Just Say No

Siger wished to remain a professing Catholic, and to safeguard his faith he had recourse to the celebrated theory of the two truths: what is true in philosophy may be false in religion, and vice versa.
—“Siger of Brabant” New Catholic Encyclopedia. 1914. 
If a thing can be done adequately by means of one, it is superfluous to do it by means of several; for we observe that nature does not employ two instruments where one suffices.
—Thomas Aquinas. Summa Contra Gentiles
220px-benozzo_gozzoli_004a
“The Triumph of Thomas Aquinas Over Averroës”  Benozzo Gozzoli        (1420-1497)

Let no one,” read the sign over Plato’s Academy, the famed school of ancient Athens, “ignorant of mathematics enter here.” To Plato, understanding mathematics was prerequisite to the discussion of other topics, including politics. During the 1880s, however, some professors in the German university system (like Wilhelm Windelband and Wilhelm Dilthey) divided knowledge into what they called “geisteswissenschaften” (“human sciences”) and “naturwissenschaften” (“natural sciences”), so that where Plato viewed mathematics as a necessary substrate in a vertical, hierarchical relation with other fields, the Germans thought of that relation horizontally, as if they were co-equals. Today, that German conception is best exemplified by what’s known as “science studies”: the “institutional goal of” which, as Mark Bauerlein of Emory University observed some years ago, is “to delimit the sciences to one knowledge domain, to show that they speak not for reality, but for certain constructions of reality.” (Or, as one of the founders of “science studies”—Andrew Ross—began a book on the matter back in the early 1990s: “This book is dedicated to all of the science teachers I never had. It could only have been written without them.”) Yet, while it may be that the German horizontal conception (to use Plato’s famous metaphor) “carves nature at the joint” better than Plato’s vertical one, the trouble with thinking of the mathematical, scientific world as one thing and the world of the human, including the political, as something else is that, among other costs, it makes it very difficult to tell—as exemplified by two different accounts of this same historical event—the story of George Washington’s first veto. Although many people appear to think of the “humanities” as just the ticket to escape America’s troubled political history … well, maybe not.

The first account I’ll mention is a chapter entitled “The First Veto,” contained in a book published in 2002 called Political Numeracy: Mathematical Perspectives on Our Chaotic Constitution. Written by law professor Michael Meyerson of the University of Baltimore, Meyerson’s book is deeply influenced by the German, horizontal view: he begins his book by observing that, when he began law school, his torts teacher sneered to his class that if any of them “were any good in math, you’d all be in medical school,” and goes on to observe that the “concept of mathematics can be relevant to the study of law seems foreign to many modern legal minds”—presumably, due to the German influence. Meyerson writes his book, then, as an argument against the German horizontal concept—and hence, implicitly, in favor of the Platonic, Greek one. Yet Meyerson’s work is subtly damaged by contact with the German view: it is not as good a treatment of the first presidential veto as another depiction of that same event—one written long before the German distinction came to be dominant in the United States.

That account was written by political scientist Edward James of the University of Chicago, and is entitled The First Apportionment of Federal Representatives in the United States: A Study in American Politics. Published in 1896, or more than a century before Meyerson’s account, it is nevertheless wholly superior: in the first place because of its level of detail, but in the second because—despite being composed in what might appear to contemporary readers as a wholly-benighted time—it’s actually far more sophisticated than Meyerson on precisely the subject that the unwary might suppose him to be weakest on. But before taking up that matter, it might be best to explain just what the first presidential veto was about.

George Washington only issued two vetoes during his two terms as president of the United States, which isn’t a record—several presidents have issued zero vetoes, including George W. Bush in his first term. But two is a pretty low number of vetoes: the all-time record holder, Franklin Roosevelt, issued 635 vetoes over his twelve years in office, and two others have issued more than a hundred. Yet while Washington’s second veto, concerning the War Department, appears fairly inconsequential today, his first veto has had repercussions that still echo in the United States. That’s because it concerned what’s of tremendous political importance to all Americans even now: the architecture of the national legislature, Congress. But it also (in a fashion that may explain just why Washington’s veto does not receive the attention it might) concerned that basic mathematical operation: division.

