Over the past several months, those of us in academics have had thoughtful—and heated—conversations about trigger warnings. What obligation do faculty members have to warn students that content, in either assignments or classroom discussions, might be upsetting to their learners?
On one side of the conversation, faculty members and students assert that trigger warnings allow those who have experienced some form of trauma in their life to avoid situations that might trigger a major upset. On the other side, people assert that all of us have had upsetting experiences, and we need to develop personal resilience and objectivity to deal with those situations.
This conversation falls squarely into the concerns of virtue ethics (the Reputation Lens). What expectations do members of the community have for each other as we seek excellence in our professional and personal roles? The difficulty is that the definition of excellence seems to be ever evolving.
During the past month, I’ve had the opportunity to make several classroom presentations. As I introduced the opportunity for ethical growth the Reputation Lens presents, I shared my own growth as a faculty member. I started my career in classrooms where I wasn’t expected to give any particular warning about what might upset students. Later, I was expected to provide some version of a trigger warning so that those who might be emotionally impacted by the lessons of the day could either prepare themselves for the content or choose to miss the class.
The difficulty I shared with the students is that, as a faculty member, I have no idea what personal experience might “trigger” an upset response from my students. One of the tools of the trade for academics is presenting ideas in ways that expand the world view of learners and challenge their belief systems. In fact, a pedant might say that every syllabus should contain a trigger warning: all ideas are dangerous!
I was raised in an evangelical family and was taught that Moses himself wrote the first five books of the Bible. I blithely went off to Pacific Lutheran University where in my Intro to Religion course, the professor casually said that four different authors wrote the Pentateuch over a period of hundreds of years. I was stopped short. Was that true? What did that fact mean for my faith?
And, if I believed him, could I still be part of my own faith community? Could I be a teacher in my church if I accepted the scholarship of theologians rather than the authority of my pastor? That prof had no idea that the content of one lecture would raise faith-shattering questions—and the answers would change my whole life.
Classes in sociology that deal with systemic injustice against marginalized classes may cause great disquiet for those who have suffered first hand because of the myriad forms of injustice in our communities. Classes in economics that talk about wealth disparity may cause great embarrassment for those who were raised in families who received food stamps or other public aid. Classes in psychology that deal with the dynamics of addiction may cause great discomfort for those who have faced the ravages of drug use and abuse, either personally or in loved ones.
The second is the philosophical approach: using reason to moderate desire and achieve contentment in this life. According to the philosophers, objectively looking at our life conditions and opportunities is the best method to help us achieve contentment. The Greek philosophers, in particular the Stoics and the Skeptics, spent a great deal of time teaching different methods of evaluating the world around us in order to moderate desires. All of the methods involved some version of learning to be content with the cards we were dealt in life. The philosophic approach has some mixed success in that we wind up questioning everything—even ourselves—and so others might consider us a bit odd.
As the students and I engaged in conversation about the ethically responsible way to deal with trigger warnings, I made every effort to listen carefully to the experience and beliefs of the students. I made sure that I respected their experience and reflected back to them their pain, as appropriate. I then invited them to consider the position of the faculty member. What would they recommend? What was the corresponding obligation of the student?
As we moved toward resolution—a more nuanced approach to the problem than the first solutions suggested—we realized that we have mutual responsibility. The faculty member has some responsibility to both talk about the disruptive effect of education and notify the learners of the content of the classes. The learners have some responsibility to communicate privately with the faculty their own areas of sensitivity and to begin to use the content of the classes to get a bit of objective distance. The learners can then, perhaps, use the new knowledge to facilitate their growth in emotional strength and resilience.
The solution we arrived at was found in justice theories—the Relationship Lens—which helps us fashion a roadmap for creating ethical processes and using personal and organizational power responsibly. Through thoughtfully considering both context of the educational enterprise and the respective ethical obligations of the parties, an ethically mature—and satisfying—solution was fashioned. Ethical agility—the ability to use the ethical norms of more than one ethical perspective—saved the day.