Judith Levine

Their writing often “clicks” from info-bit to info-bit, their arguments free of that gluey, old-fashioned encumbrance — the transitional sentence. When I try to help them corral their impressions into coherent stories, I keep hearing the same complaint: “I can’t concentrate.” I’ve diagnosed this phenomenon as epidemic attention deficit disorder. And I can’t help but trace its etiology, at least in part, to the promiscuous pointing and clicking that has come to stand in for intellectual inquiry.

These students surf; therefore, they do not read. They do not read scholarly articles — which can be trusted because they are juried or challenged because they are footnoted. They do not read books — which tell stories and sustain arguments by placing idea
and metaphor one on top of the other, so as to hold weight, like
a stone wall. Even the journalism students read few magazines and
even fewer newspapers, which are edited by people with
recognizable and sometimes even admitted cultural and political
biases and checked by fact-checkers using other edited sources.

On the Net, nobody knows if any particular “fact” is a dog.
One student handed in a paper about tobacco companies’ liability
for smokers’ health, which she had gleaned almost entirely from
the Web pages of the Tobacco Institute. Did she know what the
Tobacco Institute is? Apparently not, because she had
done her research on the Net, and was deprived of the
modifying clause, “a research organization supported by the
tobacco industry,” obligatory in any edited news article.

Another young woman, writing about teen pregnancy, used data generated by the Family Research Council, which, along with other right-wing Christian think tanks, dominates the links on many subjects related to family and sexuality and offers a decidedly one-sided view.

A teacher at another school told me one of her students had
written a paper quoting a person who had a name but no
identifying characteristics. “Who’s this?” the professor asked.
“Someone with a Web page,” the young man said.

If there is no context on the Net, neither is there history. My
friend who teaches biology told me her students propose research
that was completed, and often discredited, 50 years ago. “They go
online,” she said, “where nothing has been indexed before 1980.”

A San Francisco librarian interviewed on National Public Radio
worried that, space and resources strained as they are, more
computers will inevitably mean fewer books. Another commentator
on the Gates gift suggested that the computers would not be very
valuable without commensurate human resources — that is, trained
workers to help people use them.

At New York’s gleaming new Science, Industry, & Business
Library (SIBL), you can sit in an ergonomically correct chair at one of several hundred lovely color computer terminals and
call up, among hundreds of other databases, the powerful
journalistic and legal service Nexis/Lexis. But since Nexis/Lexis
is in great demand, you have about 45 minutes at the screen, half
of which the inexperienced user will blow figuring out the
system, because there is only one harassed staff person to
assist all the computer-users. Then you’ll learn that the library
cannot afford the stratospheric fees for downloading the articles. So most users, I imagine, will manage to copy out quotes from a couple of articles before relinquishing the seat to the next person waiting for the cyber-kiosk.

Unlike a paper or microfilm version of the same pieces, which
could be photocopied or copied at leisure onto a pad or laptop, the
zillion articles available on the library’s Nexis/Lexis are more
or less unavailable — that is, to no avail. Useless.

Technology may empower, but how and to what end will that
power be used? What else is necessary to use it well and wisely?
I’d suggest, for a start, reading books — literature and history, poetry and politics — and listening to people who know what they’re talking about. Otherwise, the brains of those kids in Gates’ libraries will be glutted with “information” but bereft of ideas, rich in tools but clueless about what to build or how to build it. Like the search engines that retrieve more than 100,000 links or none at all, they will be awkward at discerning meaning, or discerning at all.

“Do you know you’ve had two more strokes?” I asked her.

“No!”

I wasn’t surprised by her surprise. All year she’d expressed fresh astonishment each time she was informed of her condition — the first stroke that robbed her of memory and sight; the second and third that rendered her more demented, and incontinent; the fall that fractured her hip and propelled her further into frailty and confusion. “This is the first time anyone’s told me!” she’d declare.

My mother was a woman proud of being in charge. In fact, she could bear hardly a moment of not knowing what was coming next, of intellectual ambiguity or emotional irresolution.

