Tag: philosophy

The Effort Mandate: Why Your Milkshake Scene Matters More Than Your Netflix Queue

My students read Cal Newport, who argues—rightly—that happiness has less to do with basking in self-care rituals and more to do with rolling up your sleeves and pursuing a life of relentless, purpose-driven work. Newport, like a modern-day monk with a MacBook, insists that true contentment doesn’t come from “finding your passion” or retiring to some fantasy Airbnb with pizza in one hand and a remote in the other. Instead, happiness is built the old-fashioned way: through grit, sweat, and enough existential gumption to brave the storms of effort.

Alex Hutchinson, in “The Paradox of Hard Work,” asks why we pursue brutal, bone-crunching tasks when our evolutionary wiring is supposedly set to “energy-saving mode.” He calls it puzzling. I don’t. The so-called “Effort Paradox” isn’t a mystery; it’s a truth so obvious we dress it up in academic hand-wringing to avoid confronting it: people crave hard things because without them, we rot.

Whether it’s Peter Gabriel locking himself in a farmhouse to claw So into existence, or Isabel Wilkerson spending fifteen years writing The Warmth of Other Suns, meaningful work demands blood. Even weekend warriors know this. Ask a suburbanite about their yearlong bathroom renovation—listen to them swell with the pride of a soldier recounting a siege.

And then there’s art. Cheap, glossy, instant-gratification art that evaporates from your mind before you reach the parking lot. You didn’t watch a movie—you consumed a content burrito and forgot the taste. Contrast that with There Will Be Blood: a cinematic ordeal so dense and punishing that it leaves claw marks on your psyche. I think of that milkshake scene more than I think of most people I went to college with. That’s not paradox. That’s payoff.

So let’s stop calling it a paradox and start calling it what it is: The Effort Mandate. Meaning isn’t a gift; it’s a byproduct of voluntary suffering. You want happiness? Go earn it.

March 25, 2025
Study of Elizabeth Anderson’s Essay “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?”

The Death of God and the Birth of Morality: Elizabeth Anderson’s Scorching Rebuttal

Elizabeth Anderson’s essay “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?” dismantles the common theological lament that without divine oversight, humanity will descend into a chaotic orgy of depravity. Many theists clutch their pearls at the thought, insisting that without a celestial referee to mete out cosmic penalties, civilization will spiral into anarchy. Thomas Hobbes famously argued that without the fear of God (or at least a brutal state to keep us in check), the world would devolve into barbaric lawlessness. Many religious folks echo the same sentiment: God is the architect of morality, and without Him, we’d be adrift in a sea of moral relativism where anything goes.

Anderson, however, is unconvinced. And she has receipts.

The Empirical Case Against Divine Morality

Over the years, I’ve encountered countless students from families who don’t pray before meals, recite scripture, or fear the wrath of an omnipotent sky judge. Yet, somehow, these irreligious households manage to produce people who value love, loyalty, and self-sacrifice. It’s almost as if morality emerges from human relationships rather than from divinely dictated rulebooks.

Moreover, if belief in God were the key to moral enlightenment, we’d expect religious people to be paragons of virtue. Instead, experience tells us otherwise—history is littered with holy men committing unholy acts. For every saint, there’s a scoundrel who weaponizes faith for personal gain. Anderson, recognizing this discrepancy, launches a blistering critique of the idea that belief in God is a prerequisite for moral decency.

The ‘Evil Tree’ of Secularism: A Christian Argument

Anderson begins with what she calls the “Common Christian Argument,” which holds that atheism, evolution, and secularism are the roots of an evil tree bearing the bitter fruits of abortion, homosexuality, drugs, rock music, and general debauchery. The moral panic here is clear: take God out of the equation, and civilization collapses. William Lane Craig, ever the dutiful Christian apologist, insists that without a divinely ordained moral code, we’d have no objective way of distinguishing good from evil. Anderson sees this argument for what it is—an emotional appeal rather than a reasoned position.

Hell as a Moral Deterrent?

Some argue that the threat of eternal damnation is the only thing keeping humanity from degenerating into lawless hedonism. Jesus himself, according to the Gospels, encouraged people to love God and fear hell in order to stay on the straight and narrow. But Anderson challenges this premise. She suggests that morality isn’t something to be coerced through fear of divine torture chambers. After all, mature adults don’t need the threat of punishment to act ethically—immorality, by its very nature, is often its own punishment, just as virtue is its own reward.

