As an undergrad, I studied in a field called Science, Technology, and Society. It's a branch of social science that studies the processes of science itself, how it works in the world, its assumptions, its roots in the cultural milieu, its structure. It had a lot of connections with an intellectual tradition that gets mocked a lot in popular culture; critical theory and postmodernism. A lot of the problems I had with my degree stemmed from the fact that they actually didn't have us read this literature; instead they had us read poppy articles that were derived from these schools of thought. I tried to read it on my own, but it seemed like a jargony mess. I'd alternate between feeling stupid that I didn't get it and thinking that it was a byzantine maze of empty intellectual posturing.

One thing that I always remembered about it, though, was how postmodern thinkers distrusted "grand narratives," like the Protestant ethic, or that science is a beacon of neverending progress that's marching us to a brighter tomorrow. And of course I've absorbed that kind of mistrust--I've always thought to be a real critical thinker you need to question fundamental assumptions in society, in science, in any body of knowledge that is presented to you as incontrovertible truth. But I've never been able to say, okay, I should have some doubt and analyze what has been given to me, and extend that to say that there's nothing worth saving in any sort of narrative about history and culture.

I do think science is an important source of knowledge about the world, and I'm not sure what could really change my mind.

One of my professors this term works by blending analytic and continental philosophy. Today she mentioned the grand narratives, and how it seems like a positive that we're more cynical about them, more questioning of them. But there are downsides, in that it makes us retreat from public life into individualism, making us perfect targets of neoliberalism. Capitalism run rampant. So cynical that we think all politicians are liars, nothing is truth, no one can aid any sort of progress.

She quoted Voltaire, that we're all in our own gardens, concerned with only our communities and our families and whatever we can directly influence. We develop an obsession with connoisseur-ship. Micro-life. And I saw myself in that. I've never thought anything I could do could change anything, or make the world a better place. It made me sad.

Then I was studying in the library and the march against the Ferguson decision came by on 5th Avenue. I had my normal immediate reaction against protesters, in that I think what they are doing amounts to exactly nothing. An empty gesture against true horror. I watched them for a while, the chanting and the cheering and honking of horns from the cars they were milling through. And I can't decide.

I mean, doing something is always better than doing nothing, right?

No, it's not.

Todd, my partner, and I were thinking a while back about what it is that we could do to change...well, anything. We'd just seen an episode of Anthony Bourdain's show on CNN about India and Pakistan. There's a monastery there that's been continuously operating for 600 years, offering free vegetarian meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, to whomever happens by.

How could we do that in New York? We'd need seed funding, and we'd need to find a way to make it self-sustaining. A rooftop garden? Gardens on the vertical walls? It could be a community center, a way to build skills and look for jobs or even something totally outside that structure; just a place to learn and feel welcome. Something kind of radical even, maybe, some oasis...but that's probably more idealism, just like those protesters. What kinds of radicalism are possible in the face of overdetermining and powerful institutions? It feels like anything you can do is just a band-aid, or something complicit.