Adom Getachew: The Anti-imperial Vision of the Postwar International Order

On a petition with almost 500 signatures that first appeared as a paid advertisement in the New York Times, leading scholars of international relations defended postwar international institutions like the United Nations, NATO, the World Trade Organization, and the European Union against the “reckless attacks” of Donald J. Trump. According to the signatories, the postwar international order led by the United States “help[ed] to provide economic stability and international security, contributing to unprecedented levels of prosperity and the longest period in modern history without war between major powers.”

If the contemporary challenges to the postwar international order appear unprecedented, we should remember that the institutions that emerged after 1945 were subject to critique and political contestation from the very beginning. For the anticolonial nationalists who championed decolonization after World War II, institutions like the United Nations were continuous with the imperialism of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Immediately after reading the UN Charter agreed to during the April 1945 San Francisco conference, the Nigerian nationalist Nnamdi Azikiwe proclaimed, “there is no new deal for the black man at San Francisco … Colonialism and economic enslavement of the Negro are to be maintained.”

Azikiwe’s critique of the United Nations, echoed by W.E.B Du Bois, Kwame Nkrumah, and George Padmore, drew on an account of empire as an institution of international racial hierarchy. According to these anticolonial critics, the imperial international order had unequally integrated the colonized world to facilitate European domination. The UN Charter institutionalized the hierarchical world of empire: Members of the Security Council issued binding resolutions and had the power of the veto, the League of Nations mandates persisted under the new trusteeship system, and colonies were euphemistically described as “non-self-governing territories.” Self-determination, the anticolonial demand for independence and popular sovereignty, was only mentioned in Article 1 and Article 55. In both instances, the “principle of equal rights and self-determination of peoples” was subordinated to the larger aim of securing “peaceful and friendly relations among nations.”  

Having lost faith in the UN, Nkrumah and Padmore organized the Fifth Pan-African Congress as a rejoinder to the hierarchical vision of the international order outlined in San Francisco. At Manchester, a city which emerged from the profits of the transatlantic slave trade and slavery, African, African-American, and Caribbean anti-colonial critics declared an alternative vision for the postwar international order predicated on the right to self-determination and racial equality. Extending beyond the nation, the gathered Pan-Africanists called for “autonomy and independence, so far and no further than it is possible in this ‘One World’ for groups and people to rule themselves subject to inevitable world unity and federation.” In their vision, national independence and internationalist federation were to go hand in hand. The achievement of national self-determination and decolonization required the remaking of the international order.

Over the next 30 years, anticolonial nationalists pioneered ambitious worldmaking projects to transcend empire’s world of dependence and domination and inaugurate in its place an egalitarian and domination-free international order. By 1960, they had institutionalized a universal right to self-determination, which secured equal legal standing to all states for the first time in modern international society. At the same time, nationalists in the British West Indies and in West Africa sought to constitute regional federations through which postcolonial states might escape their economic dependence and create egalitarian regional economies. Finally, through the New International Economic Order (NIEO), the most ambitious project of anticolonial worldmaking, nationalists directly challenged the economic hierarchies of the international realm and laid foundations of an egalitarian global economy. The NIEO was the culmination of anticolonial worldmaking. Its vision of democratizing international economic law and equitably distributing the world’s wealth rejected the world of hierarchy that persisted in the postwar international institutions like the United Nations, the World Bank, and the International Monetary Fund. It look forward instead to an egalitarian post-imperial world order where national self-determination was situated within redistributive and democratic international institutions.    

The contemporary nostalgia for the postwar international order depends on forgetting that its guarantees of peace and prosperity were limited to the North Atlantic world. While pitched as “a new deal for the world,” to use Elizabeth Borgwardt’s term, the new international institutions promised nothing of the sort to the colonial subjects fighting for independence and equality around the world. There was, as Azikiwe put it, “no new deal for the black man.” If we are to draw lessons for our present political predicaments from the postwar international order, we should turn to the anticolonial nationalists who fought for three decades to build a word after empire. Their anti-imperial vision of international order was never realized and it might appear from our vantage point that it was a utopian and unrealistic project. But if we are to navigate the impasses of our contemporary moment, if we are to build a viable alternative to the authoritarian populism resurgent in the United State and Europe, we cannot settle for a minimalist internationalism born in 1945 to preserve a hierarchical world order. Instead, we should draw on the tradition of anti-imperial internationalism to imagine our own ambitious projects of worldmaking.       

Adom Getachew is the Neubauer Family Assistant Professor of Political Science and the College at the University of Chicago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sharon Marcus: Sarah Bernhardt, the Godmother of Modern Celebrity Culture

Celebrity is probably as old as language itself. It’s easy to imagine prehistoric humans using speech to gossip about people they had never met in person but could talk about as if they had. Recent history, however, tends to contrast celebrity to fame. Fame is supposedly worthy and lasting, celebrity is allegedly baseless and ephemeral. Fame derives from worthy public achievements, celebrity focuses on trivial private scandals. In cultures that value men over women—which is most of them – fame comes to seem masculine, celebrity feminine.

Eighteenth and nineteenth-century England, France, and the United States were no strangers to strict gender oppositions. Yet those eras also made celebrity and fame inseparable. Newspapers treated daily events as the stuff of history. Engravings, lithographs, and photographs encouraged millions to identify public men as well as women with their looks. Lord Byron became as famous for his long, flowing hair as for his poetic genius. Abraham Lincoln as known for his distinctive height, beard, and profile as well as for his eloquence and leadership.  

One woman, Sarah Bernhardt, cannily took the measure of this new media environment and used her insights to become a global star. No mere product of modern celebrity culture, Bernhardt also helped to produce it. With a genius for acting matched by a flair for self-promotion, Bernhardt became as well known in her lifetime as Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe, or Michael Jackson in theirs.

Born in Paris in 1844 to a Dutch Jewish courtesan, Bernhardt won admission at age sixteen to the prestigious Paris dramatic conservatory, and soon after secured a place in France’s revered national theater troupe, the Théâtre Français. In the late 1860s and 1870s, Bernhardt became a celebrity throughout France, thanks to electrifying stage performances as a young male troubadour, a blind grandmother in ancient Rome, a biracial woman avenging her enslaved mother, and a classic turn as Racine’s Phèdre.

Bernhardt’s fame became global when, in June 1879, she traveled to London and thousands of fans – male and female, young and old, aristocratic and middle class – contracted a serious case of Bernhardt mania. An agent convinced her to spend the next year and a half touring North America. There, her acclaimed performances made her reputation and fortune and enabled her have a long career as an independent performer, director, and manager. In 1923, a million mourners witnessed Bernhardt’s Parisian funeral procession. For weeks after her death, her name and image dominated international newspaper headlines and magazine covers.

