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Tag: Protest

Power and the Harper’s Letter on Justice and Open Debate

Yesterday afternoon, Harper’s Magazine published an online letter, signed by 150 prominent journalists, novelists, academics, and other public intellectuals, condemning what they call “a new set of moral attitudes and political commitments that tend to weaken our norms of open debate and toleration of differences in favor of ideological conformity.” This comes less than a month after Matt Taibbi published an essay detailing how a number of editors, journalists, and academics have lost their jobs or been censured for sharing controversial views in recent months, even when those views were not necessarily their own. The Harper’s letter makes oblique reference to almost all of the examples Taibbi cites, including the resignation of James Bennet as editor of the New York Times editorial page after being criticized for publishing an op-ed by Senator Tom Cotton (R-AR) that advocates for deploying the U.S. military against its own citizens; The Intercept‘s censuring of Lee Fang for tweeting an interview with an African American man who accused the media of only expressing outrage when Black people are killed by White people, but not when they are killed by other Black people; and Civis Analytics’ firing of David Shore, a progressive data analyst who tweeted a peer-reviewed article by Omar Wasow showing the electoral benefits to Democrats of peaceful rather than violent protests. The letter is careful to applaud the mass movement for racial and social justice that has gained so much momentum in recent weeks, but its raison d’être is to criticize what its signatories perceive to be an ascendant illiberalism in American culture, with special attention to illiberalism on the progressive Left.

Free expression has been on my mind lately, in part because I have been reading about the Free Speech Movement, but also because I am active on Twitter and have seen first-hand how some users attempt to advance rigid orthodoxies around questions of politics and culture. I sometimes agree with those orthodoxies, but not always, and I often don’t care one way or the other, so online ideologues don’t really bother me that much. They can say whatever they want. I am, however, sometimes discomfited by the self-righteous, bullying tone some people use against others for expressing views with which they disagree. Just yesterday, within moments of the Harper’s letter hitting social media, progressives on Twitter were out in force condemning Noam Chomsky for signing it, often in terms that mocked his advanced age, as if ageism isn’t itself a form of bigotry, while ignoring his decades-long commitment to free speech, including free speech for those with whom he most vociferously disagrees. It is all too easy to point to these attacks on Chomsky as evidence for one of the letter’s central premises, which is that a creeping dogmatism now pervades public discourse, and that too many people are poised to shame anyone who fails to conform to a particular brand of progressive moralism. I am not enamored of the letter, for reasons outlined below, but I do sympathize with its central claim that dogmatism, orthodoxy, and ideological purity pose a threat to freedom of thought and expression. This is true, whether it occurs on the Right or the Left, and those who value free speech would be wise to root out censorious, illiberal tendencies wherever they appear.

That being said, I have a few issues with the way the Harper’s letter is framed. The first has to do with how it elides the differences between various forms of censorship and social pressure. For example, in its concluding paragraph, the letter states: “The restriction of debate, whether by a repressive government or an intolerant society, invariably hurts those who lack power and makes everyone less capable of democratic participation.” This strikes me as both needlessly reductive and inaccurate, in large part because it draws a false equivalency between repressive governments and intolerant societies, while also exaggerating the extent to which intolerance holds sway in American society. The overt illiberalism that exists in many countries today, backed by force of law and state-sanctioned violence, is in no way equivalent to the sorts of discursive struggles that we see playing out on social media, in university classrooms, and in the popular press. I agree that repressive governments hurt the powerless and corrupt democracy, but what is happening on platforms such as Twitter is, in many ways, the opposite of that. Thanks to advances in digital media, and especially social media, a much greater number of people are able to express themselves in far-reaching, public ways than ever before. The vast majority of these people do not hold positions of institutional power, and many of them belong to groups that have long been denied both power and equality within American society. That people who have traditionally had little access to public platforms are now able to express themselves does not constitute a harm to the powerless, nor is it evidence that democratic participation is in decline. This is true even when those people are intolerant or promote conformity. What it does constitute, however, is a shift in power away from those institutions that have long controlled public discourse and toward a public that is clamoring to talk back and finally has the tools to do so.

