*Feature* Greg Fischer Greg Fischer Mayor of Louisville, KY Spring 2018 I came to public service after spending 30 years working as an entrepreneur. In the business world, I found that the best way to accomplish goals was to envision a bright future, and then work hard in collaboration with others to make that vision a reality. That’s the approach I brought to city government when I became mayor of my hometown in 2011. Louisville, like our country as a whole, was still coming out of the Great Recession; unemployment was over 10 percent; we’d been losing jobs; and there was a general sense of anxiety about the future. My team and I worked to address those fundamental economic concerns but we also knew that you don’t solve one challenge by neglecting the others. To prime our city for 21st-century success, we needed to change Louisville’s culture, and that meant cultivating an attitude of optimism, while also working to strengthen the bonds among the members of our increasingly diverse city of 760,000. In my inaugural speech, I set out the three core values my team would use to guide our work: We would make Louisville a city of lifelong learning, a healthier city, and an even more compassionate city. I emphasized these values because they’re essential for citizens in any successful, modern, global city: Lifelong learning is essential because, in a world where we’re seeing constant technological, economic and societal changes, it’s the lifelong learners who are best equipped to adapt and thrive. Health, which we define as both human and environmental health, is the most fundamental human need. Compassion helps build what I call our city’s “social muscles” – the bonds that form among the members of our community and that help us stay united in challenging times. Our focus on compassion compels us to help everyone in our city regardless of race, gender, wealth, nationality or circumstance reach their full human potential. My decision to highlight compassion as a core value earned me some criticism from a few people who said it would make our city look weak, but it’s clear that compassion is a smart leadership strategy for any city. Seven years in, the results of our work show that compassion and economic growth can go hand-in-hand: Since 2011, our city has created over 70,000 new private sector jobs, opened 2,500 new businesses, reduced unemployment to 3.2 percent, and attracted nearly $13 billion in capital investment. Though we’re proud of these accomplishments, a city’s prosperity is only real when it is shared by all. That’s why it’s tremendously encouraging to see signs of growth in some of our historically underserved neighborhoods, particularly in west Louisville, where too many people have been hindered by racist practices like redlining and urban renewal in the 20th century. These were official government policies that targeted African-Americans in our community and many others. As public servants, we have an obligation to address these historic injustices. We’ve been working with partners in the public and private sectors to create opportunities in underserved areas, and have recently seen more than $800 million of public and private investment pour into west Louisville. City government is also working to clear the path to prosperity through programs that encourage entrepreneurs, job training and home ownership. We’re also working on digital inclusion, attempting to increase access to the tools of 21st-century learning and communication. Compassion fuels these and all our decisions at Louisville Metro Government because it’s the morally right approach and because helping more people realize their full potential helps our city reach its own. For example, if every Louisville family earning poverty-level wages earned a living wage, it would add almost $900 million to our city’s economy every year. That’s a win for everyone. One way we’re working to accomplish this is by creating opportunities for our young people. This year will mark the seventh year of our SummerWorks program, which we created to help counter the high rates of youth unemployment that lingered after the recession. Focusing on people ages 16-21, SummerWorks is now helping more than 5,000 youth find summer jobs with more than 170 local businesses, from mom-and-pop shops to Fortune 500 companies. We also have to continue working to help our citizens at every stage of their careers get the skills they need to compete and win in the careers of the future. Partnering with key local industries, we’ve helped establish public-private initiatives like Code Louisville, which provides free training in software coding, as well as the Kentucky Health Career Center and Kentucky Manufacturing Career Center. In addition, as a welcoming, globally-minded city, Louisville must support the members of our growing immigrant community. That’s why we provide the opportunity to earn professional certifications through our MTELL program: Manufacturing Training for English Language Learners. Our core values of compassion and lifelong learning come together in many of our programs, including the Compassionate Schools Project, which we launched in 2015 in partnership with Jefferson County Public Schools and the University of Virginia. Today, many of Louisville’s elementary school children are learning a revolutionary new curriculum that integrates mindfulness, compassion, nutrition, wellness and more into the school day to help our youth become better learners and better citizens. Creating pathways to opportunity also means removing barriers, including violent crime. We created our Office for Safe and Healthy Neighborhoods, whose mission is to encourage peace and health in every neighborhood and reduce the violence too often experienced by young adults in under-resourced communities. Safe and Healthy Neighborhoods works with local and national partners to fund and facilitate innovative programs such as Pivot 2 Peace, which identifies victims of violence from ZIP codes that have high rates of violent crime – and while those victims are recovering, a social worker visits them in the hospital and provides information about pathways to education, employment and more in an effort to break the cycle of violence. Compassion-driven programs like these have helped us respond to the challenges that Louisville, like any city, inevitably faces, and emerge stronger and more invested in one another and our collective future. Looking ahead to the future of Louisville (and I hope, other cities as well), the vision guiding us remains the same: I see a growing community that honors and learns from the past, lives fully in the present and prepares for the future. I see a thriving city that competes and wins in the global marketplace and whose reputation for compassion, innovation and opportunity continues to grow on the world stage. I see a sustainable city, filled with safe and healthy neighborhoods, where good health and prosperity are equally available to people of every age, race and background. I see a connected and compassionate city, where every person has the chance to reach their full human potential. Even as so much of our country and our world seems to be focused on division, and embracing an us-vs-them ideology, I remain optimistic about our future. That’s because I see so many determined people of all ages, races and backgrounds working to create a better future. They believe in what Louisville’s great native son Muhammad Ali called, “the work of the heart.” The world-champion boxer and humanitarian loved his hometown and in challenging moments, I take comfort from The Champ’s words, “All through my life I have been tested. My will has been tested, my courage has been tested,” he wrote in The Soul of a Butterfly. “My soul has grown over the years, and some of my views have changed. As long as I am alive, I will continue to try to understand more because the work of the heart is never done." The City is taking a holistic approach to our economic revitalization process by hosting hundreds of community conversations across the City to help inform decisions around major projects. After hearing from our residents, we’ve prioritized investing in innovative educational programming to address historic inequities; creating dynamic workforce programs more suitable for an inclusive new economy; and leveraging our inherent strengths to produce more sustainable growth.

Journal Features Online Features & Interviews Vol. II | Issue II JPPE Interview Steven Pinker Vol. II | Issue II JPPE Interview Paul Krugman Vol. II | Issue II JPPE Interview Yanis Varoufakis Vol. II | Issue II Foreword Editorial Board Vol. II | Issue II Vol. II | Issue I Sheldon Whitehouse United States Senator from Rhode Island Vol. II | Issue I Foreword Editorial Board Vol. II | Issue I Vol. I | Issue II Nicola Sturgeon First Minister of Scotland Vol. I | Issue II John R. Allen President of the Brookings Institution Vol. I | Issue II Foreword Editorial Board Vol. I | Issue II Vol. I | Issue I Jorge O. Elorza Mayor of Providence, Rhode Island Vol. I | Issue I Greg Fischer Mayor of Louisville, Kentucky Vol. I | Issue I Foreword Editorial Board Vol. I | Issue I

Catherine Nelli Interview with Danielle Bainbridge Catherine Nelli Danielle Bainbridge is a professor of theater, African American Studies, and Performance Studies at Northwestern University. Her background is in theater, English, African American Studies, and American Studies. She completed her undergraduate degree at the University of Pennsylvania in 2012 in English and theater and completed her PhD in African American Studies and American Studies—cultural history—in 2018 from Yale. Interview has been edited for clarity. JPPE : I’ll start by asking you to introduce yourself, your background, and your research, as well as the questions you find most interesting or important to explore at the moment. Bainbridge : Right now, my most important questions or areas of inquiry are thinking about the intersections of race, disability, gender, sexuality—like, how do we perform difference on stage? As well as thinking about the important role than performance and theatre and art have played in the establishment of new nations or nationalism. To that end, I’m working on two projects. The first one is called Refinements of Cruelty , and I’m collaborating with NYU press at the moment hopefully to place the book there. The book is about 19th and early 20th century sideshow and freak show performers who were born with physical disabilities and also born into slavery, and the process through which they were doubly subjected to systems of oppression, both as disabled people and also as enslaved Black people. So that book is my primary project. My secondary project is a general history book that’s called How to Make a New Nation . It’s about the performances of nationalism in early postcolonial nation-states. So I’m curious about how things like the professionalization of the Olympics, early TV politics, radio broadcasts, who gets put on the money, and the building of monuments. How these performative objects were used to establish the idea of nation and to recognize nation on an international scale. So those are the kind of questions that I’m thinking about right now. JPPE : Our journal is focused on interdisciplinary scholarship, and I know that what you do is very interdisciplinary as well. I’m curious how your work has benefited from interdisciplinary practices. Bainbridge : My background in every phase of my academic career has been very interdisciplinary. As a double major in college, I was always thinking of the intersections of history, literary analysis, theatrical history, theatrical performance studies, and performance practice. That was where I started to ask these questions and when I was introduced to scholars who were also thinking through that critical lens. And then when I went to graduate school, I was in an interdisciplinary PhD program because African American Studies is a field that encompasses lots of other disciplines. So you think through political science, anthropology, sociology, and history, and you’re thinking about all of these questions at the same time. And American Studies was similarly oriented, even though it was a degree that really focused on cultural history. So, I think that interdisciplinary work became really interesting to me at an early phase of my career. When I was an undergrad, I didn’t think of it as a career, I just thought of it as college. But by the time I started thinking about wanting to be a professor and wanting to teach at the undergraduate and graduate level, I was really curious about how I can bring different kinds of media and different kinds of inquiry in different fields together. Some of that was also influenced by the fact that I’m a practitioner—I’m an artist. I do creative scholarship, digital media work, and digital storytelling like my PBS series Origin of Everything . I have also done some docuseries work with Youtubers and PBS. And I’m currently working on a couple different shows, like some of the Crash Course series through Complexly, which is a company that focuses on making educational media for young people. Right now, I’m really invested in how scholarship can be brought to larger audiences outside of the academy through digital media in a democratic way, where it’s not necessarily about how much you can afford but more about your natural curiosity and desire to learn. I am also a writer. I write for theater, and I’m working on my first documentary that just got funded. I’m always trying to look for new ways to interpret information and translate it for different audiences. It’s appealing to me to think about interdisciplinary work as something that combines disparate fields. I think that sometimes, when we say interdisciplinary, we mean fields that are adjacent to each other, that are touching. But for me, combining theater, digital media, performance, documentary, and mashing these things together makes me excited because it stretches me as a scholar to think about the ways that I could actually benefit people and the way that my work travels through the world. Sometimes when you think in strict disciplinary lines, your work has a narrower reach. And I’m really interested in how I can reach people. I really want them to learn and be excited about the things I present, so I’m always looking for interdisciplinary ways to bring stuff to new audiences. JPPE : What’s the relationship between the scholar and the artist, and what’s the importance of that relationship? Bainbridge : It wasn’t always the smoothest transition. When you enter a Ph.D. program, you’re really there to commit to doing book-length and article-length research. That’s the discipline; that’s what’s expected of you. And I think it’s really important stuff, I mean, I wouldn’t be able to do any of the public-facing work I do if folks weren’t writing books and articles about it because I’m not an expert in everything that I make videos about. And I think that at the heart of our fields, book projects and articles are really the foundation. But I think because I had a background in theater and then went to grad school for more cultural history and African American Studies, it became important to me to continue to express myself. I always say that the difference for me between being an artist and a scholar is that I try to let every project express itself as what it wants to be. If I have an idea for something and I think, “This would be a really fun script,” or, “This really wants to be an essay,” or “This really needs to be in my book,” I try to make those decisions very consciously, about what’s the best way for this information to be shared with a larger audience and what does this piece of information demand of me as a maker, as a creator. There are plenty of things that I think, “Oh, this would make a great 12-minute online video, really punchy, good graphics, and people will be into the question,” and that’s a good primer for folks who are thinking about gender, race, sexuality, ethnicity, international politics, or whatever. Sometimes I have ideas like that, and then sometimes I have ideas like my documentary that I think, “Oh, this really demands a longer look and a more intense focus.” So it all depends on what the archive and that object I’m studying or the subject I’m studying demands, and how best to translate that for people to learn from it. JPPE : What is the subject of your documentary? Bainbridge : I am working on a documentary right now called Curio . In 2018, I was Artist in Residence and also a facilitator and writer of a piece called Curio: A Cabinet of Curiosity , which was based on the research for my book Refinements of Cruelty . It is focusing specifically on the lives of Millie and Christine McKoy who were two conjoined twins born in 1851 in North Carolina, who were touring the world and became international celebrities as freak show performers. So, they would sing and dance and there was also a heavy amount of exploitation and medicalization in their archive. The McKoy twins were who I started researching in grad school when I decided to work on freakshows and the intersections of slavery and disability. So, I am really intimately acquainted with their archive, and I made this performance piece out of it that a group of undergraduate students at the University of Pennsylvania staged. I loved working with those students, I think that they were really game to do a lot of weird stuff with me. I had them learning the handbell, I had them singing songs from the 19th century, they were tied together in a conjoined dress, and they were doing all sorts of really weird and experimental stuff with me. I learned a lot from that process, and I always wanted to rewrite and then restage it. So, in my early days at Northwestern—I came here in fall of 2018 as a postdoc right after the play had opened—I did spend some time with the piece thinking about revamping it. And then, you know, the world turning upside down the next academic year because it was 2019-2020 and COVID happened and all theaters went dark, and there was no opportunity to rethink the work, except in my own head. So I started thinking, wouldn’t it be great if I can make a documentary, because it combined my interest in digital media and my experience making these explainer videos and docuseries. It would be great to do a documentary that combines some of the creative elements of music from the play with traditional documentary storytelling. So, I started working on that idea and thinking it’d be great to do it, especially because it was funny that I started to see this explosion of digital theater overnight since there weren’t any opportunities to perform except on Zoom or through recorded stuff. And I just wanted an opportunity to combine my areas of interest under this same topic, so I pitched it to Northwestern for a research grant and I got some funding. And now I’m going to be working on that for the next year and a half or so, making maybe a 20- to 30-minute documentary that combined some of the elements from the stage production that I thought were really successful along with traditional documentary storytelling, like interviewing the McKoy descendents, looking at archival footage, and you know, figuring out ways to bring that story to life and to a larger audience. JPPE : Theater and performativity are in a rudimentary sense acted and therefore fictitious, but in recent years I think we’ve had a wider awareness that it isn’t that simple. So, how does the theory that you study translate into real world politics, representation, and change? And can you speak about this in relation to your Refinements of Cruelty? Bainbridge : It’s interesting because I’ve always been interested in the work of people like Moisés Kaufman, Anna Deavere Smith—people who do documentary theatre, just because it offers something really insightful and interesting, especially Anna Deavere Smith, I’m a big admirer of her work. So I think, when I write and when I create stuff, I do know where the line between reality and fiction is, I think that’s the first step, but I am also really interested in ways that theater could impact and bring about empathetic and lasting political and social change. I do think that the pieces that we make and things we put into the world have an impact on the way we view representation, on the way we view politics, on the way we view people from groups that aren’t our own. And so, when I’m teaching my students, it’s not just that I want them to be good storytellers, or good creators of fiction. I also want them to be good people, good global citizens, good people who think about the world in really critical and crucial ways. And I think there’s so much to be said for performance in general. Not only the creation of it, but the consumption of it is this huge engine for empathy and huge engine for understanding. So, when I’m making work or when I’m thinking about theater or writing criticism, I’m thinking about it in those ways—specifically about how we can create lasting and sustained social and political change through the creation of art. And I don’t think every piece is for every person. But I do think that there’s a lot that can be done. And a lot of artists are thinking really critically, especially as we’re starting to see new generations of artists making work that’s really critically looking at race and gender, not that these things are new, but that they’re really important questions that are being brought up. I do think there is a history of work making new social movements or new social possibilities for people. JPPE : What is the most impactful example of art that has created or propelled lasting change or social movements? Bainbridge: One of the things I teach is a course on African American theater history that starts in the 19th century and ends with A Raisin in the Sun . And I think most of my students who are young, Gen Z, savvy, politically active folks think of Raisin in the Sun as that old-fashioned play from the 50s that they had to read in high school or early college. And the thing for me about why I staged the class this way that ends with Raisin is that we have all of this activity of Black theatrical innovation and genius that comes before it. We have plays from Black artists in the 19th century, we studied things like slave narratives, we study Frederick Douglass’s oratory, we look at W.E.B. DuBois’s theories of artist propaganda, we look at some of the darker aspects of the representation of Black people like blackface minstrelsy, Vaudeville—you know, performance of minstrelsy as well as early instances of Black people performing in blackface. So we also see some of that as well in this time period. But what I want to chart for my students is the slow progress that we start to see in Black representation from the mid-19th century to the mid-20th century. We start to see improvements in realism, improvements in domestic drama, and then we have this revolutionary moment with A Raisin in the Sun , where it’s this big critical success, but it’s also one of the first plays that we see by a queer, radical Black woman that represents Black people as people and fully human. And so by the time my students arrive at A Raisin in the Sun , you can see that they’re excited, that they say, “Oh my god, finally something that looks like real people, fully fleshed out people.” And I think oftentimes, Hansberry’s work gets read as conservative because it comes from a particular historical moment, but actually, it was this radical revelation in the representation of Blackness on popular stages. And it represents early emerging Pan-African identities through the character of Beneatha, it talks about the role of gender through characters like Ruth and Mama Younger and Walter. We see early integration politics that represent Black desire as not a desire for integration because they want to be in proximity to whiteness or close to whiteness, but because they want greater opportunity for themselves and their children. That subtlety and that keen hand that Hansberry has was so revelatory, and I really like having it at the end of the quarter so that students can finally put it in its context and say, “Oh, this really was a lot different than what came before it. This really is espousing something radical and fresh when you think about what came before it.” So that’s one of my favorite examples, and then I also teach the second half of that course, which is A Raisin in the Sun to contemporary theater. JPPE : What has been your research methodology on the Refinement of Cruelty project, and what has surprised you or not surprised you the most about the process? Bainbridge : As a writer, I write a lot of creative nonfiction, as well. And I was really surprised by what the archive demanded of me in terms of ethics. I'm looking at this archive of people who were exploited, essentially, in multiple ways. And I'm trying to make sense of this story while I'm also having complicated and complex feelings as a Black woman, as someone who has experienced the trials and tribulations of the American healthcare system, and medicalization and fetish, and all of these other things. And so, you know, when I first started the project, it was 2012. So it's been, like 10 years. So that's overwhelming. But I think when I first started the project, I was just surprised by how hard it was for me to look at the material, because I primarily before then had been studying feminist theatre from Jamaica in the 1980s. So it was more celebratory and more self-fashioning, because these women were creating their own stories and writing their own work, deciding what went into the archive. Things about the performers I study largely when they're either against their will or without their consent, at the very least. And so methodologically, I started thinking through two primary questions. The first was, what does it mean to enter something into the archive? What does it mean, to put something on the official record? And the second question was, what are the ethics or responsibility that I have as a Black queer woman telling this story? What do I need to do to make this feel okay? The first question I kind of answered with what I'm theorizing is the future perfect tense of historical recording. The future perfect is a tense that you see in romance languages, like Latin and Spanish, which is the past tense of the future. So it’s, “it will have been.” I started to fool around with that idea because I thought, when you are entering something into the record as a historical actor, as someone who is concerned with history—so say, I have things that I think are historically significant, I entered into an archive—I’m concerned with how history is going to be told 10 years from now, and 15 years from now and 100 years from now, that's why I put it in the archive. I wanted to trace sort of what those impulses were, and why people began to think through those terms. And I thought the archive that I was engaging in, especially because a lot of it is ephemera, and sort of freak show stuff, and things that people think of as lowbrow culture, I was thinking, why would someone enter this in an archive? What's the impetus? And why are they thinking that historians 100 years from now should be able to view this? They put this in a protected place for a reason. And then the second question methodologically, I'm answering was what I'm calling an ethnography of the archive. So it's a lot of auto-ethnographic writing that I do about archival ethics, essentially. And I put that in the project itself and fold it into it itself because I think one of the things that felt unsatisfying to me was speaking in the sort of disembodied historian’s third-person voice. I wanted it to feel as if I was considering the questions of what the archive is demanding of me and my own subject position as a descendant of slaves. And I started doing that writing mostly in grad school to satisfy myself. It wasn't something that I thought would really end up in the project. And then when I saw that people were responsive to it, and that the questions being asked by this ethnography of the archive were leading me somewhere methodologically, I started writing more and more and more and more. So I think you really have to consider what the archive demands of you before you start working. Because if I was working on another archive, or a completely different subject, I don't think I would have the same questions. JPPE : Right, so really considering positionality. Bainbridge : Yes. JPPE : What are the cultural and economic legacies of the freakshow and performance archive that you’ve found? Bainbridge : There are some interesting economic quirks of these archives. In one chapter of my manuscript, I call it the “Alternative Ledgers of Enslaved Labor.” That’s where the economic angle of this archive really becomes most evident. The chapter itself focuses on this really long ledger kept by Chang and Eng Bunker, who are two other subjects in my study. Chang and Eng were conjoined twins, just like the McKoys. They spent most of their life in North Carolina, just like the McKoys, but they were actually born in Thailand, or then known as Siam. They are the twins around which the phrase “Siamese twins” was established, so they are the original so-called “Siamese twins.” This ledger is interesting to me particularly because they are included in my study not because they were enslaved, but actually because they were racialized, BIPOC people who were slave owners. When they retired from the freakshow stage, they invested their money in buying two adjacent plantations, they married two white sisters—each married to one sister—and they divided their time between these two plantations, they owned a few dozen slaves, and they invested all their money in Confederate currency. So ultimately, we all know the historical outcome of this, that Confederate current went defunct. It became valueless after the war ended, and they were forced to re-enter the freakshow stage as performers, essentially to support their family and to support themselves. I’m interested in this ledger, particularly because it’s so detailed and so nitty gritty, but it doesn’t recount any of the expenses of all of the enslaved souls that lived on these plantations. So it doesn’t have a lot of information about the women and men that they enslaved, but it has things like, “gave daughter five cents to repair her gloves,” “25 cents in postage for publicity, five flyers,” I’m sifting through this ledger primarily to think about ways that performance labor is recorded, but slave labor is erased. And I’m also curious about how we think about performance labor through these enslaved performers. So folks, not like the Bunkers, but more like the McKoys and Blond Tom Wiggins and Joice Heth, who are other people who are in my study. I’m interested in how we could reconfigure this as not just performance practices, but thinking about labor because at its heart, slavery is a labor system. It is an economic system—to live in a slave society is an economic system. So I’m thinking through scholars like historian Stephanie Smallwood’s Saltwater Slavery , I’m thinking through things like Jennifer Morgan’s Laboring Women , where they think really intimately about the connection between finance and enslavement and what it means, particularly for Black women. I’m curious about how all these things could be read through performance, where we’re not necessarily seeing these performers do things like pick cotton, or perform housework, or take care of children because they were presumed to be valueless, essentially, because of their physical disability. But many of them ended up becoming the prize of their master’s plantation because their performance labor actually netted more money than they could do any of those domestic tasks or fieldwork. So I’m curious about that relationship and how it can be explicated. JPPE : Switching over to your project on nation and how the nation is imagined and born, what is the relation between literature and performance and the idea of nationhood? How do postcolonialism and Black Feminist Theory interact with, shape, or reflect these ideas and forces? Bainbridge : I first became interested in this topic because I was teaching a class which used to be called State-Funded Theater of the Americas and now is called State-Funded Theater of the US and Caribbean, which looks at state-funded theater from the 20th century after postcolonial movements have started to emerge in the 1930s until about the 1970s. It is concerned with why and how so many states, these newly formed independent nations, as they were entering the postcolonial period, why they were funding theater. That was my initial question that started the idea for the book. What is it about theater or these plays—you know, they’re funding plays by Dereck Walcott about the Haitian Revolution, they’re funding plays by Sylvia Winter, they’re funding plays by lesser-known playwrights and we’re seeing this explosion of work from really important folks who would later become important poets, playwrights, postcolonial theorists, and they’re essentially being put to work by these states making theater? And then at the same time, in the US during the Great Depression, we start to see things like the Works Progress Administration and the Federal Theater Project, which are funding what they’re calling “Negro Units,” in the parlance of the day, of all-Black theater companies that are doing this really interesting work. I was introduced to a book by a scholar named Stephanie Batiste, who wrote a book called Darkening Mirrors . The book is about how these Negro Units of the Federal Theater Project were also thinking about US imperialism and internationalism in their performances because they often staged things like a production of Macbeth that’s set in Haiti or a version of The Mikado that’s set in the Pacific. And they’re doing these really interesting internationalist works, and I was also really taken in by a book called Sachmo Blows up the World which thinks about how Black jazz artists were sent around the world during the Cold War essentially as ambassadors of American identity. I became interested in all of these questions around the same time, which is: why is it important to use art to express national identity or a nationalist identity? I really started thinking about how these works could be connected, and I started to find other examples of how these places, these newly formed nations were thinking about their own national identities. Then the second thing I became really interested in was the professionalization of the Olympics, which sounds completely disparate and sounds like it has nothing to do with it, but basically I wanted to know how the Olympics went from being what was considered an amateur event—so, one of the requirements of the Olympics prior to, I want to say the 1970s or earlier, was that folks had to be amateur athletes, so they couldn’t be making money, either from sponsorship or they couldn’t be involved in professional leagues. And this was supposed to be a leveling of the playing field, but also was a big hallmark of the Olympic Games. As that transitioned to becoming this multibillion-dollar industry with TV ads and Coca-Cola sponsorships and all this other stuff, we start to see some of these newly independent nations start to get this greater recognition beyond the scope of their political impact. So we start to see places like my family’s home country of Jamaica become really famous for track and field, even though on the international politics scale, they weren’t considered a necessarily huge player by other nations because of global anti-Blackness and general disregard for Caribbean politics. So, we see smaller nations get this chance to now be considered competitors of larger nations. Those are the two archives that I started digging around in that made me want to ask these questions, and as I got more and more into thinking about these things, I just started pulling that thread and saying, “What are other instances of ways that nations perform their own identity?” I started thinking about monuments because we were in this endless news cycle of Confederate monuments being torn down and colonial monuments being torn down around the world. And then I started thinking, “Well, what’s another performance that’s supposed to signify something?” And I started looking into the performance and writing of national anthems, who gets put on money, who becomes a national hero, who’s considered an emblem of the nation? And I think all of these questions come because I am a scholar who’s deeply invested in Black Feminist Theory. They come from a Black Feminist perspective because I’m not just concerned with how we perform masculine leadership in new nations. I’m concerned with how all of these disparate things come together, but I’m also curious about the performance of nationalism or the performance of the nation-state particularly because I just haven’t had as many satisfying answers. I have a rule, basically: if I’m in a meeting and I have an idea, I have to be willing to do the thing that I’m suggesting, or else I don’t suggest it, because I hate being that person who says, “It’d be great if someone …would do this.” I have a similar thing with my scholarship, which is: if I have a question and it needs answering, I should probably write it down and write the answer because I can’t wait on someone else to do the project or do the thing. The question of nationhood became really interesting to me, not because I’m so much invested in the idea of the nation-state, but because these early independent countries as they’re starting to formulate their own idea of themselves, are turning to things like parades, and festivals, and literature, and theater, and are funding it at an incredibly high rate in comparison to what we see today. I mean, now it’s hard to get money out of a government to do anything artistic because other things are considered more practical. But it’s curious to me that so many nations are experiencing that same impulse at the same time—they’re saying “Oh, it’s important for us to have anthem, it’s important for us to have a national team at the Olympics, it’s important for us to put on plays and give people a sense of cultural heritage and pride.” It just seemed like too many coincidences not to be something, and that’s really where the idea came from. JPPE : How has the relationship between nationhood and culture and performance in literature or literary methods shifted over time and geography? How have different power systems influenced this? Bainbridge : From what I’ve done in terms of preliminary research and writing the proposal, in the early days of these postcolonial movements, there was a lot of effort made to put a good face on independence. There was a sense of celebration, liberation, where we start to see things like emerging Pan-Africanism, Black Nationalism, a sort of international perspective that’s thinking of people of color and oppressed people as in league with each other, as having shared destinies. And I think that’s really, really fascinating. I also think that as time goes on, and we start to see some of the hangover of postcolonial excitement, we start to see less and less of these performances, at least in my early stages of research for this second project. While there’s this big boom at the beginning of, “we need to have plays and pageantry and all this stuff to celebrate postcolonial identity,” it starts to slowly wane, not necessarily because I think the interest in promoting cultural identity goes away, but because other emerging issues of forming an independent nation come to the fore, things like being recognized internationally, economic downturn, the strength of the dollar—these become more prevalent at the front. As many nations became sort of undermined by the international community, we just see less and less of it. That’s the trajectory that I’m tracing now. Why is there this period of just explosion of creativity? And then the creativity doesn’t go away, the creation doesn’t go away, but some of the funding goes away, and when people are less inclined to put money behind something, it becomes less visible. And now, my work as a historian is to trace what became less visible. JPPE : Did the burst of creativity also come during independence movements? Bainbridge : Yeah, so we start to see them in the line with a lot of independence movements. I start the book with Aimé Césaire’s and others’ formulation of Négritude in the 1930s, which is interesting because Césaire himself is a politician, poet, theorist, global citizen—you know, he’s doing all this stuff. So I start with that, and then I think as time goes on—like anything, creativity is a plant, it needs water to grow, it needs funding to grow, it needs support to grow—we start to see people investing, especially because a lot of these early politicians had a sense of culture and literature that was more acute. They’re reading Marx, they’re reading cultural theory, they’re exchanging ideas, they’re organizing festivals and things together. There’s a lot of shared destiny in their thinking. But I think, because the idea of nation-state often gets framed, especially from a Western perspective, as individualistic—there’s the idea that you have to support and protect the boundaries and borders and we hear that rhetoric all the time here in the US—we start to see that it doesn’t disappear, people are still engaging and writing and making the stuff, but we just see a shift in focus, and I think that’s really where art reaches its limit a little bit. JPPE : How can theory and literature help us understand modern imperialism and the continuing legacies of past imperialism? Bainbridge : That’s really a great question. I’ll reference again Stephanie Batiste’s book because I think she does an excellent and really articulate job of discussing the connection between imperialism and performance. I do think that the work we make in any given historical moment is informed by what’s happening around us. Even if you set a sci-fi thriller in the year 3500, it’s informed by the moment you write it in. We know that implicitly as people who study literature and study performance, but I think it’s also curious as we start to see work now take up that charge but in a commercial sense. The work that I study was primarily funded by governments, and I’m interested in that aspect of things, but I was teaching the Swing Mikado (or the all-Black cast of the Mikado ) to my students a couple weeks ago, and one of them brought up—so I can’t take credit for this—they brought up that it’s really interesting to see that this moment is so concerned with US militarism and involvement around the world, and we’re coming off the wake of World War I, launching right into World War II, and then the Korean War and Vietnam, and we’re seeing all these things. And they made an analogy between the Swing Mikado or the all-Black cast of the Mikado and Hamilton , and how those two things speak to each other. They were saying that if the question of the moment when Swing Mikado came out in the 1930s was emerging US military involvement and imperialism, then the question of Hamilton is the hangover and wake of multiculturalism and what moment we’re in now as a society. And there’s lots to be said about Hamilton , I don’t know if I necessarily need to go down that rabbit-hole, but one thing that I find fascinating about it—and I didn’t see a live production, I saw the Disney Plus recording of the stage version—is that I think the music is actually quite good but I think that what it’s doing in terms of cross-racial casting is actually really confusing and not necessarily as successful as people think. So, I’m curious about that connection because, if the question of that moment was emerging imperialism, the question of this moment is now entrenched imperialism coupled with the hangover of 90s and early 2000s multiculturalism, and the promise of that moment. When I was a kid in the 90s, multiculturalism was everywhere. There was this idea that if we just put people forward enough, if we just represent people enough, if we just have enough TV shows with diverse casts, that will solve the problem of race or solve the problem of classism or xenophobia. And now, many years later, we see the failings of that. But I think the hopefulness of something like Hamilton is directly linked to that movement and that moment. Previous Next

