It Is Quite Different When You Know It Is The Last Time

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First times are easy to recognize. “Wow. I’ve never done that before.”  “Who is that? I’ve never seen them before.” “Interesting taste. What did you say it’s called?” First times are brand new and usual carry the possibility of a second, third, or fourth opportunity.

Last times - not so much. You often don’t even realize that it is a last time.  What’s the line from that James Taylor song?  Fire and Rain “I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain, I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end, I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought that I’d see you again.” Sometimes the last time just sneaks up on you.  Like the fact that next Fall will be the first time in 45 years that I will not watch the leaves change through the windows of a college classroom.

Currently, I am teaching a course called Communication Technology for the "last time." I didn’t teach it the “first time.” We saddled a young assistant professor with the rather challenging task of designing the course.  It was to be a required course with the daunting charge of covering both the history and impact of technology on human communication.  He did a great job, but as you might be able to tell from the content demands, the course really should have been at least 2 or 3 courses.  He taught it the first couple of times, but we soon realized he’d never get tenure if we kept beating him up with that course load. So I took over the course and have taught it ever since - 30 or 40 times.  He will teach it again next Fall. Everybody hum “The Circle of Life.”

But for me, now, it is the last time.  

Obviously, the world in which the course lives has radically changed. Today you can Google “advances in communication technology” and encounter a world of incredible gadgets, networks, processes and policies. But when our course began there was no Google, there was barely an Internet. 

The students who inhabit the world have also changed. Before the Internet, the World-Wide-Web and Google, students would read - books. There were no K-12 rubrics, no fantasy 5.3 GPAs on a 4.0 scale. There were no internet savvy helicopter parents - should we call them “drone parents” now? - plotting their child’s academic life and keeping unruly professors on task. There seemed to be a greater degree of curiosity, fewer feelings of entitlement. It was, to sound like an old fart, a simpler world. 

And now it is the last time. 

There is no “Hm, maybe I’ll do it differently the next time.” There will be no next time. A little scary, but a definite sizzle as well. In my attempt to always bring at least one new fact or concept to every class meeting I have amassed a dragon’s hoard of fun facts, strange ideas and important concepts.  And so my last semester in this course has something in common with the first time the course was offered - way too much content, way too little time. The challenge, obviously, is to put the most important content into the smallest amount of time, to get it right this one last time. But how?

My father, also a university professor, once told me “Teach to the top 10%, the others will stretch, And if they can’t, they shouldn’t be there.”  Ah, yes. He lived and taught in an even “simpler simpler” time. Back before “trigger warnings” and “safe spaces” designed to guard students against actually learning “uncomfortable” concepts. Back when universities believed that exposing students to “everything,” the good, the bad, and the ugly, was part and parcel of their mandate.

But now it is the last time.

What to say?

I always quote a “rule of three” to my students: Three years after graduation you will remember three courses you took here. And if you think, very hard, you may remember three things you took away from those three classes.

I acknowledge that our course - a required undergraduate core course - will probably not be among those three. But if it were, here are the three points I would choose for them to remember:

1. Technology is designed by, made for, and should serve, people.
2. Every technological innovation follows the same process which is ultimately driven by our demands as expressed in the marketplace.
3. Despite the “herd” implications of the Internet world, you are absolutely unique. No one can be a better “you” than “you.” Becoming that best “you” is the only job you will keep all your life.

And now it is the last time. 

How do I teach them that?  

They will want to know if it will be on the test.  

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Many Worlds at the Edge of a Black Hole

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I love it when I encounter data that supports my biases. We all do. That's what makes fake news work.  We love the feel of our blinders. Breitbart or Slate, The Washington Post or The Wall Street Journal, Fox News or CNN. Love one, hate the other. I try to get my students to occasionally browse across the ideological aisle. Who knows, maybe they do. But those blinders, so soft and comfy, so affirming. So mostly we stay curled up in our slanted digital silos. 

The point is that I just read in New Scientist that the black hole firewall paradox may have been resolved. Makes your heart go pitter-pat, doesn't it? Makes my blinders quiver! This particular paradox grows out of dueling notions regarding how space-time behaves around the edges of a black hole. General relativity says one thing, quantum mechanics another. For those of you intrigued by the debate, it is in the January 6, 2018 issue. Take a look, it is an interesting read. But I'm not going to go into the details of the debate, I'm going to cut right to the solution: "many-worlds," because that fits right here in my blinders. 

