2.27.2010
2.18.2010
An Argument for Kindness, Fallaciously Speaking
I am making an argument for the practice kindness. It seems counterintuitive to have to make an argument for kindness, but what the heck, I’m doing it anyway. Does arguing have any place in a discussion about kindness you might ask? I say look around you. Kindness is often in short supply and so appreciated when it makes an appearance. So how do we talk about something that seems so fundamental, so seemingly obvious? How about fallaciously? Fallacies are fun. I enjoy looking at different ways we offer lame arguments and fallacies are number one in that department as far as I’m concerned. There are so many fallacious ways we humans try to sabotage discussion that they have been given names. I won't get very far, but I'll start at the letter A. So, let’s make a fallacious argument for kindness.
Ad Hominem – Ad Hominem is a Latin phrase meaning ”against the man”. Ad Hominem shows itself as a personal attack that sidetracks a persuasive argument. It is a favorite among siblings and co-workers. Take the following example:
1. I am making an argument for the practice of kindness.
2. You are an idiot, and as such anything you say is pointless.
3. Therefore your point about kindness is wrong.
In reality, even an idiot can make a valid point every so often and in this instance, the argument is being sidestepped by the Ad Hominem fallacy. Idiocy has nothing to do with kindness, although certainly idiots can be kind, so too can evildoers be idiots. Neither have anything to do with my argument.
Ad Hominem Tu Quoque – This is again “against the man” but with “because you are inconsistent or your argument is inconsistent with your actions” thrown in for good measure. For example I say:
1. I am making an argument for the practice of kindness.
2. You respond by saying, Last month you said you wanted to punish all bad drivers by flinging rotten eggs at their cars. That isn’t very consistent with kindness.
3. Therefore, your point about kindness is wrong.
Certainly, we as human beings are inconsistent by nature. With this in mind, I can say that more than anything I strive to be a consistent parent. By this example I mean consistency is a goal and one worth pursuing. However, because I may have tried to rally the troupes to fling eggs, this has nothing to do with a valid point, and that point is this: kindness is important and we should value and practice it.
Appeal to Authority – This is a personal favorite. Most have had this fallacy used by their parents and teachers. This is a fallacy that denotes an arguments’ support in the authority of the argument maker. Think of “because I said so” or “because I am your mother therefore what I say goes” and you have the general idea of Appeal to Authority. Here’s an example:
1. I say, I am making an argument for the practice of kindness.
2. Next I say, I am an authority on kindness therefore I know what I’m talking about.
3. I summarize by stating, therefore you should believe what I say without question.
You should be asking, but where is the support honey? Why should I believe you just because you say you are an authority? What do you know about it anyway? Where are your kindness credentials? Give me some facts, man.
Appeal to Belief – Oh, this is a good one. This is a fallacy grounded in the group rather than the individual. It is something that many people believe and so should you also. Think your parent’s religion or lack thereof. For example:
1. I say, I am making an argument for the value of kindness.
2. Most people believe that kindness is good and important.
3. Therefore you should also believe kindness is important too. Come on, that’s what everyone else thinks.
I could start a religion. I’ll call it “The Religion of Kindness”. I’ll open Kindness Centers. I’ll recruit celebrities and sports figures. I’ll tweet and virally spread the gospel of kindness. So many people will buy into my crap that I won’t have to come up with any valid reasons for kindness. It will be like a middle school power drive. You will be sucked in because so many others are. But I know you know that just because a celebrity says it’s so, or lots of celebrity say it’s so, or every 7th grade girl in New Jersey says it so, that don’t make it so.
Appeal to Emotion – This is “Appeal to Beliefs” dirty cousin. This one goes straight for your emotions. Think advertising. Think images of happiness that have nothing to do with the product being shown, such as a group of ridiculously happy people at a party and a soda is on the table in front of a particularly beautiful woman with her hair gently blowing behind her. In our discussion of kindness, this example shows emotional manipulation of the argument.
