radio discussions of We Are The Ones We Have Been Waiting For

These are scheduled radio interviews on my new book:

Thursday, October 24, 2013, 6:40 – 6:50AM
New York City
live interview on the “John Gambling Show,” WOR-AM

Friday, October 25, 2013, 9:00 – 10:00AM
Hartford, CT
live interview with call-ins (WNPR-FM)

Tuesday, November 5, 2013, 2:00-3:30PM Central (local) time
Wisconsin and upper Midwest
live with call-ins: “Conversations w/Kathleen Dunn”

Tuesday, November 12, 2013, 1:00-2:00PM
Miami
live interview on “Tropical Currents, WRLN 93.1FM

Wednesday, November 13, 2013, 2:00 – 3:00pm Pacific (local) time
Seattle
live interview: KUOW-FM

epistemic network analysis and morality: applying David Williamson Shaffer’s methods to ethics

David Williamson Shaffer and his colleagues are developing an influential approach to education and assessment that relies on the notion of “Epistemic Network Analysis.” They posit that a “profession or other socially valued practice” (e.g., engineering) has an “epistemic frame” that is composed of many facts, skills, values, identities, and other concepts that advanced practitioners link together in various ways. Thus you can diagram a professional’s epistemic frame as a network and measure it using tools that have been developed for measuring social networks. What nodes are most central? How dense is the whole network? How many clusters does it have?

One way to collect the data necessary for this kind of analysis is to ask a practitioner to write or talk about her work. Many of her sentences will invoke concepts and link them together. (“I did A because I knew that B.” “I recommend C because I believe in ethical norm D.”) By coding the text, one can produce a dataset that can be displayed and analyzed in network terms. As Shaffer and colleagues note, the graph is not the actual epistemic network; it is a representation of how the engineer’s mentality works under specific practical circumstances (Shaffer et al, 2009, p. 14).

If a profession is worthy, then learning its epistemic frame is desirable. As students experience a course, a project, or an internship, their epistemic frames can be diagrammed and quantified at regular intervals. The learners’ networks should grow more similar to those of advanced professionals. Measures of network structure can be used for “formative assessment” (giving feedback on what the student should study) and “summative assessment” (awarding a grade or credential).

I have posited that moral thinking is also an epistemic frame (to use Shaffer’s terminology). We hold many morally relevant ideas that we connect by various kinds of links, not just logical inferences but also causal theories, generalizations, analogies, etc. We can graph our own moral mentality as a network of ideas and connections. Moral learning means building a moral network map that resembles that of a good moral thinker. (I leave aside for now the question of whether good moral reasoning is related to good moral behavior.)

One can easily see that the moral network map of an average adult is more complex than that of a 2-year-old. It is uncontroversial that a toddler needs to learn to reason more maturely, in which case his network map will look more like yours and mine. But that leaves a lot of room for debate about what an ideal map looks like. Defining good moral thought is a normative, not an empirical, question.

To some extent, that is also true of engineering. It is not self-evident what makes a “good” engineer. However, as long as we assume that the profession is working reasonably well and fulfilling its social purposes adequately, then a “good” engineer is presumably a respected and successful one. We can identify such people empirically: they have high grades, awards, and responsible positions. Then we can diagram their epistemic frames and compare novices to exemplary professionals to assess their learning.

The situation is much harder with morality. We debate what specific moral concepts and relationships should be found on a person’s epistemic frame. For instance, should everyone’s graph show the existence of God, linked to a set of commandments? We also debate what formal properties any moral network should display. Should it be highly centralized around one fundamental truth? Classical utilitarians and some religious fundamentalists would say so. Or should it be very flat and complex, as certain liberals have held?

Here I would introduce a controversial–but not original–premise that makes the identification of good moral networks somewhat more empirical. No human being can have a fully adequate moral theory in place before she faces the various situations of life. The moral world is far too complex for that. It involves countless differently situated people interacting in countless situations in relation to institutions (like education, romance, politics, and punishment, to name a few) that have evolved to have manifold purposes and meanings. So to think well morally is not to apply a theory to each new case, but rather to learn constantly. Learning results from interactions with other people (whether face-to-face or vicariously). By “interaction,” I do not mean only communication, or the exchange of ideas. Groups of people can agree on thoroughly foolish ideas unless they try to put them into practice. So “interaction” means a combination of exchanging ideas, trying to work together, and reflecting on the results–what Dewey often called “conjoint activity.”

