bearing blog


bear – ing n 1  the manner in which one comports oneself;  2  the act, power, or time of bringing forth offspring or fruit; 3 a machine part in which another part turns [a journal ~];  pl comprehension of one’s position, environment, or situation;   5  the act of moving while supporting the weight of something [the ~ of the cross].




  • The ends and the means in dialogue.

    I caught part of  last weekend's This American Life while I was driving around running errands on Saturday.  The show is called "Red State, Blue State."  (Transcripts aren't available yet, but you can listen online by clicking links from the pages I'm pointing to.)

    Act One, "I Know You Are, But What Am I?" discussed political disputes coming between friends and family.  Here's the teaser:

    We surveyed hundreds of people around the country, from every part of the of political spectrum, about the ways in which politics are interfering with their friendships and families. Producer Lisa Pollak reports. (20 minutes)

    We collaborated with American Public Media’s Public Insight Network to find some of the interviewees for this story. Individual stories about how politics have affected personal relationships appear on their website.

    Lisa also spoke with Phil Neisser and Jacob Hess, two political opposites and authors of You're Not as Crazy as I Thought (But You're Still Wrong), about their advice for how liberals and conservatives can have more productive conversations.

    I think I might have to read the book, even if that means I have to buy it (no copy in my local library).  I enjoyed the segment with the authors of the book (a liberal atheist and a conservative Mormon who committed themselves to understanding each other's positions on politics).  

    This segment starts about 17 minutes into the Act One recording. (click the "Launch Player" button at the linked page.)

    Lisa Pollak interviews a woman who was upset about her liberal sister because, in her view, "liberals are selfish,"  and her sister was NOT selfish, so she was not able to  understand how she could possibly be a liberal.  The obvious conclusion — that her stereotype of people who disagree with her politically was incorrect or at least overly generalized — simply had not occurred to this person.   It sounds laughable, but not far-fetched, if you spend any time whatsoever investigating comment sections on political blogs.

    Then she turns to describing Phil Neisser and Jacob Hess's approach.  Here's my transcript.

    The kind of dialogue that Phil and Jacob are encouraging isn't about compromise.  It isn't touchy-feely, but it is also not like debate.  

    In fact, for it to work, they say, you have to back off of the main goal that most people have in political conversations:  persuading the other person to think like you do.  Instead, you focus on trying to understand what the person believes, and why he or she believes it.   The other person does the same for you.  

    Phil and Jacob say that for them, this led to difficult, uncomfortable conversations, but they ended up treating each other more generously.

    I wanted to see this in action, so I arranged for the two sisters… to get on a conference call with Phil and Jacob and try out some of their techniques.

    The conference call doesn't quite work out, but the rest of the segment is good.  I recommend it.

    I found myself thinking about dialogue — political and ecumenical.   That bit about backing off the goal of persuading, and focusing on understanding, sparked my thinking.  

    In one sense, dropping the immediate goal of persuasion and concentrating on understanding is practical — even if persuading is your ultimate goal.  

    —So often, failing to understand each other actually stands in the way  of persuading, because we so often believe straw-men versions of the other's ideas.  If you really try to understand what they believe and why they believe it, you have a much better chance of identifying real error that you might be able to point out.

    — Furthermore, if you can find real common ground between the two of you — which you can only find if you understand each other — it's possible to work to expand the common ground by identifying weakly held beliefs and dismantling them while promoting the good sense of the alternatives you offer.  

    –Also, mutual understanding establishes trust, and a trusting relationship is a firmer foundation from which to mount your attack.

    In this model, persuading your opponent of the correctness of your views is the end you seek, and working hard at a good-faith effort to understand his reasoning is the means to the end.    This is a very practical way of looking at dialogue between people who disagree with you.  

    It is certainly a common way of looking at true ecumenical dialogue.  Mutual understanding and respect could also be sought as an end in itself, of course, and for secular purposes (including political purposes) this is quite fine, but this is not an ecumenism that we are called to as Christians, because we are always called to witness to the truth.  

    So you might say — particularly if you're trying to "sell" ecumenical dialogue to someone who is made nervous by it — that learning about other people's beliefs in their own terms, and nurturing respect for the intellect and emotions of the persons whose histories took them to the places they are — all that is good, not as an end in itself but as a means of better enabling the Christian to promote the Christian faith to these persons.  

    Understanding is the means, persuading is the end.   So even if you say you're "letting go of the goal of persuading," and "focusing on understanding," well, secretly you aren't really letting go of that goal.  You've only realized the utility of directly emphasizing understanding as a means to achieving persuasion, the real end.

    But that's not actually correct, is it?

    "Persuading your opponent of the correctness of your views" is not actually the end we seek.  As Christians, our end (for ourselves and our opponents) is Christ.  

    Salvation!  

    And persuasion, through intellectual appeal, is only a means to that end.  One means among many, in fact.  With any given "opponent" (and should we really think of them as an opponent?), it's quite possible that you persuading him is not the means that God has in mind for his conversion.

    Hard to imagine, though, that you understanding him and him understanding you couldn't help — both of you maybe.

    So in my view, it's possible that dropping persuasion entirely from your sights is not only permissible, but laudable.  Attempting to understand one another thoroughly — a true search for truth, that is, the truth about another person's thoughts, beliefs, and orientations– can be taken — not as an end in itself — but as the task of the day, every day.  We should never lose sight of the end — Christ — but it's entirely okay to leave the job of persuasion entirely in His hands.


  • The $5 orange juice.

    Argh!  I don't know what's come over me.  Posting so infrequently now!  I blame the postsecondary education series for requiring too much brain power and creating an activation energy hurdle.  Obviously I need to start posting some recipes and quick links to limber up the ol' blogging tract.

    Let's start with this link from a local foodie blog.

