In defense of Berry?

Something has sparked in my brain lately.

Two nights ago, I sat down and wrote about Berry's critique of sociobiology, reductionism in science, and all things E.O. Wilson. In the end, I couldn't agree with Mr. Berry. I don't like sociobiology, and I don't like extreme reductionism. And even though I haven't fully read it, I don't think I like the ending chapters of Wilson's Consilience. Berry had so much leeway with which to convince me, but his strange and winding route along a broadly anti-science path lost me quickly. I argued against his points, ended the post, and walked away. I felt okay about it mostly because there are a multitude of ways in which Wendell Berry fits the definition of "very crazy". Yet there was still something there nagging at me. It was tiny and sharp and it could be neither pinpointed nor ignored.

And yet.
And yet.

Those little words are two of the most insistent in the English language. They were there as I cooked breakfast, ran errands, fell asleep. They were still there as I packed for my return to campus. While sorting through books that could stay behind, I found a very old, dusty anthology on the subject plaguing my thoughts. I picked it up at a charity book sale because I liked the cover, I think. Names that I'd only recently learned emerged in the pages --Arthur Caplan, E.O. Wilson, Stephen Jay Gould. When coincidences like this happen, dammit you go with them. So, I started reading.

There were dozens of political, social and philosophical (re: Caplan) stances for me here, but I skipped over most. I wanted a scientific challenge to what Wilson was saying, something that would appeal to that tiny sharpness within me without losing an empathy for the field that I love.

Here I am now. It's 12:30am and I should be packing, and I should be sleeping, and I should be planning for tomorrow. I should be figuring a way to shatter the time-space continuum and do all of those things at once, but I am doing none of them. Instead, I am sitting here reading about the potential flaws of a gene-centric mindset, of pluralistic* causes of evolution, and of why I am not the first to note that tiny sharpness of hesitation.  In a roundabout sort of way, I suppose I owe an apology to Wendell Berry. At the very least, I owe him thanks for writing something that would make me angry enough to respond to. How are we to engage with the uniqueness of our continued existence, and what will we allow science's role to be in all of it? I still don't think the answer lies in faith, in theism, or in the untouched mystery that Berry prefers. But perhaps Dawkins and Wilson are also a little too invested in the gene, a little too deterministic about things.

And that's the thing I've slowly come to understand about this. I'll find myself persuaded by well-versed, insightful arguments from both sides. Each one will alter my approach in some small way. A question this difficult will remain unanswered in my mind for years. But there's one other very important thing I've come to understand:  you haven't reached a stalemate just because you don't have an answer.

With that, I'll admit that I'm tired and have nothing more to say. I hope that the hour hasn't turned this into a pointless rambling for me to wonder about in the morning. In any case, goodnight.

*Definitely worth your time if you're a biologist, evolutionary or otherwise -Gould and Lewontin's classic paper involving spandrels, Voltaire, and adaptation.  This is one of the first scientific papers I have actually enjoyed reading. 

In defense of science.

For better or worse, I’m heavily invested in the unstable, often controversial relationship between science and the humanities. I often don’t know where it will lead me next. In this case, it led me through Wendell Berry’s essay “against modern superstition”- Life is a Miracle. Recommended by one of my biology professors, it is framed as a response to E.O. Wilson’s semi-famous Consilience. I have read very little of E.O. Wilson, his Consilience, and his theories on sociobiology and secular humanism, but Berry’s analysis is framed as a standalone sort of thing so I decided to take it on.

Yours (again) truly.

Yesterday, I wrote about a letter from my younger self.  Today, I write another to my future self.


Dear me,

How do I begin here?  Usually, these notes to myself open with something like, "Don't forget lab on Friday," or, "Clean your fucking room already."  If you still haven't done the second item, like I know you probably haven't, consider a tattoo on your forearm to commemorate the occasion.  Don't worry about regretting it, because it will always be an open order.

Anyway, what sorts of things would future me like to know about present me?  In preparation for this letter, I did a quick search of Facebook and Twitter to get a gauge of what I should write about.  It led me to believe that you would be most interested in knowing my favorite lunch meat (ham, definitely), the color of my bathroom (possibly green), what fabric detergent I use (soapy stuff), whether I prefer the Stones to the Beatles (I don't), and if I were a Crayola Crayon, what color I would be (Jazzberry Jam, of course).

In case that didn't satisfy your curiosity, I am also currently studying biology (botany, DNAstuff) at a small liberal arts college.  Hopefully, that paid off. I should hope that you're employed by now, and I'm terribly sorry if that tattoo I mentioned above threatens what you've got going on there. Science writing, bioethics, photography are my hobbies on the side.  But I'm sure they are for you, too.

If you'd like to laugh at your former tastes in music and media, my Pandora stations include the unintelligible vocals of both Bob Dylan and Thom Yorke.  If you haven't gathered by the last sentence, you were a teeny bit pretentious.  You 'liked' Dostoevsky on Facebook, forgodsakes.  On that note, you had somewhat of a book problem.  You had so many books.