One part Meryl Streep, one part Miley Cyrus, Bernhardt owed her enormous success both to her formidable acting talent and to the offstage publicity tactics that she devised to capture and hold the attention of the Parisian public. On the one hand, her flair for marketing made her a talented impresario. She arranged to be photographed in her own bedroom, sleeping in a coffin. She sat for dozens of photographs and paintings and invited journalists to her home for interviews. Most importantly, she never hesitated to send letters to editors protesting her press coverage. In 1878, she responded to one newspaper’s speculations about her true hair color by dryly observing, “I regret that I cannot prove that I am a natural blonde.”

On the other hand, even as newspapers and magazines reported on Bernhardt’s exotic pets and outlandish dresses, they also hailed her as a genius, one of the world’s greatest artists. A French theater journal, summing up the star’s achievements after her death, described her as “a queen and priestess before whom frontiers did not exist…. her prestige was such, universally, that a sort of international religion arose around her.” Other French journalists vaunted her merits as a “powerful ambassador” who had extended their nation’s prestige by “incarnating French thought” abroad, naming her the best-known French person in the world since Napoleon.

Today, we might be tempted to choose between viewing Bernhardt either as a central figure in the history of great acting or as the forebear of everything that is wrong with celebrity culture. But forcing that choice misses the point of Bernhardt’s achievement, which was to make her excellence inseparable from her exploits. Her lesson to us today is that we do not have to decide whether celebrity is serious or silly, well-deserved or worthless, masculine or feminine: inevitably and interestingly, it is always and has always been both.

Sharon Marcus is the Orlando Harriman Professor of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University. She is a founding editor of Public Books and the author of the award-winning Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England(Princeton) and Apartment Stories: City and Home in Nineteenth-Century Paris and London. Twitter @MarcusSharon

 

 

Sarah Miller Davenport: Racists in Congress fought statehood for Hawaii, but lost that battle 60 years ago

Sarah Miller Davenport, University of Sheffield

Sixty years ago, Dwight Eisenhower signed legislation making Hawaii America’s 50th state. The Hawaii admission act followed a centuries-old tradition in which American territories –acquired through war, conquest and purchase – became fully integrated states of the union.

But Hawaii was not an ordinary United States territory and would be unlike any other American state.

For one, Hawaii was not actually in America, at least not physically. Its islands lay in the Pacific, some 2,000 miles from the U.S. west coast.

And Hawaii would become the first state with a majority of people of Asian descent. Many had been ineligible for U.S. citizenship only a few years earlier, before the end of racial restrictions to naturalization.

These two defining characteristics – of Hawaii’s geography and demography – had led Congress to dismiss earlier bids for statehood before World War II. Hawaii was too far away and too Asian to be joined with the continental United States.

Asian migration conduit

Hawaii was annexed as a U.S. territory in 1898. That was five years after white settlers in the islands overthrew the Hawaiian monarchy to establish an American-led government.

Americans had first arrived as missionaries in 1820, and stayed on to establish sugar and pineapple plantations throughout the islands. A shortage of Hawaiian labor led them to seek workers from Asia – first China and later Japan and the Philippines.

Hawaii’s first American settlers were missionaries.
The Hawaiian gazette, 23 May 1902. Chronicling America: Historic American Newspapers. Library of Congress

Beginning in the mid-19th century, Hawaii became a major conduit for Asian migration to the American mainland, where anti-Asian racism led to a series of immigration exclusion acts. The first of these was the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, which eventually led to the near-total restriction of Asian migration in the 1924 Johnson-Reed Act.

Throughout this period, the American settlers who dominated Hawaii’s economy and governance were happy with the territorial status quo. They had carved out a comfortable enclave of wealth and influence, from which they ruled over a racialized working class. Any increased power that statehood might confer on Native Hawaiians and Asians would necessarily undermine white supremacy in the islands.

But the Sugar Act of 1934, which set quotas on Hawaii sugar exports to the continental U.S., changed the calculus of the territory’s white leaders, who now saw the advantage of being a fully equal U.S. state with federal representation. They launched an organized push for statehood.

By 1937, however, the statehood campaign had stalled on the back of a congressional investigation that called into question the loyalty of the islands’ Japanese population, Hawaii’s largest ethnic group.

According to one statehood opponent, the very idea of statehood was “preposterous,” since people of Japanese descent in Hawaii held allegiance to Japan, “which they could not disavow if they would, and would not if they could.”

Not surprisingly, Japan’s bombing of Pearl Harbor appeared to put statehood even further out of reach. For most of the war, the islands were subject to martial law. There was no mass internment of Hawaii’s Japanese population as in the continental U.S. To do so in Hawaii would have been logistically and economically infeasible given the numbers. But martial law imposed particular burdens on people of Japanese ancestry and severely limited political activity in the islands.

Statehood push stalled by racism

After World War II, statehood advocates in Hawaii regrouped, with a new Hawaii Statehood Commission acting as an official arm of the territorial legislature.

Fears of Japanese disloyalty had faded. Japan was now a U.S. ally and popular stories of the heroism of Japanese-Americans soldiers in Europe papered over the wartime anti-Japanese racism that had justified internment.

But the forces of segregation and racism in Congress effectively derailed statehood for more than a decade. It was not until 1959 that a bill finally passed both houses.

Japanese immigrant women who worked in the Hawaiian sugar cane fields, 1919.
University of Hawaiʻi – West Oʻahu Center for Labor Education and Research

The base of opposition to statehood in Congress was Southern Democrats. To them, Hawaii was a dangerous portent of an interracial future.

“Perhaps we should become the United States of the Pacific, and finally should become the United States of the Orient,” said Sen. George Smathers. The Florida lawmaker went on to claim that Hawaii statehood threatened “our high standard of living” and “the purity of our democracy.”

Segregationists also worried that Hawaii statehood would mean an end to Jim Crow, the systematic, legal enshrinement of racist policies in the South. Texas Rep. W.R. Poage suggested that the proposal for Hawaii statehood might result in “two more votes in the Senate” for civil rights.

From rejection to embrace

How, then, do we account for the dramatic shift in Hawaii’s fortunes, from racist exclusion to full legal inclusion in the nation? The answer lies in the intersection of global decolonization, the Cold War and the end of legal segregation in the U.S.

The Cold War, which followed World War II, was in part a struggle between the U.S. and the Soviet Union for the allegiance of the “Third World.”

From a 1957 booklet by the Hawaii Statehood Commission, titled ‘Hawaii USA, Communist Beachhead or Showcase for Americanism.’
University of Hawaii

One tactic the Soviets used in that battle was to call attention to segregation and racism in the U.S. By doing that, the Soviets had identified America’s “Achilles’ heel,” in the words of Dean Acheson, President Harry Truman’s secretary of state.