    The more I eat out, write about eating out, and eat out with my family, the more I realize I'd never want to run a restaurant. The line between success and failure can be just one small thing.

    That one thing, for my mom, was a $5 tiny glass of fresh squeezed orange juice.

    My family visited from Chicago a couple weeks ago, and we took my parents, my kids, and my cousins to a restaurant in Minneapolis. The food was great, the hosts were gracious, I really enjoyed it.

    There was a kids menu, reasonably priced at $6-$7, with delicious, fresh, wonderful food. But it didn't include a drink. My five-year-old asked for orange juice, and out came a little glass of freshly squeezed OJ.

    It was probably 4 ounces. $5. I didn't think much of it—it's freshly squeezed, it probably took a couple oranges, what's an orange or two cost in October in Minnesota?

    But when we left, my mom said, "I'd never go there again." I was surprised—she liked her food. I asked "Why?"

    "Sammy's breakfast cost $12," she said. "$5 for an orange juice? You've got to be kidding me."

    One small thing.

    Something like this happened to H. and me once when we met for breakfast at a restaurant that I had suggested, midway between her house and mine, so that I could pick up her kids and babysit them for the day.  I think that between us we had four or five kids by then.  Anyway, we ordered orange juice for all the kids without looking at the menu, and it turned out that the OJ was 12-oz glasses of juice fresh-squeezed from the JUICE BAR at the back of the restaurant.  Each juice was the cost you'd expect for a twelve-ounce orange juice freshly squeezed from organic oranges at the full-service juice bar.  

    No, the server did not warn us about this.  No quick comment along the lines of, "Just to let you know, our OJ is pretty big — you might not want to give your two-year-old a whole one."  No, it was "here's your menu, would you like any drinks to start?" and we said "juice for the kids" and that was that.

    Don't get me wrong.  I love my juice fresh-squeezed.  But when the bill came I nearly fell over.  I tried to hide it from H. (the restaurant had been my idea) but failed.  I'm not sure if the babysitting that day was worth the cost of the juice!

    + + +

    I have mixed feelings about kids' menus.  I think it's good that there is something bland and simple available, because some kids just roll that way — the grilled cheese sandwich and apple sauce, the chicken nuggets, the small kids' pizza.  That's life.

    What I wish is that restaurant menus more often had a small-appetite portion of more of their "regular" food.  For one thing, I'd love to offer my more adventurous eaters something more interesting than chicken nuggets, and I'd love to set the expectation that a six-year-old should be exploring foods more interesting than chicken nuggets.

    For another thing, I'd order it myself.  At places that do really good hamburgers, I quite often order the kid's size burger and fries and ask them to dress the burger as they would a "grownup one" — works great.  

    In theory, I love the idea of offering four ounces of freshly-squeezed OJ to my children.  Kids do deserve high-quality food.  You know what, though?  As cheap-looking as it can be, I seriously think that all restaurants should keep juice boxes stashed away for kids.  The portion's right, it doesn't have caffeine, most kids learn pretty young how to handle them, spilling is MUCH less of an issue, and you don't have the "twelve ounces of fresh-squeezed organic orange juice" problem.   

    Because most of that juice I mentioned at the breakfast out with H. and kids did NOT get consumed.  (TOO PULPY.  YUCK.)

    What do you think?


  • Beer for beginners, part VII: Stouts and other British stuff.

    (part Ipart IIpart IIIpart IVpart V, part VI)

    Well, I've gotten quite behind in my beerblogging, so I thought I would check in.

    Stouts

    I think before I started this project I had only familiarized myself with one stout:  Guinness, of course.  It had been a long time since I'd had one, and with the exception of a sip here and there from Mark's glass over the past few years — back when I was still ordering wine in restaurants — I'd hardly ever tasted any other kind.  But I remembered liking Guinness, so I was looking forward to revisiting it.

    Stouts are dark ales, roasty-tasting, with notes of chocolate or coffee.  They can look almost black in the glass, which is kind of intimidating — but fear not!  Stouts are often quite low in alcohol, so they're perfect for a lightweight like me.

     (Guinness, in fact, can compete with light beers in lightness:

    • 16 oz of Miller High Life Lite:  4.2 percent alcohol, 147 calories 
    • 16 oz of Guinness Stout:  4 percent alcohol, 168 calories

    Seriously, if you want a light beer, wouldn't you rather have the Guinness?)

    I wanted to try a new beer, though, so I bought some Murphy's Irish Stout in a draught can and started with that.  The Murphy's was… oddly boring to me.  Mark liked it, but I could not shake the impression — between the teensy bubbles from the widget can, and the flat taste, that the beer was too cold to taste it properly.  It was like the flavor was there, somewhere, but I just couldn't get to it.  I don't think I'll buy it again.

    I tried Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout and liked that very much.  It seemed almost thick and viscous.  "It's not, and you should know better," scolded Mark, "the viscosity of beer can't possibly be much different from water.  It's not like it has a significant fraction of polymer suspended in it or something."  

    "Then what makes it that way?" I asked.  "I can see when I pour it that it's not obviously viscous, but it feels that way in the mouth.  Like cream."  I took another pull and thought.  "Could it be the bubbles?" I asked, beginning to ponder the Stokes-Einstein equation, but mostly I just wanted to drink the beer.

    Then I tried Left Hand Brewing Company's Milk Stout.  A milk stout has extra, unfermentable sugars added to it — usually lactose.  This makes for a sweet, chocolatey sort of beer.  The LHBC milk stout was nice, coffee-ish, gently bitter, and pleasant.  It doesn't need food, it's good all by itself.  It had that same, tricky-to-describe feeling of viscosity in the mouth, almost sort of swelling up and rolling over the tongue.  I liked it a lot.  

