Strategies from and for the Classroom

It is difficult to remember a time when scholars and teachers in language, literature, and cultural studies fields did not find themselves on the front lines of a cultural and political battlefield. Our polarized political landscape, legislative attacks on academic freedom, and a growing climate of hostility on many campuses, to say nothing of persistent patterns of austerity and adjunctification, have disempowered faculty members and made it more challenging than ever to encourage students to engage in open, meaningful discourse (see, e.g., MLA Committee on Academic Freedom). As humanists, we are poised not only to impart expert knowledge in our fields but also to navigate—and help students navigate—the complex sociopolitical environments that shape our classrooms and institutions.

As MLA members, we have a number of organizational avenues and outlets for collectively addressing these challenges, including actions by the Executive Council, motions and resolutions, and publications such as this. This special issue of Profession stemmed from Emergency Motion 2024-1, which focused on defending academic freedom and asked the Executive Council to urge campus administrators to defend students’ and faculty members’ right to protest in response to the unconscionable war in Gaza. The open debate of Emergency Motion 2024-1—at the Delegate Assembly meeting during the MLA convention in January 2024—reflected democratic governance at its best. The motion was amended on the floor in a collegial process and secured the support of a vast majority of the delegates present. We will not soon forget, and continue to draw inspiration from, the powerful image of Delegate Assembly members having to raise their hands to vote following a technology malfunction.

As the Executive Council noted in our March 2024 letter to members about the motion, campus intimidation is, unfortunately, not new (“Letter”). And the MLA has a long history of gathering and sharing resources to support faculty members and their right to protest and to manage their syllabi and classrooms without interference. A serious goal of this Profession special issue is to provide even more opportunities for members to share how they are pushing back against the current climate of hostility—a climate that has arguably only grown worse in the year since the 2024 convention. At the same time, we want the issue to tap into and showcase our unique skills and strengths as humanists specializing in different linguistic, literary, and cultural traditions and working across a range of institutional spaces and regions.

The five essays included here cogently respond to our primary question: How can we in our teaching and campus work engage deeply with the political and cultural complexities with which our students are wrestling? Each essay explores conceptual tools and practical strategies for protecting academic freedom and creating spaces for intellectual growth and critical engagement.

The issue starts at the site of some of the most extreme government incursions into classrooms and campuses. Aimée Boutin, in “A Florida Woman on Teaching the Humanities in a Divided America,” reflects on how Florida’s invasive higher education laws have affected her course planning and teaching, despite her relatively privileged position as a tenured faculty member. Mindful of the fact that no one is “safe” from censorship these days and we cannot afford to be caught unaware, Boutin offers four hard-earned strategies: learn more about how exactly curriculum gets approved at your institution; avoid polarization in your program or department by always seeking to build a middle ground; look to other contexts for perspective on, and strategies to address, the current war on education; be intentional in how you communicate your convictions, especially in those moments when the middle ground gives way.

Nick Sanders and Bethany Meadows, in “Embracing Complexity: A Three-Realm Approach to Engage Contemporary Political Landscapes,” further connect local institutional settings to broader national and global issues. Sanders and Meadows describe three useful strategies to support postsecondary educators desiring to assist their students in negotiating contemporary cultural and political landscapes: recognize the role of social positionalities and ecosystems, interrogate how worldviews get reproduced, and teach toward complexity. The three strategies underscore the need for self-reflection and for an assessment of how different values, viewpoints, and practices bring complexity to in-class discussions and writing assignments. Humanities teachers have long adapted what happens in the classroom to help students meet the challenges of the wider world. The small-scale and the large-scale are linked, and helping students embrace complexity in the classroom enables them to deal with complexity outside it.

S. Shankar’s essay “Forget Freedom; or, Thinking about Harm and Harm-less-ness with the Buddha” argues that the liberal concepts of academic freedom and freedom of expression have continually come up short, providing a shield for hate speech and harm. Instead of protecting the many, free speech rights have often applied only to a select few, especially in the current chaos on campuses and the violent crackdowns on student protests. Turning to the Buddhist tradition of ahimsa, or “harm-less-ness,” Shankar proposes that we reorient our thinking about academic conduct, education, and even the work of the MLA. Such harm-less-ness, he argues, has been exemplified by peaceful pro-Palestinian student encampments on US campuses and, on a larger scale, by the Palestinian-led movement Boycott, Divestments, Sanctions, or BDS.

Shankar’s essay includes an important discussion—and critique—of MLA leadership. As we were finalizing the contents of this special issue, in advance of the 2025 convention, Anthony Alessandrini proposed Resolution 2025-1, which asked the MLA to endorse the 2005 Palestinian BDS call. At its October 2024 meeting, the Executive Council discussed the resolution and voted against forwarding it to the Delegate Assembly for a vote. This decision, Shankar argues, constitutes a troubling turn away from ahimsic values on the part of the organization.1

The final two essays are also concerned with mitigating harm and hostility, focusing on the pedagogical tools we bring to the classroom as scholars of language and literature. Gorka Bilboa Terreros, in “Deweaponizing Discourse: Language Education and Critical Thinking Skills,” argues that language educators can play a crucial role in neutralizing language that dehumanizes and depends on thought-terminating clichés. He recommends the following approaches: developing learners’ critical thinking about how “language encodes culture, reflects history, and conveys layers of meaning”; challenging students’ preconceived notions about the “cultures and peoples represented by the languages” taught; grounding language classes in “authentic materials, real-life language applications, and analysis of cultural artifacts created by the target community”; and “[e]ncouraging students to challenge and critically examine discourses and testimonies disseminated through social media.”

In his provocative contribution, “Antihostility Pedagogies: Humility, Empathy, Reciprocity,” Douglas Dowland argues for antihostility pedagogies, which he employs in his courses, from the required literature survey to topics courses in medical humanities. The three antihostility pedagogies he outlines—humility, empathy, and reciprocity—“offer alternative ways of approaching texts[,] . . . create new infrastructures for criticism[,] . . . and remind us, as scholars and as educators, to avoid perpetuating hostility in our own work.”

We write this introduction a few weeks before the 2025 MLA convention, and the special issue will be published several weeks after it. We know the meeting will provide a space to share additional strategies, insights, and experiences as we continue to navigate the increasingly fraught and contested educational landscape. We know, too, that it has never been more important for all of us, as MLA members, to come together, support each other, and draw strength from our solidarity. It’s our sincere hope that this special issue, in addition to highlighting the invaluable, difficult work members are already doing, will help create new paths for advocacy and collaboration moving forward.

Note

1 We don’t want to use this introduction to comment at length on the council’s decision, lest we distract from the essays. In short, it was made for fiduciary reasons on the basis of concerns about how the resolution could potentially compromise the association’s ability to accomplish key aspects of its mission. The resolution was discussed at the Delegate Assembly meeting at the MLA convention in January 2025 and further information can be found on the MLA website (see, e.g., MLA Executive Council, “Message”).

Works Cited

MLA Committee on Academic Freedom and Professional Rights and Responsibilities. “Report on the Current State of Academic Freedom in US Education.” Modern Language Association of America, 2023, www.mla.org/CAFPRR-2023.

MLA Executive Council. “A Letter to MLA Members about Emergency Motion 2024-1.” Modern Language Association of America, 4 Mar. 2024, www.mla.org/Resources/Advocacy/Executive-Council-Actions/2024/A-Letter-to-MLA-Members-about-Emergency-Motion-2024-1.

———. “A Message from the Executive Council about Resolution 2025-1.” Modern Language Association of America, www.mla.org/About-Us/Governance/Delegate-Assembly/Motions-and-Resolutions/FAQs-about-Resolution-2025-1/A-Message-from-the-Executive-Council-about-Resolution-2025-1. Accessed 13 Dec. 2024.

A Florida Woman on Teaching the Humanities in a Divided America

During my twenty-six years of teaching at Florida State University, I have witnessed extensive changes in the pedagogical landscape; no past shifts, however, have been as destabilizing and troubling as those that teachers have been facing in Florida since 2022. The state legislature’s invasive and pervasive laws targeting higher education have undermined faculty members’ core sense of purpose and their control over curriculum. New laws in Florida purport to uphold academic freedom, but in practice these measures curtail faculty members’ role in decisions about what and how to teach. By sharing personal reflections on the chilling effects of this climate of censorship on my teaching, I aim, here, to reflect on how the “culture wars” (to use James Davison Hunter’s expression) are reshaping humanistic teaching and curricula in Florida—from a faculty-centered system to a state-controlled system—and to offer advice about how faculty members can navigate this terrain.

As a tenured full professor, I recognize that Florida’s laws do not affect me the same way they might affect less-senior instructional staff members, especially my non-tenure-track and part-time colleagues. I have benefited from continuous employment, contingent on my passing of annual and sustained performance reviews, so my income is not precarious. Until recently, tenure protected me; now, however, post-tenure review has weakened my job security.1 New legal measures bring the possibility of intense scrutiny on curricula and department enrollment—or the superintendence of outside auditors, accreditors, or state regulators—which could result in restrictions on the courses I teach, or even the cancellation of the programs in which I teach. Even so, I feel compelled to share my perspective on these issues (of course, I do so as an individual rather than on behalf of my home institution). For now, being tenured gives me a moral obligation to support colleagues, to develop curriculum, to teach courses that others are more reticent to teach, and to continue providing spaces for undergraduate and graduate students to explore a wide range of ideas, in all their complexity. Not all faculty members share my response to the current climate; I know some who believe that classrooms have become too politicized and that the trend to reel in humanities departments will restore an equilibrium from a previous (golden?) age. While those are not my views, I respect my colleagues who see the situation differently.

When Ron DeSantis assumed his second term as governor of Florida in 2022, he identified education as “a major pillar of Florida’s future” and positioned himself as a leader in education reform (“Governor Ron DeSantis’ State of the State Address”). His plan began in earnest in July 2022, when the Florida State Legislature passed House Bill 7, the Individual Freedom Act (also known as the Stop WOKE Act or the Anti-critical-race Theory Bill), which restricts instruction on topics related to race and gender. A regulation governing post-tenure review took effect at the same time (see State University System of Florida). Senate Bill 266, passed by the 2023 legislature, banned state funding for “programs or campus activities that . . . advocate for diversity, equity, and inclusion” (sec. 4) and regulated general education courses (secs. 9 and 10). This legislation also expands the power of university boards and presidents, at the expense of faculty self-governance. Also passed that year to control the spread of so-called wokeism, House Bill 931 banned diversity statements or “political loyalty tests.” The prioritization of the Western canon (which remains undefined in the legislation) is another key component of Florida’s reshaping of higher education (e.g., in Statutes 1007.25 and 1007.55). Some of the governor’s actions have targeted specific institutions, such as New College: DeSantis appointed trustees who fired New College’s president, Patricia Okker, and replaced her with a DeSantis supporter, Richard Corcoran, who previously vied for the presidency at Florida State University. The governor’s authoritarian approach to higher education and his attempt to control the curriculum has had a chilling effect on me, and on other faculty members in Florida; the actions at New College, Florida’s only public liberal arts college, signaled to us that higher education is the new battleground for the culture wars. The academic freedom I long took for granted, as a tenured faculty member at a research university, was under attack. That attack, so far, has effectively fomented a climate of uncertainty and anxiety among faculty members in all sectors, across the state, in the face of a new form of political correctness.

Laws that target higher education in Florida form an interconnected and dangerously restricting web. Without a clear understanding of what is forbidden, faculty members are self-censoring to avoid crossing an invisible line in the sand. If the Individual Freedom Act (House Bill 7), which is currently in litigation, is fully implemented, it would prohibit instruction that “espouses, promotes, advances, inculcates, or compels” students to believe any of eight “specified concepts” (each based on race, color, sex, or national origin; sec. 2, pt. 4(a)), because such instruction would be presumptively discriminatory under the amended statute. The bill proscribes teaching in such a way that makes students feel “guilt, anguish, or other forms of psychological distress because of actions, in which the person played no part, committed in the past by other members of the same race, color, national origin, or sex.” The bill requires each university in the Florida State University System to create a regulation to implement the statute.2 Many of my colleagues and I have experienced that House Bill 233, on “viewpoint diversity,” which passed in 2021 and authorizes students to record, but not publish, “class lectures” without the instructor’s consent (sec. 3(g)), has had the effect of chilling speech in the classroom. Other laws have restricted expenditures related to diversity and inclusion, union dues and certification, hiring of certain foreign nationals as faculty members or graduate teaching assistants, and post-tenure review (e.g., Senate Bill 256, Senate Bill 846, and Statute 1004.06; see “State Board”; Moody, “DEI Spending”).

In early January 2023, the state legislature asked my university to submit spending data on courses and programs related to diversity and inclusion, presumably in pursuit of regulation; two of the courses I teach were on the list the university generated. It did not seem to matter that the titles of these courses, until recently, would have been unremarkable: French Women Writers, and Literature and Sexuality. When I created the course French Women Writers in the late 1990s, there were no courses on women writers offered in the French program at Florida State University, where I was a new hire. I specified in the course description that the content would address “race, gender, and class,” to indicate the course’s intersectional approach to world literature by women of French expression taught in translation. In my original version of this class, I included works in translation such as Claire de Duras’s Ourika and Simone Schwarz-Bart’s The Bridge of Beyond (Pluie et vent sur Télumée Miracle; Bray). The course has been revamped since then, but the catalog description remained unchanged. The tide has turned, and terms such as race, gender, and class (or intersectional, for that matter) that were once torchbearers are now red flags.

