Ribbit

 “‘The frog is almost five hundred million years old. Could you really say with much certainty that America, with all its strength and prosperity, with its fighting man that is second to none, and with its standard of living that is the highest in the world, will last as long as … the frog?’”
—Joseph Heller. Catch-22. (1961).
 … the fall of empires which aspired to universal dominion could be predicted with very high probability by one versed in the calculus of chance.
—Laplace. Theórie Analytique des Probabilities. (1814).

 

If sexism exists, how could it be proved? A recent lawsuit—Chen-Oster v. Goldman Sachs, Inc., filed in New York City on 19 May, 2014—aims to do just that. The suit makes four claims: that Goldman’s women employees make less than men at the same positions; that a “disproportionate” number of men have been promoted “over equally or more qualified women”; that women employees’ performance was “systematic[ally] underval[ued]”; and that “managers most often assign the most lucrative and promising opportunities to male employees.” The suit, then, echoes many of the themes developed by feminists over the past two generations, and in a general sense may perhaps be accepted, or even cheered, by those Americans sensitive to feminism. But those Americans may not be aware of the potential dangers of the second claim: dangers that threaten not merely the economic well-being of the majority of Americans, including women, but also America’s global leadership. Despite its seeming innocuousness, the second claim is potentially an existential threat to the future of the United States.

That, to be sure, is a broad assertion, and seems disproportionate, you might say, to the magnitude of the lawsuit: it hardly seems likely that a lawsuit over employment law, even one involving a firm so important to the global financial machinery as Goldman Sachs, could be so important as to threaten the future of the United States. Yet few today would deny the importance of nuclear weapons—nor that they pose an existential threat to humanity itself. And if nuclear weapons are such a threat, then the reasoning that led to those weapons must be at least as, if not more so, as important than the weapons themselves. As I will show, the second claim poses a threat to exactly that chain of reasoning.

That, again, may appear a preposterous assertion: how can a seemingly-minor allegation in a lawsuit about sexism have anything to do with nuclear weapons, much less the chain of logic that led to them? One means of understanding how requires a visit to what the late Harvard biologist Stephen Jay Gould called “the second best site on the standard tourist itinerary of [New Zealand’s] North Island—the glowworm grotto of Waitomo Cave.” Upon the ceiling of this cave, it seems, live fly larvas whose “illuminated rear end[s],” Gould tells us, turn the cave into “a spectacular underground amphitheater”—an effect that, it appears, mirrors the night sky. But what’s interesting about the Waitomo Cave is that it does this mirroring with a difference: upon observing the cave, Gould “found it … unlike the heavens” because whereas stars “are arrayed in the sky at random,” the glowworms “are spaced more evenly.” The reason why is that the “larvae compete with, and even eat, each other—and each constructs an exclusive territory”: since each larva has more or less the same power as every other larva, each territory is more or less the same size. Hence, as Gould says, the heaven of the glowworms is an “ordered heaven,” as opposed to the disorderly one visible on clear nights around the the world—a difference that not only illuminates just what’s wrong with the plaintiff’s second claim in Chen-Oster v. Goldman Sachs, Inc, but also how that claim concerns nuclear weapons.

Again, that might appear absurd: how can understanding a Southern Hemispheric cavern help illuminate—as it were—a lawsuit against the biggest of Wall Street players? To understand how requires another journey—though this one is in time, not space.

In 1767, an English clergyman named John Michell published a paper with the unwieldy title of “An Inquiry into the Probable Parallax, and Magnitude of the Fixed Stars, from the Quantity of Light Which They Afford us, and the Particular Circumstances of Their Situation.” Michell’s purpose in the paper, he wrote, was to inquire whether the stars “had been scattered by mere chance”—or, instead, by “their mutual gravitation, or to some other law or appointment of the Creator.” Since (according to Michell’s biographer, Russell McCommach), Michell assumed “that a random distribution of stars is a uniform distribution,” he concluded that—since the night sky does not resemble the roof of the Waitomo Cave—the distribution of stars must be the result of some natural law. Or even, he hinted, the will of the Creator himself.

So things might have stayed had Michell’s argument “‘remained buried in the heavy quartos of the Philosophical Transactions”—as James Forbes, the Professor of Natural Philosophy at Edinburgh University, would write nearly a century later. But Michell’s argument hadn’t; several writers, it seems, took his argument as evidence for the existence of the supernatural. Hence, Forbes felt obliged to refute an argument that, he thought, is “‘too absurd to require refutation.’” To think—as Michell did—that “a perfectly uniform and symmetrical disposition of the stars over the sky,” as Forbes wrote, “could alone afford no evidence of causation” would be “palpably absurd.” The reason Forbes thought that way, in turn, is the connection both to the Goldman lawsuit—and nuclear weapons.

Forbes made his point by an analogy to flipping a coin: to think that the stars had been distributed randomly because they were evenly spaced across the sky, he wrote, would be as ridiculous as the chances that “on 1000 throws [of a fair coin] there should be exactly 500 heads and 500 tails.” In fact, the Scotsman pointed out, mathematics demonstrates that in such a case of 1000 throws “there are almost forty chances to one [i.e., nearly 98%], that some one of the other possible events shall happen instead of the required one.” In 1000 throws of a fair coin, there’s less than a three percent chance that the flipper will get exactly 500 heads: it’s simply a lot more likely that there will be some other number of heads. In Gould’s essay about the Waitomo Cave, he put the same point like this: “Random arrays always include some clumping … just as we will flip several heads in a row quite often so long as we can make enough tosses.” Because the stars clump together, Forbes argued, that is evidence that they are randomly distributed—not of a benevolent Creator, like Michell thought. Forbes’ insight, in turn, about how to detect randomness, or chance, in astronomical data had implications far beyond the stars: in a story that would take much more space than this essay to tell, it eventually led a certain Swiss patent clerk to take up the phenomena called “Brownian motion.”

The clerk, of course, was Albert Einstein; the subject of his 1905 paper, “On the Movement of Small Particles Suspended In a Stationary Liquid Demanded by the Molecular-Kinetic Theory of Heat,” was the tendency—“easily observed in a microscope,” Einstein remarks—for tiny particles to move in an apparently-spontaneous manner. What Einstein realized (as physicist Leonard Mlodinow put it in his 2008 book, The Drunkard’s Walk: How Randomness Rules Our Lives) was that the “jiggly” motion of dust particles and so on results from collisions between them and even smaller particles, and so “there was a predictable relationship between factors such as the size, number, and speed of the molecules and the observable frequency and magnitude of the jiggling.” In other words, “though the collisions [between the molecules and the larger particles] occur very frequently, because the molecules are so light, those frequent isolated collisions have no visible effects” for the most part—but once in a while, “when pure luck occasionally leads to a lopsided preponderance of hits from some particular direction,” there are enough hits to send the particle moving. Or, to put it another way, when the flip of a 1000 coins all come up heads, the particle will move. Put in that fashion, to be sure, Einstein’s point might appear obscure at best—but as Mlodinow goes on to say, it is no accident that this seemingly-minor paper became the great physicist’s “most cited work.” That’s because the ultimate import of the paper was to demonstrate the existence … of the atom. Which is somewhat of a necessity for building an atom bomb.

