A matter of trust

This originated as a post to a mailing list on the subject of blockchains and how they might help the cause of open science.  The quote below is the claim I was directly responding to.

Shauna: “but the scientific community is arguably the most effective trust-based system in human history” – according to this view we wouldn’t need version control systems or preregistration either. I couldn’t disagree more; trust has no place in science. To me, that’s one of the major things with open scientific practices: removing the trust from science and instead practice transparency.

My response:

Trust is a fundamental issue in all human relationships and communities.  Every single interaction we have with other human beings involves some level of trust.  Just today I had to trust the people who harvested and packaged my food not to have accidentally or maliciously poisoned me, the drivers on the street to obey traffic conventions, and my house mate to have locked the house and not invited anyone dangerous inside — and those are only the most obvious examples.  I could come up with dozens more.

Different situations require different levels of trust.  If a situation requires more trust than you currently have, you can try to increase trust in a number of ways.  You can build new technologies, but you can also strengthen relationships, create neutral institutions, or add legal or regulatory force to your agreements.  None of these work perfectly, and often you’re best off pursuing a combination of them.  In all cases, though, you will have to trust someone at some point – it’s just a matter of deciding which system will allow you to trust in a way that’s acceptable to you.

The scientific community has trust issues, yes, like every other human community.  But its trust issues are of a specific type.  When you read a scientific paper, what makes you doubt the findings?  Personally, I’m not worried that the authors have faked the data, or that the publisher has changed the content of the paper without anybody knowing, or that the paper is stolen or plagiarized.  I know that the scientific community has very strong norms against these types of violations, and so they’re relatively rare.  Broadly speaking, I trust the scientific community to minimize these problems.  There’s not a lot of communities I would trust like that, which is why I claimed that science is special in this way.

The trust issues that the scientific community currently has are largely based around mis-aligned incentives.  I trust most scientists not to engage in outright fraud but I don’t trust them not to make choices in their research practices that may hurt their careers.  They know how the funding, publication, and tenure systems work, and they know that replications, preregistration, and following strict practices to minimize false positives will hurt their careers.  Simply put: most scientists don’t trust that taking actions to make science better will be rewarded rather than punished.  In a world of decreasing funding and a decaying social safety net, is anyone surprised that people do what’s best for themselves within the existing norms of the community?

My focus, then, is on supporting initiatives that help scientists trust that taking actions to make science better will be rewarded rather than punished.  I don’t see how blockchain helps with that even slightly.  I’d rather put time and energy and resources into things like lobbying funders to require certain research practices, supporting journals that facilitate preregistration and minimize publication bias, convincing departments to require a minimum number of replications per researcher per year, and educating students and early career researchers about the importance of these practices.  In other words, changing the norms so that engaging in these behaviors is easy rather than hard – because I trust humans to prefer the easy thing to the hard thing.

Civic Virtue and the Profit Motive

In an article about Milton Friedman in the Pacific Standard, Rick Paulas quotes from an article of Friedman’s published in 1970:

There is one and only one social responsibility of business – to use its resources and engage in activities designed to increase its profits so long as it stays within the rules of the game, which is to say, engages in open and free competition without deception or fraud

The phrase “rules of the game” immediately caught my eye, as it did Paulas’:

Another thing missing from Friedman’s framework of corporations playing “within the rules of the game” was the outsized role that the corporate lobbyists have had in the creation of those rules. As Sachs points out, “[i]n 2016, special interests spent $3.15 billion to employ 11,166 lobbyists in the U.S.” If Friedman’s theoretical world was based on the ability of outside actors—like government regulators—keeping societal rules intact, then that world has long been compromised.

There’s always a gap between rules and reality, and we require good judgment and public spirit from those navigating that gap.

