hunters off her land regularly.
A few springs ago, I ran into a young guy carrying a bow and arrow, pregnant wife trotting behind him, campers from the campsite half a mile away. “Seen any geese?” he asked. How could I not. I had my dog on a retractable leash precisely because we saw plenty of geese, raising their goslings. Definitely not in season, and for good reason. He even suggested my dog could flush them for him (she’d hunt them herself, however). I declined.
Disregard for the law seems widespread. At first a few, and now many or even most of the nutty drivers doing dumb moves on the road are, as I take a look, on their cell phones. Let’s not even get into speeding or stop signs. Laws apply to other people. We’re a nation of law-breakers.
Starts at the top. The Bush Administration’s “interpretation” of U.S. law the Constitution has been creative at best. During the Nixon Administration’s woes, the mantra was “the President is not above the law.” Contrast that with Cheney’s contention that the administration makes reality.
What do we do with this? The U.S. is in a never-ending war in Iraq because of the Cheney/Rumsfeld version of reality proved either stupid or an outright lie. Certainly the White House lied about the details leading to the conflict. Now the news that the rhetoric about Iran’s nuclear progress is untrue—and was reported to the White House months ago.
What happens when the government actually does tell the truth, should that ever happen? How would we know?
And how can we pretend to be a nation of laws when both government and citizenry ignore those laws they find inconvenient?
We have found the enemy, as Pogo used to report, and “they is us.”
Writer
About seven o’clock, on my way to the dirt road down to the Stoney Pond trails, I passed a pickup in the parking area, apparently with someone there. I slowed my car and turned the headlights to check it out—some guy in an orange vest just sitting on the tailgate, patiently waiting. I had my suspicions, but he seemed fine, and since I could do nothing, continued.
After parking and running for about a quarter of a mile, my suspicions were likely confirmed. Blam! Blam! Just two shots, and this guy presumably got his deer, illegally, probably even driving over to pick it up. And not unique—a friend who lives 20 miles south of here reports that she hears shots daily before dawn (also illegal), and another woman I frequently run across walking her dog reports chasing hunters off her land regularly.
A few springs ago, I ran into a young guy carrying a bow and arrow, pregnant wife trotting behind him, campers from the campsite half a mile away. “Seen any geese?” he asked. How could I not. I had my dog on a retractable leash precisely because we saw plenty of geese, raising their goslings. Definitely not in season, and for good reason. He even suggested my dog could flush them for him (she’d hunt them herself, however). I declined.
Disregard for the law seems widespread. At first a few, and now many or even most of the nutty drivers doing dumb moves on the road are, as I take a look, on their cell phones. Let’s not even get into speeding or stop signs. Laws apply to other people. We’re a nation of law-breakers.
Starts at the top. The Bush Administration’s “interpretation” of U.S. law the Constitution has been creative at best. During the Nixon Administration’s woes, the mantra was “the President is not above the law.” Contrast that with Cheney’s contention that the administration makes reality.
What do we do with this? The U.S. is in a never-ending war in Iraq because of the Cheney/Rumsfeld version of reality proved either stupid or an outright lie. Certainly the White House lied about the details leading to the conflict. Now the news that the rhetoric about Iran’s nuclear progress is untrue—and was reported to the White House months ago.
What happens when the government actually does tell the truth, should that ever happen? How would we know?
And how can we pretend to be a nation of laws when both government and citizenry ignore those laws they find inconvenient?
We have found the enemy, as Pogo used to report, and “they is us.”
Writer
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Wiki World
A “wiki” is a collaborative website—it allows users to add and edit content.
In many ways, this is a wonderful development, one yet to be understood. Researchers have explored and are exploring how “group think” can yield better results than individuals. The idea is old—Adam Smith’s “invisible hand” of the market place, for example, presented similar claims. However, Smith’s model demanded perfect knowledge for all players, an ideal not likely realized. “Group think,” however, starts with the notion that even “primitive” creatures, like ants and bees, possess the ability to make collective decisions far beyond the ability of any individual insect, and that yes, humans also can exhibit this potential. Management theory, organizational behavior studies and more all offer similar accounts of the phenomenon.
“Wiki” is also Hawaiian for “quick,” though, and I fear that’s the main attraction.