Morality: A Human Invention, Not a Divine Mandate

Anderson argues that morality is not a celestial decree but a social construct, evolving naturally to promote stability and cooperation. Every functioning society—religious or otherwise—has independently developed prohibitions against murder, theft, and deception. These moral codes existed long before Moses chiseled the Ten Commandments into stone. People, it turns out, don’t need divine instruction to figure out that killing each other is a bad idea.

But Were Pagan Societies Morally Inferior?

Of course, not everyone agrees with Anderson’s take. Elaine Pagels, for instance, points out that in the ancient world, pagans were known to abandon unwanted infants to die in the streets—an atrocity that Christians condemned. If we accept this historical tidbit, it complicates Anderson’s argument. Perhaps religious morality has provided unique moral advancements. But even so, that doesn’t mean belief in God is necessary for morality today.

The Big Twist: Religion Isn’t Just Unnecessary for Morality—It’s Often an Obstacle

Anderson’s essay takes a sharp turn when she argues that religion isn’t just an optional framework for morality—it’s often a hindrance. Not only does atheism not lead to moral rot, but theism, particularly in its more fundamentalist forms, frequently produces moral atrocities. The God of the Bible, she points out, is capricious, cruel, and unrestrained by human moral intuitions. If morality is whatever God decrees, then anything—genocide, slavery, child sacrifice—can be justified as divinely ordained.

Anderson gleefully catalogs the Bible’s greatest moral abominations: wars, plagues, ethnic cleansings, infanticide, slavery, and stonings—all endorsed by the divine. The Old Testament, she argues, reads less like a guide to righteousness and more like a blood-soaked manifesto for tribal supremacy.

The New Testament doesn’t escape her ire, either. Jesus’ “family values” leave much to be desired, and Anderson finds the idea of vicarious atonement—Jesus dying for humanity’s sins—particularly repugnant. In her view, the doctrine of substitutionary atonement contradicts the very idea of personal responsibility. If God is all-powerful, why does He need to kill His own son to offer forgiveness? Shouldn’t an omnipotent being be capable of forgiving people without engaging in cosmic blood sacrifice?

Slavery: A Biblical Blind Spot

Anderson also takes aim at the Bible’s endorsement of slavery. If the Bible were truly the ultimate moral guide, wouldn’t it have offered an unambiguous denunciation of human bondage? Instead, scripture treats slavery as an ordinary, even divinely sanctioned, institution. If biblical morality is timeless, why does it reflect the ethical blind spots of its era?

The Rorschach Bible: Faith as a Projection of Our Moral Biases

In one of her most incisive observations, Anderson compares the Bible to a Rorschach test: people emphasize the passages that align with their existing moral inclinations while ignoring the rest. Whether one fixates on “love thy neighbor” or the mass extermination of Canaanites depends more on personal character than divine revelation.

She also critiques the way people worship power rather than goodness. Quoting Hobbes, she suggests that religious reverence often stems from awe at raw power rather than admiration for moral virtue. This, she argues, explains why believers have historically tolerated and even celebrated the authoritarian and often tyrannical nature of their deities.

The Fragile Authority of Religious Belief

Anderson skewers the self-assured claims of religious certainty, mocking the way different faiths confidently declare themselves the one true religion while dismissing all others as absurd. She sees little distinction between the great world religions and the cults of L. Ron Hubbard, Joseph Smith, or Sun Myung Moon. All rely on unverifiable revelations, dubious miracles, and ancient testimonies passed down through unreliable chains of transmission.

Her conclusion? These so-called divine truths, so often contradictory and morally suspect, deserve no privileged position in our ethical deliberations.

So Where Does Moral Authority Come From?

If God isn’t the source of morality, what is? Anderson argues that moral authority comes not from divine fiat but from us—from human beings negotiating ethical principles based on mutual accountability. Morality isn’t about obeying decrees from on high; it’s about navigating the complexities of human coexistence through reason, empathy, and shared experience.

Anderson’s argument is as compelling as it is unsettling. I wish I had her unshakable confidence in atheism. While I still wrestle with the vestigial fear of eternal damnation (an unfortunate byproduct of early indoctrination), I can’t deny the force of her reasoning. If nothing else, “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?” is one of the sharpest, most relentless critiques of theism I’ve ever read.

March 17, 2025
The danger of misunderstanding Steely Dan’s “Deacon Blues”

Reading Why We Write and seeing the world’s elite authors dissect the process that made them flourish forced me to confront a brutal truth: I am not a real writer.

All those decades of grinding out abysmal, unreadable novels weren’t acts of literary craftsmanship—they were performance art, a cosplay so convincing that even I fell for it. I played the role of “the unappreciated novelist” with such dazzling commitment that I actually believed it. And what was my proof of authenticity? Misery and failure.