The structure of the Congress is detailed in Article One of the U.S. Constitution, whose first section vests the legislative power of the national government in Congress and then divides that Congress into two houses, the Senate and the House of Representatives. Section Two of Article One describes the House of Representatives, and Clause Three of Section Two describes, among other things, just how members of the House should be distributed around the nation: the members should, the clause says, “not exceed one for every thirty Thousand” inhabitants. But it also says that “each state shall have at Least one Representative”—and that causes all the trouble.

“At the heart of the dispute,” as Meyerson remarks, is a necessarily small matter: “fractions.” Or, as James puts it in what I think of as his admirably direct fashion:

There will always be remainders after dividing the population of the state by the number of people entitled to a representative, and so long as this is true, an exact division on numerical basis is impossible, if state lines must be observed in the process of apportionment.

It isn’t possible, in other words, to have one-sixth of a congressman (no matter what we might think of her cognitive abilities), nor is it likely that state populations will be an easily-dividable number. If it were possible to ignore state lines it would also be possible to divide up the country by population readily: as James remarks, without having to take into account state boundaries the job would be “a mere matter of arithmetic.” But because state boundaries have to be taken into account, it isn’t.

The original bill—the one that Washington vetoed—tackled this problem in two steps: in the first place, it simply divided the country, whose population the 1790 Census revealed to be (on Census Day, 2 August 1790) 3,929,214, and divided by 33,000 (which does not exceed one per 30,000), which of course gives a product just shy of 120 (119.067090909, to be precise). So that was to be the total number of seats in the House of Representatives.

The second step then was to distribute them, which Congress solved by giving—according to the “The Washington Papers” at the University of Virginia—“an additional member to the eight states with the largest fraction left over after dividing.” But doing so meant that, effectively, some states’ population was being divided by 30,000 while others were being divided by some other number: as James describes, while Congress determined the total number of congressmen by dividing the nation’s total population by 33,000, when it came time to determine which states got those congressmen the legislature used a different divisor. The bill applied a 30,000 ratio to “Rhode Island, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, Kentucky and Georgia,” while applying “one of 27,770 to the other eight states.” Hence, as Washington would complain in his note to Congress explaining his veto, there was “no one proportion or divisor”—a fact that Edmund Randolph, Washington’s Attorney General (and, significantly as we’ll see, a Virginian), would say was “repugnant to the spirit of the constitution.” That opinion Washington’s Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson (also a Virginian) shared.

Because the original bill used different divisors, Jefferson said that meant that it did not contain “any principle at all”—and hence would allow future Congresses to manipulate census results for political purposes “according to any … crochet which ingenuity may invent.” Jefferson thought, instead, that every state’s population ought to be divided by the same number: a “common divisor.” On the one hand, of course, that appears perfectly fair: using a single divisor gave the appearance of transparency and prevented the kinds of manipulations Jefferson envisioned. But it did not prevent what is arguably another manipulation: under Jefferson’s plan, which had largely the same results as the original plan, two seats were taken away from Delaware and New Hampshire and given to Pennsylvania—and Virginia.

Did I mention that Jefferson (and Randolph and Washington) was a Virginian? All three were, and at the time Virginia was, as Meyerson to his credit points out, “the largest state in the Union” by population. Yet while Meyerson does correctly note “that the Jefferson plan is an extraordinarily effective machine for allocating extra seats to large states,” he fails to notice something else about Virginia—something that James does notice (as we shall see). Virginia in the 1790s was not just the most populous state, but also a state with a very large, very wealthy, and very particular local industry.