I visit a couple of discussion boards regularly. One of them, a Gorean board, frequently gets versions of the same question over and over—What is Gor? (or various attacks on Gor). The board has a search function, as members repeatedly note, but this is too much trouble for many users. Some do try, and then complain that they couldn’t immediately get the answers they sought. Not wiki enough.
A few even claim to be well versed while admitting they’ve never read a Gor novel—kinda like the student who reads e-notes instead of the novel and then bitches the teacher doesn’t appreciate student “work.” Even better—the student who raises a hand in class and says, “Well, I didn’t read it, but I think the character meant that…”
On a blogging board, one member asked how fellow bloggers conduct research. The answers were sad—most said they don’t research at all, and those who did, relied on other bloggers (who, apparently, didn’t research either). Easy, but isn’t that just gossip? Several of those bloggers want to be serious writers—yet have missed that publication after publication stresses that they seek “well-researched” pieces. Not wiki.
I asked a class experimenting with blogs which ones presented the best writing. “The short ones!” insisted a few students. So Harry Potter would be better if just a few paragraphs?
They don’t even “wiki” well—I have to show them how to use Google to narrow searches, how to search for blogs, how to find out how to add advertising to their blogs, even though these links all appear on Google’s home page, the first place they go for information.
Another class, struggling with interpreting an assigned article in group sessions, clearly dragged its collective feet, finally admitting, “We’re just waiting for you to step in and make it all right.” Apparently, I have all the answers?
But that is what many people want. Problems abroad? Bomb ‘em. Economic woes? Just cut taxes (why don’t we eliminate them—then the government can magically fund itself with no money!). Hey, why even have government? Surely we don’t need those annoying police, firemen, road crews…
And on it goes, while people vote for politicians whose positions contradict their own, just because someone fed them the right line, pushed the right button, making it all easy. Reagan’s “shining city on a hill.”
Wiki World.
Writer
In many ways, this is a wonderful development, one yet to be understood. Researchers have explored and are exploring how “group think” can yield better results than individuals. The idea is old—Adam Smith’s “invisible hand” of the market place, for example, presented similar claims. However, Smith’s model demanded perfect knowledge for all players, an ideal not likely realized. “Group think,” however, starts with the notion that even “primitive” creatures, like ants and bees, possess the ability to make collective decisions far beyond the ability of any individual insect, and that yes, humans also can exhibit this potential. Management theory, organizational behavior studies and more all offer similar accounts of the phenomenon.
“Wiki” is also Hawaiian for “quick,” though, and I fear that’s the main attraction.
I visit a couple of discussion boards regularly. One of them, a Gorean board, frequently gets versions of the same question over and over—What is Gor? (or various attacks on Gor). The board has a search function, as members repeatedly note, but this is too much trouble for many users. Some do try, and then complain that they couldn’t immediately get the answers they sought. Not wiki enough.
A few even claim to be well versed while admitting they’ve never read a Gor novel—kinda like the student who reads e-notes instead of the novel and then bitches the teacher doesn’t appreciate student “work.” Even better—the student who raises a hand in class and says, “Well, I didn’t read it, but I think the character meant that…”
On a blogging board, one member asked how fellow bloggers conduct research. The answers were sad—most said they don’t research at all, and those who did, relied on other bloggers (who, apparently, didn’t research either). Easy, but isn’t that just gossip? Several of those bloggers want to be serious writers—yet have missed that publication after publication stresses that they seek “well-researched” pieces. Not wiki.
I asked a class experimenting with blogs which ones presented the best writing. “The short ones!” insisted a few students. So Harry Potter would be better if just a few paragraphs?
They don’t even “wiki” well—I have to show them how to use Google to narrow searches, how to search for blogs, how to find out how to add advertising to their blogs, even though these links all appear on Google’s home page, the first place they go for information.
Another class, struggling with interpreting an assigned article in group sessions, clearly dragged its collective feet, finally admitting, “We’re just waiting for you to step in and make it all right.” Apparently, I have all the answers?
But that is what many people want. Problems abroad? Bomb ‘em. Economic woes? Just cut taxes (why don’t we eliminate them—then the government can magically fund itself with no money!). Hey, why even have government? Surely we don’t need those annoying police, firemen, road crews…
And on it goes, while people vote for politicians whose positions contradict their own, just because someone fed them the right line, pushed the right button, making it all easy. Reagan’s “shining city on a hill.”
