By William Voegeli
Thursday, June 22, 2017
Karen Kipple’s “greatest wish in the world” is that her
eight-year-old daughter Ruby will “have a good life.” At the same time, in
“accordance with [her] politics and principles,” she aspires to “a life spent
making a difference and helping those less fortunate than herself.” Apart from
their love for Ruby, Karen and her husband Matt are united by little beyond the
same “political outlook and commitment to social justice, combined with their
willingness to impugn those who [don’t] share it.”
This tension between maternal love and political ideals
propels Class, Lucinda Rosenfeld’s
new novel. Its central dilemma concerns how, and where, to educate Ruby. New
York City private schools are notoriously expensive. Karen and Matt do own a
two-bedroom Brooklyn condominium worth more than $1 million — but only because
its value has doubled in the three years since they moved to a gentrifying
neighborhood. Karen is a professional fundraiser for Hungry Kids, whose cause
is made clear by its name, while Matt is starting a nonprofit of his own after
two decades as an attorney “fighting for tenants evicted by greedy landlords.”
It will have to be a public school, then, which is just
as well: Karen believes that “public education [is] a force for good and that,
without racially and economically integrated schools, equal opportunity
couldn’t exist.” The choice is between: Mather, in a nearby neighborhood so
thoroughly gentrified that seeing its students en masse for the first time made
Karen feel she had “fallen asleep and woken up in Norway”; and Betts, Ruby’s
school since kindergarten, where only a fourth of the students are white and
many of the rest live in a public-housing project. Mather has an affluent,
aggressive parent–teacher association that renders it indistinguishable from a
private school. The hundreds of thousands of dollars raised by the PTA each
year pay for, among other things, a recess coach and an experimental
puppeteering troupe’s performance of an age-appropriate version of Schindler’s List. Karen likes that Betts
exposes Ruby to less privileged children but worries about its academic
reputation and quality. Apart from Latino History Month, it seems, the rest of
the school year is Black History Month. Now in the third grade, Ruby knows the
exact date of Martin Luther King’s wedding to Coretta Scott but has never heard
of Julius Caesar.
The more acute problem is that Karen comes to fear for
Ruby’s safety. Her daughter’s best friend transfers from Betts to Mather after
a boy named Jayyden punches the little girl in the face. Karen feels sorry for
Jayyden, who lives in the projects with assorted relatives, his mother thought
to be in prison and his father in the wind. But Ruby’s vulnerability torments
Karen, who tells Matt, “I just don’t feel comfortable leaving her there in the
morning anymore.” His opposition makes her defensive. It’s not because so few
Betts students are white or prosperous, she insists, but because so few come
from a “functional family where people care about their kids getting an
education and encourage them.” When they argue, Karen tries to use politics
against her husband, accusing him of rejecting a move to Mather solely because
he wants “to brag to all your friends that your daughter attends a
minority-white school.”
A Tom Wolfe novel would deride Karen and her peers
mercilessly, but Rosenfeld is wry and sympathetic. She allows Karen to
recognize “that her life [is] ripe for mockery,” as she numbers herself among
the educated white liberals “nearly as terrified of being seen as racists” as
they are of “encountering black male teenagers on an empty street after dark.” Like
Karen, Rosenfeld is at pains to make clear her antipathy to conservatives,
especially whenever she begins sounding like one. Class is dedicated to “public schools everywhere” and has an
epigraph from James Baldwin: “White people cannot, in the generality, be taken
as models of how to live.” In the wake of the 2016 election, Rosenfeld
described herself as a “card-carrying member of the liberal and coastal elite
so despised by Donald J. Trump’s core constituency.”
Despite Rosenfeld’s efforts, however, her novel makes
clear that the liberal hypocrisy it depicts is no foible but reveals a serious
defect: a facile, often brazen combination of self-righteousness and
self-advancement. Class fictionalizes
a controversy that erupted in 2015 when the New York City school system
proposed to redraw district boundaries, sending many children from P.S. 8, an
overcrowded Brooklyn elementary school whose student population was 59 percent
white, to P.S. 307, which was nearby, less crowded, and 90 percent black and
Latino. The affluent parents who opposed their children’s transfer to P.S. 307
insisted that they were concerned about test scores, resources, programs, the
high price they had paid for their homes in the expectation of sending their
children to P.S. 8 . . . anything but race.