This anxiety had practical outlets. At the various agencies she managed, she’d designed systems that were still in use decades later. Her closets were immaculate; a week’s worth of dinners were cooked and frozen each Sunday.

But her allergy to ambivalence also made her impulsive and controlling. Unsure how to live with my father as he descended into Alzheimer’s, she’d moved them from Manhattan to an assisted living facility in Ithaca and back three months later, $30,000 poorer. If you visited her summer house, she had every second accounted for and was perpetually pushing you on to the next activity: Finish breakfast so we can go for a hike. Hurry down the mountain so we can get back for lunch. Eat the soup, clear the table for pie …

Like everything else, dying and death were written into the agenda. She and my father signed living wills in their 50s and periodically renewed them, checking off the boxes to decline extraordinary — and in some cases ordinary — measures to prolong their days if there was little promise of a decent quality of life. Every few months she mailed me an updated sheet containing their Social Security numbers, insurance policies, bank account balances, and so on.

Then, six months before her 90th birthday, three blood clots migrated from her heart to her brain, and the woman who had walked two miles and practiced the piano daily, kept the books, distributed leaflets for peace, and organized a social life to rival Marie Antoinette’s could no longer make toast or remember her phone number. Her beau, unable to cope with her new needs, asked her to leave the apartment they’d shared for eight years.

Perched on the examining table a few weeks after returning from rehab, my mother wept to her gerontologist. “I have no say anymore,” she kept repeating. The crowning proof of her lost autonomy: She possessed neither the courage nor the cognitive ability to commit suicide.

Now, I didn’t want my mother to be the last to hear the momentous news — and I wanted her to have a say. “Mom,” I asked, “are you aware that you’re dying?”

Her face registered surprise again, then trouble. She shook her head, as if to deny not knowledge of the fact but the fact itself.

Technically, she had a point. My mother was performing every end-of-life act on schedule — except dying.

According to the death-and-dying websites I pored over while she dozed, today’s surge of energy and hunger was another typical end-of-life sign — or not. A friend’s husband had swung his legs over the side of the hospital bed, ordered breakfast, delivered a disquisition on the role of the Menscheviks in the Russian Revolution, and 12 hours later was on his way to that great soviet in the sky.

On the other hand, Mom’s nurse Jeff had a patient who’d asked for a pastrami on rye, gotten up, and lived another year.

This morning on the phone, Jeff concurred that Mom probably couldn’t down a pastrami sandwich; she coughed on a half-teaspoonful of water. He suggested we try applesauce, but wanted to check her swallowing first.

To tell the truth, I hoped he’d pronounce her unable. Mom and I had discussed the options for checking out. The only one that didn’t involve my committing a felony was for her to stop eating and drinking. But I knew she couldn’t do it. Food had become Mom’s only pleasure.

Now, at last, her body was taking on the job. Her appetite gone and her throat muscles compromised, she was on the way to fatal starvation and dehydration. Then this morning she’d said yes when her caregiver asked if she wanted something to eat.

Was this a habitual response? (In the last months, she never refused a snack.) Or was she actually hungry?

Did she desire just to eat — or to live?

It seemed the right moment to review the wishes she’d set down in her advanced directive. Feeding tube? No. Intravenous nutrition? No. Her answers were nearly inaudible, but emphatic.

Now came the part between the little boxes on the document — the part, it turns out, that covers much of dying. “So, OK,” I began. “You have a choice. We could keep giving you the ice chips whenever you want them, and keeping your mouth wet, and you would die — pretty soon.” I paused to let her take that in. “Or we could start feeding you again. You’d still die,” I said, “but more slowly.”

Moments passed. “Do you understand?” I prompted.

She nodded that she did, then turned her head to me: “What’s the prognosis?”

I wasn’t going to lie to her. “Well, Ma, I gotta say: It ain’t good. You’re half-paralyzed. You’ll never walk again. You’re not going to get your mind back, and your sight is only getting worse.”