Wiki World.
Writer
Monday, September 17, 2007
Doesn’t Add Up
Aside from the ethical and legal problems private security firm Blackwater has amassed in Iraq, I’m troubled by a few economic issues.
Private contractors like Blackwater have become essential to U.S. military operations, even protecting State Dept. officials. These companies hire not only retired special ops personnel, but also current special ops troops away from the military, as the pay is substantially better.
So the military hires private contractors “to save money,” yet highly trained military personnel can earn more working for these contractors. Anyone else raising eyebrows about this fuzzy math? No wonder we spend several times what other countries spend on the military—yet we can’t muster sufficient veterans’ health benefits.
Add this to the list of my macroeconomic concerns. A short version:
The U.S. spends more on health care than any other nation, yet we’re the only industrial nation without universal health care, insuring only 75% of the population. The rest wait until their health concerns are costly crises and go to the emergency room, where taxpayers ultimately pick up the tab. How is this saving money? Forget the labeling slogans and socialize the process.
The U.S. is the richest nation in the world—yet we have a negative savings rate. What’s wrong with this picture?
We again have ballooning deficits, a negative trade balance, a credit crunch and a falling dollar. Our policies are based on fantasy, not economics, and government and citizens share the blame.
These practices cannot be sustained.
Writer
Private contractors like Blackwater have become essential to U.S. military operations, even protecting State Dept. officials. These companies hire not only retired special ops personnel, but also current special ops troops away from the military, as the pay is substantially better.
So the military hires private contractors “to save money,” yet highly trained military personnel can earn more working for these contractors. Anyone else raising eyebrows about this fuzzy math? No wonder we spend several times what other countries spend on the military—yet we can’t muster sufficient veterans’ health benefits.
Add this to the list of my macroeconomic concerns. A short version:
The U.S. spends more on health care than any other nation, yet we’re the only industrial nation without universal health care, insuring only 75% of the population. The rest wait until their health concerns are costly crises and go to the emergency room, where taxpayers ultimately pick up the tab. How is this saving money? Forget the labeling slogans and socialize the process.
The U.S. is the richest nation in the world—yet we have a negative savings rate. What’s wrong with this picture?
We again have ballooning deficits, a negative trade balance, a credit crunch and a falling dollar. Our policies are based on fantasy, not economics, and government and citizens share the blame.
These practices cannot be sustained.
Writer
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The Last Lie I Told
I know this strains credulity, but it’s true—I told my last lie in 8th grade.
Not that I was (or am, for that matter) any saint. My parents maintained that the lie was a separate, punishable action from the original offense, a rule I ran afoul of multiple times (especially since age seven—not sure why that age in particular).
Mr. Lane, my 8th grade Social Studies teacher, was one of three junior high school teachers who showed us that learning was important, that the subjects were relevant, interesting, even fascinating once we started to understand them. This trio also taught us to think for ourselves, frequently giving us structured tasks or group activities, getting out of our way, letting us make our mistakes, but then coming back and addressing our shortcomings. They pushed us, worked us, gave us lower grades then we were used to earning, redirected us, sent us back to thinking and working—and we loved it. They were my favorite teachers.
So when I didn’t hand in my Social Studies report (I don’t remember how many pages were required), it wasn’t any judgment against the class or the teacher—I just was a kid who got busy doing some other kid things and didn’t get to the assigned report in time. I sat cringing as the class passed in their work, knowing I was in serious trouble. Fortunately, Mr. Lane didn’t notice I hadn’t turned in a report, so I was reprieved for the moment, but I knew it would eventually catch up with me.
And that day arrived. While the rest of the class worked on an in-class assignment, Mr. Lane came over to talk with me. My stomach churned—I knew I was in deep trouble.
“I didn’t see your report,” he started. I hung my head. “Did you turn one in?” Nervous, I nodded. “OK—I’ll look through everything here and at home and see if I can find it.” I knew he wouldn’t, of course, but at least I’d bought another reprieve.
I worried all through class each day—my brief reprieve had become a week. It couldn’t last.
Finally, almost as a relief, the Day of Reckoning arrived. Mr. Lane called me over to his desk at the end of class. Here it comes. As my classmates filed out the door, I shuffled slowly to my doom.
