The few reporters who did seem to care about the content of what I was saying were often well-known national network correspondents. These interviews were taped, not live or live on tape. The interview was going to be edited, and only a small segment of it would be aired. That portion would be selected by the correspondent. In these situation, I found the reporter pushing me to say a particular thing. I began to realize that when this happened the reporter already knew the story he or she wanted to present and wanted me to say something that would fit this preconception. I might have said many things in the five or ten minutes, but the snippet that would be aired invariably conformed to what I had discerned to be the reporter’s viewpoint.

This began my withdrawal from at least some of the media business. I decided I would not do radio or TV when I could be edited. Soon thereafter, I tried to avoid all broadcast media. I considered myself a scholar and educator, but I seldom felt that I was educating anyone when doing broadcast appearances. A sound bite, even though I took some pride in producing them, was a trifle, a bon-bon, a chocolate truffle, and not much else. Moreover, an edited interview seldom, if ever, captured what I wanted to impart.

I continued, however, to try to accommodate print reporters. Sometimes a newspaper reporter wanted only the equivalent of a sound bite—something pithy that could be quoted to round out a story. But often the reporter was trying to learn something about the subject at hand. As I have learned from my own writing, a writer generally must have some mastery of the subject matter to write cogently. I often had a dialog with print reporters as they sought to understand the difference between murder and manslaughter or how immunity is granted. When this happened, I felt I was doing a public service by being an educator.

Most of the reporters I talked with were on short deadlines and there was little time for more than one conversation, but when they had a longer lead time, they or someone else at the publication would call back to make sure that they had correctly recorded what I had said. They were checking their facts, something that did not happen with broadcast media and does not seem to happen much with certain politicians today. At least one time, this produced an ethical dilemma for me. A magazine’s fact checker read back a quote and asked if I had said it. I knew that I had, but hearing it read back, I knew that it was going to be misconstrued by some readers. Should I deny making it, even though I had? Should I change the words, even though the quote was accurate? I owned up to it, and it was misconstrued, making me look rather heartless. I am still not sure that I did the right thing.

Even though I got used to some fact-checking, I was surprised by one effort. That was when I got a call from someone who worked with Gail Collins, the columnist at The New York Times. I had not been interviewed for what she was writing, but she was asserting something reasonably arcane for a Sunday column, and Collins was not entirely sure that the statement was correct. Her fact checker’s research came across something I had written that indicated that I might know about her assertion’s accuracy, and thus the call to me. Imagine that! Before going public, she was reaching out and taking steps to make sure she had her facts right. And you can make your own sarcastic comments about the fact-checking prowess of at least one person who regularly criticizes the press.

I am content with the career I have had, but sometimes I think back to before I had embarked on it. A couple times I was offered jobs on newspapers, and I wonder what would have happened if I had accepted one of them. As with many of you, I have liked and disliked many of the news sources I have encountered in my life. I wish that I could trust their every word, but that has never been and will never be. I have been part of or witnessed events that have been later reported by news outlets. Almost always, I have found some flaw in the resulting story while, at the same time, usually finding much that was accurate. I have learned what Kevin Young in his important book Bunk: The Rise of Hoaxes, Humbug, Plagiarists, Phonies, Post-Facts, and Fake News states, “Daily news changes, evolves; it is truth, on a deadline.”

Of course, journalism has flaws. I have learned that from my readings through the years as well as from my direct, but limited, experiences with the media. But even so, I know that journalism is still one of the most important careers anyone can have.

Once or twice, a reporter came to my home for an interview. One of them was a huge disappointment. A powerful French citizen had been arrested in New York, and I was contacted by the French media as they tried to understand American, and more particularly, New York criminal procedure. After a week or so of this, I was contacted by a reporter from a French radio network, and I definitely perked up. The timbre of her voice was perfect, and ooh la la, that French accent! This was as sexy a voice as I had ever heard. I tried to explain to her what a grand jury was and how a trial jury was selected and the point to our adversary system—concepts not engrained in the French soul. After we had talked for a while, she asked if she could come to my home to interview me in person. Trying to hide my eagerness, I consented; I longed to see this vision. I was at least half-way in love already.

