SISU-105.015 F2019 blog question #9

Our ninth weekly blog question already!

In 1952, Arnold Wolfers, one of the more prominent international studies scholars in the early days of the field, published an essay in Political Science Quarterly entitled “National Security As An Ambiguous Symbol.” In that essay, he argued that

In a very vague and general way “national interest” does suggest a direction of policy which can be distinguished from several others presenting themselves as alternatives. It indicates that the policy is designed to promote demands that are ascribed to the nation rather than to individuals, subnational groups, or mankind [sic, sexism in original] as a whole. It emphasizes that the policy subordinates other interests to those of the nation. But beyond this, it has very little meaning.

Wolfers goes on to argue that what is true of the notion of the national interest is equally true of the notion of national security: both are vague concepts, indicating a direction rather than any concrete set of policies. One consequence that follows from this observation would be that in a sense, “national security” can mean whatever one wants it to mean, and in principle anything can be an issue of national security.

Is Wolfers correct? Is the notion of “national security” more or less infinitely malleable? Can anything be a “security” issue? Should security be defined as broadly as that, or should we operate with a more narrow definition? As you ponder, please feel free to bounce off of the readings assigned for this week, all of which speak to this issue in some way.

SISU-105.015 F2019 blog question #8

Karl Deutsch once argued that power was “the capacity not to have to learn” -- in other words, the truly powerful are those who can go on as they have been going on, without having to modify their actions as a result of how things turn out. I am usually put in mind of Du Bois’ notion of the double consciousness by this remark, because in a way Du Bois could be read as arguing that those on the margins, those laboring under the burden of double consciousness from “being a problem,” have no choice but to learn how the dominant society operates so that they can try to find some place within it or at least a relationship to it. Those at the center have the luxury of not having to do so.

Does it therefore follow that those with double consciousness understand the society they are living in better than those at the center do? Do only certain kinds of double consciousness afford this epistemic privilege, or are there multiple marginal points of view...and how might we deal with that multiplicity? In a way, what I am asking here is: might there not be certain benefits, not to say advantages, or having a double consciousness? [Note that I am not asking about benefits of being marginalized and pushed down in the hierarchy, which I think is by definition a bad thing. I am instead asking about possible flowers that grow in the cracks at the side of the pavement, so to speak.]

SISU-105.015 F2019 blog question #7

Question #7 already!

The version of constructivism that Shotter gives us, sometimes called “rhetorical-responsive constructivism,” emphasizes the way that people situated within various cultural traditions engage with one another. Social order emerges (and continually re-emerges) from those engagements, as people draw on the socio-ontological resources of their “living traditions” to determine what to do next. A skeptic, or perhaps a cynic, might call this naive or utopian, and say instead that social life can’t possibly be thought of as emerging from such rhetorical engagement; power and interest, the main themes of realist and liberal (not “liberalist” :-)) thought, are more important than dialogue and discussion.

Is constructivism, as portrayed and presented by Shotter, “idealistic” and “utopian”? Are the critics missing something, or are they essentially correct? Feel free to consider specific examples if that helps you make your argument.

reflection after seven (!) weeks of classes

Having not given myself the binding instruction or commitment to do a reflective blog entry every week, I find my blogging unsurprisingly sporadic this semester. On one hand I feel badly about that: I feel like I should be reflecting in this written space more often. On the other hand I don’t feel badly at all: I'm engaged in my usual practice of making notes about each class session after it concludes, but those are notes to myself, and while there’s nothing confidential there, I do worry about the possible effects and consequences of having members of my class read those rough and raw notes while we are still actively engaged in the early stages of the ongoing process of producing our learning community. When I do the mid-semester anonymous surveys in a couple of weeks, those results and my thoughts on them will be public contributions, but that’s a bit different from the in-process notes I regularly take.

That said, what I can and will say here is that the thing that has been most puzzling to me this semester is the class discussion format. 26 people is not a large class in some ways and in some pedagogies, but in and for others it’s quite unwieldy. If I were lecturing, 26 is a fine number, small enough that people can ask questions without feeling “performance anxiety” of the sort that can shut down questions in a much larger lecture setting, but large enough that the lecture form doesn’t break down into conversation all the time. But I don’t lecture, deliberately: I am not interested in any student figuring out what I think, and in my experience that’s what often happens when I or anyone else lectures. I don’t think of my role in the classroom as a presenter of arguments; my job is instead to facilitate encounters, and while that can be done through lectures of a particular sort — the “grand tour” sort of lecture, come here and look at what I have found — I’m usually not comfortable doing that in the classroom. So instead, it’s “here’s a thing, let’s see what we make of it.”

And for that kind of pedagogy, 26 is a large number, particularly in 75-minute class sessions. The common space of the conversation is a scarce piece of real estate, and I am still experimenting with how to create openness and hospitality in that space while still allowing the conversation to find its own way forward. Because that’s the real trick: to give the conversation its own reins, to let it breathe and stretch out in its own directions, not beholden to any one of the participants. “Joint action,” as Shotter (among others) would call it. I haven’t yet found a combination of structure and flexibility that will do that in this group...but I will keep trying alternatives and see what happens. Tomorrow is probably a second fishbowl, and Thursday likely a small group-with-outreporting kind of thing, but we’ll see.

Eventually I want to walk into the room and give the lightsaber to someone else and see what they do with it. Not quite sure we’re there yet, but perhaps soon.