{"id":7097,"date":"2018-03-10T10:57:30","date_gmt":"2018-03-10T15:57:30","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/carleton.ca\/socanth\/?p=7097"},"modified":"2025-06-10T09:14:32","modified_gmt":"2025-06-10T13:14:32","slug":"navigating-the-political","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/carleton.ca\/socanth\/2018\/navigating-the-political\/","title":{"rendered":"Navigating the Political"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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\n Navigating the Political\n <\/h1>\n \n \n <\/header>\n\n <\/div>\n\n <\/div>\n\n <\/div>\n<\/section>\n\n

Blog by Professor Justin Paulson<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The following is a lightly-edited transcript of Prof. Justin Paulson\u2019s address to the Sociology & Anthropology Graduate Student Conference 2017. The conference theme was \u201cNavigating the Social: Intersections and Crossroads\u201d. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Navigation as a craft<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I want to begin by saying a few words about navigation in general\u2014for it really is an evocative way to reflect upon our discipline. Navigation is something we all do, though we rarely stop to think about it. To tweak what Gramsci said about intellectuals, we might say that all of us are, in a sense, navigators, even if only a handful of mariners and cockpit crews have that professional function.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Navigation by road, of course, makes you contend immediately with intersections and crossroads, and these concepts have obviously structured much thinking in Sociology and Anthropology. This is why the picture on the conference poster works. It seems to me that intersections and crossroads aren\u2019t really about navigation as such, so much as contending with the results of our own and other peoples\u2019 movement: who\u2019s coming to the crossroads? Why? How have the intersections structured our being-in-the-world? One of my mentors, Jim Clifford, wrote a fine book, Routes<\/em>, on such issues of travel, diaspora, and contact zones, that influenced my own graduate school trajectory; and most of you were here this morning to hear Professor DiNovelli-Lang\u2019s outstanding introduction that touched on these sorts of themes. But as I try to spend some time every summer as a navigator aboard a small boat on the Salish Sea, it\u2019s marine navigation that I know best\u2014and I think our methods of nautical way-finding, and their histories, have some distinct analogies to some of the methods we pursue in our work as sociologists and anthropologists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There are two principal functions of navigation: one is to get from here to there. The rather more interesting one is about paying attention to what\u2019s along the way. Even without a long-term destination, if you\u2019re just wandering at sea, it helps to be able to recognize where you are, whether you\u2019ve been there before, and have some sense of why you ended up there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m going to talk about a few practices of navigation with which I\u2019m familiar, but this is by no means exhaustive: the corollary to ‘all of us are navigators’ is that people have been navigating as long as they’ve been on the move, which is to say, as long as we\u2019ve been social. There are many ways to do it. In many cases we encounter navigation practices as a learned craft, analogous to any discipline; in other cases, they may be learned quite informally, transmitted in oral histories or as part of a regularized process of inscriptions on the sea or land (this was the research focus of our former colleague Claudio Aporta while he was in the department). As Emma pointed out in her paper this morning,[1]<\/sup><\/a> navigation can even be achieved through recognitions of sound.   I won\u2019t speak much to such practices because I remain ignorant of how many of them work, and I suspect many of you know much more about these forms of getting around than I do; my point in gesturing to them here is simply to acknowledge that the practices one is trained in are never a comprehensive list of how to do something well. This is a good thing for every navigator to keep in mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first practice I want to speak about is celestial navigation \u2014 which we know has been around for thousands of years. A handful of different devices aid in this task, including the sextant and, incidentally, the astrolabe: on the hill behind the National Gallery of Canada you can see a statue of Champlain holding one upside-down, which I hope is an intentional, thinly-veiled commentary on colonial navigation skills rather than an error of ignorance. But if you study the sky where you are, it\u2019s not too difficult to recognize certain stars and constellations, figure out where they should be relative to where you want to be, and use them to help you find your way to or from somewhere. For this to work over large distances, however, requires a grand theory<\/em>: a bird\u2019s eye view of the planet that, in this case, understands it to be large, round, and finite. (As an aside, for the purposes of navigation, much of this grand theory can be wrong, and of no consequence: the distances between the stars are irrelevant, it doesn\u2019t even matter that the stars move or that the earth travels around the sun rather than the other way around. But what is of no consequence to navigation has, of course, great consequences elsewhere\u2014for religion, society, politics, physics, and the like.) The point is merely that with a little bit of geometry, and a bit of grand theory, you can pretty much know where you are on any planet at any time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the grand theory is not enough. What do the coordinates actually mean? It\u2019s all well and good to know that you\u2019ve made your way to 49.73 degrees North latitude, 123.89 degrees West longitude\u2014except that if you don\u2019t know what the context is, you might simply know the position from which you\u2019ll drown. In this case, you would have successfully located the Skookumchuck Narrows above Sechelt, and you probably have a few minutes to get your boat well north of there before the tide turns and the boat is lost. (There\u2019s a photograph in the bar at Egmont, just above the rapids, of a powerful tugboat foundering at that very spot.