That industry was, of course, slavery, and as James wrote (need I remind you) in 1896, it did not escape sharp people at the time of Washington’s veto that, in the first place, “the vote for and against the bill was perfectly geographical, a Northern against a Southern vote,” and secondly that Jefferson’s plan had the effect of “diminish[ing] the fractions in the Northern and Eastern states and increase them in the Southern”—a pattern that implied to some that “the real reason for the adoption” of Jefferson’s plan “was not that it secured a greater degree of fairness in the distribution, but that it secured for the controlling element in the Senate”—i.e., the slaveowners—“an additional power.” “It is noticeable,” James drily remarks, “that Virginia had been picked out especially as a state which profited” by Jefferson’s plan, and that “it was […] Virginians who persuaded the President” to veto the original bill. In other words, it’s James, in 1896, who is capable of discussing the political effects of the mathematics involved in terms of race—not Meyerson, despite the fact that the law professor (because he graduated from high school in 1976) had the benefit of, among other advantages, having witnessed at least the tail end of the American civil rights movement.

All that said, I don’t know just why, of course, Meyerson feels it possible to ignore the relation between George Washington’s first, and nearly only, veto and slavery: he might for instance argue that his focus is on the relation between mathematics and politics, and that bringing race into the discussion would muddy his argument. But that’s precisely the point, isn’t it? Meyerson’s reason for excluding slavery from his discussion of Washington’s first veto is, I suspect at any rate, driven precisely by his sense that race is a matter of geisteswissenschaften. 

After all, what else could it be? As Walter Benn Michaels of the University of Illinois at Chicago has put the point, despite the fact that “we don’t any longer believe in race as a biological entity, we still treat people as if they belonged to races”—which means that we must (still) think that race exists somehow. And since the biologists assure us that there is no way—biologically speaking—to link people from various parts of, say, Africa more than people from Asia or Europe (or as Michaels says, “there is no biological fact of the matter about what race you belong to”), we must thusly be treating race as a “social” or “cultural” fact rather than a natural one—which of course implies that we must think there is (still) a distinction to be made between the “natural sciences” and the “human sciences.” Hence, Meyerson excludes race from his analysis of Washington’s first veto because he (still) thinks of race as part of the “human sciences”: even Meyerson, it seems, cannot escape the gravity well of the German concept. Yet, since there isn’t any such thing as race, that necessarily raises the question of just why we think that there are two kinds of “science.” Perhaps there is little to puzzle over about just why some Americans might like the idea of race, but one might think that it is something of a mystery just why soi-disant “intellectuals” like that idea.

Or maybe not.

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Forked

He had already heard that the Roman armies were hemmed in between the two passes at the Caudine Forks, and when his son’s courier asked for his advice he gave it as his opinion that the whole force ought to be at once allowed to depart uninjured. This advice was rejected and the courier was sent back to consult him again. He now advised that they should every one be put to death. On receiving these replies … his son’s first impression was that his father’s mental powers had become impaired through his physical weakness. … [But] he believed that by taking the course he first proposed, which he considered the best, he was establishing a durable peace and friendship with a most powerful people in treating them with such exceptional kindness; by adopting the second he was postponing war for many generations, for it would take that time for Rome to recover her strength painfully and slowly after the loss of two armies.
There was no third course.
Titus LiviusAb Urbe Condita. Book IX 

 

Of course, we want both,” wrote Lee C. Bollinger, the president of Columbia University, in 2012, about whether “diversity in post-secondary schools should be focused on family income rather than racial diversity.” But while many might wish to do both, is that possible? Can the American higher educational system serve two masters? According to Walter Benn Michaels of the University of Illinois at Chicago, Bollinger’s thought that American universities can serve both economic goals and racial justice has been the thought of “every academic” with whom he’s ever discussed the subject—but Michaels, for his part, wonders just how sincere that wish really is. American academia, he says, has spent “twenty years of fighting like a cornered raccoon on behalf of the one and completely ignoring the other”; how much longer, he wonders, before “‘we want both’ sounds hollow not only to the people who hear it but to the people who say it?” Yet what Michaels doesn’t say is just why, as pious as that wish is, it’s a wish that is necessarily doomed to go unfulfilled—something that is possible to see after meeting a fictional bank teller named Linda.

