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At the start of the project I was very interested in teaching the “creative process” using games. Starting the semester I had no idea where to begin or what the creative process really was, at least in a demystified enough way that could then be translated in the logic rule structure of a game. At the time, I had no idea what it was I wanted to teach specifically or who the audience for the game would be. Basically I had no starting point.

Meeting with Dr. Simonton in the morning help start the process in my brain. I was instantly fascinated with the Mutilated Checkerboard problem he described mainly because of the sequential process the experiment took on getting increasingly abstract yielding better and better results.

At the very end of Nancy Nersessian’s presentation during the the Q&A she mentioned how her idea that the doodles in Newton’s notebooks and the importance of abstract relationships was completely lost in the current American education system. That was the void that presented itself for me to fill. That was when I knew where to focus the game and what to focus on.

At this point the common theme that started presenting itself is the idea of metaphor and applying abstract elements to solve seemingly unrelated problems. I knew I wanted to teach an element of the creative process instead of just creating a game that helps facilitate creativity. Metaphor was that element. From here it seemed like the best way to teach this concept of metaphor was by using the Mutilated Checkerboard problem that Dr. Simonton presented to slowly try and get the player to come to the solution.

Meeting Crewdson was reassuring because it was a practical example of metaphor in practice. Crewdson getting his ideas while swimming is a prime use of metaphor and was a huge confidence boost that I was on the right track.

Unfortunately, while meeting Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi was incredibly informative, it began a series of road blocks making this challenge increasingly difficult the deeper I looked into the problem. One key road block that Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi talk about is how to achieve flow in a learning environment. It requires a constant feedback loop between the teacher and the student so the challenge is always matched to the student’s skill and there aren’t any external distractions. This constant feedback is a problem many games deal with. Constant tweaks to AI are required, difficulty levels, and various control schemes are used to try and simplify this feedback loop. Naturally this problem became amplified in this project because maintaing that flow is so important in causing the player to have the “Eureka” moment to solve the problem.

After this first setback was a process of a few steps forward and a few steps backwards. Every time I had a good idea of how to tackle a flaw in the design a new flaw would present itself. By the end I think there are still major flaws with the design that requires a fundamental change in the core concept of how to teach the concept of metaphor.

The “Eureka” forum was very encouraging for me because of Dean Dennis Kratz’s anecdotal story about how the “Eureka” moment may not hit you for years after you stop working on a problem. He too had an idea he was dissatisfied with that he had to continue and see through to the finish, but he was still able to reach the resolution he was searching for years later. This is how I feel right now with this project because it just does not feel right, but I may still come to a realization some time in the future that will give me the breakthrough I have been searching for all semester. I still think games can be used to help teach part of the creative process, but this game is not it. It is a good attempt and sometimes an idea has to fail before it can succeed.

Mutilated Checkerboard Game.pdf

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Here are the three stories for the creativity project.  The first story is with the teachers, the second story is with eighth grade students, and the final story involves two of my artistic friends.  I hope you enjoy them.

Group One Story: Teachers

Somewhere in the distance, Cecilia heard a faint laugh.  She so often heard the laughter in her mind. The laughter of her alter ego, Shelly, taunting, urging, and wanting her to lose it as she gave her valedictorian speech to the Manger High School class of 2010. As she read, she thought to herself, “Only if they knew what I was really capable of.” Cecilia was a bright girl. She made all A’s, was captain of both the basketball team and cheerleading squad, but there was something inside her longing to get out.

Her eyes stared down at the words before her.  These were her words, right?  She did write this speech.  Late at night, she would revise her speech, question her ideas, and rehearse her delivery.  She felt great importance in this speech, and she felt the many cameras from her family pointed toward the stage.  Looking down at the speech, she detested the clichés riddled throughout the paper.  In her mind, she heard Shelly mocking the phrase “a long road ahead.”  Shelly tells Cecilia that she does not deserve this moment if she is going to be so unremarkable about it.  “Why do what’s expected?” she hears Shelly ask.  Now, looking down at those words, she does not see the sentences she created, but rather a mass confusion of letters that hold no significance to her anymore.  She glances at the sea of gowns and caps, hiding everyone’s individuality.  As a collective mass of boredom, the Manger High student body waits for Cecilia to go ahead and get through her speech.  She abandons that paper before and decides simply to talk.