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So a navigator\u2019s grand theory is always supplemented by an understanding of local waypoints, markers, and histories. We can get some of these from nautical charts\u2014the reading and writing of which is a specialized practice of transmitted, collective knowledge that can also take numerous forms, from the charts produced by the Canadian Hydrographic Service or the National Ocean Service in the US, to inscriptions or notches on wood, bone, or rock that might designate the shape of a coastline. Either way, you might think of the chart as a co-authored book, read by successive generations, with the little annual updates as similar to journal articles, contributing to keeping the knowledge current. If you write one of these, you’re offering your navigational experience to those who come after you. Waggoner-style guides fulfil a similar function. Most navigators forget this, I think: that charts are not<\/u> merely transcriptions of what the land and water “really are”, but they’re authored, and are products of experience. (Navigators also forget that charts are products of politics, about which I’ll say more in a moment, and that neither our tools of celestial navigation nor the concept of the modern nautical chart are of European origin; they arose out of crossroads and intersections of knowledge throughout Asia and Africa.) But even when you have charts or guidebooks onboard your vessel, most of the navigator’s understanding of waypoints, markers, and histories is rooted not in the charts but in what the anthropologists here will recognize as local knowledge. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

No navigator worth her salt navigates by sextant alone, or even a sextant plus a chart. The sextant gives you a big picture, but tells you nothing about where you are except your relation to other parts of the globe: how far you are from where you started, and from where you\u2019re going. This can be a useful relation for long voyages, to be sure, but in most quotidian sailing it\u2019s entirely beside the point. Most of the time you just navigate based on what you recognize. If you’re traveling somewhere for the first time, and are good at reading charts, you may still be able to recognize local features on the chart and fix your position accordingly. Europeans called such navigation without instruments or celestial fixes ‘dead reckoning’ (and I imagine others called it something more mundane like ‘paying attention’ or ‘not being dumb’). To navigate with waypoints, markers, and histories, you have to know how to read the water. Know the landmarks. Know where the rocks are. Study the currents and when they shift. Recognize the animals and vegetation in the sea or on shore. (Though, as an aside, climate change has made these sightings somewhat less reliable. Last summer I documented common dolphins about a thousand miles from their normal waters\u2014neat to have them running with the boat, but also rather unsettling.) Know what\u2019s happened here before. Be able to interpret local aids to navigation, whether they were put there by the coast guard this year or somebody\u2019s ancestors long ago. Even with a chart, you have to know what you\u2019re reading. If you don\u2019t know, you ask. And when you\u2019re a visitor to the waters, you have to know that, too, and act accordingly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Local knowledge is, beyond a doubt, the best friend of the navigator. (Even the Canada Shipping Act, which requires all vessels to maintain an updated library of relevant charts, makes an exception for small vessels in which the navigator has \u201csufficient knowledge\u201d of local conditions and hazards.) They who seek it out and are paying attention will also be perennially learning; this process is also, I admit, deeply enjoyable and kind of addictive. By contrast, they who do not avail themselves of local knowledge, having one system and being sure of its reliability in all places and times, may navigate straight to a whirlpool or be dashed on the rocks, because local conditions interfered\u2014joining the thousands of vessels at the bottom of the Salish Sea, some of them victims of the weather, but many surely victims of their navigators\u2019 arrogance as well.   (This, too, is somewhat analogous to our craft.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today, sadly, most navigators use neither celestial navigation nor the \u201cdead reckoning\u201d of coastal navigation, but skip straight to their global positioning devices. GPS (and now AIS) are wonderful aids, and saves the navigator tremendous time, but in their utter reliance on external authority they pose a challenge to navigation as an accumulation of learned and experienced knowledge. No longer a craft to be learned, navigation thus becomes a content delivery system. (I trust you can see the analogy with our navigation of the social sciences.) If I were to have a perennial, cranky complaint in harbour pubs, it would be that there are too many boats on the sea without any crew with sufficient sense of how to read a nautical chart, much less fix their position on it. They don\u2019t study the currents, they don\u2019t know when it\u2019s safe to traverse the rapids, nor how many logs or crab pots they\u2019ll have to weave around at different times of the year. They don\u2019t ask, they don\u2019t learn. They think the sea is theirs, not that they\u2019re visitors on it. They get around on GPS alone. What’s lost here? Even under the best circumstances, assuming you don\u2019t end up on the rocks, when you navigate this way you\u2019re not paying attention, you\u2019re not able to think or reflect about how <\/em>or why <\/em>you\u2019re on the route that you\u2019re on. You may as well be on land, driving on the road that somebody else put there to get from somebody else\u2019s point A to point B.