y office in the English department at Northwestern University is in University Hall, an American gothic joke of a building whose architect might have been inspired by Charles Addams, if the building weren’t much older than the cartoonist. Yet I have grown enamored of this absurd pile of limestone, where for the past twelve years I have had an office and done most of my teaching. Located on the second floor, my office overlooks what is known on campus as “the rock.” The rock is a boulder, roughly seven feet high, perhaps six feet in diameter, and a marker and meeting place for undergraduates. Fraternity and sorority pledge classes regularly paint the rock, students set up tables near it to sell T-shirts or yearbooks or campus magazines or to collect for charities. From ten minutes before the hour until the hour is struck, there is fairly heavy traffic near the rock, with students passing on their way to classes or back to their apartments, dormitories, fraternities, and sororities.
Fancying myself old Mr. Chips(tein), sometimes I stand at the window of my office and gaze down upon the students as they congregate around the rock or on the steps of University Hall. I note especially students who have been in my classes, many of whose names, only a year or two later, I have quite forgotten or will soon forget. As I watch them pass, I wonder what plots life has in store for the two upper-middle-class girls from a suburb outside Minneapolis who are in Ralph Lauren duds, or for the punkily dressed theater major who was such an atrocious speller, or for the Chinese pre-med student who did so well in my course in advanced prose composition. I wonder, too, about the future of the students who are members of the campus political organization that is known as InCAR (standing for International Committee Against Racism), who frequent the purlieus of the rock perhaps more than anyone else and are always there on heavy political business: to collect funds for striking coal miners in the north of England, to aid the guerrillas in El Salvador, to crush the guerrillas in Nicaragua, to beseech the university to divest from South Africa, to halt a showing of the film Birth of a Nation, and more, always much more. Like the village idiot hired by the shtetl in which he lived to await by the village gates the coming of the messiah, the students of InCAR appear never to be out of work.
No one would ever accuse the InCAR kids of having flair. Say what you like against the 60’s—and I would say a very great deal against them—the students who took part in the tumult of those years at least appeared hugely to enjoy the Dionysian fringe benefits that went along with their ostensibly Apollonian goals. The pleasure of the 60’s, after all, was in doing exactly what one pleased while appearing at the same time to be doing good. This alluring combination has left many students of the current generation with what I think of as “60’s envy,” or regret at missing a whacking idealistic good time. But the students in InCAR in no way suggest those of the 60’s. In their regression they jump all the way back to the 1930’s, without the excuse of not knowing for certain what Stalin was doing in Russia during those years.
The students who belong to InCAR manage to achieve a grayness, a grimness, a joylessness that almost seems studied. There is a dimness about their dress, a bleakness about their response to the pleasant surroundings in which they live—Northwestern’s is a lush campus set along the shore of Lake Michigan in Evanston, Illinois—that does not seem altogether natural. Whatever the season, winter seems to be in their faces as they stand near the rock, blaring the word through bullhorns or passing out leaflets for one or another of their causes—leaflets written in a tone and style that resemble not so much political argument as a ransom note. A local joke on campus asks, “How many members of InCAR does it take to change a light bulb?” “None,” the answer is, “They don’t change it—they smash it.”
For the students who have joined it—and, undergraduate and graduate students together, they appear to number fewer than thirty—InCAR obviously gives something of the pleasure in collectivity that a fraternity or sorority provides, though much intensified. Among other pleasures, it gives that of being in total and permanent opposition on a campus whose student body is otherwise middle and upper-middle class in tone and feeling. Unlike a fraternity or sorority, InCAR gives its members a complete outlook on life: a way of understanding the world and a language to help explain it. There is also the sense of a “movement,” for InCAR is not restricted to Northwestern University but claims an international membership in the thousands, ranging, or so it says, from coal miners in Kent in England to farm workers in the San Joaquin Valley in California. It is an offshoot—the impolite word is “front”—of the Communist Progressive Labor party, which has been in existence for fifteen years.
But only in the past five or so years has InCAR been a felt presence at Northwestern. A few of its members have wandered into my classes during this time. They tend to be very earnest, rather more passionate than the general run of Northwestern student, sometimes bright but never brilliant. The passion and the brightness, when they exist, come from the infusions of ideology that InCAR has given them. But what they gain on the straightaway they lose on the curve: that same ideology makes InCAR students leaden and mechanistic in their response to literature and ideas. They have minds so coarse no feelings can violate them. They have no notion that what seem to them hot new ideas are clichés pickled in the brine and blood of more than five decades. They write classroom papers with titles like “Sister Carrie as a Commodity” and “Joseph Conrad, Counter-Revolutionary.” They will respond to a point made by a classmate by accusing him of being “imprisoned in bourgeois ideology,” using the phrase as if it were quite as fresh and penetrating as an aphorism discovered in the middle of Proust.
As a writing major at NU, last year I took a course in American poetry which was taught by a certain Prof. X who claimed that Whitman was inherently racist and sexist in his naive representation of democracy, William Carlos Williams was racist in his depiction of individuals content within their socioeconomic positions, and that Dickinson, Frost, and other later New England writers were guilty of adhering to an ultimately “bourgeois” attitude of individualism combined with some sort of belief in religion, an after-life, and a sense of higher purpose: a belief which X considered “the opiate of the masses. . . .” X’s message to aspiring writers was implicit; as writers, our goal should be to search out and criticize each and every fault in our culture. Any desire to affirm any aspect of that culture, we should stifle with our “critical intellects.”
Although these views would seem to be congruent with Prof. Foley’s, I cannot be certain that she is Prof. X, for there have been other professors in the English department in which I teach who might also be pleased to claim the same views. I do not say that such views are dominant at Northwestern, or in the American university at large, but they do nowadays crop up with a fair frequency, and not in English departments alone. I recall three years ago taking two young men, graduating seniors who had been through two of my courses, to lunch, in the middle of which they unfurled a number of straightforwardly Marxist notions about American foreign policy. “Do you guys show slides with these clichés?” I inquired. I also asked where they had acquired such views. It turned out that they had just completed a course in American diplomatic history whose bottom, middle, top, and every other line was that all American foreign policy was a cover for the imperialist ventures of American business interests abroad. These were bright fellows, each of them with a fine sense of humor; one was headed for a career in journalism, the other for the foreign service; and I was disheartened to think that, as they were leaving my university, they were lugging such crude notions along with them.
A difference that never fails to astonish me between undergraduate education now and then—“then” being roughly thirty years ago, when I was an undergraduate at the University of Chicago—is that now university teachers who have strong political views feel no need to suppress them in the name of fairness or disinterestedness or a higher allegiance to the subject being taught. I may have been a political näif when young, but thinking back upon my own undergraduate education I cannot recall the political opinions of any of my teachers. The reason I cannot, I suspect, is that they kept their politics to themselves. Their politics were nobody’s business but their own, and, while they were in the classroom or lecture hall, not even their own.
Colleagues do not make judgments about a fellow teacher’s teaching. Instead, under the new dispensation, students do.Academic freedom, which earlier generations of professors had struggled to obtain, was about the right to hold any political views one wished outside the classroom. One of the most common meanings of academic freedom, in the words of Edward Shils, “refers to the freedom of university—and college—teachers to enjoy the freedom of speech and action that other citizens are constitutionally, legally, and conventionally empowered to exercise.” But that meaning has in recent decades been extended to include the right to teach one’s political views as part of the subject matter of one’s courses. Not only is it considered a right, but, in many quarters it is thought a fine thing. Thus university academic departments nowadays seek out feminists, Marxists, and others in whom the political impulse runs stronger than any other, to teach their bias—and to do so in the name of intellectual diversity. If a strong English-department chairman were today to learn about the teaching of Prof. X, quoted above, and tried to tell him or her to knock it off in the name of a higher seriousness, that chairman would no doubt be accused of interfering with Prof. X’s academic freedom.
In the old days one can imagine a strong English-department chairman, in the approved English-professor manner, taking Prof. X aside to say, “Look here, X, do be a good fellow and forget that rot about the bourgeois attitudes of the New England writers I understand you are teaching. Publish it if you like—that is your business. But our business, as teachers, is sticking to the text.” If Prof. X were tenured, the request would be a friendly one; if he were not yet tenured, the request would no doubt be more insistent. Today, however, our chairman would be accused, at a minimum, of McCarthyism, fascism, and troglo-dyticism. The American Association of University Professors might be called in. An article might appear in the Chronicle of Higher Education. Litigation might be set in motion. But, not to worry, no chairman is likely to suggest that Prof. X knock it off. It just isn’t done.
It isn’t done—not at least at large universities mindful of their prestige—because a college teacher’s classroom has become his castle, and he is free to do there as he pleases. Colleagues do not make judgments about a fellow teacher’s teaching. Instead, under the new dispensation, students do. Students always have done so, of course, but whereas earlier they did so informally, now, through something called evaluation forms, they do so formally. On the final days of a class, with perhaps ten or twenty minutes remaining, a professor passes out evaluation forms on which students remark on the strengths and deficiencies of his course. In cases where a professor is coming up for tenure, these evaluations are considered by his colleagues with some care. Tenured faculty, in these instances, do not directly judge the teacher; they judge the students’ judgments, which is not quite the same thing.
Not that judging teaching is easy. As everyone who has been to college knows, a popular teacher can be inefficient and a dull teacher can sometimes leave a lasting impress. What seems exciting in one’s youth, ten years later seems facile, if not silly. Teaching, especially teaching the large, so-called soft subjects in the humanities, where mastery of specific problems is not the chief business at hand, but asking the right questions is, is a subtle art. Student evaluations of one’s own teaching do not help. These evaluations can capture real delinquency, citing a professor’s many absences or his obvious unpreparedness. But beyond that, in the realm where useful distinctions might be made, they leave everything to be desired. Evaluations of my own teaching tend to be quite positive, and my teaching is almost always held to be—most ambiguous of words—“interesting.” But how much gets through, how long it will remain, I haven’t the least idea, and my guess is that neither does any other teacher. The most touching student evaluation I have ever received noted: “I did well in his course because I would have been ashamed not to do well for him.” But of the content of what I teach, and of the quality of thought that goes into this content—nothing. Undergraduate students can hardly be expected to be fit to judge this, and by and large they do not.
Barbara Foley, too, is thought to be an “interesting” teacher, some say an “exciting” teacher, some say the best teacher they have had at Northwestern. A small percentage of students—perhaps 10 percent—say that they are put off by what they term her “ideology.” About this ideology she is apparently, as they say today, “up front.” She makes clear her political point of view and then teaches it. A bit of a Jenny One-Note, Prof. Foley teaches courses that feature the political; their titles have included “Race and Racial Attitudes in American Literature,” “The Radical Tradition in American Literature,” “Proletarian Writers of the 1930’s,” and “The American Dream: Myth or Reality?” (anyone out there who cares to bet that the dream is a reality, please get in touch with me immediately). These courses, I have gathered from talking to students who have taken them and have since graduated, offer strong Marxistical readings of American books, with occasional eye-opening insights such as that, one of my former students recalls, Mark Twain was a “liberal racist.” You don’t have to believe Prof. Foley, you don’t have to swallow her line to do well in her courses, but it is, evidently, no easy chore to buck her directly. Still, the vast majority of her students, according to student evaluations, walk away satisfied customers.
In the scuttlebutt way one picks up on these things, one hears occasional murmurs of reaction against the heavy dosage of politics in Prof. Foley’s political teaching. A student who adored Emily Dickinson was greatly unsettled by Prof. Foley’s announcement that Emily Dickinson had rendered herself permanently minor by ignoring the political subject in her work. In another case, a young black student, who had been in two of my courses, dropped in one morning to ask if I thought that he, an undergraduate, was intellectually prepared to take a graduate-level course taught by Barbara Foley. I replied that I thought if he took special pains he was indeed up to it. “There’s only one thing I worry about, then,” he said. When I asked what that was, he replied, “The word is out that Prof. Foley gives almost all black students A’s. I really wouldn’t want to get an A that way.” Was this true? Was Barbara Foley practicing in her own classroom the redistributive justice she longed for in the world? Short of checking all her students’ grades for the six years she has taught at Northwestern, there is no way of knowing. It is interesting, though, that this is the word among black students.
Something that no one in the English department at Northwestern has had the ill manners to talk about is whether Prof. Foley uses her classroom to recruit members for InCAR. In a brief profile in the Daily Northwestern of an undergraduate InCAR member named Becki Huntman, the walls of whose rooms are festooned with pictures of Lenin, Stalin, Malcolm X, and Friedrich Engels, Miss Huntman is quoted as saying that she first learned of InCAR and Communist ideology during her sophomore year in a “Marxism in Literature” course taught by Prof. Foley. “It was the first class,” Miss Huntman added, “where things made sense.” I asked a former student of mine, who had taken one of Barbara Foley’s courses, if the subject of InCAR ever came up in class. She replied that sometimes, toward the close of a class, Prof. Foley would pass out an announcement of an InCAR meeting, where, she would say, some of the things that had been discussed in class would be talked about in greater detail. Often, too, my former student said, InCAR members would be waiting at the beginning of a class outside the door with petitions to sign or leaflets to hand out. Once, when my former student called on Prof. Foley to discuss a forthcoming classroom paper, she found her extremely helpful, but on the way out Prof. Foley attempted to sell her the current issue of the Progressive Labor party newspaper. “Did you buy it?” I asked. “No,” she said. “Was Prof. Foley angry that you didn’t?” “Not at all,” she said. “I guess she figured it was worth a try.”
Something else that no one at Northwestern talks about is Barbara Foley’s exact relationship with InCAR. The group is made up of students, but she is a professor. During the student tumult of the late 60’s and early 70’s there was many a professor who was in entire sympathy with groups such as Students for a Democratic Society, but were there any professors, above the level of graduate-student instructors, who were also members of student organizations? Such groups have generally had faculty advisers, but Prof. Foley’s role in InCAR goes far beyond the advisory. If there is an InCAR picket, she is on the line; she puts in her time with the bullhorn; she works the rock. There is nothing of the standard dilettante, BMW-owning, Marxoid, let-the-kids-do-all-the-dirty-work contemporary radical university professor about Barbara Foley. The movement is neither an amusement nor an avocation for her. It is of her blood and bone; she is wedded to it; it is her life. Not many people at Northwestern seem to want to talk about this, either.
In fact, Barbara Foley probably would never have been a subject of more than ordinary interest—her type, after all, is scarcely original—but for an incident that took place on the Northwestern campus on the evening of April 13, 1985, an incident that has come to be known locally as the Calero Event. On that night Adolfo Calero, then the commander-in-chief of the Nicaraguan Democratic Forces (FDN), the largest group of contras, as the guerrillas fighting against the Sandinista government in Nicaragua are known, was to speak at Northwestern under the auspices of two university organizations, the Conservative Council and the International Policy Forum. The Reagan administration’s campaign to increase American support for the contras was already well under way, and one assumes that Adolfo Calero was to speak at Northwestern, as he would at other universities, to make the case for this policy.
