Did you know that currently the ratio of “he” to “she” in abstracts listed on the Philosopher’s Index is 6:1?
And that in the 1940’s it was about 60:1?
Eric Schwitzgebel crunched some numbers.
Did you know that currently the ratio of “he” to “she” in abstracts listed on the Philosopher’s Index is 6:1?
And that in the 1940’s it was about 60:1?
Eric Schwitzgebel crunched some numbers.
And other life lessons from Dinosaur Comics.
I realize that T-Rex frames this as “better” street harassment, but I’d say it’s more an aggressive public education campaign.
In an important post Magicalersatz assserts:
The idea that philosophers should start from first principles, construct premises, and ‘follow the argument where it leads’ without hindrance from emotion or personal perspective is a romantic one. It’s also an absurd one. We all come to the table with biases, presuppositions, and background assumptions – whether we admit it or not. And yes, these types of commitments are present even in ‘the core’.
The fact that her statement can seem just common sense may be a testimony to the way in which ideas from empirical research is permeating our perspectives. And if it doesn’t seem just common sense, you should know that there is a great deal of empirical support for the idea that reason alone isn’t going to get us far. We can and should try very hard to get rid of – or at least mitigate – morally problematic biases, but the idea of a good, substantive philosophy emerging from pure reason is a myth.
The thesis that human beings are not purely rational, even when we think we are being so, started to emerge with a number of researchers in the 1960’s-70’s. The first official attack on the Cartesian conception of reason that has many in Anglo-American philosophy in its grip comes with Damasio’s 1994 Descartes’ Error:
ALTHOUGH I CANNOT tell for certain what sparked my interest in the neural underpinnings of reason, I do know when I became convinced that the traditional views on the nature of rationality could not be correct. I had been advised early in life that sound decisions came from a cool head, that emotions and reason did not mix any more than oil and water. I had grown up accustomed to thinking that the mechanisms of reason existed in a separate province of the mind, where emotion should not be allowed to intrude, and when I thought of the brain behind that mind, I envisioned separate neural systems for reason and emotion. This was a widely held view of the relation between reason and emotion, in mental and neural terms.
In the Introduction of new editions, Damasio notes correctly the now entrenched nature of his views:
I advanced the hypothesis … that emotion was in the loop of reason, and that emotion could assist the reasoning process rather than necessarily disturb it, as was commonly assumed. Today this idea does not cause any raised eyebrows …
Of course, the details are not fully worked out, there are competing hypotheses (dual process pictures, for example) that do not incorporate all his ideas, and so on. BUT in general the demise of the ‘man of reason’ is pretty much a done deal.
[Trigger warning: violence, sexual assault]
In “Cassandra Among the Creeps,” the cover essay of the latest Harper’s magazine, Rebecca Solnit considers the various ways in which women are silenced. She draws a line from the titular mythical figure to Dylan Farrow, both of whose testimony was doubted, if to differing degrees. But, as Solnit observes, the mechanisms of silencing can be external or internal: “First come the internal inhibitions, self-doubts, repressions, confusions, and shame that make it difficult to impossible to speak, along with the fear of being punished or ostracized for doing so.” In illustration of internal silencing, Solnit cites Aftermath, feminist philosopher Susan Brison’s account of her 1990 rape, and of her trauma and recovery. The article is behind a paywall, but here’s a snippet:
Susan Brison, now chair of the philosophy department at Dartmouth, was raped in 1990 by a man, a stranger, who called her a whore and told her to shut up before choking her repeatedly, bashing her head with a stone, and leaving her for dead. Afterward she found various problems in talking about the experience: “It was one thing to have decided to speak and write about my rape, but another to find the voice with which to do it. Even after my fractured trachea had healed, I frequently had trouble speaking. I was never entirely mute, but I often had bouts of what a friend labeled ‘fractured speech,’ during which I stuttered and stammered, unable to string together a simple sentence without the words scattering like a broken necklace.”