Surely, I thought, only a true genius could endure decades of rejection, obscurity, and artistic suffering. Surely, my inability to produce a good novel was simply a sign that I was ahead of my time, too profound for this crass and unworthy world.

Turns out, I wasn’t an undiscovered genius—I was just really, really bad at writing novels.

Misery is a tricky con artist. It convinces you that suffering is the price of authenticity, that the deeper your despair, the more profound your genius. This is especially true for the unpublished writer, that tragic figure who has transformed rejection into a sacred ritual. He doesn’t just endure misery—he cultivates it, polishes it, wears it like a bespoke suit of existential agony. In his mind, every unopened response from a literary agent is further proof of his artistic martyrdom. He mistakes his failure for proof that he is part of some elite, misunderstood brotherhood, the kind of tortured souls who scowl in coffee shops and rage against the mediocrity of the world.

And therein lies the grand delusion: the belief that suffering is a substitute for talent, that rejection letters are secret messages from the universe confirming his genius. This is not art—it’s literary cosplay, complete with the requisite brooding and self-pity. The unpublished writer isn’t just chasing publication; he’s chasing the idea of being the tortured artist, as if melancholy alone could craft a masterpiece.

Which brings us to the next guiding principle for Manuscriptus Rex’s rehabilitation:

The belief that the more miserable you are, the more authentic you become. This dangerous belief has its origins in a popular song–none other than Steely Dan’s brooding anthem, “Deacon Blues.”

Like any good disciple, I’ve worshiped at this altar without even realizing it. I, too, have believed I’m the “expanding man”—growing wiser, deeper, more profound—while simultaneously wallowing in self-pity as a misunderstood loser. It’s a special kind of delusion, the spiritual equivalent of polishing a rusty trophy.

To fully grasp this faith, I point you to The Wall Street Journal article, “How Steely Dan Created ‘Deacon Blues’” by Marc Myers. There, Donald Fagen and Walter Becker peel back the curtain on the song’s narrator—a man who could’ve just as easily been named Sad Sack Jones. He’s a suburban daydreamer, stuck in a dull, mediocre life, fantasizing that he’s a hard-drinking, sax-blowing rebel with women at his feet.

Fagen admits the character was designed as a counterpoint to the unstoppable juggernaut of college football’s Crimson Tide—a gleaming machine of winners. In contrast, Deacon Blues is the anthem of the losers, crafted from a Malibu piano room with a sliver of Pacific Ocean peeking through the houses. Becker summed it up best: “Crimson Tide” dripped with grandiosity, so they invented “Deacon Blues” to glorify failure.

And did it work. “Deacon Blues” became the unofficial patron saint for every self-proclaimed misfit who saw their own authenticity in his despair. He was our tragic hero—uncompromising, self-actualized, and romantic in his suffering.

But then I read the article, and the spell broke. We were all suckered by a myth. Like the song’s narrator, we swallowed the fantasy of the “expanding man,” not realizing he was a con artist in his own mind. This isn’t a noble figure battling the world’s indifference—it’s a man marinating in his own mediocrity, dressed up in fantasies of scotch, saxophones, and self-destructive glamour.

Walter Becker wasn’t subtle: the protagonist in “Deacon Blues” is a triple-L loser—an L-L-L Loser. Not a man on the cusp of greatness, but a man clutching a broken dream, pacing through a broken life. Fagen sharpened the knife: this is the guy who wakes up at 31 in his parents’ house and decides he’s suddenly going to “strut his stuff.”

That sad, self-deluded basement dweller? That was the false prophet I’d built my personal religion around. A faith propped up by fantasies and self-sabotage.

The man who inspired me wasn’t a misunderstood genius. He was a cautionary tale. A false path paved with jazz, liquor, and the comforting hum of failure.

The slacker man-child isn’t just a tragic figure crooning in Steely Dan’s “Deacon Blues.” No, he walks among us—lounges among us, really—and I knew one personally. His name was Michael Barley.

We met in the late 1980s at my apartment swimming pool while I was teaching college writing in Bakersfield, a place that practically invents new ways to suffocate ambition. A failed musician who had dabbled in a couple of garage bands, Michael was in his early thirties and bore such a stunning resemblance to Paul McCartney that he could’ve landed a cushy gig as a Vegas impersonator if only ambition hadn’t been a foreign concept to him. He had it all: the same nose, the same mouth, the same melancholy eyes, even the same feathered, shoulder-grazing hair McCartney rocked in the ’70s and ’80s. Sure, he was shorter, stockier, and his cheeks were pockmarked with acne scars, but from a distance—and, really, only from a distance—he was Paul’s sad-sack doppelgänger.

