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(03/31/22 9:58am)
I, like the Middlebury community at large, join in an unequivocal condemnation of Russia’s aggression on Ukraine, whose violation of international sovereignty has precipitated the fastest-growing refugee crisis since WWII in Europe. I have had many conversations with friends and family expressing feelings of despair, hopelessness, anger, anxiety and loss; there is no doubt that we as students and as a campus community are living, yet again, through another tragic moment in history.
(04/29/21 9:59am)
This past summer, the Movement for Black Lives inspired conversations on race and white supremacy to a larger extent that the United States has experienced in decades. Many individuals and institutions asked themselves seriously for the first time: what actions do we have to take to combat racism? Although this question is well-meaning, it is fundamentally flawed.
To fixate on “doing” anti-racist work is wrong because dismantling white supremacy requires foundational changes in the way we navigate being. How do we live out our values? How do we conduct relationships between friends and colleagues? What is the vibe of the spaces we create and navigate? How does your presence make a space feel, from the classroom to the dinner line at Proc? Living uncomfortably with these questions will change the type of people — and the type of college — we are.
Doing anti-racist work, on the other hand, encourages performative activism because it prioritizes one-off actions over systemic shifts. It enables those in power — both at the institutional and individual level — to “prove” they are anti-racist without requiring that they actually change who they are. There are intuitive examples that make sense to us; the trend of posting black squares on Instagram to “black out” our social media feeds, for example, quickly drew backlash as a tactic that encouraged public performativity of “wokeness” without actually encouraging transformative change.
Yet incentives for performative anti-racism are present in more than just social media “slacktivism”; they are deeply incorporated in how we are taught to behave. We’ve unconsciously internalized the notion that our self-worth is defined by our productivity — a concept rooted in capitalism that plays out in our daily lives. The competitive nature of academia at a school like Middlebury is an example of this. We don’t pass college by demonstrating to our professors the person we’ve become (even though that is, surprisingly for some, actually the point of a liberal arts education). We graduate by proving we’ve done what it takes, syllabus by syllabus, essay by essay, test by test. This is equally true for faculty, whose admittance into the esteemed category of tenure relies more on producing research and favorable reviews from students than from proving any commitment or background to critical pedagogy.
It’s not your fault if your first instinct when addressing racism is wanting to “do something” — it’s the way we survive at Middlebury. But if we transfer this checklist mentality to our anti-racist work, the dynamic process of becoming different people — and, ultimately, a different institution — is subsumed by the individual acts we do.
Chances are you might be a bit frustrated by now; the idea that acting on our desire to change the world for the better can be problematic seems paralyzing and counterintuitive. You might be wondering: How do we dismantle white supremacy if we can’t do anything? Are you saying that attending a protest doesn’t matter? What about Middlebury’s anti-racist taskforce that “does” stuff all the time?
As any good organizer will tell you, however, actions are only as valuable as the intent behind them. If we don’t have a deliberate conversation about our goals, about what we as individuals and as a college want to become, then everything we do is aimless at best, and dangerously insincere at worst. When anti-racist work is seen as a requirement, doing anti-racist work becomes the goal itself, and we become so busy counting our steps that we lose track of why we’re walking in the first place (a trap that Middlebury should be keenly aware of as it continues its impressive strides with its five-year action plan).
Engaging in anti-racist work, therefore, is totally fine — as long as your intentions are rooted in the desire to enact systemic cultural change in the way we live, work, play, and support one another, rather than in some vague idea that putting on a protest or attending a training is what you “should” be doing. This is as true of clubs as it is of individuals. Ask yourselves not “what we need to do” to get more BIPOC students involved, but “how do we need to change as a group”.
Being anti-racist is deeply reflective, and centered on self. It means cultivating empathy and solidarity. It entails a reorientation of values towards interdependence and cooperation, instead of competition and “success”. For those with privilege, it will require more listening than we have probably ever done, and accepting accountability for the harm we have already perpetuated. And, perhaps least satisfyingly for those of us who love our check-lists, it will never truly be finished (perhaps that’s why it’s so difficult to fathom).