The existence of the atomic bomb, then, can be said to depend on the insight developed by Forbes: just how significant the impact of chance can be in the formation of both the very large (the universe itself, according to Forbes), and the very small (the atom, according to Einstein). The point both men attempted to make, in turn, is that the existence of order is something very rare in this universe, at any rate (whatever may be the case in others). Far more common, then, is the existence of disorder—which brings us back to Goldman Sachs and the existence of sexism.

It is the contention of the second point in the plaintiffs’ brief in Chen-Oster v. Goldman Sachs, Inc., remember, that there exists (as University of Illinois English professor Walter Benn Michaels has noted) a “‘“stark” underrepresentation’ [of women] in management” because “‘just 29 percent of vice presidents, 17 percent of managing directors, and 14 percent of partners’” are women. Goldman Sachs, as it happens, has roughly 35,000 employees—which, it turns out, is about 0.001% of the total population of the United States, which is 323 million. Of those 323 million, as of the 2010 Census women number about 157 million, compared to around 151 million men. Hence, the question to be asked about the Goldman Sachs lawsuit (and I write this as someone with little sympathy for Goldman Sachs) is—if the reasoning Einstein followed to demonstrate the existence of the atom is correct—then if the chances of landing exactly 500 heads, when tossing a coin 1000 times, is less than three percent, how much less likely is it that a sample of 35,000 people will exactly mirror the proportions of 323 million? The answer, it would seem, is rather low: it’s simply a lot more likely that Goldman Sachs would have something other than a proportionate ratio of men to women than the reverse, just as it it’s a lot more likely that stars should clump together than be equally spaced like the worms in the New Zealand cave. And that is to say that the disproportionate number of men in leadership in positions at Goldman Sachs is merely evidence of the absence of a pro-woman bias at Goldman Sachs, not evidence of the existence of a bias against women.

To which it might be replied, of course, that the point isn’t the exact ratio, but rather that it is so skewed toward one sex: what are the odds, it might be said, that all three categories of employee should all be similarly bent in one direction? Admittedly, that is an excellent point. But it’s also a point that’s missing from the plaintiffs’ brief: there is no mention of a calculation respecting the particular odds in the case, despite the fact that the mathematical techniques necessary to do those calculations have been known since long before the atomic bomb, or even Einstein’s paper on the existence of the atom. And it’s that point, in turn, that concerns not merely the place of women in society—but ultimately the survival of the United States.

After all, the reason that the plaintiffs in the Goldman Sachs suit do not feel the need to include calculations of the probability of the disproportion they mention—despite the fact that it is the basis of their second claim—is that the American legal system is precisely structured to keep such arguments at bay. As Oliver Roeder observed in FiveThirtyEight last year, for example, the justices of the U.S. Supreme Court “seem to have a reluctance—even an allergy—to taking math and statistics seriously.” And that reluctance is not limited to the justices alone: according to Sanford Levinson, a University of Texas professor of law and government interviewed by Roeder in the course of reporting his story, “top-level law schools like Harvard … emphasize … traditional, classical legal skills” at the expense of what Levinson called “‘genuine familiarity with the empirical world’”—i.e., the world revealed by techniques pioneered by investigators like James Forbes. Since, as Roeder observes, all nine current Supreme Court justices attended either Harvard or Yale, that suggests that the curriculum followed at those schools has a connection to the decisions reached by their judicial graduates.

Still, that exclusion might not be so troublesome were it limited merely to the legal machinery. But as Nick Robinson reported last year in the Buffalo Law Review, attorneys have “dominated the political leadership of the United States” throughout its history: “Since independence,” Robinson pointed out there, “more than half of all presidents, vice presidents, and members of Congress have come from a law background.” That then implies that if the leadership class of the United States is derived from American law schools, and American law schools train students to disdain mathematics and the empirical world, then it seems plausible to conclude that much of the American leadership class is specifically trained to ignore both the techniques revealed by Forbes and the underlying reality they reveal: the role played by chance. Hence, while such a divergence may allow plaintiffs like those in the Goldman case to make allegations of sexism without performing the hard work of actually demonstrating how it might be possible mathematically, it might also have consequences for actual women who are living, say, in a nation increasingly characterized by a vast difference between the quantifiable wealth of those at the top (like people who work for Goldman Sachs) and those who aren’t.

And not merely that. For decades if not centuries, Americans have bemoaned the woeful lack of performance of American students in mathematics: “Even in Massachusetts, one of the country’s highest-performing states,” Elizabeth Green observed in the latest of one of these reports in the New York Times in 2014, “math students are more than two years behind their counterparts in Shanghai.” And results like that, as the journalist Michael Lewis put the point several years ago in Vanity Fair, risk “ceding … technical and scientific leadership to China”—and since, as demonstrated, it’s knowledge of mathematics (and specifically knowledge of the mathematics of probability) that made the atomic bomb possible, that implies conversely that ignorance of the subject is a serious threat to national existence. Yet, few Americans have, it seems, considered whether the fact that students do not take mathematics (and specifically probability) seriously may have anything to do with the fact that the American leadership class explicitly rules such topics, quite literally, out of court.

Of course, as Lewis also pointed out in his recent book, The Undoing Project: A Friendship that Changed Our Minds, American leaders may not be particularly alone in ignoring the impact of probabilistic reasoning: when, after the Yom Kippur War—which had caught Israel’s leaders wholly by surprise—future Nobel Prize winner Daniel Kahneman and intelligence officer Zvi Lanir attempted to “introduce a new rigor in dealing with questions of national security” by replacing intelligence reports written “‘in the form of essays’” with “probabilities, in numerical form,” they found that “the Israeli Foreign Ministry was ‘indifferent to the specific probabilities.’” Kahneman suspected that the ministry’s indifference, Lewis reports, was due to the fact that Israel’s leaders’ “‘understanding of numbers [was] so weak that [the probabilities did not] communicate’”—but betting that the leadership of other countries continues to match the ignorance of our own does not particularly appear wise. Still, as Oliver Roeder noted for FiveThirtyEight, not every American is willing to continue to roll those dice: University of Texas law professor Sanford Levinson, Roeder reported, thinks that the “lack of rigorous empirical training at most elite law schools” requires the “long-term solution” of “a change in curriculum.” And that, in turn, suggests that Chen-Oster v. Goldman Sachs, Inc. might be more than a flip of a coin over the existence of sexism on Wall Street.