In early summer 2024, the university determined that the course descriptions and learning objectives of these two courses—both part of the statewide general-education curriculum—needed to be revised to conform to university regulations for compliance with new state legislation. Alignment with the Western canon must feature clearly in course descriptions. It was suggested that I find broader substitutes for terms such as race, class, and gender, as well as the term sexual identity; I did so expediently, since I would like to continue to offer these courses in the general-education curriculum. Was that the right decision? I was offered the choice of teaching the courses without revision and preemptively removing them from the offerings available to fulfill statewide standards, but I declined. It turns out this was a false choice, as I learned this fall: some thirty courses offered by my department (including the courses I teach) have been stripped of their humanities general-education designation, leaving only three options to fulfill the requirement though coursework in modern languages. What further restrictions will be imposed incrementally to reduce students’ choice and agency? Will the governor or legislature scrutinize courses approved by individual institutions as part of university-specific or department-specific requirements?

No one has told me that I cannot teach these courses; on the contrary, colleagues have encouraged me to continue to offer them, reminding me that student interest in these subjects has not changed. Still, I am worried about censorship of course material and class lectures on intersectional feminism and identity politics. We are on a slippery slope, and I don’t know whether we are at its base or its crest. Faced with this dilemma, I offer the following four pieces of advice to faculty members in the humanities.

1. Get Involved in Curriculum Approval

Who decides what should be taught and how curricula are approved in your state and at your university? Until recently, I believed I was free to implement the pedagogical strategies and best practices suited to my goals. I have come to understand the tensions that underlie faculty ownership of the curriculum: courses are initially created by individual faculty members, reviewed and approved by department and college-level faculty committees and the faculty senate, then submitted to the Florida Board of Governors for final approval. While the state oversees the general education curriculum in Florida, each institution can implement additional university-wide requirements. Since courses are hosted by specific institutions and for the most part exist only within those frameworks, universities own curricular offerings. Take the time to understand who approves curricula and how they are approved at your institution; then consider if and how new legislation impacts these approval procedures.

Faculty members at public institutions are more subject to government regulation than their counterparts at private institutions are. We serve the state’s educational needs, we depend on state funding, and we are state employees. Because of the interdependence of state government and educational institutions in Florida, the general-education curriculum is controlled by the state, even while faculty members also claim a sense of ownership over what courses are taught: we are invested in the academic mission of the university, and courses are generally proposed by faculty members, not administrators. Government overreach into areas where the faculty members feel they should be in control goes to the heart of the matter. The legislation passed in 2022 and 2023 has been perceived as an attack on faculty expertise. Increasingly, faculty members and the university, as instrumentalized by state legislators, are pit against one another.

2. Cultivate a Middle Ground and Avoid Further Polarizing the Issues

When faculty members and policymakers are at odds in a culture war, it may seem as if there’s no room for a middle ground. In January 2023, Governor DeSantis’s website announced legislation that claimed to

elevate civil discourse and intellectual freedom in higher education, further pushing back against the tactics of liberal elites who suppress free thought in the name of identity politics and indoctrination. Amongst its many provisions, the legislation will ensure Florida’s public universities and colleges are grounded in the history and philosophy of Western Civilization; prohibit DEI, CRT and other discriminatory programs and barriers to learning. (“Governor DeSantis”)

Terms such as “tactics” and “indoctrination” in this announcement imply militaristic or ideological scheming on the part of “liberal elites”—a term meant to lump faculty members into one privileged camp. Colin Dickey’s essay on the word indoctrination as applied to education, published in the Chronicle of Higher Education in June 2024, shows the long-standing and deep-seated distrust of institutions of learning in DeSantis’s loaded language. DeSantis’s rhetoric, which performs and creates the very divisiveness it condemns, fuels the culture wars rather than abates them. Partisan politics and the new culture wars dominate discussions about higher education in the public sphere, and polarization shapes the debate in unhealthy ways. My colleague Robin Truth Goodman recently published an article on her experience as a plaintiff in a case against the intellectual viewpoint diversity legislation (House Bill 233). Goodman is spot on when she writes that such legislation reduces scholarly inquiry to partisan advocacy and defines the pursuit of knowledge as a two-track enterprise that pits liberal ideas against conservative ideas, with no middle ground. As Andrew Gothard, president of the United Faculty of Florida, told Inside Higher Ed, “If you actually believe in freedom of thought, we shouldn’t be banning any subject matter” (qtd. in Moody, “DeSantis Higher Ed Bill”). As a teacher-scholar grounded in French critical theory (especially poststructuralism and deconstruction), I am reminded how binary oppositions are defined by mutual exclusion, and that cultivating difference often requires nonbinary thinking.

The trickle-down effect of partisan politics in the public sphere affects department culture as polarized thinking moves into, and dominates, approaches to curricular renewal at the department and program levels. Should individual faculty members make diversity and inclusion primary components of their courses at the risk of retaliation (being reported by students or sanctioned by their institutions)? Should faculty members strategize about word choice or course titles? And how far are individual faculty members prepared to compromise about curriculum when faced with state censorship? Or the flip side, must faculty members become enforcers and see to it that all faculty members make diversity and inclusion part of every course, every lesson they teach? When the middle falls out, the gap between these poles visibly widens, even when the reality remains complicated.

3. Look for Perspective from Historical Trends and Other Contexts

We must stay aware that the war on higher education extends beyond Florida. Some of our colleagues have chosen to leave Florida and seek academic appointments elsewhere; there seems little doubt that these legislative measures are intended to force higher education faculty members out of the profession to make room for more conservative replacements or to shrink humanities programs.3 Will those who move to another state find greener pastures? Few states are entirely immune from political meddling in education. With the rise of nationalism in the last decade, culture wars have also become a global phenomenon. Moreover, the crusade against universities and intellectuals is not a new trend—anti-intellectualism was a notable part of McCarthyism and was common in southern states, including Florida, during the civil rights movement.4 Although understanding the geographic scope and historical longevity of attacks on universities throughout the world does not reduce the confusion, such an understanding does put our current crisis in perspective.

I recently came across an edition of Ourika prepared by Mercer Cook in 1936, when he was a professor of French at Clark Atlanta University, a historically Black institution in the pre-civil-rights South. Originally published in 1824, Duras’s novel tells the story of a formerly enslaved Senegalese child gifted to a noblewoman in France and raised as the noblewoman’s daughter in an all-white aristocratic society. As a teacher-scholar at an HBCU, Cook sought to create French curricula and textbooks that would be meaningful to his African American students. By curating little-known French texts about Black protagonists, Cook laid the groundwork for what would become the global Black French studies curriculum (see Moore). When Cook’s textbook anthology appeared, one review perceived the textbook as threatening “inter-racial relations”: “The most serious adverse criticism is that the book is not one which will promote a better inter-racial feeling. The reviewer felt many times that, were he a Negro, he would feel hatred and a desire for revenge on the white race arising within him” (Mills 249). The reviewer cannot look past his own guilt to see the literary or educational merits of the publication. His comments are remarkably close to the language of House Bill 7, which prohibits instruction of concepts that make individuals feel guilt because of their race. Florida professors may now have less say in what they teach on these topics than Cook did in 1936.

The curriculum is and has been a prime site for a tug-of-war between stakeholders in a politically divided country. Comparing our circumstances with those in other historical or geographic contexts is a useful pedagogical strategy to approach an emotionally charged topic.

4. Be Intentional about Not Being Neutral or Objective as a Modern Language Teacher and Scholar

At issue in the culture-wars debate is faculty members’ ability to remain impartial—meaning that their commitment to present all sides of an issue, to provide evidence-based arguments, to maintain a space for open discussion, and ultimately to promote “intellectual freedom” (in the sense that DeSantis uses the term; see “Governor DeSantis”) is in doubt.5 I find the research of Julie A. Reuben helpful as I try to understand guidance I receive from my administration, and as I consider the risks of indoctrinating my students if I am not neutral. On indoctrination, Reuben writes, “When critics say that faculty members are indoctrinating students, they point to instructors who explicitly share their political views, typically in courses related to race, gender and other charged topics. Critics believe that faculty members who share their political views do so to make their students adopt those views.” She goes on to explain that it was once the norm to remain impartial, but younger scholars have “challenge[d] the presumption that maintaining apparent neutrality avoids indoctrination.” This group of younger scholars prefers to be more transparent and expects that students will, as Reuben recounts, be “better able to critically assess what they [are] taught when professors [are] transparent about their own beliefs.” Reuben’s research, however, shows that those who opt for transparency are more likely to be charged with indoctrinating students, even though a superficially impartial lesson plan may be designed to impart a liberal (or conservative) worldview as well.

In the humanities classroom, sharing one’s perspective on issues and on literary works—indeed, communicating one’s passion about a particular text or one’s partiality for one author over another (whether that is Victor Hugo or Duras)—is more common than in the classrooms of fields such as law, math, or physics. Amid a controversy with no middle ground, I feel it is impossible to remain impartial. Rather, I view the assault on academic freedom as an opportunity to think deeply about, and give voice to, what we do as members of a humanities teaching faculty. We have an opportunity to be intentional about what we are doing in the classroom—to decide what we, as teachers, care deeply about and to communicate our convictions. Faculty members should let students know where they stand on issues of diversity and inclusion, while making it clear how they have arrived at their own conclusions based on experience and evidence, rather than through the adoption of a given mandate. The humanities instill critical thinking and problem-solving skills in students so that students can better evaluate arguments and distinguish fact from fiction, rather than fall back on unexamined beliefs and unfounded arguments. As teachers, we inspire students to practice thinking critically on their own. If I teach Ourika again, I will embrace the opportunity to help students learn to navigate contradictory arguments and gray areas where right and wrong are hard to identify. Renewing the work of Duras and Cook, I will remind students that art, literature, and theater are great means to teach empathy and grapple with nuance.

Notes

I would like to thank Pauline de Tholozany and David Coombs of Clemson University for their kind invitation to deliver an initial version of this paper as part of a workshop series funded by the Teagle Foundation.

1 Tenured faculty members in Florida undergo post-tenure review every five years, according to the State University System of Florida Board of Governors Regulation 10.003(2), to “ensure continued high standards of quality and productivity among the University’s tenured faculty.” I was randomly selected and will undergo post-tenure review in spring 2025.

2 The statute, Chapter 2022-72: Committee Substitute for House Bill No. 7, is available on Florida State University’s website through the Office of Faculty Development and Advancement: fda.fsu.edu/hb7-and-classroom-instruction.

3 See, e.g., Susca et al. It is unclear, however, whether data support the claim that the mass exodus of faculty members is linked primarily to the political climate.

4 For an in-depth treatment of academic freedom at southern institutions, see Williamson-Lott.

5 And to quote some of the guidance I received: “provide a variety of evidence-based arguments,” “maintain a space for open discussion about the concepts,” and “teachers should not make students feel guilty about these concepts.”

Works Cited

Dickey, Colin. “The Specter of Indoctrination.” The Chronicle of Higher Education, 5 June 2024, www.chronicle.com/article/the-specter-of-indoctrination.

Florida State, Legislature. House Bill 7. Florida State Senate, 1 July 2022, www.flsenate.gov/Session/Bill/2022/7.

———. House Bill 233. Florida State Senate, 1 July 2021, www.flsenate.gov/Session/Bill/2021/233.

———. House Bill 931. Florida State Senate, 1 July 2023, www.flsenate.gov/Session/Bill/2023/931.

———. Senate Bill 266. Florida State Senate, 1 July 2023, www.flsenate.gov/Session/Bill/2023/266.

Goodman, Robin Truth. “Higher Education as the Frontline of Democracy: The Case against Florida House Bill 233, the Anti-shielding/Intellectual Viewpoint Diversity/Student Recording Legislative Act.” Review of Education, Pedagogy, and Cultural Studies, vol. 46, no. 1, 2023, pp. 64–84, https://doi.org/10.1080/10714413.2023.2245311.

“Governor DeSantis Elevates Civil Discourse and Intellectual Freedom in Higher Education.” Executive Office of Governor Ron DeSantis, 31 Jan. 2023, www.flgov.com/eog/news/press/2023/governor-desantis-elevates-civil-discourse-and-intellectual-freedom-higher.

“Governor Ron DeSantis’ State of the State Address.” Executive Office of Governor Ron DeSantis, 11 Jan. 2022, www.flgov.com/eog/news/press/2022/governor-ron-desantis-state-state-address.

Hunter, James Davison. Culture Wars: The Struggle to Define America. Basic Books, 1991.

Mills, Gilbert E. Review of Le Noir, by Mercer W. Cook. The Modern Language Journal, vol. 20, no. 4, Jan. 1936, pp. 248–49. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/316031.

Moody, Josh. “DEI Spending Banned, Sociology Scrapped in Florida.” Inside Higher Ed, 18 Jan. 2024, www.insidehighered.com/news/governance/trustees-regents/2024/01/18/dei-spending-banned-sociology-scrapped-florida.

———. “DeSantis Higher Ed Bill Heads for the Legislature.” Inside Higher Ed, 26 Feb. 2023, www.insidehighered.com/news/2023/02/27/new-florida-bill-aims-enact-desantiss-higher-ed-reforms.

Moore, Celeste Day. “‘Every Wide-Awake Negro Teacher of French Should Know’: The Pedagogies of Black Internationalism in the Early Twentieth Century.” New Perspectives on the Black Intellectual Tradition, edited by Keisha N. Blain et al., Northwestern UP, 2018, pp. 25–40. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctv7tq4rv.5.

Reuben, Julie A. “What Is ‘Indoctrination,’ Anyway?” The Chronicle of Higher Education, 20 Feb. 2024, www.chronicle.com/article/what-is-indoctrination-anyway.