She came the next day. At the front door, she started chattering. To my surprise, she was nervous, but then the cause became obvious. The Brooklyn neighborhood was scaring her, and pointing to a taxi across from the house, said that she was relieved because the cabdriver who had brought her had agreed to remain until she went back to her midtown Manhattan office. The voice was still French-accented and throaty, but lacked that attractive, self-assured, worldly tone from the day before. As I guided her to the living room for the interview, I stole a look at her. Homely might have been a generous description. My thoughts that I might have been starting a Truffaut movie with Catherine Deneuve were shattered. I know that looks can be deceiving, but voices can be, too. On the other hand, she did a thorough, professional interviewing job asking me good questions about how a criminal case proceeded in New York City. She was trying to learn so that she could educate her audience, and I felt I was doing my role as an educator by helping her.

All the interviews for radio and TV were not done in my home or office; instead I was often asked to come to a studio, and I felt as if I were truly important when a network would send a car for me. (This taught me what I already knew: the subway is often a better way to get around Manhattan than an auto, even if someone else is driving.)

The studio interviews were different from the ones in my office because makeup was often applied. I did wonder why if my unvarnished visage was good enough for a camera in my office, it was not good enough in a studio, but I figured the TV people knew best, and I’d sit through a makeup session, which took only a few minutes.

The studio interviews made me more nervous than the office ones. The chance for a second opportunity often disappeared in the studio. In my office, if I mispronounced a word or screwed up in another way, I could say, “Hold it. I messed up there. Ask me that again so I can give a clearer answer.” This seldom happened, but I was relaxed knowing of that possibility. In the studio, it was often live or “live on tape” and that removed any chance for “Let’s do it again.” But while makeup and the elimination of any extra takes made the studio appearance different, it was generally similar to an office interview in that the reporter seemed to be more interested in the prescribed length of the interview rather than the need to inform either the reporter or the audience. (To be continued.)

The President’s approval ratings are low, perhaps historically low, or at least they are if you look at the average of all the respectable polls and don’t cherry-pick the one that is an outlier, as the President will do. The approval rate for Congress is even lower. This skepticism is not limited to the government, but also affects another important institution. Distrust of the media is rampant.

Poll results depend on how a question is framed. Asked generally about Congress, only a small number of respondents approve, but people reply much more favorably when asked about their specific representatives and senators. Something like this may also be true for polls about “the media.” That broad category may get more negatives than questions about the media’s specific subgroups.

Those who regularly watch an evening network news show probably think it does an acceptable job. The same may be true for the Sunday morning news shows or “60 Minutes.” A question that asked about the trustworthiness of cable news networks as a group would not be very useful; the “Fox News” devotee is not likely to think any other cable news source is reliable. Similarly, a broad question about newspapers may elicit much different responses from questions about a local newspaper or about national newspapers, such as The Washington Post or The New York Times. And, of course, a general question about internet news sites seems meaningless as would broad question about social media, YouTube channels, and chain emails.

A question about “mainstream media” also doesn’t make much sense because the meaning of “mainstream” is never clear except it seems to exclude Fox News. I am surprised by that because Fox News regularly touts how much it is watched and often stresses that Fox is watched more than any other cable news networks. Aren’t you, by definition, “mainstream” if you are viewed by so many people? (I recently learned that Fox’s slogan of “fair and balanced” refers to its content. I had assumed that when it said “fair,” it was referring to the hair and skin tones of so many of the women who regularly appear on it. And by “balanced,” I thought it meant something like a teeter totter that always swung down on anything to do with Obama and now is permanently up with Trump.)

The media is not a monolith. If I had not known it before, I certainly learned it in the days when representatives of the media asked me for comments on criminal trials, forensic science, or the jury system. I soon realized that local television or radio was merely looking for a sound bite. The reporter did not really care about the content of what I said, only that it was short and pithy. The reporter’s major goal seemed to be to get something on the air; actually informing the public was a much lesser concern. (A well-known local reporter called me late in the afternoon to ask if I would comment on a trial that had just concluded. As I was about to reply, I could hear her talk to what I assumed was her boss in the newsroom. She was asking to be allowed to send a crew to my office, and he was saying there was not time to do that before the evening news. She insisted she could make it and then said, “He always gives me great quotes.” I had talked with her but one other time.)