Advertisements

Stayin’ Alive

And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed,
until the people had avenged themselves upon their enemies.
—Joshua 10:13.

 

“A Sinatra with a cold,” wrote Gay Talese for Esquire in 1966, “can, in a small way, send vibrations through the entertainment industry and beyond as surely as a President of the United States, suddenly sick, can shake the national economy”; in 1994, Nobel laureate economist Paul Krugman mused that a “commitment to a particular … doctrine” can eventually set “the tone for policy-making on all issues, even those which may seem to have nothing to do with that doctrine.” Like a world leader—or a celebrity—the health of an idea can have unforeseen consequences; for example, it is entirely possible that the legal profession’s intellectual bias against mathematics has determined the nation’s racial policy. These days after all, as literary scholar Walter Benn Michaels observed recently, racial justice in the United States is held to what Michaels calls “the ideal of proportional inequality”—an ideal whose nobility, it so happens that Nobel Prize-winner Daniel Kahneman and his colleague Amos Tversky have demonstrated, is matched only by its mathematical futility. The law, in short, has what Oliver Roeder of FiveThirtyEight recently called an “allergy” to mathematics; what I will argue is that, as a consequence, minority policy in the United States has a cold.

“The concept that mathematics can be relevant to the study of law,” law professor Michael I. Meyerson observed in 2002’s Political Numeracy: Mathematical Perspectives on Our Chaotic Constitution, “seems foreign to many modern legal minds.” In fact, he continued, to many lawyers “the absence of mathematics is one of law’s greatest appeals.” The strength of that appeal was on display recently in the 2011 Wisconsin case discussed by Oliver Roeder, Gill v. Whitford—a case that, as Roeder says, “hinges on math” because it involves the invention of a mathematical standard to measure “when a gerrymandered [legislative] map infringes on voters’ rights.” In oral arguments in Gill, Roeder observed, Chief Justice John Roberts said, about the mathematical techniques that are the heart of the case, that it “may be simply my educational background, but I can only describe [them] as sociological gobbledygook”—a derisory slight that recalls 19th-century Supreme Court Justice Joseph Story’s sneer concerning what he called “men of speculative ingenuity, and recluse habits.” Such statements are hardly foreign in the annals of the Supreme Court: “Personal liberties,” Justice Potter Stewart wrote in a 1975 opinion, “are not rooted in the law of averages.” (Stewart’s sentence, perhaps incidentally, uses a phrase—“law of averages”—found nowhere in the actual study of mathematics). Throughout the history of American law, in short, there is strong evidence of bias against the study and application of mathematics to jurisprudence.

Yet without the ability to impose that bias on others, even conclusive demonstrations of the law’s skew would not matter—but of course lawyers, as Nick Robinson remarked just this past summer in the Buffalo Law Review, have “dominated the political leadership of the United States.” As Robinson went on to note, “more than half of all presidents, vice presidents, and members of Congress have come from a law background.” This lawyer-heavy structure has had an effect, Robinson says: for instance, he claims “that lawyer-members of Congress have helped foster the centrality of lawyers and courts in the United States.” Robinson’s research then, which aggregates many studies on the subject, demonstrates that the legal profession is in a position to have effects on the future of the country—and if lawyers can affect the future of the country in one fashion, it stands to reason that they may have affected it in others. Not only then may the law have an anti-mathematical bias, but it is clearly positioned to impose that bias on others.

That bias in turn is what I suspect has led the Americans to what Michaels calls the theory of “proportional representation” when it comes to justice for minority populations. This theory holds, according to Michaels, that a truly just society would be a “society in which white people were proportionately represented in the bottom quintile [of income] (and black people proportionately represented in the top quintile)”—or, as one commenter on Michaels’ work has put it, it’s the idea that “social justice is … served if the top classes at Ivy League colleges contain a percentage of women, black people, and Latinos proportionate to the population.” Within the legal profession, the theory appears to be growing: as Michaels has also observed, the theory of the plaintiffs in the “the recent suit alleging discrimination against women at Goldman Sachs” complained of the ‘“stark” underrepresentation’ [of women] in management” because women represented “‘just 29 percent of vice presidents, 17 percent of managing directors, and 14 percent of partners’”—percentages that, of course, vary greatly from the roughly 50% of the American population who are women. But while the idea of a world in which the population of every institution mirrors the population as a whole may appear plausible to lawyers, it’s absurd to any mathematician.

People without mathematical training, that is, have wildly inaccurate ideas about probability—precisely the point of the work of social scientists Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky. “When subjects are instructed to generate a random sequence of hypothetical tosses of a fair coin,” wrote the two psychologists in 1971 (citing an earlier study), “they produce sequences where the proportion of heads in any short segment stays far closer to .50 than the laws of chance would predict.” In other words, when people are asked to write down the possible results of tossing a coin many times, they invariably give answers that are (nearly) half heads and half tails despite the fact that—as Brian Everitt observed in his 1999 book Chance Rules: An Informal Guide to Probability, Risk, and Statistics—in reality “in, say, 20 tosses of a fair coin, the number of heads is unlikely to be exactly 10.” (Everitt goes on to note that “an exact fifty-fifty split of heads and tails has a probability of a little less than 1 in 5.”) Hence, a small sample of 20 tosses has less than a twenty percent chance of being ten heads and ten tails—a fact that may appear yet more significant when it is noted that the chance of getting exactly 500 heads when flipping a coin 1000 times is less than 3%. Approximating the ideal of proportionality, then, is something that mathematics tells us is not simple or easy to do even once, and yet, in the case of college admissions, advocates of proportional representation suggest that colleges, and other American institutions, ought to be required to do something like what baseball player Joe DiMaggio did in the summer of 1941.

In that year in which “the Blitzkrieg raged” (as the Rolling Stones would write later), the baseball player Joe DiMaggio achieved what Gould says is “the greatest and most unattainable dream of all humanity, the hope and chimera of all sages and shaman”: the New York Yankee outfielder hit safely in 56 games. Gould doesn’t mean, of course, that all human history has been devoted to hitting a fist-sized sphere, but rather that while many baseball fans are aware of DiMaggio’s feat, what few are aware of is that the mathematics of DiMaggio’s streak shows that it was “so many standard deviations above the expected distribution that it should not have occurred at all.” In other words, Gould cites Nobel laureate Ed Purcell’s research on the matter.