“State Board of Education Passes Rule to Permanently Prohibit DEI in the Florida College System.” Florida Department of Education, 17 Jan. 2024, www.fldoe.org/newsroom/latest-news/state-board-of-education-passes-rule-to-permanently-prohibit-dei-in-the-florida-college-system.stml.

State University System of Florida. Active Regulations. Ch. 10, pt. 3, sec. 2, www.flbog.edu/regulations/active-regulations/?fwp_chapters=chapter-10. Accessed 20 Nov. 2024. PDF download.

Susca, Margot, et al. “Why Faculty Members Are Fleeing Florida.” The Chronicle of Higher Education, 6 Dec. 2023, www.chronicle.com/article/why-faculty-members-are-fleeing-florida.

Williamson-Lott, Joy Ann. Jim Crow Campus: Higher Education and the Struggle for a New Southern Social Order. Teachers College P, 2018.

Embracing Complexity: A Three-Realm Approach to Engage Contemporary Political Landscapes

During the 1960s, student protests at universities in the United States, particularly protests by students of color, made visible the challenges to public institutions that reproduced interlocking systems of white supremacy, misogyny, transphobia, and capitalism (Kynard; Ruiz). More recently, complex global political tensions have grown in occupied ancestral land in the Middle East, where students have similarly protested public institutions. Taking these strategies to heart, university students across the United States have challenged public and private institutions about their institutions’ investments in global conflict and genocide. Here, we simultaneously acknowledge the histories of student protest, the increasing complexity of global and national political contexts, and the challenges of teaching and campus work within such charged ecologies.

We come to this piece as both writing and rhetoric scholar-practitioners (who study equity- and justice-focused approaches to teaching and administration) and leaders in teaching and learning centers (who lead equity-based pedagogy workshops for university educators). The challenges of the moment call for us to resist binary thinking and embrace complexity—the shifting, interactive, and dynamic nature of human interactions with and in social and political systems. Complexity, writes adrienne maree brown, “creat[es] an abundance of connections, desires, interactions, and reactions” (51). Drawing on our own experience, we offer strategies to support postsecondary educators thoughtfully engage and perform reflective work in contemporary cultural and political landscapes. We offer, too, a framework for self-reflection that educators can use to interrogate the complexities of working, teaching, learning, and leading in this cultural and political moment.

In offering the strategies and framework, we describe three key approaches to guide intentional reflection among postsecondary educators. We argue that society (the large scale) and the classroom (the small scale) are linked, and that humanities teachers can continue to be at the forefront of adaptation to the large scale within their classrooms, where they can help students embrace those same complexities. Interacting with the three approaches offered here can support educators work toward braver discourses surrounding the political and cultural landscape. Furthermore, we suggest that participating in reflection and accompanying action engages learners in and beyond the classroom and serves as a tool for changing the systems.

Recognizing Positionalities and Ecosystems

An intersectional feminist approach considers the ways that society has interlocking systems of oppression. For instance, Kimberlé Crenshaw discusses how intersectionality helps to “account for multiple grounds of identity when considering how the social world is constructed” (1245).  As Amanda Hawks and Bethany Meadows synthesize at length in their article, systems of oppression create our institutions, including education (refer to, e.g., Kendall). Those harmed in these systems are especially those whose identities do not fit the systems’ “mythical norm” (Lorde). Everyone has various positionalities (e.g., race, nationality, language use, gender, sexuality, religion, class) that cannot be separated at the individual level—thus, the large scale is linked to the small scale. This “account[ing] for” involves the various ecosystems of connection in our modern world, and everyone’s identities and positionalities shape how they engage and interact with the systems, institutions, and ecosystems.

To model this type of positionality reflection, we share how our positionalities inform our work in these areas. Bethany offers these insights from their positionalities as a white, middle-class, disabled, educated, queer femme nonbinary person. She acknowledges that she has a lifetime of (un)learning to do and that we are messy people who are trying our best in an even messier world. Nick’s positionality as a white, cisgender queer man informs his professional work, which examines how institutions change through large-scale (un)learning initiatives. Like Bethany, he recognizes that (un)learning and action are nonlinear, dynamic, and complicated.

Taken differently, interrogating positionalities means placing ourselves—who we are, what we know, what we value—in relation to complex ecosystems disciplinarily, locally, and globally. Positionalities help name what we pay attention to and why (refer to, e.g., Ahmed).

By interrogating this kind of positioning, university educators disrupt singular, binary perspectives they may encounter in everyday university work. As an extended example, we provide a short teaching interlude to demonstrate how reflecting on positionality can serve as a critical tool for engaging contemporary political and cultural landscapes.

The Scenario

Mark is a graduate student who is studying American literature and teaching in the university’s first-year writing program. Halfway through the semester, Mark notices several of his first-year students characterizing opposing arguments in a research paper with intense generalizations about right and wrong. These same descriptions start to dominate group discussion in his seminar circles. Since he is frustrated, Mark seeks out a mentor, another graduate student in the program. Over coffee with his mentor, Mark realizes that his identities—white, masculine-presenting—inadvertently influence how his students approach writing research papers. In telling students how he values diverse voices and social-justice approaches, Mark has unwittingly suggested that there is a “right side” and a “wrong side” to issues that are seldom so straightforward. Mark takes action by creating a lesson in which students are asked to consider how their own identities and positionalities manifest in their social media in ways they may or may not have been mindful of.

When Mark interrogated his inherited values and identities, and how his values and identities connect to the larger world, he was able to design an intentional and responsive lesson for his writing class that directly asked students to model reflection at the small-scale level. We offer questions below that invite postsecondary educators to practice positional reflection as a cornerstone strategy for teaching against a backdrop of dynamic social and political contexts.

Questions for Educators to Consider

  • What are my identities and positionalities? Which identities do I think about most? least? How have my positionalities shaped my lived experiences and knowledge about the world?
  • How do my identities and positionalities shape my teaching values and practices? Do any of my values and practices reinforce or subvert dominant ideologies? What are the implications of these reinforcements and subversions?
  • How does my educational institution reinforce certain values based on the institution’s history and positionalities? How does my institution interface with other institutions and systems? How does my institution’s ecosystem affect the current complexities in the world?

Resources for Further Inquiry

  • Jones, Natasha, et al. “Disrupting the Past to Disrupt the Future: An Antenarrative of Technical Communication.” Technical Communication Quarterly, vol. 25, no. 4, 2016, pp. 211–29.
  • Pouncil, Floyd, and Nick Sanders. “The Work Before: A Model for Coalitional Alliance toward Black Futures in Technical Communication.” Technical Communication Quarterly, vol. 31, no. 3, 2022, pp. 283–97.
  • Reagan, Bernice. “Coalitional Politics: Turning the Century.” Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology, edited by Barbara Smith, Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press, 1983, pp. 356–68.
  • Sanders, Nick, et al. “Making Good on Our Promises to Language Justice: Spheres of Coalitional Possibilities across the Discipline.” College Composition and Communication, vol. 75, no. 2, 2023, pp. 360–88.

Interrogating the Reproduction of Worldviews

Our identities and participations shape what we know and how we move through the world. As writing studies scholars, we position the acts associated with worldviews and ideologies as literacies—the discursive and embodied ways that humans know, and in which they act, based on their lived experiences.

In fact, critical literacy scholars have showcased that our ways of being and our ways of knowing are inextricably coupled. For example, writing studies scholars have long considered literacy to encompass social practices; that is, literacy refers not only to reading and writing but also to robust combinations of being and doing. Eric Darnell Pritchard explains that literacy is a way of “reading everyday life” (20). At the same time, literacy practices are never taught in neutral circumstances. Deborah Brandt’s work on sponsors of literacy shows that literacy is taught within specific political and capital markets and is sponsored for some kind of labor and ideological return. Literate action, then, carries and re-creates worldviews, which reproduces social structures through individual action.

Because actions are constituted with worldviews and ideologies (the large scale), it’s imperative that postsecondary educators interrogate the deeper commitments for their actions. As an extended example, Asao Inoue showcases how the acts of judging are fashioned through deeper epistemological commitments and dispositions. As he writes, white racial dispositions

appeal to fairness through objectivity. . . . They are set up as apolitical [and] deny difference by focusing on the individual or making larger claims to abstract liberal principles, such as the principle of meritocracy. These structures create dispositions that form reading and judging practices, dispositions for values and expectations for writing and behavior. (48)

By interrogating these values, educators can embrace plurality and complexity in their day-to-day work (the small scale), disrupting large-scale machinations. In other words, by changing how we act, we can also change our deeper philosophical commitments.

The Scenario

Right after he completed graduate school, Nick directed a center of teaching excellence at a regional comprehensive Hispanic-serving institution in southern Colorado. While participating on a panel on disability justice, Nick found that several staff members were frustrated about being asked to provide additional supports for students inside and outside the classroom. The staff members believed the provision of additional support would not “fairly” prepare students for the real world. One of the panelists used the opportunity to ask the staff members about practices that would make their jobs easier, and to ask if making something easier is the same as making something unfair. The exchange initiated a productive conversation about how supports can be scaled to different offices and processes.

When we interrogate practices or dispositions that are often taken for granted—by talking about how, at the small scale, they are associated with worldviews at the large scale—we can better understand how certain groups of people may be impacted both by ideas and by the acts associated with those ideas. In this example, the panelists reframed the conversation toward who is impacted and the worldviews embedded in often invisible practices. In this spirit, we offer guiding reflective questions for interrupting and interrogating the reproduction of worldviews.

Questions for Educators to Consider

  • How did I come to adopt the worldviews I believe? What experiences, identities, or influences shaped those views?
  • What values have I inherited from my discipline, the institutions where I have worked, and my life experiences? Do my values reinforce or disrupt the status quo within the dominant systems of oppression?
  • What other viewpoints may be in conversation or competition with my worldviews? Can other viewpoints bring nuance to what I believe?
  • How do taken-for-granted ideas and actions impact different groups? How might shifting worldviews impact different populations?
  • Which of my beliefs do I prioritize? Do my priorities create exclusions? Do my priorities create a binary view of a topic?

Resources for Further Inquiry

  • Bazerman, Charles. A Theory of Literate Action: Literate Action Volume Two. Parlor Press / WAC Clearinghouse, 2013.
  • Brandt, Deborah. Literacy in American Lives. Cambridge UP, 2001.
  • Inoue, Asao B. Antiracist Writing Assessment Ecologies: Teaching and Assessing Writing for a Socially Just Future. Parlor Press / WAC Clearinghouse, 2015.
  • Pritchard, Eric Darnell. Fashioning Lives: Black Queers and the Politics of Literacy. Southern Illinois UP, 2016.

Teaching to Embrace Complexity

The world is multifaceted and complex, but, as Audre Lorde declares, “Much of Western European history conditions us to see human difference in simplistic opposition to each other: dominant/subordinate, good/bad, up/down, superior/inferior.” Similarly, many K–12 curriculums in the United States still center dominant, binary narratives in their stories about the world and its people. Even when nondominant stories are included, they enter with tokenization or surface-level integrations to the dominant narrative. Thus, a binary of narrative and thinking has been integrated into ways of conceptualizing the world from the start of educational socialization in the United States at the large scale.

Yet, we can trust that our students will bring complexity if we give them the opportunity. Lane Glisson writes, “Although our students may lack formal training to assess information, they are no strangers to complexity—situations that have many parts and that are not easy to comprehend. They live in a world of inequality and difficult choices” (464).

The Scenario

Bethany’s course Writing Center Theory and Practice in fall 2022 began with Bethany grounding the content in intersectionality for the students, setting community norms for engagement, and previewing the content that would require (un)learning throughout the semester. A few weeks into the course, students were asked to grapple with the legacy of exclusion in the history of writing centers and how that exclusion manifests itself today through educational practices like linguistic racism. The students were ready to tackle the complexity because, in addition to the grounding and framework early in the course, throughout their educational experiences they had been told myths about writing—again and again—that created layered harm for them (and for others in education).

The students came from a place of strength and assets by bringing in myriad lived experiences and identities. Students did not need to avoid the hard and complex situations; instead they were able to collectively discuss, unpack, and strategize how to make their everyday practices better despite the complexities.

Below are some questions for reflection that may help postsecondary educators consider how complexities enter the classroom.

Questions for Educators to Consider

  • If I don’t say anything about the current complexities in this world, why don’t I? Is it because I feel uncomfortable? Is it for institutional or societal reasons (e.g., maintaining a visa)?
  • Does talking about the complexities of this world necessitate discussion about divisive political topics? Why or why not?
  • How can I acknowledge tragic events for students without bringing the events into debate? How can I provide resources for students? How can I be flexible for those experiencing trauma and retraumatization?
  • If I choose to bring divisive political topics into my classroom, why do I do so? How can I center a classroom of dialogue rather than a classroom of debate?
  • Have I set community norms and guidelines for my course collaboratively with students? Do these community guidelines emphasize listening to understand rather than listening to respond, as well as the paradox of intolerance? How can I keep students in a place where they can learn instead of shutting down in defensiveness or hurt?

Resources for Further Inquiry

  • Davidson, Shannon. Trauma-Informed Practices for Postsecondary Education: A Guide. Education Northwest, Aug. 2017, educationnorthwest.org/sites/default/files/resources/trauma-informed-practices-postsecondary-508.pdf.
  • Glisson, Lane. “Breaking the Spin Cycle: Teaching Complexity in the Age of Fake News.” Portal: Libraries and the Academy, vol. 19, no. 3, 2019, pp. 461–84. Project Muse, https://doi.org/10.1353/pla.2019.0027.
  • hooks, bell. Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom. Routledge, 1994.
  • Love, Bettina L. We Want to Do More Than Survive: Abolitionist Teaching and the Pursuit of Educational Freedom. Beacon, 2020.
  • McIntyre, Lee. Post-truth. MIT Press, 2018.
  • Muhammad, Gholdy. Cultivating Genius: An Equity Framework for Culturally and Historically Responsive Literacy. Scholastic, 2020.

