Author: Matthew Linton

Structural Diversity in the University Ecosystem: Review of Harvey J. Graff’s “Undisciplining Knowledge”

Book ReviewUncategorized

[Review of Harvey J. Graff. Undisciplining Knowledge: Interdisciplinarity in the Twentieth Century (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2015) first appeared at the Society for U.S. Intellectual History, February 14, 2016]

In Undisciplining Knowledge: Interdisciplinarity in the Twentieth Century, Harvey J. Graff takes a problem-based approach to the history of interdisciplinarity across the 20th century American research university. His project spans the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences showing how interdisciplinary efforts have been hindered by problems of definition, integration, and rivalry. Undisciplining Knowledge showcases the potential for a unified history of interdisciplinarity in the 20th century. The broad scope of Graff’s project, however, makes it a microcosm of the very promises and pitfalls of interdisciplinary programs that are the subject of investigation.

Though Undisciplining Knowledge is argumentatively structured around interdisciplinary problems, its chapters are organized around pairs of fields. In chapter four, for example, Graff pairs cognitive science and the new histories (represented by the various “turns” to social, cultural, and women’s and gender histories) to examine two fields whose practical implementation of interdisciplinarity appear irreconcilable. Whereas cognitive science acted like an octopus “reaching out its intelligent arms to encompass many fields” under a single interdiscipline, the new histories acted more like bats which “generally located within disciplines” “are difficult to see” as forming a cohesive interdisciplinary whole (124). While cognitive science and new histories seem to have little in common – the former the swaggering epitome of a new scientific revolution and the latter an orphaned method residing on the disciplinary margins – they are united by a problem: they are everywhere, but are they really anywhere? The comparison of cognitive science and the new histories is Graff at his synthetic best, pulling together seemingly incompatible fields of study and finding their common ground.

Beyond finding the shared roots of diverse interdisciplinary projects, Undisciplining Knowledge argues for a closer examination of the relationship between disciplinary and interdisciplinary scholarship. In contrast to “the assumptions of many proponents and opponents of interdisciplinarity,” Graff contends that disciplinarity and interdisciplinarity are “inextricably linked” (2). The imagined boundary separating them is permeable and was often crossed. This was particularly true of the early 20th century American research university where the institutional power dividing fields of study was not yet fixed, allowing interdisciplinary studies to transform into disciplines. Graff uses biology and sociology as examples of interdisciplines that were codified into disciplines by the research university. Biology was able to combine aspects of physiology, zoology, and botany to establish itself undisciplining knowledgeas the foundational science of life upon which specialized scientific disciplines were built. Sociology was similarly motivated to become a general science of society. Unlike biology, however, sociology failed to integrate its disciplinary influences. Furthermore, it never captured scientific prestige like biology owing to its ambivalence regarding quantitative versus qualitative research and its association with “subjective” political and social causes (49-51). Integration became a core concept for later interdisciplines like communications, which sought to attain disciplinary status through agglomeration of prior disciplinary influences.

Graff’s enthusiasm for early interdisciplinarity is at variance with its expansion after World War II. While early interdisciplinarity represented the fluidity of intellectual exchange in the nascent research university, postwar interdisciplinarity was little more than a watchword for scientific innovation and a tool for disciplinary critique. Motivated by the success and lavish federal funding given to interdisciplinary “big science” projects during World War II, social scientists and humanists attempted to secure funding and institutional prestige by creating new interdisciplinary fields, which highlighted their scholarship’s scientific features. These new fields included behavioral science, social relations, and operations research. Harvard University’s Department of Social Relations, for example, was an attempt by Talcott Parsons to recast sociology as scientific. Social relations’ failed to develop as an interdiscipline, however, because of “a signal failure to develop common problems, protocols, or practices for research” (99). Social relations not only failed to integrate personnel from outside sociology into its interdisciplinary field, it also did not meaningfully differentiate itself from sociology and was perceived by adjacent social scientific fields as an attempt by Parsons to expand sociology’s – and by extensions his own personal – influence. To Graff, interdisciplinary investigation should be problem-driven, but in the mid- and late 20th century interdisciplinarity transformed into a species of academic “cool hunting” whereby labelling a field as interdisciplinary tagged it as innovative to prospective funders.

While Undisciplining Knowledge provides a wide lens to examine problems of interdisciplinarity across the 20th century American research university, its breadth is a hindrance to the examination of individual fields, a criticism not unlike those made by disciplinary specialists about interdisciplinarity itself. Graff’s work is encumbered by its organization. While the book’s argument is structured around interdisciplinary problems, its chapters are organized chronologically by discipline. This leads to repetition as well as confusion. Problems of definition and integration persist throughout Undisciplining Knowledge, but Graff does not use them to connect the chapters into a narrative whole. The result is narrative fragmentation. Chapters serve as potted comparative histories of disciplines and interdisciplines, instead of telling a comprehensive story of academic interdisciplinarity in the 20th century. Furthermore, Graff, though willing to criticize his characters for failing to distinguish between disciplinarity, interdisciplinarity, multidisciplinarity, and transdisciplinarity, does not define these terms. He, rightly, does not want to impose a singular definition onto diverse stories of interdisciplinarity. It is not clear, however, what Graff means by interdiscplinarity or why fields like cognitive science and materials science fail to achieve authentic interdisciplinarity whereas literacy studies and new histories are successful.

One further criticism concerns Graff’s professional involvement in two of the movements: new histories and literacy studies. Within the new histories movement, Graff highlights the Social Science History Association (SSHA) as “an interdisciplinary organizational infrastructure for the new histories” (169). He highlights three distinctive features of SSHA that made it a productive, interdisciplinary association: 1) a non-disciplinary space not interested in professional advancement, 2) a flexible space for positivist exploration, and 3) “real intellectual diversity” based in a “climate of mutual tolerance” (169-170). As a former SSHA president, Graff admits his biases toward it and recognizes its limits as a scholarly organization, but he fails to interrogate how SSHA was a site for the same positivist explorations that underpinned history’s attempt to achieve scientific recognition. Like the relationship between sociology and social relations, positivist new histories rooted in quantitative research can be interpreted as an attempt to highlight scientific aspects of the historical method to accrue scientific prestige.

A similar problem is at play in Graff’s analysis of literacy studies. Literacy studies is applauded for being a problem-oriented interdiscipline. Its aims are also practical and applied, interested in “doing” interdisciplinarity instead of just talking it. Graff remains personally invested in literacy studies’ success owing to his work on LiteracyStudies@OSU, an interdisciplinary project aimed at improving information access across fields ranging from civics to health.[1] Graff seems to create a false dichotomy, however, between literacy studies and other applied interdisciplines like material and cognitive science. The problem of cognition, for example, unifies cognitive science and was, at least partially, an organizing principle for the field. A more sympathetic view of scientific interdisciplinarity would make the author appear less biased towards his own projects and more readily account for the proliferation of scientific interdisciplinarity in the late-20th century.
Undisciplining Knowledge is a wonderful book to think with. It brings together a diverse disciplinary historiography through analysis of common problems. A must for historians specializing in the history of the social sciences or of higher education, the book’s breadth demonstrates the broad interest in interdisciplinary experimentation during the 20th century.

It also illustrates the common struggles shared by interdisciplines across the American research university, positing the possibility of shared dialogue across the university about how disciplines and interdisciplines can better function together as part of a harmonious university ecosystem. Even Undisciplining Knowledge’s flaws are interesting. Given that Graff recapitulates many of interdisciplinarity’s problems when writing its history, I wonder if the structural challenges facing interdisciplines (definition, integration, and rivalry) are surmountable? Can rivalries between interdisciplines be transcended? Reaching a rapprochement, if not a solution, to backbiting between fields is essential going forward as scholars struggle against the common foes of financial downsizing, adjunctification, and exogenous questions about the research university’s viability in a world of think tanks and big business. Graff’s book gestures towards a solution rooted in historicizing the current structure of the research university. It remains to be seen, however, whether recognizing the university’s institutional history will be enough to compel scholars working across the university to preserve it in the face of outside threats.

[1] Visit http://literacystudies.osu.edu/ for more on Graff’s project.

Architects of Capitulation: Assessing McCarthyism’s Charges Against University China Experts

Lecture

[Lecture delivered at Society for Historians of American Foreign Relations Conference in Washington, D.C. on June 27, 2015. Provisional paper, NOT FOR CITATION OR CIRCULATION without permission of author. Please contact linton@brandeis.edu for permissions.]

On March 25, 1950 a messenger rushed into the United Nations Technical Assistance Mission in Kabul, Afghanistan with a telegram for Johns Hopkins University China scholar Owen Lattimore. The cable read in part, “Senator McCarthy says off record you top Russian espionage agent in United States and that his whole case rests on you.” Upset, Lattimore drafted a hasty reply: “McCarthy’s off record rantings pure moonshine STOP delighted his whole case rests on me as this means he will fall flat on face.”[i] With this initial exchange, the struggle began between Congressional anticommunists and Lattimore that would last the better part of the next decade. The charges and Lattimore’s response are representative of a pattern of dialogue that developed between Congressional anticommunists and university China experts during the Second Red Scare. Anticommunists would make brash, unsupported accusations about academic complicity in “losing” China to communism in 1949. Angered and fearful, China scholars would categorically deny all charges and bemoan political polarization. In the early 1950s’ politically charged climate, there was little room for discussion, reflection, or analysis.

Until now, the historiography has largely recapitulated this emotional divide. Students and friends of accused China scholars like Lattimore and Harvard’s John K. Fairbank have reiterated their subjects’ incredulousness at Congressional anticommunist investigations.[ii] They have been joined by politically left-leaning historians who have enveloped the story of China scholars’ investigation into a larger narrative about the unjustified purge of radicals during the Second Red Scare.[iii] These historians have been opposed by a cohort of conservative and anticommunist scholars who have argued that the Second Red Scare was the justified response to the threat domestic subversion posed to American national security during the early Cold War.[iv] They have emphasized the connections between accused China scholars and known communists in organizations like the Institute of Pacific Relations (IPR). These accusations have reemerged in recent years because of greater access to archives in the former Soviet Union and in the People’s Republic of China (PRC), which have established new connections between American China organizations and foreign communists.[v]

Still, what has been obscured by this discussion has been a thorough inventory of the accusations leveled against China scholars by Congressional Committees during the Second Red Scare and, with over fifty years of historical distance, whether they had any merit. This paper will begin by taking stock of the charges leveled against China experts by the two major Congressional Committees – the Tydings Committee which lasted from March 8 through July 17, 1950 with the aim of investigating charges made by Senator McCarthy against communist subversion in the State Department and the McCarran Committee, which lasted from 1952 through 1955 (when McCarran was replaced) and had the broader mandate of investigating and enforcing the 1950 Internal Security Act preventing domestic threats to US national security. It will examine how these accusations were forwarded by Congressional anticommunists and their friendly witnesses – some of whom were China experts in their own right. It will close with a brief evaluation of the charges.

 

  1. The Case Against China Studies

 

Senator McCarthy’s first charges against Owen Lattimore in March 1950 that he was a top Russian agent were so obviously erroneous as to alienate most reasonable anticommunists. To his colleague George Taylor, anticommunist University of Washington China expert Karl A. Wittfogel wrote, “He [McCarthy] is obviously unable to uphold this extraordinary charge, and I am delighted to see him publicly taken to task for a procedure, which profoundly violates the duties inherent in his prominent position.”[vi] McCarthy readjusted his charges accordingly. In a March 30, 1950 speech before the US Senate he said, “I fear in the case of Lattimore, I may have perhaps placed too much stress on the question of whether or not he has been an espionage agent.” Espionage was not the primary concern, instead “the more important aspect of his case deals with his aims and what he advocates…what this man himself advocates and what he believes in.” Lattimore was “the ‘architect’ of our far eastern policy” and had “tremendous power” in the State Department where he could disseminate pro-communist views.[vii] The first and primary charge against the China studies field was that it promulgated and popularized subversive ideas. By shifting his case against Lattimore from narrowly attacking him as a Soviet agent to accusing him of disseminating pro-communist ideas, McCarthy set the stage for an assault, not only on Lattimore’s character and associations, but all recently published China specialists.