Michael leaned into this resemblance like a man squeezing the last drops from a dry sponge. At clubs, he’d loiter near the bar in a black blazer—his self-anointed “Beatles jacket”—wearing a slack-jawed half-smile, waiting for some starry-eyed woman to break the ice with, “Has anyone ever told you…?” His pickup strategy was less a plan and more a form of passive income. The women did all the work; he just had to stand there and exist. The hardest part of the night, I suspect, was pretending to be surprised when they made the McCartney connection for the hundredth time.

And then he disappeared. For six months, nothing.

When Michael resurfaced, he wasn’t Michael anymore. He was Julian French—an “English musician” with a secondhand accent and thirdhand dreams. He had fled to London, apparently thinking the UK was clamoring for chubby McCartney clones, and when that didn’t pan out (shocking, I know), he slunk back to Bakersfield to live in his parents’ trailer, which, in a tragicomic twist, was attached to an elementary school where his father worked as the janitor and moonlit as a locksmith.

But Michael—excuse me, Julian—was undeterred. He insisted I call him by his new British name, swore up and down that his accent was authentic, and we returned to our old haunts. Now, at the gym and in nightclubs, I watched him work the crowd with his faux-charm and faux-accent, slinging cars and cell phones like a man with no Plan B. His Beatles face was his business card, his only sales pitch. He lived off the oxygen of strangers’ admiration, basking in the glow of almost being someone important.

But here’s the truth: Michael—Julian—wasn’t hustling. He was coasting. His whole life was one long, lazy drift powered by the barest effort. He never married, never had a long-term relationship, never even pretended to have ambition. His greatest challenge was feigning humility when people gushed over his discount McCartney face.

Time, of course, is undefeated. By middle age, Julian’s face began to betray him. His ears and nose ballooned, his jowls sagged, and the resemblance to Paul McCartney evaporated. Without his one-note gimmick, the magic died. The women, the friends, the sales—they all disappeared. So, back to the trailer he went, tail tucked, learning the locksmith trade from his father, as if turning keys could unlock the door to whatever life he’d wasted.

And me? I didn’t judge him. I couldn’t.

Because deep down, I knew I was just as susceptible to the same delusion—the myth of the “Expanding Man.” That romantic fantasy of being a misunderstood artist, swaddled in self-pity, wandering through life with the illusion of authenticity. Like the anti-hero in “Deacon Blues,” Julian wasn’t building a life; he was building a narrative to justify his stagnation.

And wasn’t I doing the same? By the late ’90s, I was approaching 40, professionally afloat but personally shipwrecked—emotionally underdeveloped, the cracks in my personality widening into canyons. I, too, was toeing that fine line between winner and loser, haunted by the possibility that I’d wasted years buying into the same seductive lie that trapped Julian.

That’s the genius of the “Deacon Blue’s” Doctrine—a religion as potent as opium. It sanctifies self-pity, addiction, and delusions of grandeur, repackaging them into a noble code of suffering. It convinces you that stewing in your own misery is a virtue, that being a failure makes you authentic, and that the world just isn’t sophisticated enough to appreciate your “depth.”

But here’s the truth no one tells you: eventually, life hands you your ass on a stick. That’s when you find out which side of the line you’re really on.

March 15, 2025
Ozempification: The Illusion of Instant Transformation in Literature and Life
Here is my second essay prompt for my critical thinking class:

Ozempification: The Illusion of Instant Transformation in Literature and Life

In an age obsessed with quick fixes and instant gratification, the term “Ozempification” captures the growing trend of using external interventions—like weight-loss drugs, social media, or material possessions—to achieve rapid personal transformation. But what happens when these transformations fail to deliver lasting fulfillment? This question is at the heart of both Nikolai Gogol’s “The Overcoat” and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “Winter Dreams.” Just as modern individuals turn to Ozempic to reshape their bodies overnight, Akaky and Dexter chase external symbols of success—the overcoat and Judy Jones—believing these will complete them. Instead, they are confronted with the fleeting, fragile nature of their illusions.

For this 1,700-word essay (MLA format required), analyze how Akaky’s overcoat and Dexter’s infatuation with Judy Jones reflect the desire for instant validation, social mobility, and self-worth—and how these pursuits ultimately lead to disillusionment. Drawing comparisons to the modern phenomenon of Ozempic and similar quick-fix solutions, explore the deeper implications of transformation, identity, and ambition.