Linda”—the late 1970s creation of two Israeli psychologists, Amos Tversky and Daniel Kahneman—may be the most famous fictional woman in the history of the social sciences, but she began life as a single humble paragraph:

Linda is thirty-one years old, single, outspoken, and very bright. She majored in philosophy. As a student, she was deeply concerned with issues of discrimination and social justice, and also participated in anti-nuclear demonstrations.

Following that paragraph, there were a series of eight statements describing Linda—but as the biologist Stephen Jay Gould would point out later, “five are a blind, and only three make up the true experiment.” The “true experiment” wouldn’t reveal anything about Linda—but it would reveal a lot about those who met her. “Linda,” in other words, is like Nietzsche’s abyss: she stares back into you.

The three pointed statements of Kahneman and Tversky’s experiment are these: “Linda is active in the feminist movement; Linda is a bank teller; Linda is a bank teller and is active in the feminist movement.” The two psychologists would then ask their test subjects to guess which of the three statements was more likely. Initially, these test subjects were lowly undergraduates, but as Kahneman and Tversky performed and then re-performed the experiment, they gradually upgraded: using graduate students with a strong background in statistics next—and then eventually faculty. Yet, no matter how sophisticated the audience to which they showed this description, what Kahneman and Tversky found was that virtually everyone always thought that the statement “Linda is a bank teller and active in the feminist movement” was more likely than the statement “Linda is a bank teller.” But as only a little thought requires, that is impossible.

I’ll let the journalist Michael Lewis, who recently published a book about the work of the pair of psychologists entitled The Undoing Project: A Friendship That Changed Our Minds, explain the impossibility:

“Linda is a bank teller and is active in the feminist movement” could never be more probable than “Linda is a bank teller.” “Linda is a bank teller and is active in the feminist movement” was just a special case of “Linda is a bank teller.” “Linda is a bank teller” included “Linda is a bank teller and is active in the feminist movement” along with “Linda is a bank teller and likes to walk naked through Serbian forests” and all other bank-telling Lindas. One description was entirely contained by the other.

“Linda is a bank teller and is active in the feminist movement” simply cannot be more likely than “Linda is a bank teller.” As Louis Menand of Harvard observed about the “Linda problem” in The New Yorker in 2005, thinking that “bank teller and feminist” is more likely than the “bank teller” description “requires two things to be true … rather than one.” If the one is true so is the other; that’s why, as Lewis observed in an earlier article on the subject, it’s “logically impossible” to think otherwise. Kahneman and Tversky’s finding is curious enough on its own terms for what it tells us about human cognition, of course, because it exposes a reaction that virtually every human being ever encountering it has made. But what makes it significant in the present context is that it is also the cognitive error Lee C. Bollinger makes in his opinion piece.

“The Linda problem,” as Michael Lewis observed in The Undoing Project, “resembled a Venn diagram of two circles, but with one of the circles wholly contained by the other.” One way to see the point, perhaps, is in relation to prison incarceration. As political scientist Marie Gottschalk of the University of Pennsylvania has observed, although the

African-American incarceration rate of about 2,300 per 100,000 people is clearly off the charts and a shocking figure … [f]ocusing so intently on these racial disparities often obscures the fact that the incarceration rates for other groups in the United States, including whites and Latinos, is also comparatively very high.

While the African-American rate of imprisonment is absurdly high, in other words, the “white incarceration rate in the United States is about 400 per 100,000,” which is at least twice the rate of “the most punitive countries in Western Europe.” What that means is that, while it is possible to do something regarding, say, African-American incarceration rates by lowering the overall incarceration rates, it can’t be done the other way.“Even,” as Gottschalk says, “if you released every African American from US prisons and jails today, we’d still have a mass incarceration crisis in this country.” Releasing more prisoners means fewer minority prisoners, but releasing minority prisoners still means a lot of prisoners.

Which, after all, is precisely the point of the “Linda problem”: just as “bank teller” contains both “bank teller” and any other set of descriptors that could be added to “bank teller,” so too does “prisoner” include any other set of descriptors that could be added to it. Hence, reducing the prison population will necessarily reduce the numbers of minorities in prison—but reducing the numbers of minority prisoners will not do (much) to reduce the number of prisoners. “Minority prisoners” is a circle contained within the circle of “prisoners”—saying you’d like to reduce the numbers of minority prisoners is essentially to say that you don’t want to do anything about prisons.

