The Philosophers’ Cocoon has been running a “What it’s like to be a philosopher around the world” series, which I thought was a great idea in shedding light on the sociological status of non-western philosophy, a great complement to the recently proclaimed interest of many departments to diversify their philosophical curriculum (as witnessed through job ads). A while ago, they posted an entry by a US philosopher (Peter Finocchiaro) working in Wuhan, China. I left China quite young, and so I’m quite ignorant of how the system works. I was curious about what the post would say, but also worried that the political tension might make it turn out weird. The post turned out very well-written. A friend pointed out that Finocchiaro’s “Philosophical English” class looks very well developed and should be mandatory for US majors, too. I also know people who graduated from Wuhan University and still have connections there, who reported that Finocchiaro is well regarded as a teacher and that students interested in western philosophy are overall very grateful of his presence. Anyway, we had some good conversations about this post.
Of course, it did not escape me that the second comment was already a moral attack on Finocchiaro’s decision to work for a corrupt government. While I was under no delusion that this kind of comments would appear — it’s like someone will always say “women now have it much easier than men because of all the unfair diversity rules” under a post even remotely about gender or the job market — it did surprise me how soon they did. I brushed it off then.
Recently, someone brought up this post again, so I went back and read the comments — now dozens of them. As I was reading them, a strange, chilling feeling creeped out.
When I read Kate Mann’s Down Girl, I never quite understood why she started with an in-depth analysis of strangulation. Of all the terrible things that disproportionally affect women that she mentions in her book, strangulation seems to be a strange one to focus on, especially since it didn’t seem that central to her main arguments. But I have not been strangled and so don’t know what it feels like. I didn’t think much more of it.
As a matter of fact, I have not experienced much “putting-down” at all. This is evident in my naive belief that, if you have good evidence and good argument, you can always make a case. I held this belief for so long, and it was a major reason why I was drawn to science and philosophy. Thinking back, it’s unbelievable how long I’ve held this belief. But again, I was never told, unlike so many other girls, that I would certainly fall short of the boys intellectually once I get older.
Reading the comments under that thread, however, feels like strangulation. In quite a physical way, in fact. (My throat’s still tight.) Have you had a dream where you try to talk but nobody can hear you because you are inexplicably quiet? And so you see things happening around you and you’d like to warn others of harm or suggest some improvement or answer some questions, and it’s not like no one asks of your opinion, it’s just you talk and the words come out so faintly nobody can make them out so they just kinda pretend you didn’t say anything and move on. It feels like that.
It’s not that any particular thing in the comments is especially wrong. It’s not even that the commenters are not receptive of descending voices. It’s more like — they have now entered a zone where only certain kinds of arguments, presented in a certain way, by some certain people, are eligible. And you stand there, as they close the soundproof glass door in front of you. And you know they are going to decide your fate. You know the power they hold. And there is nothing you can do about it.
To put the point a little more concretely, if you go through the comments, you will see that two people have come forth and self-identified as Chinese nationals. One of them, a little earlier in the thread, explains that while they “agree that many of the moral concerns about the conduct of the Chinese government raised in this comment thread are valid and pressing .. the perspective of Chinese philosophy students has been improperly neglected in this thread”. They further explained how access to western philosophy is extremely difficult for students in China and foreign professors’ contributions are extremely appreciated in this regard. This comment, as well as this line of thought, is promptly ignored for the rest of the discussions. (Except by one person who pointed out this fact but who was also ignored in turn.) The second self-identified student’s comment was time-stamped as today. Their argument is that teaching philosophy is all the more important under totalitarian regime because it teaches critical thinking which is how regime change would occur. This line of thought was raised by someone else early on but never developed or debated.
In some sense, these arguments don’t matter, because it’s not about us. It’s never about us. If you read the comments, you’ll realize that the discussion is about whether the American should make a professional sacrifice to uphold the American value and not work for a regime that the Americans despise. There are debates about whether it’s fair to ask someone to choose unemployment over conscience, and there are debates about whether this regime that the Americans despise is really that different from America’s own. Chinese students and nationals don’t exist in this equation. It’s not about how strong of a case you can make for us because no one wants to hear that case anyway.
A long time ago I wrote a post about the ability to abstractly entertain ideas being only open to those with privilege. I was still so ignorant then, and I couldn’t find an angle because of it. But I was more right than I could appreciate.