Key Focus Areas:
1. Rapid Change and Dependence – How do Akaky’s overcoat and Dexter’s obsession with Judy parallel society’s reliance on instant solutions, such as Ozempic, to achieve dramatic personal change?
2. Validation and Social Mobility – How do both characters seek approval and status through external transformations, believing that a single change will secure their place in the world?
3. Hunger for Identity and Wholeness – What does their fixation on an object (a coat) or a person (Judy) reveal about deeper insecurities and alienation?
4. Consequences of Transformation – How does the theft of Akaky’s overcoat or Dexter’s loss of Judy expose the fragility of basing identity on external factors?
5. The Illusion of Fulfillment – What do these stories suggest about the dangers of believing that external markers—whether material wealth, beauty, or status—can provide lasting happiness?
Assignment Requirements:
- Length: 1,700 words
- Format: MLA (Modern Language Association)
- Sources: Minimum of 3, including:
  - “The Overcoat” by Nikolai Gogol
  - “Winter Dreams” by F. Scott Fitzgerald
  - Class lectures or Canvas materials (optional)
Conclusion:

Consider what these literary cautionary tales reveal about modern anxieties surrounding self-improvement, ambition, and personal reinvention. Is Ozempification a path to self-betterment, or does it reflect a deeper cultural tendency to seek shortcuts to fulfillment? By comparing Akaky and Dexter’s downfalls to contemporary struggles with instant transformation, your essay should explore whether true change comes from within—or if the chase for external validation is doomed to fail.
March 14, 2025
AN ESSAY MUST EMBRACE HUMANIFICATION

Returning to the classroom post-pandemic and encountering ChatGPT, I’ve become fixated on what I now call “the battle for the human soul.” On one side, there’s Ozempification—that alluring shortcut. It’s the path where mediocrity is the destination, and the journey there is paved with laziness. Like popping Ozempic for quick weight loss and calling it a day, the shortcut to academic success involves relying on AI to churn out lackluster work. Who cares about excellence when Netflix is calling your name, right?

On the other side, we have Humanification. This is the grueling path that my personal hero, Frederick Douglass, would champion. It’s the deep work Cal Newport writes about in his best-selling books. Humanification happens when we turn away from comfort and instead plunge headfirst into the difficult, yet rewarding, process of literacy, self-improvement, and helping others rise from their own “Sunken Place”—borrowing from Jordan Peele’s chilling metaphor in Get Out. On this path, the pursuit isn’t comfort; it’s meaning. The goal isn’t a Netflix binge but a life with purpose and higher aspirations.

Reading Tyler Austin Harper’s essay “ChatGPT Doesn’t Have to Ruin College,” I was struck by the same dichotomy of Ozempification on one side of academia and Humanification on the other. Harper, while wandering around Haverford’s idyllic campus, stumbles upon a group of English majors who proudly scoff at ChatGPT, choosing instead to be “real” writers. These students, in a world that has largely tossed the humanities aside as irrelevant, are disciples of Humanification. For them, rejecting ChatGPT isn’t just an academic decision; it’s a badge of honor, reminiscent of Bartleby the Scrivener’s iconic refusal: “I prefer not to.” Let that sink in. Give these students the opportunity to use ChatGPT to write their essays, and they recoil at the thought of such a flagrant self-betrayal.

After interviewing students, Harper concludes that using AI in higher education isn’t just a technological issue—it’s cultural and economic. The disdain these students have for ChatGPT stems from a belief that reading and writing transcend mere resume-building or career milestones. It’s about art for art’s sake. But Harper wisely points out that this intellectual snobbery is rooted in privilege: “Honor and curiosity can be nurtured, or crushed, by circumstance.”

I had to stop in my tracks. Was I so privileged and naive to think I could preach the gospel of Humanification while unaware that such a pursuit costs time, money, and the peace of mind that one has a luxurious safety net in the event the Humanification quest goes awry?

This question made me think of Frederick Douglass, a man who had every reason to have his intellectual curiosity “crushed by circumstance.” In fact, his pursuit of literacy, despite the threat of death, was driven by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. But Douglass, let’s be honest, is an outlier—a hero for the ages. Can we really expect most people, particularly those without resources, to follow that path? Harper’s argument carries weight. Without the financial and cultural infrastructure to support it, aspiring to Humanification isn’t always feasible.

