As expected, my first semester at Hopkins yielded a welcome amount of intellectually stimulating conversations. Yet one that occurred recently has stuck in my mind. It prompted a thorough self-examination of my beliefs, which is a place I didn’t think I would reach after only a few months on campus.
To preface the story, I had been writing a foreign policy paper on the Iraq War (stick with me here) when a friend asked me what I was working on. Despite being in the early, rough-drafting period, I provided a brief description of the war itself and its various causes. When I finished, he looked mildly amused and wished me the best of luck. As I walked out of the building, he left me with a thought.
“It will be interesting to see how you keep your own bias out of your work.”
To say that I was immediately taken aback at that point would be an understatement. I hadn’t previously considered myself to be the pinnacle of intellectual humility, but it seemed a bit odd to be judged in such an outright manner about a topic that I had no stake in. Sensing my questioning look, he pointed out that each time I had referred to America in my explanation, I had really said “we.” Momentarily dumbfounded, I walked to class thinking about why I put myself in the shoes of America, even in an event that had happened before I was born. Also, why would I even want to, given what we now know about the unspeakable tragedy that accompanied the invasion?
An identity is a complex mishmash of physical, psychological and social characteristics that make us who we are. And by us, I mean all humans. The part of me saying “we” with reference to the Iraq invasion felt a close enough tie to the notion of an American identity that it sounded like I had been on the front lines. That part quickly separated ingroups and outgroups into Americans and non-Americans, something that I wish I had been more cognizant of during the conversation, especially at Hopkins, where I have experienced firsthand the world of difference from the homogeneity of my hometown.
Being proud to be an American citizen and endorsing everything associated with America are not the same. Pride is often conflated with “Don’t Tread on Me” lawn signs and a bald eagle posed defiantly behind the nation’s flag. The stigma behind being on “Team America” lies in the inseparability of one’s own identity with that of a group, even one in which they’ve always been a member. The intrinsic bias within my paper didn’t come from cheering on the president or having my views summed up by a D or an R, but merely from growing up American. That isn’t a bad thing, but it is something crucial to recognize when discussing US security policy with a friend from a different country.
Part of our identity is how we divide ourselves, whether that be through sports teams, political parties or geographical spaces. Teamsmanship is a double-edged sword. Forming these groups, whether consciously or unconsciously, allows people to create cohesive coalitions and hierarchies that benefit them. It also makes us strangely tribal, associating our identity with our favorite bands of twentysomethings on a sports team from our birthplace. To put it another way, teams are necessary, but the all-encompassing association of identity that blurs the line between the team and the individual can be problematic.
Americans are not a monolith. Teams are not inherently harmful. I was not in George W. Bush’s cabinet during the Iraq War. These are fundamental facts. But what’s greater is the realization that while bias and identity may be our first instincts, learning how to adjust and rebalance our (and when I say our, you know who I mean) mental calculus, we can try to understand how lines in the sand are drawn before we take out the stick.
Bryce Leiberman is a freshman from Madison, Conn. studying Political Science and Philosophy. His column records a search for authenticity exploring the past, present and restless work of becoming oneself.
