Kieran Healy

In Small things and Large

I’m about to go teach my undergrad social theory class. We’re reading Adam Smith (at least, I’m reading him) and looking at his argument about the invisible hand of the market . I’ve already had the class do a couple of practical experiments in distributed co-ordination, which were lots of fun. (At least, they were for me.)

Today we’ll look at two of Smith’s arguments in the Wealth of Nations about why the invisible hand works. The first one anticipates Hayek: “[E]very individual, it is evident, can, in his local situation, judge much better than any statesman or lawgiver can do for him” (WON IV.ii). The second one is the idea that “What is prudence in the conduct of every private family can scarce be folly in that of a great kingdom.” That one is a mistake, of course, and is the entree to Marx (next week). It also gives me an excuse to put some Thomas Schelling on the syllabus. My class will begin to see why it’s wrong when I ask them to turn around and shake the hand of the person sitting behind them.

Class prep combined with blogging. Cool. So this isn’t a complete waste of time after all.

From Bisbee to Beirut, apologies to Mr. Friedman,

I borrowed a book once, called From Beirut to Jerusalem by Thomas Friedman.
I never gave it back and for some reason, realize lot’s of people have
borrowed books from me too, and never given them back.

The road from Bisbee to Beirut has been a long one, a long one indeed.
It took me from Cochise College to Mesa, Arizona, through the College
of Nursing and into Maricopa Medical Center. It led me into motherhood
and a change of religions, and spirited me away to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.
It coerced me into Beirut with a lighthearted laugh, and told me,
Go Here, you can drive on my streets! You can go to the hairdressers
every day if you want and you can wear any length of skirt you choose.
Ah, the road, is a twisted and sometimes embellished road with turns
of fate, accidents of being in the right place at the wrong time and
the wrong place at the right time.

I suppose the road started on the concrete floors of Carolina Barboa’s
little house down near Naco. How was I to know that people with
concrete floors were all the same? How was I to know that my husband
walked on those floors searching for his grandfather’s prayer beads
and longing for his home in Lebanon? How really, was I to know?

It all started innocently enough, in an Algebra Class at Cochise College.
Those were the days of the Great Lebanese Proxy War. Watching the news
held about as much interest for me as watching the leaves fall in the
Grassy Park. He and his brother were foreign students who had travelled
all the way from Liberia, West Africa and I couldn’t really tell the
difference back then, ‘back then’, between Lebanon, Liberia and Libya.
Now Louisiana, I could point to that on a map, yessiree!

I thought they were French. Shame on me. Although swarthy and romantic
types come in all shapes and sizes, for me, the French had a monopoly
on ‘foreigness’ and ‘intrigue’. If only I would have known about the
road I was to embark upon…would I do it again? You bet.

We married after a brief six week courtship, well, a brief six week necking
session and found out right away that Bisbee has nothing at all in common
with Beirut. I found out that Libya was full of spies and Liberia
was a country in Africa.

Twenty some years later, I’m still on that road. It’s a good road, although,
not well maintained. The road passes by Byzantium and circles around
the Security Zone and ends up on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
The road at times looks like a Mesa freeway, and in other places, looks
like the Naco highway. Some parts of the road are populated with
Armenians and others are decorated with the faces of Hezbollah Martyrs.
The UN sits on the side of the road.

As far as Beirut roads go, I use them everyday to collect the kids from their
American school. I can choose the freeway, an isolated stretch of
newly constructed, man made, awesomely fast asphault, or, more often than
not, I can drive through the Ouzai. The Ouzai being a stretch of
city pavement lined on either side by shops owned by the refugees of
the Proxy War. They dart out in front of the car, wagons loaded with
fruit in season scurry back and forth, and legless beggars accost one
when the car idles at the edge of a construction area which is installing
a sewer system to serve the mighty Ouzai. I like that road more than
the other road. It’s alive.

I like to cruise into Beirut listening to Joni Mitchell and smiling
broadly at the faces of candidates and political bosses on huge roadside
billboards. I really like that. It’s the road you know.

One day, we hope the road extends all over the place, down into Israel and
Palestine. Down to make deals and commerce. Down to eat Falafel on
that side of the border instead of this. One day, we hope for peace.
It’s a road though. I don’t know who is making the maps. All I know
is I’m on the road, for better or for worse. And the Ouzai is going
to have a sewer line. And the vendors are going to move their wares
closer to the freeway and this road, is a road destined to die a
natural death. I don’t know if it’s progress, and I don’t know if
the Lexus or the Olive Tree will win.

For now, I own the road on the Ouzai and hand a five hundred coin
to another legless man.