One has to assume this, for in fact Calero never got to speak. His talk was scheduled for 7:00 P.M. and was open to the university community and to the public free of charge. Well before the talk, however, protesters from at least five different left-wing organizations—four from around the city of Chicago and InCAR from Northwestern—ranged themselves around Harris Hall, the place of the scheduled talk, some carrying pickets and shouting and chanting against Calero and the contras. In the room in Harris Hall in which the Calero talk was to be given—a room that accommodates roughly 300 people—some ten or fifteen minutes before Adolfo Calero was to appear, Barbara Foley walked up to the podium and began to speak. (The day before, she had discussed the forthcoming Calero talk in her English class and urged her students to attend.) She identified herself as a member of the International Committee Against Racism, and then announced, in the words of an ad-hoc panel document,1 that “this was the first fascist rally on campus in some time, she suspected more were being planned and they should be stopped.” She said that “Adolfo Calero was a monster who would be attempting to speak about freedom, democracy, and liberty. By that he meant the right to reappropriate his Nicaraguan business holdings”; that “Calero had the blood of thousands on his hands and no respect for the rights to life and free speech of the people he helped slaughter with the CIA’s help”; that “He had no right to speak that night” and—the following are Prof. Foley’s words—“We are not going to let him speak,” and he “should feel lucky to get out of [Harris Hall] alive.” She went on in this vein for two or three minutes. Other people followed her to the podium to offer their opinions.
When Adolfo Calero arrived there was a great deal of chanting and shouting in opposition to his presence. His talk was delayed some ten or fifteen minutes. Before he could begin someone—not Barbara Foley—rushed to the stage and threw a red liquid at him. This liquid had been variously described as paint and as animal blood. At this point, with a good deal of shouting in the hall, Adolfo Calero, his suit coat bespattered with the red liquid, was led from the hall by security men and did not speak that evening. Barbara Foley acknowledges joining in the chanting during the tumult. A witness claims that she also shouted that “the only way to get anything done would be to kill him [Calero],” though she and another witness, a graduate student who is also a member of InCAR, deny that she said this. In any case, what is apparently technically known as “a shout-down”—though the throwing of the red liquid went well beyond shouting—was successful. It was not a memorable night for “dialogue” at Northwestern University.
The Calero Event took place on a Saturday evening. The following Monday a photograph of the bespattered Adolfo Calero along with an account of the incidents surrounding the event appeared in the Daily Northwestern. The account quoted Barbara Foley as having said, “He has no right to speak here tonight and we are not going to let him. He should feel lucky to get out alive.” (This quotation would come up again and again.) The account also mentioned that protesters later gathered outside the apartment at which Calero was staying, threatening violence, and had to be removed by police. Prof. Foley claimed that InCAR was not responsible for what had happened but that she did not regret that it happened. (She would never express regret, let alone offer apology, throughout the months that followed; nor has she done so since. But more about this presently.) She was also quoted as saying, “I think it’s terrific that people saw the fascists.”
Soon thereafter Arnold Weber, in his first year as president of Northwestern University, issued a strong but quite general statement about the impermissibility of any person or group invading the rights of students or faculty by disrupting regularly scheduled university events. Weber had previously been president of the University of Colorado and still earlier had worked for George Shultz at the Office of Management and Budget, but, apart from having a reputation as a strong and capable administrator, his general views or politics were not known. But a stronger and more specific statement came from the university provost, a man named W. Raymond Mack, a sociologist by training and, by all accounts, a liberal in politics. As a liberal should, Mack was said to be outraged by this violation of free speech and academic freedom, and, by way of a press release, he let it be known that he intended to propose that Barbara Foley be suspended for two academic quarters, and suspended without pay. Provost Mack also felt that the tenure procedure on Prof. Foley, which was to begin the following autumn, ought to be delayed for a full year.
Like Provost Mack, the majority of the faculty at Northwestern’s College of Arts and Sciences are also generally liberal in their political views, with a sprinkling of Marxists and conservatives popping up here and there in various departments. But if most members of the faculty were outraged by the incidents connected with the Calero Event, they managed to keep it to themselves. When the autumn 1985 term began, such organizing efforts as were in evidence were on behalf of Barbara Foley. InCAR was firing up the Xerox machine with handouts headed “Foley Tenure Case Shows Need to Shed Liberal Illusions,” pointing out that Northwestern University was clearly going the way of Nazi Germany. A group of faculty members in the English department wrote a lecture to Provost Mack on the subject of “due process” that ran as a full-page ad in the Daily Northwestern, signed by more than eighty members of the faculty. One would hear a good deal about “due process” in the days ahead. Except from the InCAR students, one would not hear much more about fascism and Nazi Germany. Liberals at a place like Northwestern are not so crude; they prefer instead to talk about “McCarthyism.” One would also hear a great many sentences that began, “Of course I find Barbara Foley’s views abhorrent, but. . . .” But, yet, still, and however. “The sin of nearly all left-wingers from 1933 onward,” wrote George Orwell, “is that they have wanted to be anti-fascist without being anti-totalitarian.”
I found the ad-hoc panel impressive in its competence. As befits professors, its members had done their homework. Relevant documents had been exchanged between contending parties; the ground rules and procedures were clearly laid out. The chairwoman made plain that if there were any demonstrations or disruptions, she would clear the auditorium. The hearing was conducted with a certain gravity of spirit that was entirely appropriate to the business at hand. The business at hand was serious business—a young woman’s career could ride on the outcome.
Before responding to the specific charges, Barbara Foley made a general opening statement. The political speech is a form with which she is at ease. To make a longish speech short, she said that subjecting her to these charges at all was farcical, and the charges showed that the administration at Northwestern University, in its accusations against her, was really aligned with the Reagan administration’s policies in Central America. (I have to admit that this connection had not occurred to me.) After this statement, Barbara Foley’s lawyer began calling witnesses. The first among them was a graduate student on whose dissertation committee Barbara Foley sat. A small and extremely tidy young woman, she shocked—at least she shocked me—with the quiet violence of her views. To her it was perfectly obvious that Adolfo Calero, being evil, had no right to speak, and she had no qualms either about the red liquid that was thrown at him. Others of Prof. Foley’s students, graduate and undergraduate, agreed that Calero had been treated as he deserved and that shouting him down was a perfectly appropriate response to such a man. Allowing such witnesses to speak on Barbara Foley’s behalf seemed to me a very foolish tack for her lawyer to take; the best defense can surely never be a bad offense.
As a university teacher, I am not sure I should wish to be judged by what my students thought they had learned from me. But in Barbara Foley’s case, there was no question that her students had got it right; their views, at any rate, were perfectly congruent with her own on the subjects of freedom of speech, academic freedom, and political discussion: to those deemed enemies, none is permitted. While Prof. Foley was not being judged by the ad-hoc panel as a teacher, the sad show her students put on could not have helped her cause. The open hearing, too, made it impossible for Barbara Foley to express the least contrition for what she had done, assuming that she felt any or even wished to fake some. The best that could be got from her with her InCAR crowd in the audience was that—I am quoting again from the UFRPTDAP document cited earlier—“although she did not agree with a judgment that condemns her behavior, she would live within the limits prescribed and would not repeat the prescribed conduct. She acknowledged that were she to repeat it, she would do so knowingly and at full risk.”
At the intermission of the first session of the ad-hoc panel hearing, I ran into a friend who is also a member of the English department at Northwestern. He looked very glum, not to say downright depressed. He told me that he was soon likely to lose the allegiance of some of his best graduate students, who were adamantly in Barbara Foley’s camp. “After what I have just heard in that room,” he said, referring to the ad-hoc panel proceedings, “there is no way I can ever hope to support Barbara.” As things turned out, he, along with the majority of the faculty, would find a way.
It was not until January of 1986 that the UFRPTDAP ad-hoc panel delivered its report and recommendation on the Foley case. The report has a somewhat pompous tone, possibly owing to the panel members’ repeated insistence on the scrupulosity of their procedures and bases for judgment. As for the judgment itself, it went crushingly against Barbara Foley, sustaining eight of the administration’s eleven charges against her. I quote from the summary of the panel’s findings on the charges:
The ad-hoc panel finds that Professor Foley’s conduct on the evening of April 13, 1985, was violative of the speaker’s rights to speak and be heard and of the audience’s right to hear, and consequently constitutes “grave professional misconduct” as charged. We believe that the conduct was violative of academic freedom, a widely accepted principle essential to the central purpose of a university. We believe that the charges sustained describe conduct which is inimical to an atmosphere of open inquiry, antithetical to the principles of free speech, and unacceptable in a university community.
That Barbara Foley was up for tenure the same year in which she was in effect tried for violations of academic freedom was a circumstance not without its ironies—for tenure, at its inception, was meant to protect the academic freedom of university teachers. Far from being the job-security arrangement it has since become, tenure began as a means of ensuring the rights of professors or citizens outside the university. Thus a university teacher might vote or speak or even organize on behalf of, say, labor unions and, with tenure, need not fear the retaliation of anti-labor men on his school’s board of trustees. Academic freedom also ensured that a teacher would be able to pursue lines of scholarly or scientific inquiry that his colleagues or even the community might think odd or heretical. But academic freedom always carried certain responsibilities. Most obviously, it never included the freedom to abrogate someone else’s freedom. It never included the freedom to turn the classroom into a political pulpit or guerrilla theater. It never included using the job of teacher to propagandize for political or religious conversions. The guardians of academic freedom were to be, precisely, its beneficiaries, the professors themselves, who might be expected to guard it jealously, at least if they knew what was good for their own interests.
Nowadays tenure is awarded, traditionally, after a young professor has been at an institution for two three-year terms, and on three bases: scholarship, teaching, and academic citizenship. The emphases laid on teaching and scholarship can differ from institution to institution. At some smaller colleges a teacher’s publishing record may be of negligible import next to his performance in the classroom. At larger universities, especially those concerned about their prestige as research institutions, no publication, or insufficient publication, means no tenure. Although one hears the phrase less frequently now than formerly, “publish or perish” is still very much the rule at most larger universities.
The third basis for tenure, academic citizenship, is one that always has to be considered but is only in exceptional cases emphasized. It is a judgment, at least in part, of character; it is also a judgment about willingness to conform to the rules, explicit and implicit, that govern institutions of higher learning. If a young teacher shows himself irresponsible in his committee assignments, if he misses classes owing to drunkenness, if he seduces his young students, if he shows no regard for the fundamental beliefs of the institution, he could, theoretically, be faulted on academic citizenship and hence denied tenure. (With tenure, it occurs to me to add, the same teacher could today do any of the things mentioned in the previous sentence and probably keep his job.) Owing either to the widened tolerance for human misbehavior or to the lapse in standards of deportment on the part of professors, the category of academic citizenship is invoked in tenure decisions only in exceptional cases. Would Barbara Foley’s be such a case?
Although I have been teaching in the English department at Northwestern University since 1974, I continue to do so, largely by choice, without tenure. Since only members of the department who already have tenure are permitted to vote on tenure decisions, I did not attend the meeting at which the decision about Barbara Foley’s tenure was made. On the other hand, had I been at that meeting, I should have been bound by confidentiality not to speak about it. What I know about this meeting, therefore, I know from things that have leaked out and from surmise. It quickly leaked out, for example, that the English department’s vote was ten to five (with one member abstaining) in favor of recommending Prof. Foley for tenure. As such recommendations go, this was not a strong one; it is more usual for a candidate for tenure to get a unanimous recommendation, or one with only one or two votes of dissent.
It also transpired that, during the tenure vote, discussions of Prof. Foley’s politics were ruled out of order. Whether she was pushing a clear and hard political line in her classes, whether it was appropriate for a member of the faculty to be a major figure in a radical student organization, whether the teaching of literature was a proper occasion for attacking what Prof. Foley deemed the rampant racism and brutalities of capitalism in American life—all this, apparently, was proscribed from discussion, lest politics be thought to determine a decision that ought to be made exclusively on grounds of scholarship and pedagogy. As for Prof. Foley’s behavior during the Calero Event, this, too, was apparently ruled out of bounds for discussion.
If one is not permitted to talk about the politics of so thoroughly political a woman as Barbara Foley, and forbidden to talk not only about her political views but (much more important) about her on-campus political activities, not much is left to talk about. There were the students’ evaluations of her teaching, and these, as mentioned earlier, were vastly approving. There was her scholarship, as a teacher’s publishing record is now conventionally called, and here she had clearly published in sufficient quantity to guard against her perishing: along with a fairly thick sheaf of reviews and articles in academic journals, she had a book on the documentary novel about to appear from Cornell Uni-veristy Press. Was Prof. Foley’s academic citizenship discussed? I do not know, though afterward, in defense of the English department’s decision, its chairman would say that he knew no better citizen of the English department than Barbara Foley. By this he meant that she was a willing and helpful member of department committees, attended meetings and other departmental events, was reliable in performing intramural house- and record-keeping functions. There is no reason to doubt his word on this, but his remains an astonishingly narrow view of academic citizenship. The vote, to repeat, was ten to five in favor of recommending tenure.
To plunge a bit further into the forest of surmise, what was in the minds of the ten faculty members who voted in favor of recommending Barbara Foley for tenure? None is a Marxist, though some have been known to mutter the cliché that “Marxism remains an indispensable tool of literary analysis.” (Odd that the best literary critics have, without much difficulty, been able to dispense with it.) Some may have felt themselves crippled by the ground rules of the discussion. Almost all of them have said to me, singly, at one time or another, that “I find Barbara’s views abhorrent, but . . . still . . . yet . . . however. . . .” But some find her abhorrent views useful for giving students a wide diversity of opinion. Still, some like her personally and say that in private she can be a charming woman. Yet some feel they have no right to claim that their own views are superior to the next person’s, though I have never encountered anyone who finds his own views abhorrent. However, some feel that to censure even views and actions they find abhorrent is to be guilty of, yes, McCarthyism.
The reliable Marxist gang is also there: Christopher Caudwell, Lucien Goldmann, Georg Lukács, and Louis Althusser. When either Marx or Lenin is quoted, he is given scriptural authority.It is, of course, also possible that many members of the Northwestern English department were greatly impressed by Prof. Foley’s scholarship, so greatly impressed that denying tenure to so considerable a scholar would have seemed grievously wrong (especially since there are now members of the English department who were given tenure before they even published a book). “Scholarship, scholarship, scholarship,” said the chairman of the English department on another occasion in defending his department’s decision on tenure, “that is what wins tenure at a place like Northwestern.”
I fear that “scholarship” has in academic circles become one of those words that no longer means what it once did; “research” is another. Where scholarship once stood for the kind of work done by people like E. H. Gombrich, Arnaldo Momi-gliano, and Frances A. Yates, it now merely means published work. In this rather less impressive conception of scholarship, Prof. Foley had committed her share, and I decided to have a closer look at it (which, I believe, is called “research”).
Reading Prof. Foley’s book, Telling the Truth: The Theory and Practice of Documentary Fiction,2 I recalled that one of her graduate students, while defending her conduct during the Calero Event, remarked that she admired Prof. Foley’s expertise in “social awareness literature” and added that Prof. Foley was at the forefront of “the theoretical debate that is shaping literature.” There is something in what this graduate student said. In her book Prof. Foley sets out to demonstrate that she is very much au courant with the new literary theory but is not about to let it swamp the larger questions of social awareness that, when one gets right down to it, no one has posed with greater clarity, penetration, and wisdom than Karl Marx and Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.