1. I am making an argument for the value of kindness.
2. Kindness has made me happy, desirable, emotionally stable and filthy rich.
3. Therefore you should adopt an argument for kindness as well.
Kindness is a state of mind, a state of being. A kind environment may produce positive benefits, but someone else’s perceived happiness or professed wealth has nothing to do with the argument. They exist outside of the argument as a juicy carrot dangling there to distract you away from thought. Don’t bite that carrot.
Appeal to Fear – Another all time favorite, and not just of mine, but of many of the Christians I have known is Appeal to Fear. I am not picking on Christians. I just grew up with them and they are my religious group of experience so to say. This fallacy tries to merit persuasion by the use of fear. I had a boyfriend once who tried to convince me that Jews didn’t believe in heaven and are good for goods sake. “Then why are people good”, I asked, honestly stumped, "if there is no threat of hell?". I told him many Christians are good because they fear hell. They believe in God because if they don’t, they will face eternal damnation, which is supposed to hurt really bad. He couldn’t believe I could say such a thing. He had obviously never been around many Christians. Here is an example that relates to kindness:
1. I am making an argument for the practice of kindness.
2. If you are not kind, no one will like you.
3. Therefore you will be miserable so you have to agree that kindness is important.
It seems really silly, I know, but I swear, this one makes the world go round. The great deterrent of society, think of jail. Isn’t that an appeal to fear. And a darn good one!
Appeal to Flattery – Oh, the appeals just keep on coming, don’t they! You know appeal to flattery. I think of this as malarkey, charm, B.S. A has nothing to do with B, but A, you look fabulous today! For example:
1. I am making an argument for the practice of kindness.
2. My gosh, have you been working out? You look incredible!
3. End of story
If you are reading this, you are obviously smart and considerate and already understand the merits of my argument. So I don’t have to make one.
Appeal to Pity – Feel sorry for A and as such go along with whatever A says, regardless if it has anything to do with anything. This can be thought of as the classic homework argument. The dog ate my homework, therefore I deserve credit for the work. For example:
1. I am making an argument for the practice of kindness.
2. I was struck by lightning a half an hour ago.
3. Therefore you should agree with me because I am addled, I am having difficulty hearing you and all of my body hair has been singed off.
You feel sorry for me don’t you. So just suck it up and buy my line of crap already.
Appeal to Tradition – This should be obvious and it is. Tradition dictates that something is true, and therefore it is. Sing “TRADITION” as if you playing Tevye in a dinner theatre rendition of “Fiddler on the Roof” as you think about this one. For example:
1. I am making an argument for the practice of kindness.
2. Traditionally, kindness has been held as an ideal in all civilized society.
3. Therefore everyone should be kind.
This argument may or may not be true. Think of slavery. It was practiced for a long time and as such accepted at some level by some people. But does any rational person really think it is OK because at one time it was generally held as a reasonable institution? Duh.
Bandwagon – Finally, a letter other than A. I like that fallacies have a name like bandwagon as in “join in, everybody is doing it”. "Come on, have a cigarette, everyone smokes them." Again, this is a common theme in advertising and middle school. When you think of kindness, think of all your friends and your friend’s friends and even your enemies. For example:
1. I am making an argument for the practice of kindness.
2. The rest of the kids in Ms. Valentine’s class are making an argument for the practice of kindness. They all say they will be kind to everyone.
3. Therefore you should make an argument for kindness too.
Just because Johnny is going to jump off the kind bridge, are you?
Begging the Question – Wow, we really have left the As. This is also referred to as Circular Reasoning. The conclusion is present in the premise hence the dog chasing it’s tail kind of argument. This is one big circle going round and round. For example:
1. I am making an argument for the practice of kindness.
2. I think therefore I am kind.
3. Therefore you should be kind too.
This is really a riff on Descartes famous argument for the existence of God. He is really the king of Begging the Question in my book. I think therefore I am. I know God exists because I have the idea of God, blah, blah, blah. Kindness is valuable because I have the idea that the practice of kindness is important. This goes on and on and maybe I am not making myself clear. Maybe I am, but I will confuse you with my circular reasoning and you’ll forget the point.