Ria Modak Khadi Capitalism: Gandhian Neoliberalism and the Making of Modern India Ria Modak The postcolonial invocation of Mohandas Gandhi brings to mind a singular image: Gandhi dressed in a simple dhoti and shawl made from khadi, or home-spun and home woven cloth, sitting in front of his spinning wheel. This recollection of Gandhi positions him as both the embodiment of Indian national consciousness as well as a figure outside or above modernity, insulated from the hegemonic influence of Western reason and secularism. Modernity, encapsulated by the socio- political, economic, and cultural institutions and frameworks birthed by post-Enlightenment rationality, is seen as incompatible with the fundamental tenets of Gandhian political philosophy. Yet, in researching the massive corpus of Gandhi’s collected writings and speeches, I found that his entanglements of modernity, cap- italism, and nationalism were less straightforward than conventional Indian historiography might suggest. Gandhi’s political philosophy offers an entry point to address fundamental questions about nation thinking, modernity, and postcolonial futurity: can the postcolonial subject articulate political possibilities that move beyond the nation state without sacrificing the material considerations of global capitalism? Put differently, is it possible to imagine and enact a world order that transcends the hegemonic structuring forces of Western modernity? These questions are particularly resonant as we come to terms with the price of modern progress, which, in the stark words of Horkheimer and Adorno, has left us a world “radiant with triumphant calamity” (1). Critiques of modern living are boundless, ranging from Frankfurt school critiques of its reification of reason to Subaltern Studies’ lamentations of Western epistemological hegemony (2) to arguments from the Black radical tradition that colonialism and modernity are inextricably linked (3). However, as scholars look beyond the modern Western intellectual tradition and locate alternative ways of being to create more liberatory political realities, it is crucial that we think critically about how radical these alternatives truly are. Some alternatives, like those found in Gandhi’s political philosophy, cannot help but be, to invoke the work of David Scott, conscripts of modernity. While historians and political theorists of contemporary India alike argue that Gandhi summarily rejected modern frameworks of nationalism, industrialism, and rationality itself, I contend that Gandhian political philosophy, rather than existing above the conceits of Western modernity, is intimately tied to Western civil society and its social, political, and economic manifestations. More specifically, it closely resembles neoliberal forms of social relations and economy. The fundamental methodologies and frameworks undergirding Gandhian political philosophy ultimately reinscribe the hegemonic global capitalist order even while they seem, on inspection, to articulate a radically different futurity. This paper’s critical intervention, then, challenges the underlying assumptions of conventional Indian historiography by exposing its inability to reckon with Gandhi as a fundamentally modern political figure entrenched in the machinations of globalized neoliberalism. I suggest that a more critical reading of Gandhi-- one that accurately locates his political philosophy as a modern intellectual contribution-- is necessary in order to make sense of India’s postcolonial future. After an outline of conventional Indian historiography and its fixation with Gandhi within the nationalist paradigm, I turn to elements of Gandhi’s political philosophy and political economy to expose its similarities to modern neoliberal ideology and economics. Nationalist Historiography: A Dominant Discourse The conventional story of the Indian nationalist movement emphasizes the role of prolonged popular struggle; the diverse political and ideological visions of its leadership; and a uniquely revolutionary atmosphere of freedom and debate (4). The first stage of the independence movement was defined by the cultivation of an elite consciousness and the emergence of moderate nationalist activity; statesmen and politicians like Dadabhai Naoroji and Gopal Krishna Gokhale sought to achieve piecemeal reform through constitutional methods while keeping faith in the British justice system (5). As these gradual efforts failed to bring about substantive change, a more extremist brand of nationalism emerged. Through the swadeshi movement, militant nationalists like Lala Lajpat Rai and Bal Gangadhar Tilak fomented wide-spread political agitation by boycotting British institutions and goods (6). In this highly charged political context, Gandhi launched several satyagraha , or non-violent resistance, campaigns, including the non-cooperation movement and the Quit India movement, successfully mobilizing the masses (7). The culmination of this protracted struggle for freedom was, of course, Indian independence and the ensuing violence of Partition. This dominant narrative of the Indian freedom struggle foregrounds nationalism as a guiding principle, first to unify the social, economic, and political demands of a vastly heterogeneous population, and later to create a sovereign and secular nation state that embodies the will of the people. In depicting nationalism as the primary structuring force in the making of modern India, the mainstream approach to Indian history is representative of other, more extreme, approaches to historiography, including Hindu nationalist, Marxist, and even subaltern perspectives. All Indian history, in other words, is told as nationalist history. Hindu nationalist retellings of the independence movement represent Indian nationalism as a brand of ethnic nationalism in which nationality is an inherent genetic characteristic (8). By villainizing Muslim subjects, it replaces the secular liberal state of conventional historiography with a Hindu state: the Indian nation is the Hindu nation (9). Marxist historiography, in contrast, traces the rise and fall of India as a socialist state through retelling history from below, analyzing the role of peasant revolts and general strikes in inciting nationalist fervor. It conceptualizes the positive aspects of the nationalist movement (i.e. the bourgeois-democratic values of secularism, women’s rights, freedom of the press etc.) as the initial points for a people’s front (10). While subaltern historiographical approaches drew inspiration from Marxist methods, their characterization of the nationalist movement splits Indian politics into elite and subaltern spheres, each of which articulated a unique form of nationalism (11). Each of these historiographical approaches, in summary, insist on reifying the defining characteristic of national- ism according to the field’s preeminent scholars: congruence between the political and national unit (12). Within this discourse, the figure of Gandhi emerges as the very embodiment of nationalist consciousness. During the freedom struggle, he acquired the informal, but highly popularized, title of Father of the Nation, an appellation which continues to inform Gandhi’s central role in Indian postcolonial imagination. Countless films, television programs, plays, and documentaries continue to memorialize his life and work both within and outside of India. From Richard Attenborough’s 1982 film Gandhi to Doordarshan’s 52 episode-long teleserial Mahatma, the figure of Gandhi continues to pervade India’s nationalist project (13). Gandhi plays a crucial role in the symbolic consolidation of state power: his birthday and death day are both celebrated as national holidays; his image appears on paper currency of nearly all denominations issued by the Reserve Bank of India; and the International Gandhi Peace Prize is awarded annually by the Government of India as a tribute to Gandhian ideals. From the independence movement to our own political moment, Gandhi and the nationalist project have fused into an inseparable unit. Contemporary theorists of Indian nationalism argue that the conflation of Gandhi and the nation can be attributed to Gandhi’s refusal to adopt the values and assumptions of Western modernity. Partha Chatterjee suggests that by rejecting the modernizing ethos of Western rationality, Gandhi remained unencumbered by the Enlightenment thematic: “[n]ot only did Gandhi not share the historicism of the nationalist writers, he did not share their confidence in rationality and the scientific mode of knowledge” (14). Dipesh Chakrabarty and Rochona Majumdar argue that Gandhi’s reliance on the Bhagavad Gita, a Hindu scripture, allowed for the articulation of a novel religio-ethical orientation in the realm of politics, which he saw as intrinsically linked to Western modernity (15). This seemingly wholesale rejection of Western modernity, according to many historians of modern and postcolonial India, is clearly visible in Gandhi’s public image (16). As he embraced his role as a satyagrahi, he traded the Western robes of the barrister for a simple dhoti and shawl made from khadi. Gandhi’s khadi attire was transformed into a material artifact of the nation defined in terms of the contemporary politics and economics of self rule (17). Gandhi’s physical appearance, in other words, paralleled his ideological distance from Western modernity. Gandhi’s rejection of modern social, political, and economic frameworks is often contrasted to other leading statesmen and intellectuals of Indian freedom. He is most frequently counterposed with Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first prime minister. Conventional Indian historiography narrates the differences between Gandhi and Nehru as such: where Nehru was a proponent of statist secular socialism driven by industrial growth, Gandhi was profoundly ambivalent about state intervention in agriculture and industry; where Nehru located India’s future in the creation of the modern city, Gandhi presented the self-sufficient and autonomous village as an alternative to modern civilization; where Nehru saw economic development as central to Indian independence, Gandhi sought self-purification and the cultivation of individual ethical consciousness (18). Scholars of modern India also juxtapose Gandhi’s religious orientation and appeals to Hinduism with the anti-caste, radical democratic humanism of B.R. Ambedkar, renowned Dalit leader and the architect of India’s constitution (19). Where Gandhi revered village life as a revival of the old social order, Ambedkar saw the village as a model of oppressive Hindu social organization which segregated upper caste communities from lower caste communities; where Gandhi turned to religion as a source of ethics, Ambedkar glorified the secular humanist ideals of the French Revolution; where Gandhi urged spiritual and religious education in Hindustani, Ambedkar demanded that English be used in schools to counter the Brahmin tradition of denying education and literacy to lower caste communities (20). In comparison to Nehru, Ambedkar, and others, Gandhian political philosophy is depicted in mainstream Indian historiography as irrefutably anti-modern. However, as I argue below, this characterization of Gandhi does not accurately reflect his political philosophy. Defining the Gandhian Problem Space Rather than articulating a radical alternative to Western modernity, Gandhian political philosophy was entrenched in the systems, structures, and frameworks of modernity, and more specifically, those of neoliberal capitalism. Before addressing the specifics of Gandhi’s political philosophy, it is first necessary to locate Gandhi more comprehensively within his problem space to better establish the stakes of my argument. In his work Conscripts of Modernity: The Tragedy of Colonial Enlightenment, David Scott introduces the idea of the problem space, which he defines as “an ensemble of questions and answers around which a horizon of identifiable stakes (conceptual as well as ideological-political stakes) hangs” (21). Theoretical work cannot be read, in other words, without identifying the questions to which that work responds. Even while actors within a particular problem space may disagree on the answers in a particular scenario, they are all responding to the same set of unspoken questions while maintaining a shared sense of the stakes. Intellectuals, statesmen and activists may disagree on how to decolonize, for example, while implicitly agreeing that something must be done to address the condition of colonized people. In the previous section, I gestured to one aspect of Gandhi’s problem space by outlining the background against which he formed his ideas in the space and time of the Indian freedom movement; in that spatio-temporal location, Gandhi’s problem space was constructed by Hindu scripture and the formation of religion as ethics. However, the Gandhian problem space was not circumscribed by the borders of the Indian nation; rather, it existed concomitantly with other approaches to decolonization during the mid-twentieth century. On the whole, these other projects struggled, mostly unsuccessfully, to articulate a postcolonial future out- side the terms of nationalism and modernity. In the Anglophone Black Atlantic, statesmen and intellectuals like Kwame Nkrumah and Eric Williams proposed federalism and non-domination on the global stage as solutions to the problem of empire (22). In the Francophone Black Atlantic, Aime Cesaire and Leopold Sedar Senghor sought to transform imperial France into a democratic federation with former colonies as autonomous members of a transcontinental polity (23). Within this internationalist problem space of decolonization characterized by “an attitude of anticolonial longing, a longing for anti-colonial revolution,” actors from all over the decolonizing world sought to engage in a radical project of worldmaking. However, many reinscribed colonial legacies by adopting the institutions, bureaucracies, and borders of colonial domination. Within the context of this problem space, then, Gandhi’s apparent rejection of modernity took on additional stakes as one of the few truly radical alternatives to nation thinking and capitalist state formation, not just in the Indian context but in the decolonizing world as a whole. However, this perception of Gandhi’s ideological distance from modernity is fundamentally misguided. In the three sections that follow, I analyze some of the fundamental tenets of Gandhi’s political philosophy and political economy to draw conceptual linkages to neoliberal capitalism. I first consider Gandhi’s attention to the individual as a unit of analysis in the struggle for independence, and argue that his conceptualization of swaraj as self-purification elided a structural understanding of colonialism as an oppressive force. Next, I critique Gandhi’s political ideal of Ramarajya and analyze his rejection of Western civilization. Finally, I turn to his visions of political economy, and in particular, his fixation with khadi to argue that Gandhi’s economic programme was, in fact, far closer to neoliberalism than most scholars would admit. Before addressing Gandhi’s political philosophy in full, it is helpful to first situate my argument within the field of Gandhi studies and critiques of Gandhi. Beginning in the early twentieth century, trade unionists like Shripad Amrit Dange took issue with the conservative strains within Gandhi’s economic thought, comparing it to the ideology of Soviet leaders like Vladimir Lenin (24). Contemporary scholars of India have taken up these critiques, pointing to his defense of the propertied classes, his ambivalence toward trade unions, and his philosophy of trusteeship as evidence of his imbrication in modern systems of capitalism and nationalism (25). However, few scholars have taken a theoretical approach to Gandhian political philosophy as a whole; those that do characterize his anticolonialism as fundamentally opposed to the modern state (26). My intervention complicates both of these approaches by engaging in a theoretical and deeply normative consideration of Gandhian thought. Swaraj as Self Purification and the Cultivation of Neoliberal Social Relations In his seminal treatise on political philosophy, Hind Swaraj, Gandhi puts forth a unique definition of swaraj , or self rule, that offers several dimensions through which to understand the stakes and motivations of the freedom struggle. First, Gandhian swaraj must be understood through the praxis of the individual, who is “the one supreme consideration” (27): it is “in the palm of our hands... Swaraj has to be experienced by each one for himself” (28). The practitioner of swaraj is the individual, not society or community (29). Gandhi’s focus on internal moral transformation leaves ambiguous the role of coalitional organizing and community building. In addition, Gandhi’s notion of swaraj is not generated in reaction to the brutality of colonial rule, but rather it emerges from an inner commitment to self improvement: “What we want to do should be done, not because we object to the English or because we want to retaliate, but because it is our duty to do so” (30). The political power derived from swaraj, in other words, must not be regarded as an end in itself. Indeed, a third characteristic of Gandhian swaraj is that it is not predicated on self determination or economic independence: “Now you will have seen that it is not necessary for us to have as our goal the expulsion of the English. If the English become Indianised, we can accommodate them” (31). Rather, swaraj depends on moral development and ethical formation. As such, it is intimately tied to the cultivation of spiritual and religious sensibilities (32) rather than the material considerations of development and industry: “Impoverished India can become free, but it will be hard for an India made rich through immorality to regain its freedom” (33). Gandhian swaraj is not constructed exclusively by material forces, nor does it demand exclusively material solutions. Gandhi’s focus on the individual obfuscates the role of colonialism as a structure of domination. He locates the origins of colonial exploitation in the moral failings of the Indian populace: “The English have not taken India; we have given it to them. They are not in India because of their strength, but because we keep them” (34). Gandhi’s discussion of the emergence of colonial rule is, unsurprisingly, limited in scope; the subject of his analysis is the upper class, upper caste colonized elite: “Who assisted the Company’s officers? Who was tempted at the sight of their silver? Who bought their goods? History testifies that we did all this. In order to become rich all at once, we welcomed the Company’s officers with open arms” (35). His myopic focus on the individual blinds him to the many revolutionary movements led by farmers, mill-workers, and tribal communities to overthrow British rule that were organized on the basis of economic exploitation (36). Gandhi also absolves colonial officers from their role in fomenting religious tensions between Hindus and Muslims through a divide-and-rule policy: “The Hindus and the Mahomedans were at daggers drawn. This, too, gave the Company its opportunity, and thus we created the circumstances that gave the Company its control over India” (37). This revisionist retelling of Hindu-Muslim relations ignores the crucial role of colonial policies in exacerbating religious tensions. The Census of British India of 1871-1872 constructed modern Hindu and Muslim identities as incompatible while the 1909 Morley-Minto reforms created separate electorates for Hindus and Muslims (38), thus fracturing political power (39). Gandhi’s conceptualization of swaraj does not adequately address the systems that continued to uphold the violence of colonial rule through law, bureaucracy, and state violence. By privileging the individual over the systemic, Gandhi’s formulation of swaraj closely resembles the cultivation of neoliberal social relations. While neoliberalism as an economic principle only gained traction in the 1970s after the dissolution of post-war Keynesianism, it also embodies ideological principles which marshal values of human dignity, individualism, and freedom to theorize the free market as a force of domination (40). Ethics and morality under the ideology of neoliberalism, in other words, become highly individualized, as in the case of Gandhian swaraj . This moral dimension has been central to neoliberalism since the beginning of the twentieth century (41), and became particularly salient in the aftermath of the Second World War, when human rights discourse began to interface with neoliberalism to produce a modern version of the colonial civilizing mission by facilitating the emergence of a globalized market civilization in which individual rights and competitive market relations would spread across and within national borders co-constitutively (42). Neoliberalism as a method of understanding and critiquing social relations offers a theoretical framework through which to analyze Gandhian swaraj. To be clear, I am not conflating all forms of religiously inflected self making with neoliberal social relations. I am arguing specifically that Gandhian swaraj, in failing to attend sufficiently to the structural forces of colonial domination, mirrors the highly destructive individualism that constitutes a central feature of neoliberalism. In fact, the very religio-ethical orientation that Gandhi gravitated toward was used as a tool for collective liberation in the context of the Indian freedom movement itself. For example, Muslim revolutionaries like Ashfaqullah Khan and Abul Kalam Azad invoked Islam and Islamic liberation theology to mobilize In- dian Muslim subjects in the independence struggle by centering the mosque as a site of resistance and reciting the Quran and fasting for Ramadan while jailed as political prisoners (43). In contrast to Gandhian swaraj, their religious sensibilities confronted the colonial state by producing solidarity among many diverse Muslim communities. A Critique of Ramarajya: Caste, Capitalism and Gandhi’s Ideal Civilization To reiterate, Gandhi is understood by most scholars as rejecting modernity because of his scathing critiques of modern civilization. Modern civilization, rather than the violent state sanctioned brutality of colonialism, was responsible for India’s downfall according to Gandhi: “It is not the British people who are ruling India, but it is modern civilization, through its railways, telegraphs, telepoles, and almost any invention which has been claimed to be a triumph of civilization” (44). The West fell prey to the forces of materialism, hyperrationality, and uncompromising secularism, which are all the inescapable after-effects of modernity. Gandhi expresses his disdain for this civilization in no uncertain terms: “This civilisation takes note of neither morality nor of religion: this civilization is irreligion” (45). Even more lamentably, the West mapped these values onto the East through the process of colonialism. As such, he writes, “India’s salvation consists in unlearning what she has learnt during the past fifty years. The railways, telegraphs, hospitals, law- yers, doctors, and such like have all to go, and the so-called upper classes have to learn to live conscientiously and religiously and deliberately the simple peasant life, knowing it to be a life giving true happiness” (46). These critiques of modern civilization are taken as evidence of Gandhi successfully rising above the conceits of modernity (47). However, it is not enough to consider Gandhi’s critique of modern civilization; rather, we must also analyze his alternative to modern civilization to assess whether or not it breaks free of the very systems Gandhi is opposed to. The fundamental values of Gandhi’s civilizational ideal are distinct from those of what he refers to as modern or material civilization, but their enactment reinforces neoliberal values. He defines true civilization as “that mode of conduct which points out to man the path of duty” (48). True civilization is morally inflected, and therefore spiritually inflected. According to Gandhi, India once adhered to the tenets of true civilization and must work to recover them: “The tendency of Indian civilisation is to elevate the moral being, that of the Western civilisation is to propagate immorality. The latter is godless, the former is based on a belief in God. So understanding and so believing, it behoves every lover of India to cling to the old Indian civilisation even as a child clings to its mother’s breast” (49). True civilization was achieved in the past and can be achieved again if, Gandhi argues, India returns to its original methods of governance, agriculture, industry, and labor while modifying some of its less progressive elements like untouchability: “In order to restore India to its pristine condition, we have to return to it. In our own civilisation, there will naturally be progress, retrogression, reforms and reactions, but one effort is required, and that is to drive out Western civilisation” (50). The fundamental values of Gandhi’s civilization ideal defined a type of morality that was dependent on acting according to one’s duty. The fixation on duty as a morally and religiously constituted ideal is, as I hope to prove, entirely compatible with capitalism and casteism in their modern formulations. Before considering the theoretical implications of Gandhi’s civilizational ethos, it is first necessary to understand how he envisioned their political manifestations through Ramarajya, “ the non-violent state of Gandhi’s vision” (51), his most concrete articulation of an alternative to nation thinking. Admittedly, Gandhi was less concerned with the details of postcolonial institutions, instead preferring a “one step enough” approach (52). However, he wrote extensively on his conceptualization of the ideal state, which he derived from the ancient ideal of Ramarajya, the divine kingdom of Lord Ram. Ramarajya in Gandhi’s formulation consisted of a federation of self governing and semi-autonomous panchayats , or village councils. The authority of the federation would be limited to the coordination, guidance, and supervision of matters of common interest (53). As in the case of swaraj, Ramarajya asserted the supremacy of individual freedom; this individual freedom was to be manifested in each panchayat and the state itself (54). Yet, these individual freedoms were tempered by Gandhi’s insistence on maintaining the caste system. In order to overcome the “life-corroding competition” of materialism and capitalism, each individual must follow “his own occupation or trade” (55). The law of varna “established certain spheres of action for certain people with certain tendencies,” thus at once naturalizing and institutionalizing caste (56). The shadow of caste, a concrete manifestation of Gandhi’s civilizational ethos of duty and morality, hung over his Ramarajya. Caste as a structuring force in Gandhi’s Ramarajya was not simply an unsavory vestige of pre-modern India; it was central to creating a reformed political and economic system in the postcolonial context. While Ramarajya was highly idealized, in the decades following Gandhi’s death, the Indian government has tried to implement many of its elements through campaigns, most notably the 2014 Clean India Mission ( Swachh Bharat Abhiyan ). The Clean India Mission is a country wide campaign aimed to “achieve universal sanitation coverage” by eradicating manual scavenging, improving the management of solid and liquid waste, and sustaining open-defecation free behavior (57). It is undoubtedly inspired by Ramarajya: it was initiated on the 150th anniversary of Gandhi’s birthday; volunteers are known as swachhagrahis, clearly in reference to satyagrahis ; and its messaging invokes Gandhian ideals of morality and duty (58). Prime Minister Narendra Modi himself proclaimed, “I must admit that if I had not understood Gandhi’s philosophy so deeply, the programme would not have been a part of my government’s priorities” (59). Yet, the Clean India Mission relied on coercive state action in its interactions with Dalit and Adivasi communities because prevailing ideas of purity and pollution drawn from the caste system perpetuate open defecation in rural India. To spread its message to lower caste and tribal communities, the Clean India Mission relied on the spirit of neoliberal capitalism, aggressive branding, and the monetary aid of multi-million dollar conglomerates like Hindustan Unilever (60). Neoliberal capitalism was the vessel through which casteism could inflict harm (61). The very ideals of morality and duty, when enshrined in the caste system, allowed Ramarajya to exist in accordance with the principles of neoliberal capitalism and state violence. When put into practice, Gandhi’s Ramarajya was not a rejection of modernity and materialism, but rather a manifestation of the most oppressive elements of Western modernity. His ideal form of political governance was invoked to complete a fundamentally modernist project. Khadi Capitalism: A Critique of Gandhi’s Political Economy Just as Gandhi’s political philosophy was highly compatible with neoliberal capitalism, so was his political economy. Like his conceptualization of Ramarajya and political philosophy, Gandhi understood political economy as inseparable from ethical and religious pursuits. Through this religio-ethical lens , individual and societal economic interests were to be collapsed to avoid conflict between the two. Economic progress in the material sense was antagonistic to “real progress” in the ethical sense (62). As part of his political economy, Gandhi urged plain living, which entailed the curtailing of material desires to lead a more sustainable lifestyle: “More and more things are produced to supply our primary needs, less and less will be the violence” (63). He urged small-scale and locally-oriented production that would not require large-scale industrialization or the use of machinery. Gandhi also emphasized the dignity of all forms of labor and suggested that every person, no matter their class status, should engage in manual labor, which he called, after Leo Tolstoy, “bread labor,” to understand the plight of agricultural laborers (64). Plain living, small-scale production, and bread labor, in summation, formed the basis of Gandhi’s political economy. The khadi programme was essential in enacting Gandhi’s political economy. Khadi was meant to be the national industry to benefit the masses by providing supplementary work to unemployed rural hands. The economics of khadi included a plan to produce, distribute, exchange, and consume hand-spun yarn and cloth. Its effects were meant to diminish unemployment, augment economic productivity, and increase the purchasing power and of the poor. As it was geared towards India’s rural population, khadi could rely on only the most simple and accessible technologies: the loom and the spinning wheel. It also had to rely on a local re- source base for production and consumption (65). As such, khadi played a crucial role in defining the structures of exchange in Gandhi’s political economy: each village had to be self supporting and self contained to adhere to the khadi programme. According to this highly fragmented doctrine, villages should only exchange necessary commodities with other villages where they are not locally producible (66). Although khadi was meant to deliver material economic benefits to India’s rural population, as with other elements of Gandhi’s political economy, it also took on a profoundly moral dimension. It was integral to establishing what Gandhi referred to as a “non-violent economic order” (67). While mill-made cloth was cheaper than khadi, it relied on “dishonesty,” “violence and untruth,” which is why it had to be opposed (68). In the scope of Gandhi’s political economy, khadi was necessary to address the economic and moral needs of the Indian masses. In promoting the khadi programme, Gandhi articulated an unequivocal opposition to industrialism and, by extension, state socialism. Labor-saving machinery, according to Gandhi, was highly detrimental to the lives of rural Indians; it was antagonistic to both man’s labor and true civilization: “Machinery has begun to desolate Europe. Ruination is now knocking at the English gates. Machinery is the chief symbol of modern civilisation; it represents a great sin” (69). While states- men like Nehru urged state-sponsored large-scale industrialization to bring India’s economy onto the globalized stage (70), Gandhi insisted that “India does not need to be industrialised in the modern sense of the term” (71). His apathy towards state socialism was grounded in this uncompromising opposition to industrialism: if industrialism was a necessary step in implementing socialist policies, he would reject those policies. However, while khadi was avowedly anti-industrialist, it was not unambiguously anti-modern. Just as Gandhi’s political philosophy resembles neoliberal ethical formation by erasing the structural role of colonialism, khadi does the same by erasing the structural role of capitalism. Gandhi’s political economy addressed the problem of inequality primarily on the individual level by pleading for necessary changes in lifestyle to limit one’s needs and conceptualizing the economy in moral terms. The cultivation of individual economic health apart from the travails of industrialism and heavy machinery was the guiding principle in Gandhi’s political economy: ethics and morality became co-opted by the logic of neoliberal individualism. The more structural features of khadi -- its production, distribution, exchange and consumption schemes-- also reinforce aspects of neoliberal economy and ideology. The confluence of a lack of state regulation and the supremacy of individual will in the context of atomized, self-sufficient villages is not far from the neoliberal ideal that reifies individual rights and competitive market relations (72). Just as neoliberal ideology obscures class conflict by dissuading class consciousness through the vocabulary of individualism, the moral and ideological ramifications of khadi portray class warfare as an instrument of social violence and disharmony (73). Gandhian political economy sought to resolve economic inequality by pre- serving human dignity rather than ensuring material gains (74). Gandhi’s political economy, in sum, was not so distant from modern neoliberalism. Conclusion: Confronting the Postmodern Turn in Postcolonial Studies Thus, Gandhi’s political philosophy and political economy were not divorced from Western modernity. Contrary to the writings of most historians and political theorists of contemporary India, I suggest that Gandhi’s political thought closely resembles neoliberal ideology, social relations, and economy even while it may seem, on inspection, unequivocally anti-modern. The methodological individual- ism that undergirds his conceptualization of swaraj, the centrality of caste and labor division in his political ideal of Ramarajya and his khadi programme all point to significant conceptual linkages to neoliberal capitalism. Through a critical reading of his work, I contend that Gandhi was not above modernity: he was entrenched in the systems, structures, and ideologies of modernity. Understanding Gandhi’s political philosophy as a modern intellectual contribution is crucial in confronting the recent postmodernist and poststructuralist turn in postcolonial studies, which seeks to replace class analysis or history from below with textual analysis and cultural theory (75). This new orientation, through its methodological individualism, depoliticization of the social from the material realm, and wholesale refusal of programmatic politics, is both conservative and authoritarian (76). By prioritizing ideology over existing structures of domination, in other words, it fails to engage with the material realities of colonialism and capitalism. This brand of scholarship, as I prove, uses Gandhi as its shining example. In my paper, I have attempted to dislodge this conventional perception of Gandhi as the embodiment of pure Indian nationalism untouched by Western modernity by pointing to the material implications of his political thought. In doing so, I hope to challenge the postmodern impulse within postcolonial studies. More importantly, I strongly believe that a critical reading of Gandhi is necessary in our contemporary political moment. More than 250 million farm workers in India went on strike in November 2020 to demand better working conditions, including the withdrawal of new anti-farm bills that would deregulate agricultural markets by giving corporations the staggering power to set crop prices far below current minimum rates. Farmers are confronting neoliberal excess in its most globalized form, facing off against Prime Minister Modi as well as dozens of multinational corporations. While invocations of Gandhian political philosophy by far-right figures like Modi are often characterized as erroneous distortions of his thought within liberal nationalist scholarship, in reality they are the logical conclusions of his arguments (77). Within the corpus of Gandhi’s work lie the seeds of neoliberal exploitation. As farmers come to terms with an ever-growing and exploitative globalized economy, a careful examination of Gandhi’s political thought may inform what a just postcolonial future should, and shouldn’t, embody. Endnotes 1 Max Horkheimer and Theodor W. Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment: Philosophical Fragments, ed. Gunzelin Schmid Noerr, trans. Edmund Jephcott (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002), 1. 2 Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 4. 3 Aime Cesaire, Discourse on Colonialism, trans. Joan Pinkham (New York: Monthly Review Press, 2000), 9. 4 Bipin Chandra, India’s Struggle for Independence, 1857-1947, (New Delhi, India; Viking, 1998), 14. 5 Sumit Sarkar, Modern India: 1885-1947, (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989), 92. 6 Sugata Bose and Ayesha Jalal, Modern South Asia: History, Culture, Political Economy, (Routledge, 2017), 92. 7 Bose and Jalal, Modern South Asia, 110. 8 Liah Greenfeld, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity, (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992), 11. 9 Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, Hindutva: Who is a Hindu? (Bombay, India: Veer Savarkar Prakashan, 1969), 2. 10 Irfan Habib, Essays in Indian History: Towards a Marxist Perception, (New Delhi, India: Tulika, 1995), 10. 11 Gyan Prakash, “Subaltern Studies as Postcolonial Criticism,” The American Historical Review 99, no. 5 (1994): 1478. 12 Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983), 1. 13 Shanti Kumar, Gandhi Meets Primetime: Globalization and Nationalism in Indian Television, (Baltimore: University of Illinois Press, 2005), 17. 14 Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse, (Minneapolis : University of Minnesota Press, 1993), 96. 15 Dipesh Chakrabarty and Rochona Majumdar, “Gandhi’s Gita and Politics As Such,” Modern Intellectual History 7, no. 2 (2010): 338. 16 For a good scholarly overview, see Sanjeev Kumar, Gandhi and the Contemporary World, (Taylor and Francis, 2019). 17 Lisa Trivedi, Clothing Gandhi’s Nation: Homespun and Modern India, (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007), xx. 18 Surinder S. Jodhka, “Nation and Village: Images of Rural India in Gandhi, Nehru and Ambedkar,” Economic and Political Weekly 37, no. 32 (2002): 3347. 19 Arundhati Roy, The Doctor and The Saint: Caste, Race, and the Annihilation of Caste: The Debate Between B.R. Ambedkar and M.K. Gandhi (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2017), 2. 20 Aishwary Kumar, Radical Equality: Ambedkar, Gandhi, and the Risk of Democracy, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2017), 338. 21 David Scott, Conscripts of Modernity: The Tragedy of Colonial Enlightenment, (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004), 4. 22 Adom Getachew, Worldmaking After Empire: The Rise and Fall of Self-Determination, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2019), 107. 23 Gary Wilder, Freedom Time: Negritude, Decolonization, and the Future of the World (Durham: Duke University Press, 2015), 10. 24 Shripad Amrit Dange, Gandhi vs Lenin (Bombay, India: Liberty Literature Company, 1921), 15. 25 Vivek Chibber, Postcolonial Theory and the Specter of Capital (London: Verso, 2013), 282. 26 Karuna Mantena, “On Gandhi’s Critique of the State: Sources, Contexts, Conjunctures,” Modern Intellectual History 9, no. 3 (2012): 535. 27 Mohandas Gandhi, The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, vol. 25 (New Delhi: Publications Division, Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India, 1989), 252. 28 Mohandas Gandhi, Hind Swaraj and Other Writings, ed. Anthony J. Parel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 71. 29 Koneru Ramakrishan Rao, Gandhi’s Dharma, (New Delhi, India: Oxford University Press, 2017), 105. 30 Gandhi, Hind Swaraj, 116. 31 Ibid, 71. 32 I conflate these terms carefully: according to Gandhi, religion and morality could not be disentangled. Throughout Hind Swaraj, he emphasizes that they are entirely co-constitutive. 33 Gandhi, Hind Swaraj, 106. 34 Ibid, 38-39. 35 Ibid. 36 Subho Basu, Does Class Matter? Colonial Capital and Workers Resistance in Bengal, 1890-1937, (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2004), 238-62. 37 Gandhi, Hind Swaraj, 40. 38 Rajmohan Gandhi, Eight Lives: A Study of the Hindu-Muslim Encounter, (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1986), 6. 39 Of course, in reality this narrative is not so simple.There was a clear sense of difference and tension between Hindu and Muslim communities long before British rule. However, I argue that Gandhi’s telling of this history erases the role that British colonialism played in intensifying these tensions for political gain. 40 David Harvey, A Brief History of Neoliberalism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 12. 41 Jessica Whyte, The Morals of the Market: Human Rights and the Rise of Neoliberalism, (La Vergne: Verso, 2019), 4. 42 Whyte, The Morals of the Market, 8. 43 Pran Nath Chopra, Role of Indian Muslims in the Struggle for Freedom, (New Delhi, India: Light & Life Publishers, 1979), 6. 44 Gandhi, “Letter to H.S.L. Pollack” in Hind Swaraj, 128. 45 Gandhi, Hind Swaraj, 36. 46 Gandhi, “Letter to H.S.L. Pollack” in Hind Swaraj, 129. 47 Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World, 98. 48 Gandhi, Hind Swaraj, 65. 49 Ibid. 50 Gandhi, Hind Swaraj, 104. 51 Rao, Gandhi’s Dharma, 210. 52 G.N. Dhawan, The Political Philosophy of Mahatma Gandhi, (Bombay, India: Popular Book Depot, 1946), 126. 53 Ibid, 282. 54 Raghavan Iyer, The Moral and Political Thought of Mahatma Gandhi, (New York: Oxford University Press), 86. 55 Gandhi, Hind Swaraj, 66. 56 Ramarajya also poses interesting and important questions about gender and patriarchy in village life, but unfortunately this line of inquiry is outside the scope of this paper. 57 “Swachh Bharat Mission,” Government of India, https://swachhbharatmission.gov.in/sbmcms/index.htm. 58 Swachh Bharat Mission,” Government of India, https://swachhbharatmission.gov.in/sbmcms/index.htm. 59 “PM Modi: Gandhi inspired me to launch Swachh Bharat,” Economic Times, Published October 2, 2018, https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/news/politics-and-nation/pm-modi-gandhi-inspired-me-to-launch-s wachh-bharat/articleshow/66045561.cms?from=mdr. 60 “Hindustan Unilever Limited: Spreading the message of Swachh Aadat across India,” The Hindu, Published April 30, 2018, https://www.thehindu.com/brandhub/hindustan-unilever-limited-spreading-the-message-of-swachh-aadat- across-india/article23729983.ece. 61 Anand Teltumbde, Republic of Caste: Thinking Equality in the Time of Neoliberal Hindutva, (New Delhi, India: Navayana, 2018), 24. 62 Gandhi, “Economic and Moral Development” in Hind Swaraj, 154. 63 Gandhi, The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, vol. 22, 143. 64 Ibid, vol. 12, 51. 65 Trivedi, Clothing Gandhi’s Nation, 81. 66 Gandhi, The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, vol. 51, 92. 67 Ibid. 68 Ibid. 69 Gandhi, Hind Swaraj, 106. 70 Chibber, Postcolonial Theory and the Specter of Capital, 249. 71 Gandhi, The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, vol. 51, 93. 72 Whyte, The Morals of the Market, 12. 73 Harvey, A Brief History of Neoliberalism, 16. 74 Madan Gandhi, Marx and Gandhi: Study in Ideological Polarities, (Chandigarh, India: Vikas Bharti, 1969), 32. 75 Sumit Sarkar, “The Decline of the Subaltern in Subaltern Studies,” in Sarkar, Writing Social History (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997), 83. 76 Arif Dirlik, “The Postcolonial Aura: Third World Criticism in the Age of Global Capitalism,” Critical Inquiry 20:2 (1994): 334. 328-56. 77 Mihir Bose, From Midnight to Glorious Morning? India Since Independence, (London: Haus Publishing, 2017), 122. Works Cited Basu, Subo. Does Class Matter? Colonial Capital and Workers Resistance in Bengal, 1890-1937. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2004. Bose, Mihir. From Midnight to Glorious Morning? India Since Independence. London: Haus Publishing. 2017. Bose, Sugata and Ayesha Jalal. Modern South Asia: History, Culture, Political Economy. Routledge, 2017. Cesaire, Aime. Discourse on Colonialism. Translated by Joan Pinkham. New York: Monthly Review Press, 2000. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). Chakrabarty, Dipesh and Rochona Majumdar, “Gandhi’s Gita and Politics As Such,” Modern Intellectual History, 7, no. 2 (2010): 335-353 Chandra, Bipin. India’s Struggle for Independence , 1857-1947. New Delhi, India; Viking, 1998. Chatterjee, Partha. Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse. Minneapolis : University of Minnesota Press, 1993). Chibber, Vivek. Postcolonial Theory and the Specter of Capital. London: Verso, 2013. Chopra, Pran Nath. Role of Indian Muslims in the Struggle for Freedom . New Delhi, India: Light & Life Publishers, 1979. Dange, Shripad Amrit. Gandhi vs Lenin. Bombay, India: Liberty Literature Company, 1921. Dhawan, G.N. The Political Philosophy of Mahatma Gandhi. Bombay, India: Popular Book Depot, 1946. Dirlik, Arif. “The Postcolonial Aura: Third World Criticism in the Age of Global Capitalism,” Critical Inquiry 20:2 (1994): 328-56. Gandhi, Madhan. Marx and Gandhi: Study in Ideological Polarities. Chandigarh, India: Vikas Bharti, 1969. Gandhi, Mohandas. Hind Swaraj and Other Writings. Edited by Anthony J. Parel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). ———. The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, vol. 12. New Delhi: Publications Division, Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India, 1989. ———. The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, vol. 22. New Delhi: Publications Division, Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India, 1989. ———. The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, vol. 25. New Delhi: Publications Division, Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India, 1989. ———. The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, vol. 51. New Delhi: Publications Division, Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India, 1989. Gandhi, Rajmohan. Eight Lives: A Study of the Hindu-Muslim Encounter. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1986). Gellner, Ernst. Nations and Nationalism. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983. Getachew, Adom. Worldmaking After Empire: The Rise and Fall of Self-Determination. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2019. Greenfeld, Liah. Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992. Habib, Irfan. Essays in Indian History: Towards a Marxist Perception. New Delhi, India: Tulika, 1995. Harvey, David. A Brief History of Neoliberalism. New York: Oxford University Press, 2005. “Hindustan Unilever Limited: Spreading the message of Swachh Aadat across India.” The Hindu. Published April 30, 2018, https://www.thehindu.com/brandhub/hindustan-unilever-limited-spreading-the- message-o f-swa- chh-aadat-across-india/article23729983.ece Horkheimer, Max and Theodor W. Adorno. Dialectic of Enlightenment: Philosophical Fragments. Edited by Gunzelin Schmid Noerr. Translated by Edmund Jephcott. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002. Iyer, Raghavan. The Moral and Political Thought of Mahatma Gandhi. New York: Oxford University Press. Jodhka, Surinder S. “Nation and Village: Images of Rural India in Gandhi, Nehru and Ambedkar.” Economic and Political Weekly 37, no. 32 (2002): 3343- 3353. Kumar, Aishwary. Radical Equality: Ambedkar, Gandhi, and the Risk of Democracy. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2017. Kumar, Shanti. Gandhi Meets Primetime: Globalization and Nationalism in Indian Television. Baltimore: University of Illinois Press, 2005. Mantena, Karuna. “On Gandhi’s Critique of the State: Sources, Contexts, Conjunctures.” Modern Intellectual History 9, no. 3 (2012): 535-563. “PM Modi: Gandhi inspired me to launch Swachh Bharat.” Economic Times. Published October 2, 2018, https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/news/politics-and- nation/pm-modi-gandhi-inspired-me-to-launch-swachh-bharat/ articleshow/66045561.cms?from=mdr. Rao, Koneru Ramakrishan. Gandhi’s Dharma. New Delhi, India: Oxford University Press, 2017. Roy, Arundhati. The Doctor and The Saint: Caste, Race, and the Annihilation of Caste: The Debate Between B.R. Ambedkar and M.K. Gandhi. Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2017. Sarkar, Sumit. Modern India: 1885-1947. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989. Savarkar, Vinayak Damodar. Hindutva: Who is a Hindu? Bombay, India: Veer Savarkar Prakashan, 1969. Scott, David. Conscripts of Modernity: The Tragedy of Colonial Enlightenment. Durham: Duke University Press, 2004. “Swachh Bharat Mission.” Government of India. https://swachhbharatmission.gov.in/sbmcms/index.htm. Teltumbde, Anand. Republic of Caste: Thinking Equality in the Time of Neoliberal Hindutva. New Delhi, India: Navayana, 2018. Trivedi, Lisa. Clothing Gandhi’s Nation: Homespun and Modern India. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007. Whyte, Jessica. The Morals of the Market: Human Rights and the Rise of Neoliberalism. La Vergne: Verso, 2019). Wilder, Gary. Freedom Time: Negritude, Decolonization, and the Future of the World (Durham: Duke University Press, 2015. Previous Next

