What civil discourse sounds like

Like you, I have friends who lean left and friends who lean right. Sometimes we all get along just fine, sometimes we annoy one another, and sometimes we de-friend each other on Facebook. I've been thinking about what makes the difference, and I decided to try to write something that we all might confirm - unless, of course, we would really rather rant than communicate. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could combine conviction with passionate intensity - and still talk peaceably with one another!

Choose your column ...

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Memo to fans of Precious Ramotswe, Alexander McCall Smith's Motswana heroine of the Number One Ladies' Detective Agency series: Mma Ramotswe is magnificent, no doubt about it. But she is, after all, the creation of a man from Scotland. It's time to meet a real African woman, this time from Nigeria: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

Don't panic. You can pronounce her name, even if you've never set foot in her country. Take it one syllable at a time and you'll have it in no time. Read her books and you'll never forget it.

Adichie, 33, is the author of two novels and one book of short stories. Purple Hibiscus (2003) is a family drama, partly the coming-of-age story of a 15-year-old girl and partly the character study of her father, who is both a philanthropist and a vicious tyrant. Publishers Weekly called this debut novel "lush, cadenced and often disconcerting." For American readers, the setting may seem as exotic as Mma Ramotswe's, but the characters, especially the girl Kambili, are far more nuanced and intimately depicted than are the cheerful citizens of Gabarone.

Half of a Yellow Sun (2006) is also rooted in a family's experience, but set against the background of the Biafran War (1967 - 1970). Adichie's publicity website describes it well: "Epic, ambitious, and triumphantly realized, Half of a Yellow Sun is a remarkable novel about moral responsibility, about the end of colonialism, about ethnic allegiances, about class and race—and the ways in which love can complicate them all."

Adichie's most recent book, The Thing Around Your Neck (2009), is a collection of twelve short stories, most of them previously published. I'm not usually a short-story fan, and I'm glad I read the novels first because they introduced me to contemporary Nigerian characters. With that preparation, however, I found these short stories fascinating. All the central characters are Nigerian, but several - like Adichie herself, part of the time - live in America. "The Arrangers of Marriage," for example, features a Nigerian woman brought to Flatbush (Brooklyn) after a hasty marriage to a Nigerian doctor who has not been entirely honest about his life in the U.S.

Last October Adichie gave a wonderful speech at TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) called "The danger of a single story" (thanks to my Kenyan friend Wambura Kimunyu for pointing this out). Listen to the whole thing: it's a great introduction to Adichie, and she is full of insights about literature and other cultures. One of her observations helps to explain her title:

I recently spoke at a university where a student told me that it was such a shame that Nigerian men were physical abusers like the father character in my novel. I told him that I had just read a novel called “American Psycho” — and that it was such a shame that young Americans were serial murderers.

I've learned a lot about Nigeria from Adichie's books, and I've enjoyed immersing myself in a culture that is so different from my own. More important, she has shown me people who are very much like me and like people I know. She has added her stories to my stories and other stories I already knew - and, if a single story is dangerous, then the more stories we listen to and tell, the richer and more compassionate we will be.

Say her name again: Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie.

Why we love Mma Ramotswe

In The Double Comfort Safari Club, the 11th installment in Alexander McCall Smith's No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series, the suspense level is low. There are no murders, grisly or otherwise, and Mma Ramotswe's investigations have fairly predictable outcomes, though she sometimes engineers win-win situations that defy the laws of probability. But suspense is not the reason to read one of McCall Smith's detective stories. Mma Ramotswe herself is.

"Traditionally built" in moral values as well as physical appearance, Mma Ramotswe believes in honesty, fidelity, and hard work. At the same time, she affirms family, friendship, courtesy, and red bush tea. She's the kind of woman you'd like to have as a best friend or a mother - unless you're planning to misbehave. You know she'll see right through you.