COACHE is a product of Harvard’s School of Education. One of its main outputs is a survey that is taken by faculty and then analyzed by COACHE. As I remember, the survey gives one standard assertions such as “The administration of this university strongly supports interdisciplinary research” and then gives one an option of five answers from “agree very strongly” to “disagree very strongly”. (Or at least something much like that.) One great thing is that the score the university gets is a comparison with what are counted as peer institutions. So if your university is ranked in the bottom third in interdisciplinarity, for example, that is not simply because you have a lot of malcontents. Rather, it is because your faculty are much more negative about that feature than most of the faculty in your peers. And that becomes a problem for the university.
If you are on the job market or if the tenure decision is coming near, do think of asking if your (prospective) university has a COACHE report, and ask to see it. (Those applying to grad school may also benefit; see the next para.) At least the one for my now former university reveals two things: (1) major weaknesses and (2) differences between tenured and non-tenured (tt) points of view; see below for a remark about this. If you want to dig a bit deeper, it may also show you more general facts about the university that are holding the problems in place. In my experience the report is stunningly accurate. That is, the university ranks low on features that, to be perfectly frank, drove me crazy. The faculty, however, love the upper administration, a fact that shows a very important disconnect.
TENURED VS. NON-TENURED points of view. In my former university the tt are generally more positive than the tenured profs. It would seem easy for the tt also to be much more negative, as I would guess they are in some other places. In any case, there are contexts in which this won’t matter, and ones in which it will. If a set of discontented tt faculty have been bullied into being enthusiastic for prospective grad students, those who believe them may be in for a shock. Equally, if the tt folk are much happier than those with tenure, they may not be a good source of information about whether you should join the department as a faculty member. Now the COACHE report does not mention specific departments, so differences in these respects are really just warning signs.
The differences between tenured and tt points of view are interesting, and I don’t really know what explains them. When I was following the literature on sexism in STEM quite closely about ten years ago, it appeared that STEM women did not perceive the sexism until the tenuring process started. One can think of a number of possible reasons for this, and some of them would spread across genders and disciplines. Perhaps, for example, some senior faculty feel protective about the younger ones, and smooth things out for them a bit. Another might be that the tenured faculty may try to draw on more resources, and so discover what the weaknesses are. On the other hand, it would seem most unfortunately easy to make the tt faculty miserable, so differences in directions different from those at my university would seem to be more understandable.
I recently assigned an undergraduate class reading the Apology to consider Socrates’ manner in presenting himself to the jury. Specifically, I asked them to evaluate whether Socrates’ condescension in his speeches to the jury and prosecution rises to insult and rudeness, and whether this matters in seeing him as exemplar for emulation. The results were mixed. Some concluded that Socrates was both rude and justified since the trial was rank persecution by the dangerously unthinking. Others thought Socrates unwarrantedly rude, remarking on how it was no credit even to noble purposes that he should be scornful or even arrogantly dismissive in his self-presentation. What was striking to me in all this was the gender breakdown of these responses in a class with almost equal enrollment of men and women.
Those who found Socrates rudeness warranted and worthy of emulation:
70% of the men enrolled
13% of the women
Those who found it unwarranted and not worthy of emulation:
30% of the men
87% of the women
I have myself long felt ambivalent about Socrates on this score, and I think this result may capture some of why. Many of the women students remarked in their responses what I would characterize as sympathy to human frailty, a sense that if others have to earn our respect rather than respect operating as a default given, then we’re all in trouble. They were not at all sanguine about Socrates’ rightness, which they acknowledged, giving more general permission to anyone in the right to express contempt or scorn for others. Put simply, they were far more skeptical that we can ever be sure enough that we are in the right or that another’s being in the wrong licenses breaking general respect.
I don’t want to over-assign significance to this outcome, but I do think Socrates casts a long shadow even still over how philosophy is practiced and that even if, in his own case, his manner is explicable or even sympathetic, it ends up conferring status and legitimacy on conversational tactics that, in far less dire circumstances, are quite problematic. It is perhaps tempting to conflate Socrates’ general bravery with the manner of his self-presentation, a willingness to “speak plainly” (i.e., often without regard to offense one may provoke) implicitly equated with courage. It’s perhaps too easy to imagine that one is “being like Socrates,” engaging in bold challenge against the unthinking rabble, when one is really but engaging in garden-variety rudeness and evincing arrogance. Put simply, the model of Socrates can alibi bad conduct and tempt all sorts of self-deception about one’s motives and manner. Calling out what one perceives to be the rank wrongness of others can just be power assertion heroicized as noble.