Years ago I read Zephyr Teachout’s excellent book Corruption in America, and was struck by her description of how the framers approached the constitution.  Teachout writes:

We have two thoughts: (1) men are not always angels, and therefore structures must help us; and (2) virtue is necessary, and structures alone cannot help us. The reconciliation between these two Madisonian beliefs holds the key to understanding the moral psychology of the framers. These can both be true if one perceives a dynamic relationship between constitutional structure and political morality. Because men are not always virtuous, structures must be enacted in order to discourage self-serving behavior in public life. The public orientation that flourishes in these structures in turn helps maintain the structures, which in turn helps maintain virtue.

The argument is not merely that, in the absence of good regulations, individuals (or companies) must temper their self-interest with civic virtue.  It is that good regulations must be actively maintained, and that it takes virtuous individuals to do so.

Okoye’s Judgment Call

Warning: Black Panther spoilers.

Elle Magazine gets it right: one of the best scenes in Black Panther is between Okoye and Nakia, after Killmonger has defeated T’Challa in combat and legally taken control of the country.  Nakia has gotten the royal family to safety, and turns to Okoye for help, but Okoye refuses.  “I am loyal to that throne,” she says, “no matter who sits upon it.”

Let’s leave aside the wisdom of a hereditary monarchy.  It’s a system ripe for abuse, but any system can be abused, and one can imagine Okoye and Nakia’s debate taking place in any government during any period of destabilization.  At its heart, the debate is whether one should go outside a system in order to save it.

R. Eric Thomas, the author of the Elle Magazine piece, says that Okoye eventually comes around to Nakia’s point of view:

Ultimately, she and the rest of the Dora Milaje turn on Killmonger and fight for Wakanda because he reveals through his actions that he is less interested in a political shift in the country—one that aligns more closely with Nakia’s missions to save those in peril in other countries—than in destroying the nation, and perhaps the whole world, as a grand act of damaged vengeance.

That’s one reading.  But when T’Challa returns he immediately makes a legal argument, that because he neither died nor yielded the challenge is still active.  When Killmonger refuses to continue the challenge, he’s violating the rules of the system which Okoye is loyal to.  Okoye’s motives in this moment are certainly complex, but it seems plausible, even likely, that she’s driven not by a reassessment of Killmonger’s character but by the change in Killmonger’s relationship to the system.

In some ways, this is a cop out.  It allows Okoye to avoid the question of when to go outside the system by offering her a resolution within the system. But I’m okay with her avoiding it.  In the United States we place a lot of emphasis on the distinction between military and civilian power.  The answer to “When should the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff act outside the system in order to save it?” is “Pretty much never.”  As the country’s most talented fighter and as the head of the its military force, Okoye is the character most analogous to our military leadership.  She should remain a loyal enforcer of the system longer than any other character.

But this denies the fundamental complexity of the situation.  Whatever Wakanda’s rules actually are, they likely do not contain a clause covering ‘what to do if you think a combatant for the throne is dead but they re-emerge days later’.  Once T’Challa returns they are all already, irreversibly ‘outside’ the system.  All Okoye can do is make a judgment call about what course of action is most consistent with the system’s traditions and values.  And so in that moment she’s analogous not just to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs but also to the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court – the chief interpreter of law.  It’s a tremendous amount of power, and it speaks to Okoye’s integrity that she hesitates to use it.

In a working system, people can specialize and act according to their roles.  T’Challa can wield the power the system gives him.  Okoye can enforce the law neutrally.  But when the system breaks down we may be called upon to act as a whole individual: to use whatever power we have according to our own judgment.  This can be restorative, or it can be deeply destructive.  It all depends on the situation: on the specific decision being made, on the character of the person making the decision, and on whether the decision is made with the aim of returning the system to a state where such judgments are no longer needed.

Identity fragments

In an essay at Brain Pickings, Maria Popova sketches out a conception of identity as a collection of fragments which is, paradoxically, being repressed and sanded down by identity politics:

Paradoxically, in our golden age of identity politics and trigger-ready outrage, this repression of our inner wildness and fracturing of our wholeness has taken on an inverted form, inclining toward a parody of itself. Where Walt Whitman once invited us to celebrate the glorious multitudes we each contain and to welcome the wonder that comes from discovering one another’s multitudes afresh, we now cling to our identity-fragments, using them as badges and badgering artillery in confronting the templated identity-fragments of others.