A few times I was interviewed at home. Most often this was by telephone for a radio. If it was for a radio network, the reporter often was not looking for a sound bite, but for extended comments, and I felt more comfortable when I thought that I might have the chance to educate listeners about the topic. That was true for a BBC interview on the use of DNA in criminal cases. This particular interview, however, had an unusual twist. I had just finished exercising and was sweaty when the home phone rang. It was a producer from a BBC show who asked if they could interview me live. I said ok, and the producer said that they would call back in a half hour–more than long enough to get the shower I needed. As I stepped out of the spray ten minutes later, the phone rang. I gave the live interview wet and naked—the only time I assure you. (Try not to visualize this—you might not sleep for weeks.) (To be continued.)

“Julien ordered more wine when the first bottle disappeared and was pleased to see that Charlotte drank what he considered to be the correct amount for a woman: less than half but not less than a third of each bottle.” Sebastian Faulks, Charlotte Gray.

One of the few reasons to play golf is to pretend it is ok to buy and wear one of those white, plastic-looking belts.

The brother of a former colleague made and sold pornographic pictures. This bothered the ex-colleague some, but he still stayed in touch with his sibling. One holiday season he gave his brother a beautiful ceramic pot. A few years later he visited his brother, who had some of his pictures hanging in his study. The ex-colleague spied his brother’s girlfriend and his gifted pottery in a photograph. This bothered the ex-colleague, but when he told me the story, he concluded with, “Well, at least she’s got a pot to piss in.”

“Despite the extraordinary intelligence of dogs, cats, seals, dolphins, elephants and chimpanzees, there exists not one among them that a human could train to keep an appointment to meet at a particular location two weeks hence.” Leonard Shlain, Leonardo’s Brain: Understanding da Vinci’s Creative Genius.

You take a picture on your phone. You immediately look at it. You might then send it to someone or post it on Facebook or Instagram. But after that initial concern about the photograph, how often do you ever look at any of the pictures you take?

On the Fourth of July, I asked the Australian couple who are on the path to American citizenship if Australia Day was celebrated in a fashion similar to our Independence Day. She said “Yes,” that it came in mid-February and family picnics were often held. I was confused, but was quiet, about the date because I thought I remembered seeing flyovers during the Australian Open and knew that the tennis tournament was over by then. She continued that Australians often heard their National Anthem on that day. I said that I would not recognize that anthem, and she replied that many Aussies did not learn the words when it was changed from God Save the Queen. I looked over at the husband, and he looked lost or as if he were not paying attention. Then he quietly said, “I am pretty sure that it is on January 26.” I had seldom witnessed a husband more gently correct his wife. My admiration for him increased.

“He would ponder all the various forms of laughter there could be. So far, he had only categorized four: laughter at your own expense, laugher at the expense of others, laughter at the human predicament, and laughter at small animals falling off tables.” Jonathan Goldstein, Ladies and Gentlemen, The Bible!

Perhaps my starry-night runs over the Brooklyn Bridge were so vivid because my senses were heightened as I went over the bridge. New York back then was seen, and no doubt was, a much more dangerous place than now. The bridge after dark was reputed to be an unsafe place, and the only patrol I ever saw on it in those days was a sometimes glimpse of a lone cop on a motor scooter. He seemed unlikely to prevent a mugging or assault except perhaps if it was going to be attempted within a hundred yards of him. The walkway always had some people on it during the day, but after dark the walkway was mainly deserted, and this largely unpeopled space led to me being extra alert. Over the course of my running days, the city generally became safer, and more and more people were on the bridge at all times. After years of feeling a certain daring in running over it at night, the fear, never entirely gone, waned. I still found the winter runs on clear nights thrilling, but, perhaps because I now had seen the above-and-below stars many times, but perhaps also because my senses were not as alert as they had once been, the sight, still spectacular, was less so.