In the Chronicle,
“Stated more simply,” Park contends, “historians of philosophy began to exclude peoples they deemed too primitive and incapable of philosophy,” noting Hegel’s belief that the African mind-set invited slavery. While it may surprise contemporary philosophers and graduate students brought up on the standard canon, Park correctly reports that from “the time of Marsilio Ficino (1433-99) to the death of Étienne Bonnot de Condillac (1715-80), the prevailing convention among historians of philosophy was to begin the history of philosophy with Adam, Noah, Moses (or the Jews), or the Egyptians. In some early modern histories of philosophy, Zoroaster, the ‘Chaldeans,’ or another ancient Oriental people appear as the first philosophers. It was in the late 18th century that historians of philosophy began to claim a Greek beginning for philosophy.” –
1. Lucy O’Brien has done nothing at all which merits being told to leave the profession. (edit: whether via implicature or semantic content)
Is feminist philosophy too personal? Are feminist philosophers too emotionally invested in the subject matter?
This is another criticism I’ve heard fairly often, though I’m not sure whether it’s actually a distinct criticism from the worry that feminist philosophy is too political. I’m treating it here as a separate worry, since I think there are interesting things to be said about it as a criticism in its own right.
I take it that the worry is something like this. Feminist philosophers have deep personal investment in the subject matter they are pursuing. They are extremely emotionally invested in the equality of men and women, in combating sexism, and exploring ways in which women have been and are disenfranchised. But this sort of personal investment isn’t likely to produce good philosophy, since it will prevent them from ‘following the argument where it leads’.
The idea that we must somehow break free of personal investment to engage in truly rational thought is a familiar trope within philosophy. For example, Bertrand Russell says in his essay ‘The Value of Philosophy’:
‘Everything, in contemplation, that is personal or private, everything that depends upon habit, self-interest, or desire, distorts the object, and hence impairs the union which the intellect seeks. By thus making a barrier between subject and object, such personal and private things become a prison to the intellect. The free intellect will see as God might see, without a here and now, without hopes and fears, without the trammels of customary beliefs and traditional prejudices, calmly, dispassionately, in the sole and exclusive desire of knowledge — knowledge as impersonal, as purely contemplative, as it is possible for man to attain. Hence also the free intellect will value more the abstract and universal knowledge into which the accidents of private history do not enter, than the knowledge brought by the senses, and dependent, as such knowledge must be, upon an exclusive and personal point of view and a body whose sense-organs distort as much as they reveal.’
Feminist philosophy can likely never be free of personal attachment, can never be ‘without hopes and fears’, mired as it is in people’s (and especially women’s) desire for progress and equality. And so feminist philosophy is somehow impaired, compared to other, ‘purer’ topics in philosophy.
Let’s start with the obvious on this one. It’s more than a little bit suspect to criticize a group predominated by women who are thinking carefully about gender as going wrong because they are too emotional. I mean really. But let’s leave this – quite obvious – point aside.
Are feminist philosophers often personally invested in the positions they defend? Yes, of course. But then, philosophers – feminist or not – are often personally invested in the positions they defend. The ‘free intellect’ which can ‘see as God might see, without a here and now’ is, I’ll hazard a guess, a myth. No one actually thinks like this. No one can think like this. It’s perhaps the privilege of wealthy white men like Lord Russell to think that they can – that they aren’t hindered by the inevitable biases of who they are, where they’re from, etc. But then, even Russell seems to have not followed his own advice about good philosophy. As he says in the preface to his autobiography:
“Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a great ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.”
I don’t dispute that feminist philosophers often have personal (and yes, emotional) attachment to the topics they discuss. But they aren’t alone in that. Topics like wellbeing, justice, morality, virtue, etc are the kinds of things we inevitably take personally, and have deep personal investment in. And they are also the subjects of very good philosophy.
