Whither the American Dream?

Who killed the American Dream?

David Leonhardt, a senior writer at The New York Times, picks up his magnifying glass and investigates in Ours Was the Shining Future: The Story of the American Dream. Note the past tense in the title.

In order to find the culprit, we must first learn about the deceased. What was the American Dream? As Leonhardt notes, while the range of definitions is vast, at its root, the American dream is about progress. In particular, he zeroes in on a “core part” of the dream, that children will lead better lives than their parents did. Leonhardt makes the definition sharper by beginning with the Origin Story. Pause for a second and ask yourself, “In what decade was the American dream born? What are the defining features of its life?” 

Chances are your answer to those questions are not the ones in this book. 

Read the rest at the American Institute for Economic Research

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Stuck in the Middle With You

In 1944, Friedrich Hayek wrote in “Why the Worst Get on Top” in his The Road to Serfdom:

It seems to be almost a law of human nature that it is easier for people to agree on a negative program—on the hatred of an enemy, on the envy of those better off—than on any positive task. The contrast between “we” and “they,” the common fight against those outside the group, seems to be an essential ingredient in any creed which will solidly knit together a group for common action. It is consequently always employed by those who seek, not merely support of a policy, but the unreserved allegiance of huge masses. From their point of view it has the advantage of leaving them greater freedom of action than almost any positive program.

Eighty years later, Hayek’s observation is still accurate: the worst still get on top by emphasizing their negative program. Where do we see this phenomenon these days? Chances are, you immediately thought of the group about which this is true. Did you think of the Woke Academy or the Evangelical Church? Hayek’s description is, after all, equally applicable to both. While the comparison will annoy people in both communities, as discussed below those two groups are mirror images; left and right get swapped in the mirror, but otherwise the image is the same. They need each other; if one of those groups didn’t exist, the other group would have to invent it.

The importance of this fact was driven home to me while reading Tim Alberta’s The Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory: American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism. It is a remarkable bit of journalism, organized episodically as Alberta wanders the country going to churches, conventions, and meetings with evangelicals. Chapter by chapter, he allows ample space for assorted parties to explain themselves, what they are thinking, and what they’re trying to do. The portrait of a divided evangelical movement is gripping. If you are interested in the evangelical church, this book is a must-read.

However, the story that Alberta tells has implications that are of national importance, whether or not one is affiliated with the church.

Read the rest at Law and Liberty

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Greatest Economist of All Time

GOAT: Who is the Greatest Economist of All Time and Why Does it Matter? 

Even if you have never thought about that question before, now you want to know the answer. Indeed, you may even be set to argue that the given answer is wrong. 

The GOAT question is the greatest bar argument of all time. Who is the GOAT shortstop? Rock vocalist? American novelist? Greek philosopher?…pick the category, and a lively debate ensues. But, the GOAT economist? You probably have not had that debate. Until now. Pull up a barstool. 

Tyler Cowen wrote a book using that question as the title. (The book is free to download here.) Since he wrote the book, he gets to set the ground rules, the most important of which is the definition: 

To qualify as “GOAT the greatest economist of all time,” I expect the following from a candidate. The economist must be original, of great historical import, serve as a creator and carrier of important ideas, have a hand in both theory and empirics, have a hand in both macro and micro, and be “not too wrong” on the substance of issues. Furthermore, the person also must be a pretty good economist! That is, if you sat down with the person and discussed economic issues, you would be in some way impressed. That is a pretty all-encompassing definition and most importantly, it allows for lots of room to debate. 

Read the Rest at AIER

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The Coming Crack-Up of the Left

There is a specter haunting America, but it is no longer Marxism. Widely dubbed “Woke,” this ideology “is likely to make us stray from, not guide us toward, the kind of society to which we all have reason to aspire.” It is “likely to create a society composed of warring tribes rather than cooperating compatriots.” It is a “trap,” on both political and personal levels.

The most striking thing about those quotations from The Identity Trap: A Story of Power and Ideas in Our Time is the author. You might have assumed the author was a conservative, rehearsing well-worn arguments. But Yascha Mounk is a Man of the Left. His last two books were examinations of, in his words, right-wing illiberalism that “presents an acute danger to the survival of our political system” and is “an existential threat to democracies.” But, in his newest book, Mounk explores how the threat to liberalism also comes from the Left.

Read the rest at AIER

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Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu

If you are looking for a gift for a baseball fan in your life, look no further.

Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu
, by John Updike.

It was originally an essay in The New Yorker, but the Library of America has republished it in a beautiful little volume, complete with the footnotes Updike later added and an essay he later wrote.