Travis Harper More Than Just a Thought Crime? A Retributivist View of Hate Crime Legislation Travis Harper Most are familiar with the common conception of a hate crime: a violent act that involves some form of animus towards a particular group, usually a protected class. “Hate crimes” are considered to be more morally reprehensible than their counterparts that are not motivated by any particular animus or hatred. Accordingly, different jurisdictions have enacted legislation criminalizing these types of acts, oftentimes associating them with harsher penalties than crimes committed for other reasons. Still, while hate crimes seem like a simple and intuitive concept, the actual statutes that different legislatures enacted to criminalize them tend to vary in their definitions and application. In the United States, for example, anyone who “willfully causes bodily injury to any person... because of the actual or perceived race, color, religion, or national origin of any person” shall be found guilty of a federal hate crime (1). Germany, however, takes a different approach. While “under German criminal law, ‘politically motivated’ (2) hate crimes do not constitute explicit offenses or give rise automatically to higher sentences,” judges have a wide latitude to take aggravating factors into account when sentencing (3). Germany does , however, have a statute which criminalizes those who “incite hatred against” and “violate the human dignity” of populations or individuals on “account of their belonging to a... national, racial, or religious group or a group defined by their ethnic origin” (4) Clearly, the concept of a hate crime is not as intuitive as it seems to be. Thus, the question remains: What is a “hate crime”? Moral and legal theorists have wrestled with this same question, along with raising other concerns. “Hate crimes” are unique in that their mens rea element, the requisite intent of the perpetrator in order to be found guilty of the crime, typically entails proving some form of hatred or bias. Thus, hate crimes effectively criminalize specific “hateful” mental states. Whether or not a person has committed a hate crime does not depend on their actual physical actions; rather, it depends on their motivations in doing so—whether they did so because of some animus towards their victim or a particular group of people. Naturally, this begs the question: To what extent is this justified? Can we punish offenders for their motivations in committing a crime along with their actions? Heidi Hurd, lawyer and legal theorist, sought to answer questions akin to these in her article, “Why Liberals Should Hate ‘Hate Crime Legislation’.” In doing so, Hurd argues that when “hatred and bias are construed as mens rea elements... they [become] alien to traditional criminal law principles”(5). She also argues that hate crime legislation—at least how it is conceived of today—is unjustifiable. Specifically, Hurd outlines that hate crime legislation has no place within our “act-centered theory of criminal punishment” and “liberal theory of legislation” because of the way it effectively criminalizes “emotional states... [that] constitute standing character traits rather than occurrent mental states (intentions, purposes, choices etc.)” (6). Hurd’s critique is quite comprehensive and forces all advocates for hate crime legislation to ask themselves: is there any justification for hate crime legislation that is in line with a liberal theory of legislation? This is the question that this paper seeks to answer. Through a critical analysis of Hurd’s argument, references to other legal theorists and philosophers, and empirical evidence, I will argue that within a retributivist theory of punishment, hate crime legislation is justifiable and morally accept- able. A retributivist theory of punishment prioritizes proportionality, the principle that the punishment associated with a crime varies based upon the severity of the crime, or how morally reprehensible the crime is, which can be determined by the amount of harm an action causes. I will argue that hate crimes cause more severe harm to the victim than do crimes committed for other reasons. Further, since hate crimes are unique in that they cause harm to both the victim and their community, they constitute both a public and private harm. Thus, not only is it morally acceptable, but rather it is required to make hate crimes distinct within the criminal law with increased punishment compared to crimes that are not committed due to any particular animus. Further, I will argue that hate crime legislation does not merely criminalize mental states or political beliefs; rather it criminalizes the explicit intent to cause increased harm to a specific group of people. This is a standard that any hate crime statute should make abundantly clear. It is worthwhile to clarify what this paper does not seek to address. This paper will not weigh the merits of a retributivist’s conception of punishment against that of a consequentialist; surely, a consequentialist’s justification of hate crime legislation would be vastly different, most likely focusing on the possible benefit that could arise from specifically criminalizing hate crimes. Additionally, the paper will not analyze hate crimes and hate crime legislation from a sociological perspective; rather, it will focus on the moral and philosophical implications that legislators must consider when drafting hate crime legislation. Hurd’s Argument Within her critique of hate crime legislation, Hurd offers two possible arguments in support of making hate crimes distinct within the criminal law, entailing harsh- er punishment. The first of these relies upon a precedent within Anglo-American common law. Specifically, it is not uncommon for those who have “particularly vicious reasons for action” to be more harshly punished (7). For example, some jurisdictions have enhanced punishments for pre-meditated murder, those that deliberately take the life of another. Hurd also highlights the existence of “specific intent crimes,” or “crimes that require defendants to commit prohibited actions with certain further purposes” (8). Burglary, for instance, is an example of a specific intent crime as it requires that someone “must break and enter with some further intention, say to steal, rape, or kill” (9). Hurd posits that neither of these doctrines serve as justifications for hate crime legislation, primarily due to her contention that “hatred” and “bias” are emotional states, not occurrent mental states like intentions. If this is the case, then hate crime legislation is inherently criminalizing mental states, leaving those who support hate crime legislation with two lines of argumentation. Firstly, they might argue that the types of hatred and bias typical to hate crime legislation, contending that, for example, “racial hatred or gender bias is morally worse than greed, jealousy, and revenge” (10), or any other motive for that matter. Secondly, they might further a utilitarian argument, claiming that “hatred and bias are uniquely responsive to criminal sanctions in a way that greed, jealousy and vengeance are not” (11). Both of these arguments, however, violate liberalism in the way that they arbitrarily choose a specific motive to be either considerably more morally reprehensible or responsive to criminal sanctions. I take two main responses to Hurd’s argument. First, I take issue with Hurd’s characterization of hatred and bias when they are construed as mens rea elements; hatred and bias can be considered to be occurrent mental states when they are understood as the intent of the actor to create the increased harms associated with hate crimes, not just the actor’s bigoted views in and of themselves. Second, even if this were the case, and hate crimes did criminalize bigoted views, I argue that considering hatred and bias to be particularly culpable mental states is justified. Hate crimes are considerably more morally reprehensible than crimes committed for other reasons because of the aforementioned increased harm they cause, and they deserve increased punishment accordingly. I will address these two concerns separately. Hate Crimes and Specific Intent Crimes One of the key concerns that Hurd addresses is the extent to which hate crime legislation can be drafted within the bounds of liberalism and Anglo-American Common Law. One of Hurd’s main contentions within her article is that hate crime legislation, at least in the way that it is conceived of today, criminalizes emotions or dispositions, as opposed to occurrent mental states. I argue that this is not the case, because of the fact that hate crime legislation does not and should not criminalize the mere fact that a perpetrator holds a specific belief; rather, it should criminalize their intention to cause specific harms to their victim and the victim’s community at large. Michael Moore, in his work The Moral Worth of Retribution, defines “intentions”—within a retributivist theory of punishment—as “function states whose roles are to mediate between background states of motivation and those (bodily) motion-guid- ing states of volition that are parts of actions” (12). Moore illustrates this distinction through the analogy of a person deciding to get their hair cut. The background state of this action is that they “desire to get a haircut,” their intention is the belief that “if [they] go to the barber shop, [they] will get a haircut” and finally, the “motion-guiding state of volition” is that they indeed make the decision in their mind to “go to that barber shop” (13). Thus, the intention that is relevant in regards to criminal liability is one in which the actor decides on a means to reach a specific goal. Applying this framework to hate crimes, the “emotional states’’ that Hurd references are not the intentions that are legally relevant; rather, they are background states of motivations. They are the deep desires of the actor. The intention , however, is the actor’s decision to act upon their bigoted motivations in order to accomplish a variety of goals, whether that be spreading a message, or intimidating members of the group they are targeting. The intention that is legally relevant is that an actor decided to resort to violence in order to spread their bigoted beliefs. Admittedly, most hate crime statutes do not make clear this distinction. Often, they simply mandate that the perpetrator chose their victim “for reason of” one of their specific identities. Thus, any hate crime statute must be clear in that if someone is to be convicted of a hate crime, then they must have intended to cause some specific harm to a particular community. With this understanding of intentions, the mens rea element of hate crimes does not criminalize an emotional state; rather, it criminalizes a specific intent to cause harm, not just to a person but to a broader community. As I will argue later, these harms are legally relevant because they cause hate crimes to be particularly more morally reprehensible than crimes committed for other reasons. Hurd’s critique, in this case, is mostly doctrinal, but it does carry key moral implications. Even if a hate crime causes considerably more harm, the physical action is not different from crime that is completely devoid of any hatred or bias motivation. Is it reasonable to criminalize someone based on the fact that they have hateful beliefs? Is this a violation of the liberalism that grounds Anglo-American common law? The next section of this paper seeks to answer these questions by discussing the morality of hate crimes. Hate Crime Legislation and the Harm Principle In order to justify the distinction within the criminal law between hate crimes and other crimes—particularly when they tend to carry harsher punishment—we must identify a principle that can aid in determining which actions are crimes, and the extent to which they should be punished, if possible. This principle must have two characteristics: (1) It must align and be consistent with a retributivist theory of punishment by being sufficiently “backward-looking” and (2) it must allow for the differentiation of crimes beyond mere moral intuition— differentiating crimes that are “worse” than others, deserving harsher punishment, while aligning with a liberal theory of punishment. John Rawls has famously characterized this theory as one that emboldens the state to enforce the “right” and not the “good” (14). These two specifications ensure that the justificatory logic underpinning hate crime legislation aligns with traditional Anglo-American common law principles, and falls within the scope of this paper and Hurd’s argument. The first of these specifications naturally flows from the scope of this essay. The principle used to justify any sort of hate crime legislation must be “backward-look- ing” or focused on the act itself. This is in opposition to any sort of principle or justification that is consequentialist or “forward-looking.” A consequentialist “approves or disapproves of every action whatsoever, according to the tendency it appears to have to augment or diminish the happiness of the party whose interest is in question” (15), with the “party” at hand being society as a whole, or even the actor themselves. Clearly, a consequentialist’s justification of hate crime legislation is different than that of a retributivist, which this paper intends to address. The second consideration is directly relevant to Hurd’s argument and, naturally, my critique thereof. One of Hurd’s primary critiques of hate crime legislation is that, if “hate” as a mens rea element is not considered to be an “occurrent mental state,” then hate crime legislation effectively criminalizes emotional states. Further, Hurd argues that criminalizing emotional states shifts from a “liberal theory” to a “perfectionist theory” of criminal law. This “liberal theory” of the criminal law extends from the general theory of Political Liberalism. Specifically, in draft- ing legislation, criminal or otherwise, the “government should be neutral among competing conceptions of the good life” (16). Within a society, there will be multiple conceptions of the good life, and the government should only be emboldened to enforce rights that are the result of an “overlapping consensus” that mediates “among conflicting views” (17). Hatred and bias, when not directly connected to an action, are generally considered to be moral beliefs or character traits—and as Hurd notes, “liberals have long believed that theories that construe certain character traits as virtuous or vicious belong to the province of the Good, rather than the Right” (18). Considering that I intend to argue that hate crimes primarily carry harsher sentences due to their being significantly more morally reprehensible than crimes committed for other reasons, the principle used to justify this distinction must aid us in determining which crimes are indeed “more morally reprehensible” beyond one’s moral intuition which would align with a liberal theory of punishment. It is quite easy and normal to determine what crimes “feel” more morally reprehensible based upon our own individual moral intuitions. Legislators, however, cannot simply draft criminal legislation based upon their own subjective moral intuitions on a case to case basis; that would not be entirely consistent with political liberalism. Any principle that we use in determining which crimes are more morally reprehensible must not only be applicable to hate crimes, but to any crime which is being considered. As Aristotle notes, “all law is universal” and legislators must take into account and legislate based upon “the usual case” (19). Thus, the principle used to justify hate crime legislation must also be one that is universally applicable. The principle that is most fitting is the “harm principle,” or the concept that the only actions that can be considered crimes are those that cause harm to others or the public. The most classic explication of this principle can be found in the work of John Stuart Mill, in which he claims that “the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others” (20). Put simply, the government can justify criminalization and punishment, overriding some individual rights, based upon the degree to which one being punished has caused “harm” to others. This principle aligns with the two specifications outlined earlier. The harm principle is sufficiently retributivist; If one were to justify punishment based upon the harm principle they would be focusing on the actions of the individual. Applying the harm principle compels legislators to ask: How much harm did the individual cause in their actions? The answer to this question directly affects whether or not their actions are considered criminal and the extent to which they should be punished. Further, Mill was an ardent liberal, and naturally, the “harm principle” aligns with a liberal theory of punishment. The harm principle works upon the liberal logic that an individual has the right not to be subjected to undue harm. While the harm principle does meet the specifications laid out earlier, “nowhere does [Mill] give an explicit general stipulation” as to what constitutes harm. In order to understand how hate crimes should be considered under the harm principle, we must further define our understanding of “harm” (21). Joel Feinberg, in his work Harm to Others, provides a useful definition of “harm.” Concretely, Feinberg defines it as a “setback to interests” (22) that can relate to an individual or to a wider group of people, where interests are “a miscellaneous collection, [consisting] of all those things which one has a stake” (23). While there are nuisances that could be considered harms—a person’s stock performing poorly, for example, could certainly be understood as a setback to interest—these nuisances only become harms in the legal sense when they are the results of an invasion by others. Further, Feinberg provides that this “invasion” becomes legally relevant if the actor is “in a worse condition than [they] would have otherwise been had the invasion not occurred at all” (24). Take, for example, an instance of a person being physically violent towards another. Physical violence towards another person to which they did not consent would certainly be a setback to the victim’s interests—perhaps to their interests in their own health and wellbeing, especially if they had been injured. Further, they would most definitely be in a worse condition due to the physical “invasion” by the other person. Additionally, harms can also manifest themselves as public or private harms. There are many crimes that most would consider to be harms that do not thwart the interest of one specific person. Take, for instance, those who counterfeit money; they are not harming any one person; rather, they are harming society as a whole, thwarting the interests of society by negatively affecting the economy. Working with this understanding of harm and how it operates within the harm principle, we can begin to analyze hate crimes and the harms that they cause. Subsequently, we can begin to analyze whether or not they are considerably more morally reprehensible, warranting increased punishment. I argue that hate crimes indeed cause significantly more harm because they cause an increased amount of harm to the individual in addition to causing public harm as well. Hate crimes cause increased private harm to their victims given that hate crimes do not just attack a person ; they attack their identity as well, causing a fractured sense of security and identity and leading to a myriad of negative effects, or harms . “Crimes... communicate a message to the victim that they do not count and are not worthy of respect” (25) and once someone becomes the victim of a hate crime, they begin to cope and rationalize why they specifically were targeted. While those who aren’t victims of hate crimes could just cite that they were “at the wrong place at the wrong time,” victims of hate crimes cannot adopt this as a possibility. When one is the victim of a hate crime, they will know that they have been target- ed based upon an aspect of their identity, and this in turn causes their identity to become “central to their internal awareness of why they have been victimized” (26). The unique way in which hate crimes target identity causes a variety of immeasurable harms to victims. They often cite increased sentiments of shame and guilt compared to those that have been victimized for other reasons. Not only that, hate crime victims report increased levels of anxiety and depression compared to those that have been victimized for other reasons. Certainly these negative effects are setbacks to interests as defined by Joel Feinberg. They fracture the victim’s sense of self and cause actual physical ailments, leaving them in a much worse condition than that in which they would have been if they had not been attacked at all, and especially if they had not been victimized because of their identity. Beyond the increased harms that hate crimes cause to their victims, they also cause additional public harm uncharacteristic of crimes committed for other reasons: harm caused to the wider community of the targeted group. While hate crimes are attacks on specific individuals, they are more so “symbolic messages to society about the worthiness of certain groups of people” (27). This message is a signal to minority communities that they are “unequal, unwelcome and undeserving of social respect,” and more pertinently, this message is a threat as well. The message of hate crimes creates a heightened sense of vulnerability and insecurity amongst minority communities that leads to an intense fear of victimization, inhibiting community members from living life without extreme caution. Members of minority communities that have been affected by hate crimes often note that the “fear and anxiety” felt by the victims of hate crimes “spreads to other community members” (28). This can be considered a public harm within the framework of the harm principle that I outlined earlier. The effects that hate crimes cause to minority communities can be defined as a setback to interests; again, it is certainly within our interest to be able to live our lives without fear of persecution or assault. Hate crimes deprive minority communities of their ability to do so. When hate crimes are considered within the framework of the harm principle, it is clear that they are more morally reprehensible. Does this naturally lend itself to the conclusion that they deserve increased punishment? I argue that, within a retributivist theory of punishment, it does lend itself to this conclusion given the principles of proportionality. Within the retributive model proposed by Immanuel Kant, the degree of punishment should adhere to “the principle of equality, by which the pointer of the scale of justice is made to incline no more to the one side than the other” (29). Considering the concept of proportionality within the framework of the harm principle, the degree of punishment for a crime should be proportional to the harm created by the crime. If that is the case, then hate crimes surely warrant increased punishment because of the increased harms that they cause, not only to their direct victims, but also to the communities that they affect. Conclusion This paper sought to provide a justification for hate crime legislation that con- formed to the principles of liberalism and aligned with a retributive theory of punishment. I found that harsher punishment for violent crimes related to hatred or bias towards a specific group can be justified when examined using the harm principle. Because hate crimes cause considerably more harm to their victims and minority communities, they are considerably more morally reprehensible than crimes committed for other reasons. When assessing whether or not these increased harms warrant increased punishment, we can rely on the notion of proportionality —that punishment for a crime should be proportional to the harm it creates. When examined in this way, increasing criminal sanctions for hate crimes is justified. Further, there are a variety of considerations that need to be taken into account when drafting hate crime legislation: specifically, hate crime legislation should be written to construe the mens rea element of the crime to be the intent to cause the increased harms to the individual and the minority community. Hate crimes are intuitively more morally reprehensible. At first we may think that they deserve increased punishment based upon how these crimes make us feel ; however, we should constantly question ourselves, examining whether our gut moral instincts align with the moral doctrines that guide our actions and the criminal law. In this case, hate crimes do indeed deserve increased punishment based upon these moral doctrines. Thus, legislatures intending on criminalizing hate crime legislation, or any crime for that matter, should not only take doctrinal considerations into account, but should also consider the moral justifications for why these actions deserve criminal liability. If this is the case, the law will begin to be much more consistent and comprehensive with the moral doctrines that we have adopted as a society. Endnotes 1 “Hate Crime Acts,” 18 U.S.C § 249 (2009), https://uscode.house.gov/view.xhtml?req=granuleid:USC- prelim-title18-section249&num=0&edition=prelim. 2 According to the German Ministry of Justice and Consumer Protection, a “politically motivated” crime includes crimes committed for reasons of the victim’s race, “political opinion, nationality, ethnicity, race, skin color, religion, belief, origin, disability, sexual orientation.” 3 Human Rights Watch, “The State Response to ‘Hate Crimes’ in Germany: A Human Rights Watch Briefing Paper,” Human Rights Watch, December 9, 2011, https://www.hrw.org/news/2011/12/09/state-response-hate-crimes-germany. 4 “Incitement of Masses,” German Criminal Code § 130 (1998), http://www.gesetze-im-internet.de/englisch_ stgb/englisch_stgb.html#p1241. 5 Heidi Hurd, “Why Liberals Should Hate ‘Hate Crime Legislation,’” Law and Philosophy 20, no. 2 (2001): 216. 6 Hurd, 216. 7 Ibid, 218. 8 Ibid, 218. 9 Ibid, 218. 10 Ibid, 226. 11 Ibid, 226. 12 Michael Moore, The Moral Worth of Retribution (Oxford University Press, 2010), 449. 13 Michael Moore, “The Metaphysics of Basic Acts III: Volitions as the Essential Source of Actions,” in Act and Crime: The Philosophy of Action and Its Implications for Criminal Law (Oxford University Press, 1993), 136–37. 14 John Rawls, Political Liberalism, Expanded Ed., Columbia Classics in Philosophy (Columbia University Press, 2005). 15 Jeremy Bentham, “An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation” (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1907), https://oll.libertyfund.org/titles/bentham-an-introduction-to-the-principles-of-morals-and-legislation. 16 Michael J. Sandel, “Political Liberalism,” Harvard Law Review 107, no. 7 (1994): 1766. 17 Sandel, 1775. 18 Hurd, 230. 19 Aristotle, “Politics,” trans. Benjamin Jowett, 1994, http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/politics.5.five.html. 20 John Stuart Mill, On Liberty (Batoche Books, 1859), 13. 21 D.G. Brown, “The Harm Principle,” in A Companion to Mill, ed. Christopher Macleod and Dale E. Miller (John Wiley & Sons, 2016), 411. 22 Joel Feinberg, Harm to Others, vol. 1, 4 vols. (Oxford University Press, 1984). 23 Feinberg, 1:38. 24 Feinberg, 1:34. 25 Mark Austin Walters, “The Harms of Hate Crime: From Structural Disadvantage to Individual Identity,” in Hate Crime and Restorative Justice (Oxford University Press, 2014), 71. 26 Walters, 73. 27 Mark Austin Walters, 84. 28 Ibid, 84. 29 Morris J. Fish, “An Eye for an Eye: Proportionality as a Moral Principle of Punishment,” Oxford Journal of Legal Studies 28, no. 1 (2008): 63. Bibliography Aristotle. “Politics.” Translated by Benjamin Jowett, 1994. http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/politics.5.five.html. Bentham, Jeremy. “An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation.” Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1907. https://oll.libertyfund.org/titles/ben-tham-an- introduction-to-the-principles-of-morals-and-legislation. Brown, D.G. “The Harm Principle.” In A Companion to Mill , edited by Christopher Macleod and Dale E. Miller, 409–24. John Wiley & Sons, 2016. Feinberg, Joel. Harm to Others . Vol. 1. 4 vols. Oxford University Press, 1984. Fish, Morris J. “An Eye for an Eye: Proportionality as a Moral Principle of Punishment.” Oxford Journal of Legal Studies 28, no. 1 (2008): 55–71. Hate crime acts, 18 U.S.C § 249 (2009). https://uscode.house.gov/view.xhtm- l? req=granuleid:USC-prelim-title18-section249&num=0&edition=pre- lim. Hirsch, Andrew von. “Injury and Exasperation: An Examination of Harm to Others and Offense to Others.” Michigan Law Review 84 (1986): 700–717. Human Rights Watch. “The State Response to ‘Hate Crimes’ in Germany: A Human Rights Watch Briefing Paper.” Human Rights Watch, December 9, 2011. https://www.hrw.org/news/2011/12/09/state-response-hate-crimes-germany. Hurd, Heidi. “Why Liberals Should Hate ‘Hate Crime Legislation.’” Law and Philosophy 20, no. 2 (2001): 215–32. Incitement of masses, German Criminal Code § 130 (1998). http://www.gese-tze-im- internet.de/englisch_stgb/englisch_stgb.html#p1241. Mill, John Stuart. On Liberty . Batoche Books, 1859. Moore, Michael. “The Metaphysics of Basic Acts III: Volitions as the Essential Source of Actions.” In Act and Crime: The Philosophy of Action and Its Implications for Criminal Law , 113–66. Oxford University Press, 1993. Thought Crime 94 ———. The Moral Worth of Retribution . Oxford University Press, 2010. Rawls, John. Political Liberalism . Expanded Ed. Columbia Classics in Philosophy. Columbia University Press, 2005. Sandel, Michael J. “Political Liberalism.” Harvard Law Review 107, no. 7 (1994): 1765–94. Walters, Mark Austin. “The Harms of Hate Crime: From Structural Disadvantage to Individual Identity.” In Hate Crime and Restorative Justice . Oxford University Press, 2014. Previous Next

Two Forms of Environmental-Political Imagination: Germany, the United States, and the Clean Energy Transition All Power to the Imagination Radical Student Groups and Coalition Building in France During May 1968 and the United States during the Vietnam War Calder McHugh Bowdoin College Author Alexis Biegen Sophia Carter Editors Fall 2019 Download full text PDF (26 pages) Abstract Student-led social movements in May of 1968 in France and through the late 1960s and early 1970s in the United States captured the attention of each nation at the time and have had a profound impact on how Americans and French understand their respective states today. Both movements held the lofty goal of completely reshaping their respective societal structures but the vast differences of the cultures in which they were carried out resulted in distinct end results. In France, student protests sparked mass mobilization of the nation and, at their height, were seen by most of the country in a positive light. The broader movement that involved worker participation as well also won material gains for workers in the nation. Across the Atlantic, on the other hand, student protests were met with mostly ill will from the American working class. This work will particularly focus on the ways in which a history of strikes and a popular Communist Party in France both allowed for mass mobilization and stopped the students from pursuing more radical change. It will also work to challenge dominant narratives in political science around coalition building. I. In mid-May, 1968, as 10 million people marched in demonstration through the streets of every major French city, student leader Daniel Cohn-Bendit sat down for a wide-ranging interview with philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre. Bendit cogently articulated his goals for the student movement as well as its potential challenges. “The aim is now the overthrow of the regime,” he said. “But it is not up to us whether or not this is achieved. If the Communist Party, the [general confederation of labor union] CGT and the other union headquarters shared it… the regime would fall within a fortnight.” Six years later and across the Atlantic Ocean, the Weather Underground, a militant leftist organization in its fifth year of operation which was composed of young radicals, published a book entitled Prairie Fire: The Politics of Revolutionary Anti-Imperialism. The Weather Underground wrote, “Our intention is to disrupt the empire… to incapacitate it, to put pressure on the cracks, to make it hard to carry out its bloody functioning against the people of the world, to join the world struggle, to attack from the inside.” II. Radical social movements aimed at the overthrow of capitalism and capitalist-based governments existed throughout the Western world through the late 1960s and early 1970s. In Italy, West Germany, France, and the United States, these movements were particularly wide ranging and distinctly impacted each society, causing momentous political and cultural upheaval. This work will focus on the latter two nations. The mass mobilization that shook France was confined largely to one month: May, 1968. In the middle of March, France’s leading newspaper Le Monde called France’s citizens too “bored” to protest in the same manner that was occurring in West Germany and the United States. A mere six weeks later, after the occupation of the University of Nanterre on March 22nd sparked conversation about collective action around the country, French students occupied the University of Paris at the Sorbonne, in the Latin Quarter of Paris, sparking nightly clashes with the police. Streets were barricaded, all transportation was shut down, and worker mobilization reached a height of 10 million on strike. Notably, students’ grievances were separate from those of the workers. The students rallied around a popular slogan of the time, “all power to the imagination,” which captured their collective interest in enacting changes to the educational system that would allow for a more free and accepting university structure. Comprised of Trotskyites, Maoists, anarchists, and others on the Left, many also believed in the violent overthrow of the 5th Republic of France and the complete reshaping of society. As Suzanne Borde, who in May, 1968 had recently left her childhood home for Paris, said, “Everything changed [in May, 68], my way of thinking, everything… My favorite expression at the time was “La Vie, Vite” (Life, Quickly)! I wanted to change the usual way of life.” The workers, who made up the lion’s share of the protestors but had fewer public clashes with the police, were concerned less with political ideology or societal restructuring than with material gains that would make their lives better, such as wage increases. Their protests ran in conjunction with the students’, but their union was a tenuous one: the French Communist Party (PCF) and its associated labor union Confédération Général du Travail (CGT) controlled much of the political action amongst the workers and was deeply suspicious of the goals of the student movement from its nascent stages. Ultimately, two central events led to the movement’s demise. Maybe ironically, the first was originally interpreted as a success: the protests led to governmental upheaval and President Charles de Gaulle’s temporary departure from the country. After weeks of uncertainty, representatives of de Gaulle’s government negotiated what came to be termed the Grenelle Agreements with the leadership of the CGT. Resulting in more bargaining power for unions as well as a 35 percent minimum wage increase and a 10 percent increase in average real wages, these concessions pacified many workers, leading them back to the factory floor. Second, upon returning to the country on May 30, Charles de Gaulle organized a significant counter-protest on the Champs-Elysees, dissolved the legislature and called for new legislative elections that took place in late June. De Gaulle’s party, the Union of Democrats for the Republic (UDR) won a massive victory and went back to being firmly in control of the nation, while the PCF lost more than half of their seats. Social protest in the United States was not so neatly circumscribed into a few months. Anti-Vietnam War protests took many shapes over numerous years. For the purposes of this work, analysis will be confined to the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) organization, its offshoot groups, and their respective impacts on the broader movement. Launched with the Port Huron Statement in 1962 before the official beginning of the American War in Vietnam in 1965, the organization purposefully did not couch its goals in traditionally communist or Marxist rhetoric, because unlike in France, there was no appetite for it in the United States. Rather, they argued quite persuasively, “We are people of this generation, bred in at least moderate comfort, housed now in universities, looking uncomfortably to the world we inherit.” While fewer than 100 people signed the Port Huron Statement, by 1965, the SDS organized the “March on Washington to End the War in Vietnam,” which 15,000 to 25,000 people from around the country attended. This march both attracted a degree of attention and trained future organizers of better-coordinated marches on Washington, including the November, 1969 Moratorium March on Washington, which had over 250,000 attendees. While SDS remained a strong political force through the late 1960s, by its 1969 convention in Chicago the group had moved significantly to the left ideologically and had developed political differences amongst itself that detached it from the unified spirit of the Port Huron Statement. As SDS gathered in Chicago, by the end of the weekend of June 18-22, three separate factions had emerged. One, calling itself the Progressive Labor Party (PL), argued for Maoist and worker-oriented solutions to what they perceived as the ills of America. Another, the Revolutionary Youth Movement (RYM), became the foundation of what was eventually called the Weather Underground—they advocated for a radicalization of SDS to fight American imperialism alongside the Black Panthers and revolutionary groups around the world. Finally, the Revolutionary Youth Movement II (RYM II) agreed with RYM on most substantive issues, but believed in a more traditional Marxist approach to solve them. According to sociologist Penny Lewis, none of these groups, including the PL whose entire revolutionary strategy was based on cross-class alliance with workers, enjoyed any significant support from the working class. She writes, “The obvious reason for this was the near-unanimous embrace of Cold War anticommunism in the ranks of labor and the collapse of Communist Party influence within the class.” Left without the possibility of even a tenuous connection between young radicals and the broad working class, the Weather Underground began to participate in militant action to attempt to bring the Vietnam war home. In March of 1970, Weather Underground member Bernardine Dohrn anonymously recorded a transmission and sent it to a California radio station on behalf of the group. She warned, “The lines are drawn… Revolution is touching all of our lives. Freaks are revolutionaries and revolutionaries are freaks… within the next 14 days we will bomb a major U.S. institution.” While her timeline was a bit optimistic, the group bombed the Capitol in March of 1971 and the Pentagon in May of 1972, all the while intending not to injure anyone (these two actions had no deaths associated). Their most famous (and infamous) deed was an accident—also in March of 1970, two members (Diana Oughton and Terry Robbins) accidentally detonated a bomb in a Greenwich Village townhouse while assembling homemade explosives, killing themselves and a third “Weatherman” who was walking into the house (Ted Gold). The Weather Underground did continue action after the conclusion of American involvement in Vietnam in 1975, but paired down much of its more violent activities. The group, whose members found their way to the FBI’s Most Wanted List, eventually disbanded; many now work as professors, educating and informing new generations of American thought. III. The outgrowth of the fragile connection between student protest and worker protest in France, as well as the lack of any significant worker mobilization in the United States, has a lot to do with the way each nation developed in the wake of World War II. During the altercations in May, 1968 in France, President Charles de Gaulle and the PCF represented two opposing poles of influence. This, in many ways, defined the conflict: de Gaulle’s fairly centrist (by modern standards) regime was forced to contend with a popular Communist Party facing a radical push from student activists combined with a wellspring of support from French workers. Interestingly, both De Gaulle and the Communists found much of their legitimacy from their actions a quarter-century prior, during World War II. De Gaulle and his supporters, along with the PCF, were the two most significant resistance forces to the collaborationist Vichy government. As such, in the first legislative election after the War in 1945, the PCF won a plurality of the vote, with 26.1 percent, and controlled the most seats in the legislature. De Gaulle did not participate in these elections. By 1967, while the PCF’s support had diminished, it remained a powerful force: they held 21.37 percent of the vote, a slight drop, but were able to build a governing coalition with fellow Leftist parties Federation of the Democratic and Socialist Left (FGDS) and the Unified Socialist Party (PSU). Together, the three received 53.43 percent of the vote. The revolution in 1968, then, did not come out of nowhere. Not only could the PCF count on at least 20 percent of France’s support throughout the 1950s and 60s, it also organized strikes. Significant agrarian protests led by the PCF occurred in 1959 and 1960, and in 1963 strikes reached a zenith of the era before 1968, as the number of days that workers were on strike was the highest in 10 years. As Kenneth Libbey, who is both a scholar of and an advocate for the PCF, argues, “the belief in the ability of a mass movement to sweep aside obstacles to its success is a dominant theme of the party. Its acceptance makes the arguments about the transition to socialism at least plausible.” By May of 1968, significant differences existed between the often anarchist, Maoist, or Trotskyite student groups and the Stalinist PCF and CGT. However, these disagreements on ideology were not significant enough to halt the cross-coalitional movement—at least at first. In the case of Leftist groups in the United States, whether they marched under the Maoist banner of coalition-building with the working class (in the case of the PL movement) or had more anarchist tendencies as well as interest in engaging with black revolutionary groups such as the Black Panthers (in the case of the Weather Underground), they had very little historical precedent or organizational support upon which to draw. Even at its relative peak in 1944, the Communist Party in the United States (CPUSA) only had a confirmed membership of 80,000. In the context of the Cold War, it became impossible to be an avowed Communist in public life. In a period often called the “Second Red Scare” or “McCarthyism,” the United States Congress convened the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) in order to attempt to find and punish Communists whom they believed to be working for the Soviet Union. In 1954, the United States government formally outlawed the CPUSA. While in the French case the Communist Party was associated with brave resistance to World War II, politicians in the United States were able to successfully present the CPUSA as a subversive group intent on aiding the Russians in the Cold War. As an ideology, McCarthyism faded through the 1950s and was eventually seen for what it was: a witch-hunt. However, in the Cold War context, a genuine Communist Party in the United States would have been something of an anachronism at best. Thus, radicals in the United States had to both divorce themselves from any extremely weak institutions that did exist and strive to create their own culture and identity. The divergent histories of France and the United States shaped not only the popularity of social movements in the late 1960s, but also the strategies and tactics employed by student radicals in both nations. IV. A shared characteristic of the radical students in France and the United States was their distaste for slow-moving, marginal improvements. In fact, French radical students had been preaching this ideology since the early 1960s. Trotskyite dissidents, many of whom were engaged in the leadership of the 1968 movement, submitted a manifesto to the socialist publication Socialisme ou Barbarie in 1961 outlining many of the same principles as the Weather Underground did eight years later. They argued, “One hundred and fifty years of ‘progress’ and ‘democracy’ have proved that no matter what reforms are applied to the capitalist system they will not change the real situation of the worker.” As is typical of the French case, revolutionary politics are more wrapped up in the labor movement than in the United States. The manifesto continues, “The workers will not be free of oppression and exploitation until their struggles have resulted in setting up a really socialistic society, in which workers’ councils will have all the power, and both production and economic planning will be under worker management.” Fredy Perlman, a student who aided in the shutdown of the Censier Annex of the Sorbonne, believed in a direct connection between the actions at the Universities and the larger strikes. He saw the main contribution of the students at the Censier to be the formation of worker-student action committees, in which the two groups coordinated actions together. Perlman, who published a booklet entitled Worker-student