Back in the mid-80s when I was a young professor, I had a relatively straightforward understanding of my role. There were universal human questions – “What is justice?” “What is the good life?” – and my task was to investigate the plausible answers to these questions with my students. There were challenges – described well by Allan Bloom in “The Closing of the American Mind” – but, having experienced them myself as a young student, I was confident – perhaps overconfident – about my ability to address them. I could appeal to a universal sentiment like righteous indignation to show my students the incoherence of the value relativism most of them thought they espoused.
Fast forward to 2022. Most of what’s left of my hair has gone gray. And I’m listening to administrators, colleagues, and students insist upon particularity and intersectionality. Everyone’s story is different, depending upon their race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and gender identity. (I had been accustomed to hearing talk about class, but that seems to have diminished in salience for those with whom I interact.) For the courses to be relatable and relevant, I’ve been told that students have to see themselves in the authors and texts I assign.
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