When I was a teenager I had an unspoken agreement with my father. I could watch R-rated movies at home under one condition: Any time so much of as the suggestion of a nipple or pubic hair appeared on the screen dad retained the right to jump from where he sat on the couch and cover the screen with his body, arms waving madly and distractingly in front of the picture, and block the scene from view. Televisions were still small enough back then. I called it the nudity dance. Of course, I had little to complain about: the only thing overtly censored in our house was a little innocent nudity and scenes of (largely consensual) sex despite he fact that we were a fairly religious family. The jumping and waving about — obviously memorable — often left us kids casting knowing glances at each other and laughing in confusion at the moment. Now from the perspective of a parent, I can begin to somewhat understand how that desire to filter media from one’s kid can be irrationally — almost instinctively — strong. But, as illogical as this censorship might have seemed (both then and now) I’ve started to wonder if there was a bit of skeptical rationality at play, too.

The filter was small, however. Were his only objective that I follow in his moral belief system (at least more rigidly than I’ve done) dad would have been far better to filter the more intellectually challenging material that crossed my path (such as the piles of science fiction novels I read that were so often subtle treatises on alternate philosophies.) But he didn’t and so this isn’t an argument for or against the definition of such a filter, only a skeptical look at how it is often applied and the meaning derived from its application. The filter may have been small, but the effect… well, that now seems quite big, arguably emerging as a key factor in how I now filter the barrage of information I face each and every day.

In thinking back on these experiences, and considering my perception of the quaint oddness of dad’s blocking of the television from such content — content that was admittedly of great interest to most any teenage boy — I’m left to wonder what exactly he was blocking. I suggest here that maybe the content wasn’t the point: resourceful kid that I was, and had my interest been so inclined, I could have named a dozen friends (for each a point of swagger and bravado) and twice as many other sources of far less restricted access to porn. I mean, by thirteen, anyone without such access either didn’t care or hadn’t bothered trying. And this was pre-Internet. I dare not even offer a guess at the exponential increase in access that has since occurred.

Any father extrapolating back to his own childhood and assuming a general, relative increase in availability over time, should have assumed that blocking, restricting, and demonizing said material was a futile pursuit. What I can only presume then is that there was a meaning in the message that only years later — as a parent myself — begins to make sense.

But how does one then rationally — skeptically and logically — apply a filter to the media (and by this I mean television, movies, radio, books, and web content) pouring in ever increasing volumes across the gaze of our kids? And should we? I suppose the first question that must be explored is why might we need to filter?

Depending on where one grows up, perception of the subjective morality of content is very different. I recall my first trip to Europe. (Need I go on?) Visiting from the upright, mock-Victorian-style virtues of small town Western Canada, the streets of Amsterdam, London, or Paris are bubbling over with raw sexuality. It became very obvious to me, even based on that trip alone, the filters projected by my parents upon me as I grew up were hardly universal. In that way, it can hardly be obvious to claim a standard for right and wrong; Note I say neither impossible nor unlikely, just not obvious. Moral philosophers have been arguing these points for centuries, and this is no place for such an argument.

One humble possibility emerges in popular psychology. I’ve been reading on Freud lately and it got me thinking about ego and id. Freud broke down the unconscious mind’s id into the factors of life-seeking and death-seeking. I doubt that he meant that deep down we were all suicidal, but the latter — death-seeking — is often applied to the universal search for peace and quiet, escape, or solitude. In this way, our desire to escape into media — the narratives of books and movies, et cetera — might be deemed to fulfill an id-like desire. Through such escape, the isolation of bits of reality is an attempt for our minds to find peace between the activities of our lives. That is to say, by consuming media we could be — extrapolating from Freud — forcing ourselves to focus and drown out the rest of reality while we isolate a single element of information and absorb it in the form of a description or narrative. In this way, it could be argued, that perhaps we are unconsciously compelled towards the entertainment provided by a seemingly unlimited quantity of information and media. That’s not to say our consumption of media is necessary, but easily and arguably (in a way and using the definition loosely) addictive.

Such an analysis does put the moral perspective on media consumption into a different light for parents concerned about filtering media in a rational way. For such a parent, the throttle-back of content into the minds of our young charges becomes less a kind of moral stopper of the content and more a kind of lesson in regulated dose. It is then no longer just about blocking it — or even censoring it at all — but rather about inducing a kind of perceived understanding of both a larger, societal taboo towards some kinds of information and an introduction to a culture increasingly overwhelmed by the availability of that information.