Even during New York’s bad days, I did not feel afraid running over the bridge during the day when it had a steady stream of bike riders and pedestrians. But there was one exception. A hundred yards on to the bridge, I could feel someone on a bike following me. I slowed up; he slowed up. I sped up; he sped up. I went one way around a pillar; he went the other. I stopped out of his sight at one pillar and hoped that he would get in front of me. He did not emerge. I resumed my running; he fell in behind me. My heart was racing from more than the running. At the end of the path, he finally came up alongside me and said that he appreciated my running. He had decided that I was a good runner and wanted to see if he could keep up with me, especially on the uphill part. I thought it a bit bizarre, but I was relieved and bid him a good rest of the day.

The walkway physically changed in the years that I regularly ran the Brooklyn Bridge. In the beginning, the gradient was less steep than now because it was punctuated by a dozen or so steps three or four times in the mile. This didn’t make much of a difference to runners and walkers, but it meant that bikers had to get off and carry the bicycle up or down the steps. It meant that bikers seldom got a head of steam, and I thought that kept everything safer. The walkway, however, was renovated to remove the stairs. That concerned me because I thought that bikes would go too fast once they had an uninterrupted half-mile downhill.

The danger now, however, does not come from the bikers as much as from the pedestrians. Back when I ran over the bridge, few tourists were on it. The walkway was primarily used by a certain type of a dedicated New Yorker. Times have changed as the walkway has become a tourist destination. This has brought a group of vendors who mostly congregate on the Manhattan edge of the bridge. The number of the tourist pedestrians has increased so that walking across the bridge is like walking on a crowded sidewalk. The walkway has a line painted down its middle, and those on foot are supposed to be on one side and bike riders on the other. The number of pedestrians, however, has become so large that they almost always spill over onto the bike lane, and, of course, the tourists are gawking, mostly looking for pictures to take. As they move to get the right background for their selfie (would the world really be worse off if the selfie stick had never been invented?), they often do not pay close attention to where they stand and move into the path of a bike. I have yet to see a collision, but I have seen many close calls. When I ran the bridge, I could run freely without having my strides impeded by others. Today that is impossible.

After I gave up running, I often rode a bike over the Brooklyn Bridge, and that could be done safely. That is no longer true, and savvy bike riders now head to the Manhattan Bridge. That bridge’s two walkways are now open. I don’t like them much. They are narrow and next to the road and subway tracks that go over the bridge, and I find that jarring, but one of the walkways is designated just for bikes, and it is a much safer way for the riders to cross the East River than the Brooklyn Bridge.

The renovation of the walkway that eliminated the steps got me some brief, and quite limited, fame. There was a controversy about how the work was to be undertaken. The city planned to close the walkway during the renovations. I then worked in lower Manhattan, and regularly commuted by running over the bridge. One day, I was stopped on the walkway near Manhattan and asked to sign a petition to keep the walkway open during the work. Unbeknownst to me, a Post or Daily News photographer snapped my picture, and that photograph later appeared accompanying the newspaper story. I did not regularly read that newspaper and had not seen the picture, but the next day, I went into Perry’s, the grocery store a couple of blocks from my home where I often shopped in my running clothes. Stewart, the nice guy who ran the store, said that he had seen my picture in the paper. I said that I did not know what he was talking about, and he pulled out the paper from behind the counter. He was right. I was in the picture. As far as I know, Stewart was the only person who saw that picture and recognized me.

I started running by doing it after work, but soon I was also running at lunch a few times a week. At first, I ran around a small park near my downtown Brooklyn office, but then I wanted to go further. I started to run over the nearby Brooklyn Bridge, turn around, and run back. I had walked over the bridge a few times before, but this began what would be many, many more trips over the bridge. As time went on, I frequently ran between Brooklyn and Manhattan, and in those days, the Manhattan Bridge walkway was not open, and the Brooklyn Bridge was often the most convenient route for me. I am not sure what the total number of trips were, but I am confident I ran over it more than a thousand times.

