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Copyright (c) 2000 by the University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.




Chapter 1
Modernization as Ideology

Approaching the Problem

In June 1961, as colleges and universities across the United States conferred degrees and charged their graduates to go out and improve the world they lived in, Walt Whitman Rostow delivered his own unique commencement address. The ceremony, held at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, must have looked very different from the ones the economist had participated in back at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Staring out at the crowd assembled before him, the newly appointed White House deputy national security adviser did not see students, faculty, administrators, and trustees dressed in academic regalia. In their place were eighty military officers wearing the uniforms of twenty different national armed forces, all of them graduates of the U.S. Army Special Warfare Center course in counterguerrilla strategy.

As different as the setting may have been, however, Rostow probably found himself at home. His social scientific model, he believed, had even more relevance for this audience than the ones he had taught at MIT. Dispensing with the usual greetings and congratulations, Rostow cut right to the point. The world, he warned, had become a most dangerous place. In Cuba, the Congo, Laos, and Vietnam, the Kennedy administration faced crises. Each of them "represented a successful Communist breaching—over previous years—of the Cold War truce lines which had emerged from the Second World War and its aftermath. In different ways each had arisen from the efforts of the international Communist movement to exploit the inherent instabilities of the underdeveloped areas." The United States and its allies now had to meet that challenge in ways that went well beyond the limited foreign aid programs and military assistance of the past. They had to find the means to win a battle "fought not merely with weapons but fought in the minds of the men who live in the villages and the hills; fought by the spirit and policy of those who run the local government." They had to intervene directly and engage themselves actively in "the whole creative process of modernization."[1]

For Rostow, his intellectual cohort, and the policymakers they advised, the concept of modernization was much more than an academic model. It was also a means of understanding the process of global change and identifying ways the United States could accelerate, channel, and direct it. The unprecedented power America had enjoyed at the end of World War II, they feared, had eroded. The collapse of European empire and the formation of "new states" posed dire challenges for a nation determined to contain the spread of Soviet communism. Within five years after the Second World War, India, Pakistan, Ceylon, Burma, the Philippines, Indonesia, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, and Israel all gained independence. Following the Geneva Accords of 1954, Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam left France's empire. Within a few more years, Malaya, Libya, Sudan, Morocco, and Tunisia gained official freedom from imperial control, and Ghana, Togoland, the Cameroons, and Guinea soon followed. By 1960, there were approximately forty newly independent states with a population of about 800 million.[2] As these "emerging" countries combined with older nations of Latin America, Africa, and Asia to call for international assistance in meeting their economic and social needs, the Cold War became a global confrontation. Unstable regimes and impoverished, discontented populations, many American policymakers argued, could only provide fertile ground for Marxist revolutionaries. As Truman administration strategist Paul Nitze and his associates put it in the striking document known as NSC-68, "the defeat of Germany and Japan and the decline of the British and French Empires" had led to a dangerous contest between the United States and a relentless Soviet adversary determined "to impose its absolute authority over the rest of the world." Amid the instability produced by decolonization, the potential for revolutionary advance only seemed to grow.[3]

Though most American strategists did not believe that the Soviets would risk a direct military confrontation during the 1950s, they were certain that the Kremlin was determined to chip away at the "underdeveloped periphery," destroy America's international credibility, and steadily undermine the system of political and economic alliances the United States had attempted to construct. In the aftermath of the Soviet Union's successful detonation of an atomic bomb, the stunning Communist revolution in China, and the shock and sacrifice of the Korean War, American officials became increasingly concerned with the course of global social change. In the Philippines and South Vietnam, the United States intervened in attempts to defeat armed challenges to its allies. In Guatemala and Iran, the Eisenhower administration used covert operations to support coups against left-leaning governments and tried to do so in Indonesia. Troubled by Middle Eastern instability and worried about Russian links to Egypt and Syria, Eisenhower also deployed the U.S. Marines to defend a pro-American elite in Lebanon. Around the world, the United States channeled large quantities of military aid to foreign leaders promising an unyielding anti-Communist stance.

Committed to halting what they perceived as Soviet-promoted aggression, determined to display resolution and determination, and worried that revolutionaries might capture the force of nationalist aspirations, Kennedy planners inherited the containment framework and searched for more effective ways to implement it. The Cuban revolution, Ngo Dinh Diem's increasingly fragile regime in South Vietnam, and an escalating civil war in the newly independent Congo only intensified their concerns. When Soviet premier Nikita Khrushchev used a January 1961 speech to pledge support for the "sacred" struggles of colonial peoples and promised to defend "wars of national liberation," the new administration's worst fears seemed confirmed. From the Senate floor, Kennedy himself had previously warned of the vulnerability of the developing countries. Now, as he moved into the Oval Office, he urged his advisers to study Khrushchev's address and mark his words. "You've got to understand it," he told them; "this is our clue to the Soviet Union."[4]