In Double Comfort, nobody outwits Mma Ramotswe for long. An adulterer's secret is revealed. An angry aunt is foiled. An evil schemer gets her comeuppance. Villains in the No. 1 Ladies series are rarely murderers or rapists. They are ordinary people who are extraordinarily selfish, who are willing to hurt others in order to get their own way.

Heroes, by contrast, are kind.

Kindness, in fact, is what Double Comfort is all about. An American tourist, Mrs. Grant, is so impressed by the kindness of strangers that she decides to send a generous gift. Mma Felo, a philanthropist, is known for her kindness, even if she mentions it herself. Mma Ramotswe's husband and Mma Makutsi's fiancé are both kind men.

Kindness may not be evident on the surface. Mma Potokwane, for instance, does not look kind - indeed, she can look "severe, or strict, or even bossy" - but inside her "there was a big dam of kindness, as there is inside so many people, like the great dam to the south of Gaborone, ready to release its healing waters."

The kindest person of all is, of course, Mma Ramotswe. In a deliciously vengeful scene, Mma Ramotswe is even able to have sympathy for the terrible Violet Sephotho. This amazes her assistant detective, Mma Makutsi, until she remembers that "this woman, this traditionally built woman, this understanding, tolerant employer, this detective, was composed of kindness, just of kindness."

One Sunday Mma Ramotswe goes to the Anglican cathedral, letting her mind wander until the visiting priest begins to speak. McCall Smith generally avoids preaching; instead, his characters ruminate until they come up with bits of wisdom. But in this case he lets us listen in on the whole homily, which pretty much sums up this book's theme and Mma Ramotswe's character:

My brothers and sisters, ... we are seated here with those we know and those we do not know. But even those we do not know are not strangers. We are united with them in a community which is brought together by one thing, and that one thing is love....

There are people who say that what we are doing here has no meaning. That it is superstition, that it is wishful thinking. Wishful thinking? It is not that; it is not. Is it wishful thinking to say to yourself and to others that we must love one another? Is it wishful thinking to say that we must forgive others, so that love might grow within our hearts? Is it wishful thinking to imagine that it is only through an effort to love others that a hard and unhappy world may be transformed into a world of kindness and compassion? I do not think that it is.

The No. 1 Ladies books are the visual equivalent of comfort food - double comfort, even - but they are not sentimental or treacly. Mma Ramotswe knows that the world is hard and unhappy, and that loving others is often more effort than emotion. Still, instead of reacting with bitterness or cynicism, she is kind. And little by little the world is transformed, and that is why we love her.

The Archbishop and the President have a problem

The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

--William Butler Yeats, from "The Second Coming"

Two of the best people in public life today--in my humble opinion--are the President of the United States and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Both are intelligent, thoughtful, well-read men who care deeply about justice, not only for themselves and their immediate constituents, but for the whole world. Both are complex thinkers who understand that every issue has many aspects. Both practice empathy: they see value in their opponents as well as in their adherents, and they dream of finding common ground, reconciling adversaries, and creating peace on earth.

By no means do Barack Obama and Rowan Williams lack all conviction. But--dogged on all sides by passionately intense extremists--both men seem unable to say, loud and clear, "Here I stand." Obama, still hoping to come up with a viable health plan, dreams of bipartisanship; while Williams, navigating among bishops from Africa and North America, appeals to the via media.

The results?

In Congress, a formerly fairly good health bill has been rewritten to the point that it soon may do just what Republicans warned it would do, back when it didn't do it: that is, cost too much. So of course Republicans don't like it, even though they're the ones who are making the changes--but Democrats don't much like it either, since it may no longer do what needs doing.

In Lambeth, a decades-long series of non-decisions and non-comments regarding gay clergy has driven conservative Anglicans to Africa or Rome while leaving liberal Anglicans feeling betrayed, wondering why their former champion has not even spoken up about the proposed death penalty for gays in Uganda.

