Meritocracy, Equality, and Responsibility

This is the dissertation* I wrote for the University of London’s International Programmes, supervised by Michael Garnett at Birkbeck College. It’s a 17-page elaboration of an essay I wrote a few years ago called “What’s So Great About Meritocracy”, so if you wanted more of that, here it is. I should warn you, if you’re not accustomed to reading contemporary philosophy papers, that it’s a bit on the dry side, so caveat lector:

Meritocracy, Equality, and Responsibility

*In the United States, your dissertation is the book you write at the end of your PhD and your thesis is the paper that comes at the end of your undergraduate degree — in England it’s more or less the other way around.

“Suppose there were an experience machine that would give you any experience you desired. Superduper neuropsychologists could stimulate your brain so that you would think and feel you were writing a great novel, or making a friend, or reading an interesting book. All the time you would be floating in a tank, with electrodes attached to your brain. Should you plug into this machine for life, preprogramming your life’s experiences? … What else can matter to us, other than how our lives feel from the inside?” — Robert Nozick, Anarchy, State and Utopia

If the internet is Nozick’s experience machine, then I have to think he’d enjoy the fact that it’s not a programmed experience handed down by superduper neuropsychologists, but a voluntary delusion engaged in by individuals working independently to satisfy their own preferences….

What’s to stop me from turning this into a running blog anyway?

I’ve been running in Discovery Park for five years now, and in that time I’ve had precisely four Significant Wildlife Encounters. Sure, you might remember the time I helped a baby mouse cross the trail by carrying him on a leaf, or the time I got my first-ever bee sting at the age of 40 and disappointingly failed to die of an allergic reaction, or the time I got run off the trail by a river otter who was absolutely flying down the stairs above the water treatment plant at what looked like about 6-minute-mile pace. But today was the first time I’ve ever been jumped by an owl. I don’t know if it’s hatchling season and I was behaving in a threatening manner, or if I’ve just been initiated into some kind of bird gang, but I do know that about an hour before this picture was taken an owl flew up behind me, swatted me on the head, and then glided away in an extremely sassy manner, coming to rest on a tree branch from which he (she?) proceeded to give me the evil eye until I turned the next corner. Am I banned from that part of the forest? Or do I have to start eating rodent meat? So many questions.

World In My Eyes

I am reliably informed by the aggregative intelligence of social media that Depeche Mode’s Violator album was released on this day twenty-five years ago.

Twenty-five years ago I was living in Denver, fifteen years old, shopping at a record store in the Tiffany Plaza mall whose name entirely escapes me. They had all the 12″ remixes and import-only releases, despite the fact that they were in a mall, next to the movie theatre that is still the Platonic theatre which I imagine when I think in an abstract way of the moviegoing experience. I used to browse, obsessively, the Cure, the Depeche Mode, the New Order sections, as the only way to find out about a new release in those primitive times was actually to see it in the bin.

It always felt like there were only a few of us listening to that music, me and a few friends, and (presumably) our misfit counterparts at other schools. But the shops stocked it all without fail. And by the time I got to college I didn’t know anyone who hadn’t grown up a “waver,” so if we were a minority, we were a large one. All the same I think I got my need to be part of one cult or another from that musical experience. My classmates liked Tom Petty and AC/DC, and the Cure felt much more mysterious and substantial.

I remember feeling actually aggrieved when one of the pretty, popular girls showed up to our English class in a Depeche Mode t-shirt. I never doubted the sincerity of her fandom, but it felt like an invasion in some way. Surely, I thought, this meant she would be kicked down to the level of the fringe art geeks who listened to “gay” european music. Or better yet, it might even get us kicked up into her social echelon, invited to keggers or boat races or whatever it was I thought the popular kids were up to in those days.

But no, nothing happened. I didn’t know this at the time, but if you are outgoing and friendly and socially fluent you can be friends with just about anyone, Depeche Mode or no Depeche Mode. Likewise, if you’re a ¾ scale model of an awkward introvert who’s so hypersensitive to every nuance of every social interaction that walking to the dining hall for lunch feels as intense as a whole Wagner opera cycle condensed into seven minutes, you’re going to have a pretty rough go of high school, no matter what music you listen to.

I remember buying Violator on CD at that very same record store. I remember the first time I saw the cover art, which is demonstrably, scientifically perfect. And I remember getting home, putting it on, and the sonic space of my room was filled with those syncopated synth notes, so richly textured you wanted to grab them out of the air and chew on them. Go on, listen to World In My Eyes and tell me you wouldn’t eat that riff.