While the Tydings Committee case against Lattimore revolved around potential subversive scholarship, the larger case against China studies as a field occurred through the Senate investigation, led by Patrick McCarran of the Institute of Pacific Relations (IPR). IPR was an internationalist organization formed in the 1920s to facilitate better relations between peoples bordering the Pacific Ocean and an early hub of American scholarship on modern East Asia. The case against IPR was not only about ideas, but also was about association.[viii] As a prominent internationalist organization, IPR attracted radical leftists of all stripes, including Chinese and American communists, One Worlders, and trade unionists. It was also an important organization in the professionalization of modern China scholarship and published articles by most prominent university China experts. The McCarran Committee investigation into the IPR sought to tie China scholars, most of whom were political liberals, to more radical wings of the IPR’s American and International Councils.

The final accusation was that China scholars, radicalized either through their experiences in China or through IPR, used their specialized knowledge to mislead policymakers. The stated raison d’etre of the McCarran Committee was “the extent to which subversive forces may have influenced or sought to influence the formulation and execution of our Far Eastern policy.”[ix] Tying China experts to political subversion meant demonstrating at least one of the prior two charges – that scholars possessed pro-communist or at least sympathetic views and/or they associated with known communists – and that they then sought to convince policymakers to support communist ideas. In particular, Congressional investigators would look to connect China scholars to the State Department and the Executive Branch of government, since they were both Congress’s rivals for political power and the branches most responsible for US foreign policy.

Investigators harbored no illusions about the difficulty proving their charges. Subversion assumed secrecy or as investigators put it, “Successful conspirators are usually consummate dissemblers.”[x] Their investigation also dealt in the abstract world of motivation, influence, and beliefs. To overcome these difficulties investigators relied on documents and friendly witnesses. The documents came from an unofficial IPR archive kept by executive secretary Edward C. Carter in his barn in Lee, Massachusetts, which was seized by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) in late1949. This archive included financial documents as well as correspondence between members. The friendly witnesses were a motley crew of former communists, anticommunist Asia specialists, and conservatives. Former communists were the most important witnesses to the Committees because they understood secret communist networks as well as the communist argot. Asia specialists were also important because their expertise allowed them to comment on the scientificity or reasonableness of accused China scholars from a position of knowledge. Furthermore, they were responsible for determining the boundary between acceptable scholarly disagreement and subversion.

 

  1. Pressing the Case

 

With the core charges against China scholars established, the Congressional Committees pressed their case. One important distinction to keep in mind is the political differences between the Tydings and McCarran Committees. Whereas Tydings was chaired by a liberal and staffed with political moderates, the McCarran Committee was chaired by a noted anticommunist and the Committee’s other members were anticommunists despite their even split between Democrat and Republican.[xi] It is unsurprising then that the Tydings Committee was less vigorous in pursuing its case against Lattimore than the McCarran Committee was in investigating the IPR. Regardless of their political differences, both committees used the same operating procedure and rhetorical tactics to root out perceived communist subversion. Since Lattimore was an IPR member and many of the accusations against him stemmed from his work at IPR, I will examine the two cases together.

Both committees began by trying to establish association. This was not difficult since admitted domestic radicals and foreign communists had been IPR members. IPR trustee Frederick Vanderbilt Field (nicknamed “The Millionaire Communist”) for example, admitted to joining the American Peace Mobilization at the invitation of CPUSA head Earl Browder and spent two months in prison for refusing to cooperate with the Tydings hearing. Foreign communists were also active in the IPR. The Soviet Union had a council, albeit a fairly inactive one, represented at the international body. Chinese communists were also active in the organization. Chen Han-seng for example wrote articles on the Chinese peasantry for IPR publications and was an important sociological theorist for the Chinese Communist Party (CCP).[xii]

Association with known communists was easy to prove, but not particularly meaningful in proving China scholars intentionally helped “lose” China to the CCP. Part of the Committees’ problem was bound up with their own understanding of communist subversion. If communists were consummate dissemblers, as the McCarran Committee alleged, it was possible that China scholars unfamiliar with communist dogma could associate with communists without knowing their politics. This defense was employed repeatedly by China experts accused during both the Tydings and McCarran hearings.

Even if they admitted to knowing the politics of their communist associates however, China specialists could still claim that this association did not impact their own politics. This defensive strategy was employed most successfully by Harvard China specialist John Fairbank. Accused of associating with known communist journalist Agnes Smedley, Fairbank admitted that he knew she was sympathetic to communism, but that he did not take her political views seriously.[xiii] Furthermore, he argued that it was his academic responsibility to associate and discuss scholarly issues with other experts even if he did not agree with their politics.[xiv] “Only by examining all sides can we keep that intellectual grasp on our [academic] problems which will keep us intellectually better-based and more flexible, adaptable and powerful than our totalitarian Communist enemy”, Fairbank concluded.[xv]

Since proof of association could not establish the slippery categories of beliefs, influence, and ideas, the Committees sought to pair proof of association with an analysis of accused scholars’ published writings and speeches. Investigators would interrogate the writings of accused scholars for positions either sympathetic to the aims of foreign communists or that followed the official Soviet communist ‘line’. China specialists friendly to the Committees played a crucial role in interpreting their colleagues’ scholarly production. Karl Wittfogel was the most important friendly expert witness for both the Tydings and McCarran Committees because he was both a former communist and university-employed China expert. With these two qualifications, Wittfogel could assess whether a scholar’s work fit within the boundaries of normal academic discourse on China and whether it fit communist aims or the official communist line. Wittfogel used his influence to settle old scores and promote his own ideas about Chinese history and contemporary politics. He claimed Owen Lattimore’s writings toed the communist line, for example, because Lattimore used the word feudal to describe early modern Chinese society instead of Wittfogel’s preferred hydraulic or bureaucratic despotism.[xvi] In fact, this question of terminology remained a live debate within the field and Wittfogel’s attempt to win in through resorting to political accusations fell well outside the bounds of normal or acceptable academic discourse. To his friend John Fairbank, journalist and later MIT international relations expert Harold Isaacs called Wittfogel the “commissar out of power” and expressed relief that Wittfogel confided that he would not accuse him of communist subversion.

While scholars like Wittfogel were interested in using the investigation to impugn the reputations of their academic rivals, the Committees were primarily interested in how these ‘Red’ and ‘pink’ scholars influenced China policymaking. The Committees focused on two events where accused China scholars like Lattimore and Fairbank advised the State Department: the formulation of the China White Paper and the 1949 State Department Conference on China. John Fairbank had consulted on the creation of the China White Paper, which was a catalog of important Sino-American policymaking documents with an introduction by Dean Acheson defending the US decision not to intervene in the ongoing Chinese Civil War, and had publicly defended it in academic journals.[xvii] Yale University political scientist David N. Rowe, who also consulted on the White Paper, first argued unequivocally that “there is unquestioned sympathy on the part of Fairbank for the Chinese Communists.”[xviii] He also mentioned that Fairbank had circulated a letter to China experts defending Lattimore and called into question the authority of the McCarran Committee. Rowe claimed that he attempted to convince George Kennan, John Paton Davies, and John Carter Vincent about the wrongheadedness of the White Paper and the dangers of Chinese communists, but “I [Rowe] couldn’t get any place with the people in the State Department on this.”[xix] It appeared to Rowe that the State Department, with Fairbank’s consultation, had decided to cede China to the Communists in 1948 and, if his later conversations with Kennan and Lattimore were borne out, a similar defeatism was operating regarding Korea.[xx]

The Rowe Row, as it was then called, over the China White Paper was damning, but less significant than the 1949 State Department conference. The White Paper may have embodied defeatism, but it was fundamentally an accounting for past (1944-1948) US China policy and not a blueprint for future policy. The China Conference from October 6-8, 1949, by contrast, asked respected Asia experts to advise the State Department about future directions in East Asia policy after the imminent victory of the CCP in the Chinese Civil War. The State Department set the stage for political controversy from the outset by declining to invite prominent academic critics of US China policymaking like Rowe and Wittfogel to the Conference. Outnumbered by scholars supportive of US China policy under the Truman administration, those critics invited like Kenneth Colegrove, William M. McGovern, George E. Taylor, and Harold Stassen believed they were under siege. Colegrove believed a faction of pro-communist scholars including Fairbank, Lattimore, Rosinger, Edwin Reischauer, and Nathaniel Peffer monopolized the conference with the support of sympathetic government officials like Kennan, Cora DuBois, and Philip Jessup that presided over the conference. This clique and their allies urged the US to immediately recognize the CCP as the legitimate government for all of China. Furthermore, they argued that communism in Asia was an expression of nationalism that the US needed to accommodate themselves to.[xxi] The US had to ally itself with the forces of revolutionary change in Asia or else be driven from the continent like the European colonial powers. To the horror of Truman’s critics, it appeared that leading China experts and major State Department policymakers had already ceded China – including Taiwan – to the CCP and thought it would be necessary to accommodate radical movements elsewhere in Asia.

The State Department China Conference appeared to represent the perfect case for McCarran Committee anticommunists to tie academic radicalism to foreign policy malpractice. The Conference saw frank discussion between academics and policymakers about Chinese Communism with a sizable group of academics with established connections to communism and leftist published scholarship urging the US government to recognize a communist state and potentially collaborate with other radical movements in Asia. On the surface this seems damning. Yet, the reasons these academics gave for their leftist positions as well as the actual political influence of the Conference complicated the picture. Fairbank and Lattimore both argued that they believed the purpose of the Conference was to give their honest assessment of the situation in Asia, not expound on future American policy. This claim is substantiated in the Conference transcript where Kennan tells conference attendees that the Conference’s purpose was discussion and not the creation of a consensus leading to “any dramatic announcement” about the formulation of American China policymaking.[xxii] Furthermore, the call by the Lattimore/Fairbank group to recognize Communist China was not heeded by US policymakers casting further doubt on the Conference’s influence. None of the State Department representatives investigated by the McCarran Committee claimed academic China experts changed the way they thought about Sino-American policy. Furthermore, as the newspaper columnist Marquis Childs noted in The Washington Post scholars like Lattimore and Fairbank argued for a non-aligned or third world nationalism that ran counter to the binary Cold War thinking of the US foreign policy establishment.[xxiii]

In the end the arguments made by friendly China experts said more about their status as outsiders than it did the political beliefs or influence of their better connected colleagues. Those collaborators were émigrés (like Wittfogel and Poppe), older scholars struggling to acclimate to changes in the field (Colegrove and McGovern), or enemies of the field’s professionalization (Rowe). From their perspectives on the fringes, the vital center of the discipline appeared singular despite important differences in aims and vision between scholars and between scholars and policymakers. They shared this outsider viewpoint with their political interlocutors like Senators McCarthy and McCarran who aimed to use anticommunist investigations to bolster their own marginal power in Washington.

 

  1. Conclusions

 

The McCarran Committee final report presented a mixed verdict on the guilt of the China studies field. It claimed that, “The Institute of Pacific Relations had not maintained the character of an objective, scholarly, and research organization.”[xxiv] It singled out two China scholars, Owen Lattimore and Lawrence Rosinger, as disseminating pro-communist information and indicted Lattimore on perjury charges. Still, it found most scholars affiliated with IPR did not support it “for any reason except to advance the professed research and scholarly purposes of the organization.”[xxv] This included important figures in the China studies establishment like Fairbank who were cleared of all charges and faced no future Congressional investigation.

The final report’s mixed verdict allowed Congressional anticommunists to present the investigation as necessary without pushing for further investigation into the field. Ultimately, this was because none of the investigations into academic China specialists were able to prove that they meaningfully influenced or shaped US China policymaking. It was true that even the discipline’s luminaries associated with communists and some compared the Nationalists unfavorably to the CCP. These same figures associated with State Department officials and even opined on China policy at government events like the 1949 Conference on China. Still, there was scant evidence to suggest these conversations or opinions shaped US China policy. Ultimately, the truth lies between the two dominant historiographic positions. As conservative and anticommunist historians have charged, accused China specialists did know foreign and domestic communists and some believed the CCP provided a desirable alternative to the Nationalists. Yet, left-leaning historians are also correct in arguing that the Committees failed to meaningfully connect China experts to Sino-American policymaking. In the end, the China studies field was innocent of ‘losing’ China to communism – not only because China was not America’s to lose – but also because China scholars lacked the political influence to guide policymakers. The field was innocent, but it was an innocence born from lack of influence not necessarily ideological purity.