I have really not made any arguments for kindness, rather I have talked about fallacies and used kindness as a theme. I have plagiarized horribly from a few websites because I am lazy. That aside, I do have some decent reasons for the practice of kindness and I tell you this; like consistency as a parent, I strive for practicing kindness in my daily life. I appreciate when others show me kindness, particularly those I am closest too. And I would appreciate you thinking about the ways kindness makes you feel good and happy, and how the absence of it makes you angry or uncaring.
Here are my reasons for practicing kindness
Kindness is infectious. It is like a good disease.
Kindness makes you feel good.
Kindness doesn’t make your blood pressure rise like aggression does, unless of course someone is masking aggression with a kind face, which is not kindness, just jackassery (my new word, you can use it too).
If I am consciously being kind, I am not likely to try to kill someone.
Being kind shows an example to others and they in turn learn the value of kindness.
An atmosphere of kindness is inclusive, not exclusive.
Kindness is empathetic. People that don’t learn empathy are sociopaths.
Because this is a blog, and not say, a term paper, I really haven’t sourced my documentation properly. I could be accused of plagiarism. I borrowed heavily from the following websites. Fallacies are fun. Check these out:
http://www.nizkor.org/features/fallacies/
http://www.goodart.org/fallazoo.htm
2.11.2010
It's a different place now
I am thinking of Artesia.
Artesia, California, which is now known as “Little India” was quite a different place when I was younger. I moved to Artesia when I was 18 to kind of reconnect with my mom after a forced absence of two years. At 18, I was no longer a minor and as such was finally allowed that choice. I hadn’t lived in Artesia before then, but I had lived near by for quite a while, at least since I was 11 or 12. I had to move in with my Dad when I was 16 and he lived in Cerritos. My Mom moved to Artesia shortly after I had to move in with my Dad. I’m sure it was to be near my sister and I as well as her job at the mall. I was always in one of the two cities, Artesia and Cerritos. My junior high and high school friends lived in Artesia. I went to school in Cerritos at Juarez, Whitney and then Gahr (Go Gladiators!). I had covered every sidewalk and street in the area either on foot, on my skateboard, on my bike and later in my car. My Grandpa Jim also had a little retail shop there. My Great Uncle John lived there also in a residential facility.
Artesia is a little town in southeast L.A. County. It is surrounded on all side by the city of Cerritos, famous in my mind for the place my parent’s marriage finally dissolved, Samoan baby showers that require police intervention and the Cerritos Mall. Artesia is just another city in the suburban flatlands of the San Gabriel Valley. I detested the place as a kid, saw nothing special or interesting about it. I think I projected my personal unhappiness onto it and blamed the place. Much like the Orange County punks I knew who talked about Cypress, Buena Park and Anaheim as if the cities themselves were the source of their discontent, as if their families and personalities weren’t the reason they were miserable malcontents.
Artesia and Cerritos combined had been known as “Dairy Valley”, for very obvious reasons. Cows were everywhere I looked. And I smelled them before I saw them. Big stinking pastures full of cows, cow pies and the flies that loved them. You could get incredibly delicious milk there, but other than that, it was a little bit of country in L.A. County. L.A. County had a lot of pockets of country at one time, not so much anymore.
Artesia’s main north-south drag is Pioneer Boulevard and in particular the stretch from the 91 freeway to South Street is a city transformed from the city of my childhood. When I was younger, the Filipinos and Portuguese ruled the area closer to the freeway. By this I mean there was a Filipino restaurant, bakery and perhaps a tailor. There was also Portuguese Hall if you were in the mood for a tame bullfight, and the area I thought of as “The Portuguese Estates”; ostentatious homes plopped in the middle of a mediocre flat expanse was just off of Pioneer (as we called the Boulevard).
