How We Expand Horizons

Both Martha Nussbaum and Willie Van Peer offer valuable insights when they elaborate on the ways in which literature allows us as readers to view the world around us more complexly.  In Democratic Citizenship and the Narrative Imagination Nussbaum posits that a literary education from early childhood onward provides a reader with the tools required to view the people around them as “spacious and deep, with qualitative differences from oneself as well as hidden places worthy of respect”.  In a similar vein, Van Peer, in Literature, Imagination and Human Rights asserts that literature creates societal change on a much larger scale, prompting greater discussion about what it means to be human and thereby encouraging encapsulated cultures, that is, people groups with firmly defined and exclusive boundaries, to extend the definition of “human” to peoples they previously excluded.

Both argue that literature prompts people to expand their horizons.  Nussbaum even goes so far as to suggest that literature, among not only the arts but also a great many other disciplines, uniquely shapes minds and broadens thought.  As an avid reader myself, my first inclination is to agree with them.

However, I struggle to simply accept the claim that literature is the most basic, essential eye-opener.  I have two objections to this claim.  First, that the language of literature is, in and of itself, a factor in creating and preserving encapsulation.  Second, that the open-mindedness purveyed through literature cannot find its solitary source in literature, leaving open the question as to where the writer of a book received the idea that their definition of “human” was limited.

Language, particularly written language, has a limited, though ever increasing, sphere of influence.  (I know that language is used by all humans, but the words we use are in and of themselves exclusive).  Language itself is a huge factor in encapsulation.  The language of literature is exclusive to those who are literate, and often, in the case of the authoritative cannon that Van Peer centers his argument around, exclusive to those with an advanced degree of literacy and access to books.

One of my favourite books is A Room With A View by E.M. Forster.  When it comes to whether or not the man was sexist or truly open minded, all bets are off, but he had a lot to say about viewing women as complex individuals at a time when they were not typically seen in so advanced a light.  In one of my favourite scenes in the novel, one character is forced, not by literature, but by the words of his fiance as she breaks off their engagement to acknowledge that she is not, perhaps, as different from him as he’d imagined.

“But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, she seemed each moment more desirable. He looked at her, instead of through her, for the first time since they were engaged. From a Leonardo she had become a living woman, with mysteries and forces of her own, with qualities that even eluded art.”

So how and where did Cecil recieve the wisdom that encouraged him to see Lucy as a human as much as himself?  And more interestingly, where did Forster find this notion?  Although, by 1908 the idea that women were as human and complex as men was a fairly common concept, it’s source could not exclusively be literature.  Something had to have prompted the first writer of a book on the subject to put pen to paper, something that wasn’t simply another book.

I would argue, that literature does not instill in readers the notion that our concept of humanity is limited, but rather that it is one of many things that may awaken us to the knowledge of this limitation, a knowledge which is innate in all of us.  Literature, though an effective tool for expanding our horizons, and an enjoyable one at that, is by no means the only method or the best.

What Happens When Laws are Just but Unconstitutional?

When Martin Luther King penned his Letter From The Birmingham Jail there was little question on anybodies mind as to the inequality of people of colour and Caucasian individuals in the United States.  There were those in favour of the inequality and those opposed to it, but no one would call into question that the country discriminated against non-whites.  Race disparity was plainly visible in the world the Americans of the cold-war era found themselves in, from schools and drinking fountains to the courts and the voting booths.

So when the Voting Rights Act was instated, as the first legislation of the American government that focused on amending the effect of the prior laws regarding voting rather than changing their intent it made sense in its social context.  Though the bill was uncommon in form and intent as well as uncommon in that it was a legislation on voting made at the federal level rather than at the state level, it served an incontestable purpose: ensuring that the inalienable American right of equality was preserved at the voting booths.

This past June, a section of the Voting Rights Act was overturned.  The section in question required that election changes in nine states (including Louisiana and Texas) gain approval by the American Justice Department prior to enactment.  Chief Justice John Roberts, among others, suggests that due to recent voter turnout statistics in these states showing that a larger percentage of ethnic minorities attending the voting booths, these states can no longer be subjected to extra scrutiny under the VRA.  Any claims and complaints issued by individual members of these states against the state government will be dealt with on a case by case basis by the courts.