[i] Owen Lattimore, Ordeal by Slander (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1950): 3-5.

[ii] See, John M. Evans, John Fairbank and the American Understanding (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988) and Robert P. Newman, Owen Lattimore and the “Loss” of China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992). Memoirs written by China specialists targeted during the Second Red Scare contribute to this literature. See, John K. Fairbank, Chinabound: A Fifty-year Memoir (New York City: Harper and Row, 1982); Lattimore, Ordeal by Slander, 1950; and Edwin O. Reischauer, My Life Between Japan and America (New York City: Harper and Row, 1986).

[iii] The two most notable books in this large literature are, David Caute, The Great Fear: The Anti-Communist Purge under Truman and Eisenhower (New York City: Simon and Shuster, 1978); and Ellen Schrecker, No Ivory Tower: McCarthyism and the Universities (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986).

[iv] Biographies in this field include, Joseph Keely, The China Lobby Man: The Story of Alfred Kohlberg (New Rochelle: Arlington House, 1969); and G.L. Ulmen, The Science of Society: Toward an Understanding of the Life and Work of Karl August Wittfogel (The Hague: Mouton, 1978). Important recent historical works, which have taken into account new archival documents in the former Soviet Union – notably the famous Verona cables – include, Harvey Klehr and John Earl Haynes, Early Cold War Spies: The Espionage Trials that Shaped American Politics (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2006);

[v] The new work on Soviet materials has primarily focused on the Venona documents and the Hiss Case. See, Robert Louis Benson, Venona: Soviet Espionage and the American Response, 1939-1957 (New York City: Aegean Press, 1996); John Earl Haynes and Harvey Klehr, Venona: Decoding Soviet Espionage in America (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000); and Haynes, Klehr, and Alexander Vassiliev, Spies: The Rise and Fall of the KGB in America (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009). For a criticism of their approach and method see, Ellen Schrecker, Cold War Triumphalism: The Misuse of History After the Fall of Communism (New York City: The New Press, 2006). There is less on the China case. One useful exception is, Maochun Yu, “Chen Hansheng’s Memoirs and Chinese Communist Espionage”, Cold War International History Project Bulletin 6-7 (Winter, 1995-1996): 273-275.

[vi] Letter from Karl A. Wittfogel to George E. Taylor, April 9, 1950, George E. Taylor Papers, Box 12, Folder 24, University of Washington Archives and Special Collections, Seattle, WA. Hereafter UW Archives.

[vii] Newman, Owen Lattimore and the “Loss” of China, 222.

[viii] The best history of IPR remains, John N. Thomas, The Institute of Pacific Relations: Asian Scholars and American Politics (Seattle: University of Washington Press,

[ix] “Hearings Before the Subcommittee to Investigate the Administration of the Internal Security Act and Other Internal Security Laws of the Committee on the Judiciary”, United States Senate, Eighty-Second Congress, First Session on the Institute of Pacific Relations, July 25, 1951: 2-3. Hereafter McCarran Committee Hearing.

[x] McCarran Committee Hearing, 3.

[xi] For an account of the blasé attitude of the Tydings Committee representatives see, Lattimore, Ordeal by Slander, 91-108. For a contrasting account of the McCarran Committee see, Michael J. Ybarra, Washington Gone Crazy: Senator Pat McCarran and the Great Communist Hunt (Hanover, NH: Steerforth Press, 2004).

[xii] For Chen’s work see, Chen Han-seng, Frontier Land Systems in Southernmost China (New York City: Institute of Pacific Relations, 1949). Chen’s work as a communist spy is confirmed in his memoir. For an English evaluation of Chen’s claims see, Maochun Yu, “Chen Hansheng’s Memoirs and Chinese Communist Espionage”, Cold War International History Project Bulletin 6-7 (Winter, 1995-1996): 273-275.

[xiii] McCarran Committee Hearing, 3766-3768.

[xiv] McCarran Committee Hearing, 3725.

[xv] McCarran Committee Hearing, 3725.

[xvi] For this debate see Letters between Owen Lattimore and Karl Wittfogel, January 24-February 20, 1947, George E. Taylor Papers, Box 12, Folder 22, UW Archives. Also Newman, Owen Lattimore and the “Loss” of China, 334-335.

[xvii] Wilson D. Miscamble, George F. Kennan and the Making of American Foreign Policy, 1947-1960 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992): 224; “Publication of the China White Paper”, Foreign Relations of the United States, 1949, Vol. IX: 1365-1409; John K. Fairbank, “Toward a Dynamic Far Eastern Policy”, Far Eastern Survey 18, No. 18 (Sep. 7, 1949): 209-212.

[xviii] McCarran Committee Hearing, 3980.

[xix] McCarran Committee Hearing, 3986.

[xx] McCarran Committee Hearing, 3987.

[xxi] This is a paraphrasing of John Fairbank’s statement on day one of the conference. McCarran Committee Hearing, 1587.

[xxii] McCarran Committee Hearing, 1555-1556.

[xxiii] Marquis Childs, “Lattimore’s Views: Differences With State Department”, The Washington Post (April 20, 1950): 11.

[xxiv] Internal Security Subcommittee, “Institute of Pacific Relations Report of the Committee on the Judiciary” Eighty-Second Congress, Second Session (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1952): 223. Hereafter cited as “McCarran Committee Final Report.

[xxv] McCarran Committee Final Report, 224.

The Revolution That Wasn’t: Review of Fred Turner’s “The Democratic Surround”

Book Review

[First published at the Society For U.S. Intellectual History Blog, March 8, 2015]

Fred Turner. The Democratic Surround: Multimedia and American Liberalism from World War II to the Psychedelic Sixties. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013. 376 pages.
Review by Matthew D. Linton

In the introduction to his The Democratic Surround Fred Turner paints a conventional picture of 1960s cultural radicalism’s relationship to the post-1945 period. “In popular memory”, he writes, “the 1960s rose up in a Technicolor wave and washed away decades of bland, black-and-white American life” (8). Though this picture of the revolutionary 1960s has proliferated, Turner argues that 1960s radicalism is best understood as the culmination of postwar American liberalism, not a reaction against it. Postwar intellectuals and their later critics “call[ed] for a society in which individual diversity might become the foundation for collective life” (9). They also shared a common mode for the realization of collective good in individual self-expression: democratic surrounds – multimedia installations in theaters and museums that promoted individual participation to actualize liberal values. For Turner, democratic surrounds showed the potential and perils of mid-century liberalism. While multimedia provided a useful critique of totalitarianism in its Nazi and Soviet variants, it also “represented a turn toward the managerial mode of control” that enveloped postwar liberalism, 1960s radicalism, and “haunts our culture today” (10).
The central argument of The Democratic Surround is for continuity. The specter of the totalitarian “mass man”, defined by blind obedience to authority, compelled American social scientists to create an opposing “New Man”. This New Man was imbued with American liberal values including tolerance, individual agency, and spontaneity and remained psychologically whole despite the social dislocation wrought by modernization (3). These same core values perpetuated after the war. The menace of the Nazi mass man was transferred to the Soviet Union. Under the aegis of totalitarianism, ideological differences between Nazism and Soviet communism were collapsed obviating the need to reconsider American values in the post war period. Liberal values as a bulwark to communism have positive and negative consequences for Turner. On the one hand, Cold War liberals believed their common values provided a path to equality for marginalized racial and ethnic groups. Museum exhibits like The Family of Man presented a diverse America united by a common devotion to liberal principles. On the other hand however, Turner recognizes that the liberal project was driven by elites and experts often to the exclusion of the same racial, ethnic, and gender voices they were supposed to be championing. As Turner concludes one of his chapters, liberals envisioned “the emergence of a society whose citizens were to manage themselves in terms set by the systems within which they lived – and by the experts who developed those systems” (212).
More surprisingly than the connection between World War II and Cold War liberalism, Turner finds the same values animating the 1960s counterculture. A common fear of conformity united Americans between 1945 and 1970. The wartime and Cold War liberals stressed individuality against the hive-mind of the totalitarian mass man. Similarly, the counterculture emphasized individual agency and spontaneity against the perceived conformism of the 1950s’ nuclear family and Cold War containment. Freedom of expression also manifest itself in similar ways across generations. Be-Ins stressed democratic surroundfreedom of movement in the same ways earlier museum exhibits like The Family of Man encouraged visitors to roam freely.
Beyond a shared value system, the characters in The Democratic Surround share a common medium: multimedia arrays. Mass men were created in Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union by propaganda. Social scientists, some of whom like the Frankfurt School’s Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno were living in the United States in exile, saw multimedia as an antidote to propaganda’s totalizing message. In accord with American social scientific prescriptions, artists like Bauhaus teachers Lazlo Moholy-Nagy and Herbert Bayer and the experimental musician John Cage, created multimedia arrays for museums, classrooms, and theaters. These arrays sought both to promote liberal values while avoiding the crude propaganda of the totalitarian enemy. Some of Turner’s characters were more straightforward about promoting American values than others. Herbert Bayer’s The Family of Man exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art explicitly promoted liberal American values like tolerance as vital for promoting peace in a world armed with nuclear weapons. Other democratic surrounds were more obscure in promoting liberalism. John Cage’s performances at Black Mountain College for example, sought to liberate “listeners from subjection to the emotional manipulation of classical and popular music” (116). Though less directly connected to national aims, Cage nonetheless shared with Bayer, Adorno, and others anxieties about authoritarianism and saw the cure in greater individual autonomy.
Turner’s cast of characters share flaws as well as values and anxieties. Foremost is hypocrisy surrounding inclusiveness. In their democratic surrounds, postwar and World War II era liberals presented the US as tolerant and diverse. The architects of these surrounds did not reflect this diversity however. With the exceptions of female social scientists like Margaret Mead and Ruth Benedict, nearly all the characters in Turner’s book – from social scientists to counterculture artists – are white men. This is a reflection on the composition of America’s midcentury elite, which largely excluded women and ethnic minorities from positions of influence. Under this system Americans from all walks of life could enjoy the benefits of managerial largesse, but they were not expected to participate in the top-down ordering of society.
Turner is particularly scathing in his assessment of the 1960s counterculture’s turn “inward, away from campaigns for racial and sexual equality and toward a new psychological politics” (260). While World War II and postwar liberals sought political redress for racial and sexual inequality, counterculture purveyors of the democratic surround retreated from politics and instead looked for mystical solutions to social ills. The Happening – a multimedia performance that sought to blur the lines between performer and audience – is, for Turner, an example of the democratic surround’s mystical turn. Happenings challenged authority, but they did not seek to integrate the anomic individual “into a racially diverse society.” “Racial diversity was simply not an issue in their work”, Turner concludes (269). More worrying were Happenings’ gender politics. In contrast to their postwar forefathers who often simply excluded women, Turner finds women were often sexually exploited at Happenings. Unlike men who were rarely nude, Female nudity was a cliché central to the Happening. This showed women as subjects to be gazed upon and controlled by men, not as equal participants in free expression (270). In contrast to other works that celebrate the 1960s as a period of increased diversity and sexual liberation, The Democratic Surround presents a depoliticized counterculture governed by racial and sexual discrimination.
By emphasizing continuities in values and mediums across mid-century America, Turner’s The Democratic Surround is a valuable addition to a growing literature challenging a progressive narrative that the 1960s broke from the previous decades exclusive and stodgy politics into one of greater inclusiveness, sexual freedom, and activism. Instead, he argues that historians have understated attempts made by liberal social scientists and artists before 1960 to use managerial control as a tool to foster community while preserving individual autonomy. At the same time, these historians have overstated how drastically 1960s countercultural values and modes of expression differed from the liberal mainstream they were rebelling against. As The Democratic Surround shows the Technicolor 1960s did not wipe away the black-and-white palette of the early Cold War, but instead changed the resolution on an already existing spectrum of values.