Hawaii statehood advocates claimed that the new state would convince people in the decolonizing nations of Asia that the U.S. was committed to both racial equality and self-governance.

Mike Masaoka, representing the Japanese American Citizen League, argued that Hawaii’s racial composition was “one of the most potent arguments” for statehood. “To the millions of dark-skinned people” around the world, America’s denial of statehood to Hawaii was proof of the claims of “Communist hatemongers” that the U.S. was racist and anti-democratic.

By the mid-1950s, Hawaii, as America’s western frontier and host to the U.S. Pacific Command, was gaining new strategic and symbolic importance as the Cold War in Asia heated up.

American foreign policy had focused primarily on Europe in the 1940s, but by the next decade it was Asia that most worried the foreign policy establishment. The communist victory in China in 1949, North Korea’s breach of the South Korean border a year later, and the push for decolonization in Southeast Asia combined to draw American attention to the Pacific.

Katsuro Miho, a member of the Hawaii Statehood Commission, warned Congress that Asian nationalist leaders were scrutinizing the statehood debates. According to Miho, Mohammed Roem, the former vice prime minister of Indonesia, had told the Hawaii legislature that Indonesians “were watching to see if the United States will grant statehood to ‘racially tolerant Hawaii.’”

Hawaii was formally admitted as a state on Aug. 21, 1959, necessitating a 50th star on the U.S. flag. President Dwight Eisenhower holds a corner of a new flag.
AP/Byron Rollins

Bridge to Asia

Statehood advocates won the argument by emphasizing Hawaii’s cultural and geographic distance from the rest of the U.S. – the very obstacles to statehood before World War II.

Now, in the context of the Cold War, Hawaii could be America’s “bridge to Asia.”

In urging Congress to vote for statehood in early 1959, Fred Seaton, Eisenhower’s secretary of the interior, celebrated Hawaii’s connection to Asia as useful to American foreign policy.

Hawaii, he said, “is the picture window of the Pacific through which the peoples of the East look into our American front room.” This was vital to “future dealings with the peoples of Asia,” because most of Hawaii’s people were “of oriental or Polynesian racial extraction.”

After statehood, policymakers in Hawaii and on the mainland sought to solidify the new state’s role as bridge to Asia by establishing a series of educational cultural exchange initiatives aimed at fostering “mutual understanding” between Americans and Asians.

Yet the language of connection that gave meaning to Hawaii statehood also served to distort the relationship between Asia and the U.S., particularly as Hawaii became a staging ground for various American military interventions in Vietnam and elsewhere. A bridge can link peoples and cultures, but it can also carry tanks.

Sarah Miller Davenport is the author of:

Gateway State: Hawai‘i in American Culture, 1945-1978The Conversation

Princeton University Press provides funding as a member of The Conversation US.

Sarah Miller Davenport, Lecturer in 20th Century US History, University of Sheffield

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Pi: A Window into the World of Mathematics

Mathematicians have always been fascinated by Pi, the famous never-ending never-repeating decimal that rounds to 3.14. But why? What makes Pi such an interesting number? Every mathematician has their own answer to that question. For me, Pi’s allure is that it illustrates perfectly the arc of mathematics. Let me explain what I mean by taking you on a short mathematical adventure.

Picture yourself in a kitchen, rummaging the pantry for two cans of food. Let’s say you’ve found two that have circular bases of different diameters d1 and d2. Associated with each circle is a circumference value, the distance you’d measure if you walked all the way around the circle.

Were you to perfectly measure each circle’s circumference and diameter you would discover an intriguing relationship:

In other words, the ratio of each circle’s circumference to its diameter doesn’t change, even though one circle is bigger than the other. (This circumference-to-diameter number is  (“Pi”), the familiar 3.14-ish number.) This is the first stop along the arc of mathematics: the discovery of a relationship between two quantities.

Where this story gets very interesting is when, after grabbing even more cans and measuring the ratio of their circumferences to their diameters—you seem to have lots of free time on your hands—you keep finding the same ratio. Every. Time. This is the second stop along the arc of mathematics: the discovery of a pattern. Shortly after that, you begin to wonder: does every circle, no matter its size, have the same circumference-to-diameter ratio? You have reached the third stop along the arc of mathematics: conjecture. (Let’s call our circumference-to-diameter conjecture The Circle Conjecture.)

At first you consider proving The Circle Conjecture by measuring the ratio C/d for every circle. But you soon realize that this is impossible. And that’s the moment when you start truly thinking like a mathematician and begin to wonder: Can I prove The Circle Conjecture true using mathematics? You have now reached the most important stop along the arc of mathematics: the search for universal truth.

One of the first thinkers to make progress on The Circle Conjecture was the Greek mathematician Euclid of Alexandria. Euclid published a mammoth 13-book treatise text called Elements circa 300 BC in which he, among other accomplishments, derived all the geometry you learned in high school from just five postulates. One of Euclid’s results was that the ratio of a circle’s area A to the square of its diameter d2 is the same for all circles:

This is close to what we are trying to prove in The Circle Conjecture, but not the same. It would take another giant of mathematics—the Greek mathematician Archimedes of Syracuse—to move us onto what is often the last stop on the arc of mathematics: thinking outside the box.

Archimedes went back to Euclid’s five postulates, all but one of which dealt with lines, and extended some of Euclid’s postulates to handle curves. With these new postulates Archimedes was able to prove in his treatise Measurement of a Circle (circa 250 BC) that the area, circumference, and radius r of a circle are related by the equation:

(You may recognize this as the area of a triangle with base C and height r. Indeed, Archimedes’ proof of the formula effectively “unrolls” a circle to produce a triangle and then calculates its area.) Combining Archimedes’ formula with Euclid’s result, and using the fact that r = d/2, yields:

Et Voilà! The Circle Conjecture is proved! (To read more about the mathematical details involved in proving The Circle Conjecture, I recommend this excellent article.)

This little Pi adventure illustrated the core arc of mathematics: discovery of a relationship between to quantities; discovery of a more general pattern; statement of a conjecture; search for a proof of that conjecture; and thinking outside the box to help generate a proof. Let me end our mathematical adventure by encouraging you to embark on your own. Find things you experience in your life that are quantifiable and seem to be related (e.g., how much sleep you get and how awake you feel) and follow the stops along the arc of mathematics. You may soon afterward discover another universal truth: anyone can do mathematics! All it takes is curiosity, persistence, and creative thinking. Happy Pi Day!

 

Oscar E. Fernandez is associate professor of mathematics at Wellesley College. He is the author of Calculus Simplified, Everyday Calculus, and The Calculus of Happiness (all Princeton).

Ken Steiglitz: Happy π Day!