Further south on Pioneer, between 183rd and South streets, the Dutch presence took over. This area had yet a different kind of bakery, the Dutch bakery. It also had a feed store and furniture store. The bakery had the most delicious almond cakes I ever tasted. Thick little discs filled with almond paste and an almond half on top. My mom used to get them for my grandparents at Christmas. The feed store was the feed store, what can I say. I still have one near my home in Whittier (I think). There was also a great big feed store down the street from my Grandparent’s home in Lakewood with a giant, free-standing white rabbit on the façade of the building just beckoning passersby come and fulfill their feedy shopping needs.
Nice people that sold solid, no-nonsense stuff ran the furniture store. I remember a lot of colonial style fabrics and wood accents. You know this furniture. It lasts and lasts and your grandparents probably had some of it. You may have a green padded rocking chair inherited from one of them that is darned ugly but just too comfy to get rid of. Locals were granted credit the furniture store, even kids like me. Well not me but a high school mate. Ruben Cabrera, a boy remarkable for his decency, told the class after one of our Christmas breaks that he had bought his parents a bedroom set for Christmas. The teacher had asked us what we got for Christmas, and Ruben didn’t tell us what he got, which is all the rest of us cared about, but what he had done for his family. The teacher said, “did you get the furniture from Postma’s and when he said yes, our teacher just nodded knowingly. It was really a small community. I think Postma’s may be the last remaining Dutch business there.
Although the businesses were in pockets, the residential neighborhoods were more mixed. My mom’s neighborhood contained the cities Catholic Church. I loved to see the little Portuguese ladies waking to mass every morning, their heads covered in a lace shawls. The Dutch were most notable for their bumper stickers that said “If You Ain’t Dutch, You Ain’t Much”. Apparently they saw nothing wrong with this, much liked the “Real Men Love Jesus” stickers I was seeing a few years ago. They always made me think, so no Buddists are “real men”, no Hindus are “real men”, no Jews…, no Agnostics… you get it. The “If You Ain’t…” stickers struck me the same way. The Dutch kids went to Valley Christian; the Portuguese kids went to Artesia high school. The Dutch homes were clean and spartan. There were no nonsense affairs, no extraneous bushes or flowers, with the exception of a few bulbs. The Portuguese were much the same except that they usually had fava beans - great long things - growning in the front yard and grape arbors along the side or back of the house. For some reason, every Portuguese man I met was named Manuel. It was like the scene in Goodfellas where everyone at a wedding is introduced and there are three names used by 300 people. Oh you know what I mean.
The Artesia of my youth also housed my Grandpa Jim’s shop. We called it a shop because supposedly he was selling stuff. It was among the Dutch businesses and near by Red’s Barbershop. Grandpa bought damaged goods “off the docs”, whatever that means. He explained it to me that maybe the box was damaged, or had gotten wet in a corner, but most of the items in the lot were OK. He sold a weird assortment of things; china dolls, wall clocks and bicycles. He would take the clocks apart and try to put them back together. I really doubt that he sold anything. It may have all been a ruse to get away from my grandmother.
As I said, my Uncle John also lived there. John was the giant of my childhood. He was a huge man, retarded either since birth or from an early childhood disease. He was 6’8” and kind of scary looking. When I was a kid he lived with my Grandpa Jim and Grandma Jeanne in North Long Beach. He had a room in the garage and a visit there usually included John placing me on his shoulders and walking me around the yard. It was something, being lifted up to being 8 feet off the ground and paraded around like a float. When I think of John I mostly remember his voice, like the character in John Steinbeck’s novel made into a movie “Of Mice and Men”. John had a kind of dopey, but deep voice. And he would say,
and I would say,
Then he would walk me into the house and knock me into the doorframe and leave me dazed, but happy.
