The Stench of Politics

In this society, one has to be a real escape artist—a real Houdini of the soul—if one wants to get away from politics. Open any newspaper in the country, and you’ll find the same three items: a piece about China, an editorial on foreign policy, and something about Barack Obama. Many of our country’s most prestigious writers do nothing, it seems, but discuss affairs of state. And the nationwide obsession with politics never dies, not even for a moment. Politics has become a cockroach.

But all of that is old news. What is more interesting, perhaps, is that so many of us are seriously concerned about political apathy. Apathy seems to really disturb us—many of us are even prepared to volunteer our time to teach children the importance of political awareness. Why do we believe that apathy is something foul, something worth fighting against? We have to take this question earnestly—it is precisely when dealing with this question that we need to be “profound” and “scholarly.”

College students invent countless arguments against apathy, and there’s no need to itemize all of them. But it’s helpful to take a look at three of the more popular anti-apathy arguments.

The first argument is perhaps the most vulgar, and only a political scientist would find it interesting. The argument goes something like this: nationwide debate leads to desirable policy outcomes. For there to be nationwide debate, everyone needs to be politically aware. Therefore, political apathy is bad. This argument is insincere. Despite our rhetoric, we don’t want nationwide debate to set the national agenda—we want to set the agenda ourselves.

Here’s the second argument against apathy: political awareness transforms people into sophisticated thinkers, and sophisticated thinking is inherently desirable. Therefore, political apathy is bad. This is a self-congratulatory argument, an argument whose paternalism makes it especially appealing to those of us who enjoy being witty.

The third argument against apathy is only slightly more interesting than the other two. It goes like this: if people are apathetic, they won’t think about critical moral issues. Thinking about critical moral issues is a rite of passage (and makes boys into men). Therefore, political apathy is bad. This argument is linked to a kind of romantic sensibility, and it’s particularly popular among those of us who like to fantasize about being revolutionaries.

Taken together, these arguments form a trinity so holy that few of us are profane enough to openly defend apathy. The three arguments come down on us with the weight of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The arguments, in other words, actually seem to affect us. We take them seriously, and we routinely tell each other how important it is to be “engaged” in politics.

But there’s more. In this society, it’s very difficult to become an esteemed intellectual unless one writes constantly about politics. And writing about politics has become an effective way to hide the fact that one has nothing to say. (Would anyone actually read David Brooks—or any other writer with the profundity of a giraffe—if he didn’t write about politics?) It’s an odd situation. We fight over everything, but we’re united in our distaste for apathy. Why?

All of our arguments against apathy have something in common: they reek of self-deception, and they betray a guilty conscience. I, for one, have been suspicious of these arguments since I was a toddler. If one wants to learn the real reason why apathy bothers us so much, one needs a strong sense of smell. Luckily, we college students are good at sniffing out nuances, so let’s take a closer look at the matter.

If I know that my neighbor cares about politics, I can rest assured that he spends too much time reading the New York Times to ever break into my home or beat me in the street. We feel safe around people who are interested in politics—we can predict how they will behave and, as such, we can trust them. People who are interested in politics tend to obey the law and play by the rules. If a man is “politically engaged,” we know that he is tame, like a domesticated animal. We know, in other words, that the politically engaged man isn’t dangerous. Our struggle against apathy, then, is motivated by a kind of fear. The desire to get people involved in politics stems from a sense of paranoia, a sense that one is in danger and needs to protect oneself at all costs. Politics as the daughter of paranoia—can it really be?

On some level, we’re ashamed of our paranoia. We never talk about it, and we never call it by its name—wait a minute!—we call it by another name. We call it “civic duty.” Don’t get the wrong idea—I’m not trying to suggest that there’s anything bad about being fearful for one’s own safety. I even believe that we all have a right, a “human right,” to feel afraid. But being scared—that is to say, paying attention to politics—is no civic duty.

At the very end of the day, when our sense of smell is at its most acute, we realize that politics is a very simple matter. Politics is the costume with which fear disguises itself. Fear, after all, rarely has the courage to show its face. Can it really be? Is our interest in politics just... a neurosis?

The author is a Columbia College senior majoring in English and political science. He is an editor with The Current. Illuminated Manuscripts runs alternate Mondays. Opinion@columbiaspectator.com