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Navigating the political, as we study the social<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Now I\u2019m going to switch gears a little bit to talk in a less circumspect way about navigating the political, though I\u2019ll try to periodically circle back to the way some of these forms of navigation impact our practices, or vice versa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

First, though, I would be remiss, having spent some time talking about navigation methods, not to recognize how these particular forms of navigation can themselves never escape the political. The sea we\u2019re in (I\u2019m still speaking here of a literal sea) is always already political, from the name of the sea itself to what\u2019s included and omitted on the charts. When I first started sailing the Salish Sea, it was called something else, depending on which part of it you were in: the Strait of Georgia, the Straight of Juan de Fuca, and Puget Sound. In other words, European royalty and explorers. (There are obviously many issues here, one of which is just the implied history, or lack thereof, if naming is associated in our consciousness with discovery.) The renaming of the waters, less than a decade ago, immediately presented a much older place\u2014though most charts still give islands and place names in it (peninsulas, points, bluffs, etc.) the names assigned them by Vancouver\u2019s crew. It is the rare guidebook that identifies places by multiple names, noting the changes over time and why. Our charts are also Mercator projections\u2014that awful stretched map with which you\u2019re all familiar, with its distortion of the poles, in which Africa appears tiny and Greenland appears enormous. It\u2019s useful for a navigator at a very different scale, simply because it lets us navigate by compass: this is its navigational <\/em>purpose, a flat-earth simplification for getting around the mid-latitudes on a round planet. So it\u2019s great for shipping butter from Cork to Liverpool, or travelling from Victoria to Nanaimo, but it actually has no functional uses as a world map, at least not for nautical travel. (Most of you know that over long distances, the actual straight line is achieved by continuously changing one\u2019s compass heading, not keeping it constant.) So the only function of the Mercator projection on a world<\/em> map is that it projects European and northern supremacy. It was, incidentally, the politicization of the discipline of geography, the recognition that cartography was a political act, that had a lot to do with its denigration as a world map; and although many of us grew up with a Mercator world projection on our walls, it\u2019s thankfully not used much anymore. I hope mine was the last generation exposed to that, though we do still use it for nautical charts of small regions of the sea and coastlines.   One point here is that we don\u2019t throw the baby out with the bathwater\u2014but we must be cognizant and careful with our cartographic productions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Our disciplines, Sociology and Anthropology, also swim in a political sea. What I mean by this is that the practice <\/em>of sociology and anthropology is a political practice, whether we intend it to be or not; and there are short- and long-term political consequences to our work whether or not we understand what we do to be explicitly \u201cpolitically-engaged.\u201d (Our former Prime Minister reminded us about this in his excoriation of those ‘committing sociology’.) Politics outside the academy sometimes puts identifiable hazards in our path, and I’ll say something about this in a minute, but first I just want to highlight that everything we do here is political; the political as such is not something we can just steer around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No discipline of knowledge can navigate around politics. The social field is always already ideological, political, historical. The political and the scientific may be two distinct vocations<\/em>, as per Weber (I mention this just because this year is the 100th anniversary of Weber\u2019s “Science as a Vocation” lecture; it’s also of course the 100th anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, which terrified Weber, and which also aimed to create a distinctly communist science); but even if you can be a politician without having any scientific credentials\u2014as our friends south of the border keep wanting to demonstrate\u2014science is never conducted in an autonomous space. And ultimately, your <\/em>vocation, as Danielle pointed out this morning, is about \u201cmapping the social\u201d. And as we\u2019ve already seen, any mapping operation is political.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The politics may interject immediately and obviously, or they may be long-term, slow effects. Think, for example, of the way the name of an island doesn\u2019t strike you as political, though what it reflects in choices and erasures surely is. Much of what appears as natural, or apolitical, or anti-political, is not. Even language is political (which is why I would implore graduate students to learn and research in as many languages as possible).