In that context of heightened anxiety, theories of "modernization" proved particularly appealing to policymakers hoping to contain revolutionary expansion.[5] Products of the early Cold War, they were built on a set of fundamental assumptions about the nature of global change and America's relationship to it. By the time the Kennedy administration came to power, a broad range of scholars working across disciplines at many different academic centers had started to translate their ideas into policy recommendations. Armed with the tools of social science and confident in their rational, analytical powers, representative thinkers such as Rostow, Lucian Pye, Daniel Lerner, Gabriel Almond, and James Coleman called for a comparative evaluation of the differences between what they termed "traditional" and "modern" societies and made use of a dramatic increase in federal government funding to define the requirements for movement from one condition to another.[6] In their emerging synthesis, "modernization" involved a series of integrally related changes in economic organization, political structures, and systems of social values. The research problem at hand was nothing less than creating a set of universal, empirical benchmarks to describe the overall patterns of global transformation. As Princeton University's C. E. Black broadly defined it, "modernization" was the "process by which historically evolved institutions are adapted to the rapidly changing functions that reflect the unprecedented increase in man's knowledge, permitting control over his environment."[7]

By the early 1960s, studies of the modernization process had come to dominate scholarship on the problem of international social change. As intellectuals debated, refined, and applied their ideas to a complex array of regions and societies, their definitions and models often varied. Beneath the dense academic jargon, however, the concepts at the core of modernization theory centered on several overlapping assumptions: (1) "traditional" and "modern" societies are separated by a sharp dichotomy; (2) economic, political, and social changes are integrated and interdependent; (3) development tends to proceed toward the modern state along a common, linear path; and (4) the progress of developing societies can be dramatically accelerated through contact with developed ones.[8] Theorists placed Western, industrial, capitalist democracies, and the United States in particular, at the apex of their historical scale and then set about marking off the distance of less modern societies from that point. Convinced that the lessons of America's past demonstrated the route to genuine modernity, they stressed the ways the United States could drive "stagnant" societies through the transitional process.

By the late 1960s, arguments over the validity of the modernization model had started to generate their own massive literature. Scholars attacked the idea of an identifiable, sharp break between "traditional" and "modern" conditions by noting that older types of social organization were not always swept away by the modernization process. "New forms," a critic argued, "may only increase the range of alternatives. Both magic and medicine can exist side by side, used alternatively by the same people."[9] Dissenters also challenged the idea of an integrated process of change. Case studies demonstrated that social structures often remained unaffected by changes of national government and that, rather than stable democracies, increases in political participation produced volatile situations that frequently ended in military regimes, oligarchies, ethnic conflict, or civil war. When the Vietnam War brought a renewed focus to the problem of imperialism, critics questioned the idea that contact with Western institutions and culture could accelerate movement through the "transitional stages." Rejecting the ethnocentric assumption that those living in "traditional" societies could only absorb techniques and not innovate on their own, dissenters argued that, far from producing a beneficial "demonstration effect," contact with the industrialized world often left a legacy of destruction and violence.[10]

Before long, systematic challenges emerged from both ends of the political spectrum. On the left, dependency theorists drew on Marxist thought to argue that the past of today's industrial countries did not at all resemble the present of nations such as those in Latin America. Western Europe and the United States, they claimed, might once have been "undeveloped," but not as the result of impoverishing relationships with other parts of the world. Directly challenging claims to a universal path of progress, world systems theorists stressed the long, historical course by which transnational economic relations had enriched industrial metropoles and kept peripheral satellites locked in subservience to an exploitative, global capitalism. From the opposite side of the spectrum, conservative thinkers of the mid-1970s mounted a "counterrevolution" by rejecting evidence of a widening per capita income gap between poor and rich nations and insisting that foreign aid, like domestic forms of welfare assistance, only hindered local entrepreneurial incentive. Most recently, modernization has even been resurrected in post-Cold War analyses celebrating the collapse of state socialism and the transformative power of capitalist markets.[11]

As an explanatory schema, modernization theory has clearly had a volatile career. Beyond the long-running debate over the concept's intellectual validity, however, stands another set of important and largely ignored questions about its historical context, political function, and cultural meaning. By returning to the era in which modernization dominated the field of inquiry and examining its relationship to the conduct of American foreign relations, I have sought to show that it was not merely a social scientific formulation. Modernization, I argue, was also an ideology, a conceptual framework that articulated a common collection of assumptions about the nature of American society and its ability to transform a world perceived as both materially and culturally deficient. Such an interpretation raises serious questions about the intellectual worth of the modernization model. It also illuminates the profound role of social science in the exercise of American power and the definition of a national sense of self at the height of the Cold War.[12]

Focusing on the Kennedy period, I have investigated the way modernization functioned as an ideology by addressing three fundamental, overlapping questions. First, I have considered how a community of social scientists established the political relevance of the knowledge it produced. Second, I have analyzed the relationship between social scientific theory and foreign policy through a study of three specific cases: the Alliance for Progress, the Peace Corps, and the Strategic Hamlet Program during the Vietnam War. Finally, I have investigated the way Cold War claims that the projection of American resources would modernize economically and culturally impoverished areas reformulated much older constructions of American national identity. As practiced in the early 1960s, modernization resonated strongly with earlier ideologies of Manifest Destiny and imperialism.