What that research shows is that, to make it a better-than-even money proposition “that a run of even fifty games will occur once in the history of baseball,” then “baseball’s rosters would have to include either four lifetime .400 batters or fifty-two lifetime .350 batters over careers of one thousand games.” There are, of course, only three men who ever hit more than .350 lifetime (Cobb, Hornsby, and, tragically, Joe Jackson), which is to say that DiMaggio’s streak is, Gould wrote, “the most extraordinary thing that ever happened in American sports.” That in turn is why Gould can say that Joe DiMaggio, even as the Panzers drove a thousand miles of Russian wheatfields, actually attained a state chased by saints for millennia: by holding back, from 15 May to 17 July, 1941, the inevitable march of time like some contemporary Joshua, DiMaggio “cheated death, at least for a while.” To paraphrase Paul Simon, Joe DiMaggio fought a duel that, in every way that can be looked at, he was bound to lose—which is to say, as Gould correctly does, that his victory was in postponing that loss all of us are bound to one day suffer.

Woo woo woo.

What appears to be a simple baseball story, then, actually has a lesson for us here today: it tells us that advocates of proportional representation are thereby suggesting that colleges ought to be more or less required not merely to reproduce Joe DiMaggio’s hitting streak from the summer of 1941, but to do it every single season—a quest that in a practical sense is impossible. The question then must be how such an idea could ever have taken root in the first place—a question that Paul Krugman’s earlier comment about how a commitment to bad thinking about one issue can lead to bad thinking about others may help to answer. Krugman suggested in that essay that one reason why people who ought to know better might tolerate “a largely meaningless concept” was “precisely because they believe[d] they [could] harness it in the service of good policies”—and quite clearly, proponents of the proportional ideal have good intentions, which may be just why it has held on so long despite its manifest absurdity. But good intentions are not enough to ensure the staying power of a bad idea.

“Long streaks always are, and must be,” Gould wrote about DiMaggio’s feat of survival, “a matter of extraordinary luck imposed upon great skill”—which perhaps could be translated, in this instance, by saying that if an idea survives for some considerable length of time it must be because it serves some interest or another. In this case, it seems entirely plausible to think that the notion of “proportional representation” in relation to minority populations survives not because it is just, but instead because it allows the law, in the words of literary scholar Stanley Fish, “to have a formal existence”—that is, “to be distinct, not something else.” Without such a distinction, as Fish notes, the law would be in danger of being “declared subordinate to some other—non-legal—structure of concern,” and if so then “that discourse would be in the business of specifying what the law is.” But the legal desire Fish dresses up in a dinner jacket, attorney David Post of The Volokh Conspiracy website suggests, may merely be the quest to continue to wear a backwards baseball cap.

Apropos of Oliver Roeder’s article about the Supreme Court’s allergy to mathematics, Post says in other words, not only is there “a rather substantial library of academic commentary on ‘innumeracy’ at the court,” but “it is unfortunately well within the norms of our legal culture … to treat mathematics and related disciplines as kinds of communicable diseases with which we want no part.” What’s driving the theory of proportional representation, then, may not be the quest for racial justice, or even the wish to maintain the law’s autonomy, but instead the desire of would-be lawyers to avoid mathematics classes. But if so, then by seeking social justice through the prism of the law—which rules out of court at the outset any consideration of mathematics as a possible tool for thinking about human problems, and hence forbids (or at least, as in Gill v. Whitford, obstructs) certain possible courses of action to remedy social issues—advocates for African-Americans and others may be unnecessarily limiting their available options, which may be far wider, and wilder, than anyone viewing the problems of race through the law’s current framework can now see.

Yet—as any consideration of streaks and runs must, eventually, conclude—just because that is how things are at the moment is no reason to suspect that things will remain that way forever: as Gould says, the “gambler must go bust” when playing an opponent, like history itself, with near-infinite resources. Hence, Paul Simon to the contrary, the impressive thing about the Yankee Clipper’s feat in that last summer before the United States plunged into global war is not that after “Ken Keltner made two great plays at third base and lost DiMaggio the prospect of a lifetime advertising contract with the Heinz ketchup company” Joe DiMaggio left and went away. Instead, it is that the great outfielder lasted as long as he did; just so, in Oliver Roeder’s article he mentions that Sanford Levinson, a professor of law at the University of Texas at Austin and one of the best-known American legal scholars, has diagnosed “the problem [as] a lack of rigorous empirical training at most elite law schools”—which is to say that “the long-term solution would be a change in curriculum.” The law’s streak of avoiding mathematics, in other words, may be like all streaks. In the words of the poet of the subway walls,

Koo-koo …

Ka-choo.

Lex Majoris

The first principle of republicanism is that the lex majoris partis is the fundamental law of every society of individuals of equal rights; to consider the will of the society enounced by the majority of a single vote, as sacred as if unanimous, is the first of all lessons in importance, yet the last which is thoroughly learnt. This law once disregarded, there is no other but that of force, which ends necessarily in military despotism.
—Thomas Jefferson. Letter to Baron von Humboldt. 13 June 1817.

Since Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 American presidential election, many of her supporters have been quick to cry “racism” on the part of voters for her opponent, Donald Trump. According to Vox’s Jenée Desmond-Harris, for instance, Trump won the election “not despite but because he expressed unfiltered disdain toward racial and religious minorities in the country.” Aside from being the easier interpretation, because it allows Clinton voters to ignore the role their own economic choices may have played in the broad support Trump received throughout the country, such accusations are counterproductive even on their own terms because—only seemingly paradoxically—they reinforce many of the supports racism still receives in the United States: above all, because they weaken the intellectual argument for a national direct election for the presidency. By shouting “racism,” in other words, Hillary Clinton’s supporters may end up helping to continue racism’s institutional support.

That institutional support begins with the method by which Americans elect their president: the Electoral College—a method that, as many have noted, is not used in any other industrialized democracy. Although many scholars and others have advanced arguments for the existence of the college through the centuries, most of these “explanations” are, in fact, intellectually incoherent: while the most common of the traditional “explanations” concerns the differences between the “large states” and the “small,” for instance, in the actual United States—as James Madison, known as the “Father of the Constitution,” noted at the time—there had not then, and has not ever been since, a situation in American history that involved a conflict between larger-population and smaller-population states. Meanwhile, the other “explanations” for the Electoral College do not even rise to this level of incoherence.

In reality there is only one explanation for the existence of the college, and that explanation has been most forcefully and clearly made by law professor Paul Finkelman, now serving as a Senior Fellow at the University of Pennsylvania after spending much of his career at obscure law schools like the University of Tulsa College of Law, the Cleveland-Marshall College of Law, and the Albany Law School. As Finkelman has been arguing for decades (his first papers on the subject were written in the 1980s), the Electoral College was originally invented by the delegates to the Constitutional Convention of 1787 in order to protect slavery. That such was the purpose of the College can be known, most obviously, because the delegates to the convention said so.