I fell in love with the Brooklyn Bridge. Its distance was satisfying. It is almost exactly a mile from the Brooklyn steps to the walkway to the Manhattan terminus of the bridge. The upward sweep was a bit of a running challenge, but not too much so, and going downwards was not too steep to be excessively hard on my knees. It was also pleasing because the walkway is on a higher level than the roadway. I would be aware of the cars and when there was bad traffic on the bridge, try to race them across the span, but the elevated walkway kept me separate from the traffic. Mostly, however, it was satisfying to run the Brooklyn Bridge because of its beauty and the sights I could see.

The bridge’s Gothic arches are iconic for good reason and have captured the imaginations and talents of artists, including, of course, those of Georgia O’Keefe’s. Those stone arches, however, did more than just define the bridge. Because of the bridge’s incline, the arches were not only in front of me, but also above me. They seemed to represent a symbolic goal. From the Brooklyn side, they framed the Manhattan skyline through their openings. They made me want to reach Manhattan, be a part of Manhattan. That skyline, however, cannot be contained in the frame of the arches. It extends above and around those pillars. New York can be reached; it can be entered, but it can never be encompassed. There is always more.

I especially loved running the bridge towards Manhattan after a light rain. The walkway consisted of wooden beams, and when wet, those planks would reflect the arches. The arches were underfoot and in front of and above me all at the same time.

Running to Manhattan in the early morning on a clear day brought a different kind of light. I would be running west and the rising sun would be behind me. The windows of the Manhattan skyline would catch the sun and be aglow. The reflected oranges and yellows and reds made it seem as if a light show were being performed.

It seldom seemed as exciting running over the bridge towards Brooklyn. Brooklyn was home, but Manhattan had the better skyline. Even so, sometimes the run to Brooklyn, too, brought spectacular sights. There is a period in the spring and fall when the sun, as viewed from the bridge, sets directly behind the Statue of Liberty. When I would see that, I would always stop and soak up the sight. With the sun low on the horizon, the sun appeared unnaturally large and almost looked as if it were attached to the Statue. I never found a spot off the bridge where I could observe this phenomenon, and when I saw it, I was always grateful that I had taken up running.

The bookend to this was seeing a full moon rising over Brooklyn as I ran home with an early night run. A rising full moon has always been spectacular to me, but it was even more so from the elevation of the bridge walkway.

Another night scene was more memorable to me. Sometimes I ran over the bridge on a cold, clear winter’s night–the kind of night when everything in the sky is extra crisp, and although stars are not really a New York City feature, where even the stars stood out. The bridge’s wooden-slatted walkway had gaps between the boards. Through them I could see down to the East River. On these nights, the stars above stood out as if they could be touched, but looking down in the cold air, crisp images of lights could be seen reflected by the water. Those lights may only have been from buildings or vehicles, but they seemed to be the reflected stars. It felt as if the stars were above and below me, and I was running in their midst.

My running days are long gone, but my attraction for the Brooklyn Bridge has not ended. On occasion, I walk over it. This is now a bit of a struggle, and I am often amazed that it once was a nearly effortless run. Still, almost every time I go over the Brooklyn Bridge, I still find a sight that amazes or inspires me. As a result, my living room is filled with images of the bridge. I have an oil painting; a numbered print; photographs; a reproduced image I saw oat a New York Public Library exhibit; Christmas cards; and more, all depicting the Brooklyn Bridge.  (To be continued.)

When you go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, do you wash your hands before going back to bed?

The “pro-life” activist said that we must protect the rights of all human beings, the born and the unborn. I wondered why she stopped there in her personal definition of “human being.” Why not all human beings, the born, the unborn, and the dead? If she believes in eternal life, as I assume she does, shouldn’t the deceased count, too, if we are going to redefine what is a human being?

“As was often the case when an independent woman was wronged, the media began judging the victim.” Patricia M. Salmon, Staten Island Slayings: Murderers & Mysteries of the Forgotten Borough.

A notice in the elevator car of a friend’s building informed the residents that garbage must be properly disposed of or else there could be “an infestation of unwanted vermin.” I wondered what vermin were wanted.