In exploring the first of these issues, the rise of modernization theory in American social science, I have found that many scholars closely identified their research with an effort to serve the state. Much like the Gilded Age social scientists analyzed by Dorothy Ross, modernization theorists of the 1950s and 1960s were deeply concerned with finding the means to ensure the health of their society. They, too, sought to chart "the fate of the American Republic in time."[13] But, in contrast to that earlier cohort, their overwhelming sense of national power and cultural superiority did not lead them to identify the problems they faced as coming from such internal factors as labor unrest, economic depression, or social radicalism. For a United States that had risen to become the world's greatest economic and military force, the most severe threats now appeared to arise from a hostile, subversive, and alien ideology. As historians such as Elaine Tyler May have shown, McCarthyist arguments of the early and mid-1950s reflected the degree to which a perceived foreign danger had blurred the boundaries between America's domestic culture and its external role.[14] The central challenge of the post-World War II era, according to many modernization theorists, was to find ways to rejuvenate and project abroad America's liberal social values, capitalist economic organizations, and democratic political structures. Victory, they claimed, would depend on defeating the forces of monolithic communism by accelerating the natural process through which "traditional" societies would move toward the enlightened "modernity" most clearly represented by America itself.

In this Cold War context, "truth," as one historian has observed, was far more than a desired intellectual product. It was also understood as "our weapon."[15] In the years following World War II, academic research was increasingly shaped by federal funding. Scholarly inquiry also became more policy-oriented as the wartime partnership between government and university scientists was extended and the state supported research projects specifically intended to produce knowledge useful for solving military and strategic problems. Though the bulk of this funding went into developing defense technology, by the early 1950s private organizations such as the Carnegie Corporation and the Ford Foundation were also supporting research in international relations. Following the launch of Sputnik, the National Defense Education Act of 1958 also poured vast federal resources into area studies programs, language training, and international relations institutes.[16] National security, American officials argued, demanded that academia deliver politically relevant knowledge about the world and the ways in which the United States could directly promote and manage social change within it.

During the late 1950s and early 1960s, many modernization theorists endeavored to produce the kind of scholarship the U.S. government would find most useful. Meeting the Soviet challenge, they claimed, would require just the type of rigorous social research that they could undertake. Systematic inquiry, they promised, could identify the advantages that enabled America to emerge as the world's most modern nation, explain the deficiencies that caused other societies to lag behind, and detail the conditions in which Marxist-led social revolutions might arise. Even more important, they argued, it could identify the essential levers of social change. The United States did not have to wait for "less advanced" peoples to emulate the nation's achievements. Objective analysis and scientific research would show policymakers how to provide the material resources and moral tutelage needed to assist those struggling in the American wake. Building infrastructure, furnishing technology, providing training, and even demonstrating the virtues of efficiency, long-term planning, pluralist politics, and personal discipline would promote "progress" in a world imperiled by Communist insurgencies. Modernization, they explained, would enhance America's ability to win the Cold War—a war waged to capture the "hearts and minds" of peoples desperate to share in the economic growth, political democracy, and achievement-oriented social ethos that an enlightened and benevolent West had attained long before.

The modernization model fit especially well with the Kennedy administration's concerns, and many theorists rushed to join the "best and the brightest."[17] Rostow, for example, left MIT's Center for International Studies to become a White House national security adviser and later chairman of the State Department's Policy Planning Council. Harvard University economist Lincoln Gordon joined Kennedy's Latin American Task Force and became the U.S. ambassador to Brazil. MIT political scientist Lucian Pye taught courses in counterinsurgency theory for the State Department and advised the new U.S. Agency for International Development. Stanford Research Institute economist Eugene Staley accepted Kennedy's request to head a development mission in Vietnam. Drawing on networks of personal ties, making use of federal funds, and actively seeking positions in the policymaking arena, many social scientists claimed their expertise was essential to contain communism in a world made vulnerable by the perils of poverty and the decline of Western empire.