“It’s more complicated when it’s about your own
children,” one parent told Reihan Salam, who rightly pointed out that every child is somebody’s own. For
liberals willing to impugn people who don’t share their commitment to social
justice, however, the extenuating circumstances that weigh heavily in Brooklyn
Heights never explain or excuse red-state voters’ resistance to
multiculturalism. We’re tormented
about a complex, tragic dilemma; they’re
hate-filled bigots.
It’s important to note that P.S. 8 was predominantly but
not entirely white. It had “some students of color, but not too many,” as
Nikole Hannah-Jones, a black writer for the New
York Times with a daughter at P.S. 307, explained. Citywide, Hannah-Jones
notes, New York public schools are just 15 percent white — but half of those
white students are concentrated in 11 percent of the schools.
Hannah-Jones scorns the “carefully curated integration .
. . that allows many white parents to boast that their children’s public
schools look like the United Nations.” This curation, not unique to New York’s
public schools, affirms the self-image and self-interest of wealthy liberal
whites across the country, and at all levels of education.
In researching his 2007 book Creating a Class, the sociologist Mitchell L. Stevens spent more
than a year “embedded” in the admissions office of a private liberal-arts
college. The college and its personnel are not named in the book, per Stevens’s
agreement with the administration, but the school was quickly identified as
Hamilton College in upstate New York.
This institution was, and remains, selective and
prestigious. U.S. News & World Report
ranks Hamilton twelfth on its list of 239 “National Liberal Arts Colleges,” a
bit below such institutions as Williams, Amherst, and Wellesley but tied with
Colby, Colgate, and Smith, among others. Hamilton rejects 75 percent of the
students who apply, even though the admissions director at the time Creating a Class was published believed
that a large majority of its applicants were “strong” and would be “really
successful” there. In other words, more high-school seniors will consider it a
“reach school” than a “safety school.”
In modern America, Stevens argues, preparing one’s
children for college and then enrolling them in the most desirable one possible
is the culmination of “social reproduction.” He explains this sociological term
as “the transfer of knowledge, cultural perspective, and social position from
one generation to the next,” or, more broadly, “all the things parents do to
ensure that their children will have good lives.”
Formal education has become central to social
reproduction. Few American parents now transfer a family farm or business to
their offspring. The “business” for a huge majority is a career selling labor
on the open market rather than, as once was common, owning and operating some
enterprise. Nor do more than a handful of parents bring children along in their
own trade, schooling having displaced formal and informal apprenticeships as
the pathway to careers. And smaller families mean that parents’
social-reproduction efforts are concentrated on fewer offspring.
Stevens shows how very selective colleges’ flexible
understanding of “diversity” squares the circle between helping those less
fortunate and giving one’s children a leg up. The key is that “official
measures of campus diversity” have turned into “unofficial markers of
institutional prestige in the little universe of elite higher education.” The
paradigmatic Hamilton student comes from a family like Karen, Matt, and Ruby’s,
in which parents and child believe that a college with an excessively white
student population is deficient — in its morals and politics, to be sure, but
also, and crucially, in terms of how much status it confers. Stevens explains
that this mindset works to the disadvantage of applicants who would make a
selective college more diverse, but only in ways that don’t boost the numbers
everyone looks at, such as black, Hispanic, and Native American enrollment. As
a result, valedictorians from small rural high schools, or the children of
families who recently immigrated from Eastern Europe, are almost certainly
wasting their Hamilton application fees.