But more importantly, you also had all these goals back then. You had so many goals.  And you know, you achieved some of them.  I hope you stick to that, because I know that you can. When you do, you can tell your future self how great it feels. And you can tell her to enjoy where she is, because it's always somewhere worth being.  So go out and do what you do. I hope we meet up sometime.

Cheers,
You.

Yours truly.

Hello, stranger.  Things have been busy lately, and I haven't been writing (reading a lot, though, thanks to my new appendage). But it's spring break now, so I have no more excuses.

I found a letter today that I wrote to myself in seventh grade as part of an assignment, though I received it in the mail about two years ago.  On the envelope: bubbly letters slanting across the white space. My former self would be dismayed to learn that her future counterpart still cannot reliably write in a straight line.   There are six 37 cent stamps splayed haphazardly across the top right (re: entire top edge) to account for any possible inflation; apparently, I had very little faith in the stability of the US Postal Service.

Inside, I waste no time in challenging myself; "I'm sure that you are completely baffled right now. You probably don't remember writing this. Well, you did."   The snappy attitude continues as I describe a recent trip to a cafe in town.  The cheeseburger was so unimpressive, so "just okay", that I toss it and its equals (algebra class, cafeteria offerings) between a set of parentheses and move on to my first experience with public transportation and all its "temperamental people".

A line or two later, it becomes evident that my tribulations with math, and perhaps metaphysics, began at a young age. ("Who decided that five plus five equals ten, anyway?")  But I finally find something better than "just okay" in science class.  I conducted a botanical experiment, noting duly that the control fared the best.  History was, "so easy, you could be asleep all year and still pass."  This is a more literal truth than you think, and I recall my teacher conducting 'guided' dream sessions.   Speeding onward, I weave in and out of Spanish, "or should I say...espanol."  In describing my technology classes, I meticulously remember to include every one of Microsoft Office's registered trademark notations in what I can only assume is a cheeky attempt to thwart all the tort-hungry copyright litigators scanning my mail.  Then, gym class.  "I loathe [it]".  There are seven underlines, just so I don't ever forget it (I haven't).  I liked language arts very much, however.  I loved to write.  You know, "because I know a lot about correct grammar usage and stuff."

I also have a few words for the College Board.  I took the SAT's for some reason, hilariously scoring only 350 points lower than when I took them for real.  I wish myself good luck for this future date, and sincerely hope for my own sake that, "they'll put paragraphs in there next time that don't put you to sleep." I am sad to report that I haven't completely lived up to my career goals of becoming a botanist-zoologist-editor-reporter-animalcaretaker. (I have only been four of those things.)

The following paragraphs are riddled with non sequitur's.

"Dana, do you remember your friends? My favorite color is yellow."

...and irony,

"My favorite show is CSI.  Is it still on? Probably not by then."

"I've got at least seven more years' worth of puns here, guys. At least."

"Did I get rid of that stupid, old computer yet?"
Nope.
"I am currently growing experimental cosmos in my room. Do you still like plants?" 
 If only you knew.

And the ending:

"I thoroughly enjoyed writing this letter.  In case you were wondering, it feels weird to address yourself."

Do you know what else feels weird?  Holding, in tangible form, proof that even through drastic change there are some parts of you that will always remain the same.


Sounds of 2004.

Arcade Fire- Wake Up


Joanna Newsom-Book of Right On


Iron & Wine- Each Coming Night

I live inside a seashell.

I've found that there's a funny thing about not having a full sense of hearing.  It's like living in a seashell.

The chaos of the world is muffled to a calming murmur.  Sounds enter my ears, but they do so faintly and with great caution.  They sometimes swirl around, creating a hollow echo of the original.  The way that a child marvels at how a shell clings to the sounds of the shore in its memory, of the lapping waters and salty breezes of its long-gone home, is not so different from my own perception.  Unlike the child, I know that the shell doesn't really know to miss its home at all- that it is nothing but a lovely piece of calcium abandoned by a little creature.  And I know that there is nothing inherently esoteric about my situation.  My ability to live as a fully hearing person simply crawled out long ago, chased out of my ears by a double bout of scarlet fever.  But I've made a cozy space of the emptiness, and I wouldn't trade it.

I didn't choose to be here, but I've come to admire the view.

Guys, I'm so lazy.

Today I give you two old pieces, written a few years ago.

How many licks does it take?

I was eating a Tootsie Pop a few minutes ago. Savoring the questionably grape flavor for a moment or two, I finished the treat in a few, crunch-filled bites. As the crumpled wrapper left my hand on its way to the trash, I remembered rather suddenly a grade-school version of myself eating the same candy. But this girl in my memory took ages to reach the chocolate center, and it was much more delicious than mine. I also remembered watching my dad eating one beside me, but he finished it in a bite or two. I asked him why he would do that, and he told me that it was how adults ate them. It was like cereal, which he told me that adults ate very quickly. Adults never let their cereal get mushy, according to my father; they had places beyond the kitchen table to be and very un-breakfast-like things to do. As a childhood fanatic of soggy spoonfuls of cereal followed by sugary milk, I could never understand this. Who was I to argue? He was an adult, after all.