    A milk stout that you might find easily in an ordinary beer store is Samuel Adams Cream Stout.  It's not quite as special  as the LHBC Milk Stout, but you can tell it's the same style, and it's very pleasant.

    As I work my way through styles of beer, I am noticing something very useful — almost a general principle.  And it's this:

    It doesn't seem possible to go very wrong with a Sam Adams beer.

    Practically every style I've tried, the Sam Adams version has been a sturdy, reliable, not-very-exciting, but accurate example.  The cream stout is a serviceable cream stout.  The Noble Pils is a decent pilsner beer.  Plain old ordinary Boston Lager is a fine beer to drink if you just want A Beer.  

    This is very useful to know, because Sam Adams is, well, mass-market beer.  You can get it all over the country, and in a lot of restaurants it might be the only beer fancier than Miller.  If someone offers to pick up some beer for you and says "What do you like?" and you don't want to sound really picky or send them on a wild goose chase, you could say "You know, I like a lot of stuff, maybe some Sam Adams" and whatever they get will probably be fine.

    I didn't say it would be exciting, just that it would be fine.

    But I digress.  After drinking some more Irish stouts and generally being disappointed with them, I stopped to get a four-pack of Guinness Draught cans so I could make some Irish stew.  Opened one of the cans to drink while I cooked and —

    — well, I had forgotten.  Guinness is really good.  There is a reason why it is the cliché Irish stout.  It's the definitive Irish stout.  It's full-flavored and lovely, and better than any of the other ones I tried.  I don't know if I will ever buy another [Irish] stout again (at least until I visit the UK someday).  Guinness, I'm sorry I was unfaithful.  It's only you from here on out.

    There are still a lot of other stouts left in the world to try — still haven't delved into the world of chocolate  stouts — but for the time being I have to move on.

    + + +

    English Pale Ales

    Right before I went to the beer store to shop for stouts, I asked Mark, "What style of beer should we try next?"

    "Can't we do IPAs?" he asked.

    I decided that we couldn't properly study hoppy, bitter India Pale Ales until we first explored the English ales that are their parents.  So instead of coming home with a cart full of IPA, I came home with bottles of Fuller's London Pride and Fuller's Extra Special Bitter (ESB).  I also had draught cans of Tetley's English Ale, "Old Speckled Hen," and Boddington's Pub Ale  .

    Then I got one four-pack of Samuel Smith's India Ale  to appease Mark.

    I thought the Fullers ESB had a pineapple-y nose, but I liked it.  Similar reaction to the Fuller's London Pride.    They both have a sort of fruitiness to them.

    I wanted to like "Old Speckled Hen" because of its cool name and retro can, but in the end I didn't.  75b8a2833f268270 It had a strange artificially-sweet note to it… couldn't quite place it… Cotton candy?  Marshmallows?  Circus peanuts, I think. 

    On the other hand, the Tetley's appealed to me a lot.  Even though I couldn't quite say why.  It's very smooth and light, easy to drink, and low-alcohol; it's pale without a lot of flavor, but  still nice — like drinking iced tea, I guess.  I can drink a whole pint without feeling it.  It was really good with a sandwich when I was thirsty.  I kept coming back to the fridge over the next couple of weeks, wondering "Maybe I still might have a Tetley's hiding in back?"

    The Boddington's is probably even better, but it's really the Tetley's I enjoyed the most.

    Finally, the Sam Smith.  It struck me as a perfect balance between malty and hoppy.  Mark still prefers American IPAs, which punch you in the mouth with hops:  "Too hoppy to enjoy the malt," he said, "and not hoppy enough to be the kind of beer I like."  But I thought it was just right.  I have food notes for it:  we had it with a chickpea-and-chicken stew, seasoned with coriander and cumin.  The India Ale added a citrusy note that worked nicely.  In my opinion.

    + + +

    On deck:  Bocks and Belgians — abbey ales, that is.  Planning to open a dubbel tonight and have it with sausages and grapes.


  • Lillian Gilbreth, the original domestic engineer.

    Neat article at Slate about how she revolutionized the American kitchen.

    To quantify the efficiency of the Kitchen Practical, and a later, similar kitchen designed for the New York Herald Tribune Magazine, Gilbreth used a metric from the motion study of the production line: steps. As described in the 1931 Better Homes Manual,

    The test of the efficiency of the new kitchen was made with strawberry shortcake…The cake was first made in a typically haphazard kitchen…Then an exactly similar shortcake was prepared in the Herald Tribune Kitchen, which has the same equipment and utensils as the other kitchen, but has them arranged for efficiency. The results of this test were so startling as to be almost unbelievable. The number of kitchen operations had been cut from 97 to 64. The number of actual steps taken had been reduced from 281 to 45—less than one-sixth!

    …In the 1940s, what Gilbreth called “circular routing” became known as the kitchen “work triangle,” a concept that designers still rely on today.

    I feel a certain kinship with this woman’s style. And if only she had gotten her way with respect to countertop heights, we short cooks would have even more to thank her for.

     


  • Administration and reception.

    Canon lawyer Ed Peters writes at First Things about the appropriateness of denying Communion to Catholics engaged in public behavior that would seem to exclude them. Mr. Peters points out that this issue has been around for quite a long time, and was first raised in the case of Catholics who have been divorced and are now living in civil marriages.

    This problem of irregular public relationships has certainly not gone away, but now in the spotlight is the case of Catholic politicians who ardently support abortion, euthanasia, the redefinition of marriage to include unions that cannot possibly be marital in the sense that Catholics understand them, and other evils that (unlike harm-causing acts such as warfare and executions) cannot be reconciled with any interpretation of Catholic moral doctrine.

    Many Catholics who support untraditional marriages, Pelosi’s near-perfect pro-abortion politics, or Rainbow Sash-style activism profess outrage at seeing the Eucharist “used as a weapon” against fellow Catholics. Others, however, are appalled at seeing such markedly contrarian Catholics take Holy Communion.