Looking Forward

We will begin to make change by incorporating the three approaches: recognizing positionalities and ecosystems, interrogating the reproduction of worldviews, and teaching to embrace complexity. This article is not a how-to instructional manual; the approaches herein are deeply dependent on the contexts, places, and positionalities an educator occupies. That said, by self-reflecting and listening to understand rather than listening to respond, we make change, even if it seems small, because the large scale and small scale are always linked. As brown declares:

How we are at the small scale is how we are at the large scale. The patterns of the universe repeat at scale. There is a structural echo that suggests two things: one, that there are shapes and patterns fundamental to our universe, and two, that what we practice at a small scale can reverberate to the largest scale. (25)

We ask educators to work on transforming their small scale and letting the reverberations echo for large-scale change.

Works Cited

Ahmed, Sara. Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others. Duke UP, 2006.

Brandt, Deborah. Literacy in American Lives. Cambridge UP, 2001.

brown, adrienne maree. Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds. AK Press, 2017.

Crenshaw, Kimberlé. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color.” Stanford Law Review, vol. 43, no. 6, 1991, pp. 1241–99, https://doi.org/10.2307/1229039.

Glisson, Lane. “Breaking the Spin Cycle: Teaching Complexity in the Age of Fake News.” Portal: Libraries and the Academy, vol. 19, no. 3, 2019, pp. 461–84. Project Muse, https://doi.org/10.1353/pla.2019.0027.

Hawks, Amanda, and Bethany Meadows. “We Don’t Need More ‘Safe’ Spaces; We Need Transformative Justice.” Peitho, vol. 26, no. 1, fall 2023, cfshrc.org/article/we-dont-need-more-safe-spaces-we-need-transformative-justice/.

Inoue, Asao B. Antiracist Writing Assessment Ecologies: Teaching and Assessing Writing for a Socially Just Future. Parlor Press / WAC Clearinghouse, 2015.

Kendall, Mikki. Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women That a Movement Forgot. Viking, 2020.

Kynard, Carmen. Vernacular Insurrections: Race, Black Protest, and the New Century in Composition-Literacies Studies. State U of New York P, 2013.

Lorde, Audre. “Age, Race, Class and Sex: Women Redefining Difference.” Copeland Colloquium, Amherst College, Apr. 1980. Presentation.

Pritchard, Eric Darnell. Fashioning Lives: Black Queers and the Politics of Literacy. Southern Illinois UP, 2016.

Ruiz, Iris D. Reclaiming Composition for Chicano/as and Other Ethnic Minorities. Palgrave Macmillan, 2016.

Forget Freedom; or, Thinking about Harm and Harm-less-ness with the Buddha

Let’s face it: there is no point in continuing to rehearse our usual liberal slogans about freedom—whether academic freedom or freedom of expression, two freedoms that are not the same but are closely related and often regarded as manifesting the same foundational values1—to address the student protests on our college campuses over Palestine-Israel.2 The sacrosanctity of freedom when it comes to speech—the idea that freedom is the highest possible value and that freedom must be restricted in only the rarest and most exceptional cases—is by now an empty cliché, a superstitious mantra invoked to cast a spell on knowledge workers as well as citizens at large, to get us all to bend the knee to a Euro-American liberal tradition.3

This Euro-American liberal tradition, which has long since run its course, is, I expect, familiar to members of the MLA. My comments in this article, critical of this tradition and suggesting  an alternative, are broadly applicable. I also believe my comments are especially pertinent in Profession, given both the MLA’s prominent status as an academic organization that has a direct stake in the campus protests and, in the light of this stake, MLA leadership’s recent action to not advance a proposed resolution relating to the pro-Palestinian Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions, or BDS, campaign (see “Message from the Executive Council”).4 BDS is a call put out by Palestinian civil society. Since 2005, the BDS campaign has called on individuals and organizations around the world to boycott Israeli institutions for their complicity in (at best) or active support for (at worst) the Israeli state’s brutal occupation of Palestinian land and settler-colonial violence against Palestinians. The alternative to the liberal tradition I offer is ahimsa, which is sometimes translated as nonviolence, but better rendered as harm-less-ness, or the active diminishment of harm in all its forms, as I clarify below. The BDS call has become more urgent since the launch of the genocidal Israeli (and, frankly, we must now say, US) attack on Gaza in 2023 and later, and in many ways is a forceful illustration of my argument about ahimsa.5

Typical of the liberal Euro-American tradition, John Stuart Mill declared in the nineteenth century, in On Liberty, “If all mankind minus one, were of one opinion, and only one person were of the contrary opinion, mankind would be no more justified in silencing that one person, than he, if he had the power, would be justified in silencing mankind” (87). Most MLA members are familiar with—and may share—such sentiments. Two centuries later, despite ample evidence regarding the inadequacy of such thinking, we remain deeply mired in this style of thought when it comes to matters of speech and academic conduct. There are many reasons why such thinking is inadequate, but a chief one is that it sets out to be neutral regarding content—this type of thinking claims to not care what the content of an opinion is but rather simply to uphold the right to articulate an opinion. This content-free approach has failed woefully. Despite this failure, we find it difficult to imagine alternative ways of thinking, even though the need to do so is ever clearer.

It is, then, long past time to examine a new opinion, thought, and expression regarding the academy and academic organizations—to explore new strategies to deal with the challenges of research, instruction, and academic governance that face us. In 2022, I published an essay in Cultural Critique in which I tried to do so; I wrote “The Ruse of Freedom: Ahimsa and Freedom of Expression in a Comparative Context” because, in comparing how debates about freedom of expression unfold in India and the United States, it became evident to me that current progressive movements in the two countries, while sharing many ethical and political values, often head in opposite directions on the issue of freedom of expression. In India, progressive movements generally aspire to protect the rights of scholars, writers, and intellectuals to speak freely in the face of attacks from Hindu fundamentalists; in the United States, on the other hand, the First Amendment right to freedom of expression has increasingly been weaponized by fundamentalists as a powerful shield for hate speech, making the matter much more complicated. In India, the writer Perumal Murugan and the filmmaker Anand Patwardhan have had to take recourse to legal and other protections to make sure their works can circulate in the world. In the United States, however, First Amendment rights have increasingly been claimed by right-wing media figures like Charles Murray and Ann Coulter to intimidate and silence progressive voices. In other words, the transnational comparative exercise of writing “The Ruse of Freedom” impressed on me, as the title implies, that freedom—as in academic freedom as well as freedom of expression—cannot be treated as an unalloyed good if we are interested in meaningful politics beyond hate and prejudice.

Add to this assessment the undeniable fact that freedom of expression and academic freedom have always been selectively available to few: often the rich, the connected, and the institutionally privileged, such as tenured faculty members (though, increasingly, tenure is hardly a guarantee for these freedoms). Pro-Palestine and Black Lives Matter activists have never had the same freedom of expression that proponents of Zionism and liberal racism do in the contemporary United States.6 The spring and summer of 2024 provided ample evidence of the selective application of freedom of expression surrounding the protests over Gaza. The presence of doxing trucks—the purpose of which is to expose, in a dangerous fashion, the identities of students who are critical of Israel and Zionism—have been protected as freedom of expression (see, e.g., Hudson). Aggressive Zionist counterprotesters (I speak from personal experience at the University of Hawai`i at Mānoa) have been permitted to crash a teach-in on Palestine, under the guise of freedom of expression. Meanwhile, peaceful campus protest encampments—also a form of expression, surely—have been broken up, often violently, by not just campus enforcement but the police, who have also stood by as counterprotestors engage in violence (as at the University of California, Los Angeles; see, e.g., Kelley). Anti-Zionist students who engage in protests have been assaulted and disciplined with arrests, as at Columbia University, for example (see “Campus Crackdown”) and have been maligned in sections of the media—and even in the legislative chambers in Washington, DC, and many state capitals. Clearly, the goal of the recourse to liberal proceduralism—in which disruptive counterprotesters and doxing trucks are protected but encampments are not—is the selective preservation of freedom. The same partisan selectiveness is visible in the proliferation of anti-BDS laws and in the recent decision-making of the MLA, which betrays a readiness to bow to the threat imposed by these laws with regard to BDS, despite arguments that the laws are unconstitutional.7

So, it is time to ask: What is the value of this freedom, which is selectively applied—marshaled, even—to punish and abuse rather than to protect and empower? Is there a better set of principles that can guide us as educators in these times? Is there a value beyond freedom that can get us closer to the goals we desire?

Rather than the notion of freedom, I propose we reorient our thinking about academic conduct and speech—indeed, education itself—around ahimsa, or harm-less-ness. I locate this invocation of ahimsa in neo-Buddhism, a theoretical formation represented most powerfully by the great Dalit intellectual and leader B. R. Ambedkar, especially in his final work, The Buddha and His Dhamma, published posthumously (see esp. 345–47, 506–09). Ambedkar, who famously said, “I was born a Hindu but will not die one,” converted to Buddhism a few months before his death in 1956.8 Ambedkar is often called a neo-Buddhist in recognition of the novel ways in which he interpreted the teachings of the Buddha, which he studied for most of his life.

Ahimsa has been commonly associated with Gandhi; I turn to Ambedkar’s worldly and materialist neo-Buddhism rather than the transcendental Gandhian tradition to understand ahimsa because the Ambedkarite notion provides the greatest support to explain ahimsa as harm-less-ness (rather than as nonviolence). Ambedkar is no anomaly in his turn to Buddhism for radical inspiration. Buddhism has, through the centuries, provided a robust framework for the propagation of heterodox and antihierarchical values in India, the land of Buddhism’s origin. Ahimsa, understood within this tradition, I propose, is the term for a paramount value of harm-less-ness—that is, not just nonviolence but the radical preserving from harm of all beings, from the human self to the most other of nonhuman beings. Among other motives, my invitation to turn to Ambedkarite neo-Buddhist thinking is meant to challenge the (neo)colonial notion that foundational theoretical, philosophical, and ethical values for modern societies can only be Euro-American. In a sense, this essay responds to the injunction to decolonize theory.

What does all this have to do with academic freedom, freedom of expression, the tumult on our campuses, and the MLA? Within the context of this neo-Buddhist tradition of ahimsa, of harm-less-ness, the reverence for freedom of expression appears wrong-headed—an abstract and purely notional value that is not able to guarantee an ethical (harm-less) outcome. Doxing of students solely because of their support for Palestine is protected, as is much Islamophobic or anti-Semitic hate speech. Calls for the genocide of Jews, then, fall under the protection of the law, as the presidents of Harvard University, the University of Pennsylvania, and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology shockingly struggled to explain to Congress in December 2023, to the utter befuddlement of the public at large. In contrast, I suggest, ahimsa foregrounds—right away, and without apology—what we should care about (indeed, what we profess already to care about): harm-less-ness. Furthermore, properly understood, ahimsa preserves the valuable aspects within freedom of expression and academic freedom—the self-actualizing, healing, and community-building aspects of these freedoms—while excluding the aspects that allow these ideas to be claimed for detrimental ends.

The way that we think about freedom of expression and academic freedom today in liberal Western societies derives from the larger, even more inviolable value of freedom in general—freedom of the individual, that is. Notionally (only notionally because, in practice, the right is applied highly selectively) the individual’s right to speak freely is constrained only in rare exceptions. Regardless of the content of a speech act, liberal Western thought upholds our right to engage in the act. This extreme reverence for speaking freely is grounded in the idea of a monadic individual whose unfettering is the great goal. This is not to suggest that the liberal argument does not believe in good ends; it does, of course, profess them. However, instead of looking for the good in the content of the speech act, the liberal argument assigns this good to the act itself.

As history has shown, there is much wishful thinking in this liberal approach. Mill, for example, relies on the vigorous adversarial public contestation of ideas, good and bad, unleashed by this indiscriminate upholding of freedom of expression to winnow out the bad and dangerous ideas and allow the good and harmonious ideas to succeed. Indeed, Mill’s essay represents a leap of faith: that it is only through this vigorous and public debate, regardless of what might break, that the good will emerge. Also apparent in this way of thinking might be the utilitarian notion that the ends justify the means—that a little hate speech, racism, sexism, and religious bigotry are acceptable as the means of finding more perfect knowledge on which to base our more free societies. Two centuries after Mill (and two centuries after the general triumph of this liberal approach to freedom of expression as a foundational concept), we can safely regard this thinking as naïve at best, and disingenuous at worst. After all, the free and vigorous debates in Mill’s time did not stop Britain from pursuing a brutal empire across the world. And nearly two centuries later, free and vigorous debates around racist claims that Barack Obama was not born in the United States did not prevent the purveyor of these claims, Donald Trump, from being elected president. Clearly, bad and dangerous ideas don’t always lose in free and vigorous debates. Such debates can be like oxygen to the fire of malice, as Trump’s reelection to a second term shows. These debates simply help bad actors burn down things of value that generations of humans built—that generations of humans sacrificed to build—with effort and care.

In contrast, an ahimsic approach to expressive acts does not value freedom over harm, or the act itself over the content of the act. Indeed, an ahimsic approach reverses the hierarchy of values in liberal thinking on freedom of expression. Such an approach places ahimsa, or harm-less-ness, over freedom, and the content of an act over the right simply to act. This approach does not require one to reject freedom; freedom is contained within ahimsa, for, after all, unfreedom is surely a species of harm. However, freedom in ahimsic thought is not an abstract value based on a notional monadic individual, inattentive to what we might today call intersectional identities. Instead of an abstraction, freedom must be understood in properly contextualized ways.