In a nutshell the many-worlds idea - found in quantum mechanics - asserts that our "here and now reality,” the one we wake up in, live in, walk around in, etc., is simply one iteration of countless realities that chain out as a result of our existence in a quantum universe. It is this view of reality that resolves the the firewall paradox at the edge of a black hole. There is no forced choice of either general relativity reality A or quantum mechanics reality B at the edge of a black hole. There is no either-or at the edge of a black hole, rather there is a both-and, and another and another and another. A cosmic kind of schizophrenia that is really amazing once you get past how freaky it seems. 

OK.  Being a fan of supersymmetry I ask myself, "Self," I ask. "What keeps this notion of many-worlds from functioning in our lives?" I mean what are our lives but a series of existential choices? Obviously we think that our "here and now" is the "real here and now." But what if the major choices in our lives were quantum branch-points? Each choice wasn't either-or but was rather “a both-and multi-path branching?” And we followed all the paths. One self followed the 5th grade aptitude test and became a forest ranger, another joined a religious order, a third went to Hollywood, a fourth married that pretty girl in seventh grade and had 8 kids, and so on and so on and so on. 

This isn't just idle rambling here. Well, maybe it is, but the New Scientist article reminds me that I have rambled down this path before. You see, there have been times in my life when I sensed that I was at a quantum branch point. I chose, and followed, a particular "here and now" yet never completely severed ties with the other self who chose another branch. I know, I know, they have medication for that. But consider this quote from the New Scientist article: 

"In this way of thinking, the formation of a black hole and its evaporation due to Hawking radiation - both of which are quantum mechanical processes with different possible outcomes - lead to possible branches of the wave function. An observer monitoring a black hole also splits into multiple observers, one in each branch." 

I just love that! If the observer splits along with the observed "here and now" weren't those myriad observers once one? And who is to say that those observers don't remain a bit "entangled" - another cool quantum mechanics concept. And if they remain entangled should they not be able to experience what their other entangled selves are experiencing? So maybe those dreams, or sensations of being present in "the paths not chosen," are not totally illusory or "an undigested bit of beef" as Scrooge Before the Change might claim. Perhaps they are instead echoes, not of the path not taken, but soundings from the paths taken by our other selves. 

Perhaps enlightenment, or grace, or nirvana, or however we might seek to define the undefinable, contains some element of consciousness across those many selves, down many paths, in many worlds. 

To what end? In truth, I don't think the idea of an "end" is at all relevant. At least it seems to have no place here, in my blinders. 

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Claiming the Legagcy

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My previous post claimed that in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol,  Scrooge pointed the path to compassionate optimism. Yet, we need to remember that Scrooge did not simply awake to Christmas morning magically transformed through his own efforts. Indeed, left to his own devices, he might have remained unchanged, or to be truly pessimistic, may not have awakened at all, left instead in the graveyard to which the spirit of Christmas yet-to-be had led him. It was the spirits of Christmas past, present and yet-to-be, who taught him the path to compassionate optimism. And in truth, attaining the grace of compassionate optimism does require guidance, skills and practice. 

As Dylan Thomas requires, "to begin at the beginning," it is my firm conviction that compassionate optimism rests most firmly on a bed of language. Language not only separates us from the other creatures with whom we share the globe, it is also the uniquely human tool that allows us to both formulate and communicate our most subtle perceptions. Furthermore, it is those perceptions that define our truth, our beliefs and our attitudes. If we are to confront the misanthropic pessimism of “Scrooge Before the Change” and become compassionate optimists we need to learn and practice the language of compassionate optimism. 

Back when I was a young fresh-faced grad student "counter attitudinal advocacy" was a hot bit of jargon in the discipline.  It sprang out of courses and theories dealing with debate, argumentation and advocacy. Leon Festinger was one of its primary advocates. Bottom line, it became an element in the "how do you win an argument" toolbox. The idea was that you would attempt to construct an argument based on the beliefs of your opponent. By attempting to get inside your opponent's head to construct the opposition's best argument, you could discover the weaknesses in their position and take advantage of them. Interestingly, and perhaps not intentionally, forming an argument from your opponent’s point of view allowed you to also learn the strengths of their position. You could learn the language of an alternative perspective. 