[…]

This inversion of intent only fissures the social justice movement itself, so that people who are at bottom kindred-spirited — who share the most elemental values, who work from a common devotion to the same projects of justice and equality, who are paving parallel pathways to a nobler, fairer, more equitable world — end up disoriented by the suspicion that they might be on different sides of justice after all, merely because their particular fragments don’t happen to coincide perfectly. In consequence, despite our best intentions, we misconstrue and alienate each other more and more.

I found myself nodding along until I reached this line:

The censors of yore have been replaced by the “sensitivity readers” of today, fraying the fabric of freedom — of speech, even of thought — from opposite ends, but fraying it nonetheless.

I am a big fan of sensitivity readers.  Let me try to articulate why.

If our identities are full of fragments – irregular, unpredictable, jagged – then it’s inevitable that we’re going to hurt each other occasionally as we reach out to connect and touch.  We can’t prevent it.  This leaves us with three options:

We can stop trying to connect to each other.  This is the saddest of all possible options, and I reject it entirely.

We can try to remove the fragments that seem most different and most dangerous.  This is the self-repression that Popova is speaking out against, and I agree that it’s not ideal.

Which leaves us with a third and final option: we can communicate with each other to try and warn about our various jagged edges and to help nourish and heal when we accidentally stab each other.

This, to me, is what sensitivity readers do.  They begin the conversation about accidental harm early on in the process, before much damage is done, and give the author a chance to change course – not to sand down their edges, but to find a better place for them, a way of connecting without harming.

Note here that it’s not the jagged edges that are a problem.  It’s the pain those edges cause when they connect with others.  Similarly, it’s not my white skin or my cisgendered body that’s a problem.  It’s the way my skin and my body influence my interactions with others.  I feel no need to be ashamed of my skin or body, but I have a responsibility to act thoughtfully so as not to hurt others with them.

I have always been an instinctual individualist.  For a long time, my knee-jerk response to anyone asking me to change myself was a stubborn ‘hell no‘.  And I remain wary of being pressured to conform for no good reason or worse, being coerced to.  But when you see your place in the world, and the ways you can adapt yourself to make life brighter and richer for everyone, then “changing the way you act in order to fit in” can be a profoundly beautiful and individualist act.

Feeling good vs doing good

Back in college, I based my Division III (senior thesis) research on a set of empathy studies by Nancy Eisenberg.  Eisenberg’s line of research hinges on a distinction between two different kinds of empathy: empathic concern, the ability to recognize and care about the hurt others feel, and personal distress, the experiencing of the other person’s hurt yourself.  Counterintuitively, personal distress is not positively associated with helping behavior.  In fact, it may even decrease the likelihood of helping, if there’s an easy escape route away from the empathy-provoking situation.

There’s a related line of research by June Tangney into the difference between shame and guilt.  As Tangney and Jessica Tracey summarize:

Shame is an acutely painful emotion that is typically accompanied by a sense of shrinking or “being small,” and by a sense of worthlessness and powerlessness. Shamed people also feel exposed. Although shame does not necessarily involve an actual observing audience to witness one’s shortcomings, there is often the imagery of how one’s defective self would appear to others. […]
Guilt, in contrast, is typically a less painful, devastating experience because the object of condemnation is a specific behavior, not the person as a whole. One’s core identity or self concept is less at stake. Rather than feeling a need to defend a vulnerable self-image under attack, people experiencing guilt are focused on the offense and its consequences, feeling tension, remorse, and regret over the “bad thing done.”

Just as empathy-induced personal distress may get in the way of helping behavior, shame-induced distress may play a causal role in antisocial behavior.  Research has found that a tendency towards shame responses rather than guilty responses predicts recidivism.