In keeping with my own example, it might not have been that my father was banning such content completely — forbidding it or censoring images of nudity and sex in our house, then — but rather giving the message that dosage and control are important factors, too. He jumped in front of the television and blocked the screen not because of what we might have seen but rather because it was his job to help us understand that filters do exist — should exist — agree with them or not, and that those were his. Just as like he conveyed with, for example, alcohol — it exists, we partake, but until you are old enough and responsible enough, not in our house — media and information got the object lesson on responsible substance-abuse. Obvious, right?

I might argue that from this perspective, moral philosophy and the nature of the content in media — good, bad, right or wrong — then becomes a mere definition. It would follow that the greater and higher meaning of such actions are drawn from the way we first learn, then teach in a rational way, about the responsible consumption and control of that media.

That isn’t to say subjective morality is non-existent or irrelevant. On the contrary. Numerous studies are available that show correlations between childhood diet and television^[1] or childhood aggression and media.^[2] And as a humanist I’m hardly in a position to be interested in enforcing any form of morality on anyone. If parents want to be a Ned Flanders (satellite TV, with nearly all of the two hundred and thirty channels blocked out!) go nuts. Again, this isn’t an argument for or against the definition of such a filter, only a skeptical look at how it is often applied and the meaning derived from its application. As a humanist I’m not interested in interfering in the moral framework of others, but as a skeptic I insist that framework be a rational one.

So then, from the perspective of a parent can filtering of media be rational? Or put in another way, was my dad onto something logical when he did his television dance or was he merely enforcing a vague moral rule without reason or context? And what is the lesson for the skeptical parent with the job of figuring out if and how to filter media from their child?

Would it be stating the obvious to suggest that these rules are completely fluid and possibly irrelevant? Morality, after all, is only a definition and definitions of such abstract concepts by their nature are fluid, changing and evolving to meet our needs for meaning. It is the meaning that is important and the context that makes it such. And a filter applied rationally might not be a filter applied because of the definitions it inhibits, but rather a filter applied because of the meaning it conveys. That is to say, an irrational filter may seek to hide bare breasts where a rational filter might teach that the context for seeing bare breasts needs to fit into a framework of behavior and broad spectrum of moral opinions. Even a proponent of the strictest propriety would have reason to admit that the best lessons are those that are backed by evidence, and a filter with neither meaning nor context remains merely a definition of one individual’s version of right and wrong.

How then is the filter to be applied? And should it be applied? I suppose the rational response to such a question is that parents have little choice but to apply some kind of filter to the stories and images that enter the minds of their child. My dad’s literal barricade of the scenes from the television may have done little to prevent me from access to such content, but nonetheless impressed upon me the understanding of a broader sense of responsibility and control around it, whether he intended that lesson or not. Practically, a skeptical parent might extrapolate the lesson here any many ways; Perhaps we select certain channels or quantities of time to watch television, limit the number of scary stories we read before bed, or shun advertising by fast-forwarding or turning down the volume on the tv or radio. The things we choose to filter are personal choices, but arguably irrelevant. What becomes obvious later on — the unstated lesson — is that we filter at all, and it’s how we keep control and in-check the information (from media or elsewhere) that will bombard us for the rest of our lives.

References

[1] D . Borzekowski, The 30-Second Effect An Experiment Revealing the Impact of Television Commercials on Food Preferences of Preschoolers. Journal of the American Dietetic Association , Volume 101 , Issue 1 , Pages 42 – 46

[2] Thomas N. Robinson, MD, MPH; Marta L. Wilde, MA; Lisa C. Navracruz, MD; K. Farish Haydel; Ann Varady, MS, Arch Pediatr Adolesc Med. Effects of Reducing Children’s Television and Video Game Use on Aggressive Behavior , 2001;155:17-23. http://archpedi.ama-assn.org/cgi/content/abstract/155/1/17

While I gladly accept comments on the general blog areas of skepdad.ca, in keeping with the magazine-style of this bimonthly publication article, comment here are closed and feedback can be submitted in the form of letters to the editor using the contact form. The best letters and responses will be published in an upcoming issue.

1. The Fabric of the Cosmos by Brian Greene

Published a couple years ago, Greene has a wonderful gift for sharing the complexities of physics and the universe through analogy and great storytelling. The first time the “light came on” for me with regard to the theory of relativity was when I was reading this book. “Oh. Well, okay then. That’s really neat, actually.” If you haven’t sampled this or his other work, both are worth your effort — and as of last week available as audio-books from Audible.

2. Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond

I picked this one up near the end of University and spent many long hours lugging it back and forth on the bus while commuting through Vancouver. It is award-winning, concise and clear science writing that anyone interested in explaining the strange forces that act upon societies and have made us what we are today should read.

3. The Way Things Work by David Macaulay

I’m stepping back to when I used to work in the library (yes, I’m really a nerd — though I met my wife-to-be there) and on breaks would squirrel this book away quite often to pick through it. It’s classified as a “juvenile reference” book — which usually means it’s for kids, but clever dads will get a kick out of it, too. I should also mention there is an updated version (that likely no longer includes a cut-away drawing of a 5 1/4 inch floppy drive) which I have yet to read. Hmmm…

4. A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking

Just because it’s a classic and you can’t say you’ve read a physics book until you’ve been through this one.

5. The Double Helix by James D. Watson

In high school, my grade twelve biology teacher had a class set of this book that she handed around one day and instructed us to read. That went up like a lead balloon, of course — but I read it. And fifteen years later would easily recommend it as a first-person narrative of the grit behind real research (at least in the 1950s.)

6. The Demon Haunted World by Carl Sagan

This is where I plug the “skeptics” side of things. Anything by Sagan is likely to pass muster on a bit of science reading, but if you are looking to get through the classic introduction to critical thought and it’s application to the real world, look no further than this.

7. Gödel, Escher, Bach by Douglas Hofstadter

Frankly — honestly — I don’t know exactly why I’m recommending this book. It’s insanely dense and difficult to understand. It is abstract and bizarre, blending a pursuit of understanding a blend of mathematics, art, and music through an odd mix of explanation and Lewis-Carroll-esque narrative. And I’ve never got through the whole thing, start to finish. But someday I will. And someday I’d like to have a conversation with someone else who has.

8. Flatterland by Ian Stewart

I know, I know. This is but a mere sequel to the classic “Flatland” and pales in comparison. I picked up Flatterland whilst living out West and (really) read it cover to cover in only a few days. And for some reason my brain still wanders back to the analogies and explanations presented in it whenever I have cause to ponder multi-dimensional physics. (It happens more often than you might imagine.)

9. The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins

Dawkins has sparked a lot of controversy lately, but years before he was the poster-child for the secular counterculture — before I was even born — Dawkins wrote a little book on genetics. From my follow-up reading since, the whole books is full of great ideas, but the most quoted chapter in that book is one where he dives into an analogy of genetics based around the concept of the propagation of information in the human mind. It was a relatively new concept, but essentially marks the introduction of the concept of “memes.”

10. On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin

And finally, the reason for this post. Yes, I’ve read it. One cannot call oneself a University-educated biologist and NOT have read it, understood it, and have seen how it fits so neatly into the living world. It’s one-hundred and fifty years old this month and, no, it’s not a vast left-wing conspiracy. No, it does not diminish the depth and wonder of the universe. And no, it’s not just an “idea” — it’s one of the fundamental tenets of modern biology upon which our understanding of medicine, agriculture, and the interaction of complex ecosystems is based. Just read it.

I suppose I could turn this into a book review (aka, a book report) and bore readers numb with a shallow analysis of a tome of a novel with so many layers, twists, turns, and tear-jerking moments (sniff) my humble overview would barely begin to do it justice. But instead, I thought I would comment on the simple vein of critical thinking that runs through the self-revealing narrative of the main character’s thoughts. The main character, a young boy blossoming from the beginning of the novel as a young child barely cognizant of his own self to an intelligent free-thinking young adult shaping the (mis)perceptions of the world around him, endures trials that would reduce many of us to conformity. Instead we are told the story of racism, fear, hate, war, violence, and growing up in the middle of it all facing the pressures to follow the norm — pressures to segregate, pressures to believe, pressures to surrender — the boy as narrator telling the story as if coolly reflecting on a detailed memory. His analysis of what he thought, why he thought, and the matter-of-fact analysis of his youth always bleeds through the drama of the underlying action. His careful explanation of the logic and reasoning, backed by the evidence of his own strong memory and balanced by the education received from a fortunate collection of informal instructors, benefactors, and detractors, is methodically outlined from the perspective of his clever innocence. For the parent of any young child, the lessons burdened upon this young protagonist are neither ones we would wish upon any son or daughter, nor any lessons we could hope to replicate — instead representing a dark ideal for the scarring of survival tool of critical thought upon a young mind, and in the process offering a bleak commentary on the difficulty of such an education and also the benefits.