As important as those personal networks and connections were, however, an exploration of the second problem that I have raised, the relationship between social science and political action, reveals that modernization functioned in ways that did not always reflect the intentions of specific theorists and policymakers. As an ideology, modernization crystallized a deeper, much older set of cultural assumptions already shared by intellectuals, officials, and broad segments of the American public. The rhetoric the social scientists used, the conceptual framework they presented, and the claims they made were also manifestations of a larger, liberal internationalist understanding of the very nature of American society and the sweeping, global transformations that a projection of American power could bring about. Modernization theory, I must emphasize, was not the sole or wholly determinative cause behind any of the policies this book analyzes. Each of them, as subsequent chapters explain, was the product of a wide range of concerns, events, and historical forces. As an ideology, however, modernization did reflect a worldview through which America's strategic needs and political options were articulated, evaluated, and understood.

By using the concept of ideology to analyze modernization theory and its relationship to Kennedy-era development policy, I have also sought to show how intellectual and cultural analyses can broaden the historiography of American foreign relations. Critical scholarship on the three programs I have analyzed generally rejects the arguments made by former government officials and Kennedy loyalists. Some historians have stressed the fallacies of an irrationally rigid anticommunism and lamented the way an obsession with Soviet power led policymakers to miscalculate America's essential strategic objectives. Other scholars have raised provocative questions about the way material and economic forces shaped Kennedy administration foreign policy. A determination to expand the capitalist world order, they claim, drove the United States to challenge any threats to its economic dominance. A larger, more deliberate analysis of ideology and identity, I believe, can open new areas for inquiry by introducing a less reductive analysis of the "interests" that critics have typically discerned behind official discourse. Rather than dismissing ideological formulations as propaganda employed to legitimate and rationalize genuine intentions, I propose to investigate the ways in which conceptions of national security and economic needs were integrally connected to understandings of America's historical position and modernizing potential.

Often uncritical of their sources, many early accounts of Kennedy administration policymaking accepted the official representation of U.S. development initiatives as altruistic, visionary attempts to create societies in which everyone, except those bent on violence or repression, would clearly benefit. Many scholars, often former policymakers or advisers themselves, have also written about Kennedy-era foreign relations from within the modernization paradigm. In the case of the Peace Corps, their interpretations generally praise the organization's leaders and volunteers as agents spreading freedom around the globe. Emphasizing the wisdom, determination, and courage of Kennedy and the Peace Corps's founders, such works generally describe an organization sending out Americans to revolutionize the world by their shared sacrifices. A few of Kennedy's admirers cite bureaucratic obstacles and administrative failures that made the agency an "unmet hope," but all generally agree that the Peace Corps was a remarkably enlightened, freethinking response to the Cold War. As Robert Carey's early narrative suggested, "the Corps has a litany to be sure, but it is the litany of the explorer and the frontiersman." Though Kennedy sold the Peace Corps idea in anti-Communist terms, such accounts maintain, the agency was most successful because it resonated with America's creative, humanitarian ideals.[18]

While at times pessimistic in assessing long-term results, favorable interpretations of the Alliance for Progress between the United States and Latin America also reiterated government explanations of the program's goals. Here as well, the Kennedy administration was praised for a bold step forward. Although most of these accounts acknowledged that massive transfusions of economic aid, technical advice, and comprehensive development planning did not always produce high regional growth rates, social advances, and democracy, they still described a progressive program with genuinely transformative potential. Convinced that the alliance could have engineered the "peaceful revolution" necessary to combat entrenched destitution and dictatorship, scholars such as Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr. typically wrote in tragic tones. In an analysis that stressed organizational weakness and cumbersome bureaucracies, a betrayal of Kennedy's attempt to promote genuine democracy by Lyndon Johnson's emphasis on private investment, and the failure of Latin American oligarchs to spread the alliance vision of a better life to indigenous peoples, Jerome Levinson and Juan de Onís argued that a promising, even revolutionary, project "lost its way" and came to a premature, unfortunate end.[19]

Laudatory histories of Kennedy administration counterinsurgency planning in Vietnam, especially those written by former officials, also read like postmortems of an effort that, if it had only been given a fair chance, would have succeeded. Though striking in the degree to which his memoirs serve as an apology for the Saigon regime's violent repression, former ambassador Frederick Nolting's argument that the United States tried to defend "the right of the South Vietnamese people to determine their own future without coercion, force, or terror" is a common theme. Roger Hilsman, the primary U.S. official advocating the resettlement of Vietnamese peasants into strategic hamlets, wrote a history defending the potential of that practice years later. Providing the government services and political socialization necessary to cut off the Vietcong from their bases of local support, he maintained, just might have succeeded in creating a new, nationalistic loyalty to Ngo Dinh Diem's South Vietnamese state. As he placed the blame for eventual failure on short-sighted American military leaders and corrupt Vietnamese officials, Hilsman lamented that the administration "had developed a strategic concept for fighting guerrilla warfare, an idea for a political program into which military measures were meshed," but could not "convince the Diem regime or even the top levels of the Pentagon to give it a fair trial." American intentions, these writers argued, were reformist and progressive. Given the right conditions, they claimed, counterinsurgency based on modernization would have worked.[20]