Part of the difficulty with Telling the Truth is that one does not get right down to it very quickly. Its first 103 pages are given over to the new literary theory gradually becoming regnant in English graduate studies. Devotees of this theory will find many old friends cited in her pages: Foucault, Bakhtin, Derrida, Barthes, Lacan. The reliable Marxist gang is also there: Christopher Caudwell, Lucien Goldmann, Georg Lukács, and Louis Althusser. When either Marx or Lenin is quoted, he is given scriptural authority. The highest new jargonese is everywhere employed. The prose is consequently very dense. Few actual works of literature are cited in this first part of the book. Instead something called “the text” is continually mentioned; also such barbed-wire words as “intertextuality” and “extra-textuality.” Nonprofessionals will find it all very hard, almost impenetrable, going. Reading the first part of Prof. Foley’s book I was reminded of Robert Frost’s remark that writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down; perhaps the best way to describe the new critical theory is to say that it is like playing ping-pong without the ball.
But the real purpose of the dense theoretical discussion of the first part of Telling the Truth is to make the point that the new literary theory cannot finally supplant that old indispensable tool of literary analysis, standard Marxism. In the second part of her book Prof. Foley puts a ball in play and discusses actual works in the genre she rather loosely defines as the documentary novel. “Contextualization,” “hypostatization,” “re-concretization of the referent,” “fictionality”—the lyrics may be different but the melody is the traditional Marxist one. For, as long as we are telling the truth, the only documentary fiction Prof. Foley appears to approve is that which confronts the class struggle and the alienation she believes is the inevitable result of capitalism as part of an “oppositional program.” Or, to put it in the not uncharacteristic prose style of Telling the Truth: “Though some writers manage to make use of modernist defamiliarization as a powerful tool in the critique of reification, most accede to the thoroughgoing fetishization of social relations that characterizes what Lukács called the ‘problem of commodities’ in the early 20th century.”
That, patently, is not entertainment, but is it scholarship? Evidently, to judge by English-studies standards of the day, and by the subsequent career of Prof. Foley’s tenure recommendation, it is indeed. Once such a recommendation leaves an academic department, its approval is far from certain. Not many years back the recommendation for tenure of an extremely popular teacher of philosophy was shot down at the level of the dean’s office, presumably because the teacher’s published work was felt by the dean not to have enough intellectual weight. But the recommendation for Prof. Foley sailed on through—from the university’s ad-hoc tenure committee, thence to the College of Arts and Sciences Promotion and Tenure Committee, and thence to the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences—everywhere endorsed, and reputed to have been strongly endorsed. It was reported that where usually somewhere between eight and twelve outside readers are called in for judgment upon a tenure decision, in Prof. Foley’s instance there were between thirty-five and thirty-eight outside readers, and these endorsed her tenure overwhelmingly (a fact that by itself says a great deal about the fallen standards of English studies in recent years). Case, one would have thought, closed.
Not quite, as it turned out. On May 21, 1986, Barbara Foley received a letter from the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences whose first sentence read: “I must inform you that the Provost did not approve the recommendation to promote you to the rank of associate professor with tenure.” The brief letter went on to say that she would be given a final year of employment as an assistant professor. Attached was a copy of Provost W. Raymond Mack’s letter rejecting the appointment. In his letter the provost cited the fact that Prof. Foley “failed to receive a majority vote from her tenured colleagues in the department of English who had recommended her retention.” (There are twenty-one members of the department with tenure, and five had missed the meeting.) But, obviously, a more significant item for the provost—and, clearly, for President Arnold Weber for whom he was also speaking—was Barbara Foley’s behavior during the Calero Event:
Professor Foley’s record includes the fact that the administration of Northwestern University last year charged her with grave professional misconduct, in that she violated widely accepted principles of academic freedom and responsibility including those stated in the Northwestern University Faculty Handbook (p. 1). She asked for, and received, an open hearing on these charges before an ad-hoc panel of the elected faculty appeals committee.
The provost then quoted from the summary section of the ad-hoc panel’s report, and ended by saying that he agreed with that summary. “I support the finding of the university faculty panel that her conduct is ‘unacceptable in a university community.’ I therefore have decided against offering her further appointment as a member of the Northwestern University faculty.”
The faculty reaction to the administration’s rejection of tenure for Barbara Foley was much stronger than its reaction to the Calero Event. The coolest reaction was perhaps Prof. Foley’s own. Despite the cliché nature of her revolutionary rhetoric, she is no fool and far from being an unsavvy politician. She immediately sent around Xerox copies of the letter from the dean to her and the provost’s letter to the dean, and she was quoted the following day in the university newspaper as saying that rejection of her tenure was “clearly a political attack that revealed nakedly the actual nature of power relations in the university,” adding that the administration, not the faculty, is assuming control of “the academic business of the university.”
Most professors at Northwestern tend to be essentially in business for themselves. They teach, they publish, they apply for grants, they go to their mailboxes ever hopeful that they will have a job offer from Stanford or Michigan, or—O my God, can it be?—Harvard, Yale, or Princeton. Not much in the life of the university community outside their own interests arouses them. But the Foley case did. Of course they almost all found her views “abhorrent,” but still, yet, and however she was one of them, a professor, and the administration was still the administration, a historic enemy. A new issue, then, had arisen, and it went by the name of faculty governance. True, there was nothing illegal about the provost’s action. The provost of the university is supposed to review all tenure decisions and under an active provost these reviews are never perfunctory. Still, in overruling the findings of the various faculty committees in the Foley case, wasn’t the administration undercutting the faculty’s own power? After putting the faculty through the entire rigmarole of tenure review for Barbara Foley, then rejecting its findings, wasn’t the administration acting in bad faith?
Although it was near the end of term, with papers to grade and examinations to give, a flurry of meetings was called. A group of graduate students organized themselves into the Graduate Committee in Support of Barbara Foley. The graduate students and the faculty in the English department met to vote on a resolution first “demanding,” then (in quieter language) “urging” the president of the university to reverse the provost’s decision in the Foley case. Voted on solely by the English faculty in secret ballot, the resolution passed 17 to 2. (Whose was the other dissenting vote, I wondered.) Letters with lengthy lists of signatories explaining faculty governance were sent off to the metropolitan Chicago press in answer to editorials congratulating the administration for taking a strong stand on academic freedom in the Foley case. To add an Orwellian touch of doublethink, small posters began to appear on the walls of university buildings and in classrooms: “Support Diversity of Opinion, Back Foley!” and “Retain Civil Liberties, Keep Foley!”
Just before final-examination week, on May 28, a rally in support of Barbara Foley was held at what was described in a hand-out as the “Mandela/ Crown Center.” (The true name of the place is Rebecca Crown Center, the location of the university’s administration offices, donated by the Henry Crown family.) It was, literally, a banner day. A podium was set up before a pink banner with black lettering carrying InCAR’s initials. “Support Foley” banners were rife. A student carried a banner reading, “Fire Mack, Support Foley!” Four or five people came up to me with various petitions to sign. A faculty member wanted me to sign a petition urging the president to understand he was undermining faculty governance. She let me know—here was an original thought—that she found Barbara Foley’s views abhorrent, but a larger issue was at stake. I told her that I didn’t find Barbara Foley’s views abhorrent, merely crude and preposterous; what I found abhorrent was what she had done and her refusal to offer anything approaching an apology for it.
Meanwhile, everyone except those doing the talking was growing logy with boredom. Nearly two hours had passed. What we were all waiting for, of course, was for Barbara Foley to speak. At last she came to the microphone. There were perhaps a hundred and fifty people gathered. She was greeted by strong applause. For the most part, she spoke in pure clichés: about the administration’s political motives in rejecting her for tenure, about its desecration of the principle of faculty governance, about the splendid work of InCAR around the country, about the evil of the contras whom she accused of torturing women and cutting off their breasts. Toward the close of her speech, she said, “When I got up on the stage in Harris 107, I had no idea all this would happen, but I have no regrets,” and then she added, though I did not catch her exact words, that her only regret was that there hadn’t been other faculty members with her on that night.
“You have to admit,” Prof. Foley’s friends say, “that Barbara has guts.” I admit it. She also has a goofy kind of integrity. She calls herself a Marxist-Leninist, but the truth is that she is a poor Leninist indeed. A real Leninist would have apologized at some point—and I myself have little doubt that an apology would have made it very difficult for the provost to do what he did without seeming heartless—and then, in good Leninist fashion, would have gone on with whatever he thought would further the interests of the revolution. It may be that Barbara Foley cannot apologize even to the point of allowing that perhaps she went a bit far on the night of the Calero Event, lest she lose face among the students she has been revving up with her rhetoric over the past several years. My own suspicion is that she feels she has nothing for which to apologize. She is not in the least a phony. I think she is a real revolutionary, at least psychologically, and that, now headed toward forty years of age, she is probably in for the duration. As I walked away from the rally, I recalled that it was not her beloved Marx but Nietzsche who said that every idea has its autobiography, and I wondered what it was in Barbara Foley’s own autobiography that had put the dark and fiery idea of revolution in her head, probably never to be dislodged within her lifetime.
There was to be one more meeting on the Foley case before, so to speak, school was out. With what I am quite certain was unconscious symbolism, the meeting of the College of Arts and Sciences faculty was held in Harris Hall in the same room where Adolfo Calero had been attacked and denied his right to speak. After the reading of various documents by the chairman of the Committee on Promotion and Tenure, the first speaker, a youngish man with a Russian accent, announced that Prof. Foley had outraged any serious conception anyone could possibly hold of the responsibilities of academic citizenship. His accent, which told that he had firsthand experience of totalitarianism and thus cherished freedom all the more, seemed to make little impression on his fellow teachers; another professor quickly rose to say that there was no way to gauge citizenship in a university. Another professor, a teacher of political science, spoke strongly against Prof. Foley’s violation of free speech, and said that by this act she had disqualified herself as a member in good standing of the academic community. A few others rose to say that they did not have enough facts to make a careful judgment on the case.
But the reigning feeling in the room was overwhelmingly, if not pro-Foley, at least anti-administration. Much of the behavior I have come to think of as virtucratic was on display: people rising to speak chiefly to show that their hearts were in the right place. Not everyone apparently found Prof. Foley’s views and actions abhorrent. A man in what I took to be a Swiss-German accent spoke against the conlras, and ended by asserting that what Prof. Foley had done was courageous and correct. A left-wing sociologist chipped in with, “I’m sympathetic to speech acts against Mr. Calero.” An economist who had served on the Council of Economic Advisers under Jimmy Carter allowed that he found Prof. Foley’s views abhorrent, but felt she nevertheless deserved another chance; if she were to do something similar in the future, she should then be stripped of her tenure. A man in a page-boy hairdo and a mustache who looked like a minor character in Shakespeare (“poor Yorick,” perhaps) reminded the meeting that Barbara Foley had not been found guilty of a shout-down but of “inciting to a shout-down,” though the force of his distinction, of which he seemed rather proud, was lost on the audience. Another sociologist said that he wanted to hear nothing further about Prof. Foley’s moral conduct, for surely everyone knew that “the morals of professors are lower than that of a snake.” This remark was met with snickering laughter—a roomful of professors took it sitting down. Finally, a resolution was offered to the effect that the Promotion and Tenure Committee write a strong letter to the administration protesting its rejection of Barbara Foley’s tenure as a violation of the principle of faculty governance. It passed by a vast majority.
1 I was not at Harris Hall on the night of April 13. My account of the events of that evening derives solely from a document entitled “Decision, Ad Hoc Panel of UFRPTDAP, Northwestern University, In the Matter of Professor Barbara Foley.” Both Prof. Foley’s lawyer and the lawyer for the provost of Northwestern agreed to and signed a “Stipulation of Facts” about that evening. It is from the ad-hoc panel’s presentation of those agreed-upon facts that I have drawn.
2 Cornell University Press, 273 pp., $24.95.
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A Case of Academic Freedom
Must-Reads from Magazine
Last year, we asked experts to examine Candidate Trump’s policy proposals. This year, we’ve asked them to examine how he has executed these proposals in office.
On Trade By Scott Lincicome
Last year, economic, legal, and geopolitical calamity lurked in the shadows of almost every trade-policy promise made by presidential candidate Donald Trump. Eight months into the Trump presidency, those problems have—thankfully—not yet materialized. Instead, Trump trade policy has been a mixture of bluster, disappointment, relief, and uncertainty. This last category warrants close attention: In the coming months, Trump’s dangerous trade ambitions could remain in check, thus keeping a global trade system alive. Or politics, legal ambiguity, and Trump’s own emotional impulses could deal that system a fatal blow.
There is no doubt that President Trump has already done serious damage to the United States’ longstanding position as a world leader on trade policy, the American political consensus in favor of trade liberalization, and Republican views of trade and globalization. His constant vituperation has offended U.S. allies and trading partners, causing them to turn to Europe, Asia, or Latin America in search of alternatives to the once-welcoming and predictable U.S. market. He has accelerated (not started) the American retreat from the World Trade Organization, further wounding a multilateral trading system that was a U.S. invention—an invention that has, contrary to popular belief, served U.S. economic and foreign-policy interests well since the 1940s.
Trump’s day-one withdrawal from the Trans-Pacific Partnership—the flawed-yet-deserving Asia-Pacific trade agreement started by President Bush and ultimately signed by President Obama—has left vacuums in both Asia-Pacific trade and international economic law. TPP was far from perfect, but it was widely supported by U.S. trade and foreign-policy experts because of its economic and geopolitical benefits. The deal contained important new rules for 21st-century issues such as e-commerce, GMOs, and state-owned enterprises. Moreover, it would have provided small but significant benefits for U.S. workers and the economy, while cementing the United States’s influence in a region increasingly covered by China’s shadow. Now, TPP parties are working to complete a “TPP-11” deal that excludes the United States, while China is negotiating its own version of the TPP—the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership. And many of TPP’s novel provisions are being relitigated in contentious NAFTA renegotiations with Canada and Mexico (both TPP parties).
All of this is disappointing, but it’s probably survivable and hardly the fire and brimstone of the Trump campaign trail (hence, the relief). Trump has repeatedly threatened tariffs and other forms of dangerous unilateral protectionism, but economic, legal, and political realities have intervened. For example, when Trump promised new “national security” tariffs on steel and aluminum under Section 232 of the Trade Expansion Act of 1962, the opposition from Congress, business groups, strategic allies, NGOs, and even members of Trump’s administration was unrelenting. As a result, planned tariffs have quietly been shelved (for now). Other presidential threats have similarly come and gone without major action, giving market participants some heartburn but little long-term pain. Only in the opaque area of trade remedies—antidumping, countervailing duty, and safeguard measures—has there been a marked uptick in U.S. protectionism. But this is the result of long and technical administrative proceedings initiated by U.S. industries or unions that formally petitioned the government under relevant domestic law—hardly the wave-of-the-hand actions that Trump promised.
Some measure of relief is warranted, but we’re not out of the woods just yet. Indeed, in the last eight months, Trump has publicly threatened to
- block steel and aluminum imports for national-security reasons or bring new cases against semiconductors and ships, under the aforementioned Section 232;
- withdraw from the North American Free Trade Agreement and the U.S.-Korea FTA;
- slap tariffs on Chinese imports under Section 301 of the Trade Act of 1974 because of alleged Chinese intellectual-property-rights violations; and
- impose onerous new “Buy American” requirements on U.S. pipelines and government-funded infrastructure projects.