I really like President Obama and Archbishop Williams. I like them because they are thoughtful reconcilers, and I think both of them have really good ideas. I would love to have a beer with either one, any time. The question is, can they do their jobs if they continue to be simultaneously irenic and visionary? Or does a public figure eventually need to draw a line in the sand, even though a lot of people will end up on the other side of the line?

Review: Black Water Rising

Why didn't Professor Gates just politely thank the cop for checking out what a neighbor feared was an attempted burglary? If you're white and that question has crossed your mind, you may learn a lot from Black Water Rising.

Whatever your skin tone, if you like a thriller that goes beyond the requisite car chases and explores human passions, motivations, fears, and convictions, Attica Locke's debut novel belongs on top of your nightstand stack.

In 1981, Jay Porter is a young, intelligent, but not very successful African-American lawyer in Houston, Texas. A chance encounter plunges him into a murky world of politics, unions, and big business--and reignites old terrors left over from his student-activist days in the late 60s and early 70s. Is his life in danger? Or is he paranoid?

Locke, a screenwriter, knows how to write action scenes. She also writes well, though sparingly--this is a thriller, after all--about relationships. Jay's wife is seriously pregnant, and wondering what in the heck is going on with her taciturn husband.

"You got to stop this, Jay.... You can't grab a gun every time the phone rings," she says. "I can't have this around my kid, Jay." Then, a whisper, "I won't."

"Don't start that now."

"You're not right, Jay."

He stands in the middle of the room, eyes on his shoes.

Bernie looks up at her husband, her voice halting. "You're not ... right."

Read Locke's description of why she--a woman in her mid 30s who, though African-American, grew up in a nearly all-white environment--wanted to tell Jay's story.

Read the fine New York Times review by Janet Maslin, "What's Black and White and Muddied? A Byzantine Houston Case."

Read Black Water Rising. I'll be returning it to the library in about ten minutes, but you'll have to put a hold on it--there's a short waiting list.

Sotomayor and Thomas--separated at birth?

"For Sotomayor and Thomas, paths diverge at race." This is the title and topic of a fascinating article by Jodi Kantor and David Gonzales in Saturday's New York Times. It begins:

If Judge Sonia Sotomayor joins Justice Clarence Thomas on the Supreme Court, they may find that they have far more than a job title in common.

Both come from the humblest of beginnings. Both were members of the first sizable generation of minority students at elite colleges and then Yale Law School. Both benefited from affirmative action policies.

But that is where their similarities end, and their disagreements begin.

Sotomayor, as we all know by now, is fiercely proud of her Latina heritage. Thomas, if not actually ashamed of being African-American, at least does not want his racial heritage to affect his life, or his decisions, in any way.

Yet their early lives ran on amazingly parallel tracks, right down to the intense language study each of them did in order to learn to speak standard American English.

Still, the young Thomas, isolated from family and peers, grew increasingly disaffected at college. Drawing on statements in his autobiography, Kantor and Gonzales write, "Mr. Thomas learned he could rely only on himself."

By contrast Sotomayor, who recalls the warmth of her "Nuyorican" childhood, plunged into Hispanic studies and social groups at Princeton, gaining strength from her community.

Apparently Sotomayor plays well with others, and Thomas does not.

Some might argue that this makes Thomas the more objective judge. Others might label him the more selfish of the two--in college Sotomayor worked tirelessly on behalf of her community, whereas Thomas worked equally tirelessly on behalf of himself.

And yet, as the article points out, "both judges are passionate about minority success, dedicating countless hours to mentorship."

I hope Sonia Sotomayor joins Clarence Thomas on the bench. I don't for a moment think that one will be more or less objective than the other. Both have been shaped by deeply felt personal experiences; both are dedicated to equal justice for all. As the Court grows toward resembling all of us, Justice--once focused on elderly white males--can readjust her blindfold.

Obama, Mohsin, and the importance of listening

This post was inspired by President Obama's Cairo speech, and specifically by a wonderful analysis of it by Richard Engel. I thought I'd tell you this up front, since I take a while to mention the speech.