    Mr. Peters states that he, along with Raymond Cardinal Burke, holds the view that sometimes a minister has the duty to withhold Holy Communion. He adds, “Against Burke’s view and mine stand some scattered negative episcopal demurrals (Cardinals Roger Mahony, emeritus of Los Angeles, and Donald Wuerl of Washington, D.C., come to mind) and some short essays by academics.” Here we have Catholics disagreeing in what seems to be good faith about a matter of public import; Mr. Peters, the canon lawyer, is going to argue his side from the text of canon law.

    I think Mr. Peters puts his finger on the point of contention (at least among Catholics) here:

    Participation in Holy Communion is achieved by two related but distinct acts: the action of a member of the faithful in seeking Communion (reception) and the action of the minister in giving Communion (administration). These two actions are not only performed by different persons, they are governed by different canon laws. Virtually all confusion over Communion can be traced to the failure to keep these two actions distinct.

    Canon 915 governs administration; Canon 916 governs reception.

    Mr. Peters makes a good case that, yes, ministers have a duty to withhold Communion from certain individuals under certain circumstances, and the highly publicized cases of Catholic politicians who are either living in irregular unions or fervent supporters of legalized abortion have largely fallen under these circumstances. But he also points out that the conditions under which Communion may be withheld are, indeed, narrow.

    …[T]he conditions requiring Communion to be withheld must be simultaneously satisfied before the minister may licitly withhold the Eucharist from a Catholic approaching for it publicly. To invoke canon 915 [the conditions requiring Communion to be withheld] against a member of the faithful who does not satisfy all of the terms of canon 915 is….to disregard the plain text of the law and, as St. Thomas warned centuries ago, to violate the fundamental rights of the faithful.

    ….[I]f a member of the faithful approaches Communion publicly and gives no indication of intending an external act of desecration, even the minister’s moral certitude that the would-be recipient suffers grave moral disarray does not permit him to withhold Communion. His grief at being a material cooperator in sacrilege may be joined to our Lord’s grief at so many unworthy receptions of himself.

    This is important because the public outcry against withholding Communion has often been along the lines of “Doesn’t the Church know that everyone is a sinner? If they start withholding Communion from people who live in second marriages or have the ‘wrong’ political views now, maybe they’ll withhold it for something else less serious next!”

    It is important to be clear that the minister does not get to judge the entire conscience or conduct of the Catholic who approaches for Communion. The only judgment he gets to make is what is outlined in Canon 915. Ambiguous cases, Peters argues, “must be decided in favor of receiving the Sacrament.”

    One might argue that it is silly to stress the limitations of Canon 915 when, it seems, the problem we are living in is one of laxity, not overzealousness, in protecting the Sacrament from sacrilege and in protecting the faithful from scandal.

    I think it is important, though, to point out that the rules, properly enforced, contain limitations which are meant to protect the right of the faithful to receive the sacrament. It is also scandalous to give the impression that bishops and pastors have the power to unilaterally and arbitrarily decide to withhold the sacrament. They do not.

    That some of them appear to unilaterally and arbitrarily decide not to withhold the sacrament — in situations with no ambiguity — contributes to the impression of lawlessness. We would all be better off if we stuck to the text; it is there for a reason, in Catholic jurisprudence just as in civil jurisprudence.

     


  • Paternity.

    Some time ago I was complaining to Mark about the ladies in the mall who ask me when I troop by with my four children, “Are they all yours?”

    He asked me, “You’re always talking about that. Does it really happen all that often?”

    “Yes, it really does,” I insisted,”almost every time I go out in public where people have a chance to talk to me.”

    I could tell he was skeptical, so I went on. “I guess people like to bother women about things like that more than men. You do the grocery shopping with them all every week — doesn’t anyone ever ask you if they are all yours?”

    He replied dryly, “When it comes to fathers, the subtext of that question would be a bit different, don’t you think?”

    I guess he has a point…


  • Darwin’s liberal arts program.

    Darwin is writing about his own ideas for a redesigned “modern liberal arts curriculum:”

    Last week I tried to expand a bit on the concept of the Liberal Arts as “the skills of a free man”. I described the purpose of the ancient and medieval liberal arts education as being to develop a general and adaptable set of skills that allowed the liberally educated person to understand and reason about the world, and I attempted to contrast this type of education from being trained to perform some one task or set of tasks well.

    The classic set of liberal arts is: Grammar, Logic, Rhetoric, Arithmetic, Geometry, Music, Astronomy

    Some of these disciplines are defined rather differently now than they were in the pre-modern world, and the modern world presents its own particular challenges to understanding, so I think it’s worth thinking a little on how one might update this list.

    Darwin goes on to list thoughts on a slightly different set of arts: history and literature; writing and rhetoric; philosophy; language, grammar and linguistics; mathematics; natural science; computer science; and social sciences. Please go and read his thoughts; this post is my response.

    + + +

    Even though I took a concentration in the sciences in high school, and went on to major in engineering, I appreciate and share the goal of producing broadly educated individuals who have a sense of the way different disciplines interrelate and who have had practice in writing, in forming arguments, and in taking account of the whole human person in their work in the world.