“I’ve looked everywhere for your paper,” began Mr. Lane. I looked at the floor. “I tore apart everything, every pile, and it’s just not there.” My shoulders slumped. Fear grew by the second, anticipating my fate. “So,” Mr. Lane continued, “I’m just going to have to assume it was an “A” paper.”
My heart jumped into my throat. I looked at him, stunned. “OK,” I answered, lamely, and followed my classmates to our next class.
I should have felt relieved, elated, joyful. I didn’t. I felt two inches tall. I didn’t even feel some cliché emotion, like “I let my favorite teacher down,” for example. Instead, I knew I’d just had an interaction with a man who was a far better person than I, and I’d failed miserably. I didn’t like it. I still don’t, years later. Mistakes are one thing, but this was another. It was the last lie I told.
Today, I know at least some of my college students wouldn’t hesitate to lie about their work, judging from the number of blatant plagiarism cases I’ve busted. In my own way, I’ve offered them a small if unpalatable way out: “May I talk to you for a minute before class, outside? Do you realize that the deadline for dropping a course is this Friday? Are you aware that students aren’t allowed to drop courses to escape plagiarism charges? Now, if someone plagiarized one of these papers I’m about to hand back, my comments about that would constitute a plagiarism charge, subject to the formal policies laid out in detail in the College Handbook. However, if such a student dropped before I was able to return the paper and make the charge, I’m not sure I could do much about it.”
I don’t know what impact this has on students long term. I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. I wonder if Mr. Lane simply knew I was lying.
Our culture currently seems not to even blink at dishonesty. People have so long stolen copied music that they don’t even consider the ramifications. One folk artist even did a song about it (these lyrics are to the best of my memory):
So I copied it
Gave it to all my friends
A lot them gave it to their friends too
Cause I love ya man
I’m your biggest fan…
…and so forth, with the speaker in the song ironically wondering why the band isn’t more successful, even wondering if maybe they just don’t try hard enough.
One of my colleagues, a self-styled (and continually unpublished) novelist maintains, “I wouldn’t mind if someone made copies of my novel, so why should I worry about copying music?” I think the law and at least many of the musicians might view the case differently.
My younger brother, Mr. Values, downloads copied DVDs. “Hey, they’re on the Internet,” he says. “I don’t know if they’re stolen or not!” I mentioned we could say the same about TVs sold from the back of a truck in a parking lot. Uncharacteristically, he had no retort.
Seemingly, if you can get away with it, it’s moral.
And how do you argue against that, when the Bush administration claims lying as executive privilege? The ridiculous spin on Iraq, the mind-numbing audacity of Alberto Gonzalez—these are just the obvious points with bipartisan agreement, let alone the host of other nonsense.
As a society, we’re like alcoholics—we arguably COULD stop, COULD get help—but we want to lie.
And the lack of truth shall continue to render us less and less free.
Writer
Not that I was (or am, for that matter) any saint. My parents maintained that the lie was a separate, punishable action from the original offense, a rule I ran afoul of multiple times (especially since age seven—not sure why that age in particular).
Mr. Lane, my 8th grade Social Studies teacher, was one of three junior high school teachers who showed us that learning was important, that the subjects were relevant, interesting, even fascinating once we started to understand them. This trio also taught us to think for ourselves, frequently giving us structured tasks or group activities, getting out of our way, letting us make our mistakes, but then coming back and addressing our shortcomings. They pushed us, worked us, gave us lower grades then we were used to earning, redirected us, sent us back to thinking and working—and we loved it. They were my favorite teachers.
So when I didn’t hand in my Social Studies report (I don’t remember how many pages were required), it wasn’t any judgment against the class or the teacher—I just was a kid who got busy doing some other kid things and didn’t get to the assigned report in time. I sat cringing as the class passed in their work, knowing I was in serious trouble. Fortunately, Mr. Lane didn’t notice I hadn’t turned in a report, so I was reprieved for the moment, but I knew it would eventually catch up with me.
And that day arrived. While the rest of the class worked on an in-class assignment, Mr. Lane came over to talk with me. My stomach churned—I knew I was in deep trouble.
“I didn’t see your report,” he started. I hung my head. “Did you turn one in?” Nervous, I nodded. “OK—I’ll look through everything here and at home and see if I can find it.” I knew he wouldn’t, of course, but at least I’d bought another reprieve.
I worried all through class each day—my brief reprieve had become a week. It couldn’t last.