I am, to be frank, quite “white-washed”. I’m not especially good at empathic imagination, and so I sometimes have a hard time seeing how others’ experiences can differ from my own. As I tried to become more active on Chinese social media, I came in contact with quite a few students, mostly undergraduates but sometimes master’s, whose love of western philosophy was inexplicable to me. They admired my school for offering a variety of classes on different topics, and my ability to read and write philosophy in English. They want to know who they should be reading and what topics they should be thinking about.
It was all very strange until I had some “real-life” experiences of my own. I won’t go into details but — it’s hard to not be able to think about what you want to think about. I don’t mean censorship of expression. It’s like knowing for a fact that what you care about is important and exciting and there are people thinking about it and debating over it and there is a whole world out there that would cherish your contributions — but you will never be a part of that world.
Today, at the writing centre, I helped a Chinese student with their statement of purpose for graduate application. The student had been working as a PhD student for some time but is unable to finish with their current program. They are then forced to apply elsewhere. When we finished talking, the student explained that they will probably also apply to programs in other fields too to increase their chances, and so we talked about how they can best approach it. Not once did I ask why they seemed so keen on getting a PhD if they don’t even care which field it’s in.
I didn’t ask, because I get it. I like schools — but I don’t actually like them that much. I don’t actually like them enough to never consider venturing into the outside world. I never did venture out because school is “safe”. If I tried to find a job and failed somehow, I would have to “go back”. I would have to go to a place where I have no friends and where I cannot think about what I enjoy thinking about. I can’t risk it.
But here we are. We have these students — whom I have never met and probably never will, as I don’t intend to teach in China — they consider themselves the lucky ones for being able to learn western philosophy from someone who is apparently good at teaching it. Here, we also have this moral dilemma, which can be put quite abstractly — to what extent should a personal choice be balanced against ideological disapproval? It’s a great philosophical question. I’m sure it’s important and that many people have written on it.
Now, explain to me, how am I supposed to be able to engage with it philosophically and abstractly, when I know that: 1) I have to argue for a specific side (even if I think the other side is more reasonable), and 2) if I fail, I lose access to my passion forever?
Some time ago, there was news of some professor who openly made misogynistic and racist claims. The school, of course, “punished” him by relieving him of teaching duties. Some members of the academic community, of course, expressed concern that even this “punishment” is too harsh because, you know, freedom of speech.
I envy people who are capable of saying that. I really do. Those people have never been in a situation where they look someone in the eye and realize that they are not seen as persons.
You are talking to someone, trying to make a case. You think through the different angles of attack, and you start your defence. But mid-conversation — mid-sentence, even — it dawned on you. You are not seen as a real person, capable of making cases. It doesn’t matter what you say. Nothing you say would change anything. You are not a person to them.
Recently, I was talking with a friend who holds a university academic position. The friend explained to me that they found out that one of their school officials has repeatedly expressed sentiments against diversity and multiculturalism, thinking it opens a door for inferior cultures to invade. Now, we can argue about cultures. Quite a few disciplines do just that. But think about it another way. Think about a concrete someone, walking on campus all the time, meeting people at events, and smiling at them. Some of these people will look back, maybe even smile back. But some of these people will also think to themselves, “*YOU* shouldn’t be here”; “*YOU* are not a person”.
This past summer, women in my department together hosted a conference on women in philosophy. One of the speakers we invited was Talia Bettcher, who gave a talk on trans philosophy. When she was talking about what counts as trans philosophy and why does it matter who’s doing it, she said something along the lines of “you shouldn’t be asked to prove your humanity to others. That’s when communication might break down.” I didn’t quite understand what she meant then, but I do now.
In addition to “emotional labour”, some philosophers have begun to talk about “epistemic labour”, which refers to the phenomenon where, for example, women need to explain to men what sexism is. To be honest, when I first heard of the term, I was skeptical. I see how this can be problematic but I don’t think I’ve ever had a problem with it. I now know why.
For many of us, the problem is rarely about how we always have to make a case. The problem is that it doesn’t matter how good of a case we can make. It doesn’t matter. It’s never about us.
We pass through this world but once. Few tragedies can be more extensive than the stunting of life, few injustices deeper than the denial of an opportunity to strive or even to hope, by a limit imposed from without, but falsely identified as lying within.
— Stephen Jay Gould, The Mismeasure of Man
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