Hence, when Hillary Clinton asked her audience during the recent presidential campaign “If we broke up the big banks tomorrow … would that end racism?” and “Would that end sexism?”—and then answered her own question by saying, “No,” what she was effectively saying was that she would do nothing about any of those things, racism and sexism included. (Which, given that this was the candidate who asserted that politicians ought to have “both a public and a private position,” is not out of the question.) Wanting “both,” or an alleviation of economic inequality and discrimination—as Lee Bollinger and “every academic” Walter Benn Michaels has ever talked to say they want—is simply the most efficient way of not getting either. As Michaels says, “diversity and antidiscrimination have done and can do [emp. added] nothing whatsoever to mitigate economic inequality.” The sooner that Americans realize that Michaels isn’t kidding—that anti-discrimination, identity politics is not an alternative solution, but in fact no solution—and why he’s right, the sooner that something could be done about America’s actual problems.

Assuming, of course, that’s something anyone really wants.

The End Of The Beginning

The essential struggle in America … will be between city men and yokels.
The yokels hang on because the old apportionments give them unfair advantages. …
But that can’t last.
—H.L. Mencken. 23 July 1928.

 

“It’s as if,” the American philosopher Richard Rorty wrote in 1998, “the American Left could not handle more than one initiative at a time, as if it either had to ignore stigma in order to concentrate on money, or vice versa.” Penn State literature professor Michael Bérubé sneered at Rorty at the time, writing that Rorty’s problem is that he “construes leftist thought as a zero-sum game,” as if somehow

the United States would have passed a national health-care plan, implemented a family-leave policy, and abolished ‘right to work’ laws if only … left-liberals in the humanities hadn’t been wasting our time writing books on cultural hybridity and popular music.

Bérubé then essentially asked Rorty, “where’s the evidence?”—knowing, of course, that it is impossible to prove a counterfactual, i.e. what didn’t happen. But even in 1998, there was evidence to think that Rorty was not wrong: that, by focusing on discrimination rather than on inequality, “left-liberals” have, as Rorty accused then, effectively “collaborated with the Right.” Take, for example, what are called “majority-minority districts,” which are designed to increase minority representation, and thus combat “stigma”—but have the effect of harming minorities.

A “majority-minority district,” according to Ballotpedia, “is a district in which a minority group or groups comprise a majority of the district’s total population.” They were created in response to Section Two of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, which prohibited drawing legislative districts in a fashion that would “improperly dilute minorities’ voting power.”  Proponents of their use maintain that they are necessary in order to prohibit what’s sometimes called “cracking,” or diluting a constituency so as to ensure that it is not a majority in any one district. It’s also claimed that “majority-minority” districts are the only way to ensure minority representation in the state legislatures and Congress—and while that may or may not be true, it is certainly true that after drawing such districts there were more minority members of Congress than there were before: according to the Congressional Research Service, prior to 1969 (four years after passage) there were less than ten black members of Congress, a number that then grew until, after the 106th Congress (1999-01), there have consistently been between 39 and 44 African-American members of Congress. Unfortunately, while that may have been good for individual representatives, it may not be all that great for their constituents.

That’s because while “majority-minority” districts may increase the number of black and minority congressmen and women, they may also decrease the total numbers of Democrats in Congress. As The Atlantic put the point in 2013: after the redistricting process following the Census of 1990, the “drawing of majority-minority districts not only elected more minorities, it also had the effect of bleeding minority voters out of all the surrounding districts”—making them virtually impregnably Republican. In 2012, for instance, Barack Obama won 44 Congressional districts by more than 50 percent of the vote, while Mitt Romney won only eight districts by such a large percentage. Figures like these could seem overwhelmingly in favor of the Democrats, of course—until it is realized that, by winning congressional seats by such huge margins in some districts, Democrats are effectively losing votes in others.