And those are just the public threats. Behind closed doors, Trump has reportedly considered enacting sweeping import restrictions under the International Emergency Economic Powers Act. The president reportedly yelled, “I want tariffs. Bring me some tariffs!” when told by his “globalist” advisers that legal and economic realities prevent him from imposing broad-based protectionism on a whim.
None of the threats on Trump’s wish list is officially off the table, and any one of them would have serious economic consequences: Steel tariffs alone would put more than 1.3 million American jobs at risk; NAFTA withdrawal could destroy 250,000 more; and several nations have promised immediate retaliation against American goods, services, or investment in response to Trumpian protectionism. Trump’s actions would also raise major legal issues. For example, the World Trade Organization’s broad, subjective “national security” exception wasn’t intended to be used as a get-out-of-jail free-card for steel tariffs, and a dispute over a member’s right to invoke it could imperil the multilateral trading system. Meanwhile, Trump’s withdrawal from a free-trade agreement without congressional consent would raise major constitutional questions as to whether the president had that authority and what would happen to the myriad U.S. tariffs and other commitments that were embedded in legislation and passed into law. Lawsuits over these and other issues surrounding presidential trade powers would throw billions of dollars of cross-border trade and investments into legal limbo.
The president’s unpredictability, political weakness, and clear affinity for protectionism, combined with ample (though ambiguous) legal authority to act unilaterally, mean that any one of his trade threats could still materialize in the coming months. The White House’s internationalists may have won the early battles, but the war will rage for as long as Trump is president. Continued vigilance and advocacy for the benefits of freer trade remain critical.
And congressional legislation clarifying and limiting the president’s trade powers might not be a bad idea either…just in case.
Click here to read what Scott Lincicome wrote about Candidate Trump and trade last year.
Scott Lincicome is an international trade attorney, adjunct scholar at the Cato Institute, and visiting lecturer at Duke University Law School. The views expressed herein are his own and do not necessarily reflect those of his employer.
On Taxes By James Pethokoukis
At some point in his first term, President Donald Trump will likely sign legislation that cuts taxes by some amount for somebody. This modest prediction is based less on reading the political tea leaves than understanding conservative politics. If any issue made the modern Republican Party, it was tax cuts. Not surprising, then, that candidate Trump promised big cuts for individuals and businesses. And with the GOP now holding the White House and Congress, failure to deliver is almost unimaginable.
Of course it’s almost equally unimaginable that the Trump tax cuts will at all resemble the ambitious plans devised by Trump advisers during the campaign. There were two of those blueprints. The first, rolled out September 2015, proposed lowering the top personal rate to 25 percent from the current 39.6 percent, and cutting the corporate rate to 15 percent from the current 35 percent. Along with other changes, including eliminating the alternative minimum tax and estate tax, this initial plan might have lowered annual government revenue by a whopping $1 trillion a year or more (even if one assumes much faster economic growth).
This was, in other words, more a fantasy proposal cooked up by Reagan-era supply-siders than a serious effort to reform the tax code without worsening our historically high federal debt. Indeed, Trump’s sole purpose in signing on to the plan may have been to win over that very same group, still influential among base voters. Trump himself talked little about the plan while on the hustings, especially compared with immigration, trade, and The Wall.
The Trump campaign’s second bite at the apple a year later was a scaled-back plan, but still a colossal one. Instead of losing a trillion bucks a year, maybe the government would be out just a half trillion or so. Again, since the plan was unaccompanied by spending cuts elsewhere in the budget, it was more a set of glorified campaign talking points than a serious proposal. And like the first, Trump didn’t talk much about it.
So after Trump’s shock election, there really was no realistic Trump tax plan. No worries, however, since there was a House Republican tax plan all ready to go, with an enthusiastic House Speaker Paul Ryan ready to push it hard through the lower chamber. It was an ambitious proposal but one within reality, especially with a bit of fiscal tweaking. That plan called for, among other things, lowering the top personal rate to 33 percent and the corporate rate to 20 percent, immediately expensing new capital investment, and expanding the child tax credit.
And more so than the Trump campaign plans, the House plan intended to reform the tax code, not just cut taxes. For example, it eliminated all personal itemized deductions other than mortgage interest and charitable contributions. The House plan also made a stronger attempt to pay for the tax through a border-adjustment tax and limiting business-interest deductibility. All in all, the plan cost a couple of trillion dollars over a decade, not assuming economic feedback. On such a dynamic basis, according to Tax Foundation modeling, the House plan would reduce 10-year revenues by just under $200 billion.
So if Republicans really wanted to make their plan revenue neutral, it was certainly doable through relatively minor changes, such as less dramatic corporate or personal rate cuts. Yet the plan would still be a massive improvement over the status quo, both in terms of encouraging more domestic investment and providing middle-class tax relief.
With a detailed plan at the ready and Republicans running Washington, it is easy to understand why many in the GOP thought it reasonable to predict that Trump would be signing a mega tax bill by August of this year, just as Ronald Reagan did in the first year of his first term. Reagan did it from his ranch in Santa Barbara, California. Maybe Trump would repeat the feat from his Trump Tower penthouse in Manhattan.
But that did not happen. Then again, very little of Trump’s ambitious domestic agenda has happened as planned. Repeal and replace was promised by Easter, leaving plenty of time to hash out the fine details of tax reform and move legislation through the House and Senate. But the GOP health reform was a long slog consuming valuable time, attention, and political capital. Also deserving blame was Trump’s inability to focus on pushing policy priorities rather than pounding political opponents on Twitter. As of now, it seems highly unlikely that significant tax reform will occur in 2017. And 2018 looks challenging as well.
Yes, Trump has provided more distraction than leadership on this issue. And trying to pass major legislation in a midterm year only adds to the political difficulties. But the biggest problem is that there is no tax-reform plan for Republicans to push.
What happened to the ready-to-serve House plan? It suffered from not being a fantasy. It acknowledged both political and policy constraints, something the populist president almost never does. For instance: the House plan tried to pay for the tax cuts—a political necessity to placate debt-hawk Republicans. That requires making somebody somewhere unhappy. Ryan knew that without such an effort, it would be extraordinarily difficult to reduce the corporate tax rate to anywhere close to 20 percent. But while exporters supported the border tax, importers hated it, complaining that it would raise costs. Nor was the Trump White House happy about axing business-interest deductibility.
Still, as problematic as those pay-fors were, the alternatives—limiting tax breaks for mortgages, 401(k)s, and state and local taxes—are equally if not more so. The state and local tax deduction is a case in point. Pushed hard by Republican leaders as the primary revenue generator to replace border adjustment, it seems unlikely to survive criticism from blue-state Republicans. Eventual legislation is likely to be a far smaller and less comprehensive bill than first envisioned—more cut than reform—with some temporary parts designed to satisfy congressional budget rules. Indeed, Senate budget writers cleared room for just a $1.5 trillion tax cut, and even that might be overly ambitious. Expect Trump and his people to call whatever passes a “down payment” on true tax reform. Pro-growth conservatives should call it a missed opportunity.
Click here to read what James Pethokoukis wrote about Candidate Trump and taxes last year.
James Pethokoukis is the DeWitt Wallace Fellow at the American Enterprise Institute. He is also an official CNBC contributor.
‘The Wall’ By Linda Chavez
“We’re going to build a wall. That wall will go up so fast, your head will spin.” Donald Trump made this promise on August 23, 2016, repeated it throughout his presidential campaign, and has reiterated it in tweets and at press conferences and rallies ever since. But the only spinning going on lately has been the president’s own efforts to assure his base that he will eventually build a wall, or a fence, or some barrier along the U.S. border with Mexico, except maybe for those areas that don’t need one or already have one. Oh, and someone will pay for it—preferably Mexico, as he promised—but if not, Congress, unless Democrats or even Republicans refuse to go along. A year after winning the presidency, Trump’s most ubiquitous pledge, The Great Wall separating the U.S. from Mexico, remains largely a figment of his imagination and evidence of his supporters’ gullibility.
No issue defined Trump’s campaign more viscerally than immigration, and on none was his position less ambiguous. Trump’s presidential record on immigration enforcement and policy, however, is decidedly more mixed. He continues to promise that construction of the wall is going to start soon: “Way ahead of schedule. Way ahead of schedule. Way, way, way ahead of schedule,” he said in February. But the cost, with estimates as high as $70 billion, and the sheer impracticality of erecting a solid barrier along 1,900 miles make little sense in light of recent trends in illegal immigration. Illegal immigration is at historically low levels today (roughly the same, in absolute numbers, as it was in the early 1970s) and has been falling more or less consistently since the peak in 2000, mostly because fewer people are crossing the border from Mexico. Apprehensions of Mexicans are at a 50-year low, as are all apprehensions along the southern border. Year-to-date in 2017, apprehensions at the Mexican border have dropped 24 percent compared with those in 2016, when a slight uptick occurred as more people tried to cross in advance of a feared Trump victory and border crackdown. The population of undocumented immigrants living in the U.S. is down as well and now stands at roughly 11 million, from a peak of 12.2 million in 2007; and two-thirds of these unauthorized immigrants have lived here a decade or longer. More Mexicans—whom Trump described as “bringing drugs. . . crime. They’re rapists”—are now leaving the U.S. than arriving. In 2013, for the first time since the 1960s, Mexico fell as the top source of immigrants to the U.S., behind both China and India.
Trump’s pledge to build a wall, of course, wasn’t his only promise on immigration, but he hasn’t lived up to his own hype in other areas either, which is a good thing. He said he’d end on day one the Obama administration’s Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), a program that provided temporary protection from removal for young people who arrived here illegally before age 16. Instead, Trump waited until September 5 to send his beleaguered Attorney General Jeff Sessions out to announce that DACA would end in six months unless Congress acted. Trump then almost immediately backtracked in a series of tweets and offhand statements. Polls show that large majorities of Americans, including some two-thirds of Trump voters, have no interest in deporting so-called Dreamers, half of whom came before they were seven years old and 90 percent of whom are employed and paying taxes. Trump’s own misgivings and the backlash over the policy’s announcement led him into a tentative deal with Democratic leaders Representative Nancy Pelosi and Senator Chuck Schumer in September to support legislation granting legal status for Dreamers who complete school, get jobs, or join the military. Trump’s most nativist supporters have already dubbed him “Amnesty Don” for even suggesting that Dreamers should be allowed to remain and gain temporary legal status, much less earn a path toward citizenship. But whether such legislation will make it through Congress is still uncertain. Similar bills have repeatedly passed one chamber and died in the other over the past 10 years, but the potential threat that the administration might begin deporting many of the 800,000 young adults who signed up for DACA should concentrate the minds of the Republican leadership to allow legislation to move forward. One of the complications in the House is the “Hastert Rule,” named after former Speaker Dennis Hastert, an informal agreement that binds the speaker from bringing a bill to the floor unless a majority of the majority party supports it.
To be sure, Trump’s rhetoric and his appointment of hard-line immigration restrictionists to posts in his administration have led to fear among immigrants, as have the administration’s erratic, irrational enforcement policies. Previous administrations, including Barack Obama’s, gave priority to detaining and deporting aliens convicted of serious crimes, but in one of his first executive orders and Department of Homeland Security memoranda, Trump broadened the priorities for detention and removal to include anyone even suspected of committing a crime, with or without charges or conviction. As a result, arrests for immigration offenses have increased under Trump and have swept up hundreds of individuals who pose no threat to safety or security, some picked up outside their children’s schools or when seeking court orders against domestic abuse. Actual deportations, on the other hand, are down slightly in Trump’s first eight months compared with the same period in Obama’s last year. This is largely because the overloaded system isn’t equipped for mass deportation. Trump promised to rid the country of a greatly exaggerated 2 million criminal aliens and “a vast number of additional criminal illegal immigrants who have fled or evaded justice.” But his boasting that “their days on the run will soon be over” has always been aimed less at promoting sensible immigration policy than at stoking nativist anger in pursuit of his own brand of identity politics. Trump’s America will be a less welcoming place for immigrants—legal as well as illegal—if Trump gets his way on proposed legislation to reduce legal immigration by half over the next decade. But labor shortages and an aging population make it unlikely that Trump’s efforts will succeed. The simple fact is that we need more, not fewer, immigrants if the economy is to grow. Building walls and deporting workers is exactly the wrong way to go about needed immigration reform, whether Trump and his hard-core base can admit it or not.
Click here to read what Linda Chavez wrote about Candidate Trump and ‘The Wall’ last year.
Linda Chavez is the president of the Becoming American Institute and a frequent contributor to Commentary.
On Infrastructure By Philip Klein
A massive infrastructure bill was supposed to be one of the early triumphs of President Trump’s administration. Instead, Trump’s inability to advance the ball on one of his signature issues has highlighted the lack of focus, inattention to detail, and difficulties working with Congress that are emblematic of his presidency to date.
The idea of rebuilding the nation’s infrastructure, though overshadowed by daily controversies during the wild 2016 campaign, wove together several elements of the Trump phenomenon.
His experience in building projects such as luxury hotels, resorts, skyscrapers, and golf courses became central to his argument that he had the skills required to get things done in Washington. By touting the economic benefits of infrastructure during his campaign, Trump also signaled that he was an unorthodox Republican, breaking with decades of conservative critiques of Keynesian stimulus projects. Trump also spoke of infrastructure in nationalist terms, integrating it into riffs about how the United States was constantly losing to China. “They have trains that go 300 miles per hour,” he said during the campaign. “We have trains that go: Chug. Chug. Chug.”
When Trump pulled off his election-victory upset, Washington insiders quickly focused on infrastructure as one issue on which he could get a legislative win and box Democrats into a corner. After all, could Democrats really resist passing a major policy priority that had eluded them when one of their own was in the White House?
In his Inaugural Address, Trump threw a jab at Bush-era Republicanism, declaring that the U.S. “spent trillions of dollars overseas while America’s infrastructure has fallen into disrepair and decay.” Going forward, he said, “America will start winning again, winning like never before.” He promised: “We will build new roads, and highways, and bridges, and airports, and tunnels, and railways all across our wonderful nation.”
Now in the fall of the first year of his presidency, any effort to advance infrastructure legislation has been drowned out by daily controversies involving White House intrigue, the investigation into Russian influence in the 2016 election, and Trump’s raucous Twitter feed. Congress, meanwhile, spent much of the year focused on repealing and replacing Obamacare.
This isn’t to say that the Trump administration didn’t try, in fits and starts, to push infrastructure. In May, with the release of his first budget, Trump included $200 billion in funding for infrastructure as the first step in his $1 trillion infrastructure initiative. He also released a six-page fact sheet outlining his vision for infrastructure, which remains the most detailed resource on his infrastructure goals.
The document, broadly speaking, argues that current infrastructure money is spent inefficiently. It proposes greater selectivity in using federal dollars for infrastructure investments that are in the national interest and recommends giving state and local governments more leeway over their own projects. It also calls for more public-private partnerships.
Specifically, the proposal would create a nongovernment entity to manage the nation’s air-traffic-control system. It would also support private rest stops, give states the ability to work with private companies to manage their toll roads, and streamline the environmental-review process. The proposal received little attention, as it was rolled out during a week when Russia hearings took center stage in Congress and Trump was traveling in Europe and the Middle East.