To claim Scrooge’s legacy of compassionate optimism we can employ that same "counter attitudinal advocacy" strategy in the service of a linguistic objective.  The idea is to convert the language of misanthropic pessimism into the more gentle, kinder, and humane language of compassionate optimism. 

Not surprisingly, I will assert that Distilled Harmony can smooth the path to compassionate optimism with a designed application of the power of language. But first we need to understand the issues that may stand in our way. The tools of digital technology used in current human communication would have sent their practitioners to the stake in any previous century. To our ancestor's eyes our smartphones and other digital whiz bang gizmos would have appeared at best to be magic, at worst witchcraft.  And while we may still cling to the slippery belief that Facebook, Twitter, et al have not sprung from the dark arts, digital communication has deeply bruised some of the more graceful aspects of language. 

We have, in service to the overpowering digital need for speed, sacrificed nuance for numbers. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways - in 146 characters and spaces or less. Better yet in two - a V lying on its side followed by the number 3 which makes a kind of heart. [A construction I cannot replicate here because because the blogging software tries to read it as HTML code.]

Pessimism finds its expression more easily in harsh language: No! Wrong! Liar! Just about every racial or political slur, and of course the all purpose "F You!" Pessimism uses sledgehammer language, brutish, blunt, bullying, often profane, and emotionally simplistic.  

The first tenet of Distilled Harmony is to foster harmony. This dictates that in the linguistic pursuit of compassionate optimism we must purge our own language of those traces of brutish pessimism. That is harder than it seems. Language evolved. It did not descend from the perfect prose or poetry of the angels. As human thought and perception elevated, language worked to keep pace. The graceful capabilities of language are hard won prizes that must not be tossed aside for some facile flirtation with speed or a childish fear of falling behind in the pursuit of the latest obsession of the herd. Oops. Obviously I meant FOMO. 

To foster linguistic harmony means to avoid the language of discord. Nobody is truly interested in our complaints. They may be irritated by the same issues that grate on our nerves, but in truth - contemporary American politics notwithstanding - venting does little to assuage our listeners ire or our own. Rather ranting and brief bursts of accusatory complaints merely increases discord and fosters pessimism. Think of a recent example of brutish, bullying language you had the misfortune to encounter. To quote Professor Harold Hill: "Make your blood boil?  Well, I should say!"  

The language of misanthropic pessimism makes does make your blood boil. The language of compassionate optimism cools the venting spleen, gentles the roiling soul. So train yourself to bite back the cutting remark, the disparaging retort. No one really wants to hear about it, and you simply raise your own blood pressure to little or no avail. And here kindergarten may offer a bit of wisdom - if you can't say something nice, it is preferable to say nothing at all. 

The second tenet of Distilled Harmony is to enable beauty. The potential for beauty in the language of compassionate optimism, to twist a metaphor, leaves one speechless. From ancient tomes, through the compelling literature of every age, to the latest novel or musical lyric we all cling to phrases that stagger us with their linguistic perfection, with their ability to engage and enchant our soul. Truly it is the hope of crafting such a phrase, poem, novel, essay or post that has inspired millions of persistent souls across time to confront the daunting challenge of the blank page. 

When considering the contribution of the the third tenet of Distilled Harmony - distill complexity - to the language of compassionate optimism I must admit to significant personal failure. Brevity can be beautiful. But clearly I am not so inclined. A quote attributed to many sculptors is the advice to envision the finished work within a block of marble and then simply carve away everything that doesn't look like the finished work. I can offer similar advice when you sense I am having too much fun with words. Read the whole post and then throw away whatever words you think I really don't need. After all, once I hit "post" you are free to make what you will of my ramblings. 

Oppose Harm. What role does this fourth tenet of Distilled Harmony play in our pursuit of a language of compassionate optimism? A simple one I think. Do not debase yourself, your thoughts, emotions and beliefs with blunt and brutish language. We should use language thoughtfully to express our best self, the person we would most like to become. Our language, written, spoken or sung should paint that person, clearly, gracefully, beautifully. 

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