I struggle when I start wondering what kinds of books either kid or adults should read to build their critical thinking skills. Of course, the simple answer is “everything.” I can’t in good faith recommend the absence of knowledge under any circumstance. (Knowledge is indeed power, after all.) So, this is not so much a recommendation, as an surprised response to a piece of literature that — had I known it was so thoroughly relevant to the subject matter of this blog — I would have read years ago. And I now have a dog-eared paperback on my bookshelf if you’d like to stop by and pick it up.

How do I know this? Spend an afternoon in our living room and just try and not trip over one of a dozen books spread across the floor, having been pulled from the shelves each day, their pages (often heavy cardboard pages, of course) poured over meticulously by a set of young eyes or held aloft towards dad or mom in prompting for a read. Spend an afternoon in our living room and just try not to be begged with those little eyes to read a few pages from Sandra Boynton, Dr. Seuss, or some little Golden Classic. It’s my anecdotal evidence, and I’m sticking to it.

Does all this reading make her smarter? Probably not.

Does all this reading improve her language skills? Not likely.

Does all this reading prepare her for greatness? Ha!

Perhaps someday there will find conclusive proof that the young mind inundated with countless hours of “Goodnight Moon” has some advantage in intelligence, but for now reading is just a great way to spend a few extra minutes with your skepkid anytime of the day — and it probably won’t hurt their inclination to keep that tradition alive with (or without you) as the years press on.

For some great suggestions on what to read with your kids, check out our friends’ suggestions at Claire’s Booklist Blog (Link no longer available)!

I’ve been reading aloud two books to my daughter. And while she does not understand the content, context, or conflict of either, I’m banking on the value of simply a familiar voice and a comforting tone adding to the prospect and value of a potential life-long love of books and reading… just like her old man. That said, this isn’t a review of the value of reading, but a comparison and (yes) a question about the types of books one should be reading.

So here’s the thing: the two books I am reading aloud right now are both classics, Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Johann David Wyss’ The Swiss Family Robinson. Assignment: compare and contrast. And like any good skeptical puzzle, the data so far has me both surprised and questioning my assumptions.

Before I started reading…

My initial assumptions, having only vague and distant memories of both tomes, were as follows: Verne as science and Wyss as religion. That is to say, I understood Jules Verne to be an author of some fantastic regard, but with ideas steeped in the scientific method. Contrary to that, I supposed the writings of Wyss (a pastor in his time) would be steeped in high handed religion and moral preaching.

Where did these assumptions come from? Popular culture, I suppose would be the answer. These are not the sources of my own assumptions, but Wikipedia sums up the popular opinion of each:

“Jules Verne’s novels have been noted for being startlingly accurate descriptions of modern times. Paris in the 20th Century is an often cited example of this as it describes air conditioning, automobiles, the internet, television, and other modern conveniences very similar to their real world counterparts.” ^[1]

A similar, but much abbreviated entry for The Swiss Family Robinson simply states two facts that many avid readers probably know: Johann David Wyss was a swiss pastor, and The Swiss Family Robinson is more often remembered for the 1960 Walt Disney movie adaptation.

If my own assumptions do not match your’s (perhaps more likely a circumstance than I expect) you are indeed better read than I.

…and then part way along…

Now, I’m going to step back for a moment and clarify: I have not finished reading either book. I’m not a slow reader, but we try to read aloud a chapter a night from whichever book suits my fancy (though eventually I suppose it will be listener’s choice) which takes us at a meandering pace through each novel. I am admittedly one of those guys who has a dozen books on the go at any one time and I can (though my wife wonders how the heck I do it) still manage to keep all the plots and/or premises straight. Bouncing back and forth between a couple kid’s books read aloud is not a problem. That said, these impressions are from the first half of each book and a part of me fully expects the characters to grow to better fit my assumptions of the author’s reputation.

Why am I doing this then?

I suppose my analysis of each is coming from an eye for both skepticism and critical thought. I don’t usually pay undue attention to those things in my own reading, what with absorbing heaps of science fiction and fantasy as I do, but (because of this blog, mostly) I’ve become a little more observant with regard to kid’s books. That, and I thought it might be interesting to track my “skeptical impressions” of literature at various points in two contrasting books.