Such inattention was supposed to end in early June, when White House officials announced “Infrastructure Week.” This was a carefully orchestrated campaign in which Trump was supposed to deliver speeches and lead staged events to highlight different aspects of his infrastructure initiative. But during this week, Washington was captivated by testimony of fired FBI Director James Comey, and Trump veered way off message in his speeches and on his favorite social-media platform.
He went on a Twitter tear. Trump attacked his own Justice Department for pursuing a “watered down” travel ban, took a shot at the mayor of London in the wake of a terrorist attack, unloaded on “fake news” outlets, and hit Comey as a liar. During a speech meant to make the case for both parties to get behind his infrastructure effort, Trump went off on a tangent, blasting Democrats as “obstructionists” on health care.
In truth, any hope of getting Democrats on board for the Trump infrastructure push had been fading even before this implosion. Liberals had already pressured lawmakers to pursue a policy of total resistance to Trump. But during Trump’s big policy push, Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer declared overtly that Democrats had no appetite for his infrastructure initiative due to its reliance on privatization.
Before long, the phrase “Infrastructure Week” had become a punch line—an ironic metaphor for a presidency gone off the rails.
Trump has made little progress on infrastructure since then, beyond issuing an executive order in August aimed at making the permitting process for building roads, bridges, and pipelines more efficient. But again, this announcement was overshadowed, as it came during the same news conference in which he blamed “both sides” for the violence in Charlottesville and complained about the slippery slope of removing the Robert E. Lee statue.
On the other hand, by striking a deal with Democratic leaders on the debt ceiling and negotiating with them on immigration, Trump has revived talk about the possibility that he could be ready to compromise with them to get infrastructure legislation passed as well. It is important to note, however, that in both cases—DACA and the debt ceiling—there was a ticking-time-bomb element that forced action. No such urgency exists when it comes to infrastructure.
From the perspective of a limited-government conservative, Trump’s inability thus far to negotiate a trillion-dollar federal infrastructure package with Democrats is nothing to shed tears about. But if we’re looking at the issue through the broader lens of whether or not Trump has been able to deliver on his ambitious campaign promises and make the transition from being a bombastic reality-television star to governing, it’s a case study in failure.
Click here to read what Philip Klein wrote about Candidate Trump and infrastructure last year.
Philip Klein is managing editor of the Washington Examiner.
On NATO By Tod Lindberg
On the campaign trail, Donald Trump was unsparing in his disparagement of U.S. alliances. In a word, allies were freeloaders—complacent in their reliance on the United States to provide them security, contributing nothing like their “fair share” of the cost of their defense, and lavishing the dividend on their domestic needs. Maybe that was acceptable when they were flat on their backs after a war that left the United States on top, but now that they are prospering and the United States has pressing needs of its own, it’s time for the allies to pay up. He also mused about NATO being “obsolete.”
This was alarming (to put it mildly) to most American foreign-policy specialists—to say nothing of the reaction of U.S. allies. The postwar alliance structure in Europe has been the backbone of security on a continent where the United States fought two wars. The North Atlantic Treaty Organization underpinned the postwar revival of Western Europe and subsequently, after the collapse of the Warsaw Pact and the demise of the Soviet Union, of Central and Eastern Europe. The relevance of the alliance has gained renewed salience with Russia’s aggression against its neighbors, first in Georgia in 2008, then in Ukraine in 2014.
At the heart of the alliance is Article 5 of the Washington Treaty of 1949—the commitment of each member to regard an armed attack on any as an attack on all. In practical terms, the meaning of Article 5 is that American power provides a security guarantee for Europe, a commitment upheld and explicitly reiterated by U.S. presidents since Harry S. Truman. The treaty is binding, yet equally in practical terms, it is the
American president whose commander-in-chief powers will dictate the response of the U.S. military to any attack—and by extension, the sincerity of his commitment determines the deterrent value of Article 5 against potential aggressors. Would a President Trump abrogate the U.S. commitment? Or hold it hostage to defense-spending increases by allies—perhaps even by demanding the payment of a much larger past-due bill, as the candidate suggested on at least one occasion?
In Asia, the biggest long-term challenge is the rise of China; the U.S. alliances with Japan, South Korea, Australia, and the Philippines (as well as the more complicated commitment enshrined in the Taiwan Relations Act) represent the underpinning of Pacific security. Would this, too, be up for grabs under Trump? Was “America First” shorthand for an isolationist retooling of U.S. relations with the rest of the world? The short answer to these questions turns out to be no. Trump has no apparent intention to do away with U.S. alliance relationships, however cumbersome and expensive he perceives them to be, and he evinces no intention to try to replace the postwar security architecture with something new and different, whatever that might be. So what happened? Were his many critics sounding the alarm therefore wrong about his intentions? Did he change his mind? Is the question of alliances now settled? Since Trump has taken office, alliance policy seems to have operated on two tracks within the U.S. government. The first track is the president’s own. He has continued to warn allies that they need to pay up—though his demands have moderated considerably, coalescing around the 2 percent of GDP that allies have pledged to spend on defense (though very few do). And although he has reaffirmed the U.S. Article 5 commitment on some occasions, on others when it would have been appropriate for him to do so, he has declined, apparently intentionally. Still, he has never repudiated the commitment. There seem to be two possibilities here: either a deliberate exercise in ambiguity, or incompetence and confusion of the kind his critics have long diagnosed.
I think the evidence points distinctly toward the former. That evidence is the second track of policy within the government. Vice President Mike Pence, Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, and Secretary of Defense James Mattis—as well as officials junior to them—have been on something close to a nonstop reassurance tour of U.S. allies and partners since the beginning of the administration. National Security Adviser H.R. McMaster has joined the chorus since he stepped in to replace the ousted Michael Flynn. Their message has been unambiguous: The United States stands by its security and alliance commitments, and allies must contribute more to collective defense. True, some allies continue to harbor doubts centered on the persona of Trump. Yet—therefore?—many are moving to spend more on defense.
Now, the simple fact is that Trump could order his Cabinet members and senior staff to desist from repeating the first half of their message—the reassurance. Trump might have had some resignations to cope with, but it is well within his power to issue such an edict, and he hasn’t done so. The most likely reason he hasn’t is that he has concluded that too much is riding on these alliances. To continue in this speculative vein, what Trump knew to be true about U.S. allies during the campaign season was that they weren’t contributing enough; that’s a message that Washington has been sending with little effect for decades. What he didn’t know on the campaign trail and has since determined is how central these alliances are to U.S. national security. U.S. alliances aren’t quite so fragile as some feared. The case for them, competently made by the likes of Mattis, must be compelling, including to the skeptic in chief.
It’s here that we may be getting a little lesson in the cunning of history. From his skeptical premise, Trump sparked a very broad debate over alliances. Senior officials of his administration have probably devoted more time and energy to making the public case for NATO and our Pacific alliances during his first 10 months in office than their predecessors did in the previous 10 years. The latter had taken the utility of alliances to U.S. national security as a given.
All this attention has had an effect on public opinion. But the effect has not been, as many feared, a groundswell of support for isolationist or anti-alliance sentiment. Just the opposite. For the past three years, the Chicago Council Survey has asked, “How effective do you think [maintaining effective alliances is] to achieving the foreign-policy goals of the United States?” In 2015, 32 percent of all respondents responded “very effective.” In 2016, the figure was 40 percent. In 2017? Forty-nine percent. Specifically on NATO, 69 percent say the alliance is “essential” to U.S. security, a slight increase from 65 percent in 2016 and well above the 57 percent who said the same when the Chicago Council first asked the question in 2002.
For the first time in the history of the survey, a majority of Americans, 52 percent, say they would support “the use of U.S. troops…if Russia invades a NATO ally like Latvia, Lithuania, or Estonia.” The Trump administration has had little to say about the Russian threat to the Baltics but a great deal to say about the danger of North Korea’s nuclear weapons and missile program. A year ago, 47 percent said they would favor “the use of U.S. troops…if North Korea invaded South Korea.” That was the view of 26 percent of Americans in 1990. Today, it’s what 62 percent think.
Finally, on the question of allies paying up, the survey asked which comes closer to the respondent’s views: “The United States should encourage greater allied defense spending through persuasion and diplomatic means” or “The United States should withhold its commitment to defend NATO members” until they actually spend more. Overall, 59 percent said persuasion and diplomacy; 38 percent (including 51 percent of Republicans) would put Article 5 at risk. Maybe I’m hearing things, but that sounds to me more like a warning to our allies to take seriously American insistence that they spend more on defense starting now than it does an abrogation of the commitments at the center of U.S. national-security strategy for 70 years.
Click here to read what Tod Lindberg wrote about Candidate Trump and NATO last year.
Tod Lindberg is a member of the Chicago Council Survey’s foreign policy advisory board.
On Asia By Michael Auslin
Despite continued Russian threats in Eastern Europe and the lurking danger of an Iranian race to a nuclear bomb, it is Asia that has vaulted to the top of the national-security agenda. Barack Obama had warned Donald Trump that North Korea would be the major national-security threat he would face, and North Korean dictator Kim Jong Un has proved him right. Kim is on the threshold of fielding a reliable intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) that can reach U.S. territory in the Pacific and even the American homeland. He is within striking distance of achieving his family’s long-held dream of possessing the ultimate weapon. Not since 1994, when Bill Clinton initially ordered and then called back an air strike on Pyongyang’s nascent nuclear facilities, has the region seemed so close to war.
Beyond the Korean peninsula, Asia has arguably been Trump’s central foreign preoccupation since his entry into politics. He talked during his campaign about a 45 percent tariff on Chinese goods. And despite his noninterventionist affect, he began his transition phase by getting tough on China for its increasingly assertive actions during the Obama years, including the successful building and militarization of islands in contested waters in the South China Sea.
Then Trump retreated from his tough stance toward Beijing, initiating a period of seesawing between cooperation and confrontation and mixing together trade and economic concerns with security and diplomatic issues. His explicit linkage of the two, carefully separated by previous presidents, has been particularly unnerving to Beijing. China’s regime has warned of the risks of a larger trade war if Trump continues to threaten economic retaliation for disagreement on security issues. Of equal concern to Beijing has been his recent willingness to permit more frequent freedom-of-navigation operations by the U.S. Navy in the disputed South China Sea waters off the Spratly and Paracel Islands.
Trump’s initial hard line, including an unprecedented transition-period phone call to Taiwan’s president, put Beijing on its back foot. But his subsequent inconstancy has led to a reassertion of Chinese activism on economic and diplomatic issues. His withdrawal from the Trans-Pacific Partnership and general anti-free-trade stance have allowed Chinese President Xi Jinping to claim the mantle of global economic leadership—promoting free-trade alternatives and grandiose policies such as the “Belt and Road Initiative,” in which Xi has promised more than $1 trillion of infrastructure investment to link the world in a trading network centered in China.
In contrast, Trump’s relations with America’s Asian allies, particularly Japan and South Korea, have been surprisingly smooth. Again backing down from campaign rhetoric, Trump early on reaffirmed the importance of both alliances, and buried talk of making the two pay more for hosting U.S. forces on their territory. His bond with Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe has been particularly close, and his conversations with South Korea’s new left-leaning president, Moon Jae In, have gone better than some expected. Far from scaling back the alliances, Trump and his top officials, including Secretary of Defense James Mattis, have put them at the center of American strategy in the Pacific, especially with respect to North Korea.
It is North Korea, however, that remains the first great test of the Trump administration. Trump clearly inherited a failed policy, stretching over past Democratic and Republican administrations alike, and was doubly cursed in coming to office on the eve of Kim Jong Un’s nuclear and ICBM breakout.
Yet despite Trump’s heated rhetoric, he and his team have actually moved cautiously on North Korea. Like its predecessors, the administration has combined shows of force, such as flying B-1 bombers over the peninsula, with appeals to the United Nations for further sanctions on Pyongyang. Two new rounds of sanctions, in July and September, may indeed have been harder than those previously levied, but, just as in the past, the administration had to settle for less than it wanted. More worrying, Trump appears to be adopting the long-held goal of presidents past: North Korean denuclearization. This is a strategic mistake that threatens to lock him into an unending series of negotiations that have served over the past quarter-century to buy time for Pyongyang to develop its nuclear and missile capabilities. I believe it would be a far more realistic move for Trump to drop the chimera of denuclearization and instead tacitly acknowledge that North Korea is a nuclear-weapons-capable state. This would free up the administration to focus on the far more important job of deterring and containing a nuclear North Korea. Since Trump is almost certainly sure to avoid a preventive war to remove Kim’s nuclear weapons, given the associated military and political risks, he will be forced in the end to accept them. That then mandates a credible and comprehensive policy to restrict North Korea’s actions abroad while making clear that any nuclear use will result in a devastating counterstrike. Washington has been deterring North Korea ever since the end of the Korean War. This new approach explicitly makes deterrence the center of U.S. policy, dropping the unobtainable goal of denuclearization or the imprudent goal of normalizing relations with North Korea. To be successful, Trump will need to get the support of both Seoul and Tokyo, which is a tall order. The alternative, however, is another round of Kabuki negotiations and the diversion of U.S. attention from the far more necessary task of ensuring that Kim Jong Un is kept in his nuclear box.
Click here to read what Michael Auslin wrote about Candidate Trump and Asia last year.
Michael Auslin is the Williams-Griffis Fellow in Contemporary Asia at the Hoover Institution, Stanford University, and the author of The End of the Asian Century (Yale).
On Israel By Daniella J. Greenbaum
As a candidate, Donald Trump’s positions on Israel were a blend of incoherence and inconsistency. He was an isolationist, except he was also Israel’s biggest supporter; he would enforce the Iran deal, except he wanted to rip it up on day one; he was the most pro- Israel candidate on the stage, except that he wanted to be “the neutral guy”; he wouldn’t commit to a policy on Jerusalem, except he declared his plan to immediately move the American Embassy to Israel’s eternal and undivided capital.
Words—especially a president’s—matter, but until Trump took office, it was impossible to predict how his administration would treat the Jewish state. Some Israel advocates became convinced that Trump’s victory would lead to the fulfillment of their bucket list of Middle East dreams—in particular, resolution of the long-simmering issue involving the location of the U.S. Embassy in Israel. The Jerusalem Embassy Act, which became law in 1995, recognized that “each sovereign nation, under international law and custom, may designate its own capital” and that “since 1950, the city of Jerusalem has been the capital of the State of Israel.” It ordered that “the United States Embassy in Israel should be established in Jerusalem no later than May 31, 1999.”
And yet, despite all that, the American Embassy has remained in Tel Aviv. (Presidents were given the power to push the date back on national-security grounds.) Much like then-candidates Bill Clinton and George W. Bush, Trump pledged to move the embassy if elected president. In a March 2016 speech to the American Israel Public Affairs Committee’s Policy Conference, Trump said unequivocally: “We will move the American Embassy to the eternal capital of the Jewish people, Jerusalem.”
The American Embassy belongs in Jerusalem, and Trump’s evolution on the issue was, for the most part, encouraging. (Early on in his candidacy, he was booed at the Republican Jewish Coalition’s annual meeting after refusing to take a position on Jerusalem’s status.) But for Israelis, who face myriad threats on a daily basis—both physically, from their many hostile neighbors, and economically, through an international boycott, divestment, and sanctions campaign—the location of the embassy ranks low on the list of urgent political matters. Even the most ardent proponents of this policy shift acknowledge it has the potential to inflame tensions in the region. Like his predecessors, Trump signed the waiver and suspended the move.