Making History Too Big To Fail?: The History Manifesto and the Return of History as Science

Blog

In The History Manifesto historians David Armitage and Jo Guldi add their voices to a growing body of literature on the humanities in crisis.[1] As the book’s title suggests, they focus on the field of history and its diminishing influence on public life. This descent into irrelevance is not the result of a changing public. Instead, academic historians’ embrace of short-term thinking has made the discipline unresponsive to the global crises of the day including wealth inequality and environmental degradation.

Despite historians’ retreat from their publics, Armitage and Guldi are hopeful for the resuscitation of publicly-minded history. They see two ways for historians to regain their audiences. First, historians need to reject short-termism and return to studying longue duree narratives. Looking back to earlier history (it seems here that Armitage and Guldi are thinking pre-industrial) will allow historians to show policymakers real alternatives to ingrained economic and political systems. They provide many examples of historians who have used the longue duree to challenge established institutions and systems including the Webbs, R.H. Tawney, and Eric Hobsbawm. Furthermore, Armitage and Guldi see an expansion of temporal scope as a useful counterpart to historians’ embrace of larger geographic areas. Just as transnational oceanic, continental, and comparative imperial histories have allowed historians to tell new stories about systems, institutions, and ideas, an expanded time scale would provide the same benefits. Their second solution is an embrace of “big data”. Armitage and Guldi believe historians are uniquely suited to effectively utilize big data because of their ability to make data meaningful through contextualization and narrative. “History has an important role to play in developing standards, techniques, and theories suited to the analysis of mutually incompatible datasets where a temporal element is crucial to making sense of causation and correlation” (104).

To Armitage and Guldi, a focus on the longue duree and an embrace of big data need to go hand-in-hand in combating short-termism. A focus on the long temporal scopes brings with it the inevitable problem of information overload. The tools of big data offer a solution to this problem by condensing and visualizing large datasets into manageable graphs, maps, and charts. They highlight the Google NGram viewer as a freely available, easy to use big data tool already being used by historians. Embrace of big data also offers historians a way to remain relevant in a technologically modernizing university. Armitage and Guldi recognize the crisis of the humanities extends to employment as well as larger social relevance. “If History departments train designers of tools and analysts of big data, they stand to manufacture students on the cutting edge of knowledge-making within and beyond the academy” (107).

While The History Manifesto presents itself as a revolutionary way of approaching novel problems facing contemporary history scholarship, its solutions are old ones. The crisis of the public intellectual has been a preoccupation of historians since at least the 1980s if not earlier. A lack of responsiveness to public needs is often viewed as an important explanation for the public intellectual’s demise. The entire discourse surrounding the “ivory tower” is a reflection on academics’ insecurities about their relationship to the larger public and perceived differences between subjects of scholarly interest and public needs. Even if historians embrace longue durees and big data it seems unlikely that the tension between scholarly freedom of inquiry and the public embrace of intellectuals will be resolved.

The tools proposed by Armitage and Guldi also have problems. As Deborah Cohen and Peter Mandler have convincingly demonstrated, The History Manifesto’s data often doesn’t support its argument.[2] Historians have not retreated from longer temporal studies and embraced short-termism. Anecdotally, scholars held by Armitage and Guldi as exemplars of long-term thinking like Arthur Schlesinger Jr. and Charles Beard published many books examining short time periods. It’s also unclear how longue durees will lead to more relevant history scholarship. As has been pointed out by several others, some of the most politically engaged fields – notably the history of American capitalism – seem particularly plagued by short-termism but for the reason that the ascendency of neoliberalism is a relatively recent phenomenon.

The turn to big data represents another tried and true response by the history field in times of crisis: an appeal to science. An earlier history crisis in the mid-20th century provides a useful lens for understanding both the current crisis and the Armitage/Guldi response. After World War II, the expansion of social science funding and prestige put history in an undesirable position. While leading scholars like Arthur Schlesinger Jr. had success as traditional narrative historians, younger academics and those in less established sub-disciplines were concerned about diminished influence and funding. An enterprising few, particularly those studying strategically important areas like the Soviet Union and China, began rebranding the discipline as a social science. These historians claimed that they were like scientists because they used data to find objective answers to historical questions.

They envisioned a substantive role in interdisciplinary social science in particular. In an interesting parallel to Armitage and Guldi, they claimed that historians were essential in contextualizing the findings of other social scientists. At Harvard, Washington, and Johns Hopkins (among others) interdisciplinary social science programs were established with substantial history components. At Johns Hopkins, Owen Lattimore led an interdisciplinary study on Xinjiang province in China. Its aim was to analyze its politics and role as a Chinese frontier, but a large part of the study was devoted to understanding how its history shaped its politics. These programs were incredibly successful at attracting funding and grew exponentially between 1945 and 1965. As the hierarchy of university disciplines shifted in the mid-20th century from a humanity-centered university toward one more in line with American national security interests (what Rebecca Lowen has called “the Cold War university”), history maintained high standing by appealing to science.[3]

The History Manifesto is a call to revolutionary action. It aims to persuade students and faculty to use the longue duree and new technology to seek broader audiences and answer bigger questions. These are noble and worthwhile goals. They are also not revolutionary. As Deborah Cohen and Peter Mandler have shown, the longue duree never left and the short-termism of recent historical scholarship is a canard. The appeal to data is similarly an old tactic dressed up in new language and concepts. In an age where the value of scientific research is rarely questioned amid massive cuts to university budgets, it’s natural for historians to appeal to science in an effort to defend their discipline. It has worked in the past (to a certain extent) and the current enthusiasm around big data may allow it to succeed again. Still, in the spirit of Armitage and Guldi, I think it’s important not to become myopically focused on the current crisis. Instead, a deeper exploration of why history faces periodic methodological crises is necessary. It’s also necessary to define with greater precision what public engagement means for scholars. While size and scale are important metrics for gauging influence, extension without clear goals can not only compromise historians’ relations to a wider public, but can jeopardize our stature within the university as well.

[1] David Armitage and Jo Guldi, The History Manifesto (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2014).

[2] This is not to say Cohen and Mandler’s response is unproblematic. They go too far in opposing Armitage and Guldi to the point of denying any sort of crisis in the humanities. Though their riposte was likely intended as a full-throated call for methodological pluralism, it often reads as a defense of the status quo.

[3] Rebecca S. Lowen, Creating the Cold War University: The Transformation of Stanford (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997).

Academic Inequality: A Problem of Ideas and Institutions

Blog

Yesterday, an article on Slate, “The Academy’s Dirty Secret”, showed the extent to which elite universities dominate faculty hiring. History was the study’s worst offender. It found that eight universities account for half of all history professors. Those few students from non-elite universities able to find university jobs usually did so by finding a job at an even less prestigious school than their graduating institution. It concludes with a warning that such a concentration of power in the hands of a few schools could stifle creativity and marginalize paradigm shifting ideas contributed by academic outsiders.

While the Slate article is effective in showing the scale of the current crisis, it fails to put its findings in historical context. This institutional disparity is nothing new. I have found in my own research that many of the same concerns and frustrations hindering less prestigious schools today were expressed decades ago. The creation of the Institute of Far Eastern and Russian studies at the University of Washington in the mid-1940s is a useful case in point. It’s founder, George E. Taylor, was up against a field defined by elite, Ivy League programs at Harvard, Yale, and Columbia. Despite success attracting funding to his Institute, he routinely lost promising faculty to Ivy programs and struggled to place Washington graduate students at top universities. By contrast, John K. Fairbank, Harvard history professor and Taylor’s biggest competitor, used his connections to other Ivy institutions as well as powerful government officials to secure placement for his graduate students at top schools like Stanford and the University of California – Berkeley (Harvard also employed several of Fairbank’s students). He was so well connected with university administrators at other institutions that he often knew about job openings before the hiring departments, giving him an additional advantage pressing that institution’s hiring committee to take on one of his students. By 1950, Taylor and his staff at Washington were fed up. Convinced that there was an Ivy League conspiracy against their program and animated by the early Cold War’s anti-communist hysteria, Taylor along with his colleagues Karl Wittfogel and Nicholas Poppe became witnesses for anti-communist loyalty committees chaired by Senator Joseph McCarthy and, later, Patrick McCarran who investigated the China studies community during the Second Red Scare.

As the episode above illustrates, there is continuity in the concentration of academic power in the hands of elite institutions between the mid-20th century and today. This continuity is relevant to intellectual historians for two important reasons. First, it shows the central role institutions play in shaping ideas and intellectuals. A recent post by Audra Wolfe on the S-USIH blog laid out the wonderful recent studies by historians like Harold Isaacs and Jamie Cohen-Cole on the way university institutions shaped work done in the social sciences. There have also been fruitful (if somewhat limited) forays into the ways funding either through the government or private grants has influenced American ideas in the 20th century. Still, there is much more work to be done in exploring the relationship between ideas and institutions. Much of the recent scholarship recapitulates institutional inequalities by only examining elite institutions. There has been little work done on less prestigious schools and how lack of connections and funding shaped their intellectual production. There has also yet to emerge much research on recent developments in the relationship between university scholars and institutions after the collapse of the New Deal coalition in the 1970s. Olivier Zunz has shown how the emergent New Right devised its own forms of private philanthropy during the Reagan years, but its impact on intellectual production has not been explored.[1]

The second important function such continuity serves intellectual historians is contextualizing ideas and intellectuals into longer durees that show how funding and institutional mantras perpetuate strains of thought. Institutions have long lifespans, often outlasting generations of scholars. They are also not value neutral. The Rockefeller Foundation, for example, has had the same mission (“to improve the well-being of humanity around the world”) since 1913. This mantra has been interpreted in different ways over the hundred years it has been in use. Again looking at China, in the 1930s Rockefeller sponsored large development and education programs in China with particular attention paid to agriculture and medicine. War, hot and cold, compelled Rockefeller to channel money for China away from direct investment in Chinese development and into American university programs devoted to studying Chinese history, culture, and society. Despite changes in practice, Rockefeller continually promoted Chinese development and democratic institution-building. Their investment in university China studies ensured that intellectuals who shared their vision would have the financial resources to pursue their work, which was of no small significance in a new field with limited connections to sources of funding.

It is tempting to idly despair at stories of institutional inequality particularly when taken together with news about the perpetually shrinking academic job market. As paralyzing as the prospect of future unemployment can be, it does little to help understand or address the problem. Like the parallel problems of race and gender inequality, using history to contextualize institutional inequality will both help us better understand how these disparities were created and undermine arguments that these inequalities are natural or inevitable products of the higher education system. But if historians are going to properly contextualize our current plight we need to be more sensitive to the role institutions play in shaping ideas. Addressing inequality involves stripping away harmful mythologies about meritocracy and “great thinkers” to get at the institutional roots of their creation and popularization. Only by understanding these roots can we properly adjust the discipline to create fairer and more egalitarian hiring practices.

[1] Olivier Zunz, Philanthropy in America: A History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012). For another book that effectively explores the relationship between conservative ideas and funding sources see, Angus Burgin, The Great Persuasion: Reinventing Free Markets Since the Depression (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012).

Eisenhower’s Ghost: Kennedy’s Stalled China Policy and University China Studies

Lecture

This lecture was given at the Sixth Annual Society for U.S. Intellectual History Conference on October 11, 2014 in Indianapolis, IN.

On January 19, 1961 outgoing President Dwight D. Eisenhower and President Elect John F. Kennedy met for the second administration transition meeting to discuss lingering concerns of the departing administration. According to Clark Clifford, Kennedy’s liaison to the outgoing Eisenhower administration, the January 19th meeting violated standard procedure for such meetings in how President Eisenhower discussed China policy with the President elect. Instead of merely suggesting possible directions for future China policy, Eisenhower made an ultimatum that he would publicly condemn the administration if Kennedy made any attempt to recognize the People’s Republic of China (PRC) through either formal recognition or United Nations membership.[i] Having squeaked into the White House by a slim margin, a chastened Kennedy resolved to not attempt any China policy reform until winning his second term, although some historians view this as an apocryphal tale meant to absolve the administration for its inaction.[ii]

Clifford’s account expresses a long-standing sensitivity among Kennedy defenders about the President’s refusal to deviate from his predecessor’s China policy, which recognized the Republic of China (ROC) as the sole legitimate government for all of China. This paper will attempt to provide an explanation for Kennedy’s stagnant China policy, by emphasizing the role played by distrust between the Kennedy administration and American university China specialists. In particular, I’ll focus on the relationship between the Kennedy administration and Harvard China specialist John Fairbank. As a Harvard man, member of the East Coast Establishment, and the best connected person in the China studies community, Fairbank and Kennedy seemed natural allies. Yet, partly because of their ideological differences regarding the future of PRC-US relations and partly because of personal animosity, Fairbank was excluded from the Kennedy administration. Refusal to engage Fairbank, together with Kennedy’s deferral to Secretary of State Dean Rusk on China issues, left the administration short on ideas about PRC engagement and ultimately forced Kennedy down the same policy road as his predecessor.