Cecilia’s voice, soft at first, began to speak into the microphone, “I had prepared a traditional speech to give today.” She heard some groans from her classmates. “But I’ve decided to forget that and tell you what’s really on my mind.” She saw surprise and curiosity on many of their faces. “Alllll-right!” She heard Shelly cheering her on. “Most of you know that I’m adopted,” she continued, more determined now, “but what you don’t know is that I was a crack baby. My mother was a drug addict. The authorities took me away from her right after I was born.” Now she heard murmurs of surprise and sympathy from the audience. With increasing confidence, she continued her story. Was it her talking now or Shelly? “My adoptive parents have been wonderful, and I love them very much.” She saw smiles now. “For some reason, though, I always felt that…no, I was sure that I was different somehow. Remarkable in some way.” Here it came, her moment of glory. In her excitement, she began to rise up and down on her tip toes.

The crowd was hushed. They stared expectantly at Cecilia. What in the world? “Strange things have been happening to me lately. At first, I thought I was just imagining things, but now… oh, it’s too unbelievable to explain. I’ll just have to show you.”  As,the audience watched in awe, Cecilia/Shelly ripped off her long black graduation gown and threw off her cap with its tassel trailing behind. She was now standing proudly on the stage in what appeared to be a hot pink full-body leotard, her hair done up in a poof.  On the front of the leotard in sparking silver sequins were the words, “Super Shelly.”  There was complete-shocked silence in the auditorium. Then the giggles started. “What’s wrong?” she wondered. “Why were they laughing? Was is possible they didn’t believe her? Couldn’t they see the truth?” “SHOW THEM,” Shelly roared inside her head. “SHOW THE UNBELIEVERS.”  “Yes, Yes, that’s it. I’ll have to demonstrate my powers before they will believe me.”

Celicia sat back to watch Shelly perform her routine.  After years of maintaining this perfect image and dedicating her life to school, Celicia allowed Shelly to enjoy the spotlight on this occasion.  No one would remember the timid Celicia who only did what everyone expected.  Shelly, the rebel, the performer, the outgoing one was going to shatter that image.  Shelly kneeled into position, and only in her head could she hear the music, the rhythm guiding her.

Then, just as quickly as the melodies started, they stopped.  Cecilia got back up, went behind the podium, and said, “Gotcha!  I bet y’all thought I was going to do something wild and crazy, but that’s not me.  I’m just a plain, simple girl.  However, as you walk out these doors and enter into the unknown, this journey we call ‘Life,’ you can’t be afraid to try new things from time to time, to dare to be great, and then pointing to herself, ‘different!’  In closing, I just want y’all to know that no matter what your past was like or how uncertain your future is, be super… like Shelly!”

As the audience went wild with applause, she turned her back, took a deep breath, picked her cap and gown up off the floor, and proudly strutted to her seat with her head held high.  Round 1: Cecilia 1/ Shelly 0.  While she sat during the rest of the ceremony, she heard Shelly mocking Cecilia.  “You had your chance,” Shelly said.  “You had the moment.  Everyone was watching, and once again you take the safe way out.”  Cecilia ignored Shelly’s taunting and paid attention to the roll call of graduates’ names.  As the principal stumbled through and butchered names the students took the stage for their brief moment of victory.  They shook hands with administrators.  Some even hogged the spotlight for just a bit longer.  For just a short time that afternoon every graduate got to standout before they went back into the sea of black robes.  Cecilia couldn’t help but wonder what else other graduates hid underneath those robes.