Who is good at that? This is not strictly an empirical question, because we might disagree about how to assess various styles of interaction. Should we admire the persuasive ideologue? The follower of fads? But although value-judgments are inescapable, I think it is partly an empirical question who participates constructively in conjoint activity. Good participants do not impose preexisting ideas and do not merely adopt the majority’s view, but shape the group’s beliefs while adjusting their own.

As I have written before, my own unsystematic observation suggests that people who are better at moral interaction have epistemic networks with these features:

  1. Lots of nodes and links, because each idea is an entry point for dialogue, and each reflects some prior learning.
  2. A degree of centrality, because some moral ideas are genuinely more important than others; and also because one should develop a set of prized values that constitute your character. Yet:
  3. No outright dependence on a small set of nodes to hold the whole network together, because then disagreement about those nodes must end a conversation, and doubt about them will plunge you into nihilism. You may believe in fundamental principles, but you should be able to reason around them. The network should be robust in that sense.

We might try to identify the actual epistemic frames of people who are good at collaboration and deliberation and see if they manifest the three features I listed above. We could then map the networks of children and other moral learners to see if they are developing to resemble the exemplary cases. Again, this would not be a value-neutral research program, but it would have a strong empirical component.

We can, in fact, pursue three levels of analysis.

  1. Each individual has an evolving and not-fully-conscious epistemic frame composed of many ideas and connections.
  2. The individual belongs to a community of other people who all have networks of their own. Their networks overlap and influence each other because moral learning is social. (Even a recluse got his ideas from someone else). Within a community, individuals’ maps intersect in a second way as well. If one person has a moral commitment to a specific other person, that other will appear on her map.
  3. Finally, the world is composed of many moral communities. But these are never fully separate and distinct. They are always complex, overlapping, and vaguely-bordered networks. Given two entities that we call “cultures,” no matter how remote, we will likely find common nodes and connections in their respective moral networks. I leave aside the possibility that all human beings share a set of ideas as our biological inheritance. That may be the case, but I do not rely on it. Rather, all communities interact (even the so-called “uncontacted peoples” who live deep in rain forests), and so the members of community A always share some nodes with members of community B nearby as a result of their “conjoint activity.”

At the individual, community, and global level, the process of moral reasoning is fundamentally the same. It is always a matter of developing a more satisfactory network of ideas and connections. This is not easy, conflict-free, or pretty. Individuals face deep internal conflicts among incompatible ideas, and people and communities often actually kill each other on account of such disagreements. Nevertheless, we can point to individuals and groups that are better at constructive engagement, and moral learning means becoming more like them.

Reference: David Williamson Shaffer, David Hatfield, Gina Navoa Svarovsky, Padraig Nash, Aran Nulty, Elizabeth Bagley, Ken Frank, Andre A. Rupp, and Robert Mislevy, “Epistemic Network Analysis: A Prototype for 21st Century Assessment of Learning,” International Journal of Learning and Media, vol. 1, no. 2 (2009), pp. 1-22.

the scholar and his dog

Twelve centuries ago by a long Swiss lake,
Pangur Bán hunted and an Irish monk looked.
The monk strained for sense from knotty old books;
His Celtic cat stared at the rustling rocks.
The cat was sharper and more often struck,
But both loved the chase, and the monk loved his pet.
Twelve centuries later my dog and I
Walk Cambridge streets lost in separate thought.
He stops to sniff trails; I check my emails.
Sensing a modern mouse has scurried by,
He jingles his tags and trots on while I
Shake off my inbox, walk, and concentrate.
The monk’s name is lost. The name Pangur Bán
Lives on, but I assume it was only the man
Who saw the analogy of monk and pet
And put it in verse that speaks to us still. Yet
Could it be my dog and the long-passed cat
Who knew the truth? We all just do what
We’re made to do, and it’s better to do
It together. (Pangur Bán’s mice knew that too.)

Cf. the 9th-century Irish poem as translated by Robin Flower (“The Scholar and His Cat“) and by Seamus Heaney (as “Pangur Bán”); and see the Wikipedia entry for context.

civic education as the long-term solution to poor governance

During the shutdown, Trey Grayson (former Secretary of State, R-Kentucky and current director of Harvard’s Institute of Politics) and I published a piece on civic education in The Hill, the newspaper for Congress and people who work around it. We tried to draw policymakers’ attention to civic education during the political crisis:

How should we teach civics when Congress doesn’t seem capable of following the principles in an eighth-grade civics textbook? The budget impasse is just the latest example of the bitter partisan struggle that our children observe as they form their impressions of politics and public life. …