So, how did we get to the Kennedy era? The era between 1945 and 1960 was calamitous for Sino-America relations. During World War II the two countries were uneasy allies. At war’s end, the US attempted to mediate a power-sharing agreement between the Guomindang (Nationalists) and the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), which managed to alienate both groups. Between 1946 and 1949 the US pursued a confused China policy torn between Truman’s unwillingness to commit substantial military aid or ground forces to a regime he viewed as corrupt and domestic pressures applied by Congressmen like Walter Judd of Minnesota and William Knowland of California to support the Nationalists as a bulwark against the spread of communism. National backlash against the ‘loss’ of China to the CCP in 1949, led to multiple rounds of un-American activities investigations into the State Department and independent advisory bodies on East Asia, most notably the Institute of Pacific Relations. These investigations, which took place between 1950 and 1956, occurred in a climate where China was transformed into a threat commensurate with the Soviet Union. By 1960, the PRC’s entry into the Korean War, the two Taiwan Straits Crises, and rumors of PRC development of nuclear weapons cemented China as the foremost threat to American interests in Asia and the Pacific.[iii]

While relations between the US and China collapsed, academic study of modern China flourished after World War II. Government service, usually in intelligence and propaganda organizations had provided a generation of young China specialists like Harvard’s Fairbank, the University of Washington’s George E. Taylor, and Johns Hopkins University’s Owen Lattimore a more prominent role within the university and a larger public profile. In the postwar period, China specialists used the perceived importance of their field for solving the problem of deteriorating Sino-US relations to grow their discipline. As Meribeth Cameron, a researcher at the Institute of Pacific Relations, claimed in 1948 “overnight the few experts on the Far East who had been clinging to the fringes of academic life became national assets.”[iv] New research centers focusing on East Asia were established with Foundation money at the University of Washington and later Harvard and new graduate programs devoted to modern China study were established nationwide. These programs were unified into a recognized academic field with the establishment of the Far Eastern Association in 1948.

The 1950s reversed many of the gains made by university China scholars after World War II. As informal advisors to the State Department and other government branches, they were easy targets for McCarthyism. Furthermore, Senator Patrick McCarran’s investigation of the Institute of Pacific Relations deprived China scholars of their longest lasting scholarly association and an important nexus connecting them to Foundation funding. The careers of some scholars, like Owen Lattimore, were ruined by rounds of humiliating public investigations. Most scholars however were able to preserve their academic careers by abandoning political engagement. As a result of this abandonment, university China specialists were largely insignificant in shaping Eisenhower’s China policy and were excluded from his East Asian policymaking circle.

Removed from political power, China scholars embraced more ambitious resolutions to the US-PRC conflict than their counterparts in government positions. While there were a few conservative scholars like the George E. Taylor favored isolating the PRC, the vast majority of China scholars favored normalizing relations by 1960. Normalization could be accomplished in one of two ways. First, a single state solution of diplomatic recognition including admission of the PRC into the United Nations as the ‘China’ delegate, which included a seat on the Security Council. Presumably, this meant abandoning Taiwan, though no scholars were so bold as to publicly acknowledge that necessity. The second option was a two state solution whereby the PRC and Taiwan would each be recognized as independent countries. The two state solution was not acceptable to either the PRC or ROC, but provided US policymakers with a plan whereby they could assume normal diplomatic relations with the PRC without facing the accusation of abandoning Taiwan.

If ever a President and a China scholar were to see eye-to-eye one would think it would be President Kennedy and John Fairbank. Both men were part of what has been alternately called the liberal establishment or the imperial brotherhood. They were both products of New England prepatory schools and graduates of Harvard University. Kennedy and Fairbank were members of the Boston Brahminate, but felt like outsiders – Kennedy due to his Catholicism and Fairbank due to his mid-West origins. They shared many common friends and acquaintances including Arthur Schlesinger Jr., and McGeorge Bundy. Furthermore, their careers had been bolstered by their World War II service. Kennedy parlayed his war hero status into a rapid rise in Massachusetts politics, while Fairbank used his personal connections from the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) to develop Harvard’s fledgling China studies program into one of the best in the country.

Despite his academic successes and personal connections to the liberal establishment, Fairbank’s beliefs regarding the direction of American China policy placed him at odds with Kennedy and other anti-communist liberals. Fairbank was an outspoken critic of the Nationalists for corruption and what he viewed as the brutalization of the Chinese people under their rule. He believed CCP recruiting success was owed to Nationalist cruelty and that popular opinion was mounting against Chiang that would lead to his eventual ouster. He urged American policymakers to stop supporting the Nationalists lest the US become contaminated by its association with Chiang in the eyes of the Chinese people. Kennedy responding to an article Fairbank wrote in The New Republic wrote, “I agree with you that any hope of resuscitating the government of Chiang Kai-shek is now dead, but I also feel that the policies of yourself and others in the State Department contributed much more heavily than the [Truman] White Paper would indicate to the downfall of our position in China. Therefore, in view of the sorry record I cannot put any degree of faith in your plans for the future.”[v] Fairbank replied, with not a little condescension, “I think you will be amused to realize that while you have evidently been blaming me for our disaster in China, I on the other hand have been blaming you and Mr. Judd.”[vi]

Still, Kennedy got the last laugh. At a campaign stop in Salem, Massachusetts, Kennedy accused the Truman administration of ‘losing’ China to communism. Furthermore, he singled out university China scholars and Fairbank in particular as being personally culpable. Kennedy said, “So concerned were our diplomats and their advisors, the Lattimores and Fairbanks, with the imperfections of a diplomatic system in China after 20 years of war, and the tales of corruption in high places that they lost sight of our tremendous stake in a non-communist China.”[vii] A little over six months later, Senator Joseph McCarthy began investigating communist infiltration in the State Department, an investigation that would destroy Lattimore’s career and wound Fairbank’s.

Despite early enthusiasm for investigations into Washington’s China policymaking apparatus, by the late 1950s Kennedy had come to see the harm such scrutiny had inflicted on America’s position in Asia. In a 1957 article in Foreign Affairs, Kennedy criticized John Foster Dulles and the Eisenhower administration for portraying communism as monolithic. Echoing China scholars like Fairbank who had urged policymakers to understand Chinese communism as distinct from its Soviet counterpart, Kennedy argued, “In Asia we have shifted from a hyperbolic image of a free China to the brittle conception of a shiftless totalitarian China.”[viii] He recognized the ways domestic pressures had warped American China policy in the 1950s. “If a low ceiling is placed on criticism”, Kennedy warned, “policy tends towards rigidity and vested interests harden to the point where established viewpoints cannot be modified.”[ix] Furthermore, Kennedy admitted to having overstated the role the State Department and its allies had in ‘losing’ China to communism. Confronted once in office by journalist, and former Fairbank pupil, Theodore H. White about his ‘loss’ of China speech, Kennedy said, “Don’t beat up on me. I was wrong. I know I was wrong. I didn’t know anything then – you know what a kid congressman is like with no researchers, no staff, nothing. I made a mistake.”[x]

For their part, Fairbank and his fellow China scholars wanted to reengage with the public, but were ambivalent about working with the government. In the 1958 edition to his The United States and China, Fairbank hoped for expanded public engagement in China without further government involvement. “The new phase of our relations [with China] will demand hard study, emotional maturity, skilled personnel. These call for effort by American citizens, not merely the United States government.”[xi] In his 1959 presidential address before the Association of Asian Studies, Fairbank urged his fellow Asianists to reach out to the American public by shaping elementary and secondary school curriculums to include greater coverage of Asian histories, languages, and area studies. He chided American Asia scholars for being overly concerned with academic pursuits at the expense of public involvement. Fairbank believed Asia scholars, and China scholars in particular, were important cultural intermediaries who could facilitate cooperation and understanding between American and Asian peoples. Political content is notably absent from Fairbank’s speech. In fact, he suggested that improved cultural diplomacy between Americans and Asians could transcend political differences and minimize politicians’ effects on US-Asian relations.[xii]

Despite Fairbank’s criticism of politics, his history of public service and the appointment of notable American Japan scholars to prominent positions in the Kennedy administration suggested a rapprochement was possible. The intellectual vitality of China studies in 1960 was so well aligned with the incoming administration’s interest in the “best and brightest” that it appeared to two sides could not remain apart. For a fleeting moment in 1960 it appeared China scholars and policymaking liberals approached an ideological reconciliation. But the call to service never came. Why? Two reasons:

1) Public relations. The Kennedy administration’s narrow margin of victory made it sensitive to outside criticism. This is particularly true of well-worn issues like recognition of the PRC. While it was long assumed that the China Lobby had diminished by 1960, new evidence uncovered by Noam Kolchavi and others has suggested that the China Lobby continued to exert pressure on the Kennedy administration. Its lingering power is best illustrated by the internal hand-wringing over Edwin Reischauer’s appointment as Ambassador to Japan. Reischauer was a pretty uncontroversial figure. He had worked in codebreaking during World War II and had been a reliable advisor to the Truman administration on Japanese occupation and reconstruction. Unlike Fairbank, his status as a Japan specialist had allowed him to avoid McCarthy’s ire. Still, administration conservatives like Dean Rusk voiced objections to Reischauer’s nomination. Initially, they wondered about the appropriateness of nominating an ambassador with a Japanese wife. Once East Asian experts within the administration like James C. Thomson – a Fairbank pupil – dismissed this concern, focus shifted to Reischauer’s acquaintances. This meant Reischauer’s close personal and professional relationship with Fairbank. When the extent of Reischauer’s relationship with Fairbank was discovered in the former’s FBI file, it was rushed to Assistant Secretary of State Chester Bowles for consideration. Upon hearing that Reischauer’s nomination might be blocked by his association with Fairbank, Thomson supposedly said, “I told him [Roger Jones, the man who discovered the FBI file] that if they really worried about John Fairbank and his influence on this government, his brother-in-law Arthur Schlesinger Jr. is sitting right at the President’s side in the White House.”[xiii]

Fears by Rusk and Bowles about Reischauer’s nomination proved well-founded. Critics inside and outside the administration scrutinized the prospective Japanese ambassador’s connections to China scholars. Their furor was intensified by the absence of Republican Senators at Reischauer’s confirmation hearing. A seething article in the Los Angeles Times attacked Reischauer’s close association with China scholars targeted by McCarthy. Again, Fairbank was in the midst of the fray. “He [Reischauer] is the coauthor of a book with John Fairbank who is the foremost public advocate of recognizing Red China.”[xiv]

If the mild-mannered, likeable Reischauer generated this much furor one can only imagine the controversy appointing Fairbank or another senior university China specialist would have caused. Given his small margin of error at the polls, this was controversy Kennedy wanted to avoid.