Subsequent scholarship has gone a long way toward providing a more sophisticated and critical interpretation of the Kennedy administration's goals and policies. Accounts citing the distorting effects of Cold War concerns have placed the Kennedy programs in the context of a "flexible response to communism." According to Julius Amin, the Peace Corps reflected some authentic idealism on the part of its creators but was primarily an attempt to improve relations with "Third World" leaders in areas vulnerable to subversion. Where formal military or economic aid might not have been politically possible, the agency was used as a gesture of American support.[21] Those identifying strategic concerns as the ruling interest of the Alliance for Progress have made similar arguments. Emphasizing the degree to which anti-Communist determination warped political decision making, William Walker, Joseph Tulchin, Stephen Rabe, and Howard Wiarda have argued that the alliance, for Kennedy as well as Johnson, had at least as much to do with Castro and counterinsurgency as it did with democracy and development. Confronted with a seriously limited capacity to produce major improvements in living standards or promote democratic gains, policymakers remained obsessed with the dangers of subversion. They also trained right-wing military forces entirely uncommitted to liberal government and popular welfare. As officials in Washington became alienated by political instability and recurrent radicalism, Latin Americans increasingly identified the United States with reaction instead of reform.[22] Careful archival research on the Vietnam War by George Herring, Robert Schulzinger, and George McT. Kahin has also identified the degree to which the Kennedy administration understood South Vietnam as central to a strategy in which the overriding goal of containment, if not enough to produce a total commitment to the war, precluded far wiser courses of negotiated settlement or withdrawal. Obsessed with the problem of credibility, Kennedy planners pushed the United States deeper into a quagmire.[23]

By linking America's expansionist goals with a continual search for markets and a drive for economic hegemony, historians stressing material interests have analyzed Kennedy-era development and counterinsurgency policies through a different interpretive frame. Though the Peace Corps did not suffer nearly the degree of criticism directed at the Alliance for Progress and U.S. counterinsurgency efforts, at least one account argued that the agency sought to "deflate revolutionary pressures" and lent "the appearance of virtue" to a government engaged in policies of deliberate economic exploitation.[24] For Paul J. Dosal and other historians working within dependency and world systems frameworks, the Alliance for Progress only accelerated a pattern by which U.S. investors and Latin American elites enriched themselves at the expense of impoverished peasantries. Lamenting a "new era of dollar diplomacy" in which public resources were used to control unrest and prop up a dictatorial status quo, Walter LaFeber and Simon G. Hanson have focused on the way class interests functioned across national borders. The real "alliance," in their view, emerged between foreign business and local bourgeoisie as the program solidified the repressive institutions it was called to restructure.[25] Criticism along these lines by Noam Chomsky and Patrick Hearden has also identified American involvement in Vietnam with an attempt to defeat social revolutions that, by threatening to nationalize industry and redistribute income, challenged the structures assuring international capitalist control at the expense of local welfare.[26]

Though writing from different analytical perspectives, scholars stressing strategic preoccupation as well as those focusing on economic relationships have succeeded in finding interests hidden behind the rhetoric of idealism and benevolence—interests grounded either in terms of Cold War security goals or, alternatively, global capitalist demands. While many of their arguments have great merit, they have also suffered from a common tendency to marginalize the significance of ideas and culture in shaping the objectives of national policy. As Michael H. Hunt has argued, historians ranging from George F. Kennan and Hans Morgenthau in the 1950s through John Lewis Gaddis in the early 1980s focused on the "state as a central actor" in the "pursuit and exercise of power." In analyses "marked by references to such self-evident concepts as 'national interests,' 'vital interests,'" and "'international realities,'" critics of American Cold War strategy have evaluated the success or failure of policymakers in protecting the nation from supposedly clear, external threats.[27] As Anders Stephanson has pointed out, by invoking "national security" as an "apparently neutral explanatory device," they have also tended to write in ways that eliminated questions of ideology from the history of policymaking.[28] Scholarship focused on the international "capitalist system" has also given short shrift to the relationship between ideas and the formation of national goals and programs. Gabriel Kolko's disregard for "declarations of belief" as "all too often scarcely more than public-relations exercises" and his insistence that America's policy toward the "Third World" must be evaluated in terms of "the overwhelming pursuit of its national interests, economic above all," reveal a common tendency to describe the search for markets and the logic of international trade as self-evident, unproblematic, and unquestioned motive forces.[29]