Action Committees, France, 1968 in 1970, wrote, “The formation of the worker-student committees coincides with the outbreak of a wildcat strike: ‘In the style of the student demonstrators, the workers of Sud-Aviation have occupied the factory at Nantes.” For Alain Krivine, the founder of one of the most influential activist groups for youth during 1968, Jeunesse Communiste Révolutionnaire, increased rights for workers were essential to the success of the movement. However, he did not believe that leaders of the unions or the Communist Party best represented the workers’ interests. He says, “For me [leftwing political leaders Pierre] Mendès-France and [François] Mitterand were shit… Mendès-France and Mitterand could be an alternative, but for us it was a bad one.” Student demonstrator Isabelle Saint-Saëns largely agrees. “When we marched with the workers we felt united with them, but it remained theoretical as well,” she said. Nevertheless, the students did see the workers as the key to their success, because they were willing to mobilize and they held such tremendous political power because of their sheer numbers. As opposed to the situation in France, protest in the United States was based largely around denouncing the imperialism inherent within the conflict in Vietnam. In the shadow of the SDS convention in June of 1969, student radicals who formed the leadership of the splinter group of the Weather Underground sprang into action. Leadership of the organization included many young radicals who had been involved in the demonstrations against the Vietnam War at Columbia University the year before, including Bill Ayers, Bernardine Dohrn, and Mark Rudd, who famously wrote in a letter to Columbia President Grayson Kirk: “You call for order and respect for authority; we call for justice, freedom, and socialism. There is only one thing left to say. It may sound nihilistic to you, since it is the opening shot in a war of liberation. I’ll use the words of LeRoi Jones, whom I’m sure you don’t like a whole lot: ‘Up against the wall, motherfucker, this is a stick-up.’” The Weather Underground’s first major action,termed the “Days of Rage,” was scheduled to take place from October 8-11, 1969 in the streets of Chicago. The action’s specific purpose was to protest the trial of the “Chicago Eight,” a group on trial for antiwar activism during the 1968 Democratic National Convention. While they hoped for the participation of around 50,000 militants they got only a few hundred. The action, which included the looting and burning of downtown Chicago appeared not to have a particularly cogent mission, was panned by the mainstream media, but also by many fellow Leftist organizations, who argued that the organizers were alienating the broader public from their cause. The Weather Underground itself, though, argued that the “Days of Rage” were part of a larger effort to “bring the war home.” At this point in the antiwar fight, the Weather Underground had decided that they could not count on the participation of workers because of their lack of any significant socialist or communist sympathies. As such, they planned demonstrations and militant actions to raise the consciousness of the greater populace to the horrors of the war abroad. Friends and siblings who were drafted, sent to Vietnam, and often killed in action particularly galvanized American youth. Partially to announce the formation of the Weather Underground, the group released a manifesto entitled “You Don’t Need A Weatherman To Know Which Way The Wind Blows.” A subsection of this argument, “Anti-Imperialist Revolution and the United Front,” states, “Defeating imperialism within the US couldn’t possibly have the content, which it could in a semi-feudal country, of replacing imperialism with capitalism or new democracy; when imperialism is defeated in the US, it will be replaced by socialism- nothing else. One revolution, one replacement process, one seizure of state power- the anti-imperialist revolution and the socialist revolution, one and the same stage.” Student radicals in the United States saw the need to engender violent revolution in order to move to a state willing to accept socialism as a rational political ideology. The stated aims of the two movements, then, were quite similar. Each believed that their government was not truly democratic, and that there was a distinct need to expel the ruling elite from power. The two groups framed the issue using a shared language of the Left that dealt primarily with expressing solidarity with the oppressed. Divergence in the movements appeared in each group’s understanding of their own role in society. In France, while students were suspicious and sometimes downright dismissive of the PCF and the CGT, they believed they needed the participation of the workers (many of whom were members of those organizations) to succeed. The split at the SDS convention in June of 1969, on the other hand, further alienated the Weather Underground even from fellow Leftist organizations. While the Weather Underground hoped to gain more support for its cause amongst the general populace, the group also understood the nature of the political system in the United States and made the conscious decision to exist outside of it. In “You Don’t Need a Weatherman…” they wrote, “How will we accomplish the building of [a Marxist-Leninist Party]- It is clear that we couldn’t somehow form such a party at this time, because the conditions for it do not exist in this country outside the Black Nation.” Much of the reason for both the divergent outcomes as well as the divergent tactics and framing of the student movements in France and the United States have to do with the political opportunity structures that existed in each nation during the late 1960s. These are broadly rooted in the historical differences in the treatment of Communism as an ideology in both nations. V. Many scholars have argued that the character of the revolution of May 1968 was defined by the youth and, to a lesser degree, intellectuals in the nation. Maybe more important for mass mobilization in France, though, was the history of strikes in the nation. According to French historian Stéphane Sirot, while in other nations strikes are often the result of failed negotiations, in France they frequently occur either during or before negotiations with labor bosses. Strikes are such successful tactics of negotiation because they work on two levels. First, they have an offense element through mass demonstrations that attract the attention of the media. Second, they work defensively in that by refusing to work, they put pressure on bosses to find a quick solution. In their paper, “The Shape of Strikes in France, 1830-1960,” published in 1971, scholars Edward Shorter and Charles Tilly argue that French strikes, while fairly prevalent throughout this period, changed fairly significantly in character in this time period. This, according to Shorter and Tilly, has largely to do with the significant expansion of industrial unionism at the end of the 1930s around the European continent. They use measurements of size, duration, and frequency to calculate the shape that these strikes took. Below is an example of their model: Table 1.1 This table shows two distinct strike scenarios. What Shorter and Tilly refer to as “Industry X” represents a scenario in which strikes are long but small and occur fairly infrequently. “Industry Y” has strikes that occur more frequently and with a larger size, but do not last for as long. By the 1960s in France, the model for strikes looked quite a bit more like “Industry Y” than “Industry X.” Below is, once again, Shorter and Tilly’s graphic explanation of this phenomenon, based on the historical cataloguing of strikes: Table 1.2 This is significant in that massive, short demonstrations, while not necessarily more successful than those that are smaller and play out over a longer period of time, are wont to receive more attention from the public and the media due to their dramatic nature. The sheer mass of strikes through the 1960s made it easier for workers to mobilize around issues that ran adjacent to the concerns of the students, such as rights to self-management in any workplace, but were certainly not the same. Conversely, in the United States before 1968 there were few examples of large scale strikes. Other than the steel workers’ strike in 1959, which included around half a million participants, frequent general strikes had not existed in the nation since the 19th Century. Additionally, while union activity was certainly stronger in the 1960s in the United States than it is today, the protests of the 1960s were more focused on the antiwar effort than the rights of workers. VI. Likely due at least partially to their comfort with general strikes and mass mobilization, the French populace largely supported the students and their efforts to protest, expressing ire for the police force when they clashed. On May 10, 1968, in what has since been termed the “night of the barricades” (because of barriers that students constructed to slow down police), French police and students clashed violently in the streets of Paris. 80 percent of Parisians, though, supported the students and believed fault in escalating the violence lay with the police. Nevertheless, cultural differences between the youth and both the ruling class and worker allies persisted in France as well, which manifested themselves in the priorities of the students. Before the revolution of 1968, the French schooling system was extremely restrictive. Students could not voice their own ideas in the classroom and the gender and sexual politics of the university were also extremely conservative—men and women were often divided. Thus, in considering how all of French society should change, the University system was at the front of many students’ minds. As Perlman argued about the revolutionary movement, “What begins [when the Universities are occupied] is a process of collective learning; the "university," perhaps for the first time, becomes a place for learning. People do not only learn the information, the ideas, the projects of others; they also learn from the example of others that they have specific information to contribute, that they are able to express ideas, that they can initiate projects. There are no longer specialists or experts; the division between thinkers and doers, between students and workers, breaks down. At this point all are students.” As might be expected, while many supported the broad protests of the students and their right to do so, concepts like the total change in University structure, for which Perlman argued, were less popular or important to much of French society. Thus, the French students created their own political ideology and culture that was often separate from that of the more institutionalized labor movements. However, while their culture and their priorities often separated them from the workers, the French students also believed the workers to be necessary to their success. When the Grenelle Accords were signed and a majority of the workers agreed to go back to work, students quickly demobilized. As scholar Mitchell Abidor argues in the introduction to his oral history May made me, “For the workers, it was not the qualitative demands of the students that mattered, but their own quantitative, bread-and-butter issues.” Ultimately, French students were incapable of understanding or accepting this. Abidor continues, “The ouvriérisme—the workerism—so strong on the French left led the students to think the workers were the motor of any revolution, which left the vehicle immobile because the engine was dead.” So, after the workers returned to work, the students also quite quickly demobilized. The alliance between the students and the workers in France was further complicated by the students’ tenuous relationship to the PCF and CGT, organizations which were active participants in the society that students were striving to upend. The PCF and CGT, naturally concerned with their parties’ success, framed their arguments and made agreements based on the existing political opportunity structure in France. Many student radicals, on the other hand, saw it as their charge to revise those very structures. The PCF was thus forced to walk a fine line between maintaining its own institutional legitimacy and representing the more revolutionary elements of its own party. According to Libbey, French Professor Georges Lavau thus argues, “[the PCF] has assumed the role of tribune: articulating the grievances of discontented groups as well as defending the gains of the workers against attempts by the bourgeoisie to undermine them. The PCF has thus become a legitimate channel for protest, protecting the system from more destructive outbursts. This protection failed in 1968, of course, but Lavau contends that the party’s role of tribune nonetheless coloured its response to the crisis.” Lavau and Libbey’s contention that the PCF lost the role of tribune in May of 1968 is worth noting because although the CFDT and the CGT were the ones to negotiate with de Gaulle’s government, they had lost control of the situation. They were able, ultimately, to demobilize the workers, but they lost significant support, which showed in the elections of June, 1968 where they lost half of their seats. The Grenelle Accords in many ways crystallized the differences between the gauchiste students and the institutionalized, Stalinist political parties. These differences, which existed throughout the movement, were momentarily put aside as everyone took to the streets. After most workers returned to the factory floor, though, student radicals, as well as radical elements within the Communist Party, discussed their disappointment with the limited scope of the Grenelle Accords. Prisca Bachelet, who was helped to organize the nascent stages of the movement during demonstrations at the University of Nanterre on March 22, 1968, said of the leaders of the CGT, “they were afraid, afraid of responsibility.” Éric Hazan, who was a cardiac surgeon and a radical Party member during 1968, argued the Communists’ actions at the end of May and their negotiations with the government amounted to “Treason. Normal. A normal treason.” Student Jean-Pierre Vernant argued, “The May crisis is not explained and is not analyzed [by the Party]. It is erased.” The students and their allies had good reason for frustration. They believed the Party theoretically meant to represent them betrayed many of the principles for which they were fighting. Members of the Communist Party also quite obviously held distaste for many of the student radicals. In a very obvious reference to the student movement, Communist Party leader Roland Leroy said at the National Assembly on May 21, 1968, “The Communists are not anarchists whose program tends to destroying everything without building anything.” For their part, the students’ significant miscalculation, was that they believed Party leaders like Leroy did not speak for the interests of the workers. Hélène Chatroussat, a Trotskyite, argued at the time, “I said to myself, [the workers] are many, they’re with us… so why don’t they tell the Stalinists [the PCF] to get lost so we could come in and they could join us?” To the contrary, many of the workers who went on strike in the factories were uninterested in broader political change or politics in general. They simple hoped for a positive change to their material conditions. As Colette Danappe, a worker in a factory outside Paris, told Mitchell Abidor, “The students were more interested in fighting, they were interested in politics, and that wasn’t for us.” Danappe continued about the Grenelle Accords, “We got almost everything we wanted and almost everyone voted to return… Maybe we were a little happier, because we had more money. We were able to travel afterwards.” At first glance, it would appear that the situation in the United States and the goals of antiwar demonstrators would have made it easier to mobilize a broader cross-section of the population. By mid-May of 1971, 61% of Americans responded “Yes, a mistake” to the Gallup poll question, “In view of developments since we entered the fighting in Vietnam, do you think the U.S. made a mistake in sending troops to fight in Vietnam?” However, a larger segment of the older population in the United States was against the war than the younger generation. These older Americans did not support the war, but largely did not support protest movements either. The lasting images of social movements in the United States in the 1960s all include what came to be referred to as “the counterculture.” The counterculture is depicted, stereotypically, as young men and women with flowers in their hair, listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival, and holding radical aspirations for the dawn of a new age in America. This group was generally maligned by significant portions of older generations of Americans in particular, who believed the youth movement to be related more to drug use than to any serious concern. While the counterculture’s goals of promoting peace and community were in many ways quite sincere, with the fear of the draft adding to their outrage, an older generation of Americans refused to take their style of protest seriously. Table 1.3 This table explains mobilization. The situation in France in May of 1968 can be found in the bottom-right box: the broad-based grievances of students were largely supported and they found political allies in the labor and Communist parties. In the United States, mass mobilization did not occur on the same scale, because although the popularity of the grievance was high (as support for the American War in Vietnam was low), no significant political allies (who could have been found in the older generation of anti-war Americans) existed. This situation can be found in the top-right box. This disdain for the youth movement was made obvious in the way that Walter Cronkite and Dan Rather covered clashes at the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Members of the counterculture movement, calling themselves “Yippies” (included in this group were many members of the SDS), descended onto Chicago to protest the Vietnam War and the lack of democracy inside the Democratic Party’s presidential nomination selection. Cronkite had already argued on air that the Vietnam War had become unwinnable, but when he and Rather covered the 1968 DNC together, their attention was focused on normative politics as a whole—and they quite obviously had very little respect for the protestors. Each argued that it was the Yippies who provoked a bloody confrontation with the police, with Rather stating that, “Mayor Richard Daly vowed to keep it peaceful, even if it took force to keep the peace. He was backed by 12,000 police, 5,000 national guardsmen, and 7,500 regular army troops. But the Yippies succeeded—they got their confrontation.” Through the 1960s, many protest and counter-culture groups (including the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, Americans for Democratic Action, and Vietnam Veterans Against the War, to name a few) created and sustained significant cultural differences from much of American society. Members of the Weather Underground, despite some of their uniquely militant positions, dressed and spoke in a language that was common to the broader counterculture movement. They did so largely because they felt themselves unable to work within the boundaries of a political system that, even on the left, did not come close to representing their political ideology. In forming their own cultural identity, Leftist groups in the United States did manage to catch the attention of the masses, even if that attention was largely negative. In this way, their issues and demands were placed at the center of the conversation, causing a fraught societal debate. VII. The legacies of the social movements of the late 1960s in the United States and France are hotly debated. Historian Tony Judt, holding an unmistakable disdain for the student movement in France, wrote, “It is symptomatic of the fundamentally apolitical mood of May 1968 that the best-selling books on the subject a generation later are not serious works of historical analysis, much less the earnest doctrinal tracts of the time, but collections of contemporary graffiti and slogans. Culled from the walls, noticeboards and streets of the city, these witty one-liners encourage young people to make love, have fun, mock those in authority, generally do what feels good—and change the world almost as a by-product… This was to be a victimless revolution, which in the end meant it was no sort of revolution at all.” On the other hand, scholar Simon Tormey wrote about the events of May of 1968, “1968 represented a freeing up of politics from the congealed, stodgy and unimaginative understandings that had so dogged the emergence of an oppositional politics after the second world war. It unleashed a wave of joyous experimentation, evanescent and spontaneous efforts to challenge the dull routine of the repetitious lives that had been constructed in and through advanced capitalism.” As we can see, this duality of point-of-view about revolutionary movements existed both in France and the United States. While the Weather Underground, without any significant political allies and carrying a negative media portrayal from the press, has mostly been portrayed negatively in the years since, some scholars believe that they altered a broader American consciousness. As Arthur Eckstein writes, “Thousands of New Leftists agreed with the Weathermen’s analysis of what had gone awry in America… the last 50 years have seen remarkable progress in black rights, women’s rights, gay rights, Hispanic and Asian rights… Weatherman’s violence... did not impede that progress.” Although Eckstein certainly does not offer a ringing endorsement of their militant tendencies, he does argue here that the group spawned social progress in a way that they did not expect they would. Interestingly enough, these more positive interpretations from historians and political scientists contradict the feelings of the student radicals themselves. Neither group had an exact moment of demobilization, but it became increasingly clear to young leaders throughout the early 1970s that they had not fomented the change for which they had hoped. In France especially, a growing frustration existed towards the Communist Party and its Labor wing, which points quite obviously to the dangers of coalition building. Students’ purported political allies came to be thought of as traitors by many of the student radicals. These frustrations and divisions that were born in 1968 proceeded, if not directly led, to the French Communist Party’s long slide into irrelevance during the 1970s and 80s, as Abidor argues. He writes, “Once it lost the PCF as the mediating force to represent its grievances, the French working class fulfilled Herbert Marcuse’s 1972 warning that “The immediate expression of the opinion and will of the workers, farmers, neighbors—in brief, the people—is not, per se, progressive and a force of social change: it may be the opposite.” The PCF understood this latent conservatism in the working class of 1968. Not so the New Left student movement.” The coalition was successful very briefly in May and resulted in positive material gains for workers—through pay raises, France became a little bit more equal. The most significant legacies of movements in France and the United States, though, were separate from any coalition. The French and the American students, each galvanized to be part of the revolutionary vanguard and inspired to change their societies, felt a deep sense of disappointment after the events of the late 1960s. Broken alliances and dashed goals led to the perception that they had let themselves and their ideals down. Measured this way, revolution failed, and Judt is right to argue that in this context, “it was no sort of revolution at all.” A middle ground perspective is well-explained by May ’68 protestor Suzanne Borde, who noted, “It made it possible to change the way children were educated, leading many teachers to reflect and to teach differently. Experimental schools opened... But it had no consequences on political life and failed to changed anything real.” Holding a completely different interpretation of the outcome, Maguy Alvarez, an English teacher in France, told New York Times journalist Alissa Rubin, “Everything was enlarged by 1968; it determined all my life.” Rubin titled the article “May 1968: A Month of Revolution Pushed France Into the Modern World.” So, maybe “these witty one-liners [that encouraged] young people to make love, have fun, mock those in authority, generally do what feels good,” did change France as a byproduct. The kicker of Alvarez’s quote is that she told it to Rubin not as she was deeply examining the political consequences of the era, but as she was walking through an exhibition of posters and artworks from the period. During his interview with Borde, Abidor noted towards the end of the discussion, “May ’68 didn’t result in anything concrete, then.” Borde responded, “Sure it did. It completely changed the way I live.” VIII. Much of the existing literature in the field of social movement theory is concerned with the ways in which social groups successfully frame their movements to a broader public in order to increase popular support, political allies, and best take advantage of existing political opportunity structures. This work, although not formatted with a traditional structure of similar systems design, is concerned with the comparison of a social movement that attempts to tap into public support (French student movement) with another that appears to at times actively avoid building coalitions (the Weather Underground). More than anything else, the historical differences in France and the United States led to vastly different political opportunity structures for each social movement in the late 1960s. Yet neither group compromised their idealistic political ideology, and for this reason both groups failed to achieve their ultimate goals. Nevertheless, both did change cultural aspects of the societies in which they operated. The conclusion of these movements’ cultural success, despite their political failure, challenges existing social movement literature that argues that successful social movements should attempt always to build broad support. French student radicals found cultural success not because of their coalition with the working class but often despite it. In the United States, much of the lasting memory of the SDS occurred after it split into the Weather Underground. Certainly, a degree of this remembrance is negative—French student radicals with their “power to the imagination” are remembered in a much rosier light than the Weather Underground, which is often considered a terrorist organization in the United States. However, the Weather Underground and its writings continue to inspire generations of young activists, who do not necessarily ascribe to their militant tactics but are inspired by its political ideology. Coalition building can without a doubt aid in the success of a social movement. However, it can also at times minimize its impact. As we examine these two distinct approaches to creating change, our analysis shows that coalition building might support the historical imagination, but it can hinder change. IX. Since the financial crisis of 2008, questions of the value of coalition building have continued to roil activists, in particular in the United States, which precipitated the 2008 global financial crisis and now exists in a period of unstable economic and political development that scholars have called a “crisis of neoliberalism.” Current social protest movements have faced some of the same issues confronting protestors in the 1960s and early 1970s—the Occupy Wall Street movement presents a worthy case study. In many respects, the Occupy movement is the closest analog in recent history to the May 1968 movement in France. Sparked by young people, the protests were concerned with income inequality and were able to create an entirely new language to talk about money in this country through popular slogans—“we are the 99%.” Branding itself a revolutionary movement, Occupy eschewed traditional leadership structures and declared an “occupation of New York City” on September 29, 2011 which resulted in a series of clashes with the police and ended in the protestors being forced out of their home base of Zuccotti Park on November 15 of the same year. Protests continued for months afterwards around the world, but did not maintain the same sort of zeal as they did in September, October, and November of 2011. While the Occupy movement quickly burned and petered out in a similar way to May 68, its results are of a somewhat different character than those in France and are thus worth examining here. Most significantly, the United States government was never forced to come to the bargaining table with Occupy, and their leaderless movement has been criticized for never laying out concrete demands. Additionally, though, the amorphous nature of the group allowed it to buck trends of significant splintering along ideological lines—post-Occupy activism has simply dispersed to campaigns like #AbolishICE and protesting the Keystone XL Pipeline. Its greatest success has likely been the proliferation of discussion of income inequality in the United States, which has led to campaigns for an increased minimum wage. However, in a similar way to the student protestors in France, questions remain as to whether “we are the 99%” has been honored or coopted. 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The Brown University Journal of Philosophy, Politics, and Economics (JPPE) is a peer reviewed academic journal for undergraduate and graduate students that is sponsored by the Political Theory Project and the Philosophy, Politics, and Economics Society Program at Brown University. The Brown University Journal of Philosophy, Politics & Economics *FEATUREs * FROM Paul Krugman Steven Pinker Yanis Varoufakis Editorial board foreword Volume II Issue II Introducing the fourth issue of JPPE Click to flip through the journal and see previous JPPE issues politics All Power to the Imagination economics John Taylor and Ben Bernanke on the Great Recession Radical Student Groups and Coalition Building in France During May 1968 and the United States during the Vietnam War By Calder McHugh Who Was Right About What Went Wrong? By Mikael Hemlin philosophy politics Respect for the Smallest of Creatures The Life Cycle of the Responsibility to Protect An Analysis of Human Respect for and Protection of Insects The Ongoing Emergence of R2P as a Norm in the International Community By Grace Engelman By Maxine Dehavenon philosophy The Moral Futility of Contempt Philosophy In Favor of Entrenchment A Response to Macalester Bell’s Hard Feelings in the Era of Trump By Jessica Li Justifying Geoengineering Research in Democratic Systems By Samantha M. Koreman economics POLITICS Financial Literacy, Credit Access and Financial Stress of Micro-Firms Peaceful Animals Evidence from Chile By Lucas Rosso Fones A Look into Black Pacifism and the Pedagogy of Civil Rights in American Public Education By Jade Fabello

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Oedipus and Ion as Outsiders: The Implications and Limitations of Genealogical Citizenship Oedipus and Ion: The Implications and Limitations of Genealogical Citizenship An Analysis of Oedipus at Colonus by Sophocles and Ion by Euripides Claire Holland University of Chicago Author Marysol Fernandez Harvey Tathyana Mello Amaral Antonio Almazan Editors Spring 2019 Download full text PDF (12 pages) Introduction In ancient Athenian society, the collective myth of autochthony[1] provided the basis for social order, determining who got the benefits of citizenship and who was excluded from the polis [2]. According to their autochthonous myth, the citizenry of Athens did not emigrate from elsewhere, but instead arose from the earth upon which ancient Athens stood. Theirs was not a city of immigrants; from their very origins, the people of Athens believed themselves to be the only population that had always belonged to Athenian soil. Thus, each true-born Athenian carried within them the essential spirit of the Athenian people, passed down from generation to generation. To determine and confirm their citizenship on an individual level, each Athenian had to demonstrate their autochthonous familial descent when they came of age in a dokimasia, an examination wherein citizen tribunals collected testimony from friends and family members in support of one’s claims to citizenship[3]. In this way, one’s lineage became the sole factor determining one’s inclusion in the polis . Once blood became the basis for citizenship, citizens who were established as autochthonous could not be excluded from the polis on the basis of class. The poorest citizens had the same right to participate in Athenian government as the elite, although in practice the higher classes enjoyed special privileges, such as training in rhetoric, which poorer citizens did not. For ancient Greek city-states, this level of inclusivity was groundbreaking; most city-states did not consider their lower- or even middle-class members to be citizens, even in democratic systems of governance. However, this is not to say that Athens was entirely without social divisions, for more than just fully-privileged citizens lived within the city walls. Overall, inhabitants were sorted into three groups: citizens, metics, and slaves. While citizens enjoyed all the rights and benefits of the polis , including the right to vote and to participate in public forums, metics were an in-between, catch-all group, not subjugated like slaves but not as privileged as citizens. They could not participate in government or vote, for example, but were still able to participate economically in Athenian society. Metics were what we today might call a migrant class, as they did not meet the full requirements for blood-based citizenship but were still free. Metics were not confined to only the lower classes; like citizens, metics existed in every economic stratum, from the poorest to the richest. However, regardless of economic class, citizens, being true-born Athenians, were more socially vaunted. While lauded by political theorists for its groundbreaking inclusivity, the Athenian genealogical grounds for inclusion, like any other such system, necessitated that some be excluded so that the polis might be defined and unified rather than indistinct and anarchic. This exclusion, at least theoretically, was to be on the grounds of blood-based requirements for citizenship[4]. However, as Oedipus at Colonus by Sophocles, the second in his trilogy about the eponymous protagonist, and Ion by Euripides make abundantly clear, this distinction did not always play out as it ought. In fact, the existence of exceptions to the rule of blood-based citizenship reveals that its apparent legitimacy was, at its core, fallacious. The tragedy of Oedipus and Ion is in that the knowledge of their parentage, which should have moved them out of their marginal social positions and into the sociopolitical centers of their respective poleis , actually prevented them from claiming their rightful places within society. This is due to the fact that in practice, blood did not stand alone in determining membership to the polis . Athenian society instead relied upon adherence to socially-codified, secondary behavioral implications of blood-based membership, as shown through a further examination of the Athenian city-state and the plays Oedipus at Colonus and Ion. What’s more, the rule of descent necessarily meant that any violations of these secondary behaviors were inheritable and thus contaminated an individual’s entire genetic line from their transgression onward. In examining the social structures as they are presented in these two works, in light of the historical context of ancient Athens, it is clear that the lineage-based autochthony myth was only the beginning of the implied social order. Literary Background Before diving into the social structure of Athens, a short summary of each play is in order, which will highlight the most relevant plot points. Thanks to Freud, most are familiar with Oedipus, or at least with his infamous acts: killing his father, marrying his mother, and fathering her children. Once he discovers all that he has unknowingly done, Oedipus blinds himself and is outcast from Thebes, his home and onetime kingdom. All of this takes place in Oedipus Rex , the first in Sophocles’ trilogy of plays about Oedipus and his family. Following these events is Oedipus at Colonus , which shows Oedipus in exile from Thebes as he approaches the Athenian acropolis. During the course of the play, Oedipus encounters a pair of Athenian citizens, who fetch Theseus, the Athenian king, to determine if Oedipus will be allowed to stay in Athens. After a lengthy debate, Theseus decides to accept him, thanks in part to the pleading of Oedipus’s daughters, who have been helping him in his blindness. At the conclusion of the play, Oedipus is led away into the forest of Athens where he dies without leaving a trace, with Theseus as his sole witness swearing not to say a word about what happened to him. The themes of Oedipus at Colonus reach their pinnacle in Antigone , the final play in Sophocles’ trilogy, wherein Oedipus’s children are all killed, save Ismene, whether it be by their own hands or those of their political rivals. Ion by Euripides centers around another family drama, although perhaps not as well known as that of Oedipus. In the play, Ion is an orphan like Oedipus, raised in the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. The play starts when Creusa, forebear and Queen of Athens, and her husband Xuthus, a war hero and metic, visit the Temple to ask for a prophecy concerning Xuthus’s prospects of having any children. There, the couple meets Ion, and the prophecy leads Xuthus to assume that the now-grown orphan is his true-born son. By the end of the play, however, Creusa and Ion discover his true parentage: that it is she who is really his mother, and that his father is actually the god Apollo, who raped her before she married Xuthus. Following council from the goddess Athena, they choose to keep this knowledge secret from Xuthus for reasons that will later be discussed, and Ion goes on to eventually found the Ionian race. The Athenian City-State With the above summaries in mind, we will begin our analysis of the Athenian city-state. Athenian democracy, while more inclusive of lower classes than any prior sociopolitical structure, necessarily imposed limits on those allowed into the privileged citizenry. Voting could only be meaningful if it were limited; absolute freedom to participate in the polis would be, as Jacques Derrida says of unconditional hospitality, “a law without imperative, without order and without duty. A law without law, for short.”[5] For order and social duty to exist, there must be a specific group to whom these imperatives apply, or else all is unordered chaos. The necessary trade-off in this collective unification is the creation of an out-group against which the citizenry can be defined and assert its exceptionalism. In this way, the social order itself creates the outlaw, the metic, the orphan, and the bastard: broad, inferior social categories designed to include those who do not adhere to the implied social code. Those considered “outside of the law” are not actually so, for they fall into categories created by the social order. The only individuals truly outside of the law are those who cannot be defined by it, which we shall see is the case for Ion and Oedipus. The social rule creates the social rulebreakers, and at the same time the rule-breakers throw the rule itself into relief. Each is the inverse of the other’s positive assertion, becoming a co-constitutive axis. They provide legitimacy by means of a relation of difference through which to define themselves, while in reality neither category exists outside of the artificial, dyadic social construction. In order for a society to function, however, it must be able to overlook the arbitrariness of social delineation and instead see it as legitimate, even inherent to its subjects. To that end, Athens turned to a system of social order that on its face seemed absolute, inherent, and infallible: blood-based citizenship dependent upon genealogical descent from an autochthonous original populace. In the way of legitimacy, autochthony appeared acceptable to its citizens because it could not be disproven, even though it was just as much of a social construct as any other conception of citizenship and justification of exceptionalism. Because the mythical original autochthonous population from which Athenians claimed citizenship was ancestral, its supposed existence could not be called into question based on facts, since there were none to confirm or deny its existence. Like the founding myth of any society, the lie at the core of Athenian structure not only persisted but, interestingly, added legitimacy to the regime. Autochthony also provides a reason to see status as inherent to the citizen, since it “grounds difference in claims of nature—specifically, in earth and blood—[which gives] these categories the appearance of an ontological status.”[6] That is, Athenian exceptionalism appeared justified since it was traceable back to inherent natural differences between people. The lie of one’s social status being inherent, especially in a system based on blood, means that both adhering to its standards and violating them are not seen as merely shifting status, but are actions sublimated into the person themself. Oedipus, answering the question the Chorus poses as to his identity, does not say, “I am in exile”—that is, inhabiting an external, imposed state—but “I am an exile” (italics added).[7] His status has become his being, since blood determines both. Just as Thomas Kuhn conceives of paradigm shifts in science as not only incorporating past scientific information, but also as proclaiming past paradigms unscientific, so too do new information and actions that cause a change in status retroactively re-write one’s entire self. Everything that previously signaled one’s status becomes a lie, and, in a world where statuses can change, passing becomes both possible and inevitable.[8] This is the unavoidable fallout of the idea of social status as inherent and blood based. While autochthony’s claims of being inherent certainly rested on shaky ground, these were not the only fallacious premises upon which Athenian self-conception depended. Because autochthony was meant to order, it centrally imposed its structure down to even the level of individual family, and in doing so, manifested itself as a myth of unity. Above all, genealogical claims were meant to be objective and clear, “largely to guard against the kind of mingling and confusion of identities that blurs discrete lines of demarcation in the social order.”[9] The ideological primacy of a clearly-ordered and unified family structure was designed to make orderly life possible, with a cohesive overall clan structure which mirrored the internal structure of the family. In this way, the polis functioned ideologically as a single entity, its uniform organization all the way down to the individual level supplementing its unifying claim to one collective heritage. This ideology is far from abstract, and is in fact visible in much of the literature Athenian citizens produced. In Pericles’ Funeral Oration, for example, “the ‘populus,’ in the general sense of the term, is not politically divided,” and, indeed, “is never divided in the works of the tragic poets.”[10] This broad claim of unity is seen in Oedipus at Colonus as well, when Theseus, reacting to Creon’s abduction of Oedipus’s daughters, proclaims, “Your [Creon’s] behavior is an affront to me, / A shame to your own people and your nation,” and that “the whole city [Athens] / Must not seem overpowered by one man.”[11] In a unified citizenry, any citizen exemplifies that citizenry, and thus the actions of one man can impact the reputation of the entire polis . In this way, the citizen is metonymic of the polis , and conflating one with the other is both an easy and powerful move in a mythically-unified city like Athens, especially by its figurehead Theseus. What this means, however, is that the broad-reaching social order determines not only social status, but behavior. One must act in accordance to its social prescriptions, or else one endangers the social ideal of collective unity. Thus, those who violate the social norms, especially those important enough to be codified into law, must either be expelled from the polis by being placed into one of the excluded classes—in extreme cases, such as with Oedipus, this meant being expelled from the city itself and branded an exile—or eliminated entirely. In a society founded on absolute, broad-reaching, inherent order, any person whose very presence defies that system of order threatens the entire conception of the polis, a conception that must be kept in place so that democracy and the state as a whole can function. In order to see why Oedipus and Ion are not able to take their rightful places, then, it is necessary to examine exactly which secondary social prescriptions they violate that threaten the order and unity of the polis .[12] The Social Implications Of Blood While the primary concern of a genealogical social organization is creating a clear order, it must also be a self-sustainable system. What this means is that in order to reproduce viable citizens, and thereby the entire social order, secondary behavioral prescriptions become necessary. A system meant merely to determine whether or not one was citizen (i.e., pure lineage) became instead a guiding social principle, dictating not only social standing but also desired social behavior. To borrow a term coined by James C. Scott, the requirement of pure lineage in a genealogical society set into motion “a process by which ‘a measure colonizes behavior’”—that is, what is meant to be descriptive becomes prescriptive.[13] In the quest to create social order and obtain clarity through kinship organization, a blood-based society generated secondary regulations that helped further its own existence. No longer did it merely order society, but the desire to adhere to the blood standard now shaped the ways Athenians lived their lives. For example, the stringency of claims to autochthony biased societal perceptions of preferable marriages. Athenian-Athenian matches, or, more generally, marriages between members of the polis with clearly-defined statuses were considered more appropriate in ancient Athenian society. These biases played into the need for social order: if one was certain who one’s parents were, one’s own status was clearly defined. Conversely, if one was uncertain about their parentage, their social status was diminished due to the social order. We see this bias throughout history, with orphans and bastards historically being treated as lower-class citizens, inferior to those of straightforward lineage. With unclear parentage, one is not immediately stateless, per say, but one experiences a sort of social statelessness. As Creusa says of Ion, “It was for your good that Loxias settles into a noble house. If you were called the god’s son, you would not have had a house as your inheritance or a father’s name.”