Thursday evening I joined the public library’s contemporary book discussion group to talk about The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Pakistani novelist Hamid Mohsin’s brilliantly unsettling little book about a Pakistani Princeton grad who gives up a promising business career in the U.S. and returns to his family in Lahore. Easy to read in one evening, the book raises uncomfortable questions about East-West relations. Some participants in the book group hated it. They thought it was anti-American.

I didn't agree. Being from another country, the narrator sees things Americans take for granted, and some of the things he sees are not good. He has strong opinions about aspects of American politics and business, and he is critical of certain military decisions. At the same time, however, he loves New York, enjoys his American friends, and appreciates his Ivy League education. This is a book about conflict--not only between East and West, but also within the narrator's soul.

It is difficult to straddle two or more cultures. As the late Senator Paul Simon pointed out in his 1980 book The Tongue-Tied American, literal translations may have unintended hilarious meanings (e.g., it was hard to market the Chevy Nova in Spanish-speaking countries where no va means "it doesn't run"), and unless business people are fluent in their clients' language and at ease with their cultural expectations, they are always at a disadvantage in negotiations.

Isolated from the rest of the world on our big island, we Americans need repeated reminders that other people may have expectations, views, habits, standards, and hopes that differ markedly from our own--and that are perfectly reasonable from their point of view.

I thought I had learned that lesson at age 16, living in France during the Vietnam war when Americans were decidedly unpopular. But I had to relearn it at age 40, working for a successful British publisher that didn't edit or market books the way an American publisher would have done (more than once someone quoted to me George Bernard Shaw's famous wisecrack that "England and America are two countries separated by a common language"). At 60, I'm still learning, mostly through reading books like Mr Mohsin's.

The gap between East and West, of course, is much wider than that between the United States and France (hey, it's D-Day, and today the French adore us!). It is almost inconceivable to most Westerners that a woman might freely choose to wear the hijab, or that a nation might democratically elect a dictator, or that a culture might not want religious freedom. Most of us simply wouldn't know how to speak to people who differ that much from us. Unless, of course, we make an effort to find out what's important to them.

And that brings me, finally, to President Obama's speech Thursday in Cairo. With a father from Kenya, a mother from Kansas, a stepfather from Indonesia, and grandparents in Hawaii, Obama has no illusions that the rest of the world either loves or envies Americans. He is painfully aware that much of the world--rightly or wrongly--sees Americans as arrogant, ignorant, irreligious, materialistic, and militaristic. Which is why, in Cairo, he spoke humbly, intelligently, and respectfully, focusing on our shared values and hope for peace.

"This is a huge break from the past," says Richard Engel, the NBC News chief foreign correspondent, who has lived in the Middle East for 12 years and speaks and reads Arabic fluently. In MSNBC's World Blog, he writes:

Former President George Bush was Al-Jazeera’s bête noire. Yesterday, one of the network’s guests remembered Bush as "a warmonger" who spoke "in a language of blood and killing." Another analyst compared the former president to Osama bin Laden.

"I don’t see much of a difference between Bush and Bin Laden," he said. "Both say, ‘You are either with us or against us.’"

In contrast, Al-Jazeera described Obama’s speech as "honest," "historic" and "deeply respectful."

I suspect a main reason Obama was so well received was that he – either by design or coincidence – successfully used the tools of Arabic rhetoric: flattery, history and religion. Simply put, Obama translated well into Arabic.

Engel notes Obama's knowledgeable use of Muslim religious terminology that communicates respect to a Muslim audience. He also mentions phrases Obama used--"the Holy Koran," "peace be upon them"--whose omission would have been perceived as socially incorrect or even blasphemy. His listeners, many of them, came skeptical but left singing his praises.

We Americans have plenty of catching up to do. More of us need to study the history and languages of non-Western countries. We need to encourage our young people to spend time living and working in other cultures. And indeed, we are making progress. Young-adult children of my friends are blogging from Vietnam, Uganda, and India; and I proudly report that my 14-year-old granddaughter just got a 90 in credit-by-exam for first-year high-school Chinese (her public school offers four years of Chinese language).