2) Ideological. There was more blocking university China scholars from taking an active role in the Kennedy administration than PR. Kennedy deferred to men who continued to view China as a virulently expansionist appendage of the Soviet Union. These administration insiders, including Dean Rusk and Walt Rostow, believed America’s democratic worldview was so foreign to communist Chinese leaders that dialogue was almost fruitless. Like the Eisenhower administration that preceded it, Kennedy’s China men were skeptical that any change, short of regime change, could deescalate tensions. If “the essence of good foreign policy is constant re-examination” as David Halberstam suggested, Kennedy’s East Asia appointments seemed unlikely to create a good China policy.[xv]

The most formidable ideological opponent to China scholars like Fairbank was Secretary of State Dean Rusk. Rusk was the ultimate bureaucratic survivor. Despite being an important architect of Truman’s China policy, Rusk had managed to avoid McCarthyism with his reputation intact. At first, Rusk seemed to be an ally within the administration for academic China scholars. He shared their commitment to Wilsonian ideals and believed the US embodied security, democracy, and freedom for the developing world.[xvi] Despite his flexibility however, Rusk was a hardliner on China. He believed the PRC’s values endangered the spread of American democracy in East and Southeast Asia. Making matters worse, Rusk believed in the words of his biographer Warren Cohen that “Once the Communists gained control of a country it was too late. The opportunity to be free was lost forever.”[xvii] So while Rusk did not believe China scholars were malicious in supporting Truman’s China policy, he would not empower those same intellectuals – many of whom continued to urge the US to mend fences with the PRC – by providing them with political appointments or even informal advisory access.

Rostow, a fellow academic and potential ally, also proved unwilling to advocate inclusion of China scholars in the administration. Rostow’s problem was an overestimation of his own understanding of China. He had written a book on China, Prospects for Communist China (1954), which according to one voice inside the administration was “very out of date” by 1960.[xviii] It posited a monolithic communist world whereby the PRC’s development would both follow the Soviet Union’s path and depend on it for material and ideological assistance.[xix] In fact, the book itself was built upon the foundation of Rostow’s previously published The Dynamics of Soviet Society (1953) and merely overlaid a veneer of Chinese history over the earlier book’s method and conclusions.[xx] Still, he cited the book often in his reports and summarily dismissed those within the administration (even those with much more experience studying China) who disagreed with him. Rostow was his own China expert and if he wouldn’t listen to those within the administration there was little possibility he’d bring in a senior China scholar to challenge his ideas.

So what was the impact of China scholars’ exclusion on Kennedy’s China policy? Trying to measure absence is often a fool’s errand. However, I believe it’s more foolish to ignore the obvious parallel between the Kennedy administration’s exclusion of China experts and their stagnant China policy. At least one of Kennedy’s East Asian specialists, John C. Thomson Jr., believed the exclusion of university China specialists had a deleterious effect on, not only China policy, but American Asia policy more generally. In a scathing article he wrote for The Atlantic in 1968, Thomson excoriated the Kennedy administration’s East Asian policymakers as “committed to one policy line: the close containment and isolation of mainland China, the harassment of ‘neutralist’ nations which sought to avoid alignment with either Washington or Peking, and the maintenance of a network of alliances with anti-Communist client states on China’s periphery.”[xxi] Beyond developing a conservative China policy, the specter of 1950s purges of China experts led East Asian experts dealing with Vietnam to pursue a rigid, hardline policy. “Career officers in the [State] Department and especially their colleagues in the field, had not forgotten the fate of their World War II colleagues who wrote in frankness from China and were later pilloried by Senate Committees for critical comments about the Chinese Nationalists. Candid reporting on the strengths of the Viet Cong was inhibited by memory.”[xxii] The focus was on the Vietnam public relations angle and not making intelligent Vietnam policy. Like their fellow China specialists, those who dissented from increased American involvement in Vietnam were converted, marginalized, or transferred to other departments. The result in Thomson’s eyes was an error of judgment compounded by an ideological unwillingness to change policies. Thomson concluded, “In a sense, these men are our counterparts to the visionaries of Communism’s radical left: they are technocracy’s own Maoists.”[xxiii]

In conclusion, the inability of either President Kennedy or China scholars to transcend past disagreement hurt the short term policy aims of both groups. The administration’s China policy stagnated, while the absence of PRC knowledge put those tackling related foreign policy challenges in Vietnam, Laos, and Mongolia at a disadvantage. Without a political outlet, China scholars’ ideas remained confined to the university. Fairbank’s dream of creating an American public informed about China remained just that, a dream. Kennedy’s China policy was not haunted by Eisenhower’s ghost, instead he was trapped in a nightmare of his own creation and haunted by his own poor judgment – through his condemnation of American China scholars and too late criticism of McCarthy.

[i] Kolchavi, A Conflict Perpetuated, 56; Tucker, The China Threat, 1.

[ii] Kolchavi, A Conflict Perpetuated,

[iii] Yafeng Xia, Negotiating with the Enemy: U.S.-China Talks during the Cold War, 1949-1972 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006): 106-134;

[iv] Cameron, “Far Eastern Studies in the United States” (1948), 117.

[v] Evans, John Fairbank and the American Understanding of Modern China, 125.

[vi] Ibid.

[vii] John F. Kennedy, Speech at Salem, Massachusetts, January 30, 1949.

[viii] John F. Kennedy, “A Democrat Looks At Foreign Policy”, 50.

[ix] Ibid.

[x] Theodore H. White, In Search of History: A Personal Adventure (New York City: Harper and Row, 1978): 470.

[xi] John K. Fairbank, The United States and China, 2nd Edition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1958): 320.

[xii] John K. Fairbank, “A Note of Ambiguity: Asian Studies in America”, The Journal of Asian Studies 19, No. 1 (Nov., 1959): 3-9.

[xiii] James C. Thomson, Jr., recorded interview by Sheldon Stern, February 29, 1980 (25), John F. Kennedy Oral History Program.

[xiv] Holmes Alexander, “Hasty Confirmation of Edwin Reischauer”, Los Angeles Times (April 4, 1961): B4.

[xv] David Halberstam, The Best and Brightest (New York City: Random House, 1969): 121.

[xvi] Warren I. Cohen, Dean Rusk (Totowa, NJ: Cooper Square Publishers, 1980): 108-109.

[xvii] Ibid. 109.

[xviii] Thomson, Interview with Sheldon Stern, 13.

[xix] Rostow, The Prospects for Communist China, 311-314.

[xx] Ibid. v-vi.

[xxi] John C. Thomson, “How Could Vietnam Happen?: An Autopsy”, The Atlantic Monthly, April 1, 1968: http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1968/04/how-could-vietnam-happen-an-autopsy/306462/?single_page=true.

[xxii] Ibid.

[xxiii] Ibid.

Tackling the #Historiannchallenge

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Here’s the Ann Little blog post that inspired this self-interview.

Matthew Linton: The New York Times Book Review Interview.

What books are currently on your nightstand?

Usually, I keep two books I’m currently reading on my nightstand: one fiction and one non-fiction (usually history). I just finished Ian McEwen’s Sweet Tooth, which is a love story set in the atmosphere of the cultural Cold War in Great Britain. It was enjoyable, though not particularly profound. For nonfiction, I’m reading Thomas Piketty’s Capital in the Twenty-First Century. I’m nearly finished and find Piketty’s argument about growing wealth inequality compelling. If you’re looking for this century’s Marx though you best look elsewhere, Piketty is not a particularly radical thinker.

What was the last truly great book you read?

Earlier this year I read David Igler’s The Great Ocean about the history of the Pacific Ocean and was blown away. Igler’s ability to tell a story about imperialism, global trade, epidemiology, and environmental history is incredible. A definite must read, even if you’re not drawn to Pacific history.

Who are the best historians writing today?

Since I’m not a particularly fluid writer, I feel uncomfortable passing judgment on others’ prose. That being said, there are a plethora of historians – and young historians in particular – making important contribution to contemporary historical scholarship. Jennifer Ratner-Rosenhagen, Odd Arne Westad, Sam Moyn, James T. Kloppenberg, Daniel Rodgers, and Harold Isaacs are just a few of the many names that come immediately to mind.

What’s the best book ever written about American history?

This is obviously an impossible question to answer, since it presupposes a universal objective measure of quality for historical scholarship exists (hint: it doesn’t). But since I don’t want to be a total coward, I will reinterpret the question as “what is my favorite book ever written about American history?” Though there are many contenders, I always find myself returning to Richard Hofstadter’s The American Political Tradition for inspiration about how to become a better writer and create three-dimensional characters. Hofstadter was one of the first historians whose writing made me want to become a historian, so there is also a sentimental attachment to his work.

Do you have a favorite biography?

Not particularly. I’ve never been a big biography reader. I am relying on a couple of biographies for my dissertation including Robert P. Newman’s Owen Lattimore and the “Loss” of China and John Evans’ John Fairbank and the American Understanding of Modern China. I am thankful for the hard work biographers have put into understanding these characters. These books have saved me hours in the archives.

What are the best military histories?

I don’t read too many military histories, but one I read recently, S.C.M. Paine’s The Wars For Asia, 1911-1949, which consolidates the various wars that embroiled Asia in the early 20th century into a single, unbroken conflict. It’s very well-written and unlike many military histories does not get caught up in the tactical minutiae of war. These strengths make it an ideal introductory text for those unfamiliar with the history of East Asia before the Cold War.

And what are the best books about African American history?

Most of my favorite books about African American history examine their role in shaping US foreign policy. Penny von Eschen’s Satchmo Blows Up the World about jazz ambassadors during the Cold War shows the way jazz musicians like Duke Ellington navigated their roles as disseminators of American liberalism and critics of American racism. Thomas Borstelmann’s The Cold War and the Color Line is another book that effectively shows the interrelationship between US advocacy of democracy abroad and unjust racial policies at home. Finally, Nico Slate’s Colored Cosmopolitanism, which examines the intellectual cross-pollination of the Indian Revolution and Civil Rights Movement, is pioneering in looking African American intellectual history in a global context.

During your many years of teaching, did you find students responded differently to the history books you assigned?

I have only been teaching for one year. I’m amazed how teaching 18-21 year olds makes me feel like the oldest person in the world.

What kind of reader were you as a child?

When I was a young child I was an active reader. I was addicted to the Goosebumps series and read as many of them as I could get my hands on. My grandmother worked at the local public library and supported my reading habit by buying and recommending me new books. As a teenager my interest in reading waned, I was much more interested in athletics and having fun with friends. Sophomore year of high school I was exposed to continental philosophy through a world history course and started reading Friedrich Nietzsche and, later, Michel Foucault. This changed my entire approach to reading and learning. I began devouring classic philosophy texts as well as great works of fiction. I haven’t stopped since.

If you had to name one book that made you who you are today, what would it be?

I am a composite of the many books I’ve read over my lifetime, but if I had to pick one book it would be G.W.F. Hegel’s The Philosophy of History. I was already interested in philosophy, but Hegel’s work showed me how philosophy and history were bound together. Since then, I’ve always found the best history is built on a strong theoretical foundation and the most successful philosophy remains grounded in historical evidence. Hegel’s work was also some of the first intellectual history I ever read and though it is much different then contemporary intellectual history scholarship, it was crucial in exposing me to the genre.

If you could require the president to read one book, what would it be?

Given the instability of the current political situation in the Middle East I would recommend Frederick Logevall’s Choosing War about LBJ’s decision to commit to American involvement in Vietnam. The crucial lesson of Logevall’s book is that offensive war is always a choice for the aggressor and that other options must always be seriously weighed.

You’re hosting a literary dinner party. Which three writers are invited?

If we’re limited to literary figures, I’d choose Ernest Hemingway, Ralph Ellison, and Lu Xun. I’d predict substantial disagreement at the party.

What book did you feel as if you were supposed to like, but didn’t? Do you remember the last book you put down without finishing?

I though John Gaddis’ biography of George Kennan was disappointing. It was too long and hagiographic. I also dislike Charles Postel’s The Populist Vision, but probably just because I don’t like the populists. The last book I put down without finishing was Norman Rush’s Mortals. It was very boring and, since I read fiction for enjoyment, I gave up after 400 pages (I blame Andy Seal).

What books are you embarrassed to not have read yet?

So many. I’ve never read any Jane Austen or Herman Melville. I should probably read the Bible all the way through at some point. In terms of history, I have somehow missed out on reading Jackson Lears’ No Place For Grace.

What do you plan to read next?

Up next is Christopher McKnight Nichols’ Promise and Peril: America at the Dawn of the Global Age.