Group Two Story: Students

Somewhere in the distance, Paco heard a faint laugh. He was alone in a city at night with no one to make sure he was safe. At first, he feared the worst, but as the laugh got closer, he realized it was just his best friend, Fred. Fred and Paco had always gotten along, even with their differences, but this time Fred was very angry. Paco relaxed until he saw the look of sheer anger on Fred’s face. Paco then realized he had to run for his life. The two reasons he ran were because Fred was an astonishing six feet tall and Paco was less than five feet tall, and Fred had a gang of men with him. Now the chase was on.

Paco ran towards the nearest alley, just to see if he could lose them, but he was surprised when they all just left. He went back out on the street, but suddenly he was knocked out by a dark figure. The figure dragged Paco.  When Paco awoke, he was surprised to see himself in an empty room with no windows and a locked door. There was a video camera in the corner though, so he knew someone was watching.

Then suddenly the door slammed open and in came Fred. An unknown person threw in Fred, who had his hands bounded together. The mystery man had dark brown hair, but blue eyes as clear as the ocean. He was very muscular, but most of all he did not look happy. He sat down on the floor and asked, “Where’s the apple?” Paco honestly had no idea what he was talking about until Fred said, “Jerry has it and you’re not getting your hands on it.”  As soon as he said that, the man stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut.

Paco asked Fred, “Who was that man?” He answered, “That’s Bruno, and all he cares about is getting the apple.” Paco was confused about all this, so he just decided to sleep and not ask any more questions. But that same night, he had a very strange dream. It was about the apple.

In the bizarre dream, Paco found himself in an open field.  The tall, green grass swayed in a slight breeze, and he dragged his hands across the blades of grass as he headed towards the one tree in the field.  The branches on the ancient oak tree did not flinch from the wind’s push.  The thick boughs resisted the air’s power.  They had grown, through time, too strong to be destroyed.  The branches, however, lacked foliage. No leaves grew on any of the long the stems.  On one branch, Paco spotted the apple.  Able to reach it with his arm, Paco grabbed for the apple.  Expecting to feel the moist layer of the apple’s skin, he was shocked when his hands met the glass surface of the apple.  Obviously, this was no ordinary apple on this tree.

When Paco woke up from the cryptic dream, he still remembered the touch of that apple.  He can hear the pinging of the apple’s glass when his fingernails tapped the surface.   With the memory of that sensation, Paco knew the meaning of the apple.  Fred had stolen a rare piece of art from the city’s museum, the priceless apple that now everyone in town wanted.  Paco wanted nothing of it, and he only wanted to see this night end.  In order for him to see the end, he needed to find this apple and end the chase.

A day had passed and Paco was beginning to think that his chances of ever leaving the room were slim. The day before, Fred had attempted a very risky escape which only ended up with the loss of part of his finger, and a very brutal beating from Bruno and his crew.  After asking Fred what was going on, Paco found out that his suspicions of Fred were true, and that at one point Fred was part of the horrible gang. It turns out that stealing the apple wasn’t part of the gangs’ plan, but Fred, and the so called Jerry, couldn’t help themselves when they decided to rob the art museum. When Bruno found out about the surprisingly successful heist, he wanted the apple no matter what, and when Jerry ran off with the apple, Fred was the only one that could help the gang find it. Bruno needed someone who could crack security codes, get on locked computers, and find people in a government file. That’s where Paco came in handy. He was an expert at computers and would probably be able to do all the things that Bruno needed, so Fred, trying to save his life, spilled about Paco and his talents.

“This is the worst thing you have ever done in your life,” said Paco in a low voice.

“I’m sorry, but I was trying to save my life,” replied Fred, “when we find the apple I’m sure they will let you go as long as you make sure to follow everything they say.”