When the means of electing a president were first debated, it’s important to remember that the convention had already decided, for the purposes of representation in the newly-created House of Representatives, to count black slaves by the means of the infamous three-fifths ratio. That ratio, in turn, had its effect when discussing the means of electing a president: delegates like James Madison argued, as Finkelman notes, that the existence of such a college—whose composition would be based on each state’s representation in the House of Representatives—would “guarantee that the nonvoting slaves could nevertheless influence the presidential election.” Or as Hugh Williamson, a delegate from North Carolina, observed during the convention, if American presidents were elected by direct national vote the South would be shut out of electing a national executive because “her slaves will have no suffrage”—that is, because in a direct vote all that would matter is the number of voters, the Southern states would lose the advantage the three-fifths ratio gave them in the House. Hence, the existence of the Electoral College is directly tied to the prior decision to grant Southern slave states an advantage in Congress, and so the Electoral College is another in a string of institutional decisions made by convention delegates to protect domestic slavery.

Yet, assuming that Finkelman’s case for the racism of the Electoral College is true, how can decrying the racism of the American voter somehow inflict harm on the case for abolishing the Electoral College? The answer goes back to the very justifications of, not only presidential elections, but elections in general—the gradual discovery, during the eighteenth century Enlightenment, of what is today known as the Law of Large Numbers.

Putting the law in capital letters, I admit, tends to mystify it, but anyone who buys insurance already understands the substance of the concept. As New Yorker writer Malcolm Gladwell once explained insurance, “the safest and most efficient way to provide insurance” is “to spread the costs and risks of benefits over the biggest and most diverse group possible.” In other words, the more people participating in an insurance plan, the greater the possibility that the plan’s members will be protected. The Law of Large Numbers explains why that is.

That reason is the same as the reason that, as Peter Bernstein remarks in Against the Gods: The Remarkable Story of Risk, if we toss a coin enough times that “will correspondingly increase the probability that the ratio of heads thrown to total throws” will decrease. Or, the reason that—as physicist Leonard Mlodinow has pointed out—in order really to tell which baseball team is better than another a World Series would have to be at least 23 games long (if one team were much better than the other), and possibly as long as 269 games (between two closely-matched opponents). Only by playing so many games can random chance be confidently excluded: as Carl Bialik of FiveThirtyEight once pointed out, usually “in sports, the longer the contest, the greater the chance that the favorite prevails.” Or, as Israeli psychologists Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky put the point in 1971, “the law of large numbers guarantees that very large samples will indeed be representative”: it’s what scientists rely upon to know that, if they have performed enough experiments or poured over enough data, they know enough to exclude idiosyncratic results. The Law of Large Numbers asserts, in short, that the more times we repeat something, the closer we will approach its true value.

It’s for just that reason that many have noted the connection between science and democratic government: “Science and democracy are powerful partners,” as the website for the Union of Concerned Scientists has put it. What makes these two objects such “powerful” partners is that the Law of Large Numbers is what underlies the act of holding elections: as James Surowiecki put the point in his book, The Wisdom of Crowds, the theory of democracy is that “the larger the group, the more reliable its judgment will be.” Just as scientists think that, by replicating an experiment, they can more readily trust in its results, so too does a democratic government implicitly think that, by including more people in the decision-making process, the government can the more readily arrive at the “correct” solution: as James Madison put it in The Federalist No. 10, if you “take in a greater variety of parties and interests,” then “you make it less probable that a majority of the whole will have a common motive for invading the rights of other citizens.” Without such a belief, after all, there would be no reason not to trust, say, a ruling caste to make decisions for society—or even a single, perhaps orange-toned, individual. Without some concept of the Law of Large Numbers—some belief that increasing the numbers of trials, or increasing the number of inputs, will make for better results—there is no reason for democratic government at all.

That’s why, when people criticize the Electoral College, they are implicitly invoking the Law of Large Numbers. The Electoral College divides the pool of American voters into fifty smaller pools, but a national popular vote would collect all Americans into a single lump—a point that some defenders of the College sometimes seek to make into a virtue, instead of the vice it is. In the wake of the 2000 election, for example, Senator Mitch McConnell wrote that the “Electoral College served to center the post-election battles in Florida,” preventing the “vote recounts and court battles in nearly every state of the Union” that, McConnell assures us, would have occurred in the college’s absence. But as Timothy Noah pointed out in The New Republic in 2012, what McConnell’s argument “fails to realize is that when you’re assembling one big count rather than a lot of little ones it’s a lot less clear what’s to be gained from rigging any of the little ones.” If what matters is the popular vote, what happens in any one location doesn’t matter so much; hence, stealing votes in downstate Illinois won’t allow you to steal the entire state—just as, with enough samples or experiments run, the fact that the lab assistant was drowsy at the time she recorded one set of results won’t matter so much. Or why deliberately losing a single game in July hardly matters so much as tanking a game of the World Series.

Put in such a way, it’s hard to see how anyone without a vested stake in the construction of the present system could defend the Electoral College—yet, as I suspect we are about to see, the very people now ascribing Donald Trump’s victory to the racism of the American voter will soon be doing just that. The reason will be precisely the same reason that such advocates want to blame racism, rather than the ongoing thievery of economic elites, for the rejection of Clinton: because racism is a “cultural” phenomenon, and most left-wing critics of the United States now obtain credentials in “cultural,” rather than scientific, disciplines.

If, in other words, Donald Trump’s victory was due to a complex series of renegotiations of the global contract between capital and labor, then that would require experts in economic and other, similar, disciplines to explain it; if his victory was due to racism, however—racism being considered a cultural phenomenon—then that will call forth experts in “cultural” fields. Because those with “liberal” or “leftist” political leanings now tend to gather in “cultural” fields, those with those political leanings will (indeed, must) now attempt to shift the battleground towards their areas of expertise. That shift, I would wager, will in turn lead those who argue for “cultural” explanations for the rise of Trump against arguments for the elimination of the Electoral College.

The reason is not difficult to understand: it isn’t too much to say, in fact, that one way to define the study of the humanities is to say it comprises the disciplines that largely ignore, or even oppose, the Law of Large Numbers both as a practical matter and as a philosophic one. As literary scholar Franco Moretti, now of Stanford, observed in his Atlas of the European Novel, 1800-1900, just as “silver fork novels”—a genre published in England between the 1820s and the 1840s—do not “show ‘London,’ but only a small, monochrome portion of it,” so too does the average student of literature not really study her ostensible subject matter. “I work on west European narrative between 1790 and 1930, and already feel like a charlatan outside of Britain and France,” Moretti confesses in an essay entitled “Distant Reading”—and even then, he only works “on its canonical fraction, which is not even 1 percent of published literature.” As Joshua Rothman put the point in a New Yorker profile of Moretti a few years ago, Moretti instead insists that “if you really want to understand literature, you can’t just read a few books or poems over and over,” but instead “you have to work with hundreds or even thousands of texts at a time”—that is, he insists on the significance of the Law of Large Numbers in his field, an insistence whose very novelty demonstrates how literary study is a field that has historically resisted precisely that recognition.