As every grammar school student knows, π is the ratio of the circumference to the diameter of a circle. Its value is approximately 3.14…, and today is March 14th, so Happy π Day! The digits go on forever, and without a pattern. The number has many connections with computers, some obvious, some not so obvious, and I’ll mention a few.

The most obvious connection, I suppose, is that computers have allowed enthusiasts to find the value of π to great accuracy. But how accurately do we really need to know its value? Well, if we knew the diameter of the Earth precisely, knowing π to 14 or 15 decimal places would enable us to compute the length of the equator to within the width of a virus. This accuracy was achieved by the Persian mathematician Jamshīd al-Kāshī in the early 15th century. Of course humans let loose with digital computers can be counted on to go crazy; the current record is more than 22 trillion digits. (For a delightful and off-center account of the history of π, see A History of Pi, third edition, by Petr Beckmann, St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1971. The anti-Roman rant in chapter 5 alone is worth the price of admission.)

A photo of a European wildcat, Felis silvestris silvestris. The original photo is on the left. On the right is a version where the compression ratio gradually increases from right to left, thereby decreasing the image quality. The original photograph is by Michael Ga¨bler; it was modified by AzaToth to illustrate the effects of compression by JPEG. [Public domain, from Wikimedia Commons]

Don’t condemn the apparent absurdity of setting world records like this; the results can be useful. Running the programs on new hardware or software and comparing results is a good test for bugs. But more interesting is the question of just how the digits of π are distributed. Are they essentially random? Do any patterns appear? Is there a message from God hidden in this number that, after all, God created? Alas, so far no pattern has been found, and the digits appear to be “random” as far as statistical tests show. On the other hand, mathematicians have not been able to prove this one way or another.

Putting aside these more or less academic thoughts, the value of π is embedded deep in the code on your smartphone or computer and plays an important part in storing the images that people are constantly (it seems to me) scrolling through. Those images take up lots of space in memory, and they are often compressed by an algorithm like JPEG to economize on that storage. And that algorithm uses what are called “circular functions,” which, being based on the circle, depend for their very life on… π. The figure shows how the quality of an original image (left) degrades as it is compressed more and more, as shown on the right.

I’ll close with an example of an analog computer which we can use to find the value of π. The computer consists of a piece of paper that is ruled with parallel lines 3 inches (say) apart, and a needle 3 inches long. Toss the needle so that it has an equal chance of landing anywhere on the paper, and an equal chance of being at any angle. Then it turns out that the chance of the needle intersecting a line on the piece of paper is 2/π, so that by repeatedly tossing the needle and counting the number of times it does hit a line we can estimate the value of π. Of course to find the value of π to any decent accuracy we need to toss the needle an awfully large number of times. The problem of finding the probability of a needle tossed this way was posed and solved by Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon in 1777, and the setup is now called Buffon’s Needle. This is just one example of an analog computer, in contrast to our beloved digital computers, and you can find much more about them in The Discrete Charm of the Machine.

Ken Steiglitz is professor emeritus of computer science and senior scholar at Princeton University. His books include The Discrete Charm of the MachineCombinatorial OptimizationA Digital Signal Processing Primer, and Snipers, Shills, and Sharks (Princeton). He lives in Princeton, New Jersey.

Marcia Bjornerud: Grandmothers of Geoscience

A sheepish admission:  I intermittently check the reviews of my books posted by readers on the website of an online retail behemoth.  I smile at benevolent judgments, cringe at misspellings and misreadings, wonder whether some of the more generic entries were written by bots, and occasionally obsess about comments that get under my skin.  A few weeks ago, in a generally positive review of my PUP book Timefulness: How Thinking Like a Geologist Can Help Save the World, a reader commented that the tone of the text was “grandmotherly”.    

In an instant, several thoughts collided in my head.  The first was indignation – I’m not a grandmother!  Nanoseconds later, I reminded myself that as a fifty-something mother of three sons I certainly could be (and in fact hope to be in a few years).  Next, I chastised myself for falling into the very trap of vanity-rooted time denial that my book exhorts us all to avoid.  And then, my mind moved to the question of what exactly “grandmotherly” means in our culture, and whether a reader would apply the word “grandfatherly” to a work written by a male scientist in his 50s.  On that count, I felt less sure about the right answer.

So many words for women in our culture are tinged with accusation or insult: “mistress” is freighted in a way that “master” is not; “dame” has been demoted to slang (and has horsy connotations) but “sir” hasn’t; “matronly” is not exactly a compliment.  And I chafe, as a “Fellow” of a couple of professional organizations that there is no obvious female equivalent:  Am I a “Gal of the Geological Society of America”?

But as I turned the word “grandmotherly” over in my mind, viewing it from all sides, I saw mostly respect: acknowledgment of experience, persistence, hard-won wisdom, and the right to a voice that should be heard and heeded. 

The fact is that there are far too few grandmothers in any of the sciences and certainly the geosciences in particular.  There was Mary Anning (1799-1847) of Lyme Regis, discoverer of Jurassic sea monsters and arguably the first professional paleontologist;  geophysicist Inge Lehmann (1888-1993), who showed that the Earth’s inner core is solid, a discovery essential to understanding the planet’s magnetic field;  Marie Tharp (1920-2006) who created the first maps of the deep seafloor – more than half of Earth’s surface; Tanya Atwater (born 1942) who worked out the tectonic evolution of western North America over the past 60 million years. 

But I personally had no senior female mentors in my undergraduate and graduate school years.  And according to the American Geological Institute, even today women represent only 15% of the full professors in the geosciences in US universities[1].  I wasn’t fully aware of it as a student, but I see now that the absence of academic grandmothers was an impediment to my own development as a scientist.  There were no exemplars for how to be taken seriously in an overwhelmingly male, highly competitive work environment; no instructions for how to synchronize biological and tenure clocks; no reassurances that success was even possible.  In graduate school, the small cohort of women in my program supported each other but on our own could not allay the chronic anxieties we all shared.  How different our experiences as young scientists would have been with just one grandmotherly figure to turn to.

So, if I am now being bestowed the mantle of grandmother, honoris causa, I humbly accept.  Perhaps one day, our most esteemed scientists, both male and female, will be recognized with that most coveted of all awards: “Grandmother of the National Academy of Sciences”.

Marcia Bjornerud is professor of geology and environmental studies at Lawrence University. She is the author of Reading the Rocks: The Autobiography of the Earth and a contributing writer for Elements, the New Yorker’s science and technology blog. She lives in Appleton, Wisconsin.