“I hope you’re right Fred.” Those were the last words Paco said to Fred. Later that night one of Bruno’s cronies came into the room and took Fred away to who knows where, and Fred never returned to the room. That same night, Paco got his first assignment from Bruno, which was to gain access to the government files to find out everything they could about Jerry. This was a mission Paco was sure he could do, but what worried him was the risk and the fact that if he did one thing wrong, they could kill him or one of his family members. There was no room for errors.

The day of the assignment arrived. Bruno threw Paco into a van and headed to the town hall. The mission went smoothly, and luckily, no one was killed. It turns out that Jerry went to Georgia to see if he could stay hidden from the gang. “We leave tomorrow at dawn,” announced Bruno in his rough low voice.

That night, Paco could not sleep for multiple reasons.  First, he feared having another bizarre dream with him in an open field.  Second, he pawned over the idea of searching for Jerry in Georgia with men Paco does not trust.  Furthermore, being surrounded by men he does not trust, forces Paco to stay awake because he never knows what Bruno and his men have planned.  For all Paco knew, he could end up like Fred, whatever that may be.  As all of these thoughts circled his mind, Paco laid in his room, waiting for the morning.  After endless time worrying, he heard the sound of the door opening and without turning around heard Bruno say, “Wake up.  Time to go.”

Paco shoved himself up to his feet out of utter fear and ran to the open door, where the dreaded Bruno stood. Bruno growled, “You sure you can do this? If not, you’ll be sleeping with the fishes.” In that moment, Paco had an epiphany. With his mighty kung-fu powers and his nine-and-a-half years with the CIA, he could take down any man who stood in his way. Then, he had another epiphany. Paco stood at four feet ten inches, while Bruno was easily seven feet tall. Discouraged and hungry, Paco replied with a solemn “I’m quite sure.” He stepped out into the empty road and silently walked over to the ominous-looking van where that waited for him. The surprisingly short and stout gang members gestured for Paco to get in the van.

Bruno got in on the driver’s side while Paco hopped into the back. He realized that there were only five people in the car, including himself. Hoping that Bruno could not hear over the roar of the engine, he cracked a joke to the disgusted-looking man. “Really, you guys? A black van? There’s not even that many of you. It’s kind of pointless don’t you think?” He was taken aback when the man turned toward him and threw his fist in Paco’s face. He became drowsy and then fell unconscious.

Paco was awakened by the sound of the van screeching to a halt. A member of the gang carefully set a laptop computer in Paco’s lap. Bruno turned his head back to face them and said “I’m going to go get something from Burger Boy. If I come back and this wimp isn’t done with his assignment, throw him in the lake.” Paco set his back erect and circled his shoulders. As soon as Bruno stepped out of the car, Paco had a marvelous idea. He only pondered over it for a second before he put his plan in action. Paco used his mighty kung-fu powers to obliterate the cronies and then out the side door, he went. He sped past Bruno, who was just walking into Burger Boy. The second part of Paco’s plan was simple: since his half-sister worked there, he always kept an extra jet pack in the back of the restaurant. He raced to the back of the store where they stored the meat, the ketchup packets, and his jet pack. Paco grabbed his flying contraption and threw it over his pudgy shoulders. The ceiling crumbled behind Paco as he flew to his safety.

As he flew away from the chaos of the past few days, Paco wondered what would happen with Jerry and the apple.  He wondered if he would ever see Fred again.  He wondered if Bruno would chase after him, or would Bruno just cut his losses?  He also wondered if his sister will be upset over the condition he left her restaurant.  All those concerns could wait, Paco thought.  He just wanted to get back home and get some sleep.  Hopefully, his dreams won’t cause him any problems.

Group Three Story: Friends

Somewhere in the distance, she heard a faint laugh. Slowly her eyes opened to reveal the canopy of the forest swaying against the dawn. Above, where the light of the coming day fell between the leaves and onto her face, slowly lifting the fog of sleep like the picture of an old television coming to life, the laugh called again. The weary wanderer, surely at rest at the foot of her favorite tree as the result of yet another somnambulant night, stretched her arms and legs forming a giant “X”. She sat up aware of her surroundings and familiar with the smells and sounds of dawn in the wilderness. This warmed her. Though the morning was not unseasonably cool, there was a chill in the wind coursing through the giant arms waving in the breeze. A shower would come in the late morning but there was no concern of being caught in the rain. She knew her house was only a mile or so from where she sat, and, even at the slowest pace, she would still reach her door by the first clap of thunder. She was in no hurry.