Some people advocate for emotion-free, ‘rational’ decision-making.  Others refuse to repress their emotions, and draw strength from their anger, their fear, their hope, their pride.  For me, the distinction between personal distress and empathic concern, and between shame and guilt, provides a way of reconciling these two approaches.

I embrace my emotions, but try to see them as separate from my identity: what I feel doesn’t change who I am.  This distance helps me to respond to my emotions more appropriately.  When I get angry, I ask myself: “Why am I angry?  What is provoking this anger?  Will taking action X address the problem that is provoking the anger, or will it just be cathartic?”  This helps me to make choices that I’m less likely to regret.

The yin and yang of questions and answers

In a previous post, I wrote that asking questions is harder than answering them, although I qualified that in a big way with “answering [questions] involves going back over and over again and updating our hypotheses, which makes answering questions feel hard”.  I want to revisit this claim.

Some of you may be familiar with the “reproducibility crisis” happening in the sciences, where many popular and well-known results have failed to replicate.  But what does failure to replicate mean?

Maybe it means that there was something wrong with the original study.   Maybe it means that there was something wrong with the replication.  But those aren’t the only options.  As nobel laureate psychologist Daniel Kahnamen wrote in an open letter to the scientific community:

In the myth of perfect science, the method section of a research report always includes enough detail to permit a direct replication. Unfortunately, this seemingly reasonable demand is rarely satisfied in psychology, because behavior is easily affected by seemingly irrelevant factors.

Note that underspecification of methods is an issue in all sciences.  Psychology just has a particularly rough time of it because psychology itself, like other soft sciences, is so underspecified.  Behavior is affected by seemingly irrelevant factors which are actually relevant previously unspecified factors.

In a better world, replication would be a collegial and common process involving many back-and-forths between originators and replicators.  Each replication could help identify new factors that turn out to be surprisingly relevant.  Eventually the hypothesis and methodology would be specified enough to permit consistent replication, at which point we’d have both our question and our answer.

This example makes clear that asking and answering questions are not two separate activities.  They are intertwined, at least when the questions and answers are new.  So it makes no sense to say, “Asking questions is harder than answering them” or vice versa, because you can’t do one meaningfully without also doing the other.

FYI: to read more about replication, try this article I wrote back in 2014 on the Open Science Collaboration blog: What we talk about when we talk about replication.

 

Hard and soft sciences

Back when I was a research scientist, I straddled the boundary between “hard” and “soft” sciences.  I did social psychology, which is a pretty soft science as sciences go, but I paired it with biology and physiology in general and endocrinology in particular, which meant getting a taste for some of the harder stuff.

I have never particularly liked the terms “hard” and “soft”, though, because it’s too easy to conflate them with “hard” and “easy”.  There’s a saying that goes: the soft sciences are easy to do poorly and hard to do well.  They are easier to do poorly than the hard sciences, and harder to do well than the hard sciences.  Here, have a chart:

What’s going on here?  The hard sciences are better developed than the soft sciences, so it’s clearer when someone’s making obvious mistakes, cutting corners, or making under-supported claims.  That makes it difficult to do poor work.  It’s also difficult to good work, of course.  The easiest thing to do in the hard sciences is to meet a minimum level of competency and do solid but uninspiring work.

Meanwhile in the soft sciences there’s questions even about the field’s basics.  There’s still a minimum level of competency, but it’s much less stringent than in the hard sciences.  So sloppy researchers tend to end up in the soft sciences.

Here’s another way to approach the hard/soft distinction. What’s easier, formulating questions or answering them?  It’s almost always easier to do the latter, provided you’ve very clearly and specifically formulated your question.  Of course we seldom do get our questions right on the first try, and so answering them involves going back over and over again and updating our hypotheses, which makes answering questions feel hard.  But the hardest parts of answering questions are really secretly still about asking them.

In the hard sciences, it’s easier to clearly and specifically formulate questions because so much knowledge has already been established.  Isaac Newton famously said (paraphrased) ‘If I have seen further it is only by standing on the shoulders of giants.’  The hard sciences are full of giants, with shoulders for modern researchers to stand on.  The soft sciences are by and large still on the ground.