Christian Sahner: Islam spread through the Christian world via the bedroom

There are few transformations in world history more profound than the conversion of the peoples of the Middle East to Islam. Starting in the early Middle Ages, the process stretched across centuries and was influenced by factors as varied as conquest, diplomacy, conviction, self-interest and coercion. There is one factor, however, that is largely forgotten but which played a fundamental role in the emergence of a distinctively Islamic society: mixed unions between Muslims and non-Muslims.  

For much of the early Islamic period, the mingling of Muslims and non-Muslims was largely predicated on a basic imbalance of power: Muslims formed an elite ruling minority, which tended to exploit the resources of the conquered peoples – reproductive and otherwise – to grow in size and put down roots within local populations. Seen in this light, forced conversion was far less a factor in long-term religious change than practices such as intermarriage and concubinage. 

The rules governing religiously mixed families crystallised fairly early, at least on the Muslim side. The Quran allows Muslim men to marry up to four women, including ‘People of the Book’, that is, Jews and Christians. Muslim women, however, were not permitted to marry non-Muslim men and, judging from the historical evidence, this prohibition seems to have stuck. Underlying the injunction was the understanding that marriage was a form of female enslavement: if a woman was bound to her husband as a slave is to her master, she could not be subordinate to an infidel.

Outside of marriage, the conquests of the seventh and eighth centuries saw massive numbers of slaves captured across North Africa, the Middle East and Central Asia. Female slaves of non-Muslim origin, at least, were often pressed into the sexual service of their Muslim masters, and many of these relationships produced children.

Since Muslim men were free to keep as many slaves as they wished, sex with Jewish and Christian women was considered licit, while sex with Zoroastrians and others outside the ‘People of the Book’ was technically forbidden. After all, they were regarded as pagans, lacking a valid divine scripture that was equivalent to the Torah or the Gospel. But since so many slaves in the early period came from these ‘forbidden’ communities, Muslim jurists developed convenient workarounds. Some writers of the ninth century, for example, argued that Zoroastrian women could be induced or even forced to convert, and thus become available for sex.

Whether issued via marriage or slavery, the children of religiously mixed unions were automatically considered Muslims. Sometimes Jewish or Christian men converted after already having started families: if their conversions occurred before their children attained the age of legal majority – seven or 10, depending on the school of Islamic law – they had to follow their fathers’ faith. If the conversions occurred after, the children were free to choose. Even as fathers and children changed religion, mothers could continue as Jews and Christians, as was their right under Sharia law.

Mixed marriage and concubinage allowed Muslims – who constituted a tiny percentage of the population at the start of Islamic history – to quickly integrate with their subjects, legitimising their rule over newly conquered territories, and helping them grow in number. It also ensured that non-Muslim religions would quickly disappear from family trees. Indeed, given the rules governing the religious identity of children, mixed kinship groups probably lasted no longer than a generation or two. It was precisely this prospect of disappearing that prompted non-Muslim leaders – Jewish rabbis, Christian bishops and Zoroastrian priests – to inveigh against mixed marriage and codify laws aimed at discouraging it. Because Muslims were members of the elite, who enjoyed greater access to economic resources than non-Muslims, their fertility rates were probably higher.

Of course, theory and reality did not always line up, and religiously mixed families sometimes flouted the rules set by jurists. One of the richest bodies of evidence for such families are the biographies of Christian martyrs from the early Islamic period, a little-known group who constitute the subject of my book, Christian Martyrs under Islam (2018). Many of these martyrs were executed for crimes such as apostasy and blasphemy, and not a small number of them came from religiously mixed unions.

A good example is Bacchus, a martyr killed in Palestine in 786 – about 150 years after the death of the Prophet Muhammad. Bacchus, whose biography was recorded in Greek, was born into a Christian family, but his father at some point converted to Islam, thereby changing his children’s status, too. This greatly distressed Bacchus’s mother, who prayed for her husband’s return, and in the meantime, seems to have exposed her Muslim children to Christian practices. Eventually, the father died, freeing Bacchus to become a Christian. He was then baptised and tonsured as a monk, enraging certain Muslim relatives who had him arrested and killed.

Similar examples come from Córdoba, the capital of Islamic Spain, where a group of 48 Christians were martyred between 850 and 859, and commemorated in a corpus of Latin texts. Several of the Córdoba martyrs were born into religiously mixed families, but with an interesting twist: a number of them lived publicly as Muslims but practised Christianity in secret. In most instances, this seems to have been done without the knowledge of their Muslim fathers, but in one unique case of two sisters, it allegedly occurred with the father’s consent. The idea that one would have a public legal identity as a Muslim but a private spiritual identity as a Christian produced a unique subculture of ‘crypto-Christianity’ in Córdoba. This seems to have spanned generations, fuelled by the tendency of some ‘crypto-Christians’ to seek out and marry others like them.

In the modern Middle East, intermarriage has become uncommon. One reason for this is the long-term success of Islamisation, such that there are simply fewer Jews and Christians around to marry. Another reason is that those Jewish and Christian communities that do exist today have survived partly by living in homogeneous environments without Muslims, or by establishing communal norms that strongly penalise marrying out. In contrast to today’s world, where the frontiers between communities can be sealed, the medieval Middle East was a world of surprisingly porous borders, especially when it came to the bedroom.

Christian Martyrs under Islam: Religious Violence and the Making of the Muslim World by Christian C Sahner is published via Princeton University Press.Aeon counter – do not remove

This article was originally published at Aeon and has been republished under Creative Commons.

Adrienne Mayor on Inspiring Women Writers

Adrienne Mayor is the author of  Gods and Robots, the fascinating untold story of how the ancients imagined robots and other forms of artificial life—and even invented real automated machines. In honor of Women’s History Month, we asked her to share some of the women writers who inspired her work on this book—and those who have captivated her since childhood.

Thinking about women whose writings have inspired me since childhood is a happy assignment. There are far too many to list, but here are seven. As a young bookworm in South Dakota, I haunted the public library and eagerly anticipated the Bookmobile’s weekly visit. I was reading the “Little House on the Prairie” books while my new elementary school, named after Laura Ingalls Wilder herself, was being built in the cornfield across the street from my house.

Captivated by the adventures of self-sufficient, independent kids free to roam without any grownups around, I loved the Moffat and Pye families created by Eleanor Estes (1906-1988). Based on her own childhood in the early 1900s and told with dry humor, Estes’ plots were filled with serious, real-life details. The kids gathered coal lumps on train tracks to keep warm in winter, investigated mysterious events, and recovered a kidnapped puppy—I was not a big fan of magic or fantasy.

Estes, a children’s librarian, wrote award-winning Children’s Literature. But I was spending my allowance on another sort of literature. Namely, comic books by the pioneering female cartoonist Marjorie Henderson Buell, the creator of Little Lulu. That smart, daring, sassy, audacious little girl who made her own rules was my first feminist hero.