The Movement for Black Lives has sparked genuine interest in engaging anti-racism. But anti-racism is, at its core, transformative — it requires that we change who we are as individuals and as institutions. If you want to “do anti-racist work”, then, it’s time to internalize this idea and plan accordingly.
Connor Wertz is a member of the class of 2022.
(05/14/20 10:39am)
Two weeks ago, we witnessed the faculty vote to maintain the opt-in credit/no credit grading system for this semester. The vote proved that even in a time of crisis, Middlebury College continues to conduct itself in a neoliberal manner, emphasizing “financial-sustainability” over the well-being of its students, staff and community. Arguments surrounding graduate school requirements, individuals’ “right to choose” and sustained academic rigor exhausted themselves against a virtual student movement calling for empathy and equity — and won. What does that say about us? In the midst of the coronavirus pandemic, this grading decision offers us a painfully poignant lense to examine who we — as a college, student body and community — are.
We do not wish to revive an old debate, but rather to contextualize its result in order to answer the question many students have been asking themselves: how did this happen?
We believe that Middlebury, by upholding an opt-in grading system this semester, has demonstrated that it is a business first and a college second, caring more about its reputation than its ability to educate. The story we tell ourselves — of a close-knit community striving for academic excellence together — has been supplanted by an incessant drive to progress as marketable individuals, rather than as an educated community.
Welcome to the neoliberal arts.
We are well aware that “neoliberalism” is a loaded word with more definitions than there are students at Middlebury.
For the purpose of our understanding, however, neoliberalism is an ideology – one with resulting policies and praxes – that reorders social interactions not around a polis, or a community, but around the market. When Margaret Thatcher said “there’s no such thing as society” she meant it literally; under neoliberal logic, there are only rational, individual actors.
It is difficult to imagine prioritizing community over the individual when we’ve been fed a culture of competition since we could stack toy rings on a pole or kick a soccer ball (or, for that matter, get into a college with an acceptance rate under 20%). So although it was disappointing to see our faculty and administration bow to the forces of competition and individuality, we should have expected it.
But the question we’ve been asking ourselves is “why?” In our capitalist economy, the dominant story of success includes attending graduate school and securing a high-paying job. These markers of “success” profoundly shape our education. Liberal arts schools like Middlebury tend to pride themselves on the diversity and interrelation of their disciplines, claiming to holistically educate students and create well-rounded individuals who are “good people” as well as good additions to the labor force.
Despite this, we opted for a grading system that aligns with the core priorities of neoliberalism and its narrative of success. By prioritizing letter grades, we have proven that we value competition over cooperation. By arguing that the current grading model affords every student freedom of choice, we have again overlooked the question of who is able to choose. This again disadvantages those in our community who are in situations where they have no choice, making it clear that we value the rights of the individual over those of the collective.
In this way, we perpetuate the inequalities within our community by continuing to privilege the privileged and disadvantage the disadvantaged. By choosing the option that maintains the status quo, we have chosen to continue preparing students to participate in, instead of resist, the system that is now falling apart around us.
It can seem like Middlebury is too small, and we are too powerless, to make any practical stabs at creating an education not beholden to neoliberal beliefs. However, we strongly believe that any choice to shift outside these narratives is a necessary step toward action. We had an opportunity to change our narrative, and unlike comparable institutions — Columbia, Harvard, Dartmouth and Yale — we failed.
We do not want to trivialize the concerns expressed by our fellow students, nor imply that our faculty and administration have acted with anything but the best of intentions. We also want to recognize that spending these weeks online has proven to us over and again the aspects of community that supersede our hyper-individualized education — the daily acts of friendship, kindness and love that we are missing so often right now.
Yet it is in crises like these that communities must reimagine and renegotiate their underlying values and internalized narratives. As we do so, it is becoming clear that Middlebury is still stubbornly stuck in the ideology of neoliberal arts. We have the capacity to change, and the obligation to do so when members of our community are suffering.
We love Middlebury. As students who call this place home, we hope it can take this moment of crisis to change in powerful and lasting ways.
Connor Wertz is a member of the class of 2022. Hannah Laga Abram is a member of the class of 2023.