That’s why—despite the fact that he lost the popular vote—in 2012 Romney’s party won 226 of 435 Congressional districts, while Obama’s party won 209. In this past election, as I’ve mention in past posts, Republicans won 55% of the seats (241) despite getting 49.9% of the vote, while Democrats won 44% of the seats despite getting 47.3% of the vote. That might not seem like a large difference, but it is suggestive when these percentages always point in a single direction: going back to 1994, the year of the “Contract With America,” Republicans have consistently outperformed their share of the popular vote, while Democrats have consistently underperformed theirs.

From the perspective of the Republican party, that’s just jake, despite being—according to a lawsuit filed by the NAACP in North Carolina—due to “an intentional and cynical use of race.” Whatever the ethics of the thing, it’s certainly had major results. “In 1949,” as Ari Berman pointed out in The Nation not long ago, “white Democrats controlled 103 of 105 House seats in the former Confederacy,” while the last white Southern congressman not named Steve Cohen exited the House in 2014. Considered all together, then, as “majority-minority districts” have increased, the body of Southern congressmen (and women) has become like an Oreo: a thin surface of brown Democrats on the outside, thickly white and Republican on the inside—and nothing but empty calories.

Nate Silver, to be sure, discounted all this worry as so much ado about nothing in 2013: “most people,” he wrote then, “are putting too much weight on gerrymandering and not enough on geography.” In other words, “minority populations, especially African-Americans, tend to be highly concentrated in certain geographic areas,” so much so that it would a Herculean task “not to create overwhelmingly minority (and Democratic) districts on the South Side of Chicago, in the Bronx or in parts of Los Angeles or South Texas.” Furthermore, even if that could be accomplished such districts would violate “nonpartisan redistricting principles like compactness and contiguity.” But while Silver is right on the narrow ground he contests, it merely begs the question: why should geography have anything to do with voting? Silver’s position essentially ensures that African-American and other minority votes count for less. “Majority minority districts” imply that minority votes do not have as much effect on policy as votes in other kinds of districts: they create, as if the United States were some corporation with common and preferred shares, two kinds of votes.

Like discussions about, for example, the Electoral College—in which a vote in Wyoming is much more valuable than one in California—Silver’s position in other words implies that minority votes will remain less valuable than other votes because a vote in a “majority-minority” district will have less probability of electing a congressperson who is a member of a majority in Congress. What does it matter to African-Americans if one of their number is elected to Congress, if Congress can do nothing for them?  To Silver, there isn’t any issue with majority-minority districts because they reflect their underlying proportions of people—but what matters is whether whoever’s elected can get policies that benefit them.

Right here, in other words, we get to the heart of the dispute between the deceased Rorty and his former student Bérubé: the difference between procedural and substantive justice. To some left-liberal types like Michael Bérubé, that might appear just swell: to coders in the Valley (represented by California’s 17th, the only majority-Asian district in the continental United States) or cultural-studies theorists in Boston, what might be important is simply the numbers of minority representatives, not the ability to pass a legislative agenda that’s fair for all Americans. It all might seem like no skin off their nose. (More ominously, it conceivably might even be in their economic interests: the humanities and the arts after all are intellectually well-equipped for a politics of appearances—but much less so for a politics of substance.) But ultimately this also affects them, and for a similar reason: urban professionals are, after all, urban—which means that their votes are, like majority-minority districts, similarly concentrated.

“Urban Democrat House members”—as The Atlantic also noted in 2013—“win with huge majorities, but winning a district with 80 percent doesn’t help the party gain any more seats than winning with 60 percent.” As Silver put the same point, “white voters in cities with high minority populations tend to be quite liberal, yielding more redundancy for Democrats.” Although these percentages might appear heartening to some of those within such districts, they ought to be deeply worrying: individual votes are not translating into actual political power. The more geographically concentrated Democrats are the less and less capable their party becomes of accomplishing its goals. While winning individual races by huge margins might be satisfying to some, no one cares about running up the score in a junior varsity game.