    But I don’t think liberal arts colleges always succeed in this goal, particularly today. I think there are three major problems here:

    • Number one: the generally leftward political slant of most liberal arts department in the country. Slant is inevitable, but it shouldn’t always be in one direction, and departments ought to conscientiously try to correct it. 
    • Number two: Education isn’t broad, general, and adaptable, and it limits the ability of the educated person to think and reason about the world, when mathematics and physical science are absent or only afterthoughts. It’s utterly ridiculous to call an education “broad” and “adaptable” when the graduates have only a vague understanding of the physical laws that govern the world they live in; a poverty of knowledge about the human body, the organisms that inhabit its surroundings, and the materials that make those surroundings; and ineptitude with the mathematical language in which we express relationships among all these things.
    • Number three: the declining academic standards of those colleges. Some of this is associated with the leftist slant, in my opinion — not that leftward slants are necessarily less academically rigorous than rightward slants, but “slant” is generally expressed by ignoring whole points of view and areas of study. Theology, Western civ, and military history, once important aspects of their fields, are gathering dust. If it was a rightward slant, we’d see different things ignored. That’s part of it. Another part of it is simple grade inflation and reduced reading loads. The physical sciences and engineering just have not suffered from this as much.

    [Editing note, 2025:  It’s a different world out there now.  And yes, different things are being ignored when the  rightward slant becomes more visible!]

    To sum up: I don’t think a lot of liberal arts colleges really are delivering what Darwin describes as the mission of the liberal arts.

    I haven’t much advice about how to fix political slant or grade inflation, but I do know something about the sciences and mathematics. And here I will try to strengthen my liberal-education cred a little bit more: Even though in college I specialized in chemical engineering, and even though in graduate school I had to get even more narrowly specialized, at heart I am a science generalist: I enjoy being at least a little bit conversant in everything much more than I enjoyed becoming an expert in a tiny little area of materials science. This is one of the reasons why staying home to educate my children attracted me more strongly than going on to look for work in research, when it was time to make a decision. I could maybe make an argument for a liberal sciences major to complement the liberal arts major: why not develop a generally adaptable set of skills that would allow the person so educated to understand and reason about the physical world and its laws? (Bonus: the objective nature of physical laws insulates such a program, just a bit more, against political slant and grade inflation.) I could even point to my chemical engineering major and suggest that it comes pretty close to actually embodying a liberal science/engineering major, since the curriculum is a fairly broad combination of science and technology areas (particularly if you take biology electives). It’s really why I felt so comfortable there as an undergraduate.

    Here are some thoughts. I am cribbing a little bit from what I wrote in Darwin’s comboxes.

    Mathematics. The key to making math work as a liberal art is to think of it as a means of expanding cognitive abilities. It isn’t all calculation – it is a means of understanding the world and what is in it, how stuff moves around, interferes with other things, increases and decreases. Many people don’t get to see the beauty of mathematics, even if someone has been wise enough to show them its utility.

    MrsDarwin wrote in response to that comment,

    One of the ways I’ve tried to make our homeschooling different from my own experience is that I’m trying to present math as a mode of thinking, not just as an exercise in memorization….

    I, like Darwin, worked my own way through Saxon Math, but although I learned much about following formulas exactly as they were presented to me, I learned little to nothing about mathematics as “understanding the world and what is in it, how stuff moves around, interferes with other things, increases and decreases”….But that could also be because math and science had never, not even in my early years at school, been presented as anything other than formulas or drudge. I do think that if I had been inculcated with an interest in, if not a love for, math from an early age, my later studies would have borne more fruit. But I also think that having a good instructor would have been key.

    Mind you, not every scientist or engineer winds up with the attitude toward math that I have. But my experience was that (except for proof-based geometry and much later, in graduate-level continuum mechanics, which sounds like science and was taught by an aerospace engineering professor but is really math) it wasn’t in my mathematics classes that the “beauty” of math happened. It was in science and engineering classes. It is in the study of “stuff” that it becomes clear how math works its magic on it: setting limits on the world, describing how that stuff moves around, increases and decreases. Writing a mass balance on a differential element of a spherical shell — a basic problem in introductory chemical engineering — always felt beautiful to me.

    Yeah, I am kind of a weirdo. Please don’t roll your eyes at me.

    That being said, I would think that proof-based geometry would tie in neatly to the liberal arts curriculum. You could easily put a historical emphasis or logic emphasis on it, or even use it to substitute for a different type of logic course. I plan to use proof-based geometry as the main way of including logic in my homeschool curriculum.

    But geometry is so useful with such wide application that it goes beyond logic. Geometry, the calculus specific to understanding related rates, and maybe a study of functions — any of these could be applied to a wide range of intellectual activities.

     

    Sciences. If you have to only have one science, I nominate physics. For one thing, it gives you a shot of putting all that mathematics in context — of working together with mathematics to demonstrate how we use it to grasp the world. For another thing, even elementary Newtonian physics does a good job of demonstrating how things are not always as they seem — how we become fooled by the specifics around us into misunderstanding general laws. Air resistance and friction and frames of reference create so many red herrings! For a third thing, it’s the most “generally applicable” of all sciences. Biology is just chemistry at bottom, and chemistry is just physics at bottom. For yet another thing, it encourages the contemplation of the fundamental nature of the material world. It is the interface of creation.

    But since “general” is the aim, it might be better to have a little physics, a little chemistry, a little bio, and then maybe an elective in some other area of science.

    How to design such a course in order to create scientifically literate citizens would be instructive. And difficult: to take two whole semesters of the chemistry program, for instance, barely scratches the surface of chemistry. You would want to design it from scratch, not just rely on the introductory material that science majors have to take. You want a “chemistry for liberal arts majors” that isn’t just code for “chemistry for people who hate math and need an easy way to get the science credit the stupid college says they have to have.” And in many universities that would be hard: the chemistry department will want to save its best teachers for its own students (the chemistry majors). So unless you have buy-in from the department chair, and professors who have a passion for sharing their subject with students in other majors, it’ll be so hard to put together a quality science series.