My other favorites were The Phoenix and the Carpet and Five Children and It by E. Nesbit (1858-1924). A British socialist, Nesbit took up writing children’s books to support herself. Like Estes, E(dith) Nesbit had lost her father at an early age and was raised by a mother who struggled to make ends meet. Her stories were set in Edwardian England and the children were usually home alone, free to roam the countryside and London, not mention fabulous excursions to ancient Egypt and Babylon. Now, E. Nesbit’s plots did involve magic but in such a pragmatic fashion that the magic often became a nuisance and bother, compelling the five young siblings to be resourceful and inventive to survive the fantastic situations they found themselves in. As Gore Vidal noted in his review of Nesbit’s works (NY Review of Books), her boys and girls are intelligent, sarcastic, cruel, compassionate, selfish, cooperative, arrogant, funny, impulsive, rude, thoughtful–like adults but also like real children. Eleanor Estes, Marjorie Buell, and E. Nesbit were all unsentimental distillers of “the essence of childhood,” and their books are good to read at any age.

I Married Adventure, the autobiography of Osa Johnson, was another beloved book of my youth. Osa left Kansas to become an adventurer and documentary film pioneer who explored faraway Africa, the South Pacific, and Borneo in 1917-37. She and her husband each flew their own amphibious biplanes; they lived in tents and encountered exotic wild animals–with their primitive Eastman-Kodak movie cameras whirring all the while. I read Osa’s memoirs countless times, day-dreaming over the sepia photos, imagining where I might travel one day.

One scientist who inspired my own research and writing was Dorothy Vitaliano. A geologist, she invented the discipline of “geomythology.” In her path-breaking book Legends of the Earth: Their Geologic Origins (1973), Vitaliano proposed that scientific details of catastrophic natural disasters such as earthquakes, volcanoes, and floods were preserved in folklore, myths, and legends around the world.

While working on Gods and Robots: Myths, Machines, and Ancient Dreams of Technology, I developed renewed admiration for Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) written when she was nineteen. I hadn’t realized how strongly Shelley’s story was shaped by her knowledge of philosophy, science, and classical mythology about Prometheus, who fabricated the first humans and gave them fire. Shelley portrayed Victor Frankenstein the “modern Prometheus” for her era. I’m in awe of her ability to weave Immanuel Kant and alchemy, occult transference of souls, and advances in chemistry, electricity, and human physiology so marvelously into a timeless and gripping science fiction tale—at such a young age.

—Adrienne Mayor

 

 

Ken Steiglitz: It’s the Number of Zeroes that Counts

We present the third installment in a series by The Discrete Charm of the Machine author Ken Steiglitz. You can find the first post here and the second, here.

 

The scales of space and time in our universe; in everyday life we hang out very near the center of this picture: 1 meter and 1 second.

As we’ll see in The Discrete Charm the computer world is full of very big and very small numbers. For example, if your smartphone’s memory has a capacity of 32 GBytes, it means it can hold 32 billion bytes, or 32000000000 bytes. It’s awfully inconvenient and error-prone to count this many zeros, and it can get much worse, so scientists, who are used to dealing with very large and small numbers, just count the number of zeros. In this case the memory capacity is 3.2×1010 bytes. At the other extreme, pulses in an electronic circuit might occur at the rate of a billion per second, so the time between pulses is a billionth of a second, 0.000000001, a nanosecond, 1 × 10−9 seconds. In the time-honored scientific lingo, a factor of 10 is an “order of magnitude,” and back-of-the-envelope estimates often ignore factors of 2 or 3. What’s a factor of 2 or 3 between friends? What matters is the number of zeroes. In the last example, a nanosecond is 9 orders of magnitude smaller than a second.

Such big and small numbers also come up in discussing the size of transistors, the number of them that fit on a chip, the speed of communication on the internet in bits per second, and so on. The figure shows the range of magnitudes we’re ever likely to encounter when we discuss the sizes of things and the time that things take. At the low extremes I indicate the size of an electron and the time between the crests of gamma-ray waves, just about the highest frequency we ever encounter. The electron is about 6 orders of magnitude smaller than a typical virus (and a single transistor on a chip); the frequency of gamma rays is about 10 orders of magnitude faster than a gigahertz computer chip.

To this computer scientist a machine like an automobile is pretty boring. It runs only one program, or maybe two if you count forward and reverse gear. With few exceptions it has four wheels, one engine, one steering wheel—and all cars go about as fast as any other, if they can move in traffic at all. I could take my father’s 1941 Plymouth out for a spin today and hardly anyone would notice. It cost about $845 in 1941 (for a four-door sedan), or about $14,000 in today’s dollars. In other words, in our order-of-magnitude world, it is a product that is practically frozen in time. On the other hand, my obsolete and clumsy laptop beats the first computer I ever used by 5 orders of magnitude in speed and memory, and 4 orders of magnitude in weight and volume. If you want to talk money, I remember paying about 50¢ a byte for extra memory for a small laboratory computer in 1971—8 orders of magnitude more expensive than today, or maybe 9 if you take inflation into account.

The number of zeros is roughly the logarithm (base-10), and plots like the figure are said to have logarithmic scales. You can see them in the chapter on Moore’s law in The Discrete Charm, where I need them to get a manageable picture of just how much progress has been made in computer technology over the last few decades. The shrinkage in size and speedup has been, in fact, exponential with the years—which means constant-size hops in the figure, year by year. Anything less than exponential growth would slow to a crawl. This distinction between exponential and slower-than-exponential growth also plays a crucial role in studying the efficiency of computer algorithms, a favorite pursuit of theoretical computer scientists and a subject I take up towards the end of the book.

Counting zeroes lets us to fit the whole universe on a page.

SteiglitzKen Steiglitz is professor emeritus of computer science and senior scholar at Princeton University. His books include The Discrete Charm of the MachineCombinatorial OptimizationA Digital Signal Processing Primer, and Snipers, Shills, and Sharks. He lives in Princeton, New Jersey.

Jesse Hoffnung-Garskof: Racial Migrations

“A Group of Cuban Leaders,” identified, from back left, as Commander Antonio Collazo; Brigadier Flor Crombet; Major General Antonio Maceo; Brigadier Cebreco; Colonel Salvador Rosado; Brigadier Morúa; Commander Borja; Colonel Aurelio Castillo; Commander Manuel Peña; Castillo, a Venezuelan; and Antonio Maceo’s dog, “Cuba Libre.” The photograph was taken between 1884 and 1886. Courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional de España.