Another long pause. Finally, she sighed: “Oy.”

I laughed at this astute summary of the situation.

Mom asked: “What’s your recommendation?”

This was turning into the most cogent conversation I’d had with my mother in six months.

“I’m sorry, Mom. But I can’t recommend. It’s your life.”

I felt her drifting. Was she thinking about it, too tired to think about it, unwilling to think about it? Then she spoke slowly, almost soundlessly, but with crystalline clarity: “To tell you the truth, I feel pretty ambivalent about the whole thing.”

To appropriate St. Augustine, my mother wanted to be dead, but not yet.

Jeff came an hour later. In the living room with my partner, Paul, and me, he confirmed that food would stall, but not forestall, Mom’s demise. Still, if she wanted to eat and could, we should let her eat. “Hospice isn’t about hastening anyone’s death,” he said. Then he excused himself to examine my mother and came back to tell us her throat muscles were too impaired to admit food or even water. The decision was made: keep on with the ice, and wait.

I was relieved, and not just about resolving the dilemma at hand. The last year had overtaken my life, demolished my ability to work, and roiled a fragile détente with my brother. Full-time care was draining my mother’s savings. I’d badgered her doctor to discontinue her meds and let nature takes its course. He said the drugs were bettering her quality of life. I countered that they were prolonging her death. I kept telling him she was ready to die — she kept telling me she was. We all knew I was ready for her to die.

Now that she was “actively dying,” however, it seemed she was up for prolonging her death with every ounce of life she had left. And why not? She was in no pain. Her caregivers were swaddling her in meticulous attention.

And she finally had what she’d wanted all my life: me. Her prickly daughter was at her side, doting with inexhaustible patience, anticipating her every need, acknowledging her every feeling — loving her. Paul and I joked that just to get even, she would live forever. (Or at least until the next thing on her agenda.) My mother had been giving advance directives all her life. The living will was just the ultimate one.

But here’s the thing: Plan all you like, you can’t know the territory of dying until you arrive. And then there is nothing like the glint off the Grim Reaper’s scythe to blind you to the path you thought you’d mapped.

My mother was desperate to get there, then wasn’t so sure. She hung on for what to her must have been an interminable period of indecision — living an entire month on nothing but ice chips.

On day 30, I again asked if she knew she was dying.

This time she nodded her head yes.

“Are you ready? Is it OK, Mom?”

Her face was calm, her voice less than a whisper. Yes, she said. She was ready. 

Well, yes, sort of, I stammer. But, uh, actually, no. On one hand, who can argue that the grow-grow-growth consumer economy is outgrowing the limits not just of our bank accounts but also our finite Earth? Part of me is ecstatic to wave goodbye to the $20 martini and the 20,000-square-foot house.

And then there is the other hand. The downturn is giving us fresh excuses for moral flagellation, of ourselves and others. If yesterday’s White House proselytized shopping, today’s is shaming bankers for their greed.

The message: We sinned with profligacy, and now we repent in parsimony.

Thrift is the new abstinence.

- – - – - – - – - – - -

Type “recession is good” into Google and you get more than 35 million hits. Some of these are from unreconstructed bulls, explaining how the downturn can help entrepreneurs, supermarkets, something called “cloud computing” — and, of course, thrift stores. Marketers are linking bad times with good selling. Trend hound Faith Popcorn — who could find consumers among the residents of a Darfurian refugee camp — identifies the next surefire ploy: empathy. She attributes Burger King’s recent gains to its “we-feel-your-pain” ads rather than to the desperation of laid-off workers driven to subsisting on French fries.

NPR’s Martin Caste notices another theme, “dignified deprivation.” He plays an Allstate insurance ad: “People are getting back to the basics — and the basics are good.”