     

    Languages. In countries where English is not the spoken language, I would require the study of English for the same reasons that the medievals studied Latin and Greek: it is a modern-day lingua Franca. But here in English-speaking North America, I would advise learning a second language: not so much for the ability to converse in the language or to read its literature, but for the cognitive development and deep knowledge of “how language works” that comes from translating one’s thoughts into another idiom. I don’t think you can really understand your own language until you have studied a different one for long enough to get its grammar and it’s mode of thought. Sure, you could learn about language by studying linguistics instead. I have never taken linguistics, so I can’t really judge. But my instinct is to say that you can learn enough of what is generally applicable about language by delving into the process of learning one language well.

    Computer science. Darwin had some thoughts about this in his post. I agree with them. If you are going to have a basic understanding of the social forces that shape the modern world, then at this point in history you need to have an understanding of computing. I suggested “a notion of the algorithm” as the fundamental concept around which to build a liberal computing art. Darwin has some more ideas. Whatever you include, I think it would be instructive to include a little bit of computer programming: just enough to demonstrate the thought process that goes into instructing a computer to execute step-by-step instructions. See how a loop works, and an if-then command. Experience the frustration of accidentally dividing by zero. Debug something: discover how important accuracy really is when you are dealing with a machine that cannot guess what you really meant. Understand a tiny bit of what makes human intelligence so unlike machine language, and appreciate the human accomplishment that is inventing computer languages.

    + + +

    I think what I have written here demonstrates a piece of my educational philosophy, or maybe you could call it a bias, or a theme that pervades my understanding of learning. It is this: To acquire mastery of a skill is a way to acquire generally applicable knowledge.

    This has certainly played out in my own life. I could not appreciate the general beauty and utility of mathematics until I exercised my mathematical knowledge in wrestling with physics and engineering problems. I could not have taught myself Latin and Spanish (enough to teach them to children) without the experience I had being taught French — a specialization! — to fluency. To the extent that I understand the notion of an algorithm, the process of formulating a problem in the way a machine can understand, and other abstract aspects of computer science, I understand them because I have written computer programs, and struggled to debug and improve them.

    I think you can’t really learn linguistics until you’ve learned to speak a language. I think you can’t really say you appreciate music until you’ve attempted to play an instrument well.

    You might argue, well, linguistics is more than learning the grammar and vocabulary of one single language. Music is far more than convincing a French horn to emit the notes written on the page. Mathematics is more than a mass balance. And so forth and so on. You need context.

    Yes. You need context. But I think it isn’t so terribly hard to start with a practical skill and work outward to generalize it. One could argue that the necessary context is provided by acquiring practical skills in a variety of fields — as mathematics, physics, and philosophy work together to create context for the understanding of creation.

    Or we could put it this way. The liberal arts are supposed to educe an individual who has a general and adaptable set of skills. I argue that to be able to specialize — to be able to dig deeper — to be able to apply knowledge — to make the abstract practical and concrete — to check one’s theories against the problem of the physical universe is itself a “generally applicable skill” that is utterly necessary in order to reason about the world.

    And you can’t acquire that generally applicable skill without practice specializing, without practice developing expertise in something, without practice in “practical skills” here and there, without asking yourself if reality confirms that your thoughts are correct.


  • The suspension of reliability.

    I pray the Divine Office only sporadically, but today I managed to get away to the Perpetual Adoration chapel long enough to “do” Prime and Lauds back-to-back. The D.O. always feels to me as if it’ll be a chore to get through, right up until the moment that I finish arranging the bookmarks (or in today’s case, a crumpled index card and a stubby pencil) to mark the day’s pages and settle in to begin. Then I am always instantly glad, fed and watered when I didn’t know my own hunger and thirst. I don’t know why this experience has to keep repeating itself; you would think I would have learned by now; but that “chore” feeling comes back day after day, even though it is always followed by the “refreshment” feeling — that is, when I do manage to trudge over to the chair and open the book. I don’t always make the trudge. And every time I do, I wonder why on earth not.

    Because of this conversation I keep having with myself, I typically experience the Invitatory Psalm (Ps. 95, the opening psalm for each day’s prayer) the same way every time I pick up the breviary: sheepishly, like a kid who’s been reminded for the umpteenth time about the same fault.

    “Today, listen to the voice of the Lord: Do not grow stubborn, as your fathers did in the wilderness, when at Meriba and Massah they challenged me and provoked me, although they had seen all of my works.”

    Complain, complain, complain. That’s me. And surprised every day to taste water in the desert.

    + + +

    It’s unusual that the Invitatory sparks a new thought, but it happened to me today, so I’ll share. The Invitatory psalm contains this text, excerpted by me to highlight what jumped out at me today:

    Today, listen to the voice of the Lord:

    Do not grow stubborn, as your fathers did in the wilderness…

    I said, “They are a people whose hearts go astray and they do not know my ways.”

    So I swore in my anger, “They shall not enter into my rest.”

    Today (Saturday, week IV) the antiphon repeated after each stanza is

    Let us listen to the voice of God; let us enter into his rest.

    I got to thinking about the cause and effect implied in these stanzas, and how we are to read them.

    One of the problems of interpretation of the Old Testament is how frequently it explicitly depicts God changing his mind about things, reacting in response to some action or plea of human beings. So, for instance, we have God “repenting” or “regretting” that He had made man, in Genesis 6 (the story of the flood); and we have the book of Jonah, where it says God “relented” or “repented” of His threat to destroy Nineveh. Here is another one, where God is angered — has a change of heart, so to speak — in response to the stubbornness of the people.

    It is not philosophically straightforward to deal with these images of a God who can change His mind, at least not when you take it as an article of faith — as Christians do — that God is eternal, perfect, unchanged and unchangeable. Christian philosophers can and do deal with it, but it is one of those mysteries that can be approached many different ways.