More laughter. With her eyes creased, she searched the limbs above for the comedian. At first the sight eluded her, but the quick flapping of wings brought her attention to a crooked branch where atop a mockingbird clenched the limb in his grotesque and gnarled claws. Although in her former life she was considered to be pleasant company, she never had much humor about herself. Taking a small pebble in her hand she hurled it towards the bird. Way off. Not even close. A chuckle leapt from her broken smile startling her.

Other birds began to sing and the comedian quickly adapted, abandoning the laughter for a more pleasant song. That is one thing she now began to notice: the laughter was certainly not pleasant. In fact, it was maniacal, evil, mean. It sounded forced but not against will. Its cadence brought to mind a taunt not unlike a bully reveling in craven victory but more akin to demonic irony; the comedy of the truly wicked unfurling as the result of heroic misfortune. The laugh belonged to her.

She heard her laughter, the laughter she once directed at the people who surrounded her at the time.  They would express their concern, and she would reply with her laugh.  Her laugh did not behave as most laughs.  Most laughs came in succession, stuttering out of one’s mouth.  Hers, was one sharp pang that mocked the sincerity of her company.  As she walked through the woods and listened to the sound of twigs breaking beneath her steps, she tried to recreate that laugh.  But she had no one to direct the laugh towards, except herself.  The labor of heading back home made her fully aware of the headache digging into her.  In the moments of waking up, discovering where she was, and assessing her situation she did not pay attention to her condition.  Now, she felt the pain against her temples.  The pain waded in her mind, not moving only lingering there making sure she acknowledged its presence.

As she continued to walk, she could not help but massage her head.  Before long ,she reached the cabin with their Jeep still parked outside.  She expected to smell some breakfast cooking as she neared the door.  It was his turn to cook, she thought.  Surely, she made their meals yesterday. Her days have become scrambled.  Given the fact that the sun was barely out, she figured he was still asleep.  Her headache indicated to her that he might be in a similar condition.  Considering the possible the scenarios from the previous night, she opened up their front door.  Once she entered, she realized her speculation was far from precise because she saw him lying on the floor, outlined by the stain of his own blood.

Rushing over to him, she saw what she was hoping wouldn’t really be happening.  Even as she rolled him over, the cold touch of his skin told her everything she feared. In those few steps towards him, she still thought there was a chance he would be ok: a chance that she was there to wake him up in time.  A faint breath escaped her as she accepted the obvious conclusion but was suddenly stopped with a gasp as a bubbled gurgle of blood exited his lips as she rolled him completely onto his back.

Frantically checking for a pulse, she kept telling herself that he’s going to be ok. If only to give herself a last glimmer of hope, if only to keep her sanity from leaving her alone in this room. She checked as well as she knew how, but she found nothing. He was gone, and it had been some time since it had happened. Panic over came her, and she realized that the only reason she escaped the same fate was due to chance. He always told her they couldn‘t run forever.

Run. Survive. Escape. Grab what you can and figure this out if you live past today.

No one could have found them, no one could have known. They had been completely safe. They never spent a lot of time in public and when they did, they never told any of the locals their real names.  It doesn’t matter. Run. Ignore the headache. No time to think.

She tried not to look at him while she looked for the keys and ….the gun! He didn’t have the gun. He had always kept it with him in his jacket pocket, hidden out in the open, but it wasn’t there and it wasn’t in his hand. As much as she would have felt safer with it, she decided to get out before she was caught there by the killer, by authorities or by anyone.