Ahimsa’s orientation toward harm-less-ness, then, provides us with a framework through which to assess how and when to proscribe speech acts. Proper guidelines for when to deem speech acts unacceptable are necessary, and guidelines for how to do so are also important. Ahimsa, as understood within a neo-Buddhist framework, provides these guidelines, but in a way that does not exempt the need for self-scrutiny, for the prohibition of a speech act for being ahimsic must, itself, be ahimsic.

We can go further: if ahimsa proscribes and prohibits, the concept also exhorts and enables. The value of harm-less-ness is not to be understood solely in the negative, as a prohibition on the emergence of new harm. An ahimsic community should also seek to eliminate already existing harm (such as the horrors currently being visited upon Gaza by Israel and the United States). This would require, in fact, the protection of speech; for, through speech, among other things, harm is contested. Thus, when it comes to speech, ahimsa requires us to protect speech acts that pursue ahimsic goals (such as a BDS resolution that responds to the devastation in Gaza). Unlike liberal freedom-of-expression philosophy, such protection would be based on the content of the speech act, where content is understood not just as the meaning of the words spoken but also as those words’ effects in relation to the world—that is, the context from which the words emerge and into which they enter.

At its root, an invocation of neo-Buddhist values of ahimsa in the context of debates about academic freedom and freedom of expression is an attempt to shift the anchor of these debates away from freedom and toward harm-less-ness. The time for such a shift is ripe. After all, the desire for this shift is expressed in debates when commentators ask, despairingly, why freedom should be upheld if doing so simply creates the conditions for hate. Even Mill was forced to recognize the harm that can emerge from speech, though he did so reluctantly, as a last resort, which only compounded the problem. Now the allure of liberal bromides on academic freedom and freedom of expression has worn off. The recourse to neo-Buddhism aspires to shift our way of thinking from freedom to harm-less-ness in a systematic manner—that is, in a theoretically sustainable manner—by providing a framework of thought free of despair, in which both harm and harm-less-ness have been extensively explored for millennia.

In its turn, this shift raises its own difficult questions: What, after all, is the definition of harm? Who determines this definition? These and similar questions are important, though it is not possible for me to answer them in the context of this essay, which is written with an urgent sense of purpose to make a small contribution to new ways of thinking. For now, I can only refer us to the entirety of the Buddhist tradition, which has an extended discussion of what constitutes harm, what harm’s origins are, why one should contest harm wherever it is found, and the practices that allow a life oriented toward harm-less-ness in all its forms. Ambedkar’s scholarship offers a good place to enter this tradition.9

My turn to this tradition is also motivated by a desire to decolonize theory. What would a decolonizing, harm-less approach entail in response to the challenges posed on US college campuses by debates around Palestine-Israel (especially the decades-long history of occupation and settler colonialism by Israel), the violent events of October 7th, and the genocide being visited upon Gaza by Israel with US funds and weapons? There is much to be said about ahimsic approaches to Palestine-Israel itself. However, in keeping with the call for this special issue and the professed mandate of the MLA—though not, alas, the actions of the MLA Executive Council with regard to the BDS resolution—I will restrict myself to a few observations in the context of the Palestine-related events on college campuses in 2023–24 and, more broadly, the purpose of higher education.

What is interesting about the wide media coverage of these events on college campuses is the insistence with which claims of harm insert themselves into the conversation—harm to Jewish students, to Palestinian students in Gaza left without any institute of higher education (widely commented on), to the Palestinian students attacked in Vermont, to pro-Palestine students doxed by trucks, to the victims of October 7th, to the Israeli hostages in Gaza, to the Palestinian victims of starvation and punitive withholding of health care in Gaza, to the more than 45,000 people killed in Israel’s indiscriminate military campaign in Gaza (according to official tolls; unofficially, probably as high as 186,000 or even more in mid-2024),10 and to the more recent victims in Lebanon and Syria.

In this difficult, violence-soaked context, take the example of the campus encampments. By and large, as widely reported, the encampments were peaceful gatherings; they disrupted the normal functioning of universities, yes, but only within norms that were largely harm-less.11 Yet, the response in most universities was to send in the police, make arrests, and break the encampments down forcibly.12 At UCLA, the police and campus enforcement personnel stood by and watched, for hours, as violent counterprotesters assaulted students within the encampments, and later California Highway Patrol officers themselves fired stun grenades and rubber bullets at faculty members and students. Furthermore, since the goal of the encampments was to stop the grim violence in Gaza, and ahimsic principle is not only prohibitive but also affirmative, shouldn’t we, in fact, celebrate such encampments for comporting with the goals of ahimsa?

The encampments are one example. We could multiply such examples, but will, in the end, arrive at one inescapable conclusion: that the pursuit of ahimsa as a value preferable to freedom requires us to reconceptualize the university as such.

Imagine a university established on ahimsic principles. Imagine university presidents and administrators who have read Ambedkar and other neo-Buddhists and are committed to enabling ahimsic values. What would such a university look like, and how would such administrators act in the present context? I suspect the encampments would not even exist, because university leaders would, themselves, be doing what brave students are doing: calling Israel and Zionism to account for their actions. Would administrators also call Hamas to account? Surely, but not in a way that erases history or the immense differences in right, suffering, and potential for genocidal extinction that exist today between Palestinians—especially Gazans—and Jewish Israeli citizens. I also suggest that we resist the temptation—indeed, all too often, a himsic Zionist directive—to read the undoubted tragedy of twentieth-century Jewish history in Europe as an alibi for Israeli violence against Palestinians in West Asia.

I don’t want to conclude, however, with a grand thought experiment aimed at rethinking the university. Rather, let me end more simply with an invitation to engage the neo-Buddhist tradition with our skills as humanities scholars—scholars whose broad concern with the human can be a point of entry for the ennobling embrace of life-affirming ideas and principles from around the globe, from non-Euro-American as well as Euro-American traditions. Amid Israel’s widely condemned war on Gaza and decades-long illegal occupation of Palestinian land, ahimsic principles can provide thoughtful academic citizens with clarifying principles of action regarding academic freedom and freedom of expression. In the present context, this tradition can help us ground our approach to academic freedom and freedom of speech in an assessment of harmful content rather than in a notion of abstract freedom. And amid the tumult on our campuses over Palestine-Israel, neo-Buddhist notions of harm-less-ness can guide our everyday interactions with students—in the classroom, in research, in meetings, in administrative work, and in the spelling-out of appropriate policies in response to student demands. The larger issues of foundational institutional changes to which this exploration will eventually take us can, as they should, follow naturally from this preliminary work.

Because of my acute sense of the value of such preliminary work—of committing to ahimsa in matters small as well as big, in the everyday as well as the long-term—I find atrocious the decision of the MLA Executive Council to not forward to the Delegate Assembly the proposed BDS resolution responding to the violence being inflicted on Gaza by the Israeli state. (I am one of the original proposers of the BDS resolution, and I cosigned the response to the decision of the MLA leadership published in Literary Hub [Alessandrini et al.].) Simply put, the MLA’s response to the resolution is depressingly familiar, and fearful. Because of a patchwork of laws around the United States that target BDS, the MLA leadership has claimed the right to preemptively protect the organization from legal and fiduciary jeopardy—even though these laws are repressive, and their legality (as well as efficacy) dubious, and even though an argument can be made that membership at large should have the right to decide what risks their organization should take, and for what purpose. I’m sure there are nuances to the decision to which I am not privy. It would be good to know what those nuances are (requests from resolution sponsors to meet with the Executive Council have not been entertained). In an organization-wide discussion, the leadership would have been able to share those nuances in detail, and would have had the opportunity to vigorously make their case before a vote is held and a decision is made.

Alternatively, forwarding the resolution might allow the leadership to enter a process of discussion and problem-solving with the membership at large, in pursuit of BDS’s eminently ahimsic strategy. BDS is a pursuit of justice through explicitly nonviolent means. If even BDS is to be denied the advocates of justice for Palestine, what, exactly, is left to them? A further imperative emerges out of the fact that BDS is protected under the First Amendment, and the prohibition of support for BDS through legislation is an unconstitutional assault on free speech (the characterization of anti-BDS legislation as unconstitutional has even been upheld by courts, as the American Civil Liberties Union has noted; see Ruane). Given this context, isn’t the MLA better served—in its own long-term organizational interests, in the interests of the academic profession it claims to care about, and in the interests of justice at large—by committing to a course of action that might include a legal strategy to undo unconstitutional anti-BDS laws, instead of rushing to comply and thus legitimate the laws and the assault on free speech that the laws represent?

In the end, there is one overarching question left to ponder: What use is an organization of humanists that is not able to find ways to commit itself to the pursuit of harm-less-ness, in both its negative and affirmative senses, at a time of genocide?

Notes

Thank you to Tony Alessandrini and Cindy Franklin for reading and offering comments on this article, especially on such short notice.

1 Academic freedom refers to freedoms specific to faculty members based on their professional identity and is not constitutionally guaranteed; freedom of expression, or free speech, is a broader right based on the United States Constitution. For a concise and useful review of the distinctions, see Robbins.

2 See Bazelon and Homans for a convenient review of recent actions on campuses relating to Palestine-Israel, including incidents referred to in this article.

3 By liberal I mean a philosophical tradition, not a position on the political spectrum.

4 For journalistic reports on this decision, see Quinn; Dutton.

5 Hence, and because I participated in drafting the MLA BDS resolution and am one of the original signers of the resolution, it is hardly possible for me to continue blithely with the publication of this essay in its original form in an MLA journal as if nothing has happened since I submitted the essay for consideration.

6 The Palestine exception to free speech has become increasingly evident since Steve Salaita was fired from the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, in 2014. Palestine Legal has a report on the issue entitled The Palestine Exception to Free Speech. For a useful summary of more recent events that fall under the Palestine exception, see Dadabhoy and Rambaran-Olm.

7 For the unconstitutionality of the laws, see “Types of Legislation” and especially “Legal Challenges.”

8 For an example of the continued resonance of this well-known statement, see Mondal.

9 For a few additional relevant notes, see my article “The Ruse of Freedom.”

10 On 16 December 2024, the United Nations noted that the official death toll had passed 45,000 (“Gaza Death Toll”). In a July 2024 report in The Lancet, Rasha Khatib, Martin McKee, and Salim Yusuf note, “Applying a conservative estimate of four indirect deaths per one direct death to the 37 396 deaths reported, it is not implausible to estimate that up to 186 000 or even more deaths could be attributable to the current conflict in Gaza” (Khatib et al.).

11 For a moving affirmation of the peaceful nature of the UCLA encampment, see Kelley.

12 A few campuses acted differently and negotiated with student leaders.

Works Cited

Alessandrini, Tony, et al. “A Call to the Modern Language Association to Let Members Decide about BDS.” Literary Hub, 12 Dec. 2024, lithub.com/the-modern-language-association-must-let-members-decide-about-bds/.

Ambedkar, B. R. The Buddha and His Dhamma. 1957. Education Department, Government of Maharashtra, 1992. Vol. 11 of Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches.

Bazelon, Emily, and Charles Homans. “The Battle over College Speech Will Outlive the Encampments.” The New York Times, 29 May 2024, www.nytimes.com/2024/05/29/magazine/columbia-protests-free-speech.html?searchResultPosition=4.

“Campus Crackdown: 300+ Arrested in Police Raids on Columbia and CCNY to Clear Gaza Encampments.” Democracy Now!, 1 May 2024, www.democracynow.org/2024/5/1/columbia_university_israel_gaza_police_raid.

Dadabhoy, Ambereen, and Mary Rambaran-Olm. “Scholars Should Be Able to Speak Out against Genocide without Fear of Punishment.” Truthout, 4 Apr. 2024, truthout.org/articles/scholars-should-be-able-to-speak-out-against-genocide-without-fear-of-punishment/.

Dutton, Christa. “‘A Lot of Anguish’: Why the MLA Put an Anti-Israel Resolution on Ice.” The Chronicle of Higher Education, 8 Nov. 2024, www.chronicle.com/article/a-lot-of-anguish-why-the-mla-put-an-anti-israel-resolution-on-ice.

“Gaza Death Toll Passes 45,000 as UN School Suffers New Deadly Strike.” UN News, United Nations, 16 Dec. 2024, news.un.org/en/story/2024/12/1158206.

Hudson, David L., Jr. “Is Doxxing Illegal?” FIRE, 28 Feb. 2024, www.thefire.org/research-learn/doxxing-free-speech-and-first-amendment.

Kelley, Robin D. G. “UCLA’s Unholy Alliance.” Boston Review, 18 May 2024, www.bostonreview.net/articles/uclas-unholy-alliance/.

Khatib, Rasha, et al. “Counting the Dead in Gaza: Difficult but Essential.” The Lancet, 10 July 2024, www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(24)01169-3/fulltext.

“Legal Challenges to Boycott Law.” Palestine Legal, 10 July 2023, legislation.palestinelegal.org/legal-challenges-to-anti-boycott-laws/.

“A Message from the Executive Council about Resolution 2025-1.” Modern Language Association of America, www.mla.org/About-Us/Governance/Delegate-Assembly/Motions-and-Resolutions/FAQs-about-Resolution-2025-1/A-Message-from-the-Executive-Council-about-Resolution-2025-1. Accessed 11 Dec. 2024.

Mill, John Stuart. On Liberty. 1859. Yale UP, 2011.