Near the end of July in 1885, General Antonio Maceo spoke to an enthusiastic audience at an assembly hall on East 13th Street in Manhattan.  The general, one of the most famous leaders of the unsuccessful war for independence in Cuba between 1868 and 1878, was in the city seeking donations to buy arms and munitions for a new war.  A group of volunteers, under his command, had already departed for Kingston Jamaica, where they were preparing for an invasion of Cuba.  The event was one of hundreds of gatherings held by exile revolutionaries in New York in the last third of the 19th century in support of such efforts.  But it sparked unusual controversy.  The Spanish Consul in the United States wrote to the district attorney asking him to prohibit  the gathering, arguing that it violated neutrality laws and because it was “to be attended by colored men, and presided over by the so-called Major Gen. Antonio Maceo.” The district attorney replied that there was no legal mechanism to prevent such an assembly, but the local precinct did send sixteen patrolmen to monitor the event, having received reports that it would be “disorderly.”

The accusation was familiar.  The general was a man of partial African ancestry and the most prominent of the revolutionary leaders who had made the abolition of slavery and the end of racial privileges central to the project of independence.  He was a target of suspicion and accusation, fomented by Spanish enemies and some Cuban participants in earlier war.  The Spanish had construed the rebellion as a rising up of blacks against whites.  Some white Cubans had sought to undermine or constrain his leadership.  Yet the accusation also points to an important point.  Cubans of African descent did, in fact, constitute a large proportion of the exiles who participated in and supported the expedition in 1885.  There is no record of exactly who was in audience that cheered for the General that evening, and raised nearly 12,000 dollars, under the watchful eye of the New York City patrolmen.  But many Spanish-speaking New Yorkers, of African descent,  were certainly in attendance.

These early Afro-Latinx migrants, and their impact on Cuban and Puerto Rican revolutionary politics, are the subject of my book, Racial Migrations: New York City and the Revolutionary Politics of the Spanish Caribbean.  I have been able to document the emergence, by the middle of the 1880s, of a well-organized community of black and brown cigar makers, seamstresses, waiters, cooks, laundresses, and midwives, who had begun to settle and build institutions within the segregated apartment buildings of Greenwich Village.  Indeed, at the time of Maceo’s appearance, in July of 1885, some prominent members of this community had already shipped out to Kingston as part of the expedition.  Several weeks after the general’s speech, the community gathered at the third annual Cuban-American Picnic.  Organized by the Logia San Manuel, the picnic drew together Cubans of color with African American friends and neighbors.  Dance music –likely some combination of Cuban danza and the local sounds that would later be known as ragtime—was provided by Pastor Peñalver, a young Cuban recently graduated from the “colored” high school on Manhattan’s West Side.

The man who came to serve as the spokesman for emigres of African descent was a cigar maker and writer, originally from Havana, named Rafael Serra.  Serra volunteered for the expedition in 1885, was commissioned as Lieutenant, and spent two years in Jamaica and Panama waiting to deploy before returning in disappointment to New York.  Once back in the city, he mobilized the Logia San Manuel and other independent networks and institutions established by migrants of color to support the struggle for black civil rights in Cuba. He recruited them to participate in Republican Party organizing in New York.  He mobilized them to create an immigrant educational society, designed to support the entry of men of color from Cuba and Puerto Rico into the professions.  He and his wife, a midwife named Gertrudis Heredia, allied with the white poet and journalist José Martí, to recruit white and black workers into the Cuban Revolutionary Party under the banner of “a nation for all.”  When Martí died in 1895 and Maceo died in 1896, they drew on the same New York community to support a struggle to preserve the democratic values of the party.  And, finally, in 1902, Serra returned to Cuba, where he became one of the most successful black politicians in the early republic, twice winning election to the House of Representatives. 

Racial Migrations traces the trajectories of Serra, Heredia, and other migrant revolutionaries as they traversed and confronted distinct local systems of racial domination.  It explores the politics they articulated, the coalitions they built, and the compromises they made as they participated in nationalist projects that, famously, promised to transcend racial division.  The book contends that this idea of a nation without race, and the political system that emerged under its banner, so often imagined as having sprung fully formed from the mind of José Martí,  can be better from the vantage point of the migrants who gathered to cheer Antonio Maceo in New York, who joined the 1885 expedition, who created the Cuban-American picnics, and who, only later, chose to throw their support behind Martí.

Jesse Hoffnung-Garskof is professor of history, American culture, and Latina/o studies at the University of Michigan. He is the author of Racial Migrations, A Tale of Two Cities: Santo Domingo and New York after 1950 (Princeton).

 

 

 

Ken Steiglitz: Garage Rock and the Unknowable

Here is the second post in a series by The Discrete Charm of the Machine author Ken Steiglitz. You can access the first post here

I sat down to draft The Discrete Charm of the Machine with the goal of explaining, without math, how we arrived at today’s digital world. It is a quasi-chronological story; I take what I need, when I need it, from the space of ideas. I start at the simplest point, describing why noise is a constant threat to information and how using discrete values (usually zeros and ones) affords protection and a permanence not possible with information in analog (continuous) form. From there I sketch the important ideas of digital signal processing (for sound and pictures), coding theory (for nearly error-free communication), complexity theory (for computation), and so on—a fine arc, I think, from the boomy and very analog console radios of my childhood to my elegant little internet radio.

Yet the path through the book is not quite so breezy and trouble-free. In the final three chapters we encounter three mysteries, each progressively more fundamental and thorny. I hope your curiosity and sense of wonder will be piqued; there are ample references to further reading. Here are the problems in a nutshell:

  1. Is it no harder to find a solution to a problem than to merely check a solution? (Does P = NP?) This question comes up in studying the relative difficulty of solving problems with a computing machine. It is a mathematical question, and is still unresolved after almost 40 years of attack by computer scientists.
    As I discuss in the book, there are plenty of reasons to believe that P is not equal to NP and most computer scientists come down on that side. But … no one knows for sure.
  2. Are the digital computers we use today as powerful—in a practical sense—as any we can build in this universe (the extended Church-Turing thesis)? This is a physics question, and for that reason is fundamentally different from the P=NP question. Its answer depends on how the universe works.
    The thesis is intimately tied to the problem of building machines that are essentially more powerful than today’s digital computers—the human brain is one popular candidate. The question runs deep: some believe there is magic to found beyond the world of zeros and ones.
  3. Can a machine be conscious? Philosopher David Chalmers calls this the hard problem, and considers it “the biggest mystery.” It is not a question of mathematics, nor of physics, but of philosophy and cognitive science.

I want to emphasize that this is not merely the modern equivalent of asking how many angels could dance on the point of a pin. The answer has most serious consequences for us humans: it determines how we should treat our android creations, the inevitable products of our present rush to artificial intelligence. If machines are capable of suffering we have a moral responsibility to treat them compassionately.