The basics — unemployment, bankruptcy, foreclosure — are allegedly good for community (increased donations to soup kitchens, at least from those who aren’t eating at them); for family (playing Scrabble together aids both parent-child communication and spelling); for love (bonking is free; just forgo the platinum dildo); and good for health, thanks to more home cooking and less junk food consumption (except for McDonald’s).

A typical post from a personal-finance blogger at NorthernCheapskate.com sums it up: “There is potential for personal growth, innovation, and kindness that doesn’t always appear when times are good.” Caste calls it “the virtuous recession.”

The religious Web sites are salivating over the soul-saving opportunities opening up. “Our nation has become defined by a total lack of discipline or temperance. That is a spiritual problem, not a financial one,” preaches a Sheworships.com blogger. She happily predicts the return of modest fashion, premarital chastity, parental patience and preferences for G-rated movies. The hellfire and damnation faction is also finding great material, as it always does, in signs of moral, economic and environmental decline. “So what caused this recession?” thunders Kent Brandenburg at a Web site called What Is Truth. “Greed. What caused the Great Depression? Greed.”

“Of course, it’s very deep rooted,” he avers. “Man is depraved and greed is part of it.” There’s just one solution: Jesus Christ.

The cultural critic Ellen Willis called anti-consumerism “the Puritanism of the left.” If she were alive, she’d see that it is now the Puritanism of the right and the middle as well. The operative word, though, is “Puritanism.” Yes, Buddhists and Jews are seeking their own spiritual silver linings in the economy’s black clouds. But thrift is a Christian virtue: Temperance, prudence and self-denial are good for the soul.

Primitive societies didn’t have much use for saving. They hustled to get in food and fuel for the winter, then kicked back. If extra stuff was amassed, it was often for the express purpose of being squandered. Sacrifices, feasts, potlatches, bacchanalia — these rites might inspire the gods to send status, rain or military victory. But there was religious value simply in going over the top. If frugality was practical, excess was sacred.

The religious orgies of their mystics notwithstanding, early Christians got pretty exercised about excess. In 1571 Martin Luther put it in writing: his 95 Theses condemning the Catholic Church for feeding Mammon with the indulgence fees of the faithful. “Money,” he declared, “is the word of the Devil.”

A century later, English and American Puritans were flogging the anti-wealth doctrine. Debt was wicked, as was conspicuous consumption: “‘Tis a Sin … for a man to Spend more than he Gets,” said Cotton Mather. Profit was equally sinful: A Puritan could be jailed for charging the market price for his products. Still, the Puritans exalted labor, God’s punishment of Adam and Eve for seeking knowledge (and sexual pleasure). “Let your Business Engross most of your time,” wrote Mather in a treatise on Diligence. Mather prescribed diligence as a cure for masturbation, but also for something called “economic depression.”

If it was hard to distinguish pious industry from sinful profit-seeking, one thing was clear: Early-Christian thrift fought the need of capitalism to accumulate wealth. By the 17th century, a new Protestant ethic would solve the problem. Now a person could be both godly and rich; indeed the latter was proof of the former. Thrift resumed its Old English meaning: a thriving condition, a means to prosperity. In the mid-18th century, Ben Franklin was recommending thrift as “the way to wealth.”

Franklin was a secularist, prone to poking fun at religiosity, and his Poor Richard was an avatar of practical, if upright, self-interest. That hasn’t stopped anyone from mining the Almanacs for paeans to godly parsimony, however. Now pragmatic, now Dionysian, Americans always retain the Puritan gene.

That gene emerges even in today’s most pragmatic-seeming responses to Americans’ meager personal savings and high debt. A 2005 article in Education Policy Analysis Archives, proposing an “allowance and savings program” for poor students, begins with a moral assumption — the poor stay poor because they “make impulsive choices … driven by a tendency to overweight rewards and costs that are in close temporal or spatial proximity.” This infantile instant gratification seeking, the authors suggest, also explains teen pregnancy among the poor.