I often tell my students that being rich makes it easier to be an intellectual. Imagine the luxury: you could retreat to an off-grid cabin (complete with Wi-Fi, obviously), gorge on organic gourmet food prepped by your personal chef, and spend your days reading Dostoevsky in Russian and mastering Schubert’s sonatas while taking sunset jogs along the beach. When you emerge back into society, tanned and enlightened, you could boast of your intellectual achievements with ease.

Harper’s point is that wealth facilitates Humanification. At a place like Haverford, with its “writing support, small classes, and unharried faculty,” it’s easier to uphold an honor code and aspire to intellectual purity. But for most students—especially those in public schools—this is a far cry from reality. My wife teaches sixth grade in the public school system, and she’s shared stories of schools that resemble post-apocalyptic wastelands more than educational institutions. We’re talking mold-infested buildings, chemical leaks, and underpaid teachers sleeping in their cars. Expecting students in these environments to uphold an “honor code” and strive for Humanification? It’s not just unrealistic—it’s insulting.

This brings to mind Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Before we can expect students to self-actualize by reading Dostoevsky or rejecting ChatGPT, they need food, shelter, and basic safety. It’s hard to care about literary integrity when you’re navigating life’s survival mode.

As I dive deeper into Harper’s thought-provoking essay on economic class and the honor code, I can’t help but notice the uncanny parallel to the “weight management code” my Critical Thinking students tackle in their first essay. Both seem to hinge not just on personal integrity or effort but on a cocktail of privilege and circumstance. Could it be that striving to be an “authentic writer,” untouched by the mediocrity of ChatGPT and backed by the luxury of free time, is eerily similar to the aspiration of achieving an Instagram-worthy body, possibly aided by expensive Ozempic injections?

It raises the question: Is the difference between those who reject ChatGPT and those who embrace it simply a matter of character, or is it, at least in part, a product of class? After all, if you can afford the luxury of time—time to read Tolstoy and Dostoevsky in your rustic, tech-free cabin—you’re already in a different league. Similarly, if you have access to high-end weight management options like Ozempic, you’re not exactly running the same race as those pounding the pavement on their $20 sneakers.

Sure, both might involve personal effort—intellectual or physical—but they’re propped up by economic factors that can’t be ignored. Whether we’re talking about Ozempification or Humanification, it’s clear that while self-discipline and agency are part of the equation, they’re not the whole story. Class, as uncomfortable as it might be to admit, plays a significant role in determining who gets to choose their path—and who gets stuck navigating whatever options are left over.

I’m sure the issue is more nuanced than that. These are, after all, complex topics that defy oversimplification. But both privilege and personal character need to be addressed if we’re going to have a real conversation about what it means to “aspire” in this day and age.

Returning to Tyler Austin Harper’s essay, Harper provides a snapshot of the landscape when ChatGPT launched in late 2022. Many professors found themselves swamped with AI-generated essays, which, unsurprisingly, raised concerns about academic integrity. However, Harper, a professor at a liberal-arts college, remains optimistic, believing that students still have a genuine desire to learn and pursue authenticity. He views the potential for students to develop along the path of intellectual and personal growth, as very much alive—especially in environments like Haverford, where he went to test the waters of his optimism.

When Harper interviews Haverford professors about ChatGPT violating the honor code, their collective shrug is surprising. They’re seemingly unbothered by the idea of policing students for cheating, as if grades and academic dishonesty are beneath them. The culture at Haverford, Harper implies, is one of intellectual immersion—where students and professors marinate in ideas, ethics, and the contemplation of higher ideals. The honor code, in this rarified academic air, is almost sacred, as though the mere existence of such a code ensures its observance. It’s a place where academic integrity and learning are intertwined, fueled by the aristocratic mind.

Harper’s point is clear: The further you rise into the elite echelons of boutique colleges like Haverford, the less you have to worry about ChatGPT or cheating. But when you descend into the more grounded, practical world of community colleges, where students juggle multiple jobs, family obligations, and financial constraints, ChatGPT poses a greater threat to education. This divide, Harper suggests, is not just academic; it’s economic and cultural. The humanities may be thriving in the lofty spaces of elite institutions, but they’re rapidly withering in the trenches where students are simply trying to survive.

As someone teaching at a community college, I can attest to this shift. My classrooms are filled with students who are not majoring in writing or education. Most of them are focused on nursing, engineering, and business. In this hypercompetitive job market, they simply don’t have the luxury to spend time reading novels, becoming musicologists or contemplating philosophical debates. They’re too busy hustling to get by. Humanification, as an idea, gets a nod in my class discussions, but in the “real world,” where six hours of sleep is a luxury, it often feels out of reach.