<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So we’re navigating in <\/em>and through<\/em> politics. Often our voyages are political themselves (for instance, any time we critique the actually-existing social world or suggest it can or should be other than it is). The first questions asked by the questioning, perspicacious, aware navigator (not the GPS user, in other words) after “what tools are at my disposal?”, should be why <\/em>are these tools at my disposal? What do they show me, and what don’t they show me? What else do I need to know to get where I’m going, and what else do I need to know to understand where I am right now? (What do I need to know just because I’m curious?) Have I been here before\u2014and what should I look for, in order to know that? Do I want to come back in the future, and if I do, will I be able to find my way?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All of these imply a history and a politics that we learn in part by reflecting on our own tools of navigation. How did we come by these? Are they ethical? Did they get here by means I can live with? Did I <\/em>find myself here by ethical means? (I’m thinking figuratively, but with fieldwork this could be literal.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As a quick example, I want to say something about my deep antagonism toward Heidegger. I was recently in a reading group in which we read Heidegger\u2019s oft-cited essay on technology. The idea was that this was could be a useful tool for helping us navigate the modern world of technology, machines, and climate change. Now, how did Heidegger come to us? (To use a nautical analogy, is he the chart, or is he the reef?) There is a history here that’s very important, too often overlooked, and a politics not only to the production of any tools passed to us by Heidegger but\u2014and this is the important point for our craft today\u2014a politics to reading and using this work as well. Why Heidegger? Why not any number of other scholars writing about the social implications of technology, who weren’t <\/em>unrepentant Nazis? Is there something particular about Heidegger’s experience or expertise that makes him particularly able to help us navigate the world of modern technology? And if we reflect on these questions, and still<\/em> decide the tools are necessary to help us understand where we are in the world today\u2014not a conclusion I would come to, but many do\u2014we still ought to talk about and come to terms with the how and why of Heidegger. (Which we ultimately did in that reading group, to the great credit of the others involved.) The same holds for de Man, Schmitt, and any other Nazis that have found their way into our disciplinary toolkits, and for the theorists developing new tools based on their work. Do we need<\/em> them? Are there other ways to get us where we need to go? (If looking for a period piece, why not read the anti-fascist Marcuse on technology, instead? Or the more recent work of Donna Haraway?)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When we use some theoretical tools, and not others\u2014navigational tools that are handed down to us\u2014are we using them because we understand them as uniquely capable of helping us steer? Or because we\u2019re lazy? If it\u2019s the latter, our navigation cannot be extricated from the politics of erasure of all the scholarship and navigation not being studied, and it should go without saying that such erasures are usually the work of indigenous scholars, women, people of colour, scholars from the South, and so on. (I\u2019ve also stopped teaching Althusser for this reason: my students challenged me one year as to why we were reading theory written by a wife-murderer, when there\u2019s so much other great work on ideology, the state, Marx, etc. that\u2019s under-studied, little known, and under-appreciated, and I concluded the students were right; and indeed I\u2019ve yet to find a useful Althusserian concept that one can\u2019t get to from another direction.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We learn tools of navigation under the name ‘theory and methods’, but these are not a marketplace of ahistorical, technocratic tools that just appear to us on a shelf and from which you take your pick and then apply whatever tools you want, whenever you want, without reflection. (At its best, this is analogous to celestial navigation; at its worst, the myopia of GPS.) Rather, every project of scholarship is a course of travel (we call them courses for a reason!), one that should<\/em> take you to waters that your out-of-the-box, go-to navigation tools and assumptions are insufficient to handle alone. Part of the point of being in the academy is that we never stop finding ourselves in unknown or uncomfortable positions. Indeed, we steer ourselves there, and learn to either become comfortable in those seas or navigate out of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But now to the ways politics puts explicit hazards in our way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Most of you have heard me or Danielle talk this term about what President Business means for Sociology and Anthropology. I\u2019m not going to say much about him here except to say that there are eras in which, in any particular place, the debates of a discipline, questions of where we\u2019re going and how we want to get there, can take place relatively autonomously from whatever is happening in Parliament or Capitol Hill or the state legislature or wherever else. Then there are times that the university itself comes under attack, or times in which the idea of critical thinking itself is devalued or misunderstood. This poses a serious set of navigational hazards, first to the public university itself. Can we continue to pursue our courses of study independently of direction or management from the state? (We\u2019re doing okay for now; several public universities in the US are not. And now somebody whose textbooks reference dinosaurs on Noah’s Ark is heading up the higher education taskforce down there\u2014this has all the ingredients of a major shipwreck.