If you’d asked me ten or fifteen years ago I’d have said Violator changed my life. It definitely changed something in me the first time I heard it. The world was bigger and darker and grander than it had been before, the universe’s backdrop a warm matte black instead of a glossy cold black, if that makes any sense. Seeing Depeche Mode at Red Rocks changed me again, watching Depeche Mode 101 yet again, meeting D.A. Pennebaker in our documentary film class and asking him not about Don’t Look Back or Ziggy Stardust but about 101.

I’d like to say that I knew, upon hearing those notes, that I was being set on a path I’m still on today. It certainly felt that way. Of course the way I think about melody and harmony was shaped by those minimal arrangements, those intersecting geometric lines. Not for Depeche Mode the simple strummed chord progression, with its redundant voicings and smothering rhythms.

But what path? I spent years in a band that was not very much like Depeche Mode at all, by any metric of comparison. But I don’t play music anymore, except once in a while to exercise my hands, or to try to take apart a song I like and see how its pieces function. (I don’t wear watches anymore, I just like repairing them.) 

There’s another version of me out there in the multiverse who took Violator as a call to arms and never looked back. He took it in, all at once, and spent the rest of his life reflecting it back out.

Here in this timeline I guess I’m still taking it in.

This has been another episode of “blogging with Ambien.” I’d like to thank my sponsors, Sanofi-Aventis, whose hypnotic sleep aid, now sold in generic form, provides the same disinhibitory effect as a shot or two of whiskey but without the unfortunate side effects of sloppy typing and maudlin sentimentality*.

*all maudlin sentimentality supplied by the author

I will tell you a philosophical joke. Once upon a time, a visiting scholar presented a lecture on the topic: ‘How many philosophical positions are there in principle?’ ‘In principle,’ he began, ‘there are exactly 12 philosophical positions.’ A voice called from the audience: ‘Thirteen.’ ‘There are,’ the lecturer repeated, ‘exactly 12 possible philosophical positions; not one less and not one more.’ ‘Thirteen,’ the voice from the audience called again. ‘Very well, then,’ said the lecturer, now perceptibly irked, ‘I shall proceed to enumerate the 12 possible philosophical positions. The first is sometimes called “naive realism”. It is the view according to which things are, by and large, very much the way that they seem to be.’ ‘Oh,’ said the voice from the audience. ‘Fourteen!’

Jerry Fodor

What’s So Great About Meritocracy?

Nearing the end of Part One of Thomas Piketty’s Capital in the Twenty-First Century—which is mostly devoted to a pretty fascinating overview of the economic history of Britain and France from the eighteenth century to the present—seriously, it is fascinating, why are you looking at me like that—I was nagged by what was something like the fourth or fifth occurrence, in the first hundred or so pages, of the phrase “meritocratic values,” used in what appears to be a totally uncritical, non-ironic way. In fact, looking back, I see that on the first page of the book Piketty introduces his thesis, which is that under certain circumstances “capitalism automatically generates arbitrary and unsustainable inequalities that radically undermine the meritocratic values on which democratic societies are based.”

Then again, why should this be surprising? Anyone who’s listened to just about any American politician in the last couple of decades is pretty well accustomed to hearing about meritocracy and democracy in the same breath. The basic idea is that in a meritocracy, the power and rewards go to the people with the greatest ability, which is generally understood to be some combination of talent, intelligence, and hard-workingness. It’s one of the truisms of modern American political life that this is obviously the ideal way to structure a society—on the face of it, it sounds fair, or at least not obviously unfair. But there’s a reason why truism and truth aren’t quite the same word, and lately there’s been some pushback against meritocracy as an ideal principle, both on the level of practical politics, and on the level of principle itself.

A lot of this pushback, I should say, comes from the sociologist and novelist Michael Young, who invented the word “meritocracy,” and is pretty much permanently aghast at the fact that his satirical exaggeration of what he saw as a pernicious societal tendency is now one of the guiding principles of modern society. (Some of his objections are pretty subtle, and interesting—they include things like the psychological effects of a regime where the only explanation for your failure to ascend the social ranks is your own lack of merit, the neglectful effects on the trades and occupations which are judged to be low-status, and the upward pressure on wages in high-status professions whose members believe they deserve whatever they can get, by definition. They’re all worth reading about. The ones I’ll talk about are simpler, and less subtle, though hopefully also worth reading about.)

