The Myth of Choice_ Personal Responsibility in a World of Limits - Kent Greenfield [2]
It’s possible to be aware of the limits on choice and also believe in the importance of autonomy and personal responsibility. Possible, but not easy. This book is intended to help. I hope you choose to read on.
I
The Centrality of Choice
1
Choices, Choices, Choices
It is not our abilities that show what we truly are. It is our choices.
—Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Warner Bros. 2002)
I always believed that it’s the things you don’t choose that make you who you are. Your city, your neighborhood, your family.
—Patrick Kenzie in Gone Baby Gone (Miramax 2007)
PEOPLE MAKE CHOICES ALL the time. We choose jitter-inducing coffee or waist-expanding frappuccino. Gluttonous SUV or holier-than-thou hybrid. A ponderous grad school life or a nine-to-five rat race. We choose our spouse; we decide whether and when to become a parent; we pick our place of worship. We live the straight and narrow or a life of cheap whiskey, meaningless sex, and bad disco. What we choose defines who we are, and not only according to Dumbledore. Among the actually existing, Eleanor Roosevelt said, “We shape our lives and we shape ourselves . . . And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility.” Albert Camus argued that “life is the sum of all your choices.” William Jennings Bryan offered that “destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice.” W. H. Auden opined that “a man is responsible for his choice and must accept the consequences, whatever they may be.”1
We’re told early in life that we have choice and that we bear responsibility for our decisions. When I was in the third grade, my teacher—let’s call her Mrs. Connor—had a rule that no one could utter a word while in line on the way to the lunch room, library, or restroom. We were required to walk quietly in our eight-year-old bodies from the time we left the classroom until we reached our destination. For someone like me, this was impossible. By the time we made it to the lunch tables, library, or little boy urinals I had invariably begun talking to whatever kid was in earshot about whatever synapse was then firing in my brain.
I was also pretty honest. When we got back to the classroom, Mrs. Connor would often ask who had talked in line that day. I would raise my hand. She would then impose her penalty of making me write sentences recalling the behavioral objective: “I will not talk in line on the way to the lunch room.” I don’t remember how many times she had me write the dreaded sentence—it felt like a thousand but was probably twenty-five or fifty. But whatever it was, the number increased each time I violated the rule. And I grew more righteously indignant, thinking the rule was inconsistent with the pedagogical goals of third grade and out of proportion to the offense. Okay, what I really thought was just that the rule was stupid.
So one day I refused to write the sentences.
This civil disobedience created quite a stir. I was called in for a chat with the school counselor, who reminded me of the importance of following rules. I told her the rule was stupid. The counselor was not impressed by my analysis and sent me back to Mrs. Connor, who wrote a letter to my parents, describing my intransigence.
My dad listened to my side of the story and wrote back to Mrs. Connor that he understood and supported my decision not to write the sentences.
But he included a line I did not know about: “Kent will also accept the consequences of his decision.”
So after reading my dad’s note the next morning,