When the Senate’s Privilege Fee Committee yanked the pin from this year’s most explosive piece of legislation and forwarded it to the general Senate for approval, it didn’t seem, contrary to their suggestions, as if they were prepared.
It’s not believable that this committee could have thought they didn’t have any reason to prepare a press release; without some kind explanation, this maneuver couldn’t possibly be construed as anything other than a phase out, regardless of whether the athletic department ultimately rescued the abandoned marching band. It’s not believable that they were honestly surprised when the band, the student body and the media at-large didn’t make the same assumptions they did. And it’s least believable of all that the massive controversy this committee manufactured was actually a deliberate method of raising consciousness for the band. This entire situation was a disaster from beginning to end, and they didn’t mean for any of it to happen.
But in spite of my own loyalties and in spite of all this unnecessary tumult, I still have to commit a certain amount of sympathy to our senators: they were then and continue now to be only students trying earnestly to do their jobs, and they continue to not be a single monolithic unit. So I will assume–charitably and perhaps wrongly–that the rest of the Senate had nothing to with the legislation. And furthermore, the band’s victory was swift and absolute; this committee’s intention, regardless of whether they theoretically continue to maintain influence, is no longer of any relevance. (Nor, for that matter, are the marching band’s hurt feelings.) The administration has spoken: at least $140,000 per year is secure for the foreseeable future, and the possibility remains open for positive changes in funding. If this is our principal concern, then the emails should have stopped. But they haven’t. And why not?
Because the war being fought the arts in general is much more important than this proxy, and it raises a larger and more interesting question: how exactly does one explain the importance of the arts to people to whom it isn’t self-evident? The burden seems to be on the artist to justify his pursuit, and this furthermore seems to be reasonable! “Leave the athletic department out of it,” some more radical critics assert, “and just find your own funding. Show me the money.”
It’s an onerous problem, and it’s one that the Facebook coalition of ten thousand has yet to settle. Other than citing the obvious logistical problems, the common response to this objection has been the following: if we exclude the band from funding, we can’t very well include similar programs like Student Publications, can we? The Reductio ad absurdum works until the interlocutor either simply agrees to cut both, or argues that only the band’s funding should be cut, and for some unique reason. The first–the conservative, categorical objection–is actually somewhat easier to handle: while many might see a reason to deny funding to the band specifically, most don’t want to see the fee abolished completely. The second, however, is trickier: it isn’t difficult to demonstrate the need for something like a daily newspaper or student health services, but to what can one appeal to demonstrate the importance of music and the arts? “Music makes kids smarter,” we retort. “It’s in the data.” “Probably,” they return immediately, “but you’ve reversed the causality. I bet you wanted to distribute the Baby Mozart cassettes, too.” Around and around, we go.
This is the battle we should wish to fight, and this is the battle worth fighting. But how? How do we show them the money? If someone has an answer, at least ten thousand are listening.