The last time I saw Uncle John I hadn’t seen him for years. I knew he lived near by my Mom’s place, very near by, in the residential home. John took daily walks through the neighborhood that bordered his facility. I remember thinking he must have scared the neighborhood kids because he looked a little bit like Frankenstein. The last time I saw John, I was riding my skateboard through the neighborhood behind his home and he walked by me. I had probably last seen him face-to-face when I was 10 or 11; definitely when he lived with my Grandparents and at least a span of 5 years which is a long time in a kids life. And one day, I just skated by and he looked up and said, “Hi Jennifer”, and he kept walking. It was as if he saw me every day and not five years before.
I occasionally go to Artesia now, for Indian food or to get my eyebrows threaded. I have to honestly say I feel a fondness for it know that the town hardly seems to merit. It is a place I spent time. I place I spent time when I still had so many things I don’t have now – my childhood, my father, my grandparents, Uncle John, and so much time.
Artesia, California, which is now known as “Little India” was quite a different place when I was younger. I moved to Artesia when I was 18 to kind of reconnect with my mom after a forced absence of two years. At 18, I was no longer a minor and as such was finally allowed that choice. I hadn’t lived in Artesia before then, but I had lived near by for quite a while, at least since I was 11 or 12. I had to move in with my Dad when I was 16 and he lived in Cerritos. My Mom moved to Artesia shortly after I had to move in with my Dad. I’m sure it was to be near my sister and I as well as her job at the mall. I was always in one of the two cities, Artesia and Cerritos. My junior high and high school friends lived in Artesia. I went to school in Cerritos at Juarez, Whitney and then Gahr (Go Gladiators!). I had covered every sidewalk and street in the area either on foot, on my skateboard, on my bike and later in my car. My Grandpa Jim also had a little retail shop there. My Great Uncle John lived there also in a residential facility.
Artesia is a little town in southeast L.A. County. It is surrounded on all side by the city of Cerritos, famous in my mind for the place my parent’s marriage finally dissolved, Samoan baby showers that require police intervention and the Cerritos Mall. Artesia is just another city in the suburban flatlands of the San Gabriel Valley. I detested the place as a kid, saw nothing special or interesting about it. I think I projected my personal unhappiness onto it and blamed the place. Much like the Orange County punks I knew who talked about Cypress, Buena Park and Anaheim as if the cities themselves were the source of their discontent, as if their families and personalities weren’t the reason they were miserable malcontents.
Artesia and Cerritos combined had been known as “Dairy Valley”, for very obvious reasons. Cows were everywhere I looked. And I smelled them before I saw them. Big stinking pastures full of cows, cow pies and the flies that loved them. You could get incredibly delicious milk there, but other than that, it was a little bit of country in L.A. County. L.A. County had a lot of pockets of country at one time, not so much anymore.
Artesia’s main north-south drag is Pioneer Boulevard and in particular the stretch from the 91 freeway to South Street is a city transformed from the city of my childhood. When I was younger, the Filipinos and Portuguese ruled the area closer to the freeway. By this I mean there was a Filipino restaurant, bakery and perhaps a tailor. There was also Portuguese Hall if you were in the mood for a tame bullfight, and the area I thought of as “The Portuguese Estates”; ostentatious homes plopped in the middle of a mediocre flat expanse was just off of Pioneer (as we called the Boulevard).
Further south on Pioneer, between 183rd and South streets, the Dutch presence took over. This area had yet a different kind of bakery, the Dutch bakery. It also had a feed store and furniture store. The bakery had the most delicious almond cakes I ever tasted. Thick little discs filled with almond paste and an almond half on top. My mom used to get them for my grandparents at Christmas. The feed store was the feed store, what can I say. I still have one near my home in Whittier (I think). There was also a great big feed store down the street from my Grandparent’s home in Lakewood with a giant, free-standing white rabbit on the façade of the building just beckoning passersby come and fulfill their feedy shopping needs.