    The antiphon “Let us listen to the voice of God; let us enter into his rest,” which is, by the way, a prayerful response to Scripture rather than Scripture itself, is not just a response we can make with our voices; it’s also a suggestion for a response we can make with our intellect to the “problem” of an eternal, perfect being who nonetheless responds and reacts to mortal, imperfect ones. The antiphon voices absolute confidence that, if we listen to the voice of God, then we will enter into His rest. The one follows the other naturally — as day follows night — well, maybe it is really “supernaturally,” but what I want to get across is this idea: that the very nature of “listening to the voice of God” is that it forms you into a being who “will enter into His rest.”

    If that’s so, then we can look at the Psalm and perhaps perceive the opposite side of the coin, the choice. The opposite of “listen to the voice of the Lord” is “grow stubborn” like the people in the wilderness, specifically as in the episode at Meriba and Massah (see Exodus 17 to delve more deeply into the allusion). A person who fails to listen, who grows stubborn in this way, who “challenges” and “provokes” God despite having seen His works, perhaps causes himself to become the sort of person whose heart goes astray, who doesn’t come to know God’s ways — note that the people have “seen all of [his] works” but “do not know [his] ways,” an intriguingly deliberate distinction.

    It is because of the condition of their hearts and intellects that God is said to swear in His anger that they shall not enter into His rest.

    And here I think maybe the “anger” of God is, from within a more primitive concept of God as changeable, anger-able, a way of expressing a consequence that is written right into the nature of human beings and therefore into the nature of the relationship between God and human beings (because that relationship is part of our nature). If we do not listen to the voice of God, if we grow stubborn and our hearts go astray, we will not enter into His rest — we simply will not because we cannot, because listening to Him is a prerequisite for acquiring the capability.

    That the writers of the story understood this as a face of God’s “anger” may have been poetic. It may have reflected the limited way that they could conceive of a divine being. But it would be consistent with a belief that God was predictable and reliable. Remember Psalm 19, where the heavens declare the glory of God? Or in Psalm 50, where the heavens proclaim his justice, for God himself is the judge? The heavens are beautiful, vast, and the source of all our light — but I think maybe the defining characteristic of “the heavens” for ancient peoples was their regularity: the rising of the sun and its setting, the swinging of the stars through the years: the reservoir of lodestars and timepieces; of constellations that appeared exactly where people looked for them, as long as anyone could remember. If the heavens declare the righteousness of God, then surely one aspect of this righteousness is reliability, predictability; each day has its night, and each failing has its consequence.

    If this is one way of interpreting the manifestation of divine anger: as the consequence that is only to be expected; well, then what can mercy be but a miracle?


  • Political roasting and self-roasting.

    This year's keynote speakers at the annual Alfred E. Smith ("Al Smith") memorial dinner, an extremely high-end charity fundraiser for Catholic charities in New York, were the two major-party presidential candidates.  Both President Obama and Mr. Romney delivered funny speeches, each aiming barbs at himself as well as at the other.  You can watch them below (each is 8-10 minutes long):

    ..

    ..

    Sorry about the ads, if you see any.

    A couple of thoughts about this kind of thing.

    + + +

    Yeah, they don't write their own speeches.  But there are two things that speech writers can't provide:

    (1)  Delivery and comic timing. 

    (2) The final decision whether to use, or not use, a joke that is simply bad:  mean, or inappropriate, or unfunny.

    + + +

    I don't often let my kids (all twelve and under at this point) watch political rhetoric, whether in stump speeches or in debates.   At this age, I like to expose them to reliably good rhetoric, and to form them in the idea of what politics and debate should be.  Respectful of persons, even though cognizant of differences; logically structured; comprehending the opponent on his own terms rather than setting up strawmen.  

    But I was glad to show these videos to my two oldest children.  I think it displayed both men at their best, coming together with good humor for a good cause, but without ignoring (in fact, highlighting) the real differences between them.  I also thought the ends of both speeches, where they turned serious to pay tribute to the good work done by their hosts, neatly demonstrated some of the differences between the men.  Mr. Romney's hat tip to the protection of the unborn, and the applause it received, did not go unnoticed.

    + + +

    There was some discussion of this at Ann Althouse's blog.   Commenter "Jeffrey" wrote:

    By the way, this mixing of humor and seriousness is very American. I never really thought about it until I lived in other countries where, for example, a local newscast would never jump from reporting a tragic accident that ends in death to a funny one about an animal rescue. In the US, newscasters jump effortlessly from delivering the sad story with a serious face to, the next second, a smile and a chuckle about that animal rescue.

    You also find it in certain types of sitcoms (like "M.A.S.H.," for example) that juxtapose serious and comic scenes.
     

    In politics, too, both humorous and serious discussions have their roles. For Americans, being able to laugh at oneself is an important guide to one's character. In other countries, whether one can laugh at oneself is considered irrelevant as a measure of political acceptability.

    Why do Americans blend these two? I have a few theories, one of them being its centrality to our democratic, multi-ethnic society. I'm sure someone here can explain why, for example, German politicians would never participate in something like the dinner that Obama and Romney did last night.

     

    I thought this was a great question, and answered that I thought it came from our British political heritage.  The Brits do this too — having perfected a particular sort of dark humor, and turning their Parliamentary speeches often into stinging barb-fests.  

    Americans owe Brits quite a lot when it comes to the organization of our political system as well as many deeper undercurrents of social and political philosophy.  But I hadn't before thought of them as the originators of our collective love for displays of political wit — either self-deprecating (demonstrating how deeply we value a man's ability to laugh at himself) or viciously cutting (demonstrating, er, how much we value a man's ability to make people laugh at someone else?)  I think we count it as a particular, and particularly important, display of a certain kind of intelligence.


  • Review: The Mind at Work by Mike Rose.

    I'm going to stay on the subject of vocational-oriented education vs. liberal-arts education long enough to post a review of a 2004 book I finished reading last night:  The Mind at Work:  Valuing the Intelligence of the American Worker by Mike Rose.