[14] Because Athenian women could not hold property, Ion must pass as the son of a metic in order to inherit a name of any meaning. Indeed, we see at the beginning of the play that Ion has no name at all until Xuthus gives it to him.[15] Naming is a familial claim, but as a bastard of Apollo, Ion has no name to claim whatsoever. While his Athenian mother ought to make him Athenian as well, revealing his true parentage would render Ion not only destitute, but without any form of social identification. To have a subordinate place in the social order is better—at least as Ion is coerced to believe by Xuthus and Athena—than to have no place at all. While his parentage is clear, Ion’s social status is not, revealing one of the major failures of a blood-based system. Inheritance can only deal with facts that it was built to incorporate for it is based on the grounds that it stems from absolute fact. While being the son of a god ought to have positive effects on his social standing, the fact that Apollo has entered the social order from a place completely external to it means that Ion and all of his progeny are also unable to fit into the social system at all. Ion cannot even be defined by one of the catch-all categories such as “orphan” that have been built into society for extreme, non-standard cases. A social order based on genetic lineage “expresses a demand to repeat (over generations) what can only happen once (the original birth).”[16] Genealogical in-grouping made both citizenship and violations of its reproductive practices iterative: if one’s ancestors made a mistake in marriage or reproduction, it would be reproduced throughout the entire genealogical line with no chance of correction, save through covering it up. Once revealed, Apollo’s original sin of impregnating Creusa—or, as it was more likely to be seen in this society, Creusa’s original sin of giving birth to Ion—would haunt Ion’s family line forever. Ion therefore must follow Athena’s advice and pass as a metic until the end of his days, his knowledge of his true parentage keeping him from fully joining the polis lest he become disenfranchised and lose his social classification of orphan, along with the protection that classification affords. While Ion’s crime against the social order is his very birth, Oedipus’s crime is more nuanced, hinging on his transition from ignorance to knowledge of his own parentage. Oedipus at Colonus thus explores what happens when that which goes against the social order is revealed, instead of staying safely hidden. While Ion confounds orderly overall social classification, Oedipus hopelessly confuses the internal family ordering upon which the whole of Athenian society was based. Oedipus not only confuses this order by killing his father, upending the proper power dynamic and sinning against the polis ’s conception of the ideal family, but also by marrying his mother and having children by her. This creates social positions untenable within Athenian society: sister-daughters, son-brothers, father-siblings, grandmother-mothers, etc. In his ignorance, Oedipus commits crimes that, upon coming to light, make both himself and his entire family socially unclassifiable, for the social order has no way of coping with the complications of incest. Just as Ion’s potential outing could contaminate the legitimacy of his entire line, Oedipus’s revelation does contaminate his entire family structure because of the supposedly inherent and unifying qualities of blood. This inherited contamination is evident in the ill fate of Oedipus’s daughters in the following play, Antigone . What brings people together in the social order can just as quickly spread social contamination. Oedipus and his family, especially his offspring, each inhabit multiple social categories, which contradict each other in their implications of exclusion and inclusion. Despite Oedipus and by extent his children being at least doubly Theban, the revelation of Oedipus’s parentage means they cannot be allowed to remain in the polis . Society has no outcast category in which to put the members of this family, so they must be expelled. They have violated the social order and thus cannot stay in the city since their continued presence threatens the myth of broader social unity. While the concept of unity was not as important in Thebes as in Athens, at least from an Athenian perspective, incest was still taboo. To some extent, Oedipus’s family had to be Theban since Thebes served as Athens’ dramatic foil, a place where scenes were allowed that couldn’t play out in Athens, even mythically.[17] Thebes was a place to explore social possibilities. If Oedipus’s stories took place within Athens’ idealized system, even in fiction, they risked exposing too directly its fragility. The slight distance between the two cities, both physically and ideologically, was what made such socially-shattering myths as Oedipus palatable. They were allowed to explore the potential effects that taboo events such as incest could have within Athens without threatening the social order with its intense emotional baggage. Conclusion The Athenian social order tolerates certain types of aberrations as long as they fall within the outcast categories it has created so that its myth of unity can persist despite inevitable anomalies. If an individual falls outside of these catch-all categories then they must be eliminated. Indeed, we see this occur through the plays as Oedipus’s children—who break no laws but whose very existence as daughter-sisters and brother-sons exposes the fragility of blood-based social order—eventually kill themselves and each other. The sin must be cut off at the source or else it will grow exponentially with every following generation. All of Oedipus’s family must end to cleanse the blood and the city. Unlike with Ion, Oedipus’s familial social transgressions are known, precluding him from the approved social order. Therefore, Oedipus faces no other socially-viable option but to be expelled from the polis . He threatens the polis ’s behavioral unity, the myth of unity that the entire polis is founded upon, and therefore, the polis itself. The mythically-unified polis, for whom all included individuals are metonymic representatives, cannot include an individual who has violated its secondary socio-familial prescriptions even if those transgressions are not intentional. Interestingly, Oedipus is asked to conditionally rejoin Thebes after his expulsion because the metonymic power the polis has over its citizens supersedes all other considerations. The claim which Athens newly asserts over Oedipus infringes upon that primary consideration, and so his secondary sins can be overlooked in favor of his primary birthright. Oedipus’s parentage is revealed, while Ion’s is not, and these revelations are what shaped their tragic fates. However, in a genealogical system that gains legitimacy based on the claim that blood is objective, inherent, and unfakeable, how is it possible that either of their lineages, at any point, not be revealed? The answer, in short, is that despite its apparent objectivity, blood does not speak for itself. One cannot look at someone and tell who their parents are, and, like Ion, individuals might be mistaken about their true parentage. This opens up the possibility of acting and passing as a citizen, even unintentionally, when one is not. This possibility threatens the autochthonous myth of blood being self-evident and inherent—thereby threatening the entire Athenian social order. As the bastard child of a god and an Athenian, Ion, while objectively an Athenian, does not fit neatly into the social narrative. Revealing his parentage may lead to questions about his autochthony. To secure his high position of power, a palatable lie must be constructed to ensure the propagation of his own line and the social order as a whole. Blood in this case is a performance, willing or not, for the sake of the social order to which his own exceptional circumstances must be subsumed. Because the autochthonous genealogical citizen myth is founded on the basis that it has no exceptions, having a questionable figurehead at one of the most important family lines might incite social crumbling from the top down. As an inevitable consequence of the need to preserve the mythical unity that this society was founded on, Ion, whose familial transgressions can be subsumed into pre-existing social categories, is able to be a metic as long as he hides his familial transgressions under a socially-acceptable genealogical narrative. Oedipus, on the other hand, who reveals his familial transgressions under extreme emotional duress[18], must necessarily be evicted from his polis for his violation of its secondary prescriptions since the assertion of his status along family lines implicates his other behavior. The tragedy of Oedipus and Ion is that the knowledge they gain of their parentage, which should shift them from their marginal social positions into the sociopolitical centers of their respective poleis , actually means that they cannot claim their rightful places in society. The knowledge of their parentage is inextricable from the knowledge that either they or their parents violated the secondary prescriptive norms of their genealogically-based society. Despite its claims to being inherent, providing clear order, and unifying the polis , (blood) autochthony failed in almost every one of these respects, as does any other basis for social organization and delineation of citizenship. In order to preserve and reproduce this order, the reproduction of individuals needed to adhere to secondary behavioral prescriptions that blood-based membership entails, lest their entire family lines be contaminated. Due to the different natures of Ion’s and Oedipus’s social crimes, as well as the secrecy of sensitive information or lack thereof, Ion is able to pass within the polis while Oedipus must be expelled in order to preserve the social myth. However, neither is able to claim what is rightfully theirs: the title of citizen. Endnotes [1] Autochthony: n., The quality, state, or condition of being autochthonous; an instance of this. Autochthonous: (of an inhabitant of a place) indigenous rather than descended from migrants or colonists. Oxford English Dictionary, “autochthony” and “autochthonous,” OED Online, December 2018. [2] Polis refers to a Greek city-state. Here, more specifically, it refers to the people allowed within government in Athens, the people who constituted the voter base and who were included in all aspects of civic life. [3] Dokimasia : n, The term δοκιμασία and the related verb dokimazein were used in various Greek contexts to denote a procedure of examining or testing, and approving or validating as a result of the test. Oxford Classical Dictionary , 2016, "dokimasia." [4] At the time in which Ion is set, the requirement for citizenship was having one Athenian parent, not two, as it was after Pericles’ citizenship law. For Oedipus, the distinction is irrelevant because both of his parents are Thebans—or, in his father’s case, a naturalized Theban ruler. [5] Jacques Derrida, Of Hospitality: Anne Dufourmantelle Invites Jacques Derrida to Respond , Trans. Rachel Bowlby, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 83. [6] Demetra Kasimis, “The Tragedy of Blood-Based Membership: Secrecy and the Politics of Immigration in Euripides’s Ion,” Political Theory 41(2):231-256 (2013), 15. [7] Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus , trans. Robert Fitzgerald (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1941), 92, line 9. The exact blood-based social conventions Oedipus violates that lead to his expulsion from Thebes will be explored later. [8] Passing, or being perceived and accepted as something other than what one actually is, is certainly an important part of any strictly-delineated social order. For example, in the post-Jim Crow era, certain people who would legally have been considered African American could “pass” in their daily lives as white. Passing is especially important in relation to Euripides’ Ion, but further discussion is not within the scope of this paper. [9] Kasimis, “The Tragedy of Blood-Based Membership,” 15. [10] Pierre Vidal-Naquet, “Oedipus Between Two Cities: An Essay on Oedipus at Colonus,” in Myth and Tragedy in Ancient Greece, eds. Jean-Pierre Vernant and Pierre Vidal-Naquet, trans. Janet Lloyd (New York: Zone Books, 1988), 331; 334. [11] Sophocles, 132, lines 8-9; 136, lines 14-15. [12] Ion is the son of the sun god Apollo and the Athenian princess Creusa; Oedipus is the son of two Theban monarchs. Thus, both theoretically should be included in their respective poleis on the basis of blood, especially since it is the blood of the elite. [13] James C. Scott, Two Cheers for Anarchism: Six Easy Pieces on Autonomy, Dignity, and Meaningful Work and Play (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014), 114. [14] Euripides, Ion , trans. H.K. Lee (Warminster, England: Aris & Phillips, 1997), 503. [15] Euripides, Ion , 403. [16] Kasimis, “The Tragedy of Blood-Based Membership,” 13. [17] Vidal-Naquet, “Oedipus Between Two Cities,” 334: “There is one place where stasis [social division] finds a special home: It is Thebes,…an anti-city.” [18] Euripides, Ion , 104, lines 17-18: “Nothing so sweet / As death, death by stoning, could have been given me.” Oedipus’s distress comes from his internalization of the prescribed external social standards, which hold so much weight as taboo that he, as a metonymic citizen, feels anguish from actively breaking these rules, even if unaware he was doing so. References Derrida, Jacques. Of Hospitality: Anne Dufourmantelle Invites Jacques Derrida to Respond. Trans. Rachel Bowlby. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000. Euripides. Ion . Translated by H.K. Lee. Warminster, England: Aris & Phillips, 1997. Kasimis, Demetra. “The Tragedy of Blood-Based Membership: Secrecy and the Politics of Immigration in Euripides’s Ion.” Political Theory 41(2):231-256 (2013). Scott, James C. Two Cheers for Anarchism: Six Easy Pieces on Autonomy, Dignity, and Meaningful Work and Play. Princeton University Press, 2014. Sophocles. Oedipus at Colonus . Translated by Robert Fitzgerald. New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1941. Vidal-Naquet, Pierre. “Oedipus Between Two Cities: An Essay on Oedipus at Colonus.” In Myth and Tragedy in Ancient Greece. Edited by Vernant, Jean-Pierre, and Pierre Vidal-Naquet. Translated by Janet Lloyd. New York: Zone Books, 1988. Vernant, Jean-Pierre, and Pierre Vidal-Naquet. Myth and Tragedy in Ancient Greece. Translated by Janet Lloyd. New York: Zone Books, 1988.

Kimberly Ramos Authenticating Authenticity: Authenticity as Commitment, Temporally Extended Agency, and Practical Identity Kimberly Ramos The everyday concept of authenticity presupposes the existence of an underlying, unchanging self to which to be authentic. However, with the rise of bundle theories in philosophy of mind and neuroscience, it is unlikely that we have an essence of self to which to be authentic. In this case, should we abandon the concept of authenticity entirely or formulate a new account of it? I argue that authenticity is still important to one’s everyday life, particularly when making difficult decisions about one’s identity in terms of morals, goals, and values. Rather than being true to an objective essence of self, I argue that we can be true to the self as a construct (a self-concept). We create this self-concept with consistency and steadfastness in our commitments, as well as our ability to be an agent that fulfills those commitments. Thus, authenticity and self- hood are more about undertaking important projects and a creative process of becoming rather than unearthing and expressing an essence of self. Just be yourself. Embrace your most authentic life. Or, if you like, “To thine own self be true.” We often encounter such pithy aphorisms. Some of us might find such advice to be helpful because it pushes us to pursue a career or life path that brings out the best version of ourselves. On the other hand, such advice could also induce anger because of its irrationality and emptiness. The self, as others of us might point out, is just a construct, so what is there to be “true” to? Or perhaps the whole concept of authenticity is simply confusing. We might agree that it is good to be authentic to one’s self but find it confusing as to what sort of identity this means for our own lives. We might, like philosopher Elisabeth Camp, pose this question: “What is my true self, such that I should pursue and cultivate it?” The everyday, common view of authenticity assumes that (1) we possess a “true” self, and (2) we ought to embrace this “true” self. But as more is learned about the mind and brain, it seems increasingly unlikely that a true, underlying self exists. Dr. Christian Jarrett, a writer for the British Psychological Society, mentions a study conducted by Strohminger et al. Strohminger and her colleagues observed that belief in an underlying “true” self is common across cultures, and inherent in this belief is the concept of authenticity. However, they are skeptical that this true self actually exists because such a self would be “radically subjective” (1). We see this sort of radical subjectivity in a study conducted by Quoidbach et al. The study found that people tend to underestimate the amount of change they will undergo in the future. They believe that their personality, core values, and preferences will be preserved over time, even though these attributes have already changed from the past to the present (2). The belief in the consistency of the self and its preferences is radically subjective in that it is based on feeling alone—it is not based on objective fact or essence. If at least some personality traits and values can and do change over the course of one’s life, then the common view of authenticity does not seem plausible. There is no true and essential self to which to be authentic because the self is not immune to change. An action which is authentic to me today might not be authentic to me in ten years. If this is the case, then how am I to decide what is most authentic: my past values, my current values, or my future values? In rejecting true and essential self, philosophers of mind, psychologists, and neuroscientists including Douglas Hoftstader, Thomas Metzinger, and Daniel Dennett have turned to bundle theories. David Hume, one of the first bundle theorists, expresses the general sentiment of bundle theories in viewing the self as a series of “bundled” perceptions that change from moment to moment (3). As such, bundle theorists declare there is no rational reason to believe in an enduring self over time. Under their view, a new self exists each moment. If no enduring and underlying self exists, then pursuing the everyday view of authenticity seems somewhat futile. Authenticity would only be possible to a given self at the singular moment it exists, which does not seem satisfying given that, from a practical standpoint, we view the self as a consistent entity, at least on a day-to-day basis. This paper is dedicated to redefining the way we commonly think about authenticity and the self. Is there even a “true” self to be authentic to? And why should we desire authenticity at all? Three Cases: Authenticity as a Common Concern Before discussing more of the practical reasons for desiring authenticity at length, I will begin with a few “real world” examples to illustrate authenticity as a common concern within one’s daily life. (a) Neryssa and Her Corporate Job : Neryssa dislikes her current job as a human resources manager at a large corporation that manufactures soda. Though she enjoys working with people, the corporation’s product and mission don’t align with her personal values. She desires a job that feels more representative of the person she takes herself to be, but she isn’t sure if her job should even matter in terms of her sense of identity and values. (b) Rowan and Their College Major : Rowan needs to decide between a major in English or in History. On the one hand, they love literary analysis, especially as it applies to the fantasy genre. On the other hand, they also enjoy detangling and reconstructing historical narratives. When they think about the job prospects of each, they find each option to be about equal. Rowan wants to pick the major that “fits” them best, but at this juncture, both choices seem equally well-fitting. Which should they choose? (c) Julia and Her State Senate Campaign : Julia is running for election to the state senate. Her platform emphasizes environmental consciousness, especially in contrast with her opposition, who takes donations from large corporations that con- tribute to the climate crisis. Julia’s team suggests that she run a slander ad that, while not conveying outright lies, strongly insinuates that the opposition is cheating on his partner. While the ad would help Julia win the election and implement environmentally sustainable legislature, Julia isn’t sure that she can condone the ad. She takes herself to be someone who “plays by the rules” and holds herself to high moral standards. What should she do? In each of these three examples, authenticity plays a role in the decision making process of the individual involved (4). In (a), Neryssa desires a job that feels more authentic to her person. A job which represents her values is important to Neryssa, and thus, authenticity is relevant to her creating a life she enjoys. In (b), Rowan wants to know which of two options is more authentic of them to choose. Like Neryssa, they want to make a choice that will lead to a fulfilled and enjoyable life. In (c), Julia must choose between becoming a state senator and her morals. An understanding of authenticity might help her decide between these two options. I would wager that we, like Neryssa, Rowan, and Julia, have come up against similarly difficult decisions that challenge who we take ourselves to be and leave us wondering what decision is most authentic. I would also wager that the simple advice “Just be yourself!”would not help much in the situations described above. The purpose of this paper, then, is to provide a novel account of authenticity that (1) takes into account the lack of an underlying “true” self in light of bundle theories, and (2) helps us confront difficult decisions in which one’s identity is in question. Ultimately, I will propose a commitment-based account of authenticity, in which the personated, socially-constructed self and the commitments it makes are the basis for determining authentic action. A “True” Self? A Foray Into Bundle Theories and a Postmodern Ac- count of Authenticity Discussions about the self often turn to psychology and the brain. Following John Locke and his discussion of substance in An Essay Concerning Human Understanding , the view of the self shifted from one of body or spirit to one of psychological substance, particularly consciousness (5). But, as philosopher David Hume later pointed out, the brain and its associated consciousness do not have a substance of self. In more modern terminology, this means that there is no lobe or neural center that constitutes an essence of self, which is an inherent entity upon which one’s identity is founded. Rather, the self is the “bundle” of thoughts and impressions present at any moment (6). These bundles pass away and give rise to new thoughts and impressions. Thus an entirely new self arises that bears no necessary or logical connection to the previous self. To support his argument, Hume asks us to turn inwards and observe the contents of consciousness: For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I al- ways stumble on some particular perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe any thing but the perception. When my perceptions are remov’d for any time, as by sound sleep; so long am I insensible of myself, and may truly be said not to exist (7). If we look inwards, we can find only perception. We can also find memories, but these are the revival of past perceptions (8). We do not find any singular thing that we could call an essence of self. Hume does not completely negate the existence of the self. There is certainly something that perceives. But, Hume argues that given the evidence, we cannot extrapolate beyond this fairly minimal conception of the self—what Elisabeth Camp more recently calls a “bare skeletal ego.” Again, the self just is perception. Science writer and neuroscientist David Eagleman offers an updated view of how bundle theories apply to the biology of the brain and thus supports bundle theories originating from Hume: So who you are at any given moment depends on the detailed rhythms of your neuronal firing. During the day, the conscious you emerges from that integrated neural complexity. At night, when the interaction of your neurons changes just a bit, you disappear...the meaning of something to you is all about your webs of associations, based on the whole history of your life experiences (9). Like Locke, Eagleman locates the self in consciousness, which he describes as “detailed rhythms of neuronal firing.” And when this neuronal firing shuts down perception during sleep you “disappear,” reflecting Hume’s claim that when we are “insensible” of perceptions we do not really exist (10). The self is perception and neuronal firing, and this neuronal firing impacts the way we experience and interpret the world. Hume’s description of the self is the foundation for most modern bundle theories. Thomas Metzinger, a German philosopher, similarly undermines belief in an essence or substance of self: “There is no such thing as a substantial self (as a distinct ontological entity, which could in principle exist by itself), but only a dynamic, ongoing process creating very specific representational and functional properties” (11). Like Hume, modern bundle theorists doubt an underlying self that exists over time and endows one with a sense of “I,” which is closely tied to one’s perceived personal identity and autonomy. While bundle theorists claim we do not have any rational reason to believe in a sense of “I,” they do admit its practical necessity, as well as the human inability to abandon it. Douglas Hofstadter expresses the utility of the sense of “I” in I Am a Strange Loop : “Ceasing to believe altogether in the ‘I’ is in fact impossible, because it is indispensable for survival. Like it or not, we humans are stuck for good with this myth” (294). It is natural and practical for an individual to construct a sense of “I” to navigate the world, make future plans, and distinguish herself from others. As Hofstadter states, a sense of “I” is thus necessary to survive in and engage with the world. If there is an objectively existing self, it is momentary and fleeting. And, in being solely composed of processes and perceptions, it is not an entity we can be perfectly authentic to over time. Nor is there an essence of self that we can stake personal identity upon. Instead, our sense of “I” comes from the temporally and subjectively existing selves we construct as useful “myths” (12). Let us call this subjectively existing entity the “self-concept” for the sake of clarity. The common view of authenticity, however, assumes that there is “true” underlying self to which to be authentic to. Under this view, authenticity is the expression of one’s “real” self. But, as bundle theorists have stated, there is not an underlying, temporally-extended self to em- brace! How can we be authentic to something that isn’t objectively real, if at all? Beyond proclaiming that personal identity is a construct, bundle theorists do not offer us any answers about authenticity. Still, I think bundle theorists would likely embrace what Varga and Guigon call a “postmodern” view of authenticity. This account of authenticity abandons an essential self and embraces a more minimal construction of self and authenticity: Postmodern thought raises questions about the existence of an underlying subject with essential properties accessible through introspection. The whole idea of the authentic as that which is “original”, “essential”, “proper”, and so forth now seems doubtful. If we are self-constituting beings who make ourselves up from one moment to the next, it appears that the term “authenticity” can refer only to whatever feels right at some particular moment (13). The bundle theorist, in viewing the objectively existing self as a continual and ever-changing process, would endorse the idea of a “self-constituting being” that makes itself up from “one moment to the next” (14). Thus postmodern authenticity is merely whatever feels right at some particular moment. And if we reject an essential, underlying self—which, given the psychological evidence from Strohminger, Quoidbach, and bundle theorists, I think we should—it seems we are left to embrace the postmodern account of authenticity. However, I do not find the postmodern conception of authenticity satisfying because we do not view ourselves as beings that make themselves up from one moment to the next. Rather, we wake up each day believing that we are more or less the same person we were the day before, with the same projects and goals, social relationships, and values. In our three “real world” examples, the postmodern view of authenticity gives Neryssa, Rowan, and Julia no direction as to what sorts of values or projects they ought to pursue to feel personally fulfilled. It may be true that they are just bare Humean selves from a purely objective standpoint, but they don’t view themselves as such. Consider if, in virtue of the postmodern account of authenticity, we were to tell them, “Well, just do what feels right in the moment.” They would probably respond along the lines of, “The problem is I don’t know what feels right in the moment, and the choice I make will impact my future. I don’t want to make the wrong choice!” They view themselves as people who are concerned about their futures, their well-being, and their personal projects. Neryssa, Rowan, and Julia all regard themselves as selves that exist over time with relatively consistent attributes. I think it is likely that most humans view themselves as selves that exist throughout time with somewhat consistent attributes, too. For instance, if I go to sleep liking the song “Piano Man” by Billy Joel and having a desire to learn the song on the guitar, I expect to wake up the next morning with the same sort of preferences and goals. And in taking myself to be a person with specific aspirations, I necessarily find myself interested in my future and what it holds for me. On the pain of speaking for a reader, I find it probable that they conceive of themselves in this manner, too. Elisabeth Camp offers further practical reasons for embracing a sense of “I” concerned with authenticity beyond the bare Humean ego. She argues that the sense of “I” allows an individual to make sense of and evaluate her life given her values and goals, to select relevant characteristics of selfhood and thus form a meaningful identity through which to understand herself, and to create and carry out future plans based on the self-concept she wants to create or maintain (15). Camp’s three listed benefits of a sense of “I” point to authenticity: we want to know who we are, if we have lived up to what we want to be, and how to best preserve a sense of self. In the service of self-understanding and pursuing a fulfilling life, we ought to care about a sense of “I” along with authenticity and its application to our lives. For an account of authenticity to be useful, then, it should take into consideration our perceived existence as temporally-existing selves with an eye to the future and the values and projects we hope to fulfill. In other words, a more satisfying and practical account of authenticity should work alongside our intuition of hav- ing a “true self,” even if the true self turns out to be more of a construct than an objectively existing entity. This new account of authenticity seems to be related to being loyal to a constructed self-concept. To restate, this account should (1) take into account the lack of an underlying “true” self in light of bundle theories, and (2) provide us with some direction in confronting difficult decisions in which one’s identity is in question or at stake. The Self-Concept and Concerns of Self-Deception In this section, I will define the self-concept and discuss some difficulties self-deception poses to the self-concept, though ultimately I think we can table such difficulties. Before we address the wider question of how one might be authentic to the somewhat subjective self-concept, we need to first define the self-concept. Here I will draw from Elisabeth Camp’s character model of self. This model describes the objective self as possessing “a distinctive way in which a particular ‘I’ inhabits, interprets, and engages with the world—a particular nexus of dispositions, memories, interests, and commitments” (16). These dispositions, memories, and interests, fit in with our earlier discussion of a psychological, Humean ego if we view them at a singular point in time. The self, as Camp defines it, is not so much a unified identity that endows one with a sense of “I.” Rather, it is a particular way of experiencing and interpreting the world. Here, it is worthwhile to note that these interests and dispositions constitute a “something” that makes up the bare, Humean ego. I do not wish to misrepresent Hume or bundle theorists in saying that there is no self whatsoever. Instead, we should recognize that the bare Humean ego is an existing self, an underlying “something” that makes up an individual. The problem regarding authenticity we find with the Humean ego is its impermanence and lack of a unified, temporally existing identity. The underlying Hueman ego is not an essence or substance of self that can endow us with a sense of “I” and a lasting identity. The bare Humean ego allows us to say “I exist,” or “Something that is me is here having experiences,” or perhaps even, “At this current moment, I would like to have a glass of lemonade,” but it would not allow us to say anything about the kind of person we are, especially if the statement has to do with a characteristic or commitment that is meant to describe us over time—perhaps something to the effect of, “I am the type of person to pursue graduate study.” So the Humean ego endows one with momentary consciousness but not a sense of self or identity. Camp believes that an individual comes to an understanding of herself when she posits a “self-interpretation,” and thus forms the meaningful identity the bare Humean ego lacks. Camp compares a self-interpretation to a theory, as both create a coherent pattern or explanation “by electing and structuring a coherent unity out of [a] teeming multiplicity [of evidence].” Camp remarks that we can evaluate the effectiveness of a self-interpretation in the same way we would evaluate a theory. The more disparate elements it unites, the stronger the theory and related self-interpretation. Just as many theories can be equally probable or valid, so too can multiple self-interpretations. Likewise, when interpreting a body of data, there are clearly some interpretations that are better than others. While many interpretations may be on a par in strength, we can still distinguish between “bad” theories, which are not much grounded in the evidence nor realistic, and “good” theories, which take into account the available body of evidence for realistic interpretations. Let us say that the self-concept is the self-interpretation an individual embraces as the “best” explanatory theory for themselves given the current evidence. The self-concept is one’s understanding of their experience of the world. It is also the constructed identity that unifies one’s dispositions, memories, and interests. Thus, it is the self-concept that endows one with a sense of self and identity. I want to emphasize that even though one’s self-concept is subjective, there are limitations to its construction. The self-concept relies on objective evidence: the particular dispositions, interests, and memories held by an individual. This evidence is publicly accessible, too. Irish philosopher Philip Pettit remarks that an individual is a “figure in the public world, characterized by public properties” (17). The dispositions and interests held by an individual influence her behavior, actions, and statements. As such, the evidence becomes accessible to the public and available for use in forming a self-interpretation. Though the interpretation itself is subjective in how one decides to connect evidence and organize it into a meaningful pattern, an individual’s dispositions and interests remain objective because they exist without any given meaning. For example, say that Cassandra has an interest in almost every genre of music: country, hip hop, indie, classical—she likes it all. Before interpretation, this is simply an objective fact. Cassandra’s friend, Russel, believes that Cassandra likes many different genres of music because she is an open-minded person. Cassandra, on the other hand, believes that she likes so many genres because she had friends with varied music tastes growing up. Cassandra and Russel take an objective fact and then attribute meaning to it through interpretation. I would compare this sort of interpretation to the construction of historical narratives. Historians share the same set of facts about a historical event, but how they choose to connect them and endow them with meaning will vary. Given the objective nature of these public properties, we can blame an individual for a particularly self-deluding interpretation. For instance, a man who believes he is Napoleon might point to some evidence as reasons for him forming such a self-concept—perhaps he has a talent for tactical strategy and horseback riding— while ignoring glaringly contradictory evidence such as the fact that he is not French and he was not born in 1769. But this is a quite obvious case of self-delu-sion. What about more ambiguous, “real life” cases? I do not want to venture too far into this topic, but I would like to put forth a general means of avoiding, or at least living, with self-delusion. Firstly, we ought to approach self-concepts with the understanding that we are constructing theories, and like theories, self-interpretations are provisional. They can and should be replaced when new evidence comes to light, and if we are individuals that are dedicated to self-understanding and epistemic respectability, we ought to undergo regular introspection to uncover new evidence or re-contextualize old evidence. I think it is likely that we do so already. As fairly self-centered creatures, we like to talk about our lives with our acquaintances. Much of the time, this naturally incorporates interpretation of the self. Perhaps you spend some time talking with a friend over lunch about why you like horror movies. That evening, you discuss with your partner why they feel unfulfilled by their current job. Before bed, you silently think about whether you are the sort of person who would be happy adopting a child. With our recognition of self-concepts as provisional comes a sense of what Laurie Paul calls “epistemic humility.” We can be wrong about the sort of person we think we are, and so we must approach the self-concept knowing that we will likely get quite a few things wrong. Perhaps you thought you were the sort of person who values their career over family, but once you were faced with the actual choice to stay home and raise children or accept a promotion, you found that your priorities lay with family. What is most authentic for us to do is not always represented by the current self-concept, and this only comes to light when we encounter a choice that tests our self-concept. These choices are an integral part of self-discovery. Once again invoking epistemic humility, it seems that we are never fully done defining the self-concept. There will always be additional evidence generated or uncovered through events that test or reveal one’s character. Thus, we should accept that the self-concept is a provisional entity which we must continually discover and refine. Authenticity as Commitment, Temporally Extended Agency, and Practical Identity An Existing Definition of Authenticity Charles and Guigon pose this question in their entry on authenticity in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: “What is it to be oneself, at one with one- self, or truly representing one’s self?” They contrast this more complicated view of authenticity of self with the authenticity of objects, in which the latter is defined as the state of being “faithful to an original” or a “reliable, accurate representation” (18). While I agree that the authenticity of a self is more complicated than that of objects, I see no need to generate an alternative definition of authenticity if we can produce a “standard” to which an individual might be faithful. The existing thing being judged for authenticity in terms of faithfulness to an original or reliability in representation is a particular self-concept. Our account of authenticity will need to explain how we can temporally extend the self-concept and thus create a standard to be faithful to over time. The next natural question has to do with what it means to say that a person is a “reliable, accurate representation” of themselves (19). To form a “reliable, accurate, representation” of oneself, there are two primary “keys”: commitment and tempo- rally-extended agency, both of which I will discuss in the remainder of this section. The Personated Self, Commitment, and Agency The first key to a new account of authenticity lies in commitment. Here I will make use of Philip Pettit’s discussion of commitment and selfhood. Though Pettit primarily focuses on selfhood and identity in his article “My Three Selves,” I believe we can extend his conclusions to our current discussion of authenticity. According to Pettit, a person is defined as an “agent with the capacity to personate,” where personation is the act of presenting a persona and “inviting[ing] others to adopt [this] picture of who you are” (20). For instance, say that my friend asks me to keep a promise and I agree to do so. In doing so, I am making a claim about myself and a commitment to that claim: I will keep my friend’s promise. If I want my personated self to be relied upon, I ought to do as I said I would and keep the promise. If I do not, my earlier claim is compromised in its assertion as the truth. An individual must “live up to their words in practice: they act as the attitudes communicated would warrant" (21). In effect, the individual treats their personated self as real and, in living up to their personated self, invites others to do the same. In doing as I said I would, I fulfill the persona I set forth, thus endowing it with a sense of provisional reality. Here we come up against an objection. In making commitments or endorsing a particular self-interpretation, it would seem that an agent must be almost narcissitically focused on the creation of the self-concept at any given moment. Pettit’s own view is in tension with this sort of narcissism: “To return to a point made earlier, however, this self is not a construct that I intend to create as such...That claim ties personhood, implausibly, to a highly intellectualized form of reflection and a pattern of self-scripting that sounds downright narcissistic, as critics have suggested” (22). Relying on a “highly intellectualized form of reflection” poses a problem because it would require us to undergo a good deal of reflective agony about the person we take ourselves to be every time we make a commitment. Furthermore, it is entirely possible for an individual to possess a rich identity without undertaking highly intellectualized reflection. I think that we can still be quite conscious and aware of the commitments we endorse without being overly focused, or even highly aware of, the personated self we are creating in most cases. The following example will help us overcome this objection. Say that you ask me to drive you to the mechanic to pick up your car. I will likely say yes barring a major inconvenience. When I agree to drive you to the mechanic, I do not fully conceptualize the person that I believe myself to be. Rather, I feel as a matter of good will that I should help you out. If you were to ask me why I drove you, I could come up with the answer upon momentary reflection: I agreed because I take my- self to be the sort of person to help out a friend in a bind. But I don’t take the commitment itself to be constitutive of my self-concept unless prompted by some out- side inquiry or internal reflection. Furthermore, in such moments of self-reflection I do not focus on a singular commitment but a larger collection of commitments that I attempt to arrange into a meaningful pattern, thus forming a self-concept. Pettit echoes this sort of intermittent reflection, writing, “...it is important that it may take effort to achieve a full knowledge of who and how in this sense I am... Thus, it may take time and trouble for me to develop such a sense of where I am committed” (23). In other words, the personated self is something we make somewhat unconsciously through conscious commitments, and it is only later, through adequate reflection, that we develop a “sense of where we are committed,” and thus a self-concept to which to be faithful to (24). Now we can return to the initial example of my promissory commitment to my friend. In keeping my promise to my friend, I find that I have been faithful to my commitment in this particular instance. If I expand this promissory commitment to be constitutive of my self-concept and thus the sort of person that I take myself to be, I will as a matter of principle continue to fulfill my promises. If I successfully keep such commitments, my actions, behaviors, and claims will accurately and reliably represent my self-concept. My friend will accept that I am the sort of person to keep a promise, given that I continue to keep promises when called upon to do so. So authenticity relies on the fulfillment of the commitments one sets forth as constituting their self-concept (or at least, a sincere attempt to fulfill such commitments). With commitment comes the second key: temporally extended agency. As Pettit suggests in his definition of a person, persons are a particular sort of agent—an