Mondal, Sudipto. “Freedom from Caste.” Hindustan Times, 14 Apr. 2016, www.hindustantimes.com/india/freedom-from-caste-rohith-vemula-s-mother-brother-to-embrace-buddhism/story-T6gZ2CJ03CX0GDIcuWogKJ.html.

The Palestine Exception to Free Speech: A Movement under Attack in the US. Palestine Legal, 2015, palestinelegal.org/the-palestine-exception#emergence. PDF download.

Quinn, Ryan. “MLA Leaders Won’t Let Members Vote on Pro-boycott Resolution.” Inside Higher Ed, 6 Nov. 2024, www.insidehighered.com/news/faculty-issues/academic-freedom/2024/11/06/mla-leaders-wont-let-members-vote-pro-boycott.

Robbins, Bruce. “Time, Place, Manner.” The Nation, 28 Oct. 2024, www.thenation.com/article/society/free-speech-politics-university-campus/.

Ruane, Kate. “Congress, Laws Suppressing Boycotts of Israel Are Unconstitutional. Sincerely, Three Federal Courts.” ACLU, 9 May 2019, www.aclu.org/news/free-speech/congress-laws-suppressing-boycotts-israel-are-unconstitutional-sincerely-three.

Shankar, S. “The Ruse of Freedom: Ahimsa and Freedom of Expression in a Comparative Context.” Cultural Critique, no. 115, spring 2022, pp. 1–34.

“Types of Legislation.” Palestine Legal, legislation.palestinelegal.org/types-of-legislation/#anti-boycott. Accessed 10 Nov. 2024.

Deweaponizing Discourse: Language Education and Critical Thinking Skills

“Civilised life requires, in addition to humane personal codes, social systems that uphold compassionate behaviour and renounce cruelty.”

—Albert Bandura

Recent developments, such as Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, the war between Israel and Hamas, and the immigration policies of the United States government, have sparked a surge in campus activism. Historically, universities have been hotbeds of mobilization and advocacy. From the governance-related protests at Harvard University and Yale University in the 1700s and 1800s to the civil rights movement and the United States’ involvement in armed conflicts in the 1900s,1 campuses have consistently hosted demonstrations and rallies, which have provided platforms for students and faculty members to express dissent toward various institutions, events, and discourses (Narea). Today, however, a noticeable trend has emerged: the acute weaponization of language to create division and promote polarizing narratives.2 In this context, language assumes a central role in the process of othering individuals who deviate from dominant groups, lack advantageous hierarchical positions, or challenge prevailing cultural, economic, or geopolitical paradigms. These discourses often rely on dichotomous frameworks of “us versus them”—sometimes escalating to “us or them”—where the person perceived as the other is dehumanized to further specific political agendas. Moreover, such narratives resist and evade scrutiny by employing semantic stop signs that inhibit critical analysis and divergent opinions.

These same dynamics are commonly found in language classrooms, where we analyze and deconstruct narratives that have perpetuated the silencing or exclusion of nonhegemonic discourses. These spaces serve as rich arenas for exploring the intricate sociopolitical histories that shape the communities we study; in the language classroom, students delve into topics such as colonization, territorial disputes, racialization, and discrimination while acknowledging language’s pivotal role in these processes. Therefore, as educators of language and culture, we hold a distinct opportunity to equip our students with the critical tools necessary to engage with the nuances of divisive sociopolitical issues and dehumanizing discourses. By equipping our students with these tools, we foster a shared responsibility in the learning process, where both teachers and students are active participants, working together to understand how language shapes these narratives.

In our pedagogical approaches to language teaching, it is essential to recognize that language is more than a mere tool for communication or transactional exchange. Language plays a crucial role in constructing and regulating reality (Austin; Butler, Gender Trouble and Bodies; Derrida). As language teachers, our practice lies at the intersection of linguistic usage and analysis of cultural constructs, straddling the production and consumption, teaching and questioning, of linguistic discourse and sociopolitical narratives. Our classes occupy a privileged space for engaging with the political and cultural complexities that students encounter both within and beyond our campuses. Therefore, we have a responsibility to guide our students to approach these complexities critically yet empathetically, to encourage our students to see the other not as a dehumanized mass or an abstract concept but as an individual within a community who shares needs, feelings, and dreams akin to our own.

Language, Dehumanization, and Semantic Stop Signs

To equip and empower students with the necessary tools to achieve these goals, we must highlight how language contributes to two fundamental processes that underpin hegemonic narratives, othering processes, and exclusionary ideologies and practices: dehumanization and the use of thought-terminating clichés. In his discussion of selective moral disengagement, Albert Bandura argues that dehumanization of the other is a fundamental part of the cognitive processes that enable us to distance ourselves from the ethical implications of our behavior (102).3 In other words, we are more likely to exhibit active animosity or passive apathy toward others if they have been objectified, labeled as animalistic, or denied their fundamental human capacities or rights.4 Language plays a crucial role in these processes by imposing negative characteristics on discriminated, marginalized, or stigmatized groups and denying their members of features that may individualize and dignify them, cultivating empathy.

One prime example of these language uses is the depiction of migrants throughout history. In their examination of language and its role in advancing anti-immigrant sentiment, Kai Wei, Daniel Jacobson López, and Shiyou Wu meticulously outline the stigmatization endured by various migrant communities in the United States. From the derogatory portrayal of the Irish (as “the worse plague of all,” “pagans,” “alcoholics,” and “white negroes”) and the Chinese (depicted as the “yellow peril” and “barbarians”) in the mid–nineteenth century to the vilification of Muslims (branded as “extremists” and “potential terrorists”) and Mexicans (labeled as “criminals” and “rapists”) more recently, a disturbing trend emerges (Wei et al.). Regrettably, these narratives and dehumanizing tactics persist today and have become more virulent, widespread, and polarizing, frequently surfacing in discourses that fuel divisive and violent sociopolitical agendas around the globe. For instance, the portrayal of South American migrants as “bad hombres”—characterized by drug smuggling, sexual assault, and general criminality—and as “illegal aliens” remains distressingly prevalent in our nation’s political rhetoric (Bryant; Dixon; Reilly).

Similar uses of loaded language are found in narratives about other current events. Recently, Russian authorities have justified Russia’s invasion of Ukraine by labeling Ukrainian government officials as “Nazis,” “little Nazis,” and “satanic Nazis.” This dehumanization has extended to the Ukrainian population and armed forces, who are described with words such as “bestial,” “zombified,” “filth,” and “disorder” (Burovova and Romayshyn). Statements like “we are fighting not against people, but against enemies” exemplify this rhetoric (Gerson). Additionally, Ukraine’s national identity and culture have been minimized. Claims such as “There is ‘no Ukraine’ although there is Ukrainianism—a ‘specific mental disorder’” and references to “Big Russia and Little Russia—Ukraine” contribute to this narrative (Apt). Similarly, the terminology used to describe the armed conflict between Israel and Hamas has invoked disparate ways of referring to both sides, favoring a widespread dehumanization of the Gazan population over the years through terms like “demographic problem,” “threat,” and “beasts walking on two legs” (Hammad and Huneidi) and “human animals” and “children of darkness” (Hawari).

The deliberate use of loaded language that demonizes specific segments of the population, coupled with euphemistic language to sanitize actions perpetrated against those groups,5 can obscure our students’ understanding of sociopolitical conflicts worldwide. Furthermore, this labeling goes beyond dehumanizing individuals; as argued by Robert Jay Lifton, such labeling can function as semantic stop signs or thought-terminating clichés—expressions or concepts designed to halt argument progression by discouraging critical thought (429). Examples of this phenomenon include labeling others as Nazis or terrorists, describing territorial occupation as “God’s will” or “the nation’s destiny,” reducing migration issues to mottos such as “They should come here legally” and “Stop the invasion,” or implying that certain controversial or harmful attitudes and actions are carried out to protect national values and cultural traits. If challenged, these semantic stop signs can cast the challenger as radical, treacherous, unpatriotic, and unsupportive of the broader community’s well-being. However, when left unchallenged, the clichés serve as justifications for actions that, upon closer examination, can be, at best, questionable and, at worst, objectionable and immoral.

The Language Class in Divisive Sociopolitical Contexts

Language’s pivotal role in creating and justifying division, confrontation, and conflict underscores our obligation as educators and diversity advocates to confront this reality head-on in our classrooms. We must acknowledge that the languages we teach play a significant role in creating and shaping hegemonic narratives, and, therefore, we bear the responsibility to equip our students with the necessary skills to effectively and critically negotiate those discourses. Empowering them to comprehend and challenge such narratives enriches our students’ educational journey and also extends the impact of their education beyond campus boundaries. This approach deepens students’ appreciation of language as more than a simple act of transactional communication, encouraging more meaningful and thoughtful engagement with it.

Our pedagogical approaches should extend past the mere teaching of language as a system of symbols, grammatical rules, and various registers and genres for instrumental and mechanical exchange of utterances. As Richard Kern argues, we must prioritize the development of learners’ abilities to analyze, interpret, and transform discourse, fostering critical thinking about language’s social functions (23). Therefore, our emphasis should be on exploring how language encodes culture, reflects history, and conveys layers of meaning.6 This can be achieved through pedagogies that develop students’ symbolic competence (Kramsch, “From Communicative Competence” and “Symbolic Dimension”; Vinall) within a multiliteracies framework (Kern; Paesani et al.). These approaches treat language as a situated practice and pay particular attention to the power structures promoted and sustained through language use, particularly in multicultural contexts. Furthermore, these approaches equip students with the tools necessary to “interpret cultural narratives and frames; to challenge established meanings and privileged worldviews, to explore understandings of themselves as historical subjects with their own cultural believes and values as they interact with those of others; and to critically reflect on the power of language to construct these realities and subjectivities” (Vinall 1). This reflective process is crucial for examining and challenging dehumanizing narratives and thought-terminating clichés.

In the classroom, students can be engaged in activities that examine language practices across different contexts and historical periods. The subsequent pages detail a practical approach to exploring loaded language and dehumanization in an intermediate-advanced lesson sequence in which students critically analyze colonial and independence-era texts. By examining pronoun and adjective usage, as well as rhetorical strategies, students explore how language shapes identity perceptions, constructs oppositional categories, and reinforces power dynamics. Thus, this sequence investigates two primary strategies employed to frame and sustain power relations: first, the use of loaded language and dehumanizing tactics that categorize certain groups as othered and create us-versus-them narratives and, second, the deployment of thought-terminating clichés that prevent further questioning or critical engagement, fostering inflexible, binary perspectives. Through this analysis, students gain insight into how language has historically served as a tool for division and hierarchy—and how it continues to do so today.

In this sequence, students engage with sixteenth-century colonial texts by the Spaniards Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda and Bernal Díaz del Castillo that depict Native Americans through a European lens.7 Preclass activities provide context for the readings, guiding students through discussions about the texts’ purpose and intended audience and supporting students’ comprehension of the excerpts. In class, working in small groups, students are asked to identify and analyze the distinct adjectives and pronouns used to describe they (Native Americans) and we (Spaniards). This process reveals how language constructs otherness and establishes a stark opposition between groups. Students observe terms such as “servants,” “barbarians,” “ignorant,” “inhuman,” “brutes,” “malicious,” “demons,” “diabolical,” “sodomites,” “cannibals,” and “drunkards” used to describe Native Americans, while descriptors like “prudent,” “powerful,” “perfect,” “dominant,” “just,” “natural law,” “natural order,” and “moral virtue” are reserved for descriptions of Spaniards. After presenting their findings to the class, students are asked to identify textual arguments the writers use to justify the power dynamics that led to the dehumanization and oppression of Native Americans.

Students focus on three primary concepts: the natural order, wherein the powerful dominate the weak; classical philosophical precepts from Aristotle and Saint Thomas Aquinas that suggest that the barbaric should be governed by the civilized; and divine law, according to which the Spanish were chosen by God to expand the true religion and save the souls of those who did not yet know it. Here, the combination of natural, philosophical, and religious laws is presented to students as a perfect thought-terminating cliché, against which no one would dare to position themselves for fear of being labeled as opposed to what is natural, civilized, and divine.

After identifying these loaded-language uses and semantic stop signs, the lesson shifts to examine how such linguistic representations permeated Spanish colonial society, being produced and reproduced until they became ingrained in the period’s collective imagination. Students are divided into three groups and asked to analyze depictions of Native Americans and colonizers in three paintings created by artists who never set foot in the Americas—and thus lacked firsthand knowledge of Native peoples, customs, and contexts. Each group produces a reflection on the connections between Sepúlveda’s and Díaz del Castillo’s texts and art produced between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries,8 tracing the impact these texts had on popular perceptions of nativeness and the evolution of these perceptions—or lack thereof—over time. To conclude this sequence, after group presentations, a class discussion establishes links between students’ learning about colonial times and contemporary events through prompts such as the following:

Consider how certain terms were historically used to justify colonial actions and enforce oppressive policies. Are similar words used today to create otherness? Reflect on specific examples from current media or political rhetoric where certain populations are described with dehumanizing terms. How do these terms shape public opinion, and what are the implications of such language for social policy? What semantic stop signs exist that may prevent critique of these loaded uses of language?

The sequence then shifts to the nineteenth-century Venezuelan independence movement, where students examine a speech by Simón Bolívar directed toward Venezuelans who are seeking liberation. In class, students compare Bolívar’s linguistic choices with those of Sepúlveda and Díaz del Castillo, analyzing how terminology now serves to reframe the Spaniards as the demonized other and the Venezuelans as virtuous liberators. Close examination of Bolívar’s rhetoric reveals a reversal of roles through similar loaded language, employed from a different viewpoint and context, which opens a discussion about the continuity of these rhetorical techniques across historical contexts. In Bolívar’s rhetoric, the Spanish are portrayed as inhuman with terms such as “barbaric oppressors,” “rapists,” “criminals against law and honor,” “monsters,” “evil,” “demonic,” and “tyrants,” while Venezuelans are depicted with terms such as “just,” “free,” “endowed with sacred rights,” “magnanimous,” “good citizens,” “honest,” “honorable,” and “innocent.”