Nice people that sold solid, no-nonsense stuff ran the furniture store. I remember a lot of colonial style fabrics and wood accents. You know this furniture. It lasts and lasts and your grandparents probably had some of it. You may have a green padded rocking chair inherited from one of them that is darned ugly but just too comfy to get rid of. Locals were granted credit the furniture store, even kids like me. Well not me but a high school mate. Ruben Cabrera, a boy remarkable for his decency, told the class after one of our Christmas breaks that he had bought his parents a bedroom set for Christmas. The teacher had asked us what we got for Christmas, and Ruben didn’t tell us what he got, which is all the rest of us cared about, but what he had done for his family. The teacher said, “did you get the furniture from Postma’s and when he said yes, our teacher just nodded knowingly. It was really a small community. I think Postma’s may be the last remaining Dutch business there.
Although the businesses were in pockets, the residential neighborhoods were more mixed. My mom’s neighborhood contained the cities Catholic Church. I loved to see the little Portuguese ladies waking to mass every morning, their heads covered in a lace shawls. The Dutch were most notable for their bumper stickers that said “If You Ain’t Dutch, You Ain’t Much”. Apparently they saw nothing wrong with this, much liked the “Real Men Love Jesus” stickers I was seeing a few years ago. They always made me think, so no Buddists are “real men”, no Hindus are “real men”, no Jews…, no Agnostics… you get it. The “If You Ain’t…” stickers struck me the same way. The Dutch kids went to Valley Christian; the Portuguese kids went to Artesia high school. The Dutch homes were clean and spartan. There were no nonsense affairs, no extraneous bushes or flowers, with the exception of a few bulbs. The Portuguese were much the same except that they usually had fava beans - great long things - growning in the front yard and grape arbors along the side or back of the house. For some reason, every Portuguese man I met was named Manuel. It was like the scene in Goodfellas where everyone at a wedding is introduced and there are three names used by 300 people. Oh you know what I mean.
The Artesia of my youth also housed my Grandpa Jim’s shop. We called it a shop because supposedly he was selling stuff. It was among the Dutch businesses and near by Red’s Barbershop. Grandpa bought damaged goods “off the docs”, whatever that means. He explained it to me that maybe the box was damaged, or had gotten wet in a corner, but most of the items in the lot were OK. He sold a weird assortment of things; china dolls, wall clocks and bicycles. He would take the clocks apart and try to put them back together. I really doubt that he sold anything. It may have all been a ruse to get away from my grandmother.
As I said, my Uncle John also lived there. John was the giant of my childhood. He was a huge man, retarded either since birth or from an early childhood disease. He was 6’8” and kind of scary looking. When I was a kid he lived with my Grandpa Jim and Grandma Jeanne in North Long Beach. He had a room in the garage and a visit there usually included John placing me on his shoulders and walking me around the yard. It was something, being lifted up to being 8 feet off the ground and paraded around like a float. When I think of John I mostly remember his voice, like the character in John Steinbeck’s novel made into a movie “Of Mice and Men”. John had a kind of dopey, but deep voice. And he would say,
Come on Jennifer, go for a ride
and I would say,
OK John, but don’t walk into the house, because you’ll knock my head on the door frame.
Then he would walk me into the house and knock me into the doorframe and leave me dazed, but happy.
The last time I saw Uncle John I hadn’t seen him for years. I knew he lived near by my Mom’s place, very near by, in the residential home. John took daily walks through the neighborhood that bordered his facility. I remember thinking he must have scared the neighborhood kids because he looked a little bit like Frankenstein. The last time I saw John, I was riding my skateboard through the neighborhood behind his home and he walked by me. I had probably last seen him face-to-face when I was 10 or 11; definitely when he lived with my Grandparents and at least a span of 5 years which is a long time in a kids life. And one day, I just skated by and he looked up and said, “Hi Jennifer”, and he kept walking. It was as if he saw me every day and not five years before.
I occasionally go to Artesia now, for Indian food or to get my eyebrows threaded. I have to honestly say I feel a fondness for it know that the town hardly seems to merit. It is a place I spent time. I place I spent time when I still had so many things I don’t have now – my childhood, my father, my grandparents, Uncle John, and so much time.
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