Next on the bucket list: discarding Barack Obama’s cataclysmic Iran deal. When Trump was a candidate, his intentions for the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) were anything but clear. He told AIPAC, “My number-one priority is to dismantle the disastrous deal with Iran.” But he also said, “We will enforce it like you’ve never seen a contract enforced before folks, believe me.” It’s hard to know which part of his schizophrenic speech the audience—and the country—was supposed to believe. The schizophrenia has continued during his tenure, with Trump certifying the Iran deal twice before announcing in October his decision not to recertify a third time. Despite signaling his extreme displeasure with the deal, Trump has so far opted not to terminate it. But, by refusing to recertify, he has instead left to Congress the decision whether or not to reimpose sanctions.
Most important, perhaps, to pro-Israel forces was Trump’s choice of foreign-policy team. While Jared Kushner’s lack of political experience made him an odd choice for Middle East maven—Trump exclaimed at an inauguration event: “if [he] can’t produce peace in the Middle East, nobody can”—there is no denying that Kushner is a Zionist. Along with Jason Greenblatt, Trump’s envoy to the Israeli–Palestinian peace process, Kushner visited Israel this summer to determine whether restarting peace talks was a viable course of action. The duo have articulated their desire to refrain from repeating the mistakes of previous administrations: “It is no secret that our approach to these discussions departs from some of the usual orthodoxy. … Instead of working to impose a solution from the outside, we are giving the parties space to make their own decisions about the future,” Greenblatt explained. Maybe that’s why Benjamin Netanyahu seems so elated. Bibi’s friction with Obama was well documented, and the prime minister has expressed his jubilation at the changed nature of his relationship to Washington. During the United Nations General Assembly, he tweeted: “Under your leadership, @realDonaldTrump, the alliance between the United States and Israel has never been stronger.”
During the campaign, it was hard to imagine that might be the case. Trump’s repeated use of the phrase “America First,” a classic isolationist trope with anti-Semitic overtones, was deeply concerning to pro- Israel voters. He continually insisted that foreign governments were a drain on the American economy: “I want to help all of our allies, but we are losing billions and billions of dollars. We cannot be the policemen of the world. We cannot protect countries all over the world…where they’re not paying us what we need.” According to a 2016 report from the Congressional Research Service, “Israel is the largest cumulative recipient of U.S. foreign assistance since World War II.” The report calculates that the United States has, over the years, provided Israel with more than $127 billion in bilateral assistance. If words and campaign promises meant anything to Trump, the candidate who insisted that Israel could pay “big league” would have metamorphosed into the president who ensured that it did.
But Trump’s campaign promises seem to have had no bearing on his actions. In an appropriations bill, Congress pledged an extra $75 million in aid to Israel, on top of the annual $3.1 billion already promised for this year. As part of negotiations for the 2016 Memorandum of Understanding, the Israeli government promised to return any funds that surpassed the pre-negotiated aid package. In what was doubtlessly a major disappointment to Trump’s America-first base, the State Department confirmed it will not be asking the Israelis to return the additional funds.
His behavior toward Israel during his eight months in office has confirmed what was evident throughout the campaign: Donald Trump’s words and actions have, at best, a haphazard relationship to each other. So far Israel has benefited. That may not always be the case.
Click here to read what Jordan Chandler Hirsch wrote about Candidate Trump and Israel last year.
Daniella J. Greenbaum is assistant editor of Commentary.
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Of Hobbes and Harvey Weinstein
In man’s natural state, with no social or religious order to impose limits upon his hungers and passions, “notions of right and wrong, justice and injustice have there no place. Where there is no common power, force and fraud are…the cardinal virtues.” Thus did Thomas Hobbes, in 1651, anticipate and describe the sordid story of the film producer Harvey Weinstein.
The reason Weinstein’s three decades of monstrous personal and professional conduct are so appalling and fascinating in equal measure is that he was clearly functioning outside the “social compact” Hobbes said was necessary to save men from a perpetual state of war they would wage against one another in the state of nature. For that is what Weinstein was doing, in his own way: waging Hobbesian war against the women he abused and finding orgasmic pleasure in his victories.
And Weinstein did so while cleverly pretending to leadership within the social compact and disingenuously advocating for its improvement both through political change and artistic accomplishment. Hobbes said the life of man in the state of nature was nasty, brutish, and short, but he did not say the warrior could not be strategic. Rochefoucauld’s immortal declaration that hypocrisy is the tribute vice pays to virtue is entirely wrong in this case. Weinstein paid off feminists and liberals to extend his zone of protection and seduction, not to help support the virtues he was subverting with his own vices.
Hobbes said that in the state of nature there was “no arts; no letters; no society.” But if the man in the state of nature, the nihilistic warrior, coexists with people who live within the social compact, would it not be a brilliant strategy to use the arts, letters, and society as cover, and a means of infiltrating and suborning the social compact? Harvey Weinstein is a brutal thug, a man of no grace, more akin to a mafioso than a maker of culture. And yet as a movie producer he gravitated toward respectable, quality, middlebrow, elevated and elevating fare. People wanted to work with him because of the kinds of movies he made. I think we can see that was the whole point of the exercise: It was exciting to be called into his presence because you knew you would do better, more socially responsible, more praiseworthy work under his aegis than you would with another producer.
And then, garbed only in a bathrobe, Weinstein would strike.
Weinstein was universally known to be a terrible person long before the horrifying tales of his sexual predation, depredation, and assault were finally revealed. And—this is important—known to be a uniquely terrible person. His specific acts of repugnant public thuggishness were detailed in dozens of articles and blog items over the decades, and were notable precisely because they were and are not common currency in business or anywhere else. It was said of him after the latest revelations that he had mysterious abilities to suppress negative stories about himself, and perhaps he did; even so, it was a matter of common knowledge that he was the most disgusting person in the movie business, and that’s saying a lot. And that’s before we get to sex.
To take one example, Ken Auletta related a story in the New Yorker in 2001 about the director Julie Taymor and her husband, the composer Eliot Goldenthal. She had helmed a movie about Frida Kahlo produced by Weinstein. There was a preview screening at the Lincoln Square theater in Manhattan. The audience liked it, but some of its responses indicated that the plotline was confusing. Weinstein, whose hunger to edit the work of others had long since earned him the name “Harvey Scissorhands,” wanted to recut it to clarify the picture. Taymor didn’t, citing the audience’s favorable reaction. Then this happened:
He saw Taymor’s agent…and yelled at him, “Get the fuck out of here!” To Goldenthal, who wrote the score for Frida, Weinstein said, “I don’t like the look on your face.” Then, according to several witnesses, he moved very close to Goldenthal and said, “Why don’t you defend her so I can beat the shit out of you?” Goldenthal quickly escorted Taymor away. When asked about this incident, Weinstein insisted that he did not threaten Goldenthal, yet he concedes, “I am not saying I was remotely hospitable. I did not behave well. I was not physically menacing to anybody. But I was rude and impolite.” One member of Taymor’s team described Weinstein’s conduct as actually bordering on “criminal assault.”
Weinstein told the late David Carr in 2002 that his conduct in such cases had merely been the result of excess glucose in his system, that he was changing his diet, and he was getting better. That glucose problem was his blanket explanation for all the bad stories about him, like this one:
“You know what? It’s good that I’m the fucking sheriff of this fucking lawless piece-of-shit town.” Weinstein said that to Andrew Goldman, then a reporter for the New York Observer, when he took him out of a party in a headlock last November after there was a tussle for Goldman’s tape recorder and someone got knocked in the head.
Goldman’s then-girlfriend, Rebecca Traister, asked Weinstein about a controversial movie he had produced. Traister provided the predicate for this anecdote in a recent piece: “Weinstein didn’t like my question about O, there was an altercation…[and] he called me a c—.”
Auletta also related how Weinstein physically threatened the studio executive Stacey Snider. She went to Disney executive Jeffrey Katzenberg and told him the story. Katzenberg, “one of his closest friends in the business,” told Weinstein he had to apologize. He did, kind of. Afterward, Katzenberg told Auletta, “I love Harvey.”
These anecdotes are 15 years old. And there were anecdotes published about Weinstein’s behavior dating back another 15 years. What they revealed then is no different from what they reveal now: Weinstein is an out-and-out psychopath. And apparently this was fine in his profession…as long as he was successful and important, and the stories involved only violence and intimidation.
Flash-forward to October 2017. Katzenberg—the man who loved Harvey—publicly released an email he had sent to Weinstein after he was done for: “You have done terrible things to a number of women over a period of years. I cannot in any way say this is OK with me…There appear to be two Harvey Weinsteins…one that I have known well, appreciated, and admired and another that I have not known at all.”
So which Weinstein, pray tell, was the one from whom Katzenberg had had to protect Stacey Snider? The one he knew or the one he didn’t know? Because they are, of course, the same person. We know that sexual violence is more about power than sex—about the ultimate domination and humiliation. In these anecdotes and others about Weinstein, we see that his great passions in life were dominating and humiliating. Even if the rumors hadn’t been swirling around his sexual misconduct for decades, could anyone actually have been surprised he sought to secure his victory over the social compact in the most visceral way possible outside of murder?
The commentariat’s reaction to the Weinstein revelations has been desperately confused, and for once, the confusion is constructive, because there are strange ideological and moral convergences.
The most extreme argument has it that he’s really not a unique monster, that every working woman in America has encountered a Weinstein, and that the problem derives from a culture of “toxic masculinity.” This attitude is an outgrowth of the now-fashionable view that there have been no real gains for women and minorities over the past half-century, that the gains are illusory or tokenish, and that something more revolutionary is required to level the playing field.
As a matter of fact in the Weinstein case, this view is false. Women have indeed encountered boors and creeps in their workplaces. But a wolf-whistler is not a rapist. Someone who leers at a woman isn’t the same as someone who masturbates in front of her. Coping with grotesque and inappropriate co-workers and bosses is something every human being, regardless of gender, has had to deal with, and will have to deal with until we are all replaced by robots. It’s worse for women, to be sure. Still, no one should have to go through such experiences. But we all have and we all do. It’s one of the many unpleasant aspects of being human.
Still, the extreme view of “toxic masculinity” contains a deeper truth that is anything but revolutionary. It takes us right back to Hobbes. His central insight—indeed, the insight of civilization itself—is that every man is a potential Weinstein. This clear-eyed, even cold-eyed view of man’s nature is the central conviction of philosophical conservatism. Without limits, without having impressed upon us a fear of the legal sanction of punishment or the social sanction of shame and ostracism, we are in danger of seeking our earthly rewards in the state of nature.
The revolutionary and the conservative also seem to agree there’s something viscerally disturbing about sex crimes that sets them apart. But here is where the consensus between us breaks down. Logically, if the problem is that we live in a toxic culture that facilitates these crimes, then the men who commit them are, at root, cogs in an inherently unjust system. The fault ultimately is the system’s, not theirs.
Harvey Weinstein is an exceptionally clever man who spent decades standing above and outside the system, manipulating it and gaming it for his own ends. He’s no cog. Tina Brown once ran Weinstein’s magazine and book-publishing line. She wrote that “strange contracts pre-dating us would suddenly surface, book deals with no deadline attached authored by attractive or nearly famous women, one I recall was by the stewardess on a private plane.” Which means he didn’t get into book publishing, or magazine publishing, to oversee the production of books and articles. He did it because he needed entities through which he would pass through payoffs both to women he had harassed and molested and to journalists whose silence he bought through options and advances. His primary interest wasn’t in the creation of culture. It was the creation of conditions under which he could hunt.
Which may explain his choice of the entertainment industry in the first place. In how many industries is there a specific term for demanding sexual favors in exchange for employment? There’s a “casting couch”; there’s no “insurance-adjustor couch.” In how many industries do people conduct meetings in hotel rooms at off hours anyway? And in how many industries could that meeting in a hotel room end up with the dominant player telling a young woman she should feel comfortable getting naked in front of him because the job for which she is applying will require her to get naked in front of millions?
Weinstein is entirely responsible for his own actions, but his predatory existence was certainly made easier by the general collapse of most formal boundaries between the genders. Young women were told to meet him in private at night in fancy suites. Half a century earlier, no young woman would have been permitted to travel alone in a hotel elevator to a man’s room. The world in which that was the norm imposed unacceptable limitations on the freedoms of women. But it did place serious impediments in the paths of predators whose despicable joy in life is living entirely without religious, spiritual, cultural, or moral impediment.
Hobbes was the great philosopher of limits. We Americans don’t accept his view of things; we tend to think better of people than he did. We tend to believe in the greater good, which he resolutely did not. We believe in self-government, which he certainly did not. But what our more optimistic outlook finds extraordinarily difficult to reckon with is behavior that challenges this complacency about human nature. We try to find larger explanations for it that place it in a more comprehensible context: It’s toxic masculinity! It’s the residue of the 1960s! It’s the people who enabled it! The truth is that, on occasion—and this is one such occasion—we are forced to come face to face with the worst of what any of us could be. And no one explanation suffices save Hamlet’s: “Use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping?”
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The education-reform outfit’s hard-left shift
In remaking itself, TFA has subtly downgraded the principles that had won it allies across the spectrum. George W. Bush, Mitch McConnell, John Cornyn, Chris Christie, and Meg Whitman are a few of the Republicans who championed TFA. The group attracted such boldface names, and hundreds of millions of dollars from some of the largest American firms and philanthropies, because it stood for a simple but powerful idea: that teacher quality is the decisive factor in the educational outcomes produced by schools.
Judging by its interventions in recent debates, it isn’t all that clear that senior TFA executives still believe this. These days, TFA’s voice on charters, accountability, and curricular rigor is decidedly muffled. Such education-reform essentials have been eclipsed in TFA’s discourse by immigration, policing, “queer” and transgender-identity issues, and other left-wing causes. TFA’s message seems to be that until numerous other social ills are cured—until immigration is less restricted, policing becomes more gentle, and poverty is eliminated—an excellent education will elude the poor. That was the status-quo defeatism TFA originally set out to challenge.
Wendy Kopp conceived TFA when she was a senior at Princeton in 1989. Unable to get a New York City teaching job without a graduate degree and state certification, Kopp wrote a thesis calling for the creation of a nontraditional recruitment pipeline that would bring America’s most promising young people to its neediest classrooms. TFA members would teach for two years, applying their energy and ambition to drive achievement at the classroom level. She speculated that some would stay in education, while others would go on to careers in law, medicine, business, journalism, etc. But all would remain “lifelong leaders in the effort to end educational inequity.”
The following year, Kopp launched TFA with a corps of 489 new teachers who were dispatched to schools in six regions—a virtuoso feat of social entrepreneurship. Since then some 50,000 teachers have completed the program. This year’s corps counts around 6,400 members, serving 53 regions from coast to coast.
By the time I joined, in 2005, TFA had distilled the experience of its best corps members into a theory of educational transformation called “Teaching as Leadership.” Most people, it said, aren’t natural-born educators. But they could rise to classroom greatness by setting “big goals” for all students, planning engaging lessons, continually assessing their students, maintaining tough discipline, and investing parents and the wider community in their goals.