Within the first half-dozen chapters of each book certain points begin become clear about the critical depth of each novel:

For starts, Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea is indeed a tale of science and technology, but his characters (at least in the early pages) are not models of critical thought. The story is awash with technical details, numbers, calculations, and observations, true. And the story so far does have an air of analysis to it, but the main character does little to encourage others to think on things. In fact, in one early chapter the protagonist actively debates another more skeptical character and does so with a generous portion of fallacious reasoning, jumping to conclusions, quoting false dichotomies, and making assumptions that should not be made. Perhaps, my memory failing me, I’m going to come to the end to find this is the lesson of the tale. If so, please don’t comment and spoil it.

The Swiss Family Robinson on the other hand does have a distinctly theistic overtone, but the narrator (and father) promotes common sense, rational thought and actively encourages the kids to be creative in their approach to a situation otherwise beyond their control. In fact (so far in my reading, anyhow) I would almost argue that the religion aspect of the story is more akin to a hollow acknowledgment to the culture of the day and the author’s profession, allowing Wyss to approach the moral, creative, and rational lessons he wishes to convey without other objection.

The Jury is Still Out…

… and I’ll keep reading hoping to (as the slow art of reading aloud only permits) uncover more balanced perceptions of these novels and their value in all those important things — from a simple love of reading and spending time with the girl, to setting a framework for critical thought.

[1] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jules_Verne
[2] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Swiss_Family_Robinson

Skeptical Tidbits

New Partners #4: My own personal example for blending the spiritual with rational, level-headedness is here. I could never do that.

Off Topic #2: I spent Thursday talking to many, many teachers. I see new opportunity. I’ll need to think on that more.

Skeptic’s Tip #3: I think the skeptics circle, having just discovered that myself recently, might be a good place to whet one’s typing fingers if one was looking to get caught up in the whirlwind of skepblogs. I’m working on something for #80.

I’ve been re-reading Dr. Carl Sagan’s book The Demon Haunted World over the past week as I endeavor to fill the motivational gaps in my writing here. I’m not for lack of motivation, per se. But I would (ever so humbly) admit that the sheer quantity of information to be explored has left me struggling to narrow my focus. For those who have read Sagan’s (famously skeptical) book, I’ll elaborate by adding that I just — five minutes prior to writing these words, in fact — finished the chapter on science education and children. I mention this because it struck me as another one of those “meta” moments for this blog, even now as I continue to narrow out my little niche a mere twenty-five posts along in this endeavor.

I don’t yet know what that means, but I wanted to share some quotes and observations from the book that I thought relevant to the notion of raising critical thinking kids. For example, Sagan writes:

Bright, curious children are a national and world resource. They need to be cared for, cherished, and encouraged. But mere encouragement isn’t enough. We must also give them the essential tools to think with. ^[1]

Perhaps this seems obvious — and who reading a skeptical parenting blog wouldn’t agree with that statement? But I’m not sure I remind myself and others of this sentiment often enough. It isn’t just about the idea of critical thinking. It’s about setting a foundation for a lifetime of critical thought. This is where self-doubt creeps in: what is that foundation, exactly? Heck, I’ve been plucking away just trying to define my purpose here, so when do I start asking the right questions? The BIG questions? Sagan goes on to remark:

Every now and then I’m lucky enough to teach a kindergarten or first-grade class. Many of these children are natural-born scientists — although heavy on the wonder side and light on skepticism. They’re curious, intellectually vigorous. Provocative and insightful questions bubble out of them. They exhibit enormous enthusiasm. I’m asked follow-up questions. They’ve never heard the notion of a “dumb question.” ^[1]

It is a concept that gives me new hope for the efforts of skeptical dads (and moms) everywhere. The idea that kids are natural scientists — vessels for knowledge with the tools of “why, why, why?” built right in — is an amazing prospect. And I think it gives a hint to why I myself was thinking along one of the lines of my “Three Eyes” of critical thought: Imagination is wonder, curiosity, and the sense of never hesitating to ask the questions. Imagination is creativity that is naturally built into every child from birth. Imagination is kids not being blinded by beliefs and previously held perceptions about the world and the way it works.

So back to the blog: my motivational gaps are tied to the very notion that I’m aiming to foster. The skep/dad blog is about parents being role-models for critical thought as they raise their children to become active thinkers — and part of that is, as Sagan suggests, not being afraid to ask our own dumb questions and look silly in our apparent ignorance of the answers. What that means for the future efforts of this blog is only positive — as I’m sure my readers can only imagine.

[1] Sagan, C. The Demon-Haunted World, Science as a Candle in the Dark, 1996.

Skeptical Tidbits

New Partners #2: We’ve been officially inducted into the Order of the Science Scouts — which basically means (a) a much appreciated link, and (b) I need to earn myself some badges!