The program would teach what wealthier families pass on to their offspring: the value of “delayed gratification through the accumulation, savings, and investment of regular allowances.” And if the students learn thrift? They’ll “move from poverty to middle class status as adults.” With echoes of Victorian “child-saving” crusades, the article is titled “Child Savings Plans: Learning the Value of Self Control.”

“For a New Thrift: Confronting the Debt Culture” — a recent report from the politically diverse Commission on Thrift — blames debt not on personal failings but on the influence of “anti-thrift institutions,” such as payday lenders, predatory credit card issuers and state-funded lotteries. The report makes moral judgments only of institutional venality and dishonesty, and recommends policy, not personal, change.

Yet where it focuses on personal motivation, “New Thrift” becomes a Sunday school pamphlet. It proposes, for example, to “repurpose the lottery” to offer not just gambling tickets but also “savings tickets.” The lottery’s public-relations “wizards” could concoct “jazzy new promotions” and slogans like “Every ticket wins!”

Say the authors: “It ought to be an easy sell.”

Right. About as easy as abstinence-only education, and for the same reasons — or rather, the same faulty reasoning. Teens don’t have sex and babies just to gain status, love or welfare, as conservatives contend. They have sex because it feels good. Similarly, people buy lottery tickets not because they need money, even if they do. They enjoy the libidinal thrill of gambling. There is something sadly sober about a “savings ticket,” no matter how jazzy the promo. Couldn’t those wizards come up with a gamble that’s also a way to save? I’ve got it: the stock market!

From the 17th through the early 20th century, capitalism needed greed, and Christianity found ways to underwrite it. Late-20th-century consumer capitalism needed unending desire to keep the profits coming. Enter consumer credit and an ethos of gratification. Although that came mostly from secular sources, market-savvy evangelicals have proved enthusiastic boosters of consumerism, with their “gospels of wealth.” After Sept. 11, shopping became an act of patriotism, another religion. And now we are asked to keep the faith, spending to save the free market from free fall, and us with it.

The injunction to gratify our desires when we’re scared we can’t meet our needs is like telling a woman with advanced breast cancer to enjoy sex because it’s good for her marriage. In the 1930s, John Maynard Keynes coined an economic term for this recessionary quandary, in which the macro-economy needs consumers to spend confidently, even while self-interest might be better served by putting the pennies in the cookie jar. Keynes called it “the paradox of thrift.”

Add to this a moral paradox: We are damned morally if we don’t save and damned economically if we do.

So is thrift a countercultural message from a chorus of Christians, environmentalists and socialists — and bad for capitalism? Or is thrift, like the Protestant ethic, useful to the economy?

What’s bad for capitalism is surely good for contemporary Jeremiahs seeking evidence of man’s downfall — and thus for the wisdom of thrift. Here is Kent Brandenburg, naming the latest names in a catalog of history’s economic evildoers: “Greedy home ownership painted like Grant Wood’s American Gothic. Greedy mortgage lenders looking for a quick buck. Greedy illegal immigrants who think they’re entitled. And then the greedy politicians who overspent in the time of plenty, instead of creating budget surpluses for the time of leanness.”

But in inveighing against greedy immigrants and wasteful politicians, Brandenburg isn’t dissing the free market. No, he’s singing the hymn of Reaganist Christianity, which figures each man — or each family — an island, and the state, with its handouts of welfare or food stamps, an intruder in the moral justice that rewards the good with prosperity and the wicked with poverty. This is American self-reliance with a punitive face, wielding thrift as its one economic ameliorator: “Young man, work hard while you are Young; you’l Reap the effects of it when you are Old,” proclaimed Cotton Mather. And if you don’t work hard? Then you will reap the effects of that, too.

Thrift is not just a moral antidote to personal profligacy. It is a confederate to collective stinginess. Thrift is good for America’s free-market Puritan state.

- – - – - – - – - – - -

I’m thrifty by upbringing and environmentalist principle and, and as a writer, by necessity. For decades I’ve dutifully put money into my IRA. This year, like everyone else, I lost half of it. Did thrift reward me? I cannot say it gave me much spiritually, unless you count a sense of security. And that turns out to have been false.