He said they couldn’t run forever. She didn’t need to run forever; just long enough to live.  When she headed to the car, she noticed the front flat tires on the Jeep.  She had missed that crucial detail when she returned from the woods and entered the cabin.  The addition of the flat tire intensified her headache.  She abandoned the Jeep and began walking back into the woods.  Without a clear destination, she followed the same path she just took when she exited the woods.  The haze of the previous night occupied her thoughts.  Still unclear on how, or why, she awoke in the woods, she decided to return to her spot.   She found the pile of leaves where her body had an indention upon the foliage.  Bending down to rifle through the leaves, she felt a sharp prick against her finger.  Blood dripped from the tip of her right index.  While sucking on the blood, with her other free hand, she carefully pulled a kitchen knife from the leaves.  Strange, she thought, I don’t remember bringing this with me.  I must’ve been hiding from the killer.  Do I know who this killer is?

She tried reconstruct the night before.  She tried to manifest an image of the killer.  With little success, she stood back up.  Unsure of what to do, she decided to head in another direction in the woods.  Maybe she would find campers, a police officer, or any other of civilization.  She only took a few steps when she felt her foot kick something.  Her feet brushed away the leaves to reveal a handgun, his handgun.  She picked up the gun and opened the chamber.  Three bullets were gone, three bullets that rested in the body that laid on the cabin floor.

Her knees surrendered to the reality of the situation.  Falling upon the leaves, she laid back down on the ground and once again listened to the laughter of the birds.  They had every right to laugh at her, to laugh at her situation.  How could she not remember?  Why did she do it?  The haze of her mind only increased, and her headache assaulted her brain.  There was no possibility of forming a lucid thought.  With the fired gun, and the knife she used to slash her own tires, she curled up into the leaves.

A drizzle began to fall from the sky.  The staccato rhythm of the rain aggravated her more, with droplets of water thumping her nose.  There was no rush for any action.  Isolated in the woods, away from the laws and eyes of others, she could take her time.  She closed her eyes as the rain began falling in a more consistent flow.  Her hair became wet from the storm, and it pressed against her cheek.  She smelled the rain in her hair, and for a moment she felt calm.  She focused on the calm.  Slowly, she went into a slumber, a deep sleep.  A hibernation sounded ideal to her.  As she allowed the sleep to overtake her, she felt comforted by the fact that she could solve her problem later when she awoke.  Best of all, the rain chased away the laughter of all the birds.

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http://www.divshare.com/download/11210702-fa9

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http://www.divshare.com/download/10956137-8c8

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Happy President’s Day class. I hope everyone is well and that their electricity was not out this past week.

I have given some thought on the final project and I have come up with three different possibilities. I would love to get any feedback.

Possibility 1 (my least fav, but could still be interesting)

I thought it would be interesting and challenging to interpret the argument (or some aspect) of each lecture series in a different creative piece. For Ex- I could discuss Simonton’s hierarchy and turn that into a painting/poem/short story/etc.  This could be challenging for me but the quality of the final pieces may not be very consistent.

Possibility 2 (a fav because it is cost effective)

Simonton’s work has impacted me the most this semester. For this project I would interview my artist friends and discuss some of Simonton’s theories. At least, this would be the lead in. The remainder of the interview would be an in depth conversation about the artist’s personal history, inspiration etc. This data would then be turned into a nonfiction piece which will hopefully be a mix of humor and heart.

Possibility 3 (so far my fav, but will have to spend some $$)

This possibility would be similar to possibility #2, however, it will be in podcast form. I will interview/converse with various artists and splice the interviews together with different audio bites etc. The format would be similar to popular podcasts such as the Adam Carolla podcast or WTF w/ Marc Maron. I like this idea because I love podcasts, I love talking and it incorporates technology.