Through their tightly constructed narratives of executive decisions and political strategy, many historians of American foreign relations from across the interpretive spectrum have continued to treat ideas and rhetoric separately from interests—as if national needs and priorities stood entirely apart from the concepts, values, and language through which they were apprehended, articulated, and presented to a wider public. Neglecting the role played by cultural understandings of America's identity and history, they have foreshortened their analyses of what Frank Ninkovich has called "the specific issue of how interests are defined."[30] In the case of Kennedy administration development policy, that problem is particularly important. If modernization was at times a strategic tool or an instrument for preserving an international capitalist order, it was also a broader worldview, a constellation of mutually reinforcing ideas that often framed policy goals through a definition of the nation's ideals, history, and mission. Much of modernization's political power did derive from expectations that it would help the United States combat Soviet geopolitical ambitions and preserve opportunities for America's economic expansion. But modernization also became influential at the height of the Cold War because it resonated with assumptions deeply embedded in American culture.

I have written about modernization here as an ideology that functioned in diverse contexts. In one sense, it certainly did serve as a political instrument. It was, in some cases, an analytical model deliberately used in private, institutional settings to evaluate options and generate effective policies. At other times, it was a rhetorical tool employed to justify particular actions. On a different and much more powerful level, however, modernization was also a cognitive framework that, often unconsciously, was closely linked to what historian Eric Foner has described as the "system of beliefs, values, fears, prejudices, reflexes, and commitments—in sum, the social consciousness—of a social group."[31] Much like the early-twentieth-century "liberal-developmentalism" that Emily Rosenberg has analyzed, the ideology of modernization functioned as far more than a narrow "political weapon."[32] Understood in Karl Mannheim's terms, it was also a perceptual framework through which much broader, widespread understandings of America's national identity, mission, and world role were apprehended.[33]

Modernization, in this more far reaching sense, was thus an element of American culture, an ideology shared by many different officials, theorists, and media sources about the nation, its historical "development," and its ability and duty to transform the "less developed" around it. In using modernization to link culture and identity with foreign policy programs, my thinking, like that of many other historians, has been influenced by the work of anthropologist Clifford Geertz. By treating ideologies as "cultural systems" and "a public possession, a social fact, rather than a set of disconnected, unrealized private emotions," Geertz emphasized their function to "render otherwise incomprehensible social situations meaningful, to so construe them as to make it possible to act purposefully within them."[34] Ideologies, in these terms, make sense out of apparent chaos and rapid change, order complex information and events into meaningful, intelligible relationships, and prove valuable in planning future courses of action amid uncertainty. As helpful as that formulation has been, however, I have also attempted to avoid the problems of embarking on a "thick description" in which, as Aletta Biersack insightfully put it, "meaning is described, never derived." "Geertz," she explained, "asserts that 'man is an animal suspended in webs of significance that he himself has spun.' The webs, not the spinning; the culture, not the history; the text, not the textualizing—these attract Geertz's attention."[35] Historians attempting to emulate Geertz, another critic observed, tend to describe reality "as a drama in which the focus is upon symbolic exchanges, not social consequences. Words like 'class,' 'exploitation,' and—most important—'power' recede, drop out of the analysis."[36] Defining modernization simply as culture, in Geertz's terms alone, risks ignoring vitally important historical questions about how, why, in what conditions, and to what effect the ideological "web" has been spun over time.

Thinking along these critical lines has led me to explore additional questions about national identity and the potential resonance between modernization and much older ideologies of Manifest Destiny and imperialism. If not an entirely original model, how might modernization have recast previous visions of Western superiority and articulated them as American power continued to expand in changing historical circumstances? In the historiography of American foreign relations, my consideration of this problem has been influenced by the work of William Appleman Williams and Walter LaFeber. Although both scholars were labeled economic determinists by their critics, each of them worked to reconstruct the ideological worldview of those in power and argued that the guiding perceptions were firmly grounded in a deeply historical construction of the nation's identity. The "Open Door" of Williams's Tragedy of American Diplomacy and the imperial vision of LaFeber's The New Empire were both rooted in the belief, derived from a broadly accepted cultural understanding of the Turnerian frontier, that America's domestic vitality would depend on continued expansion through either commercial or colonial means.[37] As Williams argued in explaining the dominant weltanschauung, those in power reached back as far as the westward movement of the early nineteenth century to argue that America was the "world's best hope" and "deduced from that axiom the conclusion that American expansion naturally and automatically 'extended the area of freedom.'"[38] According to Williams and LaFeber, early-twentieth-century proposals to reshape the world in America's image effectively refashioned a sense of Manifest Destiny and contributed to the growth of the United States as an imperial power.