My opinions are fairly divided on the matter.  Intellectually, I understand that there are several legitimate claims that can be made against the VRA, not the least of which is its outdated status.  If recent statistics show that voter turn out has improved in states in the south, then they cannot possibly be held to the current level of scrutiny they are under.  The amount of power this lends to the federal government in a federation such as the USA is unconstitutional.

I recognise, of course, that it is no small thing to call the constitution of a great nation into question.  But one (perhaps heretical) question has plagued me since I began regarding law and society at the start of this school year: if laws are unconstitutional but just, then what is wrong?  Is the law wrong and the constitution to be followed?  Or is the constitution inherently flawed and therefore deserving abandonment?  Though the power of a constitution is perhaps not worth calling into question over one law, how many laws must challenge its authority before it falls?  I am willing to respect a constitution so long as it upholds the justice of the people it serves.  But when it no longer serves even that simple purpose, it no longer serves any purpose worth serving.  Order, safety, and even democracy are petty things to consider when the equality of human beings is at stake.  For true democracy cannot exist in an unequal society, and when democracy crumbles, safety and order are never far in its wake.

Fighting a constitution with a long history of upholding injustice may be an uphill battle, but in the words of Atticus Finch, in Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird: “Simply because we were licked a hundred years before we started, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to win.”

Are Human Rights the New God?

Let’s be frank here. Academia, at least the most verbal parts of it, is really clear about how it feels when it comes to “God” (God with a capital “G,” you know, the theistic, PKG (all Powerful, Knowledgeable and Good), Biblical kind of God), especially when that God is being used to justify committing atrocities in order to advance a person, government or countries aims and status in the world- we don’t like him and we can’t stand it when his name is bandied about as an explanation for why this country went to war or that government decided to pass laws which separated children from their parents. Our unmistakable intellectual and emotional bias against God leaves the fraction of our population with professing beliefs in a higher deity of any sort sheepishly hanging their heads and remaining categorically quiet as we list off the crimes committed in the name of this God.

But there was a time when things were quite different- when God was the primary motivation for all action and thought, the explanation for war and justification for interventions. Everyone, from intellectual to court jester stood in awe of this God or kept their opinions to well to themselves- the idea of challenging God was preposterous. God was used to suit their purposes, not the other way around, and everyone was pretty content.
Reading the UDHR I am reminded, perhaps oddly, of another document that defined the discourse of its day and age- Inter Caetera.

Inter Caetera (a papal bull released in 1493) granted the Spanish possession of the New World, provided that they agreed to convert the locals to Catholicism. It defined future dialogue regarding Spanish takeover in the Americas in that regardless of whether a man took issue with the behaviour of the Spanish in the New World or supported it, he defended his opinion based on whether or not the Spanish were going to successfully convert the locals. When Las Casas recommended a change in Spanish policy it was because what they were doing was wrong in the eyes of God, and therefore were not inn agreement with the decrees of Inter Caetera. And when in response people argued that the actions taken in the New World were in the best interest of advancing the kingdom of God, they were asserting that they had been complying with the decrees of Inter Caetera. No one asked themselves if complying with God’s objectives and principles was important- God was important and that was the end of it. Regardless of what you thought or argued God stood for, he stood for something and it was important you stand there with him.

God is history, as far as many thinkers in the Twenty-first century are concerned. We’re all about Human Rights now. Human Rights justify going to war. Human rights justify the enlargement of the American nuclear weapons arsenal. Human Rights get violated and we drop bombs in response. Nobody sits around asking if Human Rights are good- of course they are! How could we ever argue against Human Rights? But we can use the UDHR to argue against military action in defence of Human Rights when that action jeopardizes the safety of civilians overseas. Both good and bad are done in the name of our inalienable rights as humans. Wars are waged and wars are prevented, and all the while people exploit the UDHR for their own personal gain. We all agree that Human Rights are good, but what happens when they go the way of God, becoming defunct, something that the academics of tomorrow will laugh at?

Generations from now, people may scoff. They may sit around and try to be fair to our primitive ways of thought. Maybe they’ll read about the war in Syria and say to themselves “it really couldn’t have been helped though, could it? They just didn’t know any better. They honestly believed that they were doing the right thing, rabbiting on about the importance of human rights and such.”