Thanks for your thoughts/

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Knowledge is the number one commodity in a post-industrial society. Thus, it is only natural that the way knowledge is obtained and how it is applied would become big business under this circumstance. Almost every major university traverses the tricky arena of intellectual property and supports the entrepreneurial endeavors of their faculty, students and staff through research and commercialization departments. Private companies spend billions of dollars every year on the research and development of new technologies that bolster their profits. Ultimately, this reality has both positive and negative side effects on knowledge itself. There is no question that the “innocence” of knowledge can be altered by the corrupting force of the dollar. However, we can also attribute great advances in our understanding of the natural world to the support of private and public funding. This dichotomy is, and will remain, at the core of how knowledge is obtained and applied in the 21st century.        

In this paper, I will not linger on the question of whether or not “pure knowledge” is harmed by the forces of commercialization. (Despite the corrupting power of the dollar on theory, I think it is safe to say that the scientific community as a whole is mainly helped by the value placed on knowledge in a post-industrial society). Rather, I will attempt to explain how our hyper-dependence on technology and the subsequent value placed on scientific knowledge affects public opinion and policy making. I will attempt to clarify this argument by looking at the following areas:

1. What is a post-industrial society and does the United States fall under that criterion?

2. What forces provide the greatest amount of funding to the scientific community and what research areas receive the most funds?

3. How is scientific research and data used in policy making? 

4. Does our daily dependency on technology allow for a climate in which the masses are too easily influenced by leaders who use “scienctific knowledge” to back their political agendas?

5. Just how corrupting is the influence of funding? Are scientists producing knowledge to meet the needs of political leaders? Or are leaders simply taking, and often times distorting, knowledge obtained through “pure” science?

I am aware that these are ambitious questions that will most likely be left partially unresolved at the end of this paper. Your feedback and guidance is highly appreciated during my quest to resolve these problems!

Rodney L. Pearson

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Abstract

In 1989 a contentious textbook entitled Of Pandas and People was published by the Foundation for Thought and Ethics, a Christian non-profit organization based in Richardson, Texas.  The authors of the book, Percival Davis and Dean H. Kenyon, have some training in scientific fields (Davis – zoology; Kenyon – biophysics) and are the Professor of Life Science at Hillsborough Community College and Professor Emeritus of Biology at San Francisco State University, respectively.  However, both of these men are also admitted creationists and proponents of intelligent design which naturally calls into question their intentions behind publishing a school-level textbook which clearly espouses intelligent design sentiments.  After On Pandas was roundly rejected by many school boards across America during the 1990s and early 2000s, conservative Christian activists in Dover, Pennsylvania, successfully managed to convince the Dover Area School Board to accept the ID textbook as an appropriate reference book for biological studies.  Naturally, this created uproar in the scientific community and led to the 2004 “Panda Trial” (Kitzmiller vs. Dover Area School District), a parody of the infamous Scopes “Monkey Trial” of 1925.  The following year, the U.S. District Court ruled in the Dover case that teaching intelligent design was unconstitutional because it was religious in nature, and therefore, not science.  In this essay, I will focus on several key issues in the philosophy of science such as pseudoscience and the proper role (if any) of the scientific community in regards to formulating and regulating public education policy.  For instance, I will examine the validity of the Dover ruling by exploring various notions of pseudoscience in the McLean vs. Arkansas Board of Education(1982) decision, Michael Ruse’s essay entitled “Creation Science is Not Science (1982),” Paul Feyerabend’s “How to Defend Society Against Science (1988),” and Richard Feynman’s “Cargo Cult Science” (1999).  Additionally, I will pick up Heather Douglas’s discussion in her Science, Policy, and the Value-Free Ideal (2009) on the (legitimate) authority of the scientific community to determine the appropriate direction and scope for public education policies.  Furthermore, I will also address Philip Kitcher’s suggestion in his Science, Truth, and Democracy (2001) that scientists take an active role as ethical stewards of public policy in his “enlightened democracy” as a check against the anti-scientific, fundamentalist Christian groups which temporarily governed the Dover Area School Board and pushed for the wholesale adoption of On Pandas in the American public school system.    

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