A man promises his wife that he will be home at six and will bring a pizza and a salad for dinner. He arrives at six but does not have a pizza and a salad. Or he arrives at nine with a pizza and a salad. Has he kept his promise? If a candidate promises to build a wall on our southern border that will be paid for by Mexico, has he kept his promise by seeking American taxpayer money from Congress to build part of a wall on our southern border? (How many of you remember Trump at campaign rallies saying that he would build a “beautiful” wall on the whole border and then saying, “And who is going to pay for it?” with the crowd enthusiastically shouting, “Mexico!”)

I had forgotten the German-Turkish-American server’s name. She feigned, I think, that she was upset. I said, referring to the Mexican-American server/busboy standing next to her, “I have known him longer, and I forget his name.” She replied, “We call him Doughnut.” I looked at him and said, “Why is that?” He just smiled, and she explained. “He went to a house of pleasure, and instead of giving out dollar bills, he handed out doughnuts.” The Colombian-American bartender said that it was a strip club near Costco. The Mexican-American server/busboy had bought the doughnuts at a fancy neighborhood shop, and he had given them out to the strippers. He would not tell me what kind the doughnuts were—I thought that they should have been Boston cream–but his English is limited, and he might not have understood the question. A few minutes later, however, he looked at me with his always sweet smile and said, “Now I am a VIP.”

“Helen Twombley liked that word [duckish]; it meant the time between sunset and dark.” Howard Norman, The Bird Artist.

Another friend–smart, educated, well-read—announced one day that he was sick and tired of political correctness. Someone else at the lunch table asked what he meant by that term. He did not define it but instead gave as an example Michelle Obama’s speech in which she noted that she then lived in the White House, an edifice that had been built by slaves. Asked by another at the table why this bothered him, he indicated that he was tired of those who feel slighted, abused, or oppressed by what had happened to other people centuries ago. Someone said to the friend, “I watched that speech, and she was saying something else.” He explained that Obama’s statement was not a lament but was instead lauding how far the country had come in racial relations. It turned out that the friend who had denounced political correctness had, in fact, not watched the speech. He had only seen the excerpt on TV news. He was urged to watch or read the whole speech to better understand the context of the objected-to phrase. I am reasonably confident he never did that, for several months later I heard him repeat Michelle Obama’s comment as something that bothered him for its political correctness.

His use of “political correctness” was different from my use of the term. For me, it was a statement by someone who was trying to cut off a topic’s discussion. For him, it meant something that others might discuss, but once he labeled the view “politically correct,” he did not have to, indeed would not, listen to the discussion. Other uses of the term in this fashion can easily be found. For example, not too long ago President Trump labeled the diversity visa program as being “politically correct.” That label meant that others could discuss the strengths and weakness of that program, but he was not going to be part of any such debate. Because the program was “politically correct,” the President would not listen to any debate about it.

“Political correctness” is used in yet another way—not just to denigrate a viewpoint or an individual but to simultaneously self-aggrandize the labeler.  Assume that I support allowing transgender people equal opportunities in the military. Someone might respond, “You are just being politically correct.” That response is, of course, dismissive of my position; it is not a prelude for reasoned debate. But it does more than that. It challenges my integrity by implying that I have adopted my opinion not by reasoned consideration but by simply accepting a herd position. In addition, the labeler is also saying that he has the courage, unlike me, not to follow the crowd but to think for himself which has led him to the courageous, anti-politically correct position. His label is an ad hominem attack on me and also a glorification of himself and, of course, is meant to terminate any discussion.

It is almost always non-conservative positions that get the PC tag, but if political correctness is really an attempt to remove topics from discussion, conservatives, too, can be very politically correct. We can see it when states and federal agencies prohibit or restrict of the term “man-made climate change” because they don’t want that topic to be discussed.

We can see it with gun control. The frequent response to those who wish to restrict sales of guns or their accessories is, “That would violate the Second Amendment.” The responders are really announcing that they will not discuss the wisdom of the proposed rules or even discuss any attempt to collect data about the proposals. The Second-Amendment cry is meant to end the discussion.