But you know, I don’t like soggy cereal anymore. At what point did I decide this, and at what point did I start biting into a Tootsie Pop before even reaching the prized center? Am I really so eager to finish things that I can’t enjoy the process? Is this what adults do? I don’t want any of that. I’ve been preparing all my life for high school, for college. Now that I’m here, what will happen when I’m done? What will happen when I run out of things for which to prepare, when I realize that all that I have left is a white stick or an empty bowl and no meaningful recollection of what great things they used to hold? I want to enjoy where I am and what I am doing right now, and I want to be left with a sweet taste at the end of it.

So, how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center? As many as I want…as many as possible.

*grumblegrumble*

The other day, I ranted about one of my biggest pet peeves- the idea of the question,

"What should I know for the exam?"

In my previous argument, I chose an interpretation implying that the student is misguidedly striving towards the superficial end of a grade.  There's nothing I hate more than attaining knowledge for something other than its own sake.

But an alternate possibility occurred to me this morning, when a girl asked the question in my biology lecture.  Maybe what a person means by asking this of a professor is something along the lines of,

"What do you, as someone who has (hopefully) already done this, believe is the most pertinent information for me to grasp at this point in my learning?"

...with the implications that the exam is equivalent to, "relevant information," and that impertinent information would only serve to muddy the waters and impede progress. 

Setting aside the obvious point that the idea of a lesson plan itself is inherently what one (namely, the professor) would call, "relevant information," should we be able to decipher the pertinent information independently?

I think the answer is a resounding, "yes."  At some point, we must become self-sufficient.  We may seek advice, but we cannot depend upon it.  If you're building a table, the instruction manual is helpful (maybe necessary).  But if you wish to become a carpenter, you can't still be gripping tightly to that crumpled piece of paper without any of your own additions.  If you do, when someone takes it away you'll end up like my father and I with a backwards computer desk and a disheartening amount of "extra" screws and washers.

 God help you if it's from IKEA.

I sat in the lecture hall thinking, "Good lord, look at your career path.  You want to be a scientist?"  Scientists have to, perhaps more noticeably than others, interpret novel information.  But even if you're not a scientist, you still have to make decisions. If you're presented with a set of information, you need to have the tools to examine it and to separate it into its important and unimportant pieces.  If you don't have those tools within yourself, I don't see how you can succeed in the highest level of academia.

I'm not saying that I'm not equally guilty of the same thing at times.  I practically cling to my chem lab TA on certain days, acronyms (HPLC! TLC, DMSO, LDA?) and second-guesses flying through my head faster than the chemicals in my reaction vial.  But I'm slowly working on improving that in myself. 

So, when you look at the professor and find yourself asking him what, precisely, you should be focusing on, perhaps you have good reason (maybe he or she is just a really awful professor).  But don't expect him to know what to tell you. Don't expect that from anyone but yourself.

Silly Ayn Rand.

I love you, Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal.

Words for words' sake.

I thought of this today. It applies to nothing...

Your body,
soft hum of the mind
within it
wander in and out of
mine.

...but it could, I suppose. I've always wondered about that sort of thing when analyzing literature.  Scholars have amassed endless amounts of subtle interpretations of great works.  If they hadn't, English majors would probably be out of luck. But I find myself staring at pages, wondering if this or that long-gone novelist wrote for the potential meaning, for the sake of their words, or for a specific message.  I'm okay with not knowing.


I have an Organic exam tomorrow, so goodnight.
I leave you with Ray.  I couldn't find a video to post, but you should check out his cover of 'Eleanor Rigby.' I don't think you'll regret it.

"This is the saddest story I have ever heard."

I just got back from a bio review session. Something I'll never understand:

Why do students ask questions specific to an exam?

"Do we need to know XYZ?"

I will never understand why people learn for the exam. Why are they here? Learn because you want to know, because you are curious, and because you think it will better you to know. Keep learning. It's the greatest ability we have.

If you want to know it, you will. It will reflect on any exam, which is simply a formality. Why? Because the tests will be reasonable. Because professors are people too, people who hopefully believe beyond the test and who have reason and judgment not to ask impertinent questions. And if they do? You still have what you've learned.

Just another reason that I dislike grades when they're taken as ends in themselves.

And the next time you spend a month teaching concepts, three days a week, let me know how it feels to be asked, essentially, to reteach everything as if they were novel concepts in one condensed, two-hour review session. Don't be that guy.

These adorable, plushy common cold microbes cry when you ask stupid questions.

Silly me, here I was thinking that I should be learning these things for indefinite future use in the field of my major.

"Even artichokes have hearts!"

"The sun shown, having no alternative, on the nothing new."

For the most part, I've resettled into dorm life quite effortlessly. I'm back to fighting with the washing machines, cursing sensitive fire alarms, and leaving half an hour early to get to the biology department on a daily basis. It's beginning to feel like I never left at all. A few things have changed; my room is now Bob Dylan free (hello, James Dean) and I now tote around my tattered copy of 'The Brothers Karamazov' everywhere.