The right kind of minorities do benefit from the zero-sum
diversity game, but their advantage is equivocal. It is hard, for example, to
argue with students who protest, “I’m not here to be your black experience,”
given that such resentments reflect a large measure of truth. As Creating a Class shows, while Hamilton
would welcome minority applicants in any case, it is especially receptive on
account of its need to showcase the diversity attractive to those students,
most of them white, from families that don’t need financial aid and might even
donate to some future capital campaign. According to U.S. News, 52 percent of Hamilton’s 1,872 students received no
need-based financial aid to cover the sticker price for room, board, and
tuition, which was $64,250 last year. And according to the Equality of
Opportunity Project, the median family income for Hamilton students is
$208,600; more students are drawn from the top thousandth of the national
income distribution (2.7 percent) than from the bottom fifth (2.2 percent), and
nearly as many come from the top hundredth (20 percent) as from the bottom
four-fifths (28 percent).
Leaked documents from the Princeton University admissions
office, gathered in the course of a federal investigation into discrimination
against Asian college applicants, give a rawer view than Creating a Class of how “selective” admissions works. An admissions
officer wrote that it would be hard to recommend one Hispanic applicant since
there was no “cultural flavor” in her packet. The need for “a touch more
cultural flavor” is also a Hawaiian/Pacific Islander applicant’s shortcoming.
This euphemism isn’t hard to decode. There’s no point in
going to the enormous trouble of creating a diverse student body if its
diversity is so understated that students and their parents cannot readily
discern the college’s all-important U.N.-like qualities. Minority applicants
must contribute to diversity in ways that are vivid, not subtle. As George
Orwell might say, all Hispanics are Hispanic, but some Hispanics are more
Hispanic than others.
Speaking of Orwell, his observation that all leftist
political parties are “at bottom a sham, because they make it their business to
fight against something which they do not really wish to destroy,” holds up
impressively after 75 years. An evil not really meant to be eradicated is, for
instance, central to the global-warming crusade. Journalist Elizabeth Kolbert
thinks the threat is grave, putting us in a “race toward planetary disaster,”
but also considers the political effort against it thoroughly disingenuous.
Most liberals, she argues, refuse to admit an inconvenient truth: The reduction
in greenhouse gases necessary to reverse, halt, or even slow global warming
will either prolong and worsen the misery of the planet’s poor countries or
require Americans to reduce their energy consumption by more than 80 percent.
Knowing that Americans have no interest in giving up “air travel or air
conditioning or HDTV or trips to the mall or the family car,” environmentalists
encourage the soothing fantasy that “climate change can be tackled with minimal
disruption to ‘the American way of life.’”
Similarly, diversity in education, from preschool to
postgraduate, and the resulting holy war on privilege, requires denouncing but
not renouncing. Despite its stated intent to subvert unjust hierarchies,
multiculturalism facilitates rather than impedes careerism. A degree from a
selective college, one racially integrated in a carefully curated way, does
wonders for those getting on in the world. “Checking your privilege” never
involves transferring to Jerkwater A&M, diverse in ways selective colleges
never will be, and thereby surrendering one’s spot in the Ivy League so that it
can be filled by a cashier’s or opioid addict’s kid. Noah Remnick, son of New Yorker editor David Remnick, devoted
the summer before his senior year at Yale to sharing with Los Angeles Times readers the results of the “great deal of time”
he’d spent “studying and talking with faculty and other students about what
constitutes privilege, fairness and unfairness in American society.” Remnick
will begin a Rhodes scholarship at Oxford in October, pursuing his interest in
“race, resistance, and urban politics.”
In The Big Test:
The Secret History of the American Meritocracy (1999), Nicholas Lemann
wrote that our system of higher education has become a “national personnel
department.” The reason for “the crush at the gates” of the most selective
colleges and universities is that “people believe admission can confer lifelong
prestige, comfort, and safety.”
The consuming concern with privilege and oppression, with
confronting and correcting historical wrongs — social justice, in short, the
ideology of preeminent colleges — has moved outward to less eminent ones and
downward to secondary and primary schools. Many parents are eager, and many
others are willing, to entrust their children to an educational system that
inculcates this deep solicitude for the downtrodden, albeit just that portion
of the downtrodden meeting certain demographic criteria. But the system, especially
its most exalted institutions, is also expected to transmit the aspirations,
expectations, and advantages of the uptrodden, those who started or climbed
high and want their children to start and climb even higher.