The topic? Updike went to the last game Ted Williams ever played. What emerged was this beautiful paean to everything that is beautiful about baseball. I cannot even hope to explain how achingly gorgeous this essay is. You can read the essay online, but then you will be truly missing out on the full aesthetic experience of reading it in this volume. I’m not kidding—if you know someone who enjoys baseball, they will love this book. If you love baseball, just buy it now.

Indeed, if you don’t like baseball, you should still enjoy this book. This is not a prediction; it is an imperative. You should enjoy this book. The tale told here is larger than a report on a game. It is an evocation of an era, a city, and a country, and the people who built that land. This is the story of the time when Giants strode the earth. It is a fairy tale about a knight wearing a baseball uniform. A knight who hit .406 in 1941.

A note on the title: It is, when you first encounter it, a rather odd affair. For example, where is the verb in Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu? “Fans,” “Bid,” and “Kid” are all both verbs and nouns. Parsing it, “Bid” is the verb, “Adieu” is what is being bid. “Kid,” as we learn in the essay, was a common nickname for Ted Williams. So far, so good.

But what are “Hub Fans”? People who really like Hub, apparently. Perhaps you know to what “Hub” refers. I had no idea. The essay never says. If you Google “hub fans,” you get references to this essay. Not helpful. Wikipedia has a list of all the ways “Hub” can be used; none of them are relevant to this essay.

At last, I found it. “The Hub” is an old nickname for Boston. As a typical New Englander, writing in The New Yorker, Updike and the editor just assumed the whole world knows about nicknames for East Coast cities.

Why is Boston “The Hub”? Oliver Wendell Holmes: “Boston State-House is the hub of the solar system. You couldn’t pry that out of a Boston man, if you had the tire of all creation straightened out for a crowbar.” Of course. Bostonians really do believe they are the hub of the universe.

Here we have the tale of those Boston fans bidding the Kid Adieu. By the time the game starts in the essay, Updike has crafted an epic tale of those who belonged at the Round Table. The crowd at the game is deftly described.

Williams gets up to bat. And walks. Eventually, he rounds the bases, slides into home, narrowly beating the throw.

“Boy, he was really loafing, wasn’t he?” one of the collegiate voices behind me said.
“It’s cold,” the other explained. “He doesn’t play well when it’s cold. He likes heat. He’s a hedonist.”

That college boy, by the way, was presumably one of the “Harvard freshmen, giving off that peculiar nervous glow created when a sufficient quantity of insouciance is saturated with enough insecurity.” A “hedonist” indeed.

After that walk, the next two times Williams came to bat, he flied out.

Then Williams comes to the plate in the 8th inning. Williams was retiring at the end of the season. He would never bat again in the city in which he had built his legend. This was it. The Big Good-Bye. Never again would the crowd be able to cheer their hero. Updike: “I had never before heard pure applause in a ballpark. No calling, no whistling, just an ocean of handclaps, minute after minute, burst after burst, crowding and running together in continuous succession like the pushes of surf at the edge of the sand.”

Williams hit a home run.

You should buy this book.

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Should We Still Require Shakespeare?

“‘A department of English,’ he said, ‘cannot exist without requiring, for its majors, at least one semester-long course in the study of Shakespeare. To require any less would be irresponsible; it is a dumbing down.’”

That quotation is from The Shakespeare Requirement, Julia Schumacher’s novel about the lives of college professors.

This is Schumacher’s second novel in a trilogy; one of my former students gave me a copy of it. In one of life’s odd coincidences, another student once gave me the first novel in Schumacher’s trilogy, Dear Committee Members. Apparently I must somehow give off the vibe to my students that I would appreciate snarky satirical accounts of the faculty and administrators at a college. Go figure.

The quick review of the novel: it’s amusing, but not as funny as the first one. Well worth reading if you like books that really show that it is impossible to write a parody of a college, because reality is always more absurd than the events in the novel which were created to be outrageously absurd. (You can, by the way, easily read the second novel in this trilogy without reading the first.)

It’s not the novel itself, though, that is inducing ruminations. It is the idea of a Shakespeare requirement.

First, let’s be absolutely clear that Shakespeare is the GOAT. As T.S. Eliot said, “Shakespeare and Dante divide the world between them. There is no third.” (Eliot is the third, but he could hardly say that about himself.) Nonetheless, Shakespeare is as good as it gets. If you want to read great literature, you have to read Shakespeare. In order to understand anything written after 1600, you have to read Shakespeare. He is fun to read. He is intellectually stimulating. You can read anything he wrote dozens of times and still learn from it. I really really really do believe that Shakespeare is incredible.