So I have reflected on what else I might have done with that money. I could have spent six months in Paris drinking wine and perfecting my French, financed a small movie, or bought oceanfront property in Nova Scotia. What effects would I have reaped from my profligacy? Knowledge, adventure, pleasure: riches perhaps exceeding those of a fully funded retirement account.

You can’t take it with you. That’s what St. Paul told Timothy before warning him that the love of money was the root of all evil: “For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.” What lesson does the recession teach? Live now. Be merry. For tomorrow we — or the stock market bull — may die.

Most of the data my students Net is like trash fish — and it is hard for them to tell a dead one-legged crab from a healthy sea bass. Scant on world knowledge and critical thinking skills, they are ill-equipped to interpret or judge the so-called facts, which they insert into their papers confidently but in no discernible order.

Their writing often “clicks” from info-bit to info-bit, their arguments free of that gluey, old-fashioned encumbrance — the transitional sentence. When I try to help them corral their impressions into coherent stories, I keep hearing the same complaint: “I can’t concentrate.” I’ve diagnosed this phenomenon as epidemic attention deficit disorder. And I can’t help but trace its etiology, at least in part, to the promiscuous pointing and clicking that has come to stand in for intellectual inquiry.

These students surf; therefore, they do not read. They do not read scholarly articles — which can be trusted because they are juried or challenged because they are footnoted. They do not read books — which tell stories and sustain arguments by placing idea
and metaphor one on top of the other, so as to hold weight, like
a stone wall. Even the journalism students read few magazines and
even fewer newspapers, which are edited by people with
recognizable and sometimes even admitted cultural and political
biases and checked by fact-checkers using other edited sources.

On the Net, nobody knows if any particular “fact” is a dog.
One student handed in a paper about tobacco companies’ liability
for smokers’ health, which she had gleaned almost entirely from
the Web pages of the Tobacco Institute. Did she know what the
Tobacco Institute is? Apparently not, because she had
done her research on the Net, and was deprived of the
modifying clause, “a research organization supported by the
tobacco industry,” obligatory in any edited news article.

Another young woman, writing about teen pregnancy, used data generated by the Family Research Council, which, along with other right-wing Christian think tanks, dominates the links on many subjects related to family and sexuality and offers a decidedly one-sided view.

A teacher at another school told me one of her students had
written a paper quoting a person who had a name but no
identifying characteristics. “Who’s this?” the professor asked.
“Someone with a Web page,” the young man said.

If there is no context on the Net, neither is there history. My
friend who teaches biology told me her students propose research
that was completed, and often discredited, 50 years ago. “They go
online,” she said, “where nothing has been indexed before 1980.”

A San Francisco librarian interviewed on National Public Radio
worried that, space and resources strained as they are, more
computers will inevitably mean fewer books. Another commentator
on the Gates gift suggested that the computers would not be very
valuable without commensurate human resources — that is, trained
workers to help people use them.

At New York’s gleaming new Science, Industry, & Business
Library (SIBL), you can sit in an ergonomically correct chair at one of several hundred lovely color computer terminals and
call up, among hundreds of other databases, the powerful
journalistic and legal service Nexis/Lexis. But since Nexis/Lexis
is in great demand, you have about 45 minutes at the screen, half
of which the inexperienced user will blow figuring out the
system, because there is only one harassed staff person to
assist all the computer-users. Then you’ll learn that the library
cannot afford the stratospheric fees for downloading the articles. So most users, I imagine, will manage to copy out quotes from a couple of articles before relinquishing the seat to the next person waiting for the cyber-kiosk.

Unlike a paper or microfilm version of the same pieces, which
could be photocopied or copied at leisure onto a pad or laptop, the
zillion articles available on the library’s Nexis/Lexis are more
or less unavailable — that is, to no avail. Useless.