Harper points out that in institutions like Haverford, not cheating has become a badge of honor, a marker of upper-class superiority. It’s akin to the social cachet of being skinny, thanks to access to expensive weight-loss drugs like Ozempic. There’s a smugness that comes with the privilege of maintaining integrity—an implication that those who cheat (or can’t afford Ozempic) are somehow morally inferior. This raises an uncomfortable question: Is the aspiration to Humanification really about moral growth, or is it just another way to signal wealth and privilege?

However, Harper complicates this argument when he brings Stanford into the conversation. Unlike Haverford, Stanford has been forced to take the “nuclear option” of proctoring exams, convinced that cheating is rampant. In this larger, more impersonal environment, the honor code has failed to maintain academic integrity. It appears that Haverford’s secret sauce is its small, close-knit atmosphere—something that can’t be replicated at a sprawling institution like Stanford. Harper even wonders whether Haverford is more museum than university—a relic from an Edenic past when people pursued knowledge for its own sake, untainted by the drive for profit or prestige. Striving for Humanification at a place like Haverford may be an anachronism, a beautiful but lost world that most of us can only dream of.

Harper’s essay forces me to consider the role of economic class in choosing a life of “authenticity” or Humanification. With this in mind, I give my Critical Thinking students the following writing prompt, which they will use for the introductory paragraph in their second essay:

Personal Reflection Prompt: Imagining Wealth as a Path to Humanification

Imagine that you have inherited a vast fortune, freeing you from the demands of work and financial survival. With all the time and resources you could ever need, you now have the opportunity to pursue a life focused on intellectual growth and personal fulfillment—a life of Humanification, as opposed to the shortcuts and superficial gains we often settle for in our daily lives.

In this reflection, describe how you would use your newfound wealth to cultivate yourself as a deeply thoughtful, well-read individual. Consider the choices you might make to enrich your mind, whether through travel, rigorous study, artistic pursuits, or meaningful experiences that challenge and expand your understanding of the world. Reflect on how you would resist the temptation of “Ozempification”—the lure of easy, superficial achievements—and instead dedicate yourself to meaningful, enduring growth. How would this life of Humanification impact your values, relationships, and perspective on life?

As you reflect, consider the role of economic class in the pursuit of an “authentic” or “intellectual” life. Do you think wealth plays a decisive role in people’s ability to focus on self-cultivation and Humanification, rather than opting for practical or mundane paths? In your view, is a lack of financial security a valid reason to abandon pursuits often associated with the privileged, like becoming well-read, exploring philosophy, or creating art? Or, do you think that intellectual and personal growth can (and should) be sought regardless of one’s economic situation?

In your response, consider the following:

1. Describe the intellectual and creative pursuits you would invest in, explaining why these activities appeal to you and how they might contribute to a richer, fuller life.

2. Explore the challenges and choices involved in resisting the temptation for easy, unearned rewards. How would you stay true to your pursuit of meaning?

3. Reflect on how living a life dedicated to Humanification might change the way you view success, happiness, and fulfillment.

4. Finally, consider the role of privilege in your imagined life of Humanification. Would your goals and values shift if you had fewer resources, and would you find it justifiable to focus on more practical pursuits instead?

______

While I acknowledge that Humanification is partly a function of class privilege, I can’t give up on it as a worthwhile and practical pursuit for my students. It doesn’t cost bucket loads of money to become a self-taught autodidactic, an intellectually curious person who hungers to learn something new every day. To be a person whose curiosity is more treasured than consumerism and pleasure-seeking is to be a happy person. This idea is argued persuasively in Jeffrey Rosen’s The Pursuit of Happiness, in which he delves into learning to free ourselves from the maudlin personality–a person who dotes on narcissistic and inconsequential trivia and is enslaved to the irrational passions while instead becoming a self-possessed person of hungers for wisdom and virtue. One of Rosen’s most inspiring examples is Frederick Douglass who had an early understanding that literacy was forbidden to enslaved people because it posed a direct threat to the institution of slavery itself. Douglass’ master knew that an illiterate slave was a docile, childlike being who, lacking the tools for critical thought, would be less likely to rebel or even question their role as a slave. Rosen captures the brilliance of Douglass’ epiphany: the realization that slavery’s cruelty lay not only in physical bondage but also in the systematic effort to shackle the mind. As Douglass learned to read in secret, under the threat of death, he embarked on a journey of self-liberation that proved literacy was both a radical act of defiance and a tool for Humanification—rising from ignorance to a life of meaning, purpose, and intellectual freedom.