Playing that Second Amendment card is also meant to eliminate any discussion of the Second Amendment’s reach. Early in 2017 Congress passed and President Trump signed a bill that made it easier for mentally ill people to buy guns. When Paul Ryan was asked after the Las Vegas shootings whether this was a “mistake,” Ryan insisted that people’s rights were being infringed and protecting their rights was “very important.” End of discussion. There will not only be no discussion of whether expanding the ability of mentally ill people to buy guns is wise, there will be no discussion of whether the Second Amendment bars all restrictions on the mentally ill from buying and possessing guns.

When restrictions are proposed on semi-automatic weapons, the number of guns a person may buy, the kind of ammunition that can be sold, and so on, conservatives will not debate the wisdom of the proposals and will cry “Second Amendment” as a justification for the refusal to consider the proposals. They will not, however, debate the reach of the Constitutional provision. They act as if the Second Amendment was crystal clear and therefore need not be debated, when, in fact, its language is murky, and the Supreme Court has not authoritatively addressed many gun control issues but has implied that many gun restrictions would be constitutional.

This use of the Second Amendment to prevent debate on gun control is political correctness on the right. Conservatives in Congress passed a law a generation ago that restricts federal funding for studies about gun violence. What could be better evidence of political correctness that is meant to shut out reasoned debate than to prevent more information about the issue? To paraphrase the bandits in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, “We don’t need no stinkin’ data.”

I am generally opposed to political correctness which seeks to mandate what others must believe and eliminate discussion on topics. I lack the arrogance to be positive that I have found the ‘truth’ on most things. As I look backward I see that the ‘truth’ has evolved on many, many topics. If it has evolved, that evolution has probably not ended. The evolution, however, can continue most efficiently only when the topics are not off limits but instead can be regularly probed with reasoned debate and with the consideration of more information and experiences about the topic. And there is almost always more data to be had about any important topic. Furthermore, telling others what to believe is not a way to convince them. As John Morley, the British statesman, has been quoted as saying, “You have not converted a man because you have silenced him.”

A few comments can be placed out of bounds because they cannot advance a topic’s consideration. Racial and ethnic slurs or dismissive labeling of someone else’s position as racist, for example, do not further a reasoned discussion and should be prevented.

The classroom observer wanted my friend to dictate the right outcome to any discussion on the legality or morality of torture, but is it so clear that torture is always so far out of bounds that it should not be discussed? See if you can come with examples where you say, “Maybe, maybe.” But if you can imagine situations where torture might be appropriately used, could you find a way to limit torture to just those circumstances or will torture inevitably spread if any use of it is allowed? If it would spread, does that mean all torture should be forbidden? Can’t there be—shouldn’t there be—debates on this topic? Are your answers affected by the fact that at least the issue of what constitutes torture has led to important debates in Israel and even to legal decisions by that country’s Supreme Court? Shouldn’t there be debates elsewhere on the topic?

The classroom observer tried to cinch her conclusion about how my friend should have handled the torture discussion by citing comments about women scientists. She was presumably referring to the comments by Larry Summers, who was president of Harvard when he made the comments. Summers was addressing the issue of the underrepresentation of women in the sciences on the faculties of elite universities. He addressed the topic precisely because this was one that many thought should be discussed. He offered tentative hypotheses as to why there was this underrepresentation of women on the faculties. In his comments, however, he never said that women did not have the ability to be outstanding scientists. He did say that the elite universities were trying to hire in the very top echelons of these professions—the one in five thousand—and at those levels, women were underrepresented. Summers then gave a number of reasons for this low representation and suggested that those possible reasons interplayed with each other.

Summers did not give his ideas as authoritative, irrebuttable pronouncements. He was not trying to cut off debate. Instead, he ended his speech with suggestions for the collection of data that could aid further understanding of the situation. In other words, he was trying to find a way to further the discussion.