In order to proceed, in other words, disciplines like literary study or art history—or even history itself—must argue for the representativeness of a given body of work: usually termed, at least in literary study, “the Canon.” Such disciplines are already, simply by their very nature, committed to the idea that it is not necessary to read all of what Moretti says is the “thirty thousand nineteenth-century British novels out there” in order to arrive at conclusions about the nineteenth-century British novel: in the first place, “no one really knows” how many there really are (there could easily be twice as many), and in the second “no one has read them [all], [and] no one ever will.” In order to get off the ground, such disciplines must necessarily deny the Law of Large Numbers: as Moretti says, “you invest so much in individual texts only if you think that very few of them really matter”—a belief with an obvious political corollary. Rejection of the Law of Large Numbers is thusly, as Moretti also observes, “an unconscious and invisible premiss” for most who study such fields—which is to say that although students of the humanities often make claims for the political utility of their work, they sometimes forget that the enabling presuppositions of their fields are inherently those of the pre-Enlightenment ancien régime.

Perhaps that’s why—as Joe Pinsker observed in a fascinating, but short, article for The Atlantic several years ago—studies of college students find that those “from lower-income families tend toward ‘useful’ majors, such as computer science, math, and physics,” while students “whose parents make more money flock to history, English, and the performing arts”: the baseline assumptions of those disciplines are, no matter the particular predilections of a given instructor, essentially aristocratic, not democratic. To put it most baldly, the disciplines of the humanities must reject the premise of the Law of Large Numbers, which says that as more examples are added, the closer we approach to the truth—a point that can be directly witnessed when, for instance, English professor Michael Bérubé of Pennsylvania State University observes that the “humanists at [his] end of the [academic] hallway roundly dismissed” Harvard biologist E.O. Wilson’s book, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge for arguing that “all human knowledge can and eventually will be unified under the rubric of the natural sciences.” Rejecting the Law of Large Numbers is foundational to the very operation of the humanities: without making that rejection, they cannot exist.

In recent decades, of course, presumably Franco Moretti has not been the only professor of the humanities to realize that their disciplines stood on a collision course with the Law of Large Numbers—it may perhaps explain why disciplines like literature and others have, for years, been actively recruiting among members of minority groups. The institutional motivations of such hiring, in other words, ought to be readily apparent: by making such hires, departments of the humanities could insulate themselves from charges from the political left—while at the same time continuing the practices that, without such cover, might have appeared increasingly anachronistic in a democratic age. Minority hiring, that is, may not be so politically “progressive” as its defenders sometimes argue: it may, in fact, have prevented the intellectual reforms within the humanities urged by people like Franco Moretti for a generation or more. Of course, by joining such departments, members of minority groups also may have, consciously or not, tied their own fortunes to a philosophic rejection of concepts like the Law of Large Numbers—as African-American sportswriter Michael Wilbon, of ESPN fame, wrote this past May, black people supposedly have some kind of allergy to statistical analysis: “in ‘BlackWorld,’” Wilbon solemnly intoned, “never is heard an advanced analytical word.” I suspect then that many who claim to be on the political left will soon come out to defend the Electoral College. If that happens, then in one last cruel historical irony the final defenders of American slavery may end up being precisely those slavery meant to oppress.

Buck Dancer’s Choice

Buck Dancer’s Choice: “a tune that goes back to Saturday-night dances, when the Buck, or male partner, got to choose who his partner would be.”
—Taj Mahal. Oooh So Good ‘n’ Blues. (1973).

 

“Goddamn it,” Scott said, as I was driving down the Kennedy Expressway towards Medinah Country Club. Scott is another caddie I sometimes give rides to; he’s living in the suburbs now and has to take the train into the city every morning to get his methadone pill, where I pick him up and take him to work. On this morning, Scott was distracting himself, as he often does, from the traffic outside by playing, on his phone, the card game known as spades—a game in which, somewhat like contract bridge, two players team up against an opposing partnership. On this morning, he was matched with a bad partner—a player who had, it came to light later, not trumped a ten of spades with the king the other player had in possession, and instead had played a three of spades. (In so doing, Scott’s incompetent partner thereby negated the value of the latter while receiving nothing in return.) Since, as I agree, that sounds relentlessly boring, I wouldn’t have paid much attention to the whole complaint—until I realized that not only did Scott’s grumble about his partner essentially describe the chief event of the previous night’s baseball game, but also why so many potential Democratic voters will likely sit out this election. After all, arguably the best Democratic candidate for the presidency this year will not be on the ballot in November.

What had happened the previous night was described on ESPN’s website as “one of the worst managerial decisions in postseason history”: in a one-game, extra-innings, playoff between the Baltimore Orioles and and the Toronto Blue Jays, Orioles manager Buck Showalter used six relief pitchers after starter Chris Tillman got pulled in the fifth inning. But he did not order his best reliever, Zach Britton, into the game at all. During the regular season, Britton had been one of the best relief pitchers in baseball; as ESPN observed, Britton had allowed precisely one earned run since April, and as Jonah Keri wrote for CBS Sports, over the course of the year Britton posted an Earned Run Average (.53) that was “the lowest by any pitcher in major league history with that many innings [67] pitched.” (And as Deadspin’s Barry Petchesky remarked the next day, Britton had “the best ground ball rate in baseball”—which, given that Orioles ultimately lost on a huge, moon-shot walk-off home run by Edwin Encarnacion, seems especially pertinent.) Despite the fact that the game went 11 innings, Showalter did not put Britton on the mound even once—which is to say that the Orioles ended their season with one of their best weapons sitting on the bench.

Showalter had the king of spades in his hand—but neglected to play him when it mattered. He defended himself later by saying, essentially, that he is the manager of the Baltimore Orioles, and that everyone else was lost in hypotheticals. “That’s the way it went,” the veteran manager said in the post-game press conference—as if the “way it went” had nothing to do with Showalter’s own choices. Some journalists speculated, in turn, that Showalter’s choices were motivated by what Deadspin called “the long-held, slightly-less-long-derided philosophy that teams shouldn’t use their closers in tied road games, because if they’re going to win, they’re going to need to protect a lead anyway.” In this possible view, Showalter could not have known how long the game would last, and could only know that, until his team scored some runs, the game would continue. If so, then it might be possible to lose by using your ace of spades too early.

Yet, not only did Showalter deny that such was a factor in his thinking—“It [had] nothing to do with ‘philosophical,’” he said afterwards—but such a view takes things precisely backward: it’s the position that imagines the Orioles scoring some runs first that’s lost in hypothetical thinking. Indisputably, the Orioles needed to shut down the Jays in order to continue the game; the non-hypothetical problem presented to the Orioles manager was that the O’s needed outs. Showalter had the best instrument available to him to make those outs … but didn’t use him. And that is to say that it was Showalter who got lost in his imagination, not the critics. By not using his best pitcher Showalter was effectively reacting to an imaginative hypothetical scenario, instead of responding to the actual facts playing out before him.