What “left-liberal” types ought to be contesting, in other words, isn’t whether Congress has enough black and other minority people in it, but instead the ridiculous, anachronistic idea that voting power should be tied to geography. “People, not land or trees or pastures vote,” Chief Justice of the Supreme Court Earl Warren wrote in 1964; in that case, Wesberry v. Sanders, the Supreme Court ruled that, as much as possible, “one man’s vote in a Congressional election is to be worth as much as another’s.” By shifting discussion to procedural issues of identity and stigma, “majority-minority districts” obscure that much more substantive question of power. Like some gaggle of left-wing Roy Cohns, people like Michael Bérubé want to talk about who people are. His opponents ought to reply by saying they’re interested in what people could be—and building a real road to get there.

Size Matters

That men would die was a matter of necessity; which men would die, though, was a matter of circumstance, and Yossarian was willing to be the victim of anything but circumstance.
Catch-22.
I do not pretend to understand the moral universe; the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways; I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by the experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see I am sure it bends towards justice.
Things refuse to be mismanaged long.
—“Of Justice and the Conscience.

 

monte-carlo-casino
The Casino at Monte Carlo

 

 

Once, wrote the baseball statistician Bill James, there was “a time when Americans” were such “an honest, trusting people” that they actually had “an unhealthy faith in the validity of statistical evidence”–but by the time James wrote in 1985, things had gone so far the other way that “the intellectually lazy [had] adopted the position that so long as something was stated as a statistic it was probably false.” Today, in no small part because of James’ work, that is likely no longer as true as it once was, but nevertheless the news has not spread to many portions of academia: as University of Virginia historian Sophia Rosenfeld remarked in 2012, in many departments it’s still fairly common to hear it asserted—for example—that all “universal notions are actually forms of ideology,” and that “there is no such thing as universal common sense.” Usually such assertions are followed by a claim for their political utility—but in reality widespread ignorance of statistical effects is what allowed Donald Trump to be elected, because although the media spent much of the presidential campaign focused on questions like the size of Donald Trump’s … hands, the size that actually mattered in determining the election was a statistical concept called sample size.

First mentioned by the mathematician Jacob Bernoulli made in his 1713 book, Ars Conjectandi, sample size is the idea that “it is not enough to take one or another observation for such a reasoning about an event, but that a large number of them are needed.” Admittedly, it might not appear like much of an observation: as Bernoulli himself acknowledged, even “the most stupid person, all by himself and without any preliminary instruction,” knows that “the more such observations are taken into account, the less is the danger of straying from the goal.” But Bernoulli’s remark is the very basis of science: as an article in the journal Nature put the point in 2013, “a study with low statistical power”—that is, few observations—“has a reduced chance of detecting a true effect.” Sample sizes need to be large enough to be able to eliminate chance as a possible factor.

If that isn’t known it’s possible to go seriously astray: consider an example drawn from the work of Israeli psychologists Amos Tversky (MacArthur “genius” grant winner) and (Nobel Prize-winning) Daniel Kahneman—a study “of two toys infants will prefer.” Let’s say that in the course of research our investigator finds that, of “the first five infants studied, four have shown a preference for the same toy.” To most psychologists, the two say, this would be enough for the researcher to conclude that she’s on to something—but in fact, the two write, a “quick computation” shows that “the probability of a result as extreme as the one obtained” being due simply to chance “is as high as 3/8.” The scientist might be inclined to think, in other words, that she has learned something—but in fact her result has a 37.5 percent chance of being due to nothing at all.

Yet when we turn from science to politics, what we find is that an American presidential election is like a study that draws grand conclusions from five babies. Instead of being one big sample—as a direct popular national election would be—presidential elections are broken up into fifty state-level elections: the Electoral College system. What that means is that American presidential elections maximize the role of chance, not minimize it.