Finally, almost as a relief, the Day of Reckoning arrived. Mr. Lane called me over to his desk at the end of class. Here it comes. As my classmates filed out the door, I shuffled slowly to my doom.
“I’ve looked everywhere for your paper,” began Mr. Lane. I looked at the floor. “I tore apart everything, every pile, and it’s just not there.” My shoulders slumped. Fear grew by the second, anticipating my fate. “So,” Mr. Lane continued, “I’m just going to have to assume it was an “A” paper.”
My heart jumped into my throat. I looked at him, stunned. “OK,” I answered, lamely, and followed my classmates to our next class.
I should have felt relieved, elated, joyful. I didn’t. I felt two inches tall. I didn’t even feel some cliché emotion, like “I let my favorite teacher down,” for example. Instead, I knew I’d just had an interaction with a man who was a far better person than I, and I’d failed miserably. I didn’t like it. I still don’t, years later. Mistakes are one thing, but this was another. It was the last lie I told.
Today, I know at least some of my college students wouldn’t hesitate to lie about their work, judging from the number of blatant plagiarism cases I’ve busted. In my own way, I’ve offered them a small if unpalatable way out: “May I talk to you for a minute before class, outside? Do you realize that the deadline for dropping a course is this Friday? Are you aware that students aren’t allowed to drop courses to escape plagiarism charges? Now, if someone plagiarized one of these papers I’m about to hand back, my comments about that would constitute a plagiarism charge, subject to the formal policies laid out in detail in the College Handbook. However, if such a student dropped before I was able to return the paper and make the charge, I’m not sure I could do much about it.”
I don’t know what impact this has on students long term. I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. I wonder if Mr. Lane simply knew I was lying.
Our culture currently seems not to even blink at dishonesty. People have so long stolen copied music that they don’t even consider the ramifications. One folk artist even did a song about it (these lyrics are to the best of my memory):
So I copied it
Gave it to all my friends
A lot them gave it to their friends too
Cause I love ya man
I’m your biggest fan…
…and so forth, with the speaker in the song ironically wondering why the band isn’t more successful, even wondering if maybe they just don’t try hard enough.
One of my colleagues, a self-styled (and continually unpublished) novelist maintains, “I wouldn’t mind if someone made copies of my novel, so why should I worry about copying music?” I think the law and at least many of the musicians might view the case differently.
My younger brother, Mr. Values, downloads copied DVDs. “Hey, they’re on the Internet,” he says. “I don’t know if they’re stolen or not!” I mentioned we could say the same about TVs sold from the back of a truck in a parking lot. Uncharacteristically, he had no retort.
Seemingly, if you can get away with it, it’s moral.
And how do you argue against that, when the Bush administration claims lying as executive privilege? The ridiculous spin on Iraq, the mind-numbing audacity of Alberto Gonzalez—these are just the obvious points with bipartisan agreement, let alone the host of other nonsense.
As a society, we’re like alcoholics—we arguably COULD stop, COULD get help—but we want to lie.
And the lack of truth shall continue to render us less and less free.
Writer
Friday, April 27, 2007
Igg, Ogg, and the Creation of Taxes
“Igg? I’m tired of all this huntin’ and gatherin’.”
Igg looked at Ogg. “Me too,” he sighed.
“So what say,” Ogg continued, “We raise all these plants and animals ourselves? No more rushin’ around!”
“Now that’s a plan!” agreed Igg. And so agriculture began.
Wisely, Igg and Ogg weren’t quick to quit hunting and gathering, since at first they were largely unsuccessful. They realized eventually that timing played a crucial role.
“Igg? How are we gonna know when exactly to plant?” asked Ogg.
“Hmmm...I know a guy who can read the stars to calculate the seasons...” suggested Igg.
The ancient astronomer got the job, under the title of Priest.
Igg and Ogg prospered, encouraging others to follow their example. All the Priest’s friends got jobs, creating organized religion.
One day, Igg and Ogg toured their plantation along the riverbank and noticed a disturbing trend--less and less water reached their crops. Taking a walk upstream, they soon saw why: many new converts to agriculture were diverting the river’s water to irrigate their crops. When questioned, these new farmers invariably replied, “We have to make a living too!”