As the political system evolves into something remote from the traditional civics textbook, educators, parents, and policymakers must take a new look at how we teach the subject. Preparing the next generation to work together to address serious national problems remains the core goal. It is even more important—but also especially difficult—in a time of rapid change and frequent crisis. …

history and fiction in Hilary Mantel’s A Place of Greater Safety

A passerby hesitated, stared. “Excuse me–” he said. “Good citizen–are you Robespierre?
Robespierre didn’t look at the man. “Do you understand what I say about heroes? There is no place for them. Resistance to tyrants means oblivion. I will embrace that oblivion. My name will vanish from the page.”
“Good citizen, forgive me,” the patriot said doggedly.
Eyes rested on him briefly. “Yes, I’m Robespierre,” he said. He put his hand on Citizen Desmoulin’s arm, “Camille, history is fiction.”
Hilary Mantel, A Place of Greater Safety

Like her Booker-Prize-winning books Wolf Hall and Bring up the Bodies, A Place of Greater Safety is a historical novel in which lawyers best known for beheading tragic heroines (Anne Boleyn, Marie Antoinette) are among the protagonists. In its form, its topic, and even its quality, A Place of Greater Safety also bears comparison to War and Peace, although Mantel does not advocate an elaborate conceptual scheme comparable to Tolstoy’s. In the afterword, she writes, “I am not trying to persuade my reader to view events in a particular way, or to draw any particular lessons from them. I have tried to write a novel that gives the reader scope to change opinions: a book that one can think and live inside.” Until I finished the novel on Saturday, I was so deeply inside it that now I mourn the characters, even Robespierre.

As the quotation cited above suggests, Mantel is interested in the relationship between history and fiction. The most obvious difference is that history is true and fiction is false. But even if one insists on facts (as I do), the distinction is more complicated than that. Robespierre really walked down the streets of Paris. The passage above is fiction because Mantel has imagined the scene. (However, Mantel frequently has the characters state real quotations from their works, on the theory that “what goes onto the record is often tried out earlier, off the record.”) Within the fiction of the book, it really is Robespierre whom the patriot recognizes: that is a fact, not a mistake.

But what does it mean to say “Robespierre”? Does one mean The Incorruptible, the great civic republican moralist and statesman? Does one mean the villainous author of the Terror? Historians still debate who Robespierre was, even given the vast evidence that survives. And, according to Mantel, Robespierre wasn’t sure himself. Not only is the truth perspectival in the sense that each of us observes from a distant and limited vantage-point, but we are not even sure how to view ourselves. The meaning of the word “Robespierre” changes for Robespierre from minute to minute. His name did not vanish from the page, as he predicts above, but the fullness of his experience did.

It’s worth comparing the actual French Revolution to the contents of this novel. One difference is scale. Twenty-eight million people were alive in France in 1792. Each lived a continuous stream of consciousness and formed passionate, complex, incomplete, and often invalid views of scores of other people, for a total of billions of relationships. The scale of a novel is necessarily much smaller. I count roughly 136 named characters in A Place of Greater Safety, not counting crowds and generic figures like “the patriot” (above).

In real life, the action was continuous and simultaneous, all those millions acting and thinking at once. In contrast, Mantel writes almost entirely in set-pieces. Each scene takes place at a geographical location and involves between one and a dozen named people. Each scene is set after the previous one in chronological order, but usually after a gap of hours, days, or even months. So, whereas history flowed smoothly and simultaneously, the novel jumps from set-piece to set-piece.

Reality has no narrator. Mantel narrates in a supple, subtle, deliberate style. For instance, consider this sentence: “He put his hand on Citizen Desmoulin’s arm, ‘Camille, history is fiction.'” Since Robespierre was a boyhood friend of Demoulin’s, he never addresses him as “Citizen Desmoulin.” The title “Citizen” enters the narration here because “the patriot” has been addressing strangers that way, and Robespierre sees his friend from the patriot’s perspective at that moment. But he begins is sentence with the name “Camille …,” and within three words, we are back to a more intimate view. The title “Citizen” evokes layers of irony as we read Mantel’s narration of Robespierre’s thoughts in reaction to a nameless patriot who is using terminology invented by men like Robespierre.

As Mantel writes in the afterword, “I am very conscious that a novel is a cooperative effort, a joint venture between writer and reader. I purvey my own version of events, but facts change according to your viewpoint. Of course, my characters did not have the blessing of hindsight; they lived from day to day, as best they could.” To imagine their experience sympathetically (when the characters in question include Danton, Demoulins, and Robespierre) is a great achievement of sympathy. But the book is not devoid of judgment, on the false theory that “tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner.” Like Cromwell at the end of Bring up the Bodies, Robespierre in the last chapter of A Place of Greater Safety is a chilling figure, all the more frightening because Mantel has made him so human until then.