Go look at his comments. You can find them online. There is a lot to discuss in them. If you care about women in science—and I put myself in this category since the spouse is a woman and was a scientist—Summers’ speech is provoking on many levels. Mischaracterizing his comments as saying that women don’t have the innate ability to be high-level scientists and suggesting that such a statement is “out of bounds” cuts off discussion and is therefore political correctness at is worst. If we cut off discussion of the topic and do not seek more information about it, as political correctness would have us do, we will not get closer to the “truth.”

For me, as I have said, political correctness is the attempt to arbitrarily end discussions about topics that are discussable or could be advanced with more data and research. Others who are oppose political correctness, however, use that term in other ways. (To be continued.)

A friend, a distinguished lawyer who is now retired from his firm, teaches at a local college. The students are not from the privileged classes and are often the first in their families to have attended college. Many are immigrants or have parents who were born abroad or are members of a disadvantaged American minority.

The friend is teaching a course that probes the concept of justice. The class had explored that difficult biblical text about the sins of the fathers. His students had examined the provisions that make torture illegal under international law and the American statute that expressly forbids torture abroad but does not address its legality within the United States. The class discussed whether torture, even in the face of these legal prohibitions, could ever be justified, and, of course, as discussions of torture inevitably do, the ticking bomb hypothetical came up: You know that a bomb will soon explode in a place that will kill many people. You have in custody someone who has the code to defuse the bomb, but he will not divulge it. Would you, should you, torture that bomber to save the lives at the expected explosion site?

One student said it did not matter whether torture under these circumstances was legal or not because the torture would be useless. If the potential torture subject was committed to the cause of the bombing, he would either completely resist the torture, which under the scenario would not be long, or provide false information that would buy enough time for the bomb to explode. After the class had discussed this position for a while, another student, who had hardly ever talked in class and was recently arrived from China, quietly said, “If you want to get the information, don’t torture the bomber; torture his family.” This led to a spirited give-and-take with references back to the class’s discussion of international law and the sins of the father. The period ended with the students still engaged in debate.

The friend was pleased with the class. The students had confronted the material in thoughtful ways. The friend was pleased not only that the newly-arrived Chinese student had spoken up, but that he had given a perspective not before considered by others that may have derived from his cultural background or experience. This seemed to be the point to the diversity often ballyhooed in academia. Since the class had gone so well, the friend was especially pleased that this was the day that a member of the fulltime faculty, who would report to the Dean about the part-time teacher, was there to observe his class.

The friend respected the observer, who had been born in Algeria and had done human rights work in various countries requiring tact, insight, and courage. The friend, however, was taken aback when she castigated him. “You should not have let the class leave without making it clear that torture under all circumstances is wrong.” The friend replied that he did not think it was the job of a liberal arts teacher to tell students the “truth,” but she maintained, “Torture is against international law and is wrong, and it is your duty as a teacher to tell the students that.”

When the friend told me about what happened, he was still upset by it, even though it was days later. I said that this sounds like a form of political correctness, but usually, I continued, political correctness seems to be about identity politics. He smiled and said, “To try to convince me that what I had done was not right, she said that surely I would have corrected any student who said what that college president had said, ‘Women don’t have the innate abilities to be good scientists.’” This made me think more about political correctness.

In talking with the friend, I had used “political correctness” as an epithet. The PC term is always a denigration. No one ever says “I have adopted my opinion because it is the politically correct one” or says unironically, “I agree with you because what you said is so politically correct.” But the term does not have a simple, single meaning.

For me, the classroom observer was inappropriate because of her dogmatism. She was positive of the only correct conclusion to the debate and therefore, felt that this certitude had to be communicated to the students. She was in essence saying that any reasoned debate had to lead to this conclusion and that outcome should be made clear.

The problem with the observer’s stance, however, is that there is only a small step from it to saying that there is no point to a reasoned debate on a topic. If the conclusion is so obvious, then there is really no need to discuss the topic at all. Instead, just present the patent outcome. Indeed, the topic should apparently not be discussed at all if there is any chance that some will come to the “wrong” conclusion. In this view, “political correctness” is an assertion that seeks to cut off debate because the topic is outside the bounds of any reasoned discussion. (To be continued.)