    MindatWorkThis book is a quick read, not too scholarly, and full of anecdotes about the lives of working people:  waitresses, hairdressers, railroad men.  There are also those who teach future workers:  a woman who teaches welding at a trade school, a man who teaches high-school carpentry.  

    I was prompted to read this book when I turned on NPR in the middle of an interview with the author on Weekend Edition.  It must have been a rerun, I guess, since the book was released eight years ago.   But I was drawn in by Mike Rose's description of interviewing his own mother at the kitchen table, inviting her to reminisce about her years as a waitress.

    The work of Mike Rose's mother, uncle, and other relatives figure large in this book.   It's part family history and part social/educational essay.   Here are some of the themes:

    (1) Calling attention to the mental work that so-called "low-skilled" jobs demand of their practitioners.  For instance, the waitress works for tips, so she can increase her income by honing her craft.  A good memory helps.  So do subtle manipulation skills, quick judgment about the priority of tasks, spatial sense, flexibility, and negotiation techniques.  The personal work histories that Rose uses to tell these stories are fascinating to read, a sort of glimpse behind the swinging door, for someone who's never waited tables or built one.

    (2) Inviting the reader to look at these workers in a new way that demands more respect than we might be inclined to think.  Rose argues that many  wait staff act as individual entrepreneurs, and that a hairstylist  is a sort of creative consultant.  

    (3) The sometimes arbitrary distinction between "skilled" and "semi-skilled" and "skilled" workers; the historical role of labor unions in creating this distinction, and how gender and class have been used to funnel young people into prescribed roles.  (Sometimes the funneling can be a mixed blessing for a group:  he writes that "Girls were channeled into clerical courses," but points out that these were successful in leading to employment.)  

    (4)  The artificial separation between "hands-on" or "practical" education, and "academic" education.   There is an interesting part of the book where Rose looks at the work of surgeons; they have, of course, a very technical and practical job involving the skilled use of the hands, but enjoy a much higher status than most other "hand" workers.  It makes for a thought-provoking comparison with the carpenters and welders that make up the larger part of the book.

    (5) The mixed bag that is vocational and technical education today.   Vo-tech education might provide a place where a young person, disliking classroom work, can learn to strive for excellence and discover his own self-worth; or it might be a place where young people are shunted too early and where expectations are kept low, and where the intellectual development of the young people on the "job-training track" is unfairly neglected.  Rose writes a bit about his own experiences with the differences between "academic" and "vocational" education (he began high school as a working-class kid on the vocational track, and later moved to the college prep track), but most of this story is told by examples from the teachers and kids that Rose observed in their learning environment.  

    Here's an excerpt from the back, criticizing the VocEd system's separation from the academic realm by pointing out a situation where, literally, a student needed to be guided to "see something from the other side:"

    …[T]here were no bridging mechanisms…to enable creative interaction, to foster cross-disciplinary discussion that could expand and enlighten, for example, the use of tools or the development of literacy.  I think here of something I saw…that crystallized this… I was watching [Mr. Butler, a teacher,] as he was guiding two of his students inserting windows into a house frame.

    They have just placed an assembled window into its space in the frame.  They are looking it over, eyeballing the edges, checking it with a spirit level.  They're following procedure, and everything seems OK.  They're ready to fasten the window in place.  Mr. Butler…asks them to come here a moment, to walk with him around to the other side of the window, inside the house.  "Take a look from here," he says. The boys inspect the edge of the frame—and see the problem.   The plywood that forms the frame on this side of the window assembly has been cut unevenly, and at several places there is not enough wood to receive the nails that the boys were about to drive from the other side.  They are visibly struck by this, say they wouldn't have thought of this.  But, geez, now that they see it….

    In many ways, this is a small thing…But it also could be thought of as a metaphor for the vocational-academic divide.  Though a routine move, and though utterly functional…this strategic shifting of physical location represented for me the shifting in perspective that is such a key element of intellectual development.  It contributes to the solving of problems in many domains, to a more complex understanding of human behavior, to adopting a point of view in literature and the arts.  A lot could emerge from this moment.  The day-to-day at the…job site was full of such episodes, and their cross-disciplinary potential was, for the most part, lost to the English teacher or the psychology teacher, sealed off by the physical and conceptual barriers in the curriculum. [emphasis mine]

    The result is separate professional spheres, each narrowly defined.  And it is the academic curriculum, not the vocational, that has gotten identified as the place where intelligence is manifest.


    I think this episode is a good one to pull out, particularly as Darwin and I continue our banter on the meaning, utility, and limits of the "liberal arts education."  The episode with the window — thinking of a "shift in perspective" that is literal and using it to jump off and think of metaphorical shifts of perspective — is pretty emblematic of how I like to say that my technical education serves me as a "liberal" education.  I have a toolbox of metaphors and allusions too:  mine contains concepts like Schroedinger's cat, "black boxes," diffusion, parallel and series, material and energy balances, instabilities, damping, deformation, boundary layers.  Problem-solving of all kinds.  I call on the mental associations linked to concepts like these every day.  

    I think much of this book would be a good assignment for a high school student.  There is certainly material there that might encourage thoughtful consideration of one's future, but more importantly, I think the anecdotes serve to inculcate respect and admiration for the people whose work (often behind the scenes) contributes to our health, safety, leisure, and comfort.

    The chapters on vocational education are probably worth reading for any educator — including the homeschooler.  I have gotten so used to thinking of vocational education as a good solution to much of the education bubble's excesses, that I had forgotten to consider how it really plays out in real schools, where the "academic" and the "vocational" sphere are completely isolated from one another.   But in  the homeschool, we can round out the liberal arts education with a good dose of skills training, or we can make sure that our trades-minded children still receive a firm grounding in classical liberal arts.  We don't have to make the trade-offs that the institutional schools have had to make — nor the mistakes they've chosen.