Americans don't have to be ugly. Most of us, in fact, aren't. The noisy, contentious ones draw a crowd--but the rest of us are quietly, respectfully observing and learning from our neighbors to the East. When we listen to them, we risk discovering that they don't like our country as much as we wish they would. But when enough of us really listen to them, some of them may begin to revise their opinion of us.

As a young Egyptian student said after the President's speech, "All we want as Muslims is for there to be a partnership. And he was seriously humble. Humility is important for us."

Empathy matters

Women: Imagine you’ve been having problems with pre-menstrual depression or unpleasant menopausal symptoms. Men: Imagine you’re having problems that are probably prostate-related, or maybe you’re having trouble getting it up. All else being equal (though of course it never is), would you rather see a male or a female physician?

Empathy matters. That’s why I’m not worried about the line from Sonia Sotomayor’s 2001 lecture, “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life.”

Yes, she needs to explain what she did and did not mean—and I’m sure she’ll be given the opportunity to do so. Chances are, she did not mean that she would toss objective law out the window whenever a Latina woman walked into the courtroom. After all, in 1997 Sotomayor told Senator Jeff Sessions, “I do not believe we should bend the Constitution under any circumstance. It says what it says. We should do honor to it.”

And I’m guessing she didn’t mean she thinks that, all things being equal, Anglo-Saxon men make inferior judges. In the 2001 lecture, in fact, she said she believes “that we should not be so myopic as to believe that others of different experiences or backgrounds are incapable of understanding the values and needs of people from a different group. Many are so capable.”

The point is, all things are never equal, and with a diversified set of justices, unconscious prejudices—whether on the part of white males, Latina females, black males, Jewish females, or anyone else—are inevitably held up to the light.

In “The Waves Minority Judges Always Make,” New York Times legal correspondent Adam Liptak quotes several studies showing that not only do female and African-American judges often rule differently from their white male colleagues, their very presence also affects the way their colleagues understand the issues at stake.

“Anyone who has ever sat on a bench with other judges knows that judges are supposed to influence each other, and they do,” Justice Souter wrote in a 1998 dissent in a death penalty case. “One may see something the others did not see, and then they all take another look.”

I agree with Washington Post pundit Michael Gerson’s contention that “a court should be a place where all are judged impartially, as individuals.” However, when he goes on to say that “the Obama/Sotomayor doctrine of empathy challenges this long-established belief,” he shows a serious misunderstanding of how impartial judgments are made.

Without empathy, writes conservative columnist David Brooks, people “are not objective decision makers. They are sociopaths.”

As Dan Kahan of Yale Law School has pointed out, many disputes come about because two judges look at the same situation and they have different perceptions about what the most consequential facts are. One judge, with one set of internal models, may look at a case and perceive that the humiliation suffered by a 13-year-old girl during a strip search in a school or airport is the most consequential fact of the case. Another judge, with another set of internal models, may perceive that the security of the school or airport is the most consequential fact. People elevate and savor facts that conform to their pre-existing sensitivities.

For Brooks, the crucial question is how empathy is used: “Sonia Sotomayor will be a good justice if she can empathize with the many types of people and actions involved in a case, but a bad justice if she can only empathize with one type, one ethnic group or one social class.”

Right on, Mr. Brooks. Similarly, a well-trained, widely empathetic doctor can treat many symptoms and both genders—and indeed, I have had excellent male doctors. Nevertheless, when almost all doctors were males, diseases that afflicted mainly females remained largely unstudied, while studies on equal-opportunity diseases often used only male subjects. Medical science may have been objective, but without the necessary empathy, the practice of medicine was not.

I am not saying you should be thrilled about Sonia Sotomayor. Honestly, I don’t know enough about her to say one way or the other. I’m just saying—if we want objective, impartial judgments that result in equal justice for all, we’d better not throw empathy out the window.