Mostly, great teachers work hard—really hard. TFA brought the work habits usually associated with large law firms and high-end management consultancies to America’s K–12 failure factories. Its “summer institute” for new recruits was a grueling ordeal of tears, sweat, and 16-hour days. When I was a corps member, we were told that this is what it would take to overcome the forces of the status quo, which were chronically low expectations; broken homes and criminality in the streets; messy, undisciplined classrooms; and bloated bureaucracies that put the needs of adults above those of children.
The TFA worldview diverged sharply from the one that predominated in the education industry. The leading lights of the profession held that the achievement gap was a product of inadequate funding and larger social inequalities. Thus they transferred blame for classroom outcomes from teachers to policymakers and society at large. Teachers’ unions were particularly fond of this theory, since it provided cover for resisting accountability and high expectations.
TFA raged against all this. The assumption that some kids were doomed to underachievement was wrong and, indeed, bigoted. Ditto for the notion that inner-city children couldn’t be expected to behave like young scholars. These children could pull themselves up, provided they had dedicated educators who believed in them. This wasn’t to say that external factors were discounted altogether. But TFA concentrated on the things that educators and school leaders could control. It would emphasize self-help and uplift. And it would accept friends and allies across political divides to fulfill the promise of educational equality.T oday’s Teach for America is a different story. TFA’s leaders have now fully enlisted the organization in the culture war—to the detriment of its mission and the high-minded civic sensibility that used to animate its work.
This has been most visible in TFA’s response to the 2016 election. TFA chief executive Elisa Villanueva Beard, who took over from Kopp four years ago, doesn’t bother to mask either her progressivism or her revulsion at the new administration. When, a couple of weeks after the election, the president-elect announced his choice of Betsy DeVos to lead the Department of Education, Beard’s response was swift and cold.
A November 23 TFA news release began by decrying Trump’s “indisputably hostile and racially charged campaign” and called on DeVos to uphold “diversity, equity, and inclusiveness.” The statement went on to outline 11 TFA demands. Topping the litany was protection of the previous administration’s Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, or DACA, program, which granted legal status to certain illegal immigrants brought into the country as children. Then came the identity-politics checklist: “SAFE classrooms for LGBTQ youth and teachers,” “safe classrooms for students and teachers with disabilities,” “safe classrooms for Muslim students and teachers,” “culturally responsive teaching,” and so on.
Of the 11 demands, only three directly touched core education-reform areas—high expectations, accountability, and data-driven instruction—and these were couched in the broadest terms possible. Most notably, there wasn’t a single kind word for DeVos: no well wishes, no hope of “working together to achieve common goals,” no call for dialogue, nothing but angry demands. This, even though the secretary-designee was a passionate charter advocate and came from the same corporate philanthropy and activism ecosystem that TFA had long inhabited.
It is true that inner-city educators were horrified at the election of a candidate who winked at David Duke and suggested that a federal judge’s Mexican heritage was disqualifying. TFA’s particular concern about DACA makes sense, since many corps members work with illegal-immigrant children in border states. (My own stint took me to the Rio Grande Valley region of South Texas.)
Even so, TFA’s allergic reaction to the Trump phenomenon reflects faulty strategic thinking. Beard isn’t Rachel Maddow, and TFA isn’t supposed to be an immigration-reform outfit, still less a progressive think tank. With Republicans having swept all three branches of the federal government, as well as a majority of statehouses and governors’ mansions, TFA must come to terms with the GOP. Condemning the new education secretary as barely legitimate wasn’t wise.
Beard is also making a grave mistake by attempting to banish legitimate conservative positions from the reform movement. In the wake of the bloody white-nationalist protests in Charlottesville, Virginia, she blasted an email to the organization that denounced in one breath opposition to affirmative action and “racist and xenophobic violence.” Some two-thirds of Americans oppose race-based affirmative action. Will these Americans give TFA a fair hearing on educational reform when the organization equates them with alt-right thugs? In a phone interview, Beard said she didn’t intend to link white nationalism with opposition to affirmative action.
As for DACA, the amount of attention TFA devotes to the fate of those affected is out of all proportion. TFA has a full-time director for DACA issues. A search of its website reveals at least 31 news releases, statements, and personal blogs on DACA—including a 2013 call for solidarity with “UndocuQueer students” that delved into the more exotic dimensions of intersectionality. As one education reformer told me in an interview, “They are super-concerned with ‘can’t wait’ issues—DACA and so on—and so much of their mental space [is filled up] by that kind of thing that less of their attention and time is being spent” on central priorities. “Personally, I think that’s such a shame.” (This reformer, and others I interviewed for this article, declined to speak on the record.)
By contrast, TFA didn’t call out Mayor Bill de Blasio on his attempts to roll back charter schools in New York. The organization has rarely targeted teachers’ unions the way it has ripped into Trump. But it is the National Education Association and the American Federation of Teachers that pose the main obstacle to expanding school choice and dismissing ineffective teachers. It is the unions that are bent on snuffing out data-driven instruction. It was a teachers’ union boss (Karen Lewis of Chicago), not the 45th president, who in 2012 accused TFA of supporting policies that “kill and disenfranchise children.”T
each for America’s turn to the harder left predated Trump’s ascent, and it isn’t mainly about him. Rather, it tracks deeper shifts within American liberalism, from the meritocratic Clintonian ideas of the 1990s and early aughts to today’s socialist revival and the fervid politics of race, gender, and sexuality.
Culturally, TFA was always more liberal than conservative. Educators tend to be liberal Democrats, regardless of the path that brings them to the classroom. But education reformers are unwanted children of American liberalism. They are signed up for the Democratic program, but they clash with public-sector labor unions, the most powerful component of the party base.
As TFA went from startup to corporate-backed giant, it sustained withering attacks from leftist quarters. On her influential education blog, New York University’s Diane Ravitch (a one-time education reformer who changed sides) relentlessly hammered corps members as “woefully unprepared,” as scabs “used to take jobs away from experienced teachers,” as agents of “privatization” and the “neoliberal attack on the public sector.” It was Ravitch who publicized Lewis’s claim that TFAers “kill” kids.
Michelle Rhee, the Korean-American alumna who in 2007 was tapped as chancellor of the District of Columbia system, became a lightning rod for anti-TFA sentiment on the left. Rhee’s no-nonsense approach to failing schools was summed up in a Time magazine cover that showed her holding a broom in the middle of a classroom. When D.C. Mayor Adrian Fenty didn’t win reelection in 2010, it was seen as a popular verdict against this image of TFA-style reform.
In 2013, one university instructor, herself a TFA alumna, urged college professors not to write letters of recommendation for students seeking admission to the organization. Liberal pundits took issue with TFA’s alleged elitism and lack of diversity, portraying it as the latest in a long line of “effete” white reformist institutions that invariably let down the minorities they try to help. TFA, argued a writer in the insurgent leftist magazine Jacobin, is “another chimerical attempt in a long history of chimerical attempts to sell educational reform as a solution to class inequality. At worst, it’s a Trojan horse for all that is unseemly about the contemporary education-reform movement.” By “unseemly,” the writer meant conservative and corporate.
The assaults have had an effect. Applications to TFA dropped to 37,000 last year, down from 57,000 in 2013. Thus ended a growth spurt that had seen the organization increase the size of its corps by about a fifth each year since 2000. Partly this was due to more jobs and better salaries on offer to elite graduates in a rebounding private sector. But as Beard conceded in a statement in April 2016, partly it was the “toxic debate surrounding education” that was “pushing future leaders away from considering education as a space where they can have real impact.”
The temptation for any successful nonprofit crusade is to care more about viability and growth than the original cause. Wounded by the union-led attacks, TFA leaders have apparently concluded that identity politics and a progressive public presence can revive recruitment. With its raft of corporate donors and the massive Walton-family endowment, TFA would never fit in comfortably with an American liberalism moving in the direction of Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren. But talk of Black Lives and “UndocuQueers” might help it reconnect with younger millennials nursed on race-and-gender theory.
Thus, TFA leads its current pitch by touting its diversity. Beard opened her keynote at last year’s 25th-anniversary summit in Washington by noting: “We are more diverse than we have ever been. . . . We are a community that is black, that is Latino, that is white, that is American Indian, that is Asian and Pacific Islander, that is multiracial. We are a community that is lesbian, gay, bisexual, queer and trans.” The organization’s first priority, Beard went on, will always be “to build an inclusive community.”
It makes sense to recruit diverse teachers to lead classrooms in minority-majority regions, to be sure. But one can’t help detecting a certain liberal guilt behind this rhetoric, as if TFA had taken all the attacks against it to heart: We aren’t elite, we swear! Yet the 90 percent of black children who don’t reach math proficiency by eighth grade need good math teachers, period. Their parents don’t care how teachers worship (if at all), what they look like, or what they get up to in the bedroom. They want teachers who will put their children on a trajectory out of poverty.
Minority parents, moreover, fear for their kids’ well-being in chaotic schools and gang-infested streets. Yet to hear many of the speakers at TFA’s summit, you would have thought that police and other authority figures represent the main threat to black and Hispanic children. At a session titled “#StayWoke,” a TFA teacher railed against the police:
I teach 22 second-graders in Southeast D.C., all of them students of color. Sixteen of them are beautiful, carefree black and brown boys, who, despite their charm and playfulness, could be slain in the streets by the power that be [sic], simply because of the color of their skin, what clothes they wear, or the music they choose to listen to.
Educators must therefore impart “a racial literacy, a literacy of resistance.” Their students “must grow up woke.” Another teacher-panelist condemned anti-gang violence initiatives that
come from the same place as the appetite to charge black and brown people with charges of self-destruction. The tradition of blaming black folk keeps us from aiming at real sources of violence. If we were really interested in ending violence, we would be asking who pulled the trigger to underfund schools in Philadelphia? Who poisoned our brothers and sisters in Flint, Michigan? Who and what made New Orleans the incarceration capital of the world? We would teach our students to raise these questions.
Throughout, he led the assembly in chants of “Stay Woke!”
Talk of teaching “resistance” represented a reversion to the radical pedagogy and racial separatism that left a legacy of broken inner-city schools in the previous century. TFA’s own experience, and that of TFA-linked charter networks such as the Knowledge Is Power Program, had taught reformers that, to thrive academically, low-income students need rigid structure and order. Racial resentment won’t set these kids up for success but for alienation and failure—and prison.
Another session, on “Academic Rigor, Social and Political Consciousness, and Culturally Relevant Pedagogy,” pushed similar ideas. Jeff Duncan-Andrade, an associate professor of “Raza studies” at San Francisco State University, urged teachers to develop an ultra-localized race-conscious curriculum:
Don’t even essentialize Oakland’s culture! If you’re from the town, you know it’s a big-ass difference between the west and the east [sic]. We talk differently, we walk differently, we dress differently, we speak differently. The historical elements are different. So if you use stuff from the west [of Oakland] you have to really figure out, ‘How do I modify this to be relevant to the communities I’m serving in East Oakland?’ Develop curriculum, pedagogy, assessment that is responsive to the community you serve. You gotta become an ethnographer. You gotta get on the streets, get into the neighborhoods and barrios…talk to the ancestors…
If your curriculum is not building pathways to self-love for kids who at every turn of their day are taught to hate themselves, hate the color of their skin, hate the texture of their hair, hate the color of their eyes, hate the language they speak, hate the culture they come from, hate the ‘hood that they come from, hate the countries that their people come from, then what’s the purpose of your schooling?
Other sessions included “Native American Community Academy: A Case Study in Culturally Responsive Pedagogy”; “What Is the Role of White Leaders?”; “Navigating Gender Dynamics”; “Beyond Marriage Equality: Safety and Empowerment in the Education of LGBTQ Youth”; “A Chorus of Voices: Building Power Together,” featuring the incendiary Black Lives Matter activist and TFA alumnus DeRay McKesson; “Every Student Counts: Moving the Equity Agenda Forward for Asian American and Pacific Islander Students”; “Intentionally Diverse Learning Communities”; and much more of the kind.
Lost amid all this talk of identitarian self-love was the educator’s role in leading poor children toward things bigger and higher than Oakland, with its no doubt edifying east–west street rivalries—toward the glories of the West and the civic and constitutional bonds that link Americans of all backgrounds. You can be sure that the people who participate in TFA see to it that their own children learn to appreciate Caravaggio and Shakespeare and The Federalist. The whole point of the organization was to ensure that kids from Oakland could do the same.
Twenty-seven years since Teach for America was founded, the group’s mission remains vital. Today fewer than 1 in 10 children growing up in low-income communities graduate college. The basic political dynamics of education reform haven’t changed: Teach for America, and the other reform efforts it has inspired, have shown what works. The question is whether Teach for America is still determined to reform schools and fight for educational excellence for all—or whether it wants to become a cash-flush and slick vehicle for the new politics of identity.
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Review of 'iGen' By Jean Twenge
n 1954, scientists James Olds and Peter Milner ran some experiments on rats in a laboratory at McGill University. What they found was remarkable and disturbing. They discovered that if electrodes were implanted into a particular part of the rat brain—the lateral hypothalamus—rats would voluntarily give themselves electric shocks. They would press a lever several thousand times per hour, for days on end, and even forgo food so that they could keep pressing. The scientists discovered that the rats were even prepared to endure torture in order to receive these shocks: The animals would run back and forth over an electrified grid if that’s what it took to get their fix. They enjoyed the shocks so much that they endured charring on the bottoms of their feet to receive them. For a long time afterward, Olds and Milner thought that they had discovered the “bliss center” of the brain—but this was wrong. They had discovered the reward center. They had found the part of the brain that gives us our drives and our desires. These scientists assumed that the rats must have been in a deep state of pleasure while receiving these electric shocks, but in reality they were in a prolonged state of acute craving.
Jean Twenge’s important new book, iGen: Why Today’s Super-Connected Kids Are Growing Up Less Rebellious, More Tolerant, Less Happy—and Completely Unprepared for Adulthood, talks about a new form of electronic stimulation that appears to be driving young people to extreme distraction. A professor of psychology at San Diego State University, Twenge has built her career on looking at patterns in very large samples of people across long periods of time. She takes data from the General Social Survey, which has examined adults 18 years and older since 1966; the American Freshman Survey, which has questioned college students since 1991; the Youth Risk Behavior Surveillance System; and the Monitoring the Future databases. She looks to see whether there have been any changes in behavior and personality across time for people the same age but from different generations. Prior to iGen, she was the author of The Narcissism Epidemic (2009), co-written with psychologist W. Keith Campbell, and Generation Me (2013), a book about self-entitled Millennials. Twenge knows whereof she speaks.
Unlike previous patterns of rising narcissism, the trends of self-regard and self-entitlement associated with those born after 1995 appear to have petered out. What Twenge does find, however, is that reversals in trends of narcissism have been replaced by sharp increases in anxiety. Rates of anxiety and depression are spiking rapidly in young people, while at the same time their engagement with adult behaviors is declining. Using dozens of graphs, Twenge shows the reader how teenagers today drink less, go out less, socialize less, are less motivated to get their driver’s license, work less, date less, and even have sex less.