To deepen their understanding of how linguistic choices shape perception, students identify Bolívar’s use of the first person alongside impersonal constructions (such as the impersonal se, passive structures, and the royal we). This activity highlights how Bolívar distances himself from violent actions against Spaniards through impersonal forms while associating himself with justice and brotherhood through personal constructions. This nuanced language enables Bolívar to construct an image of moral leadership, which contrasts with earlier colonial rhetoric. Through this activity, students observe how Bolívar’s use of personal forms emphasizes solidarity and justice, while impersonal forms distance Bolívar from punitive actions against the Spanish. Additionally, these linguistic choices act as a thought-terminating cliché, since those punitive actions are presented as beyond individual agency, inevitable, or even fated—thus discouraging further scrutiny and diffusing responsibility for consequences.

To underscore this, students transform impersonal sentences into first-person constructions, making Bolívar the explicit subject of actions. For instance, phrases like “Todo español que no conspire contra la tiranía en favor de la justa causa, . . .  será tenido por enemigo [y] será irremisiblemente pasado por las armas” and “Nosotros somos enviados a destruir a los españoles, a proteger a los americanos, y a restablecer los gobiernos republicanos” take on a different tone when Bolívar is positioned as the active agent: “Yo soy enviado para destruir a los españoles” and “Pasaré por las armas a todos los españoles.”9 As these statements become less impersonal, they lose their aura of indisputable truth, which clarifies for students the role of language as a semantic stop sign. To conclude this reflection, the class engages in a group discussion prompted by questions like these: “Bolívar’s strategic use of personal and impersonal language constructs a compassionate identity while distancing him from punitive actions. Can you think of recent examples where public figures use language to avoid accountability or enhance their moral image? Why might this be effective?”

As a culminating activity, students apply their insights by creating their own fictional short speeches, incorporating loaded language and semantic stop signs into their text to advocate a particular viewpoint. This exercise offers students firsthand experience in crafting persuasive language and understanding the ethical implications of language. They exchange their work with peers, who then identify and critique examples of loaded language and thought-terminating clichés within each piece. This reflection solidifies students’ critical awareness as they consider how language can shape perception and reinforce ideologies, both in historical texts and in contemporary discourse.

In our classes, we hold a privileged position to challenge preconceived notions associated with the cultures and peoples represented by the languages we teach. By curating materials for our students, we can present, deconstruct, and move beyond the historically entrenched stereotypical images that have characterized these communities. As Cristina Ros i Solé contends, the language classroom is an ideal setting to question cultural representations that articulate hierarchical relationships between the students’ society and the society they are learning about. This setting also allows us to propose dynamics and perspectives that engage students more integrally.

Language classes that are grounded in the use of authentic materials, real-life language applications, and analysis of cultural artifacts created by the target community promote heightened student engagement. By including voices that narrate firsthand experiences—through guest speakers and testimonies, for example—we enable students to personally experience and interact with these materials and people, which fosters an internalization of the “other’s” life situation, from the other’s perspective. This aligns with what Amy Coplan describes as “other-oriented perspective-taking,” a form of true empathy that facilitates intersubjective understanding (6)—which is crucial for combating processes of othering and dehumanization.10

These pedagogical approaches prepare our students to navigate the diverse cultural constructs they encounter in their daily lives through various media. This is of particular importance in a context in which the rise of applications and social networks that promote and rely on user-generated content has led to a greater socialization and horizontal distribution of information. These technologies provide direct access to discourses and testimonies that previously lacked platforms for amplification, which has broadened the range of narratives that represent different perspectives and worldviews. However, these platforms also present challenges related to representation, partiality, and mass consumption, a reality we can address by leveraging the tools we develop and implement in our language classes.

Social networks like TikTok, Instagram, and X (formerly Twitter) facilitate the creation of more diverse materials but also shift most of the responsibility of curating these materials to the users. Without expert guidance, users must adopt a critical stance toward the content they consume, assessing the veracity of information, considering content creators’ intentions and biases, and understanding the reasons behind content visibility within the platforms. Additionally, users must be aware of their own positioning in relation to the content and must recognize the potential influence of echo chambers and filter bubbles induced by algorithms.11 Encouraging students to challenge and critically examine discourses and testimonies disseminated through social media—while considering their own sociopolitical contexts and those of the content creators—becomes a valuable habit nurtured in our language classes.

Language educators have a unique opportunity to foment a classroom atmosphere that values diverse perspectives and prompts students to question and challenge hegemonic discourses. When we encourage students to critically evaluate differing viewpoints and understand the underlying assumptions and implications of each argument, we promote a more comprehensive and nuanced understanding of complex issues. This process enhances students’ analytical skills and also cultivates an empathetic and informed engagement with the world.

Indeed, language serves not only as a tool for communication but also as a cornerstone in shaping, challenging, and upholding sociopolitical narratives. The skills acquired through the study of languages—and the literatures, arts, and cultures associated to them—are instrumental in unpacking and comprehending the nuances of divisive political questions. By emphasizing critical thinking, interpretive analysis, and empathetic understanding, we can guide students through exploration of the multilayered dimensions of contentious sociopolitical issues, and can elucidate the intricate relationship between language, dehumanization, and narrative formation. Pedagogical approaches that integrate a critical analysis of linguistic and cultural constructs establish an educational environment where students are encouraged to examine and deconstruct narratives that perpetuate division and exclusion. By equipping them with these critical thinking skills, language educators ensure that students are not merely passive recipients of information but active participants in the ongoing dialogue surrounding the complex sociopolitical challenges that shape our world.

Notes

1 College campuses in the United States have a long history of student demonstrations. While early protests focused primarily on campus life, academic rigor, and governance (Ireland; Neumann), the twentieth century saw a significant broadening of activism to encompass wider social issues. Students used marches, sit-ins, and other forms of protest to address academic freedom and free speech, racial injustice, the United States’ involvement in global conflicts, apartheid and divestment from South Africa, sexual misconduct, and police brutality (Jimenez; Salario; Sartore).

2 See, e.g., Brown; Karjus and Cuskley; Wodak; Simchon et al.

3 In 1975, Bandura et al. conducted a study that demonstrated how language can significantly influence behavior. A group of college students were led to believe they were overhearing a research assistant describe human test subject groups as either “nice” or “animals.” Then the students were tasked with delivering electric shocks to these labeled groups. Shock intensity increased linearly for those labeled “animals,” and those labeled “nice” received the least shock intensity.

4 Building on Bandura’s work, Waytz and Schroeder propose a distinction between two modes of dehumanization: “by commission,” in which there is an active denial of others’ humanity, and “by omission,” in which individuals passively fail to recognize others’ humanity (251).

5 For instance, the use of “special military operation” (Gigova and Mogul) and “targeted operations” (Magid) when referring to territory occupation and military strikes, or “assisted return” when describing migrant deportations (Glockner and Sardão Colares).

6 This is what Blommaert labels a “layered simultaneity” in discourse production: “We have to conceive of discourse as subject to layered simultaneity. It occurs in a real-time, synchronic event, but it is simultaneously encapsulated in several layers of historicity, some of which are within the grasp of the participants while others remain invisible but are nevertheless present” (130–31).

7 The texts used in class are excerpts from Sepulveda’s Tratado sobre las justas causas de la guerra contra los indios and Díaz del Castillo’s Historia verdadera de la conquista de Nueva España.

8 Paintings by Theodore de Bry (América, 1590–1634), Juan González and Miguel González (Conquista de México por Hernán Cortés 24–25 y 26, 1698), and Dióscoro Teófilo Puebla y Tolín (Primer desembarco de Cristóbal Colón en América, 1862).

9 “Every Spaniard who does not conspire against tyranny in favor of the just cause . . . will be considered an enemy [and] will be inexorably put to death”; “We are sent to destroy the Spaniards, to protect the Americans, and to restore republican governments”; “I am sent to destroy the Spaniards”; “I will put all Spaniards to death” (my trans. here and throughout).

10 Coplan defines empathy as “a complex imaginative process through which an observer simulates another person’s situated psychological states while maintaining clear self-other differentiation” (6) and distinguishes empathy from “emotional contagion,” which is an automatic process of mimicking another’s emotional state without self-other differentiation (8).

11 An echo chamber occurs when the user is presented only with content created by like-minded individuals; a filter bubble refers to the way that our past online behavior influences the information we see online, particularly in social media. For more on the impact of echo chambers and filter bubbles in cognitive processes and social polarization, see, among others, Brady et al.; Kitchens et al.; Pariser; Tucker.

Works Cited

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Antihostility Pedagogies: Humility, Empathy, Reciprocity

Hostility: our students have never been without it. This realization dawned on me in the middle of a sophomore seminar, when I asked students if they were planning to vote in the 2024 presidential election. What I heard was worrying. The 2020 election was the first in which my students were eligible to vote—a hostile election not just publicly but privately as well, as my students felt distinctly the familial hostility of supporting the candidate of their choice who was not their parents’ choice, or, even more worrying, the hostility they felt toward themselves when they voted for the candidate of their parents’ choice who was not genuinely their own choice. Such turmoil was laid for my students at an early age. In their middle school years, they witnessed the demise of what was then hailed as the “Obama Method” of negotiating with hostile actors through “attempts to find common ground, expressions of respect for the adversary’s core beliefs, and profuse hope for cooperation” (Chait). In their high school years, my students witnessed not only the repeated undermining and weaponizing of this method but also the increasingly public and ugly enthusiasms of those who filibuster reforms, obstruct justice, and idolize brutality. Thus my and many students arrive, from the dinner table to the ballot box, to our classrooms finding entirely normal hostility’s ongoing “judicial mythology of trial and judgment, crime and punishment,” which relishes in “indictment and argument, verdict and sentence” (Solomon 227). Our students are victims of hostility gone mainstream in spheres both political and pedagogical—hostility deployed not to create meaningful change but instead, through muscularity and machismo, to maintain an adversarial stance at any cost (see Felski 10).

Our students have never been without hostility. But we can show them that hostility is not the only way. As experts in the art of reading, we can demonstrate how, as Kevin M. Gannon notes, hostility is sustained by bad reading: a deliberate engineering of “backlash” predicated on intentionally selective misreading, so that the injustices that a more genuine act of reading reveals are obscured through “a bogeyman that exists mostly in their own fevered imaginations” (112).1 Pointing out hostility as a poor way—and not the only way—to read can be revelatory to students for whom hostility has been naturalized as the primary mode of argument and analysis. When I arrived at my current institution, I was surprised by how students in the required literature survey would describe characters as bad or wrong, as if diagnosing the characters’ morality—all the while never probing their own—was the sole goal of interpretation. They mastered the task, witnessed in public life, of reading to invent an unworthy character on whom they could assign blame or fault.

Silvan Tomkins, the pioneer of affect theory, writes that “the primary function of anger is to make bad things worse” (115). Anger demands solutions to bad matters. By contrast, hostility has no solution in mind because it finds satisfaction in its own sustenance. Hostility thrives because its pedagogy is simple: come to a conclusion that those in your in-group would agree with, invent a straw man to represent the out-group, and demonize the straw man as the antithesis of your conclusion. This pedagogy is what hostile leaders model and what their adherents listen for; indeed, it is what “keeps followers hostile . . . and in need of their leadership” (Engels 306). Hostility’s pedagogy requires judges and juries, audiences and executioners; and, above all, hostility requires a demagogue who comes to the conclusions and invents the antithetical straw men for followers to pile on. Hostility is as nondemocratic as it is anti-intellectual: hostility teaches fight or flight, adherence or avoidance.

But hostility’s trenchant presence in public life should remind us of what hostility wants us to forget: there are other ways of looking at bad matters. It is not axiomatic that “without an outrage or an injustice, without a villain to blame, there is simply no cause” (Jasper 46). Causes exist even if we do not resort to a phony pedagogy of villains and heroes, and there are ways to read and arguments to make that do not turn strangers into enemies but rather create new and enriching allies. I call these antihostility pedagogies: approaches to teaching that challenge hostility’s assumptions and ubiquitous presence in public life by cultivating alternative affective investments through careful reading. Here I explore three pedagogies that I rely on in teaching my medical humanities and literature courses. To me, these pedagogies encourage moments of reflection and conversation, of introspection and sharing: positive energies—unlike centrist calls for civility that are easily overwhelmed by hostility’s noise or a both-sides-matter approach that induces apathy and cynicism—that empower students to explore the paradoxes of their values, probe the assumptions of their worldviews, and understand the importance of others as academic and civic neighbors.2 These pedagogies vivify the importance of the humanities in the classroom and in life, for such pedagogies put the principles of the humanities into practice and also bring the humanities to the person; antihostility pedagogies meet students where they are and show students new causes they can affiliate with—causes to which they do not need to be led but rather can be joined by others in new solidarities. The way to begin thriving in a world where hostility is naturalized is to find, and share, new ways of reading.

Humility

Hostility emerges from an ersatz certainty—a conviction that the world should be one way, my way. Under this presumption, everything that is not as I assume it is becomes an obstacle, an enemy. This is why hostile readers rely on cliché and caricature, for they are so certain of themselves that they need not look, probe, or explore. Hostile readers have a sense of conviction which comes with the urge to turn others into convicts, to moralize one’s certainty so that the world is not protean but Manichean. Hostility replaces reading with ego.