Examining similar issues in the Cold War era, I argue that the social scientific theories and policies of modernization, despite the claims of their proponents, were neither decisive intellectual breakthroughs nor completely new political initiatives. In terms that echoed Enlightenment explanations of Western superiority and imperial justifications of the need for an altruistic, benevolent West to provide both material assistance and moral tutelage to direct the course of the less "advanced," American modernizers drew on elements of an earlier worldview to articulate one suited to their times. Although not a mere appropriation, the ideology of modernization, in both its intellectual and institutional forms, incorporated and revised much older perceptual frameworks. In changed historical conditions and amid different cultural understandings of race, religion, and national duty, modernizers had to compose an ideology and language of their own. But in asserting the historical validity of a single path to modernity and laying claim to a superior understanding of it, they played the notes of a very familiar song.

In my approach to this problem of ideological and historical resonance, I have also found the questions raised by thinkers such as Michel Foucault and Edward Said particularly suggestive. The development of a position of power, Foucault argued, requires the "correlative constitution of a field of knowledge." Like the nineteenth-century social reformers he describes, the proponents of modernization theory and policy constructed a taxonomic categorization in which "all offences must be defined; they must be classified into species from which none can escape." As they identified the "deficiencies" of the "developing" world, theorists and officials echoed much older representations of Western power and used political, administrative, and economic controls to define a particular trajectory, a "social time of a serial, orientated, cumulative type: the discovery of an evolution in terms of 'progress.'" Like their Enlightenment predecessors, the modernizers of the Cold War also marshaled what Foucault referred to as an "'evolutive historicity' … bound up with a mode of functioning of power." "No doubt," Foucault argued in explaining the Enlightenment impact, "the 'history-remembering' of the chronicles, genealogies, exploits, reigns and deeds had long been linked to a modality of power. With the new techniques of subjection, the 'dynamics' of continuous evolutions tends to replace the 'dynastics' of solemn events."[39] Armed with a model they claimed was based on empirical and historical evidence of an organic, natural order, twentieth-century American social scientists and policymakers recast much older representations to define "modernization" as a unitary variable of global change and claim authority over its management. American power, exercised through the practices of modernization, also found new channels into the foreign world—it became more highly institutionalized and pervasive.[40]

By placing their own society at the endpoint of a social scientific, linear scale, American modernizers also defined their nation in terms of its relationship to the cultures they perceived as struggling to emulate U.S. achievements. As Edward Said has argued regarding the "Orientalist" patterns of Western scholarship about the Middle East, the construction of identity stands at the very center of the intersection between knowledge and its political application. "Indeed," Said emphasized, "my real argument is that Orientalism is—and does not simply represent—a considerable dimension of modern political-intellectual culture, and as such has less to do with the Orient than it does with 'our' world." Like the Orientalists Said has analyzed, modernization theorists, policymakers, and the nation's media also went about framing an identity for the United States based on a "positional superiority." They emphatically characterized their society as uniquely advanced "in comparison with all the non-European peoples and cultures."[41] While holding that all societies passed through the same, universal stages of development, theorists and policymakers also drew sharp distinctions between the West they belonged to and the world they classified. Rooting the difference neither in geography and natural resources nor in the legacies of imperial exploitation, they instead focused on the West's "rational," "activist," "achievement-oriented" social values and explained the apparent stagnation and unfulfilled potential of the "less developed" world in ways that reinforced a sense of their own nation's intrinsic cultural vitality and dynamism.

In the Cold War context, the scientism of modernization theory also allowed for a necessary and politically desirable reformulation of the older ideologies on which it was based. As they described America's world role in terms of an objectively determined, scientifically verified process of universal development, theorists and officials used the ideology of modernization to project an appealing image of expanding power during a period of decolonization. Modernization, Rostow explained to another Kennedy adviser, would replace colonialism. It would create "a new post-colonial relationship between the northern and southern halves of the Free World… . As the colonial ties are liquidated, new and most constructive relationships can be built … a new partnership among free men—rich and poor alike."[42] Articulated in this way, modernization was a means for the continued assertion of the privileges and rights of a dominant power during an era in which the nations of Africa, Asia, Latin America, and the Middle East increasingly demanded independence. By describing modernization as a benevolent, universally valid, scientifically and historically documented process, social scientists, policymakers, and the nation's media also elided America's own imperial past.[43] Rather than the nation that expanded across the continent, waged imperial war in 1898, fought for possession of the Philippines, and remained ambivalent on the subject of European empire after World War II, the United States was presented as a force capable of guiding a destitute world along the transformative path it once traveled. The American Revolution and New Deal, in this sense, became historical blueprints for the kind of anticolonial, democratic progress and reform that struggling states might emulate. Modernizers invoked older conceptions of America's destined role as world leader and redefined them through a supposedly objective developmental schema. They did so, moreover, at a moment when the forces of nationalism and Marxist social revolution called American assertions sharply into question.