What Showalter was flouting, in other words, was a manner of thinking that is arguably the reason for what successes there are in the present world: probability, the first principle of which is known as the Law of Large Numbers. First conceived by a couple of Italians—Gerolamo Cardano, the first man known to have devised the idea, during the sixteenth century, and Jacob Bernoulli, who publicized it during the eighteenth—the Law of Large Numbers holds that, as Bernoulli put it in his Ars Conjectandi from 1713, “the more observations … are taken into account, the less is the danger of straying.” Or, that the more observations, the less the danger of reaching wrong conclusions. What Bernoulli is saying, in other words, is that in order to demonstrate the truth of something, the investigator should look at as many instances as possible: a rule that is, largely, the basis for science itself.

What the Law of Large Numbers says then is that, in order to determine a course of action, it should first be asked, “what is more likely to happen, over the long run?” In the case of the one-game playoff, for instance, it’s arguable that Britton, who has one of the best statistical records in baseball, would have been less likely to give up the Encarnacion home run than the pitcher who did (Ubaldo Jimenez, 2016 ERA 5.44) was. Although Jimenez, for example, was not a bad ground ball pitcher in 2015—he had a 1.85 ground ball to fly ball ratio that season, putting him 27th out of 78 pitchers, according to SportingCharts.com—his ratio was dwarfed by Britton’s: as J.J. Cooper observed just this past month for Baseball America, Britton is “quite simply the greatest ground ball pitcher we’ve seen in the modern, stat-heavy era.” (Britton faced 254 batters in 2016; only nine of them got an extra-base hit.) Who would you rather have on the mound in a situation where a home run (which is obviously a fly ball) can end not only the game, but the season?

What Bernoulli (and Cardano’s) Law of Large Numbers does is define what we mean by the concept, “the odds”: that is, the outcome that is most likely to happen. Bucking the odds is, in short, precisely the crime Buck Showalter committed during the game with the Blue Jays: as Deadspin’s Petchesky wrote, “the concept that you maximize value and win expectancy by using your best pitcher in the highest-leverage situations is not ‘wisdom’—it is fact.” As Petchesky goes on to say “the odds are the odds”—and Showalter, by putting all those other pitchers on the mound instead of Britton, ignored those odds.

As it happens, “bucking the odds” is just what the Democratic Party may be doing by adopting Hillary Clinton as their nominee instead of Bernie Sanders. As a number of articles this past spring noted, at that time many polls were saying that Sanders had better odds of beating Donald Trump than Clinton did. In May, Linda Qiu and Louis Jacobson noted in The Daily Beast Sanders was making the argument that “he’s a better nominee for November because he polls better than Clinton in head-to-head matches against” Trump. (“Right now,” Sanders said then on the television show, Meet the Press, “in every major poll … we are defeating Trump, often by big numbers, and always at a larger margin than Secretary Clinton is.”) Then, the evidence suggested Sanders was right: “Out of eight polls,” Qiu and Jacobson wrote, “Sanders beat Trump eight times, and Clinton beat Trump seven out of eight times,” and “in each case, Sanders’s lead against Trump was larger.” (In fact, usually by double digits.) But, as everyone now knows, that argument did not help to secure the nomination for Sanders: in August, Clinton became the Democratic nominee.

To some, that ought to be the end of the story: Sanders tried, and (as Showalter said after his game), “it didn’t work out.” Many—including Sanders himself—have urged fellow Democrats to put the past behind them and work towards Clinton’s election. Yet, that’s an odd position to take regarding a campaign that, above everything, was about the importance of principle over personality. Sanders’ campaign was, if anything, about the same point enunciated by William Jennings Bryan at the 1896 Democratic National Convention, in the famous “Cross of Gold” speech: the notion that the “Democratic idea … has been that if you legislate to make the masses prosperous, their prosperity will find its way up through every class which rests upon them.” Bryan’s idea, as ought to clear, has certain links to Bernoulli’s Law of Large Numbers—among them, the notion that it’s what happens most often (or to the most people) that matters.

That’s why, after all, Bryan insisted that the Democratic Party “cannot serve plutocracy and at the same time defend the rights of the masses.” Similarly—as Michael Kazin of Georgetown University described the point in May for The Daily Beast—Sanders’ campaign fought for a party “that would benefit working families.” (A point that suggests, it might be noted, that the election of Sanders’ opponent, Clinton, would benefit others.) Over the course of the twentieth century, in other words, the Democratic Party stood for the majority against the depredations of the minority—or, to put it another way, for the principle that you play the odds, not hunches.

“No past candidate comes close to Clinton,” wrote FiveThirtyEight’s Harry Enten last May, “in terms of engendering strong dislike a little more than six months before the election.” It’s a reality that suggests, in the first place, that the Democratic Party is hardly attempting to maximize their win expectancy. But more than simply those pragmatic concerns regarding her electability, however, Clinton’s candidacy represents—from the particulars of her policy positions, her statements to Wall Street financial types, and the existence of electoral irregularities in Iowa and elsewhere—a repudiation, not simply of Bernie Sanders the person, but of the very idea about the importance of the majority the Democratic Party once proposed and defended. What that means is that, even were Hillary Clinton to be elected in November, the Democratic Party—and those it supposedly represents—will have lost the election.

But then, you probably don’t need any statistics to know that.

Closing With God in the City of Brotherly Love, or, How To Get A Head on the Pennsylvania Pike

However do senators get so close to God?
How is it that front office men never conspire?
—Nelson Algren.
“The Silver-Colored Yesterday.”
     Chicago: City on the Make (1951).

Sam Hinkie, the general manager of the Philadelphia 76ers—a basketball team in the National Basketball Association—resigned from his position this past week, citing the fact that he “no longer [had] the confidence” that he could “make good decisions on behalf of investors in the Sixers.” As writers from ESPN and many other outlets have observed, because the ownership of the Sixers had given him supervisors recently (the father-son duo of the Coangelos: Jerry and the other one), Hinkie had effectively been given a vote of no confidence. But the owners’ disapproval appears to have been more than simply a rejection of Hinkie: it also appears to be a rejection of the theory by which Hinkie conducted operations—a theory that Hinkie called “the Process.” It’s the destiny of this theory that’s concerning: the fate of the man Hinkie is irrelevant, but the fate of his idea is one that concerns all Americans—because the theory of “the Process” is also the theory of America. At least, according to one (former) historian.