My first reaction to the third question is that it is unanswerable. How can we know about the subjective mental life of anyone (or any thing) but ourselves? Philosopher Owen Flanagan called those who take this position mysterians, after the proto-punk band ? and the Mysterians. Michael Shermer joins this camp in his Scientific American column of July 1, 2018. I discuss the difficulty in the final chapter and remain agnostic—although I am hard-pressed even to imagine what form an answer would take.

I suggest, however, a pragmatic way around the big third question: Rather than risk harm, give the machines the benefit of the doubt. It is after all what we do for our fellow humans.

SteiglitzKen Steiglitz is professor emeritus of computer science and senior scholar at Princeton University. His books include The Discrete Charm of the MachineCombinatorial OptimizationA Digital Signal Processing Primer, and Snipers, Shills, and Sharks. He lives in Princeton, New Jersey.

 

Caitlyn Collins on Making Motherhood Work

Collins Making Motherhood Work coverThe work-family conflict that mothers experience today is a national crisis. Women struggle to balance breadwinning with the bulk of parenting, and stress is constant. Social policies don’t help. Of all Western industrialized countries, the United States ranks dead last for supportive work-family policies: No federal paid parental leave. The highest gender wage gap. No minimum standard for vacation and sick days. The highest maternal and child poverty rates. Can American women look to European policies for solutions? Making Motherhood Work draws on interviews that sociologist Caitlyn Collins conducted over five years with 135 middle-class working mothers in Sweden, Germany, Italy, and the United States. She explores how women navigate work and family given the different policy supports available in each country.

Tons of academics and journalists have written about motherhood and work-family conflict. What’s different about your book?

 Making Motherhood Work pushes the conversation about work-family conflict beyond national borders. There’s clear consensus: the United States’ free market approach to social provisioning is failing families. Working mothers’ struggles are only intensifying. We need structural change. Many of these writers point to European-style policies as promising models.

This book is the first to compare work-family policies cross-nationally from the perspective of mothers themselves. I begin—rather than end—with the question of policy. What’s life like under these different policy models? Making Motherhood Work complements accounts of U.S. women’s experiences with stories from European women. I engage them in a virtual transatlantic conversation to consider a wide range of possibilities to better support mothers and families. Women’s perspectives should be central to any endeavors in the U.S. to craft, advocate for (or against), and enact work-family policy as a force for social change.

How did you approach the research for the book?

I conducted interviews with 135 middle-class working moms in Sweden, Germany, Italy, and the United States over the course of five years. I spent time with women in their homes, neighborhoods, and workplaces, and with their children, partners, relatives, neighbors, and colleagues. We can think of these women as a conservative test of how employed moms think and feel about work-family conflict. As sociologist Pamela Stone writes, if middle- and upper-class working mothers struggle to manage work and family, these difficulties are akin to “the miners’ canary—a frontline indication that something is seriously amiss.” Things are much, much harder for mothers who are low-income, have little formal education, unrewarding jobs, unreliable or no transportation, and for people without legal residency or citizenship. Studies with these women are vital. I hope this book inspires more research on disadvantaged mothers across national contexts.

Where do mothers have it “best”? Can we import their policies to the U.S.?

The most satisfied women live in Sweden. I left Stockholm feeling optimistic about prospects for working moms. Cultural attitudes and work-family policies can play in reducing gender inequality. I show that Swedish social policies are part of a larger cultural discourse about parenting, work, and gender equality. Their social democratic policies operate in the context of societal beliefs that child-rearing is a collective responsibility, that both men and women can and should work for pay and care for their families, and that workplaces recognize and support employees’ nonwork responsibilities and interests. These cultural beliefs are incompatible with the neoliberal ideology ascendant in the US. In other words, work-family policies are symptomatic of larger ethical and cultural understandings of what is and isn’t appropriate for mothers. As such, they play a role in reproducing the existing social order.

The larger point is this: context matters. We can’t roll out a Swedish or German or Italian policy in the U.S. and expect it to have similar consequences. Instead, with any policy, we need to examine its assumptions, content, and practical implications in relation to the wider political, economic, and social context. We need to evaluate policy reforms in light of prevailing cultural ideals to understand their effects on mothers. They’re likely to differ in important ways for different groups of women.

What about dads? They struggle to manage work and family life, too.

Absolutely they do. I focus on mothers because in all industrialized countries, they’ve historically been the targets of work-family policy. Women are still responsible for most housework and childcare. They report greater work-family conflict than men. And they use work-family policies more often than men. The conversation needs to be about dads as much as about moms.

These policies are necessary but insufficient if they’re offered to and used mostly by women and not men. In other words, work-family policies should be enacted in a cultural environment supportive of gender equality. Policies can be pro-mother without being pro-equality. To be clear, ridding a society of sexism isn’t a necessary precondition for implementing work-family justice oriented policies. But we need a renewed conversation about gender equality policy and policy instruments aimed at changing men’s behavior alongside work-family policy debates to improve the social and economic climate for all working parents.

What’s the one takeaway you want readers to remember?

Work-family conflict is not an unfortunate but inexorable part of life as a working mom today. This book shows that mothers’ stress is not of their own making, and it can’t be of their own fixing. Work-family conflict is a phenomenon that societies have created. This means that societies can change it, too. U.S. Americans can enact policies to remedy the unequal social conditions that fuel mothers’ stress and undue burden for caregiving. What we’re missing is the political and social will to do so.

You argue we should abandon the goal of “work-family balance.” Instead you advocate a social movement for work-family justice. What does that mean?

Framing work-family conflict as a problem of imbalance is too individualistic. The U.S. is a nation of mothers engulfed in stress. Suggesting mothers seek “balance” doesn’t take into account how institutions contribute to this stress. We need a social movement centered on work-family justice. I define this in the book as a system in which each member of society has the opportunity and power to fully participate in both paid work and family care. The rhetoric of justice highlights the reality that this conflict isn’t the outcome of individual women’s shortcomings or mismanaged commitments. Instead, it’s the result of cultural attitudes and policies embedded in workplaces and systems of welfare provisioning. In Erik Olin Wright’s words, as with all social problems, work-family conflict doesn’t reflect some fixed law of nature. It reflects the current social organization of power. Mothers don’t need balance. They need justice.

What’s the one social policy you would implement if you could wave a magic wand to help U.S. moms?

High-quality, affordable childcare. My next project is an ethnographic study of the U.S. childcare system, an extractive market we don’t tend to talk about in these terms. Without a robust public option, consequences are dire for kids, parents, businesses, and our economy. Like work-family conflict, the crisis of care is not inevitable. But it’s central to reproductive justice. We can do more, and better, for U.S. families.

Caitlyn Collins is Assistant Professor of Sociology at Washington University in St. Louis. Find her on Twitter at @caitymcollins and read more here: caitlyncollins.com.