Some of what bothers me about political discussions is the assumption of a top-down approach. Think of it as a confusion over what ethics means, or the very different connotations that that word carries. On the one hand, we think of ethics as something that dictates our decisions in our personal lives. We make choices every day, and we like to think that these choices are ethically informed, even if we disagree about the particulars. On the other hand, we exist in public arenas that call for the application of ethics to political structures, decisions, legislative possibilities, and so on. But often our political discussions seem to have nothing much to do with the ethics we employ in what we might call our daily lives.
For one, according to the divide between private and public realms that liberalism endorses (whether liked, by Richard Rorty, or disliked, by Wendy Brown), we have our own personal viewpoints on religion and metaphysical questions, but are these relevant to our political concerns? Not really, or only through some backdoor that resists the liberal narrative. (And as John says, perhaps there’s nothing to be gained by “getting into the weeds with the theologians.”) The kinds of things we might think about—does God exist? what does it mean to be “human”? should my ethics be based on absolutes? am I obliged to other people?—don’t really matter in the political arena, or they shouldn’t. What matters, from a pragmatic liberal sensibility, are solutions to political problems, and those solutions come from tools that we manufacture to take care of large problems and the large numbers of people affected by them.
I think this top-down idea is a mistake. In part, it’s a mistake because it doesn’t really honor the way that political change happens. (And change is crucial. To pragmatists, because you always want to honor its possibility; you want to be light on your feet, ready and willing to reconsider what today passes as “solution.” From an Emersonian point of view, change isn’t so much a possibility as a requirement of personal and political life.) How, for instance, did slavery once exist in the United States and then not exist? How did this change come about? Was it from the employment of a top-down approach? Surely there were elements of this approach—laws, statutes, the political machinery of government; but surely there was also something else, something more difficult perhaps to identify and replicate: a change of mind that occurred on a number of different fronts. It’s very hard to see how slavery was abolished with a keen eye kept on the distinction between the personal and the political—as though all those people back then were jabbering about political solutions and not their personal and religious beliefs about the relative “worth” of black folk.
Anyway, having said what I’ve said, I now want to indulge you in a top-down experiment. Very top-down. Imagine yourself as God. You look down on the earth, with its many little ones of the erect and linguistic type. These little ones seem to organize themselves in various ways—into families, tribes, nations, states, coalitions, and religious groups. (In a nostalgic gesture, some of the little ones even worship you!) Despite these group identifications, they get along with each other—that is, until they don’t. And when they don’t get along, they do bad things to each another, and one of these things is torture. It breaks your heart to see it happening. So sad—the good of punishment taken too far.
Apparently, the little ones torture even when they say they want to stop torturing. It’s a problem. In order to prevent torture, they’ve come up with the idea of “the human” (a word they often apply to one another). Apparently, all humans have rights, and one of these rights is the right not to be tortured. For a little one to torture another little one is considered a violation of human rights, as though the person weren’t a human but a dog or a tree. This is an idea, which the little ones have subsequently and impressively institutionalized, in order to stop various kinds of behavior, including torture. In short, it’s a solution to a problem. And the idea of being human, and having rights because you are human, is a very popular solution amongst the little ones.
But what seems odd—at least to you, gazing down on things—is how the little ones only consider each other “human” until they don’t; and often it’s just in those situations where they might torture each other when their doubts arise as to whether someone is human or not. (Apparently, it’s okay to torture non-humans, or at least then a human right isn’t being violated.) And so you sometimes find yourself wondering—okay, you admit it, in a paternal way—if this is the best method for the little ones to deal with the question of torture (or any other of their concerns). Maybe they have their hearts in the right place, but this idea of “the human” and inherent rights seems flimsy and too easily manipulated to have staying power as a way of lessening the practice of torture.
And yes, you do realize that your influence waned a long time ago, and so it’s no use doing what you really want to do—pull out the old bullhorn, tell the little fuckers not to torture anyone or you’ll send them to an eternal existence in a fiery hell. (Apparently, your days of sending shivers up the spines of the little ones are over. And you’re big enough to acknowledge this.) But still, at least in your benevolent moments, you do wish they’d come up with something better than this business of “the human.” It seems to be such a poor substitute for your own injunctions. Though, in your vain moments, you also appreciate the tip of the hat—the way the little one have taken their so-called dignity, misrepresented it as inherently their own, and assumed its relevance in keeping order.
hayesmcgowan 