At first glance, the data seem counterintuitive, because the social pressures to abstain from alcohol and casual sex have never been more relaxed. But, on further reading, it appears that young people’s avoidance of adult behaviors has at least something to do with the addictive and distracting nature of smartphones and social media. Of course, Twenge is careful to point out that this is all “correlational.” She does not have a smoking gun and cannot prove causality. But the speculation seems plausible. All of the changes she observes started accelerating after 2007, when smartphones became ubiquitous. She writes:
I asked my undergraduate students what I thought was a very simple question: “What do you do with your phone while you sleep? Why?” Their answers were a profile in obsession. Nearly all slept with their phones, putting them under their pillows, on the mattress, or at the very least within arm’s reach of the bed. They checked social media websites and watched videos right before they went to bed and reached for their phones again as soon as they woke up in the morning (they had to—all of them used it as their alarm). Their phone was the last thing they saw before they went to bed and the first thing they saw when they woke up. If they woke up in the middle of the night they often ended up looking at their phones. They talked about their phones the way an addict would talk about crack: “I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help it.”
Recent experiments also lend support to the hypothesis. In an experiment carried out in 2013, psychologists Larry Rosen and Nancy Cheever brought 163 university students into a room. Some students had their phones unexpectedly taken away and others were told to put their phones on silent and out of sight. All students were then asked to fill out a brief anxiety questionnaire in 20-minute intervals. Those who were the heaviest smartphone users and heaviest social-media users recorded anxiety levels that kept climbing over the 90-minute period. The kids who used their smartphones the least did not have any increase in anxiety. This experiment lends strong support to the hypothesis that smartphones, by their propensity to promote constant use, do in fact cause agitation.
Twenge’s chapter on mental health in the generation born after 1995 makes for the book’s most disturbing reading. Heavy smartphone and social-media use correlates with higher anxiety and increased feelings of loneliness, particularly in girls. Social media seems to allow girls to bully one another in much more subtle and effective ways than were previously available. They constantly include or exclude one another from online activities such as group “chats,” and they are forever surveilling their peers’ presentation and appearance. This means that if girls aren’t vigilantly checking their social-media accounts, they won’t know if they’re being gossiped about or excluded from some fun activity. Like the electrodes placed on Olds and Milner’s rats, this new technology seems to activate the reward center—but it does not induce states of contentment, satisfaction, or meaning. It also takes time away from other activities such as sports and in-person socializing that would induce feelings of contentment and satisfaction. For a young person who is developing his personality and his competencies in the real world, this could have a profound and long-lasting effect.
Twenge tries not to be alarmist, and she presents her findings in a cautious, conscientious manner. She takes care to make caveats and eschew emotionally laden language. But it’s hard not to be alarmed by what she has found. In the six years between 2009 and 2015, the number of high-school girls who attempted suicide increased by 43 percent and the number of college students who “seriously considered” ending their lives rose by 51 percent. Suicides in young people are carefully tracked—there can be no ambiguity in this data—and increasing rates of children killing themselves are strong evidence that something is seriously amiss. From 2007 (the year smartphones became omnipresent) to 2015, suicide among 15- to 19-year-olds rose by 46 percent, and among those aged 12 to 14, it rose by half. And this rise is particularly pronounced for young girls. Three times as many 12- to 14-year-old girls killed themselves in 2015 as in 2007; among boys that age, suicide doubled in the same period. The suicide rate is always higher for boys (partly because they use more violent methods), but girls are now beginning to close this gender gap.
Another startling chapter in Twenge’s book focuses on sex, relationships, and family formation. We all know that young people are putting off marriage and child-rearing until later years, often for sensible reasons. But what is less well known is that young people are dating a lot less and spending a lot more time alone. It appears that old-fashioned romance and courtship norms are out the window, and so too is sex among young people. Twenge writes:
[M]ore young adults are not having sex at all. More than twice as many iGen’ers and late Millennials (those born in the 1990s) in their early twenties (16 percent) had not had sex at all since age 18 compared to GenX’ers at the same age (6 percent). A more sophisticated statistical analysis that included all adults and controlled for age and time period confirmed twice as many “adult virgins” among those born in the 1990s than among those born in the 1960s.
But if 16 percent are virgins, that means 84 percent of young people are having sex. Perhaps, then, there’s only a small segment bucking the trend toward more libertine lifestyles? Not so. Twenge writes:
Even with age controlled [in samples], Gen X’ers born in the 1970s report having an average of 10.05 sexual partners in their lifetimes, whereas Millennials and iGen’ers born in the 1990s report having sex with 5.29 partners. So Millennials and iGen’ers, the generations known for quick, casual sex, are actually having sex with fewer people.
For decades, conservatives have worried about loosened social and sexual mores among young people. It’s true that sexual promiscuity poses meaningful risks to youths’ well-being, especially among women. But there are also risks that manifest at a broader level when there is a lack of sexual activity in young people. And this risk can be summed up in three words—angry young men. Anthropologists are well aware that societies without strong norms of monogamous pairing produce a host of negative outcomes. In such populations, crime and child abuse increase while savings and GDP decline. Those are just some of the problems that come from men’s directing their energies toward competing with one another for mates instead of providing for families. In monogamous societies, male-to-male competition is tempered by the demands of family life and planning for children’s futures.
These trends identified by Twenge—increased anxiety and depression, huge amounts of time spent on the Internet, and less time spent dating and socializing—do not bode well for the future of Western societies. It should come as no surprise that young people who struggle to connect with one another and young men who can’t find girlfriends will express their anxieties as political resentments. Twenge’s book reveals just how extensive those anxieties are.
Like the rats that forgo food to binge on electric shocks, teenagers are forgoing formative life experiences and human connection in order to satiate their desire for electronic rewards. But the problem is not necessarily insurmountable. Twenge identifies possible protective factors such as playing sports, real-life socializing, adequate sleep, sunlight, and good food. Indeed, phone apps designed to encourage good habits are becoming popular, as are those that lock people out of their social-media accounts for predetermined periods of time. Twenge also argues that iGen has several positive indicators. They are less narcissistic and are more industrious than the generation before them, and they are also more realistic about the demands of work and careers. But harnessing those qualities will require an effort that seems at once piddling and gargantuan. IGen’s future well-being, and ours, depends on whether or not they can just put down their phones.
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Playwrights and politics
No similar incidents have been reported, but not for lack of opportunity. In the past year, references to Trump have been shoehorned into any number of theatrical productions in New York and elsewhere. One Trump-related play by a noted author, Robert Schenkkan’s Building the Wall, has already been produced off Broadway and across America, and various other Trump-themed plays are in the pipeline, including Tracy Letts’s The Minutes and Beau Willimon’s The Parisian Woman, both of which will open on Broadway later this season.
The first thing to be said about this avalanche of theatrical activity is that these plays and productions, so far as is known, all show Trump in a negative light. That was to be expected. Save for David Mamet, I am not aware of any prominent present-day American playwright, stage actor, director, or technician who has ever publicly expressed anything other than liberal or progressive views on any political subject whatsoever. However, it appears one can simultaneously oppose Trump and still be skeptical about the artistic effects of such lockstep unanimity, for many left-of-center drama critics have had unfavorable things to say about the works of art inspired to date by the Trump presidency.
So even a political monoculture like that of the American theater can criticize the fruits of its own one-sidedness. But can such a culture produce any other kind of art? Or might the Theater of Trump be inherently flawed in a way that prevents it from transcending its limitations?F rom Aristophanes to Angels in America, politics has always been a normal part of the subject matter of theater. Not until the end of the 19th century, though, did a major playwright emerge whose primary interest in writing plays was political rather than aesthetic. George Bernard Shaw saw himself less as an artist than as a propagandist for the causes to which he subscribed, which included socialism, vegetarianism, pacifism, and (late in his life) Stalinism. But Shaw took care to sugar the political pill by embedding his preoccupations in entertaining comedies of ideas, and he was just as careful to make his villains as attractive—and persuasive-sounding—as his heroes.
In those far-off days, the English-speaking theater world was more politically diverse than it is today both on and off stage. It was only in the late ’40s that the balance started to shift, at first slowly, then with steadily increasing speed. In England, this ultimately led to a theater in which it is now common to find explicit political statements embedded not merely in plays but also in such commercial musicals as Billy Elliot, a show about the British miners’ strike of 1984 in which a chorus of children sings a holiday carol whose refrain runs as follows: “Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher / We all celebrate today / Cause it’s one day closer to your death.”
As this example suggests, postwar English political theater is consumed with indictments of the evils arising from the existence of a rigid class system. American playwrights, by contrast, are typically more inclined to follow in the footsteps of Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, both of whose plays portray (albeit for different reasons) the spiritual and emotional poverty of middle-class life. In both countries, most theater is neither explicitly nor implicitly political. Nevertheless, the theater communities of England and America have for the last half-century or so been all but unanimous in their offstage political convictions. This means that when an English-language play is political, the views that it embodies will almost certainly be left-liberal.
This unanimity of opinion is responsible for what I called, in a 2009 Commentary essay about Miller, the “theater of concurrence.”1 Its practitioners, presumably because all of their colleagues share their political views, take for granted that their audiences will also share them. Hence they write political plays in which no attempt is made to persuade dissenters to change their minds, it being assumed that no dissenters are present in the theater. In the theater of concurrence, disagreement with left-liberal orthodoxy is normally taken to be the result either of invincible ignorance or a deliberate embrace of evil. In the U.S. and England alike, it has become rare to see old-fashioned Shavian political plays like David Hare’s Skylight (1995) in which the devil (in this case, a Thatcherite businessman in love with an upper-middle-class do-gooder) is given his due. Instead, we get plays whose villains are demoniacal monsters (Tony Kushner’s fictionalized portrayal of Roy Cohn in Angels in America is an example) rather than flawed humans who, like Tom in Skylight, have reached the point of no moral return.
All this being the case, it makes perfect sense that Donald Trump’s election should have come as so disorienting a shock to the American theater community, which took for granted that he was unelectable. No sooner were the votes tallied than theater people took to social media to angrily declare their unalterable resistance to the Trump presidency. Many of them believe both Trump and his supporters to be, in Hillary Clinton’s oft-quoted phrase, members of “the basket of deplorables . . . racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, Islamophobic, you name it.”
What kind of theater is emerging from this shared belief? Building the Wall, the first dramatic fruit of the Trump era, is a two-character play set in the visiting room of a Texas prison. It takes place in 2019, by which time President Trump has been impeached after having responded to the detonation of a nuclear weapon in Times Square by declaring nationwide martial law and locking up every foreigner in sight. The bomb, it turns out, was a “false flag” operation planted not by terrorists but by the president’s men. Rick, the play’s principal character, has been imprisoned for doing something so unspeakably awful that he and his interlocutor, a sanctimonious black journalist who is interviewing him for a book, are initially reluctant to talk about it. At the end of an hour or so of increasingly broad hints, we learn that Rick helped the White House set up a Nazi-style death camp for illegal immigrants.
Schenkkan has described Building the Wall as “not a crazy or extreme fantasy,” an inadvertently revealing remark. It is possible to spin involving drama out of raging paranoia, but that requires a certain amount of subtlety, not to mention intelligence—and there is nothing remotely subtle or intelligent about Building the Wall. Rick is a blue-collar cartoon, a regular-guy Texan who claims not to be a racist but voted for Trump because “all our jobs were going to Mexico and China and places like that and then the illegals here taking what jobs are left and nobody gave a damn.” Gloria, his interviewer, is a cartoon of a different kind, a leftsplaining virtue signal in human form who does nothing but emit smug speeches illustrating her own enlightened state: “I mean, at some point in the past we were all immigrants, right, except for Native Americans. And those of us who didn’t have a choice in the matter.” The New York production of Building the Wall closed a month ahead of schedule, having received universally bad reviews (the New York Times described it as “slick and dispiriting”).
The Public Theater’s Julius Caesar, by contrast, received mixed but broadly positive reviews. But it, too, was problematic, albeit on an infinitely higher level of dramatic accomplishment. Here, the fundamental problem was that Eustis had superimposed a gratuitous directorial gloss on Shakespeare’s play. There have been many other high-concept productions of Julius Caesar, starting with Orson Welles’s 1937 modern-dress Broadway staging, which similarly transformed Shakespeare’s play into an it-can-happen-here parable of modern-day fascism. But Eustis’s over-specific decision to turn Caesar into a broad-brush caricature of Trump hijacked the text instead of illuminating it. Rather than allowing the audience to draw its own parallels to the present situation, he pandered to its prejudices. The result was a quintessential example of the theater of concurrence, a staging that undercut its not-inconsiderable virtues by reducing the complexities of the Trump phenomenon to little more than boob-baiting by a populist vulgarian.
Darko Tresjnak committed a venial version of the same sin in his Hartford Stage revival of Shaw’s Heartbreak House (1919), which opened around the same time as Building the Wall and Julius Caesar. Written in the wake of World War I, Heartbreak House is a tragicomedy about a group of liberal bohemians who lack the willpower to reconstruct their doomed society along Shaw’s preferred socialist lines. Tresjnak’s lively but essentially traditional staging hewed to Shaw’s text in every way but one: He put a yellow Trump-style wig on Boss Mangan, the bloated, parasitical businessman who is the play’s villain. The effect was not unlike dressing a character in a play in a T-shirt with a four-letter word printed across the chest. The wig triggered a loud laugh on Mangan’s first entrance, but you were forced to keep on looking at it for the next two hours, by which time the joke had long since grown numbingly stale. It was a piece of cheap point-making unworthy of a production that was otherwise distinguished.How might contemporary theater artists engage with the Trump phenomenon in a way that is both politically and artistically serious?
For playwrights, the obvious answer is to follow Shaw’s own example by allowing Trump (or a Trump-like character) to speak for himself in a way that is persuasive, even seductive. Shaw himself did so in Major Barbara (1905), whose central character is an arms manufacturer so engagingly urbane that he persuades his pacifist daughter to give up her position with the Salvation Army and embrace the gospel of high explosives. But the trouble with this approach is that it is hard to imagine a playwright willing to admit that Trump could be persuasive to anyone but the hated booboisie.
Then there is Lynn Nottage’s Sweat, which transferred to Broadway last March after successful runs at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and the Public Theater. First performed in the summer of 2015, around the time that Trump announced his presidential candidacy, Sweat is an ensemble drama about a racially diverse group of unemployed steel workers in Reading, the Pennsylvania city that has become synonymous with deindustrialization. Trump is never mentioned in the play, which takes place between 2000 and 2008 and is not “political” in the ordinary sense of the word, since Nottage did not write it to persuade anyone to do anything in particular. Her purpose was simply to show how the people of Reading feel, and try to explain why they feel that way. Tightly structured and free of sermonizing, Sweat is a wholly personal drama whose broader political implications are left unsaid. Instead of putting Trump in the pillory, it takes a searching look at the lives of the people who voted for him, and it portrays them sympathetically, making a genuine good-faith attempt to understand why they chose to embrace Trumpian populism.
Sweat is a model for serious political art—artful political art, if you will. Are more such plays destined to be written about Donald Trump and his angry supporters? Perhaps, if their authors heed the wise words of Joseph Conrad: “My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, before all, to make you see.” Only the very best artists can make political art with that kind of revelatory power. Shaw and Bertolt Brecht did it, and so has Lynn Nottage. Will Tracy Letts and Beau Willimon follow suit, or will they settle for the pandering crudities of Building the Wall? The answer to that question will tell us much about the future of political theater in the Age of Trump.
1 “Concurring with Arthur Miller” (Commentary, June 2009)