One practical objection is that the system we’ve created for identifying “merit” might not be measuring what we want it to measure. Our educational system is the primary machine we’ve built for sorting the talented from the untalented, but there are a lot of reasons to suspect that it’s not very good at separating class advantage from pure talent (whatever that even is). Even if you aren’t committed to the belief that standardized tests are systematically racist, it’s hard to deny that students from wealthy families have better access to things like tutors, test preparation services, and even just the sort of stable home lives (or stable homes) that tend to improve academic performance.

That’s a problem of implementation, of course, one which assumes that a pure meritocracy is an ideal worth striving for. A principled objection would be one that questions the idea of meritocracy itself, something like: why do the talented, the intelligent, the hard-working, the more able, deserve to be rewarded in the first place?

You don’t have to be a skeptic about the entire concept of desert to see problems with linking welfare or resources to talent or intelligence. How can it be fair or just to reward someone for something as arbitrary as natural talent or innate intelligence? After all, being born smart is no less accidental than being born rich. Even diligence, or conscientiousness, or whatever you might be tempted to consider the most morally deserving component of merit, seems to depend, to at least some degree, on innate disposition.

Here’s Ben Bernanke, noted radical, making rather the same point in his Princeton commencement address:

3. The concept of success leads me to consider so-called meritocracies and their implications. We have been taught that meritocratic institutions and societies are fair. Putting aside the reality that no system, including our own, is really entirely meritocratic, meritocracies may be fairer and more efficient than some alternatives. But fair in an absolute sense? Think about it. A meritocracy is a system in which the people who are the luckiest in their health and genetic endowment; luckiest in terms of family support, encouragement, and, probably, income; luckiest in their educational and career opportunities; and luckiest in so many other ways difficult to enumerate—these are the folks who reap the largest rewards. The only way for even a putative meritocracy to hope to pass ethical muster, to be considered fair, is if those who are the luckiest in all of those respects also have the greatest responsibility to work hard, to contribute to the betterment of the world, and to share their luck with others. As the Gospel of Luke says (and I am sure my rabbi will forgive me for quoting the New Testament in a good cause): “From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded” (Luke 12:48, New Revised Standard Version Bible). Kind of grading on the curve, you might say.

There’s a lot packed in there. I could, though it might take a little longer than a blog post, sketch an argument to the effect that the requirement that the luckiest “contribute to the betterment of the world” and “share their luck with others” implies a pretty strong component of egalitarianism, if not absolute equality. And meritocracy, as a principle, has nothing to say about equality. Meritocracy is simply a machine for sorting the most deserving from the least deserving, which, when it’s functioning properly, happens to use talent and intelligence as its sorting criteria. And because there’s no common currency between merit and reward, no accepted scale for weighing how much of one is implied by the other, we’re left to our own judgment as to the level of inequality our meritocratic principle demands. On whether the “best” deserve slightly more than the “worst,” or several hundred times more, it offers no guidance.

So if meritocracy is a non-starter as a principle, why are we always banging on about it? Why is Thomas Piketty talking about it as though it’s one of the necessary conditions for democracy? I suspect that it’s because nobody actually thinks of meritocracy, on its own, as a positive principle. When we say we believe in meritocracy, what we’re really saying is that we prefer it to the alternative—and in this discussion there’s only one alternative. Meritocracy is not an ideal principle of social justice at all, but the antidote to something that we can all agree is unjust: call it aristocracy, call it nepotism, call it the old boys’ club. There may be a philosophical case for the equal arbitrariness of all accidents of birth, so that being born with a high aptitude for learning or a diligent disposition is no less arbitrary than being born a Rockefeller or a Vanderbilt. But I suspect that most of us would agree that there is at least some personal choice involved in developing one’s talents and work ethic, compared to zero personal choice, and thus zero moral significance, involved in being born rich. Therefore even if meritocracy rewards people for reasons which are slightly, or somewhat, or largely morally arbitrary, that’s better than rewarding them for reasons which are entirely morally arbitrary.

In other words, meritocracy has enemies both to its left and to its right—but it happens that in our actually existing society one is more relevant than the other. We can agree with Ben Bernanke (and G.A. Cohen) that pure meritocracy would be defeated by some kind of luck-compensating egalitarianism as a positive principle for social justice. But in this world, meritocracy is a negative principle, not a positive one, and equality doesn’t seem to be on the menu at all. I do hope that Piketty gets a little bit deeper into the ways in which meritocracy and equality are incompatible, and I suspect he will, because one of his theses apparently concerns one of the speculative scenarios Michael Young describes, which has lately become a norm—namely, the tendency of CEOs and other “super-managers” to award themselves astronomical sums as compensation for their “talents.” But for now, his uncritical use of the idea of meritocracy is nothing to worry about: he’s talking about negative meritocracy, not positive.