individual or entity that undertakes or performs an action (25). When we make commitments, we become agents concerned with values, goals, and policies that are enacted over time. American philosopher Michael Bratman uses the goal of writ- ing a paper as an example of temporally extended agency: I see my activity of, say, writing a paper, as something I do over an extend- ed period of time. I see myself as beginning the project, developing it over time, and (finally!) completing it. I see the agent of these various activities as one and the same agent-namely, me. In the middle of the project I see myself as the agent who began the project and (I hope) the agent who will complete it. Upon completion I take pride in the fact that I began, worked on, and completed this essay. Of course, there is a sense in which when I act at a particular time; but in acting I do not see myself, the agent of the act, as simply a time-slice agent. I see my action at that time as the action of the same agent as he who has acted in the past and (it is to be hoped) will act in the future (26). Similarly, an individual can make a commitment to be a particular sort of person that acts in a particular sort of way, and then carry this commitment over time. The individual does not view their self-concept and associated commitments as a “time-slice agent,” even if the Humean self changes from moment to moment (27). Rather, commitments connect both the personated self and the self-concept through time. Harry Frankfurt, another American philosopher, similarly argues that the individual makes plans and acts in virtue of the commitments which she cares about, and thus becomes “inherently prospective; that is, [she] necessarily considers [herself] as having a future” (28). So too do such plans entail a “notion of guidance” along with a “certain consistency or steadfastness of behavior; and this presupposes some degree of persistence” (29). To re-emphasize my point, though we may objectively be bare Humean selves, on the basis of forming commitments and endorsing them over time, we create a provisional sort of self that is temporally extended in terms of agency and identity. Even if the objective self shifts from moment to moment, the commitments we endorse remain somewhat consistent and thus so does the self-concept. Furthermore, for our self-constituting commitments to have a real impact on who we take ourselves to be and how other people perceive us, they must be somewhat consistent. Like a theory, a self-concept should accurately “predict” future behavior and actions—if a self-concept were not consistent, it would not have much credibility or trustworthiness for those around us. Nor would it be a source of guidance and meaning for the individual. To sum, a personated self arises out of one’s commitments (and more generally, one’s intent to act/actions). A personated self is temporally extended into a more unified identity when one is faithful to their commitments, though a reflective understanding of this identity is not yet present. To construct the self-concept and achieve a level of self-understanding, the collection of commitments are arranged into a meaningful pattern as if to say, “I am this sort of person because I have made several commitments of this kind in the past, and I would like to continue doing so.” The self-concept, though subjective, gives us a standard to which to be authentic and guides our future actions in the service of preserving authenticity. We decide who we are and who we want to be, and then we do our best to fulfill the self-concept we conceive. At the core of authenticity, we find a steadfastness and consistency towards one’s commitments. I also believe that the required degree of faithfulness to a commitment is normative. I cannot give a full account here, but if we accept Quoidbach’s conclusion that core values, personality traits, and preferences change over time, then we should also allow commitments and authenticity to shift over time. An individual should be required to uphold her commitments for as long as they accurately rep- resent the person she takes herself to be at present. In this manner, our novel ac- count of authenticity occupies a median position between that of bundle theorists and a true and essential self. The self-concept is stable from moment to moment unlike the self put forth by bundle theories. However, the self-concept is revised as one undergoes self-discovery and changes as a person, so it does not rely on consistent and core personality traits like the essential self. What is authentic to me today might not be authentic to me in ten years, though our account of authenticity allows for gradual changes over the course of one’s life. We are held to our commitments, but only to a point. Authenticity is, then, a moving target. How Commitments Originate Commitments and the behaviors and actions they endorse may seem arbitrarily chosen, especially if one does not have a given reason to endorse a particular self-concept over others. Here I will discuss how commitments originate and what reasons they are based on. First, I wish to introduce the concepts of fixed traits and free traits. According to personality psychologist Brian Little, a fixed trait is an inborn or “culturally endowed” personality trait such as introversion or conscientiousness (30). A fixed trait is “fixed” in virtue of its givenness. I cannot wake up and decide, as a matter of will, to no longer be an introvert. Free traits, on the other hand, are “tendencies expressed by individual choice,” such as cultivating an interest in soccer (31). However, Little also believes that fixed traits and free traits can coexist, particularly in how an individual chooses to modify fixed traits to fulfill a goal. In the spirit of our earlier discussion of temporally extended agency, Little states that we must “extend personality temporally ,” because over time, particular personality traits are emphasized or downplayed based on one’s core projects (32). A core project is defined as “meaningful goals, both small and large, that can range from ‘put out the cat, quickly,’ to ‘transform Western thought, slowly’” (33). Importantly, a longstanding core project related to one’s life work and identity resembles Pettit’s definition of commitments. Little uses himself as an example: as an introvert, he dislikes public speaking. However, he also values being a professor and sharing knowledge, and thus pushes himself out of his comfort zone during lectures and speeches (34). His commitment to teaching and imparting knowledge allows him to take a fixed trait and disposition, introversion, and treat it as a free trait for a limited amount of time to work towards his core project. Though it may not be authentic of Little to become a professional public speaker, it is still authentic of him to undergo public speaking engagements due to his commitments. Little’s self-concept might be the following: “I take myself to be an introvert, but if I have a cause I really care about, I’m willing to talk in front of a crowd and thus act as if I were an extrovert.” Little’s acting like an extrovert does not make him one, but rather invites others to view him as someone who can successfully engage a crowd with a speech regardless of introversion or extroversion. Therefore, commitments are based upon inborn and culturally endowed behavior, dispositions, and interests, although we might have some control over if and how we enact such traits. In his paper “The Importance of What We Care About,” Harry Frankfurt offers support for the necessity of given traits. He writes, “While what is antecedently important to the person may be alterable, it must not be subject to his own immediate voluntary control. If it is to provide him with a genuine basis for evaluations of importance, the fact that he cares about it cannot be dependent simply upon his own decision or choice” (35). We must start with some given and objective behaviors, dispositions, and interests, lest our entire constitution be entirely arbitrary. Though we cannot choose our given traits, I believe we still have a degree of freedom in which traits cultivate and express. We can, as Millgram argues, “take an interest in something, in the hope of finding it interesting” because we are curious and will ourselves to look into a new interest (36). The same sort of curiosity and flexibility applies to behaviors and dispositions. We cannot fundamentally change these characteristics, but perhaps we can be curious enough to see how flexible they are in our expression of them. Like Little, we can undertake a project that pushes us outside of our comfort zone. This allows us to observe how freely we can manipulate a fixed trait. There is a balance between commitments we undertake knowing that we will have to alter fixed traits and commitments which we accept because we acknowledge we have particular fixed traits. Thus, another consideration of authenticity is understanding how far and for how long we can push ourselves past fixed traits until we experience what Little calls “burnout” (37). We might also find that there are behaviors and interests that we simply cannot enact or adopt, try as we might. A few years ago, I tried to cultivate an interest in ornithology. Though I was curious, I could not adopt or sustain the interest, and eventually abandoned my attempts at doing so because it did not bring me any pleasure and I had no other strong reasons to keep trying. On the other hand, there are behaviors and interests that we simply cannot abandon or downplay. While I cannot bring myself to be interested in ornithology, I find it difficult to remain uninterested in The Bachelor when it airs. Perhaps my lack of interest in ornithology and my inability to abandon interest in The Bachelor are the result of my not trying hard enough. To this sort of objection, I reply that I have no reason to try harder, nor a further interest in doing so. I might try harder to develop an interest in ornithology if I had a commitment or core project that related to it, such as spending more time with a friend who likes bird watching. I might also try harder to abandon my interest in The Bachelor if I read a scientific article about the detriment of reality TV to the human brain, which would be in tension with my greater commitment to intellectual health. As it stands, I don’t have any further interest or relevant commitments that would have me try harder to mold these traits. Thus, part of living authentically might be realizing which of our traits are involuntary and which of our traits are voluntary—in other words, which traits are decidedly fixed and which traits are some- what mutable. Living authentically is a balance of acceptance and choice in terms of forming and fulfilling commitments, as well as discovering what commitments we can and cannot enact. Our account of authenticity has arguably come to resemble Harry Frankfurt’s account of freedom of will. Frankfurt argues that freedom of will relies on the hi- erarchical ordering and endorsement of desires and volitions (38). Likewise, I believe authenticity relates to ordering one’s commitments by their strength, especially when we are faced with two competing commitments. Authenticity comes from the commitments we endorse, and one commitment, such as the inborn tendency to be introverted, can be overridden by a stronger commitment and accompanying desire such as the commitment to be a professor that engages in public speaking with the desire of imparting knowledge. Therefore, another aspect of authenticity is reflecting upon what one cares about, and then determining, either by an act of will or an acceptance of one’s nature, which of these values “overrides” the others. Our new account of authenticity also bears relation to Christine’s Korsgaard’s description of practical identity. In deciding which commitments to make, we create policies or “laws” which dictate future actions: “When you deliberate, it is as if there were something over and above all of your desires, something that is you, and that chooses which desire to act on. This means that the principle or law by which you determine your actions is one that you regard as being expressive of yourself” (39). Korsgaard further supports my assertion that commitments are expressions of the self-concept. Making commitments builds what Korsgaard calls one’s “practical identity,” which is “a description under which you find your life to be worth living and your actions to be worth undertaking.”40 Where the personated self focuses on the making of commitments to present a self to others, the practical identity emphasizes making commitments to define and justify the actions of a self. Indeed, Korsgaard’s description of integrity might as well be discussing authenticity: Etymologically, integrity is oneness, integration is what makes something one. To be a thing, one thing, a unity, an entity; to be anything at all: in the metaphysical sense, that is what it means to have integrity. But we use the term for someone who lives up to his own standards. And that is be- cause we think that living up to them is what makes him one, and so what makes him a person at all (41). Along with authenticity and practical identity comes a sense of “integration” or “oneness” of self. The commitments, values, interests, and actions of an individual come together under the self-concept to form a rational pattern. Korsgaard additionally indicates another consideration in our search for authenticity: we should attempt to form commitments that exist in harmony with each other rather than in tension. In doing so, we form a self-concept better equipped for consistency and steadfastness. Practical and Existential Reasons for Committing Once you have made a commitment, why should you keep it? Let’s return to our earlier example: I tell my friend that I’m the sort of person to keep a promise, and he asks me to promise that I will attend his jazz concert tomorrow evening. What are the consequences of my failure to show up and fulfill my promise? Pettit offers three excuses that I might use in such a situation, which we will apply to our discussion of authenticity. The first is an excuse of circumstance (42). Say that I call my friend after the concert and profusely apologize for missing the event. However, I have a relevant excuse for the context. At the last minute, a family member of mine was admitted to the hospital and my presence was needed. With this excuse (as long as it is true), my friend excuses me from living up to my earlier promissory commitment. In fact, I could use an excuse of circumstance as many times as necessary, though it is unlikely that I would be able to genuinely use such excuses unless I were an incredibly unlucky person. We can regard ourselves as acting authentically in this situation because, although we had two competing commitments, we fulfilled the commitment we felt was stronger. If my friend understands my self-concept and rationally approaches the situation, he will likely understand why I valued my commitment to aiding my family in an emergency over attending his jazz concert. In this context I suffer little to no consequences for failing to uphold my promissory commitment. The other two excuses are less so the product of uncontrollable circumstances but of mental states or events. They result in interpersonal consequences. The first is an appeal to being misled by one’s mind. Say that I tell my friend that I truly thought I could make a promise to go to his concert, but when the occasion arose, I found that I simply could not keep it. Perhaps I remembered that I don’t like crowds, and therefore could not attend the concert. My initial willingness was an instance of self-delusion, or at the very least, a lack of self-knowledge (43). If I use this excuse, my friend would begin to see me as easily misled and too quick to form self-judgments. What kind of person, he might ask, forgets that they dislike crowds? Certainly not a person who is properly introspective. My friend would regard me as untrustworthy when it comes to my statements about commitments, and thus would disbelieve elements of my self-concept. If my self-concept does not match up with my personated self and its actions, then I have failed to act authentically. I will suggest that authenticity is an attractive quality in a friend and necessary for a steady relationship. If I continue to be inauthentic, then I might destroy our relationship. The second excuse is a matter of changing one’s mind (44). Say that I was not misled when I made the prior commitment, but I decide I no longer want to keep my promise. Besides being outrightly rude in changing my mind about this commitment, I also appear “wishy-washy,” or indecisive, to my friend. I make commitments without thinking about what they entail. My friend would regard me as unreliable and “flaky.” I would fail to be faithful to my commitments, and it might cost me my reputation. My friend would be less likely to rely on me and to let me rely on him in return (45). Again, authenticity is necessary for maintaining stable interpersonal relationships (46). Beyond potentially losing a meaningful interpersonal relationship, breaking commitments bears pressing existential implications. Varga and Guigon, in quoting Sartre, express a worry about the “cost” of breaking self-constituting commitments: If an agent acts against her commitments, she risks the “radical transformation of her being-in-the-world.” If I say that I am the type of person to keep a promise and then fail to do so, I will have to take this new behavioral evidence into account. If I fail to keep a promise multiple times, then my action is not simply out of character—it is my character. If I avoid deceiving myself, I will have to admit that I am not the type of person to keep a promise, and thus must change my self-concept. My personated self, the outward persona which I present to others through my attitudes and actions, would come apart from my practical identity and self-concept. I would lose who I take myself to be. Korsgaard adds to this worry: “Consider the astonishing but familiar ‘I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.’ Clearly there are two selves here, me and the one I must live with and so must not fail” (47). Here, she elaborates upon the discomfort of losing who one takes themselves to be. As we have previously seen in the case of the personated self vs the self-concept, there is a tension between who we take ourselves to be and who we really are by virtue of our behavior and actions. I would have to live with the knowledge that I want to be someone who keeps their promises, but, based on my actions, I can no longer claim this commitment as part of my self-concept. Again, if I do not delude myself, I have to recognize that I am not a reliable person nor a good friend when it comes to promises. As Korsgaard points out, I would have trouble “living” with myself; my self-esteem would suffer. Indeed, this sort of asymmetry in my personated self versus my self-concept has some serious consequences if I let it infect too much of my being: It is the conceptions of ourselves that are most important to us that give rise to unconditional obligations. For to violate them is to lose your integrity and so your identity, and no longer to be who you are. That is, it is no longer to be able to think of yourself under the description under which you value yourself and find your life worth living and your actions worth undertaking. That is to be for all practical purposes dead or worse than dead (48). This is quite the cost. If I value being the sort of person who keeps their promises, then I would find it difficult to exist with the knowledge that I am someone who does not do so. While I think Korsgaard’s statement here is overly dire in terms of breaking only a few loose commitments, she illustrates the real and pressing threat that losing one’s authenticity poses. If I fail to live up to several of my commitments, especially those which I designate as highly integral to my self-concept, I risk creating a life in which I find no value, meaning, or self-esteem. My personated self would be so far removed from my desired self-concept that I would feel the disconnect Korsgaard mentions between “me and the one I must live with” (49). Such an existential state is likely the source of statements such as, “I am a stranger to myself,” and “I do not recognize myself any longer.” Finally, having long-term commitments is part of an enjoyable life and the avoidance of boredom. Little and Frankfurt concur on this end. Little is quoted as saying, “Human flourishing is achieved through the sustainable pursuit of one’s core projects,” which can be reframed as lasting commitments to one’s goals (50). Frankfurt, too, identifies final ends as the driving purpose of one’s life: “If we had no final ends, it is more than desire that would be empty and vain. It is life itself. For living without goals or purposes is living with nothing to do” (51). We need commitments as final ends in order to build fulfilling and interesting lives. Further- more, commitments stave off the encroachment of boredom. Boredom, Frankfurt claims, threatens one’s “psychic survival” (52). Besides losing a sense of personhood, a lack of commitments and the development of boredom would endanger one’s mental existence and inner life. We can see, from discussing the existential implications of breaking commitments, even more reasons to pursue authenticity. Applying Our New Account of Authenticity Now that we have a new account of authenticity, let’s return to the three cases we posed earlier. How does our new account of authenticity offer guidance to Neryssa, Rowan, and Julia? For (a), we would first ask Neryssa how much her job contributes to her sense of identity, and thus, her self-concept. If she does not stake much of her identity upon her job, then for the sake of authenticity, she does not need to search for a new job. If she does take her work to be a large part of her identity, then she will need to search for a new job because the current job is in tension with her self-concept and the person she takes herself to be. We would also ask Neryssa how much the company’s product and mission misalign with her personal values. If she works for a corporation that espouses anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric while simultaneously taking herself to be someone who supports LGBTQ+ rights, she might, as Korsgaard warns, find it difficult to “live with herself.” Let’s say that Neryssa does stake a fair amount of her identity on her job. In addition, let’s say that the company’s values are greatly misaligned with Neryssa’s values. We would say that it is more authentic of Neryssa to leave her current job and search for a job that is representative of her values and the person she takes herself to be. We might even counsel her and suggest that, in staying in a job that is in tension with her self-concept, she risks burnout, the loss of her sense of identity, and general dissatisfaction. Furthermore, she might find it difficult to even commit to a job that she cannot fully endorse. In terms of authenticity alone, we would say that it is best for Neryssa to search for a new job. In (b), it would be helpful if we suggest that Rowan reframe the question. Instead of worrying about which major is the most authentic choice, we would remind Rowan that authenticity is not an expression of an essence of self. Rather, authenticity is a commitment to the self-concept, or, the self they take themselves to be. Therefore, they should ask themselves which major they would find themselves most capable of committing to. Can they envision a long-term commitment to either history or literature? In reframing the question in this way, we take away the agony related to the question, “What kind of person am I?” and turn our attention to a new question: “What kind of person would I like to be?” This question is prospective and forward-looking, and it emphasizes that there is no truly “right” choice (although some choices might be more “right” than others). We make a choice “right” by committing to it, given that we have the capability and interest necessary to commit to it in the first place. In Rowan’s case, they have the added benefit of being able to change their major. Say that Rowan declares an English major, but after a semester of classes, realizes that they would much prefer life as a history major. They can now change their commitment and self-concept. Thus, Rowan’s case endows us with a bit of advice for ourselves. When we can, we might try out a choice or experience before making a commitment to it and staking our identity upon it. For example, say that you are interested in becoming a parent. Before committing to parenthood (which, unlike a college major decision, cannot be reversed once chosen), you might spend some time taking care of young children and talking to their parents about the pros and cons of raising a child. While spending time with young children and talking to parents cannot fully replicate the actual experience of becoming a par- ent, you would at least have a clearer idea of what parenthood entails. In (c), we would remind Julia that her decision for or against the attack ad will become evidence that constitutes her self-concept. This is because decisions of this nature are “expressive of yourself” (Korsgaard 83). She needs to evaluate which she values more: the ultimate goal of her campaign, which is to promote environ- mentally sustainable legislature; or her personal morals and commitment to “playing by the rules.” If she runs the attack ad, she commits to being the sort of person who values the greater cause over her personal morals. If she decides against the attack ad, she commits to being the sort of person who values her personal morals over the greater cause, even if the greater cause is quite worthy. What we are asking of Julia is similar to what we asked of Rowan: “What sort of person would you like to be?” As we did with Neryssa, we would tell Julia to make the commitment that results in a self-concept she can “live with.” Though running the attack ad might help Julia win the election, the victory will mean little if she has sacrificed the self-concept that she wants to embody. Or perhaps Julia determines that she values the ultimate goal of her campaign more than her personal morals. In doing so, she commits to a new self-concept, one that values the greater good over her personal qualms. What matters in Julia’s case is that she decides in relation to a self-concept she can endorse and commit to, and thus continue past the decision with minimal tension between the person she takes herself to be and the person she acts as. Her self-concept, whatever it ends up being, will also influence how she reacts to and values future decisions, so it is imperative that she be able to commit to this new self-concept over time. I hope these three examples properly illustrate how one would use this new account of authenticity in real-world situations. I believe authenticity is of greatest importance when we are faced with difficult, self-constituting decisions. On a day- to-day basis, we might find it unnecessary to ask whether an egg salad sandwich or a hamburger is a more authentic lunch choice. However, it is necessary to spend time reflecting upon the self-concept and authenticity when the choice we face has clearly life-altering consequences or stands to change the way that we conceive of ourselves. And though authenticity may be an important factor in how one makes decisions and conceives of themselves, it is not necessary that authenticity and steadfast commitments constitute a morally admirable or respectable life. A person could commit to being flaky, to being a nuisance to their friends, or to being a criminal mastermind all while still being authentic. On a final note, it may seem as if one cannot help but be authentic if, at the end of day, authenticity amounts to a sincere commitment to one’s self-constituting choices. It seems like Neryssa could just as easily authentically embrace the practicality of keeping her current job as she could embrace the authenticity of seeking more fulfilling work, as long as she fully commits to her choice. However, I do not think this new account of authenticity is too weak regarding the tension between the personated self and the self-concept. Again, I will use the quote from Korsgaard: “Consider the astonishing but familiar ‘I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.’ Clearly there are two selves here, me and the one I must live with and so must not fail” (53). Sometimes the person we take ourselves to be is markedly different from the behavior we exhibit and values we espouse. In these situations, we have two options. One option is to accept a new self-concept in light of new behavioral evidence. Alternatively, we can change ourselves or our lives, thus pursuing greater harmony between the person we act as and the person we take ourselves to be. The discomfort of not being able to live with oneself is what holds us to a stricter attribution of authenticity. Conclusion From the initial doubt that bundle theories cast upon the necessity and nature of authenticity, we find ourselves with a novel account of authenticity centered upon steadfastness to the commitments which we take as integral to our self-concept. It is this self-concept that endows us with a sense of “I” and identity. When the actions and behavior of the personated self successfully act as a “reliable, accurate representation” of the person we take ourselves to be, we are authentic to that sense of identity. When faced with difficult decisions which have the potential to shape who we take ourselves to be, it may help to ask ourselves not what is most authentic of some underlying essence of self, but what we would find most natural to commit to. With this sort of direction, we will hopefully continue to construct self-concepts which we can “live with” and bring fulfillment and satisfaction to our lives. Endnotes 1 Christian Jarrett, “There Is No Such Thing as the True Self, but It’s Still a Useful Psychological Concept,” 2017. https://digest.bps.org.uk/2017/08/22/there-is-no-such- thing-as-the-true-self-but-its-still-a-useful-psychological-concept/ 2 Jordi Quoidbach, et al., “The End of History Illusion,” Science , vol. 339, (2013), 98. 3 David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature , (Oxford: 1896), 134). 4 There are other considerations at play in each scenario. For instance, in (c), there are also considerations of ethics. In (a) and (b), there are considerations of practicality and utility in regards to selecting a job and a college major. Still, authenticity plays a role in what the agent chooses and how they decide to value considerations of ethics, practicality, and utility, so each scenario will involve authenticity in some way, although authenticity might not be the only deciding factor. 5 John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding Book II: Ideas , 118. 6 Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature , 134. 7 Ibid. 8 Ibid, 11. 9 David Eagleman, The Brain: The Story of You , (New York: Vintage Books, 2015), 34-35. 10 Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature , 134. 11 Thomas Metzinger, “Self Models,” Scholarpedia , 2007. 12 Douglas Hofstadter, I Am a Strange Loop , (Basic Books: 2007), 294. 13 Somogy Varga and Charles Guignon, “Authenticity,” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy , 2020. 14 Ibid. 15 E Camp, “Wordsworth’s Prelude, Poetic Autobiography, and Narrative Constructions of the Self,” Retrieved 2021, from https://nonsite.org/wordsworths-prelude-poetic- autobiography-and-narrative-constructions-of-the-self/. 16 Ibid. 17 Philip Pettit, “My Three Selves,” Philosophy , vol. 95, no. 3, 2020, 6. 18 Varga and Guignon, “Authenticity.” 19 Ibid. 20 Philip Pettit, “Philip Pettit: My Three Selves. Royal Institute of Philosophy Annual Lecture 2019,” YouTube , uploaded by RoyIntPhilosophy, 2019, www.youtube.com/ watch?v=DUzuNVuEIYA. 21 Pettit, “My Three Selves,” 7-8. 22 Ibid, 18. 23 Ibid, 19. 24 Three more brief notes. (1) It is possible that the first time I make a commitment to be a certain sort of person that the commitment does require substantive reflection and narcissistic intellectualization. But hereafter, the fulfilling of the commitment is somewhat automatic as a matter of policy. If I find no difficulties in fulfilling my commitment (say, a competing commitment), it should be easy for me to do so with little reflection. (2) Some decisions concerning commitments do require substantive reflection and narcissistic intellectualization, along with an awareness of both. However, these sorts of commitments are likely “tests of character” or life-changing decisions, so they warrant such agonizing and reflection. I have in mind the decision to marry someone, to have a child, to go to war, to change careers, etc. (3) Here we can easily see how “taking stock” of one’s life might prompt a series of new commitments and the abandonment of old ones. We look back on the commitments we have made and decide, through the gradual making and fulfilling of new commitments, to form a new self-concept. In instances of conscious change, we would be aware of the new commitments we make—we would be more “mindful” of the personated self being created than we naturally find ourselves to be. 25 Pettit, “My Three Selves,” 7. 26 Michael Bratman, “Reflection, Planning, and Temporally Extended Agency,” The Philosophical Review , vol. 109, no. 1, 2000, 43. 27 Ibid. 28 Harry Frankfurt, “The Importance of What We Care About,” Synthese , vol. 53, no. 2, (1982), 260. 29 Ibid, 161. 30 Susan Cain, Quiet , (New York: Crown Publishers, 2012), 209. 31 Craig Lambert, “Introversion Unbound,” Harvard Magazine , July 2003, www.harvardmagazine.com/2003/07/introversion-unbound.html. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid. 34 Cain, Quiet , 209-210. 35 Frankfurt,“Freedom of the Will and the Concept of a Person,” Journal of Philosophy, Inc. , vol. 68, no. 1, (1971), 18. 36 Elijah Millgram, “On Being Bored Out of Your Mind,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society , vol. 104, (2004), 179. 37 Lambert, “Introversion Unbound.” 38 Frankfurt, “Freedom of the Will and the Concept of a Person,” 15. 39 Christine Korsgaard, The Sources of Normativity , (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 83. 40 Ibid. 41 Ibid, 84. 42 Pettit, “My Three Selves,” 17. 43 Ibid, 9. 44 Ibid. 45 Ibid, 19-20. 46 By authenticity in relationships, I do not mean "showing your true self." Many of our relationships might only exist because we present ourselves in a curated fashion. So authenticity in relationships might simply be keeping one’s commitments. However, as in our discussion of free trait theory, there is a limit to which we can keep up an image that is in tension with our given traits. Authenticity in a relationship is, once again, a balance between the person we are for others (free or mutable traits) and the person we cannot help but be (fixed traits). 47 Korsgaard, The Sources of Normativity , 84. 48 Ibid. 49 Ibid. 50 Lambert, "Introversion Unbound." 51 Harry Frankfurt, "On the Usefulness of Final Ends." Iyyun: The Jerusalem Philosophical Quarterly , vol. 41, (1992), 6-7. 52 Ibid, 12. 53 Korsgaard, The Sources of Normativity , 84. Works Cited Bratman, Michael E. “Reflection, Planning, and Temporally Extended Agency.” The Philosophical Review , vol. 109, no. 1, 2000, pp. 35–61. JSTOR , www. jstor.org/stable/2693554? seq=1#metadata_info_tab_contents. 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Royal Institute of Philosophy Annu- al Lecture 2019.” YouTube , uploaded by RoyIntPhilosophy, 28 Oct. 2019, www.youtube.com/ watch? v=DUzuNVuEIYA. Quoidbach, Jordi, et al. “The End of History Illusion.” Science , vol. 339, 4 Jan. 2013, pp. 96–98., doi:https://wjh-www.harvard.edu/~dtg/Quoidbach%20 et%20al%202013. Varga, Somogy, and Charles Guignon. “Authenticity.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy , Stanford Center for the Study of Language and Information, 20 Feb. 2020, plato.stanford.edu/entries/authenticity. Previous Next

Two Forms of Environmental-Political Imagination: Germany, the United States, and the Clean Energy Transition Two Forms of Environmental-Political Imagination Germany, the United States, and the Clean Energy Transition Nathan S. Chael Stanford University Author Fabienne Tarrant Lori Kohen Huayu Wang Connor Riley Editors Spring 2019 Download full text PDF (52 pages) Abstract The United States and Germany have followed markedly different paths thus far in the 21st century in their efforts to reduce emissions from energy production and thereby combat climate change through national policy. I extend Professor Jedediah Purdy’s notion of the “environmental imagination” to discuss the “environmental-political imagination,” or implicit vision of the environment, politics, and how they ought to be approached and structured, latent in each country’s central 21st-century climate policy initiative. I find that a general spirit of individuation and conflict marks the United States’ modern environmental-political imagination, while a general spirit of collective enterprise and continuity marks Germany’s. A parallel series of examples is used in each country to illustrate this, including understandings of economy and environment, particular forms of energy and landscape, and ideas of leadership and agency, and finally some objections are considered. I. Introduction “‘We’re the first generation to feel the impact of climate change and the last generation that can do something about it.’ And that’s why I committed the United States to leading the world on this challenge.” [1] – President Barack Obama “Dealing with climate change means facilitating and promoting social and economic change in the best possible way. Germanyʼs Energiewende, or energy transition, is an encouraging example of how that can be done, despite all the challenges its details pose. We intend to continue down this route—with everyone on board, including each individual sector of the economy.” [2] – Dr. Barbara Hendricks, former German Minister for Environment, Nature Conservation, and Nuclear Safety “In a world we can’t help shaping, the question is what we will shape.” [3] – Jedediah Purdy These are, to say the least and state the obvious, complicated political times in both the United States and Germany. From the midst of the complexity and chaos, though, at least one emergent trend stands out: there is a widespread sense that Germany is overtaking at least part of the mantle of global leadership that has characterized the United States’ posture towards the world since the fall of the Soviet Union and before. This phenomenon has been particularly pronounced since the election of President Donald Trump in the US—German Chancellor Angela Merkel has since been pointedly labeled the new “leader of the free world” in numerous news outlets[4]—but is surely reflective of deeper and longer-standing political and ideological currents in both nations. In this essay I wish to trace the legal and philosophical contours of this trend in one particular arena: that of environmental policy, and in particular energy policy. German and American environmental attitudes have, and have long had, marked differences, and these attitudinal differences manifest in a correspondingly deep divergence between the two countries’ environmental laws. A particularly rich and currently relevant pair of examples of this historical disparity can be found in the Clean Power Plan in the United States and the Energiewende, Germany’s 21st-century suite of goals and policies aimed at a transition to a low-carbon economy. These recent federal policy efforts to spur a transition to lower-emission energy sources in each country reveal a distinctive set of underlying contemporary notions about what Americans and Germans take the environment and its value to be—what the legal scholar and historian Jedediah Purdy has called “the environmental imagination”[5]—and, relatedly, what they take the role of law to be relative to the environment. That is, what an appropriate set of energy and environmental policies looks like, what the nation is responsible for in combating environmental problems that affect both its own people and other nations, and what roles its different individual and institutional actors ought to have in creating and advancing those policies. Taken together, following Purdy, I label this set of underlying philosophical views connecting the environment, law, state, and society the “environmental-political imagination” of each nation, and later in the paper will have much more to say about this concept. The structure of the essay is as follows. First, I describe the contents of, and, in a pre-philosophical way, tell the stories of a pair of recent environmental laws/policy initiatives, the Clean Power Plan (CPP) in the United States and the so-called Energiewende, or “energy transition,” in Germany. While this pair merely scratches the surface of German and American environmental law, I show that they constitute a particularly significant set of policies, and comprise a particularly rich contrast for the exploration of the two nations’ dominant ways of understanding the intersection of environment and politics. In the paper’s second section I elaborate upon the concept of the environmental-political imagination and its specific utility here, then argue for a particular characterization of the environmental-political imagination that underpins each country’s contemporary energy policy initiative. The claim at which I arrive comprises the central philosophical contention of the essay: a spirit emphasizing the individuation and conflict of different spheres of activity, landscapes, interests, and agents pervades the 21st-century American environmental-political imagination, while across the same set of diverse aspects, the contemporary German environmental-political imagination is marked by a sharply contrasting and equally pervasive spirit of collectivism and continuity. After arguing for this view, in the essay’s third section I articulate and provide short responses to some potential objections to my argument, attempting to clarify and trace some of its ramifications. Before beginning in earnest, a few notes on the paper’s methodology. First, while German and American environmental law and their underlying imaginative ideologies have rich and compelling histories, rather than sustaining a full historical argument here I confine myself mainly to this century’s developments, using the CPP and recent developments in the Energiewende as contemporary lenses onto deeply historical phenomena for the sake of scope and analytical clarity. Where necessary, however, events deeper in history are discussed; it should simply be kept in mind that in a larger sense all current laws and ideologies are inextricably rooted in historical factors. I shall have more to say later about how we might understand this temporal issue. Second, it will doubtless be noted that establishing unquestionable causal linkages between such concrete phenomena as environmental laws and such slippery, implicit ones as “environmental-political imaginations” is a difficult, nigh impossible, exercise, particularly without the benefit of a full historical account. To do so is not my aim. Instead, this essay is meant to provide a form of rational reconstruction: given the issues and policies in question, how they came into being, and the way Germans and Americans both in and outside government think and talk about them, I aim to give the most plausible and revealing characterization of the underlying logics that root them. Some measure of causality running from these imaginative attitudes to the production of the policies at issue is, I believe, necessarily present (as is some causal connection is from earlier law and policy to these recent attitudes), but the paper makes no attempt to account for all the specific social and institutional factors by which such attitudes are mediated before becoming legally manifest. II. The Clean Power Plan and the Energiewende The issue of climate change driven by anthropogenic greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions into the global atmosphere is fundamentally both an economic and environmental one. Carbon dioxide (CO2), the GHG primarily responsible for increasing global temperatures[6], is emitted in fossil fuel combustion that produces electricity and powers industrial equipment, vehicles, and the many other machines of modern economic activity. The historical causal link between CO2 emissions and economic growth is strong and well-documented[7]. In short, emissions-intensive fuels are the lifeblood of today’s global economy; CO2 emissions, economic production, and climate change thus constitute a tightly linked trio of phenomena, and the United States and Germany are quite similar nations in a host of ways closely related to it. Both are highly industrialized nations with immense economic and emissions output: the US economy is the world’s largest, and Germany’s is fourth largest globally and by far the largest in the European Union (EU)[8]. The US and Germany ranked 13th and 19th in the world, respectively, in per capita GDP in 2015,[9] and 3rd and 8th respectively in per capita CO2 emissions in the same year.[10] The structures of the two economies are strikingly similar: while Germany’s economy is somewhat more reliant on industrial production, both derive about 1% of national GDP from agriculture, between 20 and 30% from industry, and the remaining large majority from the service sector.[11] Beyond these basic economic likenesses, the two federal republics maintain immense bureaucratic apparatuses for research, monitoring, regulation and enforcement related to the environment. Both countries founded federal environmental agencies, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) in the US and the German Federal Environment Agency (UBA, for its initials in German), in the early 1970s. Both federal-level agencies help set and enforce national-level policy floors that state-level agencies enforce and can augment in their jurisdictions (though, as will be discussed in greater detail, Germany’s federal environment apparatus has expanded significantly since the founding of the UBA).[12] From a distance, then, the two nations appear to share a basic economic and governmental structure relative to environmental issues, with some history in common to boot. Despite social and cultural differences, this might suggest that the United States and Germany would pursue the transition to low-carbon economies based on clean energy along similar pathways. Yet the two nations have in recent years diverged drastically in their federal policy efforts to facilitate this transition. The CPP and Energiewende constitute the central components of this divergence. Though they cannot capture all there is to say on the issue, they provide a striking contrast that will allow for interrogation to its heart. For a brief examination of the facts of each, I turn first to the US and then to Germany. A. The Clean Power Plan The CPP emerged from a context of hesitation and failure on the part of the US government to regulate GHG emissions. In 2007, the Supreme Court in Massachusetts v. EPA ruled that the EPA had the authority and duty, if it found CO2 to be a driver of climate change, to regulate CO2 emissions and thereby combat climate change under the Clean Air Act.