But…what about assigning Shakespeare to students?

At the collegiate level, a Shakespeare requirement makes enormous sense. It is depressing to imagine talking with someone who majored in English in college, but does not know Shakespeare well. It would be like meeting an economist who skipped supply and demand graphs or an astronomer who didn’t bother leaning about stars. If you major in English in college, you really should need to read and study Shakespeare.

It’s the earlier levels of education that are disturbing me. Until I started thinking about requiring Shakespeare in the wake of reading Schumacher’s book, I was firmly in the “Obviously any decent high school education includes Shakespeare” camp.

I am having second thoughts. I would be quite pleased, by the way, if you, Dear Reader would convince me that I should not be having second thoughts.

Here is where I am getting stuck. Since I regularly teach students who are graduating from high school, I have been getting increasingly alarmed in recent years. (Covid has only amplified this trend.) Many high school graduates, even those attending college, can’t read. Well, technically, they can read in the sense of knowing how to move the eye across the page and recognize English words. But, they cannot read in the sense of engaging in the physical act of reading and having comprehension of what they just read. They cannot sit down with a book, any book, for 30 minutes and just read it. Particularly because they tend to read on electronic devices, their attention wanders away long before they have finished reading a chapter, let alone a whole play.

Many people have noted this decline in the ability to read among the graduates of the nation’s high schools. It is a real problem. I have no idea how to solve that problem, and I have yet to see anyone offer a viable solution that does not require intensive one-on-one teaching. (Homeschoolers, in other words, probably have an easier time solving this problem…but even there, the problem is increasing.)

So, here is the question which is gnawing at me. Imagine a 16 year old who would have an impossible time sitting down to read Austen or Dickens or Hemingway or any of the myriad of other writers of English prose who present no real structural problems for reading. Their prose is fluid; the stories are great. But, imagine a student who can’t keep enough attention to read with comprehension novels like Pride and Prejudice or Oliver Twist or The Old Man and the Sea. Now give that 16 year old student a copy of Hamlet. What happens?

The idea of assigning Shakespeare hinges on the presupposition that the students know how to read well. But, if students graduating from high school and going off to reasonably select liberal arts colleges cannot read well, then does it make sense to assume they can read Shakespeare?

Then, as I thought about it, the problem got even worse. The whole point of assigning Shakespeare is to show students how amazing he is, how he opens up whole vistas on the world. Shakespeare is one of those authors who will linger with you for your whole life, constantly teaching you. But, if your first experience with Shakespeare is simple torture because you are incapable of reading him, then will you ever pick up a copy of a Shakespeare play again?

I meet people like this all the time. They read Shakespeare in high school and hated reading Shakespeare in high school and so they have never been tempted even once in their life to read Shakespeare again. Imagine you had a room full of 16 years olds and you knew in advance that every single one of them would have that experience, would you still assign Macbeth? To what end?

In other words, as I have been thinking about it, I am no longer convinced there is a value added in making high school students (let alone junior high students) read Shakespeare before they have learned to read other Great Books. If I was designing a curriculum for a high school English class now, there is a whole set of authors I would assign long before we even thought about reading Shakespeare. If you have to teach students how to read, then surely you have to start with Great Books which are not written in Elizabethan verse.

As I contemplated junking the Shakespeare requirement in high school, however, a chill went down my spine. I imagined replacing Shakespeare with more Fitzgerald, Ellison, Poe, Steinbeck, or George Eliot—a reading list of Great Books slowly showing how amazing it is to read these deep works. But, then I remembered that these other authors are no longer the staples of a high school curriculum. Instead, the preference these days is books written in the last few years.

The Shakespeare requirement, in other words, is standing in for a requirement to read something written in another era, something that has stood the test of time. By setting up Shakespeare as an immovable idol, schools are still requiring that at least once students will be exposed to a book that is larger than our modern fixations. Remove Shakespeare and he isn’t necessarily replaced by something Great. He may be replaced by the latest trendy novel. Once the Shakespeare requirement goes, does anything written more than a couple decades ago still get assigned?

So, what do we do about the Shakespeare requirement? Should he still be assigned in schools? I am truly stuck on this question.

But here is one thing I know. If you, Dear Reader, are thinking that we should not get rid of the Shakespeare requirement, then ask yourself which Shakespeare play you most recently read for pleasure and how long ago that was. (For me: Henry VI, part 2, last week.) Shakespeare really is amazing, and instead of worrying about whether he should be required reading in high school, perhaps I should spend more time reading him and talking about how amazing he is.

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