(03/12/20 9:57am)
Imagine this: a local farm uses food waste and manure from 900 cows to produce renewable natural gas. This gas is funneled through a 5.6 mile-long pipeline from the farm to Middlebury College. The school then uses the gas to produce 500kW of renewable electricity that powers 50% of the campus. College community members turn on their lights and feel content believing the energy powering them is not draining resources from the aching earth, but is instead sustainable, ethical.
This vision is part of Middlebury’s Energy2028 plan, which involves a transition to 100% renewable energy, 25% consumption reduction, fossil fuel divestment and engagement in education and research. The project depends on a partnership between Middlebury and Goodrich Family Farm to construct an anaerobic digester on the farm. Vanguard Renewables owns and will operate the plant. Vermont Gas is connecting the system to its pipeline, from which Middlebury pledged to purchase gas. In return, Goodrich will receive free heat, byproduct bedding and fertilizer, as well as annual lease payments.
This partnership has been described as an “innovative approach to the climate crisis.” However, this plan is neither sustainable nor ethical.
Several weeks ago, the Goodrich family allegedly denied José Ramos, a migrant farmworker, his paycheck and physically assaulted him when he asked for his earned wages. A few days later, a Migrant Justice organizer accompanied José back to the farm to ask for his wages. Yet again, they were met with physical and verbal violence at the hands of his boss and supervisor.
On Feb. 29, Migrant Justice organizers and community members rallied in front of Goodrich Farm. Over 60 protesters (including 20 Middlebury students) stood in solidarity with José, demanding justice. Protestors said the farm owners met them with aggression: charging at the marchers, pushing people and yelling obscenities.
José is not the only worker at Goodrich Farm to have experienced abuse. Following the rally, several farm workers previously employed on the farm came forward to speak about similar violence they endured during their time at Goodrich.
The partnership between Middlebury College and Goodrich Farm has been framed as mutually beneficial, helping the college achieve its energy goals and the Goodriches to diversify income. However, this mutual beneficiality is only surface level. As it stands now, the partnership perpetuates deep harm. If Middlebury proceeds with this partnership without demanding the Goodriches afford their farmworkers dignified working and living conditions, we will be directly implicated in violence towards our neighbors.
We must face the reality that 100% renewable does not equate 100% sustainable. “Sustainability,” narrowly conceived, aims to reduce carbon consumption and prevent depletion of natural resources. However, this understanding separates humans from the environment by framing them exclusively as consumers rather than inextricable parts of the environment. These ideas of sustainability perpetuate transactional systems devoid of justice. People and energy sources are not separate. Generating renewable energy must be grounded in reciprocal care. Reimagined, sustainability can support ecosystems and promote equitable social systems.
Middlebury must hold the Goodriches accountable for their actions if this partnership is to be sustainable. José’s case and similar cases show the irrefutable need for the expansion of Migrant Justice’s Milk with Dignity program.
The Milk with Dignity Standards Council enforces legally binding standards of living and working conditions. If farmworkers at Goodrich were protected under Milk with Dignity, the violence José experienced would not be tolerated. The farm would benefit as well, receiving a premium for their milk as well as other supports.
Middlebury has the leverage and power to demand that Goodrich Farm pay José Ramos his wages and apologize. We must also support the Milk with Dignity Campaign, currently targeting the Hannaford supermarket chain.
If Middlebury wishes to be a national leader in sustainability, we cannot pursue our energy goals through unjust means. Middlebury faces two choices: use our position of power to be an instrument for change, or continue to remain tolerant of deeply troubling labor practices.
At the end of the day, the energy produced by this project is not just coming from food and agricultural waste. It is also coming from human beings who expend their own energy laboring in extremely difficult conditions to care for the animals producing the waste that is turned into power. If farmworkers’ energy is not valued, the very root of Energy2028 will be corrupt.
We are calling on the Middlebury community and the Energy2028 team to entertain a broader definition of sustainability, one that does not continue to perpetuate violence and dehumanization. Sustainability cannot be surface level. Instead, it must be deeply rooted in respect, justice and humanity.
Signed by Alex Cobb ’20, Hannah Ennis ’22.5, Olivia Pintair ’22.5, Jaden Hill ’22 and Connor Wertz ’22