[13] The decision, while empowering the EPA to promulgate the rule codifying the CPP eight years later, was actually a defeat for it at the time: the Bush-era EPA did not wish to regulate CO2 emissions, and argued in the case that the Clean Air Act did not cover them. Two years later, legislative efforts to regulate emissions through a “cap-and-trade” scheme similar to the EU’s, wherein a legal limit of GHG emissions is set and emitters can buy and sell permits to emit beneath that cap,[14] failed when the American Clean Energy and Security Act (also known as the Waxman-Markey Bill) passed the House but was never brought to a vote in the Senate. The deadening impact this had on federal climate action, early in Obama’s first term with Democratic majorities in both legislative chambers, was palpable: in Purdy’s view, “when Waxman-Markey failed, a whole generation of reformist thinking went with it.”[15] Frustrated by legislative stagnation, President Obama later directed the EPA to formulate a rule regulating GHG emissions in the power sector.[16] This rule ultimately became the Clean Power Plan, an EPA regulation designed to decrease power-sector CO2 emissions by 32% by 2030, relative to 2005 levels, by instituting emissions guidelines for fossil fuel-fired power plants and directing states to create and implement their own such standards.[17] About 40% of US CO2 emissions came from the power sector in 2005,[18] so other things equal the CPP alone would cut total US emissions over 12% between 2005 and 2030. This would be the largest legally-mandated emissions reduction in US history, and, accordingly, upon its announcement President Obama labeled the CPP “the single most important step America has ever taken in the fight against climate change.”[19] However, backlash to the CPP from industry and political groups was immediate and intense. Also, before the rule could take effect, the Supreme Court issued an order blocking its entry into force until all litigation challenging it was complete.[20] Then, after President Trump took office, he ordered the EPA to review it, and an EPA proposal to repeal it was soon unveiled.[21] While the CPP remains technically alive as of this writing in August 2018, its repeal is expected to be officially complete soon. When that happens, the rule that the Harvard Environmental Law Program has called “the crown jewel of America’s international climate commitments”[22] will be dead before it ever came alive. The CPP was designed to reduce CO2 emissions predominantly by decreasing the use of coal-fired power plants, which have high emissions intensity relative to other energy sources.[23] Market forces, coincidentally, have recently made a major impact in the direction intended by the CPP, as a dramatic shift in energy prices caused by cheap natural gas usage from shale sources has taken place. US CO2 emissions rose steeply from 1990 to 2005, when shale-sourced natural gas hit the market,[24] and have dropped 12% since then.[25] Still, bracketing this fortunate trend, the overall picture of US climate progress is less rosy: annual US GHG emissions remain about 2% greater than they were in 1990.[26] In the absence of any prospect of federal action to aggressively cut emissions, and in light of President Trump’s 2017 decision to withdraw from the Paris Agreement, many cities, states, and private enterprises have taken matters into their own hands and pledged to enforce their own emissions cuts.[27] B. The Energiewende The idea of Energiewende , or “energy transition,” in Germany goes back to the late 1970s and early 1980s, when environmentalist groups opposed to nuclear energy and fossil fuels called for a transformation of Germany’s energy sources in the wake of nuclear plant construction and the 1973 and 1979 oil crises.[28] However, the term did not describe a substantive policy initiative until the turn of the millennium, when Germany’s governing coalition of the Green Party and the center-left Social Democrats began to take widespread action to promote a transition to new forms of energy production. Since the passage of the first Renewable Energy Sources Act in 2000, Energiewende has become shorthand for a vast array of goals and timetables for renewable energy production and emissions cuts, research reports supporting these goals and timetables, and legal requirements enforcing them.[29] The action of the Energiewende is not localized to one federal ministry or even branch of government. Instead, its regulations spring from multiple sources: administratively, the Federal Environment Agency (UBA), the Federal Ministry for the Environment, Nature Conservation, and Nuclear Safety (BMU), and the Federal Ministry for Energy and Economic Affairs (BMWi) all play a part in setting and realizing its goals. The chancellor and legislative branch are heavily involved in Energiewende policy creation as well. The key reports and policy components of the Energiewende are as follows. 2000’s Renewable Energy Sources Act (EEG) guaranteed a twenty-year period of high prices for electricity from renewable sources sold into the grid,[30] and was updated in 2004, 2009, 2012, 2014, and 2017 to increase the law’s renewables targets and adjust its pricing mechanisms.[31] 2007’s Integrated Energy and Climate Programme, also known as the Meseberg decision, approved a package of fourteen new laws and amendments to provide a policy basis for the doubling of Germany’s emissions reductions targets for 2020 from 20 to 40%, compared to 1990 levels.[32] A long-term plan for Germany’s use of various sources of energy in different sectors was approved in 2010 as a cornerstone of the Energiewende ,[33] and in 2014 and 2016 the federal cabinet approved long-term climate action plans for 2020 and 2050, respectively.[34] In addition to CO2 reductions and renewables increases, a central and heavily publicized component of the Energiewende is its move to abolish nuclear energy production in Germany. After the Fukushima nuclear disaster in 2011, in which a magnitude 9.0 earthquake off the coast of Japan triggered a tsunami which caused a meltdown at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant, the German government under intense public pressure announced plans to immediately cease operations of eight of its oldest nuclear power plants, with all remaining nuclear plants to be closed by 2022.[35] The Energiewende , for all its progress, has been enormously expensive. Much of the cost of the heavy renewables subsidies has been passed onto consumers: a renewables surcharge on utilities bills has raised the average household’s monthly fee by 50% since 2007.[36] Moreover, the decade-long sprint to close the nation’s nuclear plants necessitates a costly rapid increase in the use of other sources, since Germany has long sourced a large portion of its power supply from nuclear energy.[37] Even beyond costs caused by solar subsidies and cuts to nuclear energy, the Energiewende today faces other challenges: for instance, due to recent rapid economic and population growth, German CO2 emissions reductions have stagnated since 2014 and the country will therefore likely miss its 2020 target.[38] The fact remains, though, that through a concerted policy effort Germany has cut its total CO2 emissions over 26% from its levels in 1990 (the key baseline year for emissions reductions in international climate policy). In absolute terms, it has cut emissions more than any other EU nation since then,[39] and since the passage of the EEG in 2000 it has sextupled its electric power production from renewables, mainly wind and solar, to a full 36% of national supply in 2017.[40] This is an enormous figure by global standards. The Energiewende , though costly and facing obstacles, has made impressive strides. Thus we have two modern, industrialized, immensely productive nations, expected to be regional and global leaders on a variety of issues, with markedly different policy responses to the climate and energy problem: one with a climate policy crafted, immediately challenged, and quickly repealed upon a change of government, and the other making imperfect but steady progress. Furthermore, despite the two countries’ basic similarities, few today would be surprised by this stark contrast. It is generally understood that Germany, to use the jargon of energy policy circles, is “ambitious on climate,” while the United States is not. For the remainder of this paper, I aim to use the facts of these two policy initiatives and their development in order to interrogate this general understanding rather than take it for granted, and thereby go a level or two deeper into the human reasons that might explain why it, and certain facts adjacent to it, hold. Such major differences in the two nations’ contemporary laws on energy and climate provide important loci for insights into the imaginative and ideological characteristics of these nations with respect to politics, law, and the environment. Since these policies mandate (or, in the case of the CPP, attempted to mandate) how they, as states and societies, must respond to climate change, such differences provide comparative lenses onto how Germany and the United States view their relationships to their own populations and other nations that climate change will harm, and to the natural world which provides the resource basis for their economic production and which they in turn affect through greenhouse gas emissions. As Purdy puts it, “Law is a circuit between imagination and the material world”[41]; the laws that exist came about through processes expressing an underlying imagination, and can be expected through the realization of what they require to influence the imagination of the future. Examining this pair of policy initiatives, then, what imaginative structures underlying German and American environmental and political life could help account for this vast difference? III. The Contemporary German and American Environmental-Political Imaginations via the CPP and the Energiewende Before laying out dominant features of the two nations’ environmental-political imaginations, I must briefly elaborate upon the concept of the environmental-political imagination itself, and clarify how it relates to Purdy’s concept of the environmental imagination. Neither concept refers directly to the explicit ideological statements parties make in their environmental platforms, nor theories of the true, the good, or the just in tracts on environmental or political philosophy; as Purdy says, “Imagination is less precise, less worked out, more inclusive than ideas, and it belongs to people in their lives, not philosophers working out doctrines. Imagination is a way of seeing, a pattern of how things must be.”[42] It might be thought of as taking place on the mental level prior to ideology, or as ideology’s raw material. It has to do with the way people, individually and in institutions, think and make assumptions about what exists in nature and the human world, how those things are organized, what is valuable about them, and what ought to be done with them, here in particular with respect to climate and energy, and the collective decision-making proper to the political sphere. It is an implicit, blurry set of notions, perhaps internally contradictory, largely submerged or subconscious, that acts as inputs in the formation of laws and policies that then make explicit what may and may not be done. I borrow this framing of “imagination” from Purdy, but employ it in the discussion of somewhat different material from what is referred to by his concept of the “environmental imagination.” As Purdy uses it, the environmental imagination refers primarily, though not exclusively, to how people understand and act upon the environment at the level of landscape, rather than atmosphere and climate.[43] While Purdy acknowledges that, in the future, different nations or regions might develop their own “ethics and politics of climate change,”[44] he does not examine in a descriptive sense how such different environmental-political imaginations are already at work in different places. My analysis here is meant to fill this gap, to focus on the particular environmental, economic, and political issue of climate change and explore how the US and Germany are in fact seeing and acting upon it by using Purdy’s framing of the environmental imagination as a conceptual starting point. Purdy’s political focus is mainly on how people’s imaginative notions of the environment work their way into political life, since decisions about how to approach and use the environment are made in the political sphere. I wish to inquire further about Americans’ and Germans’ imaginative notions of politics itself: their notions and assumptions about what politics is like, how government ought to be organized and decisions made, and what we owe to others inside and outside the polity. Thus the imagination discussed here is itself both environmental and political. Also, since I shall discuss not only how people imagine the climate or the atmosphere but also how their imaginative notions of the environment—generally, of nature overall—affect their nations’ action on climate specifically, “environmental-political” is more appropriate than “climate-political.” The term thus seemed to be the best fit for a capacious idea that extends Purdy’s notion in a logical way. A. The 21st-Century American Environmental Imagination The contemporary American environmental-political imagination, as seen through the story of the Clean Power Plan, can best be characterized by a sensibility of individuation and conflict. By a sensibility of “individuation,” I mean that there exists a pervasive imaginative stress on the sharp divisions among different problems, parties, and conceptual categories of environment and politics, rather than on their continuities; particularly emphasized is the split between the environmental and the economic spheres. Normatively, there is a corresponding imaginative insistence that starkly individualized approaches to such disjoint issues must be appropriate. By a spirit of “conflict,” I mean that these individuated issues, categories, and parties are often imagined as necessarily at odds with one another: there is a powerful sense that trade-off and adversarial relations are inherent to them and to climate change in particular, and that such conflict cannot be overcome by any sense of reconciliation or unification. Individuation is the more fundamental of the two descriptors here, frequently accompanied with an adversarial tone, since two ideas, issues, outcomes, actors, and so on can only be viewed as conflicting if they are first given sharp individuating boundaries. To illustrate this, I marshal a range of evidence from the CPP and beyond to investigate three aspects of the United States’ environmental-political landscape: its view of the relationship between the categories of the “economic” and the “environmental”; its understanding of particular American landscapes and coal, a particularly significant form of energy; and its latent conception of leadership and agency on climate action. A1. Environment and Economy The American environmental-political imagination contains, first and foremost, an insistence upon a sharp distinction between the economic and environmental spheres. “Economic” and “environmental” are not understood as merely two ways in which to view a larger human-natural system, two modes of its measurement that can be usefully distinguished, but instead as two ontologically distinct categories which in practice ought, so far as possible, to be governed by different procedures and norms. In the context of the CPP, this can be initially seen from the law’s institutional backdrop, the structure of which reflects a sharp conceptual disconnect between economy and environment. President Obama instructed the EPA, and the EPA alone, to prepare what became the CPP.[45] It is true that the EPA was created during a time in American history when recognition of human-environmental interconnection was ascendant,[46] and aids human safety through its insurance of clean air and water, but the EPA is explicitly dedicated to environmental protection alone rather than some larger joint goal of environmental-economic harmony. The implicit assumption in much of its work is that the environment is distinct from the economy and other human spheres and will need to be guarded against them. Some EPA officials have even suggested that the EPA has done its job of ensuring clean air and water too well, such that many Americans lose sight of ways in which economic production impacts the environment.[47] Conversely, the US Department of Commerce, the cabinet ministry that proclaims to be tasked with just “one overarching goal: Helping the American Economy Grow”[48] (emphasis in the original), mentions no environmental, ecological, or sustainability concerns in any of its five strategic pillars that support its central aim. Thus in the executive branch’s structure, the concepts of environment and economy are thoroughly and formally separated. The Department of Energy (DOE) might be expected to mediate the two, but it has a strong defense and pure research bent: at once handling nuclear weapons research, nuclear energy research and operations, and clean and fossil energy research. These specifics of bureaucratic organization may seem somewhat arbitrary, but they dictate both how federal agencies’ fields of action are defined and approached and how official discourse regarding those fields is expressed in public. I submit that both of these have significant consequences for how Americans perceive environmental, economic, and energy issues and their nation’s ways of handling those issues. In the context of this division of labor, President Obama’s executive assignment of the CPP’s preparation to the EPA alone appears symbolic of where climate change fits into the American environmental-political imagination, representing the official assignment of US action on climate change to the environmental sphere alone rather than the economic one. The huge backlash against the CPP illustrates the conflictual, not merely individuating, nature of this aspect of the environmental-political imagination:[49] many perceived the CPP as a conferral of environmental benefits and therefore also a sentence of concomitant economic sacrifice and degradation. A host of challenges were immediately raised against the proposed law, and the ensuing political warfare was intense.[50] This is deeply ironic in light of the fact that the government’s own study of the Clean Power Plan indicated that, in fact, due to long-term increases in energy efficiency, savings on climate adaptation costs, and savings on health expenditures due to reducing vast quantities of harmful fumes like sulfur dioxide in the air, it would likely have saved the US billions per year by 2030 relative to the status quo.[51] Much has been made of the idea that organizations like fossil fuel companies, many of which stand directly to lose from a transition to low-emission energy sources and lobbied hard against the CPP,[52] are the real villains preventing America’s energy transition. Coal and oil companies certainly lobbied hard against the CPP and may have played a large role in spreading the notion that emissions reductions, like environmentally beneficial policies generally, necessarily conflict with economic benefits. However, it was not merely these companies that voiced their concerns: amid both an outpouring of support for and backlash against the proposed rule, the EPA received over 4.3 million comments on it in six months.[53] Much has also been made of the deep partisan divide on belief in and concern about climate change itself,[54] which tracks the two parties’ divergent emphasis on action to protect the environment and action to aid the economy. This divide was clearly visible in the battle over the CPP, for instance, when the 11 Senate Republicans of the Environment and Public Works Committee issued a letter in support of repealing the CPP in 2017 that made no mention of the environment or climate change. That letter mentioned only “the pervasive, negative effects [the CPP] would have had on Americans across the country. The CPP would have driven up energy prices, eliminated American jobs, and hurt local communities that depend on coal.”[55] Importantly, though, the imagined conflict between economic and environmental benefits on climate change policy cannot be merely a result of American partisanship: that Democrats and Republicans predictably gravitated to their sides of that conflict on the Clean Power Plan means that the idea of the environmental-economic conflict itself was already generally accepted, and action to counteract climate change has simply been imaginatively sorted mainly into the pro-environment rather than pro-economy category (this is not to say, however, that both parties are exactly equally narrow-minded in their understanding of climate change). The imagined disconnection and conflict between the two spheres is thus fertile ground for, rather than a simple output of, increased partisan division. Also, while I will not examine the American imagination of markets in depth here, there seems to be a notable similarity between the way Americans notionally separate the economy and the environment and the well-recognized way they notionally separate markets and government intervention in the economy. It seems that in America, pro-environment action is imagined as government interference into the workings of the market, and for that reason is anti-economic. This is despite the fact that in practice governments always set the rules of the market in the first place, and that in many cases, like the CPP, government action would increase overall economic welfare in the context of the market’s failure to internalize all costs. That the CPP’s emissions reductions would actually save America money and relieve it of immense human suffering in the long term might have saved it in another time or place, but could not in the contemporary United States. A2. Coal and Landscape Beyond the pronounced economic-environmental distinction, another form of individuation prominent in the American environmental-political imagination and visible in the narrative of the CPP is the uniqueness assigned to the landscape of America’s coal mining country, along with an associated imaginative privileging of coal miners themselves and their imagined conflict with nature to extract its energy. This reflects a more general American notion that a sharp definitional line ought to be drawn between particular landscapes, and between them and humankind, a notion easily recognizable in American lore and law historically; one example of this is the Wilderness Act of 1964, which provided for protected, isolated areas that would remain “untrammeled by man” and would each keep their “primeval character” in spite of an expanding, modernizing population.[56] However, in the realm of energy production, a somewhat different individuating mood is at work than in wilderness protection, one that associates specific energy resources with specific landscapes and imagines a zero-sum conflict for primacy between them. The CPP would have achieved its emissions reductions mainly through cuts in the use of coal-fired power plants.[57] As the letter from the Republicans of the Senate Committee for Environment and Public Works illustrates, a key source of opposition to the CPP was a sentiment that the nation’s jobs in coal production must be politically protected. As with the CPP cost-benefit analysis indicating that in the long term the plan would actually have been economically profitable, here too there is a deep and ironic seed of irrationality; just over 160,000 Americans work in coal production, less than half of the number involved in the fledgling solar industry, which the CPP would have benefited,[58] and coal production has already steeply declined because of market forces alone, with cheap natural gas largely supplanting it since 2005.[59] Simple interest-group politics are always, of course, a factor, and support for coal jobs as a public position is due in large part to the rhetoric of President Trump, who has thrust coal production incessantly into the political arena, making it a more partisan issue and implicitly highlighting its racial associations (and, though not discussed extensively here, race is yet another sphere of deep divisions in the American environmental-political imagination, as, for instance, the work of the environmental justice movement has sought to show).[60] However, as Republicans and Democrats seized upon rather than created an imagined fundamental conflict between the economic and environmental spheres, President Trump seized upon rather than created the American glorification of the coal industry and its imagined battle with forms of energy hostile to it. Many Americans view coal miners as an interest group with a special claim to reverence, in some sense especially American, their connection to coal country’s lifeways and landscape that is morally and aesthetically unimpeachable even as they level its mountains and plumb its depths for the dirtiest fossil fuel available. Our version of fascination with and elevation of coal is uniquely American. Millions of Americans outside of coal country are able to glorify coal production imaginatively, thanks in part to the very fact that they have never been to coal country, because coal is closely associated with one of America’s many distinct, individuated landscapes, cultures, and forms of productive connection to the environment. Oil is certainly imaginatively American, in the sense that it can make one rich quickly. But no other source of energy evokes the sort of hardscrabble, manful battle with nature that coal does, up in the mountains and away from the friendly confines of civilization. Actual coal production, of course, is much less attractive than it is imagined to be in its symbolic overcoming of an unfriendly nature: as Purdy notes, “mountaintop-removal mining dynamites hills and hollows into a flat, treeless terrain and buries many hundreds of miles of Appalachian streams.”[61] But politically, huge swaths of the country lionize it for its imaginative associations, and even those who resist this celebration must engage with and seek to erode that picture of it. The point is not that no Americans recognize that burning coal pollutes the atmosphere intensely and that relatively few Americans actually make their living in its industry; it is that the fact that the US has been collectively unable to privilege other goals, such as combating climate change through the CPP, over its glorification of the unique landscape and culture of coal bespeaks a deep temperamental inclination toward the particular and the adversarial in the way the nation imagines what ways of relating to the environment ought to be honored and preserved. Coal also plays a role in the notion of the US as particular and individuated itself because of the role it plays in contributing to US energy independence. The US, despite what political advertisements advocating drilling in yet another remote wilderness might have you believe, is highly energy-independent—on net importing just 7% of its total energy use.[62] This fact provides one strut undergirding the spirit of individuation latent in how the nation views itself globally on climate change. In keeping with its degree of energy independence, there is little sense that the country is truly indebted to other nations in the energy arena. A logic therefore prevails that, politically, it is the United States’ right to individuate itself in the international discourse on climate change. This is true even prior to Donald Trump’s explicit protectionism and withdrawal from the Paris Agreement, an ultimate act of individuation; the resonance of his “America First” message, despite its multiple valences, can at least partially be attributed to a widespread sentiment that America is not necessarily dependent on the rest of the globe and can therefore act on its own terms in international affairs. Accordingly, when it is not refusing to participate on a particular issue, it is seen by much of its own population and government as the proper global leader on that issue. This is true of America’s action on climate change through the Clean Power Plan, and I therefore turn now to sketching the particular ideal of American leadership on climate change manifest in the law’s progression. This ideal is glory-seeking and exceptionalist, placing the US on an imagined pedestal above the other nations attempting to reduce emissions. A3. Leadership and Agency While setting about repealing the CPP, the Trump administration has made an extravagant claim about American leadership on climate change: that, because it cut emissions more than any other nation in 2017, it is therefore “leading the world” on addressing climate change overall.[63] These claims are transparently based on bad-faith: the US is the world’s second-largest emitter, far ahead of third place and only behind China that has coal-fired its way to yearly emissions increases since 2000,[64] so any proportionally nontrivial American emissions cut in 2017 was likely to be the world’s largest in absolute terms that year. Moreover, this “world’s largest” title is just one year old, and is due basically entirely to market forces making it increasingly uneconomical to use coal[65] even as the Trump administration attempts to prop it up through the repeal of the CPP. Nonetheless, Trump’s administration is not the only one in the CPP era to loudly proclaim American climate and energy leadership when the full facts of the situation did not support it. As noted in the paper’s epigraph, Obama claimed upon announcement of the CPP that he was “[committing] the United States to lead the world on this issue.”[66] In hindsight, given Trump’s cancellation of the CPP and withdrawal of the US from the Paris Agreement, Obama’s idealistic portrayal of the CPP as a legal and political commitment to US climate leadership may look like little more than a cruel joke of history, a genuine and dignified gesture of America’s desire to lead for the greater good twisted into a dark irony by a shift in the political winds. Even at the time, it made little sense in light of how much had been accomplished in other portions of the developed world: by 2015, Germany had 15 years of experience with renewable energy tariffs, had set 2020 climate targets, and the whole EU had agreed on 2030 targets with a decade of emissions trading experience behind it.[67] Obama’s insistence on American leadership despite this mountain of evidence indicating that the US was far from a position to lead on emissions reductions is therefore revealing. He was certainly aware of how truly far behind America was in 2015 on climate action, but singular American leadership was nonetheless a central thrust of his pitch of the CPP to the American people. Obama’s rhetoric reflects an American sensibility that, on environmental issues like all others, the US must be unique, particular, special, glorious. This sense of entitlement to climate leadership on the global stage manifests today not in widespread federal government action, but in the individual person of the president. The unilateral actions of Presidents Obama and Trump on the CPP—Obama singly directing the EPA to create it, Trump singly directing the EPA to review and replace it—express, despite their different circumstances, a sense of deserved presidential individuality: that is, a right to define America’s international climate leadership in one’s own way regardless of its previous instantiations. Beyond making for less stable policy, this feature of contemporary American climate politics has the effect of being, if not anti-democratic, only minimally democratic: whichever section of the population elected the last president gets to determine policy on climate and energy, regardless of later public opinion[68] and congressional intervention aside. Any major climate action requires governmental leadership, but the current American version, with its current structure of top-down leadership, leaves little room for individual Americans to play a major role in a clean energy transition. They are simply not viewed as important actors in this context. Their support is not needed, and political leaders do not think to call upon them to help in direct action on climate and energy. Even when Obama did connect environmental concerns, economic ones, and ordinary Americans in his rhetoric on the CPP, he argued merely that it would help keep energy “reliable and affordable for American businesses and families,”[69] which is not exactly a moving call to purposeful collective action on an issue of immense national and global importance. Meanwhile, while millions of Americans, mainly along partisan lines, recognize climate change as a serious problem and some individuals among them have achieved success in discussing it an environmental, economic, and political issue,[70] there has been no grassroots climate movement that has been successful in shifting the national conversation overall or forcing government action. Obama’s unilateral move to force action in a government gridlocked along party lines is ample evidence of this point. A true change in the American popular consciousness analogous to, say, what followed Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring seems out of reach on climate in this moment. Ironically, then, the general pattern of individuation of, and emphasis upon the political import of, distinct institutional actors, relevant landscapes, and concepts of different human and environmental spheres in the American environmental-political imagination fails to elevate the individual himself or herself. Thus a particularly executive-focused version of what is often labeled “American exceptionalism” plays a prominent role in the American environmental-political imagination of climate, as seen through the story of the CPP. But an idea of American exceptionalism is not the fundamental category in that imagination; instead, it fits into its larger spirit of partitioning and antagonism among different notional elements, a sense that—despite the idea that climate change ought to be siloed in the environmental sphere and ought to have no claim on activities outside it—the United States must stand alone at the head of the world’s climate change-battling ranks. This imagination is thus both particular to the environmental-political realm and simultaneously reflective of well-recognized aspects and assumptions of American cultural life. Perhaps nothing captures this better than that the US’s spirit of partition and individuation is not an admission of limitation in each partitioned sphere, whether it be the realm of international affairs, executive leadership, the economic sphere, the environmental, or one of the many landscapes Americans insist upon as particularly special. Instead, this partition bespeaks the idea that by conceptually and legally separating each from the other, the US can grasp the infinite in each; it needs not face limitation; it can have its cake and eat it too. This truth of the environmental-political imagination holds now but is profoundly historically rooted: as Purdy notes, “American democracy had taken shape in historically unique exemption from the basic problem of modern and democratic politics: the problem of managing conflicting interests and values in a world of relative scarcity.”[71] That foundational thread is still clearly visible today. B. The German 21st-Century Environmental Imagination In a deep contrast to its American counterpart, the essential spirit of the contemporary German environmental-political imagination, as viewed through the lens of the Energiewende , can be described by a spirit of continuity and collectivism. The German environmental-political imagination is marked by a sensibility that highlights the ways that humans and the environment are interconnected, believes that all sectors of the human population can (indeed, can only) progress by stewarding nature responsibly, and responds with a persistent, determined concentration upon collectively undertaken gradual reforms designed to benefit domestic society, provide leadership to global society, and preserve nature all at once. In some sense, this notion is similar to the ecological form of the American environmental imagination that Purdy describes, dominant in the latter part of the 20th century,[72] but it is more expansive: it does not merely attempt to capture a fact about how the natural world and humankind are necessarily continuous with each other, but extends also to how different sectors of the human population are interdependent, both inside and outside Germany, and is charged with a forward-looking normative temperament that emphasizes social solidarity in collective action both across society and across time. In order to parallel the American case, I again explore how the economic and environmental spheres are imagined to relate to one another, how culturally important forms of energy and landscape play into prevailing beliefs about how the Energiewende ought to be managed politically, and how leadership on reducing emissions is viewed. As in the American case, critical interpretation of the discourse and structure of government provides the primary evidence base, but a range of other sources, like political party platforms to public opinion polling, supports this characterization as well. B1. Environment and Economy The way the Energiewende is discussed by its prominent advocates, policy leaders, and involved government ministries generally integrates humanity and nature, conceptually fusing notions of what benefits the German economy and what benefits the climate and environment. It evinces a recognition of the interconnectedness of human and environmental systems and an ethic of responsible stewardship of both simultaneously, with neither given fundamental priority, even as it eschews the tone of more traditionally environmentalist rhetoric emphasizing a profound spiritual interconnectedness of man and nature. For example, the very name of 2007’s Integrated Climate and Energy Action Programme, even as it heads a highly technical package of legislation that lays out specific binding mechanisms for Germany’s transition to clean energy, suggests continuity between the natural climate system and humanity’s economic system. The government’s announcement of this package of legislation makes explicit the perspective of unified economic and environmental goals that the name suggests: “The German government's guiding principles for energy policy remain the three objectives of security of supply, economic efficiency and environmental protection.”[73] In the government’s view, these objectives, while they can be usefully distinguished, are not in a deeper sense truly distinct and competitive, with ever-unavoidable trade-offs that must be weighed and decided. If in some cases trade-offs are present, they are not allowed to distract from the larger continuity of the economic and environmental spheres; individuation and competition do not constitute an imaginative focus. Instead, economic ends and climate action are understood as mutually reinforcing: “Efficient climate protection modernises the economy and society.”[74] This language of modernization is telling: in the German environmental-political imagination, human and environmental interconnectedness does not demand the abandonment of current technology or a return, even temporarily, to a pre-industrial way of being, as the American romantic imagination might have it.[75] Instead, humanity can become more modern even as it effectively stewards nature, and along with economic-environmental interconnectedness there is a continuity between today’s Germans and future generations, to whom Germans owe fair treatment. [76] The name of 2010’s Energy Concept for an Environmentally Sound, Reliable, and Affordable Energy Supply (henceforth simply Energy Concept) similarly weaves together economic and environmental goals. The Energy Concept describes a plan to attempt to achieve both, arguing that emissions reductions are not just helpful but fundamental for German economic success, and proclaiming that “a high level of energy security, effective environmental and climate protection and the provision of an economically viable energy supply are necessary for Germany to remain a competitive industrial base in the long term”[77] (emphasis mine). The government’s Climate Action Programme 2020 claims that “Germany benefits from its pioneering role in climate change mitigation. The technical, cultural and social innovations it entails create added value especially for small and medium-sized companies.”[78] Such examples of federal agencies proclaiming the economic benefits of climate change-combating emissions reductions are, in short, abound. However, notably, despite the extensive discussions of the Energiewende ’s potential benefits for the German economy in government publications, none appear to assert economic health as the fundamental reason for why the Energiewende is worthwhile. The vision is instead one of a healthy, collective balance of economic and environmental goals that are irreducibly worthy and in some ways inextricable. Parallel to how American federal agencies institutionally embed the imaginative view of economy and environment as sharply individuated seen in the narrative of the CPP, the German institutional setup reflects a perception of them as integrated, with neither given explicit priority over the other. For example, rather than having a single agency for environmental protection to which CO2 emissions regulations are assigned, in Germany three agencies split the bulk of the Energiewende : the Federal Environment Agency (UBA), the Federal Ministry for Environment, Nature Conservation, and Nuclear Safety (BMU), and the Federal Ministry for Energy and Economic Affairs (BMWi). Although divisions between these bureaucracies are helpful for defining which organization focuses on which aspect of the Energiewende, there is clear continuity in the categories and the goals relative to which emissions, sustainable development, and climate are discussed across agencies, as the quotations from multiple agencies in the reports cited above illustrate. The Energy Concept, for instance, was prepared jointly by the BMU and BMWi. The economy is not entirely treated as linked to the environment—there is also a ministry for economic cooperation and development, and of course one for finance[79]—but the BMWi’s deep involvement in the Energiewende shows that on energy issues the economy is not seen as a removed and independent entity to be managed apart from its inescapable linkage points with the natural world, nor is the environment to be managed without due consultation of economic experts. The institutional realization of these viewpoints came early in the Energiewende era, with departmental reorganization in 2005. Also, constitutionally, the German system is conceptually friendlier to the objective of environmental protection than the American one, and has become even more so in recent history. For example, since 1949 the Grundgesetz (GG), Germany’s Constitution, has provided for the “protection of the natural foundations of life and animals” by executive, legislative, and judicial action, with explicit reference to the nation’s responsibility to future generations.[80] A round of GG reform was completed in 2006, granting the federal government more powers in environmental policymaking.[81] German constitutional tradition also allows for the subordination of private property to environmentally protective uses on the basis of social welfare and human interconnectedness: “The potential obligation to ‘sacrifice’ [one’s] property rights to public needs derives from the concept of a ‘situational commitment of the property’ that follows from the view of man as an individual who is dependent on society.”[82] Thus it appears that a German perspective of environmental and economic solidarity is deeply built into the German legal and political consciousness,[83] with neither sphere deserving of absolute priority, and the legal foundations of this view have evolved alongside the Energiewende overall. By contrast, in the absence of explicit constitutional discussion of how nature is to be safeguarded, in the US environmental protection has been defined primarily with reference to and in implicit subordination to the economy: the major US environmental laws derive their constitutional power from the Commerce Clause’s permission for the regulation of interstate commerce.[84] In addition to the foundational structure of the German government that evinces a prevailing integrative imagination of the environment, society, and how they should be legally approached in the Energiewende , several other popular sources suggest a similar conceptualization. One is the ways political parties express themselves in their bids for citizen support. That the Green Party has been influential since the beginning of the Energiewende , and governed in a coalition with the Social Democrats, is a powerful statement of a popular German belief that environmental considerations should be built into political decision-making. Even more revealing, though, is the stance of the Christian Democratic Union (CDU),[85] Angela Merkel’s pro-business, center-right party. While the Republicans in the US have understood 21st-century pro-business conservatism to require general opposition to new environmental protections, the CDU has since 1978 included an environmental pillar alongside its three core party pillars focusing on economic growth. The phrase they used when adding this pillar was “quality-oriented growth,”[86] conveying the notion that proper economic progress and proper environmental stewardship are intertwined. That year’s platform included the following statement articulating how the party viewed the connection between freedom and responsibility, and the social interconnectedness between generations: “The conservation of our life support system is part of the responsible liberty. He who now irresponsibly exploits this system and alters the environmental relationship damages the solidarity between generations.”[87] In 1989, the CDU advocated a tax on CO2 emissions in keeping with an explicitly religious desire to properly care for Creation.