The laws of statistics, in other words, predict that chance will play a large role in presidential elections—and as it happens, Tim Meko, Denise Lu and Lazaro Gamio reported for The Washington Post three days after the election that “Trump won the presidency with razor-thin margins in swing states.” “This election was effectively decided,” the trio went on to say, “by 107,000 people”—in an election in which more than 120 million votes were cast, that means that election was decided by less than a tenth of one percent of the total votes. Trump won Pennsylvania by less than 70,000 votes of nearly 6 million, Wisconsin by less than 30,000 of just less than three million, and finally Michigan by less than 11,000 out of 4.5 million: the first two by just more than one percent of the total vote each—and Michigan by a whopping .2 percent! Just to give you an idea of how insignificant these numbers are by comparison with the total vote cast, according to the Michigan Department of Transportation it’s possible that a thousand people in the five largest counties were involved in car crashes—which isn’t even to mention people who just decided to stay home because they couldn’t find a babysitter.

Trump owes his election, in short, to a system that is vulnerable to chance because it is constructed to turn a large sample (the total number of American voters) into small samples (the fifty states). Science tells us that small sample sizes increase the risk of random chance playing a role, American presidential elections use a smaller sample size than they could, and like several other presidential elections, the 2016 election did not go as predicted. Donald Trump could, in other words, be called “His Accidency” with even greater justice than John Tyler—the first vice-president to be promoted due to the death of his boss in office—was. Yet, why isn’t that point being made more publicly?

According to John Cassidy of The New Yorker, it’s because Americans haven’t “been schooled in how to think in probabilistic terms.” But just why that’s true—and he’s essentially making the same point Bill James did in 1985, though more delicately—is, I think, highly damaging to many of Clinton’s biggest fans: the answer is, because they’ve made it that way. It’s the disciplines where many of Clinton’s most vocal supporters make their home, in other words, that are most directly opposed to the type of probabilistic thinking that’s required to see the flaws in the Electoral College system.

As Stanford literary scholar Franco Moretti once observed, the “United States is the country of close reading”: the disciplines dealing with matters of politics, history, and the law within the American system have, in fact, more or less been explicitly constructed to prevent importing knowledge of the laws of chance into them. Law schools, for example, use what’s called the “case method,” in which a single case is used to stand in for an entire body of law: a point indicated by the first textbook to use this method, Christopher Langdell’s A Selection of Cases on the Law of Contracts. Other disciplines, such as history, are similar: as Emory University’s Mark Bauerlein has written, many such disciplines depend for their very livelihood upon “affirming that an incisive reading of a single text or event is sufficient to illustrate a theoretical or historical generality.” In other words, it’s the very basis of the humanities to reject the concept of sample size.

What’s particularly disturbing about this point is that, as Joe Pinsker documented in The Atlantic last year, the humanities attract a wealthier student pool than other disciplines—which is to say that the humanities tend to be populated by students and faculty with a direct interest in maintaining obscurity around the interaction between the laws of chance and the Electoral College. That doesn’t mean that there’s a connection between the architecture of presidential elections and the fact that—as Geoffrey Harpham, former president and director of the National Humanities Center, has observed—“the modern concept of the humanities” (that is, as a set of disciplines distinct from the sciences) “is truly native only to the United States, where the term acquired a meaning and a peculiar cultural force that it does not have elsewhere.” But it does perhaps explain just why many in the national media have been silent regarding that design in the month after the election.

Still, as many in the humanities like to say, it is possible to think that the current American university and political structure is “socially constructed,” or in other words could be constructed differently. The American division between the sciences and the humanities is not the only way to organize knowledge: as the editors of the massive volumes of The Literary and Cultural Reception of Darwin in Europe pointed out in 2014, “one has to bear in mind that the opposition of natural sciences … and humanities … does not apply to the nineteenth century.” If that opposition that we today find so omnipresent wasn’t then, it might not be necessary now. Hence, if the choice of the American people is between whether they ought to get a real say in the affairs of government (and there’s very good reason to think they don’t), or whether a bunch of rich yahoos spend time in their early twenties getting drunk, reading The Great Gatsby, and talking about their terrible childhoods …well, I know which side I’m on. But perhaps more significantly, although I would not expect that it happens tomorrow, still, given the laws of sample size and the prospect of eternity, I know how I’d bet.

Or, as another sharp operator who’d read his Bernoulli once put the point:

The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.”