For this reason, I prefer the terms “developed” vs “undeveloped” sciences.  I think it comes closer to the essential difference.

Note: this post has an update/correction post.

Shades of gray

What shade of gray would you say this is?

Considered in isolation, and without the help of a photo manipulation platform to tell you the precise CMYK values, it’s hard to say.  We reach naturally for points of comparison.  It’s lighter than a slate gray, we might say, but darker than a gainsboro gray.  Cooler than warm gray but warmer than cool gray.  Is it lighter than light gray?

Maybe?  Probably?  Let’s take a closer look:

That’s our custom gray on the left, and light gray on the right.  So it’s just a smidge lighter than light gray, but we can only tell when we put them right up close.  Put it up against a different gray, and it looks darker rather than lighter:

This is of course a metaphor.

When it came out last week that Al Franken had sexually harassed and assaulted Leeann Tweeden, people naturally reached for the most obvious point of comparison: the other Senator/Senate candidate recently accused of sexual assault, Roy Moore.

Some people have claimed that Moore and Franken are similar.  They both have used their power to violate the boundaries and consent of women.  Others have claimed that they’re dissimilar: that when you put Franken’s behavior up against Moore’s systematic stalking and molestation of girls as young as fourteen years old, he might as well be a saint.

But is Moore a useful point of comparison?  It’s not like Franken’s running against Moore.  And “the ideal public servant” is not all that useful either.  After all, no public servant is perfect.

So what is a useful comparison for Franken’s behavior?  Given that the question on everyone’s lips is whether Franken should resign, I submit the following point for comparison: the minimum acceptable standard for a US Senator.

Only 15 Senators have ever been expelled from Congress, the majority for making war against the United States by supporting the confederacy.  A larger number have resigned rather than face expulsion. Most of these cases were about bribery and corruption, but some were due to sexual misconduct.  Take for example Bob Packwood of Oregon, who resigned when the Senate Ethics Committee unanimously recommended his expulsion for gross sexual misconduct.  The chair of that committee, none other than Mitch McConnell, spoke about it four years later during the Clinton impeachment:

During the Packwood debate, we made the tough choice. And, I have to say, that decision was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do in my career in public service. To recommend expelling from the United States Senate a colleague, a member of my own party, and most importantly, a friend with whom I had served in the Senate for over a decade.

We sent a clear message to the nation that no man is above the law. That no man is so important to the well-being of our strong and prosperous nation that we have to compromise the fundamental, founding principles of truth and justice. We chose to rise above, not sink below. Rather than change our standards, we changed our Senator.

Let me also make a political point, here. We Republicans were aware during the Packwood debate that we would likely lose that Senate seat if Senator Packwood was removed from office. So, we had a choice: Retain the Senate seat or retain our honor. We chose honor, and never looked back.

I think that the United States Senate has a clear choice today. Do we want to retain President Clinton in office, or do we want to retain our honor, our principle, and our moral authority?

For me, and for many members in my impeachment-fatigued party, I choose honor.

What happened?  Twenty years later, McConnell has chosen dishonor over and over again, not least by supporting the leader of his party, Donald Trump, who has been accused of assault and harassment by 15 different women and has been caught bragging about harassing women on tape.  Perhaps if you asked McConnell, he’d say that Democrats started the moral race to the bottom by refusing to hold Clinton to the same standard as Packwood.  But what is the “standard” to which Packwood was held?  One could likely articulate a standard for behavior that Clinton passed while Packwood fell short of.

Packwood and Clinton and Moore and Franken are all different people who committed different types of wrongs. The same is true of Trump, and Dennis Hastert, and Anthony Weiner, and the many other elected officials who have been accused or convicted of harassment, assault, or abuse.  The question is not how they compare with each other but how they measure up to our standards for public officials, and whether we are strong enough to enforce our standards when people fall short.