Having explained what I aim to demonstrate through an ideological analysis, I would also like to clarify some additional issues regarding the scope of this book and its argument. The reader should recognize, first, that I am not seeking to produce a comprehensive or exhaustive account of either the history of development theory or each of the three Kennedy programs in which I argue it became institutionalized. As mentioned previously, other scholars have undertaken those specific and separate tasks in far greater detail than space will permit me to here. My goal, in this work, is to open new areas for inquiry by illustrating the power of relationships cutting across social science, national identity, and Cold War foreign relations. I also disavow any claim that concepts of modernization were solely responsible for the Kennedy-era initiatives. As later chapters show, modernization certainly did play a major role. But it did so in the midst of an interaction of personalities, historical forces, human experiences, and even haphazard, contingent occurrences. Modernization theory alone was incapable of "causing" anything. As an ideology in specific institutional settings, however, it was one of the significant factors that gave meaning to complex events and shaped thinking in consequential ways. I would like to point out as well that this ideological analysis, critical as it is, does not necessarily depend on an accusation of conspiracy, deception, or "bad faith" on the part of Kennedy policymakers and the intellectuals who advised them. They were convinced that modernization would benefit both the "developing" world and the industrialized West, and few of them perceived much conflict between the American objectives they defined and what they understood as a kind of internationalist idealism and altruism. By the end of the 1960s, however, their largely unquestioned assumptions and supreme self-confidence would be much harder to maintain.

One should also bear in mind that those on the "receiving end" of modernization responded in diverse ways to Western efforts to transform them in cultural and political terms. The chapters on the Alliance for Progress and the Strategic Hamlet Program, in particular, reveal that responses to modernization came from different political perspectives and varied widely. Although liberal Latin Americans were among the strongest advocates of the Alliance for Progress and supported its efforts, Castro's Cuba rejected its goals and ideology directly. In South Vietnam, Ngo Dinh Diem sought to use American aid to bolster his repressive regime while the National Liberation Front mobilized in revolutionary opposition to the U.S. nation-building campaign. The analyses produced by scholars such as Albert Memmi, Eduardo Galeano, Walter Rodney, and, more recently, Gyan Prakash and Arjun Appadurai also reveal that the ideology of modernization has certainly not escaped critical examination by those it proposed to reform and enlighten. Far from breaking down "traditional" cultures and producing a convergence of uniformly "modern" ones, contemporary forces of mass communication and human migration have fostered the formation of diverse, unpredictable, and overlapping religious, ethnic, and group identities in transnational settings.[44] Modernization, in practice, rarely produced the kind of effects its advocates anticipated on paper.

Finally, it is important to acknowledge that, even in the late 1950s and early 1960s, not all Americans shared the vision of their nation presented by modernization in scholarly work and public policy. Although I do maintain that most of the limited criticism of Kennedy "development" policies did not challenge the dominant assumptions, it is certainly true that radicals such as C. Wright Mills, Paul Goodman, and William Appleman Williams produced early and thoroughgoing attacks on the idea of a modern and modernizing America. Many returning Peace Corps volunteers, especially African American ones, also came to reject Washington's description of their ability to produce dramatic, sweeping, and transformative progress abroad.[45] In time, broad-based social movements challenged the way "modernization" was articulated in the domestic context of the "Great Society" and criticized the definition of a "culture of poverty" to be redeemed by federal programs. Later in the decade, a more radical civil rights movement and the rise of the New Left gave such comprehensive dissent a more forceful, public voice. During the early 1960s, however, those arguments remained comparatively rare in an America that had not yet begun to ask the fundamental questions that the Vietnam War would eventually push to the center of national debate.

During the Kennedy era, the promotion of liberal democracy and the acceleration of economic development were mutually reinforcing parts of an ideology that contributed to the definition of strategic goals and projected a national identity suited to the Cold War context. In the midst of a collapsing European colonial order, the Kennedy administration conceived of modernization as part of a comprehensive response to a dangerous Communist threat. As they identified the United States as an altruistic, benevolent nation positioned at the apex of a modernity defined by democratic politics, high living standards, and individual freedom, theorists and officials also reconstructed much older, imperial visions of America's global power. Modernization theory alone did not cause the Peace Corps, the Alliance for Progress, or the Strategic Hamlet Program. It did, however, function as a conceptual framework through which the assumptions of social scientists and policymakers about America's character and international role became embedded in both foreign policy and public, cultural representation. Rather than substituting an ideological determinism for that of "national security" or "capitalist demands," my goal for this analysis is to complement the best of previous historical interpretations. Instead of replacing "power" and "interests" with "culture," I explore the ways in which they are integrally related. American empire, as William Appleman Williams argued, certainly was about political containment and market dominance. But it was also a "way of life."[46]