One of Douglass’ key turning points was his discovery of The Columbian Orator, a book he purchased at thirteen, which provided him with principles of eloquence and oratory, along with powerful antislavery messages. In it, Douglass encountered a dialogue between a master and slave, a reflection on the dehumanizing effects of slavery that resonated deeply with his own experience. This book laid bare the injustices of slavery and confirmed that developing literacy and reason were not just acts of rebellion, but essential to becoming fully human. Rosen points out that Douglass was convinced that slavery was rooted in the avarice of man, and his reading of The Columbian Orator dismantled any lingering doubts that God had willed his enslavement. For Douglass, literacy opened the door to understanding slavery as a violation of “God’s eternal justice.”

Rosen’s analysis brings to life Douglass’ belief that the root of oppression—whether racial or otherwise—lies in people’s unreasoning hatred and their desire to dominate. Douglass realized that these “inflamed passions” existed across societies and were not exclusive to slavery. Douglass’ profound insight was that humanity’s failure to be governed by reason led to unjust societies that thrived on privilege for some and degradation for others. This understanding is deeply relevant today, especially when we reflect on the ways society continues to foster mediocrity, complacency, and self-degradation, which I have termed “Ozempification”—a lazy, shortcut-driven life that avoids the struggle required for meaningful self-development.

Douglass’ argument for structured education as a path to freedom remains a cornerstone of his philosophy. As Rosen notes, in Douglass’ “Self-Made Men” speech, he articulates that true liberty means the opportunity to educate oneself and attain self-actualization. He rejected the notion that happiness or freedom would come from fate or divine intervention. Instead, Douglass embraced the belief that happiness was a result of hard work and virtuous self-control, not hedonistic pleasures or mindless pursuits. This aligns with Viktor Frankl’s philosophy in Man’s Search for Meaning: happiness is not something to be pursued directly but is a byproduct of living a life full of purpose.

For me, Douglass’ story is both humbling and a powerful call to action. If Douglass risked his life to learn how to read and write, what excuse do I have to squander my intellectual freedom by grazing mindlessly on the Internet or indulging in dopamine hits from social media? His life forces me to reconsider my habits and reminds me that I need to engage in “deep work,” as Cal Newport would put it. Instead of wallowing in self-pity about the challenges AI presents to my teaching career, I need to recommit to the deep intellectual labor that gives life meaning and purpose. It’s clear that, like Douglass, I must fight against complacency and push myself to continuously grow.

By following Douglass’ lead, I realize that my challenges today pale in comparison to his, yet the principles remain the same: the pursuit of knowledge, purpose, and self-improvement must be relentless. In a world filled with distractions and easy shortcuts, Douglass’ story teaches us what it means to live a life committed to true Humanification.

I use Douglass’ example to create a counterargument assignment for the students’ third essay based on this personal reflection:

Personal Reflection Assignment: Humanification Without Privilege—The Path of Frederick Douglass

Frederick Douglass’ life is a powerful reminder that the pursuit of knowledge, purpose, and self-improvement can transcend material privilege. Douglass, born into the bondage of slavery and denied access to formal education, defied all odds to become a literate, free-thinking individual. His journey illustrates that while privilege may provide easier access to resources, it is not a requirement for Humanification—a life of intellectual growth, resilience, and personal liberation.

For this 300-word reflection, consider a time when you faced a limitation—be it financial, social, or personal—that seemed to restrict your opportunities for growth or learning. How did you respond? Did you find a way to pursue your goals despite this limitation, or were there moments where you struggled to believe you could overcome it?

As you reflect, use Douglass’ story as a counterpoint to explore the following:

1. Defining Your Own Humanification: How might Douglass’ example influence your understanding of Humanification? How can the absence of privilege push us to be more resourceful, determined, or resilient in our pursuit of personal growth?

2. The Role of Personal Agency: Like Douglass’ commitment to literacy as a path to freedom, think about how you might pursue self-improvement without relying solely on external advantages. What resources—intellectual, emotional, or social—do you already possess that could support your growth?

3. Examining Modern Privilege and Distraction: How does Douglass’ relentless pursuit of literacy contrast with today’s culture of convenience and distraction? How do you see privilege impacting the way people approach—or avoid—the work of self-education and personal development?

Reflect on how Douglass’ example might encourage you to resist the temptations of “Ozempification” and choose the more challenging path toward lasting Humanification, regardless of your personal circumstances. Use this assignment to explore your own beliefs about privilege, growth, and the power of intentional, purpose-driven work.

March 14, 2025