I believe that our elected officials should be held to high standards.  Specifically, I believe that any type of sexual assault, abuse, or harassment should be disqualifying.  I am open to the idea that those who have done these things in the past and have made reparations should be able to hold office, though I’m not aware of any official or candidate who meets that description. I’m also open to the idea that those accused deserve an impartial investigation, although the strength of the evidence against both Moore and Franken make that point moot.

This is all a very long-winded way of saying I think Franken should resign, but I think it’s worthwhile to sketch out the framework through which I came to that conclusion, so that I can hold myself to it in the future.

Compromise and its discontents

It’s easy to complain about “purity politics”.  It’s easy to complain about “neoliberals” and “sellouts”.  But we live in hard times, and the easy route’s not going to get us anywhere.

Here are two things that are both generally true: you need to compromise sometimes and sometimes you need to stick to your principles.  This question is, which times are which?

I thought about this recently when I read, back to back, two stories.  The first was about Cyrus Vance, the corrupt Manhattan DA who recently ran unopposed as a Democrat.  “Get him out of office!” I thought, angrily.  “Even if he gets replaced by a Republican!”  Then, I read about the DFA withdrawing their endorsement of Ralph Northam because he came out against sanctuary cities.  “That’s terrible,” I thought, about both Northam and the DFA.  “I disagree with him on this issue but we’ve still got to get him elected.”

Whenever a Democrat does something wrong (or a Republican does something right) you will find people on the left arguing over whether or not we should support them.  There’s always someone saying we need to take our allies where we can get them, and someone saying that this or that is a bridge too far.

This dynamic is especially heated right now, thanks to the Republican party.  They’re fueling both groups.  The compromisers say, “Look, look at the other option.  We need to do all we can to resist these hateful, violent, reckless people.”  And the principle-stickers say, “Look, look at what happened to Republicans when they embraced that mindset.”

So how can we figure out when to compromise, and when to stick to principle?  We need to get better at articulating the specific context that’s driving our arguments, rather than falling back on statements like “We can’t sacrifice our principles!” or “We need to compromise sometimes!”  Not only are those statements obviously true, they read like an attack.  No one wants to be told they’re unprincipled or impractical.  No one needs to be told that, either.

In that spirit, here is just a starter list of things to consider when making a specific judgment call:

  1. What good/bad things will happen if we don’t compromise?  What good/bad things will happen if we do?
  2. Of the things that might happen, how much of them will affect us personally?  If most of them will affect other people, what do those people say about the dilemma we’re in?
  3. How set-in-stone is this decision?  Are we electing someone for a one year term or a six year term?  How hard will it be to roll back this legislation?
  4. Will our actions change the fundamental structure within which we act?  If we support someone who is corrupt, or who won’t enforce constitutional checks and freedoms, will we have the institutional tools to take them down if we change our minds, or is now our best or only chance?

A perfect circle

Chalk Corridor by fdecomite 6/25/2013 CC BY 2.0

Objective truth exists in the way that a perfect circle exists.  They’re both useful constructs, helpful for comparison and for motivation, but we must be careful in how we apply them.

Statements about truth that are unhelpful:

  • “What I’m saying is objectively true.”  (“What I’m drawing is perfectly circular.”)
  • “What you’re saying is not objectively true.”  (“What you’re drawing is not entirely perfect.”)
  • “Nothing is ever entirely objectively true, so we might as well give up caring about truth.”  (“No circle will ever be perfect, so we might as well give up trying to make circles.”)

Statements about truth that are helpful:

  • “This statement is as close to objectively true as I can get it.”  (“This circle is as perfect as I can draw it.”)
  • “Your statement would be closer to objective truth if you X.”  (“Your circle would be rounder if you fixed X.”)
  • “This statement is more true than that statement.”  (“This circle is more round than that circle.”)
  • “That’s not even trying to be true, that’s a damn lie.”  (“That’s… not a circle.  That’s a square, I think.”)

Go forth and draw, my friends.