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But secondly, we find ourselves having to ask whether the tools we\u2019re teaching students are still the appropriate tools for navigating the world outside the academy. In a world of alternative facts, does critical thinking matter anymore? It should<\/em>, but it seems like we need to find a supplementary toolkit to go along with it. We try to teach argument, and sound logic, but when these are met with smug assertion of counterfactuals, and sometimes violent erasures (and actual violence), what then? Are we leaving students adrift?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where is society headed, and will our students be able to recognize where they end up? Are they listening to and learning from the right people with the right kind of local knowledges? That may not be us<\/em>, here, though we ought to be able to give them the the right tools to seek it out and recognize it. Or are they instead taking direction from pundits, cathartic late-night comedy shows, and the Twitterverse (that reinforces a sense of themselves being on course, even if everybody not on the same rhumb line is an idiot?)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In this vein, I admit I don’t understand the sudden popularity of \u201cwoke”ness, which has overwhelmed my Twitter feed, in which, in its appropriation from its original context, the word “stay” was lost. Rather than the original expression “stay woke\u201d\u2014which I understand to be an imperative to continue<\/em> listening, with ongoing <\/em>attentiveness\u2014its association instead with the verb “to be” turns it into an assertion of arrogance: I am<\/em> woke. He or she is not <\/em>woke. In other words, now that I have a GPS, I don’t need to pay attention any more, and I can lord that over others as my GPS guides me right to that uncharted rock. This really worries me. It’s not a matter of being educated vs. being experienced, either; if wokeness is meaningful, it has to be a continuing process of keeping one’s eyes open while questioning and paying attention.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A good navigator stays awake<\/em>, or, if one prefers, \u201cstays woke\u201d\u2014both while on the sea, keeping an eye out for obstacles, and also while ashore, learning about a place and its histories, and reflecting on those things we take for granted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And will our students know whether we’ve all been here before? I fear this talk is turning into a list of my anxieties. But I\u2019ll ask you to recall a couple more of the papers presented this morning: Katie reminded us that without history, there can be no memory; Sara, Sarah, and Maryam reminded us, in the last session, of what happens when we lose our memory\u2014with the consequence of steering ourselves in circles.[2]<\/sup><\/a> In this vein, I fear that we, in the public universities, don’t do a rigorous enough job teaching history\u2014the history of actual politics and events, but also the history of theory. One of the great things about nautical charts is that they show both the dangers experienced previously in any passage, as well the dangers of alternative approaches to any passage. I wish we had something like this for fascism, highlighting that those who came here before foundered because they didn’t steer in this or that direction, and showing us exactly the safest course through. But one of the reasons we can’t have that kind of a chart is that the changing circumstances affecting the viability of a nautical passage are not of our making: wind, storms, fog, and the like; and so while they’re in one sense unpredictable, in another sense they’re predictable enough that we can account for them. If we learn how to handle fog, and wind, and storms, and enough about local conditions, we can make safe passage, or at least know when and where to make for safe harbour. By contrast, the sea of the social<\/em> or the political <\/em>that we sail in is<\/em> of our making, at least collectively so. The hazards themselves move, and in ways that are far less predictable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But they can also be disrupted\u2014not just in the way that engineers in Johnstone Strait, tired of seeing so many vessels strike Ripple Rock and sink, tunnelled beneath it and blew it up. The sea we\u2019re sailing in, the set of passages available or known to us, is the environment built at least in part by the administration, production, and detritus of hundreds and thousands of years of choices and agency and actions. Every passage changed the landscape and the sea beneath it, and so it is here that the analogy I\u2019ve been running with throughout this talk breaks down. This makes passive <\/em>navigation more difficult, yet reminds us as well that the navigation of the social and of the political is also itself a process of world-making. And this leaves me at least a little bit optimistic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

[1]<\/sup><\/a> Emma Bider (Carleton), \u201cSounding the World: Imagining ontologies as mobile through sound and song\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

[2]<\/sup><\/a> Katie Warwick (Wilfred Laurier University), \u201cTrains to Nowhere: Rail Transport During the Holocaust\u201d; Sara Abdel-Latif (University of Toronto), Maryam Khan (York), Sarah Shah (University of Toronto), \u201cIntersectional Subjectivities: Queer Muslim positionally resisting binaristic constructions\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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