[88] All this—which would sound confidently liberal, if not outright radical in the United States—stemmed from Germany’s main conservative party, which has been the one constant in a series of coalitions overseeing the Energiewende from the German Parliament since 2005. Thus, while highly visible in the policy prescriptions of the Energiewende since the turn of the century, the interconnected German imagination I describe has its roots in long-held popular understandings of what nature is and is for, how economic growth ought to be understood, and how citizens of different social stations and ages bear responsibilities to one another. B2. Nuclear, Coal, and Landscape Like as with the passage of and response to the CPP, particular sources of energy and their associations with culture and landscape have figured prominently in the story of the Energiewende . In Germany, both nuclear energy and coal have been hotly debated. Nuclear energy has been at the center of discussion because of a tension between its convenient lack of emissions and popular sentiment against it, and coal for the exact opposite reasons: its high emissions and historical association with German identity. Unlike the executive-led course reversal in the American case constituted by the CPP repeal, however, the German response to these difficulties has been to alter its path to the Energiewende ’s original goal of emissions reductions by phasing out nuclear energy and reducing the use of coal.[89] In doing so, Germany has collectively displayed a persistence and willingness to sacrifice for the sake of the demands it believes follow from its interconnectedness with nature and with other nations. The abolition of nuclear energy in particular illustrates the political strength of German emphasis on interconnectedness, in multiple senses beyond the previously discussed environmental-economic linkage. Strong anti-nuclear sentiment in Germany dates back decades. In the 1970s and early 1980s, local activist movements sprang up to oppose the construction of nuclear power plants on the basis of concerns about pollution of beloved local landscapes like the Saxony wine country. These movements occurred alongside a spirit of grassroots opposition to a view of the military, the nuclear industry, and a too-powerful state as noxious bedfellows.[90] In fact, the original use of the term“Energie-Wende” came in the title of a pamphlet imagining “Growth and Prosperity without Oil and Uranium.”[91] In 1986, the Chernobyl disaster occurred in nearby Ukraine, increasing fears of nuclear energy and support for the anti-nuclear Green Party.[92] More recently, in 2000 the parliamentary coalition of the Greens and Social Democrats passed a law planning the gradual phase-out of nuclear energy.[93]However, Angela Merkel’s CDU reversed this decision when it swept into power in 2009, arguing that, as a zero-emissions energy source, nuclear power would be valuable for achieving the Energiewende’s emissions reductions targets as a “bridging technology” that would “[pave] the way for the age of renewable energy” by acting as a buffer against both high fossil fuel emissions and high renewables costs.[94] Thus there were two schools of thought: one Green, activist, and anti-nuclear, in favor of nuclear phase-out for the purposes of environmental friendliness and more localized energy production, the other in favor of nuclear energy with the an established and pragmatic consideration of the costs of the Energiewende , and pro-nuclear, at least for the near future. Then, in 2011, the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster hit Japan. Days afterward, Angela Merkel gave a speech announcing that Germany would be immediately closing eight nuclear plants and would shutter the rest by 2022. Given that roughly 30% of German electricity was nuclear-powered at the start of the millennium,[95] and that nuclear energy had been reinvigorated by Merkel’s initial rise, such rapid closure represented a sudden and radical shift. On its face, such a strong German reaction to a Japanese disaster thousands of miles away seems surprising. Fundamentally, however, this German response to Fukushima was about an imagination of international interconnectedness, the reawakened ability of the population and government to imagine a similar disaster happening in Germany. As Merkel put it, “In Fukushima we have to take note that even in a high-tech country like Japan”—and thus a country like Germany—“the risks of nuclear energy cannot be controlled safely.”[96] Ironically, the factors to blame for Fukushima, which were a magnitude 9.0 earthquake at sea and a resultant tsunami crashing into nuclear plants on the shore of the open ocean, are not comparable risk factors for Germany, something Merkel even acknowledged.[97] But that was not the point, nor was it the point that Germany produced far less nuclear energy than some other advanced high-tech nations, like France and the US, which did not move to shutter their plants after Fukushima. The point was that Germans viewed their own destiny as remarkably bound up with the rest of the world’s, to the extent that a nuclear catastrophe in east Asia meant a whole nation’s nuclear supply in west-central Europe must be shut off. This rapid phase-out of a well-established, zero-emissions fuel source makes achieving the near-term emissions cuts targets of the Energiewende difficult, and doing so cost-effectively even more so.[98] But, at least as of 2015, opposition to nuclear energy remained high, with one poll showing 81% of Germans still in outright opposition to it.[99] Germany’s environmental-political imagination thus has its headstrong elements. That the nuclear phase-out is discussed as central to the Energiewende even though the phase-out makes the central Energiewende goal of fast, hefty emissions cuts much more difficult indicates that a larger integrative vision of how Germany should relate to its neighbors and to the environment drives both denuclearization and decarbonization. Coal, another energy source with a potent imaginative valence of landscape and environment in Germany, was also discussed at the coining of the term Energiewende in the early 1980s. However, unlike nuclear energy, the use of coal was celebrated rather than attacked. Since coal is a particularly “dirty” fuel, in that it emits more CO2 per unit of heat energy produced than other common fossil fuels,[100] such celebration may seem puzzling now, in the context of an Energiewende focused on reducing emissions. However, at the time, the goal of reduced emissions was less clarified, and instead coal was promoted because of its particularly German flavor. The use of heimische Kohle, or “domestic coal,” in place of oil was promoted, where heimische is a version of “domestic” that carries particular warm connotations of the German homeland. Germany has long gotten, and still gets, a huge proportion of its electric power from its vast coal reserves. It remains the world’s largest producer of lignite, a particularly inefficient and dirty form of coal.[101] But, unlike in the US, where the current government has dubiously pitched its replacement for the CPP as a savior for the coal industry, despite American coal’s uneconomically high cost relative to natural gas,[102] Germany has shown itself to be willing to move away from coal despite its historic connotations, its current potential utility in an energy transition complicated by the nuclear phase-out, and its home sourcing in a nation largely dependent on Russia for other fossil fuels. But the emissions reductions logic is clear: as the country’s 2050 Climate Action Plan states, “It will only be possible to meet the climate targets if coal-fired electricity production is gradually reduced.”[103] Accordingly, the country has formed an executive commission to oversee the phase-out of coal, and to ensure it is done in an inclusive way that will allow for a transition for its former workers and regions.[104] What explains this willingness to leave coal behind? I contend that, imaginatively, this readiness stems from an inward-facing sense of continuity and collectivism that complements the outward-facing form that motivated the nuclear phase-out decision after Fukushima. Unlike in the US, where coal is associated with one specific, romanticized landscape and culture over any other, in Germany heimische Kohle is not romanticized to the same extent. This is not to say the German coal industry has not battled the Energiewende, but it lacks the comparative political support of the US industry, and the resulting political mood is far different. Today, amid the effort to forge a new, more modern national energy identity, the old ideal of self-reliance from national coal production has lost its sway as Germans generally prefer to see a modern country unified in the face of climate change, a collective pursuing a responsible Energiewende. They celebrate the connections between landscape and society other ways, like in the country’s fifteen recently established UNESCO biosphere reserves which celebrate a balanced relationship of nature and humankind, and its many nature parks that preserve cultural, historical, and environmental sites together.[105] Germans have become quite confident on this issue: as Rainer Baake, a deputy minister of the BMWi, said bluntly in an interview with The New York Times when asked about high energy costs, “The energy transformation in Germany will be carried out by two main sources—those are wind and solar.”[106] B3. Leadership and Agency Leadership on the energy transition in Germany has long had a public face with deep experience on environmental issues: As Germany’s minister for the environment, Angela Merkel (sometimes called the “Climate Chancellor”)[107] presided over the first-ever UN conference on climate change, held in Berlin in 1994.[108] However, that Germany happened to elect an experienced former environmental minister as chancellor for the best part of the century’s first two decades is far from the whole story of the idea of leadership in the Energiewende. This section more deeply examine the components of leadership and agency in Germany’s environmental-political imagination: who it sees as responsible for taking action, what latitude leading agents have to change the course of existing initiatives, the nature of Germany’s participation on environmental issues in the international sphere, and the values that implicitly drive these understandings. It argues that a collectivist view of leadership focused on reciprocity and persistence prevails, in which each sector of German society (particularly individual citizens) is both empowered and expected to take action that furthers the Energiewende. The federal government is respected in its role as overseer of the Energiewende, but is expected to provide a fair deal from which all will benefit as a result. Internationally, Germany imagines itself as an environmental first mover that leads by example, its internal collective action a display of good-faith responsibility that ought to spur trust and reciprocity in the larger collective of nations. As in the United States, an important portion of Germany’s direction on climate and energy policy comes from the top. Chancellor Merkel has acquired a reputation as a forceful climate hawk, and, as much of this essay’s sourcing thus far has shown, hierarchical federal ministries set a great deal of Energiewende policy. But the way figures at the top discuss the action of the Energiewende makes clear that they conceive of it as necessarily a collective endeavor. Merkel, when announcing Germany’s retreat from nuclear energy, put it this way: “All of us, government and opposition, federal, state and local governments, society as a whole, every single one of us, all of us, if we do it properly, can combine ethical responsibility with economic success in this future project. This is our shared responsibility.”[109] Dr. Barbara Hendricks, then head of the BMU, wrote in her foreword to the 2020 Climate Action Programme that “All of us—all areas of industry and all individuals—have to step up to the plate.”[110] One way this collective spirit manifests is in the federalist relationship between the central government and the Länder, the German states. Whereas the CPP’s direction of each state to develop its own scheme for CO2 emissions reductions set off near-immediate battles in court about whether this fragmented approach constituted “bread-and-butter federalism” or gross federal overreach, the German chancellor and minister for energy and economic affairs meet twice yearly with the heads of all of the sixteen Länder to discuss Energiewende policy implementation and enjoy a close and generally functional, if not frictionless, relationship.[112] A rhetorical approach framing reciprocal collective participation as necessary for a successful Energiewende prevails especially strongly with respect to individual Germans. As one BMU report puts it, “Particularly here [in the Energiewende ] it is therefore important to create opportunities for the public to get involved and to support people in becoming aware of their scope for action...Climate action depends far more than any other policy area on the active involvement of as many people as possible.”[113] The government says that rather than asking individuals to sacrifice their own time and resources to reduce emissions, it will provide opportunities for citizen participation such that they themselves benefit.[114] Furthermore, the government has pledged to cut its own emissions to demonstrate its own responsibility and commitment to the cause.[115] Its statements of support for a ground-up Energiewende have, so far, been more than just so much grassroots talk: a cornerstone incentive of the push for emissions cuts has been the Renewable Energy Sources Act’s high federally subsidized prices, guaranteed for renewable energy sold to the grid by small-scale producers like individuals, households, and local co-ops.[116] Early in the century, the government promoted the adoption of small-scale photovoltaic (PV) solar installations with the so-called “100,000 Roofs” initiative, which provided government loans for people to buy rooftop solar systems. Germans have responded by engaging: by 2003, the program was successfully completed,[117] and by the end of 2017 there were 1.6 million PV installations nationwide,[118] with over 40% of total renewable capacity owned by citizens.[119] Much of this subsidizing has aided rural areas in particular, with farmers coming to own a greatly disproportionate percentage of PV installations and the generally conservative farmers’ association pushing the CDU to greater support of the Energiewende .[120] The mere thought of today’s rural, conservative Americans strongly supporting federal climate change policy illustrates both how vast the gulf is between Germany and the US on this issue and how powerful subsidies can be. For the most part, then, the German population does not aid its country’s climate policy as a sacrifice: it does so while gaining generous federally-designed benefits. But this profitability is part of the nation’s imagination of climate change as an integrated social-environmental problem that offers the opportunity to progress and modernize. The Energiewende is not fully democratic, per se, since the executive branch of the federal government from the beginning has played a strong role in setting its policies, but it has become truly collective in its implementation and its expansion of renewable energy enjoys 95% popular support.[121] Thus, in its rhetoric and action, Germany has to a significant extent successfully cast climate change not merely as an international political issue but as a collective German one, and as an opportunity to be addressed by the fulfillment of a social contract. Everyone must do their part, and accordingly, the benefits will be reaped by all. Unlike the autocratic “picking [of] winners and losers”[122] which the CPP was imagined to be by many in the US, the Energiewende is an “an investment in our own future.”[123] The understanding of this investment transcends the merely financial. For instance, the environment ministry stresses the need not just for technical research and development, but social and cultural research to increase understanding of “how people perceive climate change, what consequences it has for their lives, and...how all sections of the population can be included and social acceptance fostered.”[124] This sort of holistic environmental-political idea—linking often-separated human categories like “social,” “cultural,” and “economic” into a continuous whole addressing the state of the public under the banner of the issue of climate change—is, as we have seen, quintessentially modern German. If the Energiewende is supposed to be an endeavor which involves all sectors of society and is positively viewed by both the government and the public—the first and third of Hegel’s three spheres of consciousness in ethical life[125]—where does that leave German businesses, the key element in Hegel’s second sphere of civil society? How do economic actors understand this initiative that has cost so much? For one, the high level of popular support, combined with consistent governmental action, guarantees that German businesses—though they might not be automatically inclined to accommodate the demands of the Energiewende—have little choice but to make the best of it and adapt, as they are squeezed from above and below. This is particularly true of energy companies: as one former utilities executive put it, the Energiewende is “an irreversible process now.”[126] The country’s two largest power companies have both in recent years split in two, with one company emerging dedicated to traditional fuels and one to renewables.[127] Germany’s environmental-political imagination as realized in the Energiewende is thus not a utopian one, where achievement of the large social transition demanded by sharp emissions reductions arises from simple good will and is painless for all. However, given the demanding goal, what is required is clear: as the 2020 climate plan put it, “The energy industry is the sector with the highest greenhouse gas emissions and the greatest technical and economic potential for reduction.”[128] But while certain big businesses may not be happy, others are, as smaller companies dedicated to the production, installation, equipment, and maintenance of renewable energy technology have sprung up and the Energiewende has gained the support of industry groups like the German Confederation of Small and Medium-Sized Enterprises.[129] Plus, the collectivist temperament of the Energiewende extends to the hurt businesses: The government has pledged to work, including at EU level, to create job opportunities in regions most affected by the switch to renewables.[130] The dominant German conception of political leadership on environment outside its own borders is close to the imagination just described inside them. The federal government claims and demonstrates responsible leadership by example, acknowledging its interdependence with other nations without which a major dent cannot be made in international environmental issues like climate change, then expects them to follow suit just as it expects its own citizens and private enterprises to contribute to the Energiewende . This ideal of leadership, as read through Germany’s public statements and actions, is recognizable on both the European stage and the global stage. At the European level, Germany casts itself as a proudly trustworthy friend acting in solidarity for the larger collective European cause of which it is a part, willing to take on heavy burdens to encourage action by others. In the BMU’s words, “Germany’s climate policy is embedded in European and international agreements and legal obligations. Germany has always been a reliable partner in international and European climate policy.”[131] Since the early 2000s, it has shown leadership multiple significant times in the EU. First, following the publication of the Stern Report on the Economics of Climate Change in 2006, which argued that the worst effects of climate change could still be prevented with rapid and concerted action,[132] Germany led the EU during its Presidency of the Council of the European Union to its landmark 20-20-20 targets, which committed the EU as a whole to 20% reductions in CO2 emissions, 20% of power from renewable energy, and 20% increased energy efficiency levels by 2020.[133] Shortly after, in 2007, it passed major Energiewende legislation doubling these EU baseline commitments, pledging to cut its own CO2 emissions 40% by 2020.[134] For the most part, the EU has followed suit. As of August 2018, it is on track to meet its 20-20-20 commitment,[135] and several EU countries have now caught up to Germany in terms of emissions cuts and renewables production.[136] To exactly what extent these positive changes would have occurred without Germany taking leadership on the issue through the Energiewende is impossible to say, but its leadership has been immensely publicized and other nations have both followed in its footsteps and learned from its mistakes. Germany’s actions on the global stage in the 21st century have also evinced an imagination of itself as a responsible actor seeking to initiate a reciprocal exchange of actions rather than to gain credit for its own glory. The aforementioned 2007 decision to cut CO2 emissions 40% by 2020, the “Meseberg decision,” also immediately preceded the 2007 UN Climate Change Conference (COP13) in Bali. The government’s statement on the legislation proclaimed, By implementing the key elements adopted in Meseberg, Germany is demonstrating that climate protection can be implemented in all sectors in an economically viable way. With Meseberg we are moving away from the attitude in international climate policy of “you first” towards “this is what I’m doing, what about you?” This is the only way to break the deadlock in international negotiations.[137] The negotiations at COP13 in Bali ultimately achieved somewhat underwhelming results,[138] in part due to strong US objections to a proposal by developing countries. However, Germany’s 21st-century form of climate leadership by example has been durable and persistent despite international mediocrity: seven years after Bali, it put forth a new and more ambitious emissions reductions plan ahead of the 2015 UN Climate Change Conference (COP21) in Paris, which finally produced a (limited) international breakthrough in the form of the landmark Paris Agreement. Recycling their argument from the domestic context that emissions reductions and renewable power are crucial for economic modernization, ahead of Paris, Germany wrote that “Germany can, and must, play a key role internationally and must demonstrate that taking climate action in an industrialised country does work and, in fact, is crucial for any economy that wants to be competitive in the 21st century.”[139] While climate change is today’s signal international environmental issue, it is not the case that Germany’s sharp international environmental-political desire for responsible, reciprocal action is limited to climate and energy. There is a broader environmental conceptual connectivity, a common language for understanding environmental issues that must be politically approached, at work. For instance, in the context of biodiversity preservation, one of the UN Sustainable Development Goals,[140] a prominent German environmental NGO argued, “only if we in Germany take the lead and preserve...habitats from destruction, will we also be able to expect such conservation ideas to take root in poorer countries.”[141] A likely important factor contributing to this keen perception of international interdependence and leadership on environmental issues in Germany is its position in the center of Europe, caught as the most important nation in a terrestrial geographic web of dense population, commerce, borders, and laws. This position plays a part in both cross-border environmental issues that Germany must aid in solving, and issues of energy dependence: Germany depends on nearby, oil-rich, unfriendly Russia for 40% of its oil imports[142] and a significant quantity of natural gas to boot, a position that increasing its supply of renewables through the Energiewende aims to help it escape. The last feature of leadership and agency as understood in the modern continuous, collectivist German environmental-political imagination that I shall discuss here is its leaders’ respect for the temporal continuity of policy. This is well exemplified in the logical coherence of Energiewende policy since the turn of the millennium. Successive German central governments, for the most part, do not feel empowered or motivated to craft a climate and energy policy that is entirely their own. Instead, they adjust old policies and craft innovative ones atop an established structure that keeps the original fundamental goals intact, bespeaking a respect for prior action and an effective norm that holds it unacceptable to simply throw out the work of previous governments and attempt to start over. This pattern is a temporal corollary to the emphasis on social solidarity and collective action discussed so far that characterizes German environmental leadership. This persistent, collective gradualism is visible in the official discourse of the Energiewende : most laws, policy announcements, and statements by political leaders include provisions for frequent recalibration of the policies designed to cut emissions and increase renewables use.[143] For instance, the government in 2007 assured people at the outset of its doubling of emissions cuts targets that, in the event of ineffectiveness or cost-inefficiency in the design of the policy, its mechanisms would be redesigned.[144] Such assurances are often accompanied by exhortatory language about the value of determination and staying the course. For instance, from the minister of the BMU’s foreword to the 2020 Climate Action Programme: “Germanyʼs Energiewende , or energy transition, is an encouraging example...despite all the challenges its details pose. We intend to continue down this route—with everyone on board, including each individual sector of the economy.”[145] As in the case of its domestic inclusion and international leadership, this ambitious talk has generally in the Energiewende been convincingly backed by action. The sheer volume of legislation passed each year to update and fine-tune the Energiewende , usually in the direction of greater policy ambition, is a testament to a deep-seated incrementalist perseverance. The repeated revisiting of the 2000 Renewable Energy Sources Act is a good example of this. New versions of the act have been passed five times since its original passage, in order to update its pricing mechanisms and the rates of its energy subsidies in light of new evidence and emissions reductions progress, but the core structure has remained in place.[146] This is undoubtedly thanks in part to the way it and other Energiewende policies have intentionally involved and benefited individual citizens, such that reversing it would be fatally unpopular, but updating it remains popularly accepted. This patience of the German environmental-imagination when it comes to leadership and effective action also guarantees that beneficial policy experiments are encouraged, and the government can learn from its mistakes. For instance, after a successful experimental cross-border wind energy auction with Denmark, Germany laid plans to expand its cross-border renewables connectivity within Europe.[147] Such experimentation and improvement within a broader continuity rarely occurs in a modern US environmental-political context defined largely by the desire of each administration to craft its own signature policies on key issues like energy. In the US, more typical than a rhetoric of adjustment, gradual improvement, and persistence are words like “repeal,” “rule unconstitutional,” and “replace.”[148] This pendulum effect on climate and energy policy in the US reflects an environment of partisan hostility, certainly, but also a vision of environmental politics as a zero-sum game played between individuated competing parties. Moreover, the German imagination of temporal continuity and gradual adjustment of laws dovetails with a conceptual continuity of environmental outcomes, which is the opposite of the American case. In contemporary Germany, the climate problem, along with environmental problems generally, tends not to be framed as a binary with either an outcome of glorious victory or devastating failure depending on which of competing policies is selected. Instead, a more realist, incremental perspective prevails: better environmental outcomes can be achieved on a spectrum of possible outcomes by improving the design and implementation of laws. As a BMU dossier explaining Germany’s climate policies put it, “Climate change cannot be reversed...Nevertheless, it is still possible to slow down climate change and limit its impacts on humans and the environment.”[149] Words like “fighting” climate change, rather than “solving” it or “defeating” it, are common.[150] Accordingly, Germany has not just emissions reductions plans, but an official strategy for adaptation to climate change.[151] The US, where action on climate change tends to be framed as either part of a once-and-for-all climate solution or a total failure, has no such plan. There is no place in American environmental-political rhetoric for a reasoned gradualism, even an urgent one: as Obama put it, ours is “the last generation”[152] that can do something about climate change, and that “doing something” is cast usually as “solving” climate change, or failing to do so.[153] Rather than climate change becoming progressively worse the less each generation acts to prevent it, in this imagination the generation of today becomes “the last generation” that can act, the glorious individual agent who either succeeds or fails. The desire in the US political imagination for glorious leadership by a particular individual or group is not limited to competing parties or economic interests, then, but extends over time: America particularizes the present. In Germany, by contrast, persistence, gradualism, and the principle of “fairness between generations”[154] deeply influences the German moral and political compass and produces an approach to policy better suited to the problem of CO2 emissions itself: needful of sustained cuts over time and productive of a problem that can get a bit worse when policy is a bit less effective. To conclude this section: in the German environmental-political imagination, climate change is an issue of collective responsibility on which Germany ought to lead in a persistent, patient, and reciprocal way, both domestically and internationally, with participation from the top to the bottom of society and benefit for all involved. Endnotes [1] Barack Obama, “Remarks Announcing the Environmental Protection Agency’s Clean Power Plan - DCPD-201500546” (Office of the Federal Register, National Archives and Records Administration, August 3, 2015), https://www.govinfo.gov/app/details/DCPD-201500546. https://www.govinfo.gov/app/details/DCPD-201500546 Obama. [2] Barbara Hendricks, Foreword, in “The German Government’s Climate Action Programme 2020 - Cabinet Decision of 3 December 2014” (Federal Ministry for the Environment, Nature Conservation, Building and Nuclear Safety (BMUB), December 3, 2014). [3] Jedediah Purdy, After Nature: A Politics for the Anthropocene (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2015), 3. [4] See, e.g., Suzanne Moore, “Angela Merkel Shows How the Leader of the Free World Should Act | Suzanne Moore,” The Guardian , May 29, 2017, sec. Opinion, https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/may/29/angela-merkel-leader-free-world-donald-trump . [5] Purdy, After Nature , 6. [7] For a general global analysis, see Douglas Holtz-Eakin & Thomas M. Selden, Douglas Holtz-Eakin and Thomas M. Selden, “Stoking the Fires? CO2 Emissions and Economic Growth,” Journal of Public Economics 57 , no. 1 (May 1995): 85-101. For an early economic analysis linking CO2, growth, and climate, see William D. Nordhaus, William D. Nordhaus, “Economic Growth and Climate: The Carbon Dioxide Problem,” The American Economic Review , no. 1 (1977): 341. For an examination of several industrialized nations, including the US and Germany, that provides empirical evidence against the theoretical notion in environmental economics that beyond a certain level of development, emissions and growth vary inversely, see S.M. de Bruyn et al, Economic Growth and Emissions: Reconsidering the Empirical Basis of Environmental Kuznets Curves , 25 Ecological Econ. 161-175 (1998). For an analysis focused on China, see S.S. Wang et al., “CO2 Emissions, Energy Consumption and Economic Growth in China: A Panel Data Analysis,” Energy Policy 39 (September 1, 2011): 4870–75, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.enpol.2011.06.032 . [8] “GDP (Current US$) | Data” (World Bank, 2018), https://data.worldbank.org/indicator/NY.GDP.MKTP. CD?year_high_desc=true. [9] “GDP per Capita, PPP (Current International $) | Data” (World Bank, 2018), https://data.worldbank.org/ indicator/NY.GDP.PCAP.PP.CD?end=2015&start=1960&year_high_desc=true. [10] “Each Country’s Share of CO2 Emissions,” Union of Concerned Scientists, October 11, 2018, https://www . ucsusa.org/global-warming/science-and-impacts/science/each-countrys-share-of-co2.html. [11] “The World Factbook,” Central Intelligence Agency, 2016, https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/theworld-factbook/. [12] United States Environmental Protection Agency, “Our Mission and What We Do,” Overviews and Factsheets, US EPA, January 29, 2013, https://www.epa.gov/aboutepa/our-mission-and-what-we-do; “About Us,” Umweltbundesamt, September 6, 2013, http://www.umweltbundesamt.de/en/the-uba/about-us. For a lay overview of the EPA’s history and functions, see Robinson Meyer, “How the U.S. Protects the Environment, From Nixon to Trump,” The Atlantic, March 29, 2017, https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2017/03/how-the-epa-andus-environmental-law-works-a-civics-guide-pruitt-trump/521001/. [13] Massachusetts v. Environmental Protection Agency, No. 05–1120 (Roberts Court April 2, 2007). [14] “EU Emissions Trading System (EU ETS),” Climate Action - European Commission, accessed January 2, 2019, https://ec.europa.eu/clima/policies/ets_en. [15] Meyer, “How the U.S. Protects the Environment.” [16] “The Clean Power Plan: EPA Interprets the Clean Air Act to Allow Regulation of Carbon Dioxide Emissions from Existing Power Plants.,” Harvard Law Review 1152 129, no. 4 (February 2016), https://harvardlawreview. org/2016/02/the-clean-power-plan/. [17] Environmental Protection Agency, “Carbon Pollution Emission Guidelines for Existing Stationary Sources: Electric Utility Generating Units | 80 FR 64661” (Federal Register, December 22, 2015), https://www. federalregister.gov/documents/2015/10/23/2015-22842/carbon-pollution-emission-guidelines-for-existingstationary-sources-electric-utility-generating. [18] United States Environmental Protection Agency, “Inventory of U.S. Greenhouse Gas Emissions and Sinks: 1990-2016,” Reports and Assessments, US EPA, January 30, 2018, https://www.epa.gov/ghgemissions/inventoryus-greenhouse-gas-emissions-and-sinks-1990-2016. [19] Barack Obama, “Remarks Announcing the Environmental Protection Agency’s Clean Power Plan.” [20] Robinson Meyer and Matt Ford, “A Major Blow to Obama’s Climate-Change Plan,” The Atlantic, February 9, 2016, https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/02/supreme-court-clean-power/462093/. [21] 40 C.F.R. §60. [22] “Clean Power Plan / Carbon Pollution Emission Guidelines - Environmental & Energy Law Program,” Harvard Law School, September 27, 2017, https://eelp.law.harvard.edu/2017/09/clean-power-plan-carbonpollution-emission-guidelines/. [23] United States Environmental Protection Agency, “FACT SHEET: Clean Power Plan Overview,” Overviews and Factsheets, accessed January 3, 2019, fact-sheet-clean-power-plan-overview.html. [24] Robert Rapier, “Yes, The U.S. Leads All Countries In Reducing Carbon Emissions,” Forbes, accessed January 3, 2019, [25] US EPA, “Carbon Pollution Emission Guidelines,” ES-6. [26] United States Environmental Protection Agency, “Sources of Greenhouse Gas Emissions,” Overviews and Factsheets, US EPA, December 29, 2015, https://www.epa.gov/ghgemissions/sources-greenhouse-gas-emissions. [27] See, e.g., Hiroko Tabuchi and Henry Fountain, “Bucking Trump, These Cities, States and Companies Commit to Paris Accord,” The New York Times, January 20, 2018, sec. Climate, https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/01/climate/american-cities-climate-standards.html. [28] Hardy Graupner, “What Exactly Is Germany’s ‘Energiewende’?” DW.COM, January 22, 2013, https://www.dw.com/en/what-exactly-is-germanys-energiewende/a-16540762. [29] “Sunny, Windy, Costly and Dirty,” The Economist, January 18, 2014, https://www.economist.com/europe/2014/01/18/sunny-windy-costly-and-dirty. [30] “Renewable Energy Sources Act (Erneuerbare-Energien-Gesetz EEG),” International Energy Agency, 2000, https://www.iea.org/policiesandmeasures/pams/germany/name-21702-en.php. [31] BMWi - Federal Ministry for Economics Affairs and Energy, “Renewable Energy,” 2018, https://www.bmwi.de/Redaktion/EN/Dossier/renewable-energy.html. [32] See generally Federal Ministry for Environment, Nature Conservation, and Nuclear Safety (BMU), “The Integrated Energy and Climate Programme of the German Government,” 2007. [33] See generally Federal Ministry of Economics and Technology and Federal Ministry for the Environment, Nature Conservation and Nuclear Safety, “Energy Concept for an Environmentally Sound, Reliable and Affordable Energy Supply,” September 28, 2010. [34] See generally “The German Government’s Climate Action Programme 2020 - Cabinet Decision of 3 December 2014” BMU, December 3, 2014; BMU, “Climate Action Plan 2050 – Germany’s Long-Term Emission Development Strategy,” 2016, https://www.bmu.de/en/topics/climate-energy/climate/national-climate-policy/greenhouse-gas-neutral-germany-2050/. [35] Federal Ministry for the Environment, Nature Conservation and Nuclear Safety, “The Federal Government’s Energy Concept of 2010 and the Transformation of the Energy System of 2011,” 2011. [36] Jeffrey Ball, “Germany’s High-Priced Energy Revolution,” Fortune, March 14, 2017, http://fortune.com/2017/03/14/germany-renewable-clean-energy-solar/. [37] Kerstine Appunn, “The History behind Germany’s Nuclear Phase-Out,” Clean Energy Wire, January 2, 2018, https://www.cleanenergywire.org/factsheets/history-behind-germanys-nuclear-phase-out. [38] See e.g., Sören Amelang, “Germany on Track to Widely Miss 2020 Climate Target – Government,” Clean Energy Wire, June 13, 2018, https://www.cleanenergywire.org/news/germany-track-widely-miss-2020-climatetarget-government. [39] Eurostat, “Greenhouse Gas Emission Statistics - Emission Inventories,” June 2018, https://ec.europa.eu/eurostat/statistics-explained/index.php/Greenhouse_gas_emission_statistics_-_emission_inventories. [40] BMWi, “Renewable Energy,” 2018. [50] See, e.g., Environmental Protection Agency, “Electric Utility Generating Units: Repealing the Clean Power Plan: Proposal,” Policies and Guidance, US EPA, October 4, 2017, https://www.epa.gov/stationary-sourcesair-pollution/electric-utility-generating-units-repealing-clean-power-plan-0; Robinson Meyer, “How Obama Could Lose His Big Climate Case,” The Atlantic, September 29, 2016, https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2016/09/obama-clean-power-plan-dc-circuit-legal/502115/. [51] OAR US EPA, “Clean Power Plan Final Rule – Regulatory Impact Analysis,” Reports and Assessments, October 23, 2015, /cleanpowerplan/clean-power-plan-final-rule-regulatory-impact-analysis, 3-23. [52] See, e.g., sections on ExxonMobil, Peabody Energy, and Southern Company in “Who’s Fighting the Clean Power Plan and EPA Action on Climate Change?” Union of Concerned Scientists, https://www.ucsusa.org/globalwarming/fightmisinformation/whos-fighting-clean-power-plan-and-epa-action-climate. [53] OAR US EPA, “FACT SHEET: Clean Power Plan By The Numbers,” Overviews and Factsheets, accessed January 3, 2019, fact-sheet-clean-power-plan-numbers.html. [54] See, e.g., Megan Brenan and Lydia Saad, “Global Warming Concern Steady Despite Some Partisan Shifts,” Gallup.com, March 28, 2018, https://news.gallup.com/poll/231530/global-warming-concern-steady-despitepartisan-shifts.aspx. [55] “EPW Republicans Send Letter to EPA in Support of Clean Power Plan Repeal,” U.S. Senate Committee on Environment and Public Works, January 12, 2018, https://www.epw.senate.gov/public/index.cfm/2018/1/epwrepublicans-send-letter-to-epa-in. [56] Purdy, After Nature, 190. [57] US EPA, supra note 21. [58] Department of Energy, “2017 U.S. Energy and Employment Report,” January 2017, 29. [59] DOE, “U.S. Energy and Employment Report,” 21. [60] For a theoretical overview of environmental justice and its critical discussion of race, see David Schlosberg, “Theorising Environmental Justice: The Expanding Sphere of a Discourse,” Environmental Politics 22, no. 1 (February 1, 2013): 37–55, https://doi.org/10.1080/09644016.2013.755387); For information about the high proportion of black Americans living near a coal-fired power plant, see “Environmental Racism in America: An Overview of the Environmental Justice Movement and the Role of Race in Environmental Policies,” Goldman Environmental Foundation, June 24, 2015, https://www.goldmanprize.org/blog/environmental-racism-inamerica-an-overview-of-the-environmental-justice-movement-and-the-role-of-race-in-environmental-policies/; By contrast, for statistics showing employment in the coal industry to be disproportionately white, see United States Department of Labor Bureau of Labor Statistics, “Employed Persons by Detailed Industry, Sex, Race, and Hispanic or Latino Ethnicity,” 2018, https://www.bls.gov/cps/cpsaat18.htm. [61] Purdy, After Nature, 30. [62] International Energy Agency, “Energy Imports, Net (% of Energy Use) | Data” (The World Bank, 2015), https://data.worldbank.org/indicator/EG.IMP.CONS.ZS?locations=US&year_high_desc=false. [63] Nicole Lewis, “Fact Checker: EPA Administrator Scott Pruitt’s Claim That the U.S. Is ‘Leading the World’ in ‘C02 Footprint’ Reductions,” The Washington Post, October 23, 2017, https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/fact-checker/wp/2017/10/23/epa-administrator-scott-pruitts-claim-the-u-s-is-leading-the-world-in-c02-footprintreductions/?utm_term=.57dfb8ccf34b. [64] Jan Ivar Korsbakken, Robbie Andrew, and Glen Peters, “Guest Post: China’s CO2 Emissions Grew Less than Expected in 2017,” Carbon Brief, March 8, 2018, https://www.carbonbrief.org/guest-post-chinas-co2-emissionsgrew-less-expected-2017. [65] Benjamin Storrow, “Trump’s ‘Affordable Clean Energy’ Plan Won’t Save Coal,” Scientific American, August 21, 2018, https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/trumps-affordable-clean-energy-plan-wont-save-coal/. [66] Obama, “Remarks Announcing the Environmental Protection Agency’s Clean Power Plan." [67] The European Commission, “EU Emissions Trading System (EU ETS).” [68] It seems notable here that for the entire period between Obama’s direction of the EPA to craft the CPP in 2013 and his announcement of the final rule in 2015, his approval rating stayed beneath 50%; see Gallup, “Presidential Approval Ratings -- Barack Obama,” Gallup.com, accessed January 4, 2019, https://news.gallup.com/poll/116479/Barack-Obama-Presidential-Job-Approval.aspx. [69] The White House Office of the Press Secretary, “Presidential Memorandum -- Power Sector Carbon Pollution Standards,” whitehouse.gov, June 25, 2013, https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/the-press-office/2013/06/25/presidential-memorandum-power-sector-carbon-pollution-standards. [70] See e.g., Naomi Klein, This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. the Climate (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2014). [71] Purdy, After Nature, 34. [73] BMU, supra note 15, at 2. [74] Id., at 1. [75] See, e.g., Purdy, After Nature, 24. [76] BMU and BMWi, “Energy Concept for an Environmentally Sound, Reliable and Affordable Energy Supply,” 4. [77] BMU and BMWi, “Energy Concept for an Environmentally Sound, Reliable and Affordable Energy Supply,” 5. [78] BMU, “The German Government’s Climate Action Programme 2020 - 2014” 18. [79] “The German Federal Government,” deutschland.de, January 23, 2018, https://www.deutschland.de/en/ topic/politics/the-german-federal-government. [80] “Basic Law for the Federal Republic of Germany - Article 20a [Protection of Natural Foundations of Life and Animals]” (Federal Ministry of Justice and Consumer Protection and Federal Office of Justice), accessed January 4, 2019, https://www.gesetze-im-internet.de/englisch_gg/englisch_gg.html#p0119. [81] “The German Environmental Constitutional Law,” Umweltbundesamt, January 29, 2016, http://www.umweltbundesamt.de/en/the-german-environmental-constitutional-law. [82] Monika Neumann, “The Environmental Law System of the Federal Republic of Germany,” Annual Survey of International & Comparative Law 3, no. 1 (1996): 69–110. [83] Jonathan Cannon, Environment in the Balance (Harvard University Press, 2015), http://www.hup.harvard.edu/catalog.php?isbn=9780674736788. [84] Arlan Gerald Wine, “Enforcement Controversy Under the Clean Air Act: State Sovereignty and the Commerce Clause,” Transportation Law Journal 8 (1976): 383–400. [85] See, e.g., Massachusetts v. Environmental Protection Agency, No. 05–1120; wherein the Bush-era EPA opposed regulation of CO2 emissions. [86] Konrad Adenauer Stiftung, “History of Environmental Policy in Germany: CDU Perspectives 1958–2015,”n.d.,https://www.kas.de/c/document_library/get_file?uuid=57153b6c-1ac9-6dd4-4048-b7e8732ba709&groupId=252038. [87] Konrad Adenauer Stiftung, “History of Environmental Policy in Germany,” 2 [88] Konrad Adenauer Stiftung, “History of Environmental Policy in Germany,” 22. [89] For discussion of coal, see BMU, “Climate Action Plan 2050 – Germany’s Long-Term Emission Development Strategy”; for discussion of the abolition of nuclear energy see “German Chancellor Merkel on Energy Nuclear Policy, Jun 9 2011 | Video | C-SPAN.Org” (C-SPAN 3, June 9, 2011), https://www.c-span.org/video/?300059-1/german-chancellor-merkel-energy-nuclear-policy. [90] Paul Hockenos, “The History of the Energiewende,” Clean Energy Wire, June 12, 2015, https://www.cleanenergywire.org/dossiers/history-energiewende. [91] Hockenos, “The History of the Energiewende.” [92] Hockenos, “The History of the Energiewende.” [93] Ball, “Germany’s High-Priced Energy Revolution.” [94] BMU and BMWi, “Energy Concept for an Environmentally Sound, Reliable and Affordable Energy Supply,” 15. [95] Appunn, “The History behind Germany’s Nuclear Phase-Out." 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