Please don’t misunderstand- I’m one hundred percent in favour of the UDHR and our inalienable rights. But any argument that can’t be debated is no argument at all. The UDHR kind of plays the God card in it’s own sense- it’s virtually impossible to disagree with, but vague enough that people can exploit it for their own aims. It’s all too easy to imagine the people looking back on us the same way we look back on the Spaniards taking over the Americas and saying to themselves “My God, I can’t believe they were such self-centred idiots.”

Getting Down To Business

The first real adult book I read (that wasn’t a classic) was Late Nights on Air by Elizabeth Hay.  Up until that point my mother had strictly limited my reading material to the children’s section of the library and anything nominated a classic by whatever absurd and obscure metre determines what is worthwhile, enduring and exemplary of good taste in its literary genre.  I think she hoped to save me from my reckless reading habits, which, had they been left unbridled, might have landed me in some rather embarrassing adult reading situations.  So my until that point innocent and unaware eight year-old self plunged headlong into Shakespeare, and learned about the mysteries of life and love and mice and men and women from him.  I still feel that something more along the lines of Fifty Shades of Grey might have made for a less shocking introduction to romance and sex, but the past is the past and the future can do nothing to touch it.

Late Nights on Air, despite being my first big-girl book, was fairly tame in comparison to the bard.  Though desire was one of the many major themes it dealt with, sex was always shuffled modestly to the background.  It glossed over the things about adulthood that were already beginning to worry my young teenaged mind while still dealing in a well-phrased but simple honesty.  It didn’t have too happy an ending.  People died unfortunate, untimely deaths without any great fanfare or too many tears shed.  No one triumphed over any significant hurdles and most of the characters ended the book in worse shape than they had been in on the first page.  Some of the characters grew, matured or changed as the story wore on, and some did not.  There was no main character.  No protagonist, no antagonist.  The climax was understated, the resolution quiet.  It was life- real life, captured and put into print.  I was enthralled.  This, I thought, this is what good modern story-telling looks like.

But more than I loved Late Nights on Air for its honesty and simplicity, for its genuine, real-as-can-be, boring and normal characters and its realism, I loved the novel’s romantic air.  Hay spun a story about average, plain-Jane and Joe people doing average things in a humdrum place and somehow made it compelling.  It was set in Yellowknife for Chrissake!  A Yellowknife radio station in the seventies- what could be less exciting, less romantic?  Yet the novel captured me soundly, whisked me off my feet in such a smooth and simple sweep I barely saw or felt it coming.  I fell into that book; for a week it consumed me.  I sat in classes thinking and dreaming about Hay’s prose, about her characters and their hopes and dreams and fears.  They were more real to me than the people I was surrounded by, their concerns were more pressing, their lives more compelling.  And in the same lazy way I fell in love with the notion of old radio.  At twelve years old I fell in love with the idea of classic Canadian radio and never have I once looked back.

I suppose I have Hay to thank for this enduring love-affair.  I still read her book- once a year I fit it into my busy reading and rereading schedule, but the ideas and loves it sparked in me have proven much larger and infinitely more valuable- radio is one, certainly the largest, but there are many more.

I still listen to AM radio whenever I can.  I bought a vintage radio-clock just to hear the crackle of the CBC first thing in the morning.  I don’t listen for the news- I read that on my iPhone.  Nor do I listen for the music- I can play that for myself.  Instead I listen for the sheer joy of it, for the romance of turning the dial and listening to a familiar but still unfamiliar voice drift over the airwaves and into my bedroom.  For the thrill of feeling that I’m a part of something bigger than myself, of a network that transcends space and physical boundaries, shared in the privacy of others homes and cars and linking us with each other, with the rich heritage of public radio which stretches back to a time before I was born, and with all people like us who have been inspired and enthralled by radio enough to take the time to pause and listen over the years.

If I could host my own radio show, it would be called Business As Usual.  I don’t know when I got this idea, but it’s been kicking around my head for a while.  I’d talk politics and sports, music and books.  It would be brusque and simple but wildly entertaining.  The whole point would be to get people to look at things in a light they hadn’t before.  To put a different spin on things, in a lighthearted but (hopefully? maybe?) still poignant way.  It will probably never happen, but if I ever had the chance, I’d jump at it, just for the chance to hear my own voice drift over the airwaves, and the hope that someone might stop and listen, entranced as I was and am by the poetry of radio.

 

 

On another note- that was a ramble.  Next time I won’t talk for so long or write something so tangential.  Anyways… this is what writing at night does to your brain kids.  Not healthy, not healthy at all.