On the way back downstream, Igg and Ogg talked to several other farmers who also complained about the dwindling water supply. Consequently, Igg and Ogg organized a meeting of all the riverside crop growers. After considerable debate, the farming community realized that water rights must be controlled by a central authority, thus creating law, government, and bureaucracy. Civilization was born.
The new village thrived at first, but some of the farmers failed to honor the water rights agreements. Igg and Ogg called another meeting, and soon enforcement of the law fell to the newly created police force. Further, to ensure the fairness of police enforcement, a new judicial system and penal code arose. The village rejoiced.
Unfortunately, so did the nomads in the mountains above the village. “Look!” they advised each other, “These people work all year and create all this food in one place, ready for the taking! Mount your horses!” And so they did, in a devastating raid. War had entered the world.
The village did not rejoice. “All our hard work! Our families will starve! We must protect ourselves!” Another village meeting instituted an army.
But Igg and Ogg had an additional concern. “The village has priests and governors and legislators and police and justices and lawyers and soldiers and commanders,” explained Igg, “But the village needs these people to commit so much time to their professions that they can no longer realistically take the time to raise their own food.” After a long silence, Ogg suggested,” Suppose each farmer raises a little more than needed for mere self-sufficiency? Then, the surplus could go to the professionals necessary for the security of the village.” Long debate followed, but necessity instituted the plan. Taxes had entered the world. And to help keep tax records, mathematics and writing soon followed.
Life was wonderful thereafter. People invented leisure time and explored human existence by creating and practicing various arts and sciences. People also continued to learn to work together, specializing in various trades, providing new products and professional services. Education strove to ensure and expand village life, thought, and culture. But, unfortunately, greed was not limited to the mountain nomads.
“It’s YOUR money!” proclaimed Ugg in his bid for village government. “Every year since this village started, more and more of your hard earned money goes toward supporting Big Government!”
Igg listened, confused. “But those taxes pay for the services necessary to run this village,” he countered.
“Wasteful spending! Tax and spend! Tax and spend!” continued Ugg.
“Shouldn’t we then trim the waste, if that’s so, rather than cut revenue?” asked Igg.
“You see,” explained the Priest, “Cutting taxes will actually increase government revenue.”
“So, if instead of tithing,” retorted Igg, “People only gave five percent, church revenue would increase?” The Priest kept quiet.
“Cutting taxes stimulates the economy!” shouted Ugg. “It creates jobs!”
“Given certain circumstances, I suppose that’s theoretically possible,” mused Igg, “But such a blanket proposition makes several unsupported assumptions. For example, won’t trimming spending also cost jobs? And doesn’t government spending ALSO enter the economy?”
Ogg had doubts too. “Cutting taxes means cutting services,” he explained, “Services we instituted with good reason. Important, necessary services.”
Ugg didn’t seem to hear. “This slow economy means we MUST cut taxes NOW! The more cuts, the more the stimulus! And private industry in this great village of ours can best provide services to our wonderful people!”
Igg turned to Ogg. “Does he mean that cutting all taxes would best benefit the village?”
Ogg considered. “Well...if not by taxes, the village would need to exploit natural resources, or consistently plunder other villages, or institute slaves to produce excess revenue.”
“And privatizing government services,” added Igg, “Would mean that police, justice, armed forces and so forth would only be for hire. Further, the large landowners would benefit most from lower taxes, at least in the short run, because only those families could afford education. Our village’s professional talents would atrophy.”
Ugg’s enthusiasm had now attracted quite an audience, drawn by promises of invading the mountains to conquer the nomads, cutting the forests to increase village resources, and asking all citizens to sacrifice for the good of the village in order to make tax cuts possible and to eliminate government interference in their affairs. Nationalism was born.
Igg and Ogg looked at each other once more, then turned and walked toward the forest, while it would still be possible to hunt and gather.
Writer
Igg looked at Ogg. “Me too,” he sighed.
“So what say,” Ogg continued, “We raise all these plants and animals ourselves? No more rushin’ around!”
“Now that’s a plan!” agreed Igg. And so agriculture began.
Wisely, Igg and Ogg weren’t quick to quit hunting and gathering, since at first they were largely unsuccessful. They realized eventually that timing played a crucial role.
“Igg? How are we gonna know when exactly to plant?” asked Ogg.
“Hmmm...I know a guy who can read the stars to calculate the seasons...” suggested Igg.