The Past Is Not A Cold Dead Place: Perry Anderson, Genealogy, History

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[This piece first appeared at the Society for US Intellectual History Blog on July 18, 2014]

In his triptych of articles for The New Left Review – “Homeland”, “Imperium” and “Consilium” – Perry Anderson examines the rise of the current American neoliberal national security state. Anderson uses each article to tackle a different aspect of this rise: “Homeland” looks at domestic politics, “Imperium” at foreign policy, and “Consilium” at current mainstream academic thinking on US foreign policy. These articles, and “Imperium” in particular, are historically oriented. Anderson traces the creation and development of the national security state from the 19th century to the present day with special emphasis on the way the presidencies of Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson shaped US policy thinking about America’s place in the world. Anderson’s erudition and the breadth of his project is impressive. The further I read his NLR articles though, the more one question nagged at me: is this history?

I believe Anderson is writing as a genealogist, not a historian. Since being adopted by the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche in the late 19th century, genealogy has been one of social criticism’s most powerful and versatile weapons. It is also an important corrective to the historian’s orientation toward objectivity and context. For the purposes of this article, I define genealogy as an archeology of knowledge interested in exposing incidents of knowledge/power as constructed with the hope of disrupting its application and affecting future change. In contrast to the historian, the genealogist Anderson’s aim is to show how the American neoliberal national security state developed from the Founding to the present. His hope is that by exposing the contours of American empire, it can be more effectively combatted.[1]

Friedrich Nietzsche developed the genealogical method in the 1870s. Genealogy’s inspiration was not historical. In his “On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life” (1874), Nietzsche dismissed most historical thinking for its undue emphasis on presenting an objective past. Attempting to present an objective past denied human subjectivity and deadened life-giving lessons by diluting them with spurious contextualization and detail.[2] Instead, Nietzsche crafted his genealogical method by combining his training as a classical philologist with his interest in Charles Darwin’s ideas about evolution. His interest in the relevance of non-historical scholarship to genealogy is evinced by one of Nietzsche’s fundamental questions in On the Genealogy of Morals (1887): “What light does linguistics, and especially, the study of etymology, throw on the history of the evolution of moral concepts?[3] Here both linguistics and evolutionary science play a crucial role in showing the development of Western morality and values. To Nietzsche, a virtue shared by linguistics and evolution is its rejection of objectivity.

The culmination of Nietzsche’s genealogical method is found in Michel Foucault’s work on institutional power and authority. In his essay, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History”, Foucault provided a concise outline of his genealogical method and its indebtedness to Nietzsche. Foucault is explicit that genealogy is neither opposed to history nor is it a less rigorous version of it. “Genealogy does not oppose itself to history as the lofty and profound gaze of the philosopher might compare to the molelike perspective of the scholar,” Foucault wrote, “It opposes itself to the search for ‘origins’.”[4] Whereas Nietzsche used genealogy to undermine the foundations of Western morality, Foucault used the same method to unmask the power dynamics underlying institutions. His method was more historically oriented than Nietzsche’s, but in all of his genealogies (The Order of Things (1966), Discipline and Punish (1975), and The History of Sexuality (1976-84)) Foucault was committed to Nietzsche’s orientation toward the present and future at the expense of historical objectivity.

While Foucault was the most visible adopter of Nietzsche’s genealogical method, it also found an audience among American historians. These historians, including Gabriel Kolko and William Appleman Williams, believed that history should be used as a tool to criticize American culture, society, and politics.[5] In the preface to his The Contours of American History, William Appleman Williams defined the purpose of history, it “is neither to by-pass and dismiss nor to pick and choose according to preconceived notions; rather it is a study of the past so that we can come back into our own time of troubles having shared with the men of the past their dilemmas, having learned from their experiences, having been buoyed up by their courage and creativeness and sobered by their shortsightedness and failures.”[6] Like Nietzsche, Williams believed history should be future oriented; it should inform us as we try to make a better future. Though history cannot be the sole means of informing a better future – in Williams’ words “History offers no answers per se, it only offers a way of encouraging men to use their minds to make their own history” – it can be a useful tool.[7] It should be a means of “enrichment and improvement through research and reflection,” not a backward-looking scholasticism myopically obsessed with the past for its own sake.[8]

Beyond a common devotion to history for life, Nietzsche and Williams shared a commitment to using history as a tool to disrupt the search for singular origins, continuities, and wholes. Both reject the notion that total understanding of the past is possible. Perspective and subjectivity feature prominently in the work of both authors. In the same way Nietzsche could only create a genealogy of morals, Williams is limited to tracing the contours of American history. Nietzsche can trace a few common themes in his genealogy of morals: the rise of slave morality, the triumph of life-denying religion over life-loving warrior culture, and the coming of the übermenschen. Though Williams’ values could not be more dissimilar from Nietzsche’s, he also rejects a totalizing approach to history. Themes like frontier expansion, private property versus social property, and community are embodied in subjects like the Earl of Shaftesbury, Charles Beard, and Herbert Hoover. There are not impersonal historical forces for Williams, any historical continuities are dependent on individual agency for carriage between generations.

Perry Anderson is writing in the tradition begun with Nietzsche and carried on by Williams. Like Nietzsche and Williams, he is most interested in trying to understand how contemporary American domestic and foreign policy has come about. In line with his argument in “Homeland” that American political power has become unduly concentrated in the executive, Anderson embodies the characteristics of the neoliberal national security state in various Presidents. Woodrow Wilson in particular, is a pivotal figure for Anderson in unifying and arguing that, “Religion, capitalism, democracy, peace, and the might of the United States were one.”[9] It is no coincidence then for Anderson that, despite Wilson’s peace-loving rhetoric, he entered the United States into a world war that would massively expand American militarism at home and influence abroad. For Anderson despite periods of isolationism, “the ideology of national security, US-style was inherently expansionist.”[10]

Anderson’s vision of American foreign policy is erudite, but has clear limits. He’s not particularly interested in context or depth. To cover such a rangy topic as American foreign policy over a century’s duration in only a couple hundred pages compels Anderson to narrowly focus on a few individuals. He is also not concerned with counter-evidence or providing alternative opinions to his own. Like other genealogists, Anderson’s argument is polemical. While discussing the aims of the Truman administration after World War II, for example, Anderson focuses only on Europe.[11] The American government’s occupation of Japan, attempt to arbitrate the formation of a coalition government between the Chinese Communist Party and the Guomindang, and decolonization in South and Southeast Asia are omitted from Anderson’s account of postwar American policy. This omission streamlines Anderson’s argument regarding the expansion of executive power and political consensus regarding liberalism (in both its political and economic forms) across the world. The postwar reality was much messier. Congressional support for Chiang Kai-shek frustrated Truman and the State Department, opinion was divided as to the future of Southeast Asian independence movements with substantial support in the State Department for independent (even if leftist) nationalist regimes in Vietnam and Indonesia, and despite the surprising ease of US occupation in Japan, the future role of the US there was unclear. While not acknowledging these seminal events in US history would be a mortal sin if committed by a historian seeking to write an authoritative historical account of 20th century US foreign policy, providing this historical context is not important for realizing Anderson’s aims as a genealogist. Like Williams before him, Anderson is able to keep his argument focused and coherent by eschewing historical complexity.

Despite being interested in the past, Anderson rejects the methodological dogmas of the professional historian. Though Anderson is writing during a more methodologically inclusive period of post-linguistic, post-cultural turn historical scholarship, historians still prize values that Nietzsche criticized. Objectivity, now seen as a ‘noble dream’ instead of realizable goal by historians, nevertheless remains a valued mindset. Polemics and jeremiads, while useful fodder for historical articles and monographs, fall outside the bounds of acceptable historical scholarship. Many historians also continue to believe that history should be solely concerned with the past. Jill Lepore and other who have deigned to approach history with an eye to the present have been labeled “presentist” by their peers.[12] Frequently, these accusations amount to little more than political disagreement couched in the language of good scholarship. Still, they posit a hard, artificial dividing line between the past and present.

Genealogy provides an alternative to endless debates about historical methodology. It is a separate method with its own values. At the same time, it can inform our thinking about the past and its relevance to present and future events. Historians need not have a monopoly on the past. History can tell us about the past as it was and for its own sake. The genealogist is first and foremost a social critic, interested in history as a means of interpreting the present. Both are necessary for a complete understanding of the past and how it informs current events. Embracing methodological diversity will allow scholars, be they historians or genealogists, to construct a thoroughgoing and socially responsible vision of the past that can inform how we live in the present.

[1] Anderson, “Imperium”, 4.

[2] Michel Foucault wrote about Nietzsche’s criticism of objective history that, “The objectivity of historians inverts the relationships of will and knowledge and it is, in the same stroke, a necessary belief in providence, in final causes and teleology – the beliefs that place the historian in the family of ascetics.” The historians obedience to unchanging, dead facts denies, for Nietzsche, the perspectivalism of our understanding of past events as well as the historian’s own subjectivity. Michel Foucault, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History” in Paul Rabinow (ed.) The Foucault Reader (New York City: Pantheon Books, 1984): 76-100.

[3] Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals in Walter Kaufman (ed.), Basic Writings of Nietzsche (New York City: The Modern Library, 1992): 491. Italics Nietzsche’s.

[4] Foucault, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History”, 77.

[5] It should be noted that the genealogical method is not the exclusive purview of leftist social critics. I think the best way to understand much of Christopher Lasch’s late-career work is as genealogy instead of history. The Lasch monograph best fitting the genealogical description is The True and Only Heaven: Progress and Its Critics (1991).

[6] William Appleman Williams, The Contours of American History (New York City: New Viewpoints, 1961): 23.

[7] Williams, Contours of American History, 480.

[8] Williams, Contours of American History, 23.

[9] Anderson, “Imperium”, 9.

[10] Anderson, “Imperium”, 30.

[11] Anderson, “Imperium”, 17-18.

[12] This is obviously not a new phenomenon. American communist historians in the mid-20th century were often labeled unscholarly for viewing history as a tool for political struggle. My reference to Jill Lepore concerns a 2011 spat between her and Gordon Wood concerning her book The Whites of Their Eyes: The Tea Party’s Revolution and the Battle over American History (2011). See Gordon Wood, “No Thanks For the Memories”, The New York Review of Books (January 13, 2011): http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2011/jan/13/no-thanks-memories/ and Claire Potter’s thoughtful riposte at The Chronicle of Higher Education: http://chronicle.com/blognetwork/tenuredradical/2011/01/department-of-snark-or-who-put-tack-on/. David Sehat has written on the debate for the S-USIH blog back in 2011. See his post here: http://s-usih.org/2011/01/wood-on-lepore-on-presentism-or-why.html.

Not My Liberalism

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[first appeared on the Society for U.S. Intellectual History Blog, July 5, 2014]

Confusion about liberalism’s definition is ubiquitous in American popular and scholarly discourse. To the conservative Fox News set, liberalism has become a catch-all term for ineffective governance and flimsy morals. During the 2004 Presidential election Republicans had so successfully tarred liberalism that Democratic Presidential nominee John Kerry shied away from using the term. In recent years a resurgent left has also been critical of liberalism without properly defining it. Scholarly magazines like Jacobin have often criticized unspecified liberals for embracing capitalism and refusing to take strong ethical stands on poverty and racism. While the left’s criticisms of liberals undoubtedly hold true for some liberals, without an agreed-upon definition of liberalism it’s difficult to determine if sweeping criticisms from the right and left are defensible.
In his rangy synthesis, Liberalism: The Life of An Idea, Edmund Fawcett attempts to provide an authoritative definition of liberalism. By picturing liberalism as a fluid philosophy continually reacting to social, political, and technological problems, Fawcett convincingly demonstrates why liberalism has endured for centuries while evading definition. Liberalism’s very nebulousness explains its success. The expansiveness of the term allows it to accommodate seemingly contradictory values, such as individual freedom and social security, without fragmenting. Fawcett’s descriptive argument about defining liberalism from 1830 until the present is largely successful. His prescriptive attempt to highlight liberalism’s value through careful definition is less successful however. In his attempt to salvage a unitary liberalism, Fawcett recapitulates many of its most grievous sins including the exclusion of non-Western voices, papering over substantive ideological differences between thinkers, and dismissing the troublesome history of political liberals in power.