To get from basketball to the fate of nations might appear quite a leap, of course—but that “the Process” applies to more than basketball can be demonstrated firstly by showing that it is (or perhaps, was) also more or less Tiger Woods’ theory about golf. As Tiger used to say, as he did for example in the press conferences for his wins at both the 2000 PGA Championship and the 2008 U.S. Open, the key to winning majors is “hanging around.” As the golfer said in 2012, the “thing is to keep putting myself [in contention]” (as Deron Snyder reported for The Root that year), or as he said in 2000, after he won the PGA Championship, “in a major championship you just need to hang around,” and also that “[i]n majors, if you kind of hang around, usually good things happen.” Eight years later, after the 2008 U.S. Open Championship (which he famously won on a broken leg), Woods said that “I was just hanging around, hanging around.” That is, Woods’ theory seems to have seen his task as a golfer to give himself the chance to win by staying near the lead—thereby giving destiny, or luck, or chance, the opportunity to put him over the top with a win.

That’s more or less the philosophy that guided Hinkie’s tenure at the head of the 76ers, though to understand it fully requires first understanding the intricacies of one of the cornerstones of life in the NBA: the annual player draft. Like many sport leagues, the NBA conducts a draft of new players each year, and also like many other leagues, teams select new players roughly in the order of their records in the previous season: i.e., the prior season’s league champion picks last. Conversely, teams that missed the last season’s playoffs participate in what’s become known as the “draft lottery”: all the teams that missed the playoffs are entered into the lottery, with their chances of receiving the first pick in the draft weighted by their win-loss records. (In other words, the worst team in the league has the highest chance of getting the first pick in the next season’s draft—but getting that pick is not guaranteed.) Hinkie’s “Process” was designed to take this reality of NBA life into account, along with the fact that, in today’s NBA, championships are won by “superstar” players: players, that is, that are selected in the “lottery” rounds of the draft.

Although in other sports, like for instance the National Football League, very good players can fall to very low rounds in their drafts, that is not the case in the contemporary NBA. While Tom Brady of the NFL’s New England Patriots was famously not drafted until the sixth round of the 2000 draft, and has since emerged as one of that league’s best players, stories like that simply do not happen in the NBA. As a study by FiveThirtyEight’s Ian Levy has shown, for example, in the NBA “the best teams are indeed almost always driven by the best players”—an idea that seems confirmed by the fact that the NBA is, as several studies have found, the easiest American professional sports league to bet. (As Noah Davis and Michael Lopez observed in 2015, also in FiveThirtyEight, in “hockey and baseball, even the worst teams are generally given a 1 in 4 chance of beating the best teams”—a figure nowhere near the comparable numbers in pro basketball.) In other words, in the NBA the favorite nearly always wins, a fact that would appear to correlate with the idea that NBA wins and losses are nearly always determined simply by the sheer talent of the players rather than, say, such notions as “team chemistry” or the abilities of a given coach.

With those facts in mind, then, the only possible path to an NBA championship—a goal that Hinkie repeatedly says was his—is to sign a transcendent talent to a team’s roster, and since (as experience has shown) it is tremendously difficult to sign an already-established superstar away from another team in the league, the only real path most teams have to such a talent is through the draft. But since such hugely capable players are usually only available as the first pick (though sometimes second, and very occasionally third—as Michael Jordan, often thought of as the best player in the history of the NBA, was drafted in 1984), that implies that the only means to a championship is first to lose a lot of games—and thus become eligible for a “lottery” draft pick. This was Sam Hinkie’s “Process”—a theory that sounded so odd to some that many openly mocked Hinkie’s notions: the website Deadspin for instance called Hinkie’s team a “Godless Abomination” in a headline.

Although surely the term was meant comedically, Deadspin’s headline writer in fact happens to have hit upon something central to both Woods’ and Hinkie’s philosophy: it seems entirely amenable to the great American saying, attributed to obscure writer Coleman Cox, that “I am a great believer in Luck: the harder I work, the more of it I seem to have.” Or to put it another way, “you make your own luck.” As can be seen, all of these notions leave the idea of God or any other supernatural agency to the side: God might exist, they imply, but it’s best to operate as if he doesn’t—a sentiment that might appear contrary to the “family values” often espoused by Republican politicians, as it seems merely a step away from disbelieving in God at all. But in fact, according to arch-conservative former Speaker of the House and sometime-presidential candidate, Newt Gingrich, this philosophy simply was the idea of the United States—at least until the 1960s came and wrecked everything. In reality however Gingrich’s idea that until the 1960s the United States was governed by the rules “don’t work, don’t eat” and “your salvation is spiritual” is not only entirely compatible with the philosophies of both Hinkie and Woods—but entirely opposed to the philosophy embodied by the United States Constitution.

To see that point requires seeing the difference between Philadelphia’s “76ers” and the Philadelphians who matter to Americans most today: the “87ers.” Whereas the major document produced in Philadelphia in 1776, in other words, held that “all men are created equal”—a statement that is perhaps most profitably read as a statement about probability, not in the sentimental terms with which it is often read—the major document produced in the same city over a decade later in 1787 is, as Seth Ackerman of the tiny journal Jacobin has pointed out, “a charter for plutocracy.” That is, whereas the cornerstone of the Declaration of Independence appears to be a promise in favor of the well-known principle of “one man, one vote,” the government constructed by the Constitution appears to have been designed according to an opposing principle: in the United States Senate, for instance, a single senator can hold up a bill the rest of the country demands, and “[w]hereas France can change its constitution anytime with a three-fifths vote of its Congress and Britain could recently mandate a referendum on instant runoff voting by a simple parliamentary majority,” as Ackerman says, “the U.S. Constitution requires the consent of no less than thirty-nine different legislatures comprising roughly seventy-eight separately elected chambers” [original emp.]. Pretty obviously, if it takes that much work to change the laws, that will clearly advantage those with pockets deep enough to extend to nearly every corner of the nation—a notion that cruelly ridicules the idea, first advanced in Philadelphia in 1776 and now espoused by Gingrich, Woods, and Hinkie, that with enough hard work “luck” will even out.

Current data, in fact, appear to support Ackerman’s contentions: as Edward Wolff, an economist at New York University and the author of Top Heavy: The Increasing Inequality of Wealth in America and What Can Be Done About It (a book published in 1996) noted online at The Atlantic’s website recently, “average real wages peaked in 1973.” “Median net worth,” Wolff goes on to report, “plummeted by 44 percent between 2007 and 2013 for middle income families, 61 percent for lower middle income families, and by 70 percent for low income families.” This is a pattern, as many social scientists have reported, consistent with the extreme inequality faced in very poor nations: nations usually also notable for their deviation from the “one man, one vote” principle. (Cf. the history of contemporary Russia, and then work backwards.) With that in mind, then, a good start for the United States might be if the entire U.S. Senate resigned—on the grounds that they cannot, any longer, make good decisions on behalf of the investors.