The ancient astronomer got the job, under the title of Priest.
Igg and Ogg prospered, encouraging others to follow their example. All the Priest’s friends got jobs, creating organized religion.
One day, Igg and Ogg toured their plantation along the riverbank and noticed a disturbing trend--less and less water reached their crops. Taking a walk upstream, they soon saw why: many new converts to agriculture were diverting the river’s water to irrigate their crops. When questioned, these new farmers invariably replied, “We have to make a living too!”
On the way back downstream, Igg and Ogg talked to several other farmers who also complained about the dwindling water supply. Consequently, Igg and Ogg organized a meeting of all the riverside crop growers. After considerable debate, the farming community realized that water rights must be controlled by a central authority, thus creating law, government, and bureaucracy. Civilization was born.
The new village thrived at first, but some of the farmers failed to honor the water rights agreements. Igg and Ogg called another meeting, and soon enforcement of the law fell to the newly created police force. Further, to ensure the fairness of police enforcement, a new judicial system and penal code arose. The village rejoiced.
Unfortunately, so did the nomads in the mountains above the village. “Look!” they advised each other, “These people work all year and create all this food in one place, ready for the taking! Mount your horses!” And so they did, in a devastating raid. War had entered the world.
The village did not rejoice. “All our hard work! Our families will starve! We must protect ourselves!” Another village meeting instituted an army.
But Igg and Ogg had an additional concern. “The village has priests and governors and legislators and police and justices and lawyers and soldiers and commanders,” explained Igg, “But the village needs these people to commit so much time to their professions that they can no longer realistically take the time to raise their own food.” After a long silence, Ogg suggested,” Suppose each farmer raises a little more than needed for mere self-sufficiency? Then, the surplus could go to the professionals necessary for the security of the village.” Long debate followed, but necessity instituted the plan. Taxes had entered the world. And to help keep tax records, mathematics and writing soon followed.
Life was wonderful thereafter. People invented leisure time and explored human existence by creating and practicing various arts and sciences. People also continued to learn to work together, specializing in various trades, providing new products and professional services. Education strove to ensure and expand village life, thought, and culture. But, unfortunately, greed was not limited to the mountain nomads.
“It’s YOUR money!” proclaimed Ugg in his bid for village government. “Every year since this village started, more and more of your hard earned money goes toward supporting Big Government!”
Igg listened, confused. “But those taxes pay for the services necessary to run this village,” he countered.
“Wasteful spending! Tax and spend! Tax and spend!” continued Ugg.
“Shouldn’t we then trim the waste, if that’s so, rather than cut revenue?” asked Igg.
“You see,” explained the Priest, “Cutting taxes will actually increase government revenue.”
“So, if instead of tithing,” retorted Igg, “People only gave five percent, church revenue would increase?” The Priest kept quiet.
“Cutting taxes stimulates the economy!” shouted Ugg. “It creates jobs!”
“Given certain circumstances, I suppose that’s theoretically possible,” mused Igg, “But such a blanket proposition makes several unsupported assumptions. For example, won’t trimming spending also cost jobs? And doesn’t government spending ALSO enter the economy?”
Ogg had doubts too. “Cutting taxes means cutting services,” he explained, “Services we instituted with good reason. Important, necessary services.”
Ugg didn’t seem to hear. “This slow economy means we MUST cut taxes NOW! The more cuts, the more the stimulus! And private industry in this great village of ours can best provide services to our wonderful people!”
Igg turned to Ogg. “Does he mean that cutting all taxes would best benefit the village?”
Ogg considered. “Well...if not by taxes, the village would need to exploit natural resources, or consistently plunder other villages, or institute slaves to produce excess revenue.”
“And privatizing government services,” added Igg, “Would mean that police, justice, armed forces and so forth would only be for hire. Further, the large landowners would benefit most from lower taxes, at least in the short run, because only those families could afford education. Our village’s professional talents would atrophy.”
Ugg’s enthusiasm had now attracted quite an audience, drawn by promises of invading the mountains to conquer the nomads, cutting the forests to increase village resources, and asking all citizens to sacrifice for the good of the village in order to make tax cuts possible and to eliminate government interference in their affairs. Nationalism was born.
Igg and Ogg looked at each other once more, then turned and walked toward the forest, while it would still be possible to hunt and gather.
Writer
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