Fawcett’s definition is chronological and thematic. Chronologically, Fawcett situates liberalism in four separate epochs (1830-1880, 1880-1945, 1945-1989, and after 1989). His liberalism is not a static philosophy. Instead, it’s continually adapting to address the problems of its era whether they be social, technological, or intellectual. To Fawcett, liberalism’s adaptability explains why it has endured despite challenges ranging from economic depression to world war. “The story of liberalism is in a way a coming-of-age tale as liberals learn, or fail to learn, from experience,” Fawcett tells his readers (6). Despite this seeming capitulation to the Whiggish liberal narrative, he is careful to avoid a simple story of continual progress. Examining the efflorescence of human rights thinking after World War II, Fawcett shows how the 1948 Declaration of Human Rights built an intellectual consensus among its diverse body of drafters only to watch that agreement erode once the Declaration was passed on to the UN’s member nations. Critics of human rights feared that the doctrine would be overused or misused to infringe on sovereignty or force reparations on former colonial powers. Human rights doctrine had no suitable response to these critics. In Fawcett’s words, “Intellectual disenchantment with human rights grew with a seeming failure to find stable, publicly available defenses for them against mockers, debunkers, and deniers” (295).

Anchoring Fawcett’s liberal chronology are four persistent themes: conflict, resistance to power, progress, and respect (10). By conflict he means that to liberals “social harmony was not achievable, and to pursue it was foolish” (10). Fawcett’s liberalism is not a utopian philosophy. Instead, it’s pragmatic and looks to find temporary, moderate solutions to assuage, not eliminate, conflict. Second, Fawcett’s liberals are skeptical about power. Power should never be absolute and liberals sought to check or limit power whenever it became concentrated. The third and fourth ideas, progress and respect, are both fundamental and perpetually in conflict. To Fawcett, liberals view “human character and human society as…not static but dynamic” (11). This dynamism possesses promise and peril. People have the ability to improve their lives and communities. At the same time, there is always the threat that progress could be lost, order could be disordered, and liberty could be bound. At the same time, liberals are sensitive to coercive improvement. Individual autonomy should be respected by superior authority. Good liberals should not “obstruct and intrude on people in pursuit of their chosen enterprises or beliefs” (11). Fawcett is sensitive that these four themes are often in conflict. Still, he views “such disputes as family quarrels, not as wars among rival sects” and consistent with the liberal worldview.

Fawcett fundamentally views liberalism as a “practice of politics” instead of a speculative philosophy (25). His focus on political ‘doers’ leads him to populate Liberalism with a diverse and unexpected selection of characters. There are the expected political totems – Abraham Lincoln, John Stuart Mill, Franklin Delano Roosevelt – but there are also surprise guests including the obscure Franz Schulze-Delitzsch, Republican President Herbert Hoover, and free-market economist Milton Friedman. Ultimately, Fawcett is only able to fuse thought and political practice until World War II. He admits that, “after 1945 the separation of ideas and politics appeared to be complete as each side professionalized itself” (316). Fortunately for Fawcett, this separation was never complete and though more speculative philosophers figure into the post-1945 sections, political practitioners like Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher loom large. Fawcett also focuses on political contributions over great books. For example, he dwells at length on Mill’s undistinguished career in Parliament while devoting comparatively little attention to his landmark On Liberty. Though this is a bit frustrating for the intellectual historian, Fawcett’s focus on politics allows him to avoid the more abstract and abstruse aspects of philosophical and economic liberalism and cover greater temporal and geographic ground. This simplicity, when taken with Fawcett’s facility as a writer, also makes Liberalism a useful foundation text for undergraduate courses on liberal ideas or politics.

Liberalism is an admirable attempt to synthesize the diverse strands of liberal thought and practice. Regrettably, Fawcett’s examination of liberalism is flawed by a search for its singular origin. He is interested in defining and delineating liberalism, not ‘liberalisms’. Fawcett’s justification for singularity is twofold. First, he’s concerned that once liberalism is divided it’s susceptible to infinite fracture. Second, he’s concerned about questions of authenticity in a fractured liberal environment. To Fawcett, multiple liberalisms beg the question about which is the authentic or true liberalism. At best debates about authentic liberalism “risks turning an indispensible label into an unnecessary puzzle”, at worst it could lead to a “hunt for nonbelievers” and a violation of liberalism’s fundamental commitment to toleration (25-26).

In fact, Fawcett fails to avoid his second pitfall because of his search for a unified liberalism. By looking for a singular origin, he recapitulates liberalism’s tendency to exclude dissenting minority voices. His story of liberalism is limited to a white, Euro-American worldview. The first, and only, prominent female character in the book is Margaret Thatcher and (aside from all the political problems of having Thatcher as your only female voice) she is not introduced until page 379. Fawcett’s non-Euro-American representatives are George Orwell and Albert Camus who, despite being born in European colonies, were thoroughly enmeshed in and responsive to European ideas and politics. As Erez Manela and other have shown, liberalism was a potent global idea by the dawn of the 20th century.[1] Fawcett’s liberalism fails to take into account liberalism’s globalism and fails to mention non-Western thinkers who were essential to its expansion. Fawcett’s liberalism is capacious enough to include the likes of Michael Oakshott and John-Paul Sartre, why not Lu Xun, Sun Yat-sen, and Jawrahal Nehru?

Fawcett’s exclusion of non-Western contributors to liberal thought and practice is particularly troubling because he bristles at and dismisses the harm caused by Western liberal imperialism. He buys into the canard of the liberal civilizing mission. To Fawcett, liberal empire’s good intentions make imperial practice’s violence and folly justifiable, if not justified. After briefly conceding that there was no ideological conflict between liberalism and empire, he stumbles into defending liberal colonial domination as “not all rapine, domination, and unequal exchange” (198). Liberal empire brought “progress and modernity” to areas lacking technological innovation and egalitarian values (198). Furthermore, Fawcett’s liberal empires were not seen as hated conquerors by colonized peoples. In fact, “liberal benefits of modernity were often sought for and welcomed by colonized peoples” (199). Obviously, there were excesses. He admits “that in raising up backward peoples and showering them with the boons of modernity, the governments of liberal civilizations had them killed at the same time by the tens of thousands” (204).

The very capaciousness of Fawcett’s liberalism also presents problems. While some of his characters like German legal theorist Carl Schmitt act as foils for his liberal protagonists, Fawcett willingness to include intellectuals and politicians who are rarely understood as liberal and who did not view themselves as such is puzzling. He often accuses his characters of denying their own liberalism. “Friendly critics suspected MacIntyre was, in effect, a closet liberal”, “Sartre was more liberal than he cared to admit”, and “Oakeshott’s liberal quietism was apt for a ship in calm seas” (353, 336, 321). Strangely, Fawcett does not question his liberal exemplar’s bona fides.

He also omits prominent liberals who could disrupt his definition. There is no John F. Kennedy to upset his liberal characteristic of resistance to power. His omission of Kennedy also makes the relationship between liberalism and conservatism unidirectional. Conservatives like Hoover and Reagan may be closet liberals or have liberal aims. Fawcett’s liberals are not susceptible to conservatism’s allure however. Kennedy’s (or even Obama’s) technocratic liberal militarism could serve as a useful corrective to this imbalance. Just as under the proper conditions conservatives have embraced a narrative of progress, liberals have justified reaction and maintenance of the status quo when under threat.

Fawcett’s Liberalism mirrors the promise and peril of its intellectual namesake. It’s an ambitious synthesis and tackles an important problem. Fawcett’s delineation of liberalism as fluid and historically contingent provides a useful way of thinking about it as an ideology. Liberalism’s fluidity also partially explains why it has evaded definition for so long. Still, Liberalism shares its namesake’s flaws. Its principle protagonists are white men who speak in universals about ethics and good government while presuming that non-male, non-white, and non-western people will share their values. Its focus on political practice tacitly accepts liberal naturalism, denying that liberalism is a manmade ideology. Its capaciousness and toleration of dissent (at least among white men) make me question liberals’ depth of feeling about their values. I appreciate Fawcett’s genealogy of liberalism, but as someone who has sometimes defined himself as a liberal I found myself constantly thinking as I read his book, “I hope Fawcett’s liberalism isn’t my liberalism.”

[1] Erez Manela, The Wilsonian Moment: Self-Determination and the International Origins of Anticolonial Nationalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007).

Towards A Hi-Tech University?: Recapping THATCamp New England 2014

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As I wandered over to Boston University to my first THATCamp I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake. I was two hours late and had somehow mislabeled both the date and location of the event in my calendar. I’m also by no means a technology guru. Sure, I can deftly navigate social media and get excited about Apple’s software announcements, but I don’t know how to program or repair computers. I had heard a great deal about the positives of THATCamp over the years from fellow Brandeis graduate students – and technology hucksters – Lincoln Mullin and Shane Landrum. Yet, when I looked at the schedule chock full of unfamiliar acronyms (D3.JS anyone?) and struggled to get online access through Boston University’s guest network, I thought it would be a long couple of days.

Upon meeting the other participants in THATCamp however, my concerns were almost immediately dispelled. Everyone was welcoming and friendly. They were genuinely interested in my research – however technologically unsophisticated – and displayed a wide range of technological proficiency. THATCamp’s openness is not only due to its participants character, but also the “unconference” format. Unlike formal conferences, which rely on calls for papers to form a schedule of panels, THATCamp organizes its schedule the day of the conference. Individuals with expertise in a certain area or with a certain tool are encouraged to lead workshops, but everyone is free to contribute workshops or discussions on topics of interest or concern. I think this format encourages innovation and contributions by younger scholars. There were workshops and discussions led by undergraduates. There were workshops on new digital humanities tools like Omeka and D3.JS led by non-experts on the technology. While this sometimes resulted in a blind-leading-the-blind dynamic, it also fostered a community feel and encouraged cooperative problem solving.

THATCamp was also heartening because it facilitated frank conversation about problems of accessibility and employment. I was surprised to find many of the difficulties and frustrations I had about archive accessibility were shared by archivists and librarians. I quickly realized my surprise resulted from an unfamiliarity with prevailing wisdom outside my own field. I had simply never discussed copyright and permissions with the library sciences community. I hope conversations begun at THATCamp between historians, librarians, and archivists will continue as more collections are digitized. Employment was another topic on everyone’s mind. At a lively discussion session on MOOCs, concerns about online courses’ impact on an already depressed academic job market were openly debated. It became evident that different types of schools (private universities, tuition-dependent colleges, and large state universities) were interested in MOOCs for different reasons. Whereas private universities largely promoted MOOCs as a public relations tool to provide a platform to showcase their most prestigious faculty, large public institutions viewed MOOCs as a way of increasing the student body without having to provide costly boarding, eating, and learning facilities. No consensus emerged about MOOCs impact on academic jobs, though few saw a large-scale MOOC increase as a boon to the academic job market.

More than anything else, I saw at THATCamp an antidote to the rationalization of the university. I witnessed first hand interdisciplinarity’s benefits and saw how different academic perspectives – united by a common interest in technology – could come together to form a cohesive university community. I also saw how my training as a historian blinded me to solutions to certain problems. I have long been frustrated by the slow pace of archive digitization. I assumed that the slow pace was due to copyright restrictions combined with concerns about the long-term viability of corporeal archives in a digital world. Instead, by talking with archivists I learned that manpower and metadata are the two major hindrances to archive digitization. Scanning and properly tagging documents takes time and sloppy tagging could leave documents untraceable or make them uncitable. Similarly, digital humanists wholehearted embrace of technology and large digital projects forced me to reflect (yet again) on historians’ fusty obsession with monograph dissertations and book publishing in a world of big data and data visualization. Book publishing is a contracting industry. Furthermore, technology presents historians with so many other research and publishing mediums. Some universities have begun to allow digital stand-ins for dissertation chapters, but not many.

In all, THATCamp New England was a thrilling and eye-opening experience. Not only did I meet a bunch of fantastic people and learn about some cool tech, but I think I also glimpsed a possible future path for the university. The university – and the humanities in particular – have often been entranced by nostalgia for a better time when their model was paramount and scholars operated in a kind of bubble protected by iron gates and tenured positions. We don’t live in that world anymore. Our model is no longer innovative or desirable. That does not mean we have to give in to economic adjunctification and popular irrelevance however. Using a model cribbed from the tech industry emphasizing openness, collaboration, and leveraging in-demand skills, the humanities can not only be salvaged but can thrive. We just have to be willing to take the leap.