This may be why my medical humanities students find so productively unsettling two essays by the physician-writers Atul Gawande and Sayantani DasGupta, for they both caution against the jump to hostile conclusions. Gawande’s “Curiosity and What Equality Really Means,” originally given as a commencement speech at the medical school of the University of California, Los Angeles, explores his treatment of a prisoner who slashed his own wrist and swallowed part of a razor blade. Attempting to get the prisoner to sit still so he can stitch the prisoner’s wrist, Gawande finds that he must first set aside the enormity of the prisoner’s crimes and approach him as one human being to another—not necessarily coming to like the prisoner, but being present as the prisoner explains his own sense of anger and injustice. “For the next hour, I just sewed and listened, trying to hear the feelings behind his words,” Gawande writes. In doing so, he comes to realize that “we are not sufficiently described by the best thing we have ever done, nor are we sufficiently described by the worst thing we have ever done. We are all of it.”

Gawande’s use of the word we is humility-inducing, destabilizing the pedagogy that hostility relies on, challenging its assumption that people, including our own selves, are purely good or bad. I am struck by how Gawande’s we demands that I revise my sense of me. Gawande’s we requires me to acknowledge that I am not solely my best or my worst, and, further, that I am a person whose self derives from both good and bad, and everything in between. To take such a stance toward myself only genuinely succeeds when I apply the stance to others too, as I work to “think with rather than against, whether the objects of those prepositions are texts or people” (Fitzpatrick 34). In this way, Gawande’s dictum performs an affective stitching of self to other akin to the visceral stitching he performs on the prisoner. Gawande’s speech is a reminder that listening, reading, and interpreting are acts of threading—a way of interlacing oneself with others and, in the process, stitching together something that is healing for all involved. This is another way of saying that humility begins conversation, the intertwining of entanglements, of self and other, critic and text, that go beyond what each offers separately. Humility is a way of threading our voice into another’s—which, if we look at it this way, is exactly what we want our students to do when we ask them to make a critical argument about a text.

We cannot do this if we assume what the other’s story is. Humility asks that once we begin to listen, we continue to listen, just as when we begin a text, we need to finish it, for every person is unique and every tale is distinct. This is why DasGupta, in her Lancet essay “Narrative Humility,” is concerned with a “cultural competency” model to approaching patients, a model that infers that, once they have attained competency, all people are legible. There is something aggressive in this inference, as if “mastering the other, rather than examining the internal cultures, prejudices, fears, or identifications of the self in relation to that other” is a priority hidden within it (981). And a hostile priority, too: DasGupta writes of a colleague’s encounter with another physician who interrupts the colleague’s explanation of their illness, saying, “You don’t have to say any more. I know exactly how your story ends” (980). Such hostility is grandiose, for it arrogantly assumes that an entire conclusion can be derived from an introduction, and in doing so, encourages silence in place of speaking—passivity instead of agency. This hostility is akin to students who read the first chapter of a novel or critics who read the introduction to an article and feel so certain of themselves that they have no unction for what the other says and how the other says it.

Students (or critics) who contort a text so that the text is little more than their paper’s thesis do hostile work. So do critics who read only according to the strictures that professional competency allows. I can think of no better way of keeping hostility at bay in the literature classroom than to affirm that the stories we read are not stories we can assume to know. The patient’s story “entirely belongs to him,” DasGupta reminds us (980). The text always has more to tell than we can see the first time, and just as we learn something new every time we read a text, our relationships with others grow when we return to others with humility and openness.

Empathy

Empathy is often misunderstood as a kind of “Obama Method,” a demonstration of “goodwill and interest in accord” (Chait), the purpose of which is to win over an opponent or establish a common ground for those who have differing perspectives. This misunderstood sense of empathy fails; the hostile have no interest in finding common ground. And, more important, empathy, in this form, becomes a kind of paraphrase—the taking and translating of another’s language or perspective into familiar, more palatable terms. This is what the formalists rightly caution readers against, for such taking and translating deprives us of the uniqueness of another’s meaning and eliminates the fundamental inexactness of our relationship with one another. A better sense of empathy as a pedagogy is one that continually reminds us that empathy is a practice but it is not a panacea.

Leslie Jamison, in her essay “The Empathy Exams,” writes, “Empathy isn’t just remembering to say that must be really hard—it’s figuring out how to bring difficulty into the light so it can be seen at all” (5). Jamison reveals, through this trite phrase, a lazy slide into pity—“that must be really hard”—when empathy is, in practice, a matter of making the difficult visible in its own terms, in its own language. Empathy, like reading, requires us “to pay attention, to extend ourselves” as we encounter the uniqueness of expression (23). Through such extending, we learn what is denotative and what is connotative—the nuances of what is said and how it is said—and, in doing so, we understand what becomes united and what remains divided.

“The Empathy Exams” is more than just an essay about empathy: it is a test of empathy. I assign this essay in my literature and medicine course because it often reveals how readily students will read with empathy or how readily they will read with hostility. In the essay, Jamison undergoes two medical procedures—an abortion and a cardiac ablation—one after the other. The latter procedure often goes without student comment. The first procedure, though, can elicit the fight-or-flight reflex that occurs in the presence of hostility: for students inclined to fight, Jamison becomes a right person or a wrong person for undergoing an abortion; students who are inclined to flee simply stop talking altogether—in the case of one student several years ago, for the remainder of the course.

To stem this reflex, I find myself returning to Jamison’s exploration of empathy as one that is both inspired by and entangled in the complication of her dual medical procedures, which produce, one after the other, what she tries in the essay to bring to light—the problem of empathy itself. If it is true, as Jamison writes, that the word empathy “suggests you enter a person’s pain as you’d enter another country, through immigration, customs” (6), then the essentials of close reading—narrative, form, language—are needed to fully understand the density of the other’s point of view before we can arrive at an interpretation. The essay asks that readers remain cognizant that they are travelers on another’s ground, not invaders seeking to repurpose a foreign country for their benefit. As Kathleen Fitzpatrick writes, Jamison’s essay is a reminder that empathy calls on us “not just to feel for others but to simultaneously acknowledge their irreconcilable otherness” (42).

Jamison describes empathy as a “border crossing by way of query” (6). Readers can develop an empathetic relationship to a text by asking the questions that Jamison sees as empathy-inducing: “What grows where you are? What are the laws? What animals graze here?” (6). Such questions require readers to closely study the world of a literary work, to feel for the skeleton on which the work hangs, to understand what is sowed and cultivated in its soil, what feeds and nurtures it. These are the types of questions that students and critics should ask before they begin the “digging-down” that Rita Felski critiques, an act that is predicated on a hostile orientation because it assumes that a text is “composed of strata and its meanings are hidden from sight” (56). Jamison’s questions, as questions of reading, oblige us to survey before we burrow, for we are not in an empathetic relationship with a text if we slash and burn its foliage or frack its formations to generate discursive value.

Reciprocity

Antihostility pedagogies have one goal: by changing the relationship between reader and text, to change the way people relate to one another. To do so, antihostility pedagogies provide alternative pleasures to “the excitement and enjoyment of fighting” that hostility offers (Tomkins 184). A pedagogy based on reciprocity is a teaching practice based on mutual learning, changing the normative vertical relationship between professor and student, and among students as well, into a relationship that is horizontal, mutual, and reciprocal. Reciprocity expands the horizon of the classroom so that students and professors can mutually recognize that we are not only taught but are forever teaching.

Nicci Gerrard, in her study of patients diagnosed with dementia and their loved ones, writes repeatedly about the importance of reciprocity. “We are often told we have to enter the world of people with dementia,” Gerrard notes, “and that is useful advice. . . . [B]ut we should also remember that they have something to teach us . . . these people have lived longer than most and they have the best stories, the most knowledge” (170). What may be of most importance to literary critics is Gerrard’s emphasis on stories and their sharing, whether it is a daughter going through the family scrapbook with her mother or a son singing along with his father as a dusty shellac record spins in the background. At home or at school, in moments of reciprocity, self and other collaborate to negotiate—if not construct—a text, each supplying the other with insight and expertise. In a reciprocal relationship, “[b]oth are agents; both are influenced by the other’s agency” in a mutually affirming way (Charon and Marcus 285). Meaning comes from what is shared, and the sum of what is shared is what keeps self and other, student and teacher, critic and text, together.

One of the many pleasures of teaching interdisciplinary humanities is its ripeness for reciprocity. There are so many stories and knowledges—so many ways in which our disciplines are entangled in understanding even the simplest of terms, so many discourses in the interdisciplinary classroom ready to be threaded—that the success of the course ultimately depends on the extent to which students are willing to enter one another’s worlds. As students in my literature and medicine class worked through Margaret Edson’s play Wit, a student in the premedical program sailed through reading the inventory of agents that constitute the main character’s chemotherapy regimen, and a literature major just as smartly traversed the poems of John Donne, the main character’s focus of study. The students were reading so confidently—and so loudly—that I worried they would soon shout one another down. At first what I feared were two camps staking out favored turf suddenly shifted when the literature major extemporized, “Hamlet, act 5, scene 2.” Indeed, Edson’s play borrows from Shakespeare the famous line “May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” Turning to face the literature major, the premed student asked, “How did you know that?” Before the literature major could answer, the premed student said, in earnest, “It’s so cool you know that!”

At that moment, two students entered each other’s world, and, in doing so, they changed the arc of the course. The students were surprised by each other’s acumen, by their ability to be experts, to have reservoirs of knowledge that furthered each other’s understanding of the play. They had, in this moment, done what the main characters of the play cannot do. In Wit, Vivian Bearing, a professor of English and specialist in John Donne, has earned her campus reputation for the exactness of her research and the coldness of her teaching. She sees her students as never being able to exhibit the same enthusiasm or intelligence that she does toward Donne, and it can be seen as poetic justice that once she is diagnosed with stage-four ovarian cancer, she is assigned a medical fellow who is a former student of hers, and who is equally fascinated by research and cold in demeanor. Both characters possess an awesome understanding of their disciplines, but given their hostility toward people, neither can use their knowledge for the purpose of care. The play is a warning that, without reciprocity, hostility is always near, especially in the fellow’s blatant ignoring, at the play’s conclusion, of Vivian’s do-not-resuscitate order, and the violence that ensues. My two students, by contrast, taught each other—and something more than disciplinary knowledge, too: a regard for expertise and an appreciation of the other, an intellectual and interpersonal act of care. This is what antihostility pedagogies do: they strive to reaffirm what is greater than ourselves and, by doing so, keep “human value intact” (Gerrard 170).


Humility, empathy, reciprocity: these pedagogies offer alternative ways of approaching texts—and alternative ways of approaching one another—than through the hostility that saturates daily life. Antihostility pedagogies create new infrastructures for criticism, infrastructures that model more equal, thorough, and ultimately caring varieties of inquiry. They remind us, as Catherine J. Denial writes, that “we should believe students, and we should believe in students” (11). And antihostility pedagogies remind us, as scholars and as educators, to avoid perpetuating hostility in our own work. They ask us to model a criticism that balances our desire to “demystify, destabilize, denaturalize” with an equal desire to “recontextualize, reconfigure, recharge” (Felski 17). I would not underestimate the radicality of such work, especially as hostility comes nearer and nearer to the classroom through the efforts of “warrior military classes, adversarial economic classes who exult in hostile takeovers” and “politicians who exult in defeating their opponents” to appropriate the university for their own purposes (Tomkins 184). As the practitioners of hostile pedagogies continue to make bad matters worse, we must seek ways to make bad matters better, through what we teach and how we teach it, through a pedagogy that is not only relevant to the classroom but to the practice—and future—of contemporary life.

Notes

1 As I was preparing this essay, the American Association of University Professors published a report that details the deliberateness of “wealthy donors and political partisans” who have “turned to their well-funded think tanks to wage a relentless political attack on scholarship with which they disagreed. Rather than engaging the scholarship on its merit and in good faith, they mischaracterized, polemicized, and weaponized whole fields of academic study” to suit their purposes. The report details how “[t]he highly partisan think-tank echo chamber has manufactured a narrative that universities are out-of-control, ‘woke,’ and partisan institutions” that can only be saved through demagogic means (Kamola 8).

2 “Civility is not care, but it pretends to be” (Nyong’o and Tompkins). Those who plead for civility often engage in a rhetorical hand-wringing that, while sounding like care, is deliberate in its failure to distinguish between the justifiability of anger and the unjustifiability of hostility. The goal of their pleading is to reconceal negative affect of all types such that the pleader’s elite status remains unthreatened.

Works Cited

Chait, Jonathan. “The Obama Method.” The New Republic, 1 July 2009, p. 2.

Charon, Rita, and Eric R. Marcus. “A Narrative Transformation of Health and Healthcare.” The Principles and Practice of Narrative Medicine, edited by Charon et al., Oxford UP, 2017, pp. 271–91.

DasGupta, Sayantani. “Narrative Humility.” The Lancet, vol. 371, no. 9617, Mar. 2008, pp. 980–81.

Denial, Catherine J. A Pedagogy of Kindness. U of Oklahoma P, 2024.

Engels, Jeremy. “The Politics of Resentment and the Tyranny of the Minority: Rethinking Victimage for Resentful Times.” Rhetoric Society Quarterly, vol. 40, no. 4, Oct. 2010, pp. 303–25.

Felski, Rita. The Limits of Critique. U of Chicago P, 2015.

Fitzpatrick, Kathleen. Generous Thinking: A Radical Approach to Saving the University. Johns Hopkins UP, 2019.

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