Up to a point, the two goals are in harmony. Even 30
years ago, Wolfe observed in Bonfire of
the Vanities that bigotry’s biggest drawback, if not its worst attribute,
was that it had become “undignified,” a “sign of Low Rent origins, of inferior
social status, of poor taste.” Since people thus marked have little hope for
lifelong prestige, comfort, and safety, our schools prepare students to do good
and do well by instilling in them the habit of deploring all manifestations of
racism, sexism, homophobia, etc.
But only up to a point. Brookings Institution researchers
Richard V. Reeves and Dimitrios Halikias have said that our upper middle class
relies on “opportunity hoarding” to separate itself from the rest of society,
and that elite colleges have become the chief mechanism for compounding
advantage. Similarly, Mitchell Stevens’s conclusion in Creating a Class is that the college-admissions process has become
the “preponderant means of laundering privilege in contemporary American
society.”
Meritocracies purport to discern and reward “merit,” a
decidedly intrinsic personal quality — but “intrinsic” qualities such as
“intellectual facility” and “stubborn persistence” only “seem neutral to
class,” Stevens maintains. In reality, young people blessed with the right
kinds of families and social environments are far better positioned to acquire,
cultivate, and display such attributes. Some of the resulting advantages, such
as tutoring or the availability of Advanced Placement courses, are easily
identified. The more important ones are harder to identify, much less replicate
— and the most important is, in Karen Kipple’s description, a family that cares
about its kids and encourages them. The laundering Stevens deplores is an
acquired obliviousness to all these factors, a tacit agreement to deny privilege’s
existence while perpetuating it. “Merit” is also a verb, a synonym of
“deserve.” Those who have merit do merit the prestige, comfort, and
safety they attain.
It turns out that “social justice” amounts to noblesse
oblige, simultaneously strengthening the obligations and social status of our meritocracy’s credentialed gentry.
Literary scholar William Deresiewicz, a self-described democratic socialist,
says that the rise of political correctness means that privilege laundering
pervades the entire college experience, not just the admissions process. The
ultimate purpose of political correctness, he contends, is to “flatter” the
elite rather than dismantle it. In effect, socioeconomically advantaged
students, professors, and administrators use political correctness to “alibi or
erase their privilege,” to “tell themselves that they are . . . part of the
solution to our social ills, not an integral component of the problem.” The
social-justice warriors’ stridency belies, even to themselves, the fact that
their aims are so limited.
For Reeves and Halikias, the protests that drove Charles
Murray from Middlebury College had less to do with alleging and then thwarting
racism than with “rich, ‘progressive’ protestors refusing to hear a lecture on
the roots of their own privilege.” (The topic of Murray’s speech was to have
been the growing gulf between the upper class and the rest of America.)
Tellingly, Middlebury is even more selective and affluent than Hamilton
College. Tied with Swarthmore as the fourth-highest-rated liberal-arts college
in the U.S., Middlebury rejected 83 percent of its applicants in 2015.
Fifty-five percent of students received no need-based financial aid, not
surprising given that the median family income of those students is $244,300. Only
2.7 percent of its students come from families in the bottom fifth of America’s
income distribution, and 24 percent come from the bottom four-fifths. At the
other end, 4.4 percent come from the top thousandth, and 23 percent from the
top hundredth.
Conservatives are right to be appalled by vituperative
social-justice warriors. It’s oddly reassuring, however, that the “No justice,
no peace” shock troops are as fraudulent as they are insolent. People’s true
beliefs can be revealed by their words or, far more reliably, by their actions.
Until kabuki radicalism gets around to requiring privileged students, parents,
and colleges to surrender some of their own advantages rather than denounce
privilege in general, the social-justice crusade deserves to be regarded with
more contempt than alarm.
Ultimately, a meritocracy divided against itself cannot
stand. An educational system can either subvert existing hierarchies or fortify
them, but not both.
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