Nor is personal investment unique to ‘value’ subjects within philosophy. There are lots of ways to be personally invested in a topic other than longstanding pre-theoretic emotional attachment. How often have you read a scathing book review, seen an angry outburst in a q&a, witnessed a sneering comment of derision in a talk? These types of displays are, unfortunately, all too common in our profession, and they occur often in ‘the core’. I’m deeply skeptical that anything other than emotional investment in the topic (or in your being right on the topic) produces these kinds of behaviors. Pride, disdain, scorn – those are all emotions too.
To my mind one of the most valuable contributions of feminist philosophy is a positive take on how emotion and emotional investment can help us to make progress on certain philosophical topics. This idea isn’t by any means unique to feminist philosophy (there was this guy called ‘Aristotle’. . .), but feminist philosophy gives us some wonderful examples of it. Consider Eva Feder Kittay’s work on personhood or Sally Haslanger’s work on adoption. In both cases, the authors acknowledge their personal connection to the topic, and in particular their connection as mothers. But, as Kittay rightly points out, a discussion of such topics would be incomplete without such perspective. The myth of these debates is that other people involved don’t have such personal investment, and thus can be more ‘objective’. But why should we think this? Why should we think that, e.g., Peter Singer isn’t personally invested in being non-disabled, or that David Velleman doesn’t have a personal investment in biological parenthood?
The idea that philosophers should start from first principles, construct premises, and ‘follow the argument where it leads’ without hindrance from emotion or personal perspective is a romantic one. It’s also an absurd one. We all come to the table with biases, presuppositions, and background assumptions – whether we admit it or not. And yes, these types of commitments are present even in ‘the core’. Here, for example, is a passage from Ted Sider’s Writing the Book of the World:
‘A certain “knee-jerk realism” is an unargued for presupposition of this book. Knee-jerk realism is a vague picture rather than a precise thesis. According to the picture, the point of human inquiry–or a very large chunk of it anyway, a chunk that includes physics–is to conform itself to the world, rather than to make the world. The world is “out there”, and our job is to wrap our minds around it. This picture is perhaps my deepest philosophical conviction. I’ve never questioned it; giving it up would require a reboot too extreme to contemplate; and I have no idea how I’d try to convince somebody who didn’t share it.’
Sider has taken some heat for these comments. But my suspicion is that what’s unusual or disconcerting about this passage is simply its honesty, rather than its methodology. Sider is admitting that part of the background to his work is a basic viewpoint which he can’t really imagine doubting, and which he doesn’t really know how to argue for in a way that would convince a skeptic.
My own – and I suspect many other feminist philosophers’ – assumption that men and women should be equal is similar, in this respect, to Sider’s commitment to a type of metaphysical realism. Does that make it personal? Sure. Does that make it bad philosophy? Not unless a whole bunch of other stuff is bad philosophy too. As feminists have long argued, the personal is political. It can be philosophical too.
Tl:dr – Emotional investment isn’t in any way unique to feminist philosophy, and feminist philosophy shows us ways in which acknowledged emotional investment can contribute to philosophical progress.
An interesting artistic representation of how online harassment impacts women:
Amy has created an exhibit called A Woman’s Room Online: a free-standing 8×10 foot room that is being installed in the L.A. Center for Inquiry office. It will look superficially much like any office in which a woman might work, with the usual accoutrements.
But each object will be covered with messages these women have received on Twitter, Facebook, and email. Real messages, actual things sent to them that are the vilest, most hateful examples of the worst humanity has to offer.
I’ve received a variety of gross and abusive messages and feedback for expressing my opinions online. Much of this was explicitly gendered. Much of it was anonymous, but not all. I use a pseudonym here so I don’t have to expect more of the same tomorrow.
So the concept behind this artwork is quite compelling to me: it captures something of the ways in which I’ve experienced this kind of abuse as inescapably permeating my environment, both at work and elsewhere. It helps to make vivid what it feels like to be told I should just ignore it or “brush it off”, or that it’s not a big deal.
Women take online harassment more seriously not because we are hysterics, but because we reasonably have to. There is no gender equivalence in terms of the denigrating, hostile and sometimes exceedingly dangerous environmental effect that misogyny has, online or off.