Technology may empower, but how and to what end will that
power be used? What else is necessary to use it well and wisely?
I’d suggest, for a start, reading books — literature and history, poetry and politics — and listening to people who know what they’re talking about. Otherwise, the brains of those kids in Gates’ libraries will be glutted with “information” but bereft of ideas, rich in tools but clueless about what to build or how to build it. Like the search engines that retrieve more than 100,000 links or none at all, they will be awkward at discerning meaning, or discerning at all.

Guess what. The military is supposed to humiliate, intimidate and instill fear into people. Electrical engineering, weather forecasting, Being All You Can Be — nice, but beside the point. Meteorology is what warriors do when there’s no interesting killing to occupy them. Violence is the military’s job.

And masculine violence is the military’s creed.

Just before the Persian Gulf War, George Bush had been worrying about “the manhood thing.” Saddam Hussein showed up, and (not to oversimplify) $44 billion and an estimated 200,000 deaths later, the cartoonist Oliphant stopped drawing the president with a purse.

When there’s no enemy around, the manhood thing still needs cultivating, so soldiers utilize one another. A student of mine, a former Marine, wrote a piece describing in lascivious detail the infamous “wings”-pinning rituals, and suggesting in so many words that if some little sissies wanted to whine about sadism in the Marines, well, they didn’t understand the Marines, and nobody was asking them to join the Marines. “That’s how Marines bond,” the student quoted an obviously admired officer. “A Marine doesn’t flinch from pain. He acts like a man.”

This student is a woman, by the way. Now that women are in the military, they act like men too. In fact, a not insignificant number of female recruits agree with a Navy woman who told me, of the women reporting sexual harassment in the military, “Those girls just can’t hack it. I can’t stand people who can’t hack it.”

The Aberdeenians, according to the New York Times, were doing it in buses, barracks and “the public game-and-television room,” and with folks of all ranks. Has bringing women in contributed to an atmosphere of sexual license — nay, mayhem — on the bases?

Not really. The Trojans were well known for their soldierly trysts. In “Coming Out Under Fire,” historian Alan Berube describes World War II’s off-base bars and onshore flophouses as hopping with homosexual hanky-panky. Now that the sexes have come together, so to speak, it makes sense that they’d continue carrying on. In that sense, Tailhook, far from being a “deterioration” in military values, merely followed in the grand tradition. As did our beer-spewing boys who assaulted those three Japanese schoolgirls in Okinawa. And Staff Sgt. Simpson is no exception.

All these recent scandals add up to good news and bad. The good news is that because women are gaining some influence in it, the military, like every other sector of American life, is finally taking “sexual misconduct” seriously.

The bad news is that to the military, it’s all “sexual misconduct.” Rape and harassment or adultery and sodomy performed by willing parties: It’s all the same. Only “fraternization” — when an officer does it with an enlisted — makes any of the above worse, as in the case of Simpson, some of whose sexual appetites seem to have been shared by his partners, but all of whose partners were trainees.

Why is the military unable to tell the difference between sex and violence? At the risk of tautology, I offer: Because it’s the military.

A strictly hierarchical institution, committed to forcefully inflicting submission on people and nations, cannot conceive of human relations outside domination. Equally, an institution dedicated to guarding the helpless woman and child cannot conceive of a female person outside victimization. Add to that a sexual-political climate obsessed with assigning the “predator” and “prey” labels in every ambiguous sexual situation. What you come up with is an impossible blurring of lines that makes all sex between two unmarried people in the military bad; if one is of higher rank, it’s rape.

But why should consensual sex between people of unequal social or physical power ipso facto be rape — unless, like anti-porn feminist Andrea Dworkin, you believe that all heterosexual sex is rape? Inequality, we may be reminded, can sometimes be a chosen pleasure. As a lesbian private appreciatively told me while describing the loss of her cherry to her commanding officer, “Boy, was she commanding.”

You won’t rid the military of sexist violence until it stops finding violence sexy and lovemaking dishonorable. Until, in other words, it stops loving war, on which day the military will no longer be the military.