This brings me to my second point. The fact that people who have long been excluded from public discourse are now able to publish their views and thus gain greater social influence seems to have made media outlets (but also many other entities) much more sensitive to public opinion. This sensitivity is often motivated by economic concerns, as most publications cannot afford to alienate their subscribers, let alone lose advertisers. As a result, “institutional leaders, in a spirit of panicked damage control, are delivering hasty and disproportionate punishments” against those who invite unwanted controversy. Or so the letter says, though I think this conclusion is too broadly drawn. The examples detailed in Taibbi’s essay, all of which are alluded to in the Harper’s letter as instances of panicked damage control, very well may constitute injustices to the people whose livelihoods were affected, but it is important to remember that every publication has its own standards, norms, and culture, and to extrapolate a general conclusion about freedom of thought and expression from, say, Bennet’s resignation at the New York Times is a mistake. There are many publications that could have published Cotton’s op-ed without internal or public controversy. Indeed, there are publications that would have been celebrated for doing so, though not necessarily by readers of the New York Times. Ideological differences abound in the American press, and the actions of a single publication do not necessarily represent a general trend in the culture industry. It is also worth noting that there were extenuating circumstances that influenced Bennet’s decision to resign. For example, he apparently chose to run the piece without reading it, which sounds like extraordinarily hasty and careless editing. One result of this breakdown in editing procedures is that Bennet lost the confidence of his colleagues. I mention this only to say that the context of Bennet’s resignation is not just public backlash, but also the unique institutional culture and standards of the New York Times. I support Bennet’s right to free thought and expression, just as I support the New York Times‘ right to choose its editors and set its own standards. But I also support the public’s right to criticize the New York Times in whatever terms it wants. Just because such criticism may lead to a resignation or a firing or censure does not necessarily mean that the criticism, or even the process, was illiberal. We need to attend to multiple contexts and specific circumstances to make that determination.

Finally, the timing of this letter strikes me as problematic. As I mentioned earlier, the Harper’s letter comes less than a month after Taibbi’s essay on the same topic, which was—to be fair—written in response to a recent surge in incidents involving speech-related issues. But it is important to remember that most of these incidents touched on issues of race and racism, and they occurred in the context of a mass struggle against racism. The Harper’s letter is thus implicitly about the proper way to wage that struggle, and its message on this count is clear: Assuming an overly aggressive posture against illiberal bigotry is itself illiberal. What I find problematic about this is that it is being said at a time when powerful forces in this country are trying to convince the public that anti-racists are actually racists, that anti-fascists are actually fascists, that radical anarchists are erasing history, that educators are teaching young people to hate their own country, and that the free press in an enemy of the people. Lest we forget, just days before the Harper’s letter appeared online, the president of the United States delivered a major speech attacking so-called cancel culture and blaming social unrest on “years of extreme indoctrination and bias in education, journalism and other cultural institutions.” Like the movement for racial justice, this is also one of the letter’s contexts, and it is within this particular context that its argument against illiberalism—an argument that is aimed directly at those who are speaking out most forcefully against bigotry and social injustice—strikes me as a troubling concession to the current administration’s view that the real threat to democracy is to be found not only on the progressive Left, but even among the ranks of the mainstream liberal establishment.

So why did Noam Chomsky, Margaret Atwood, Todd Gitlin, Zephyr Teachout, and other notable progressives sign the letter? I have been giving this some careful thought, and while I don’t have an answer I’m completely comfortable with, two major reasons do come to mind. The most obvious reason is that the letter offers a clear defense of open dialogue over and against what it calls “a vogue for public shaming and ostracism,” and Chomsky, Atwood, Gitlin, Teachout, and others want to make their support for free expression known. I give all of the letter’s signatories the benefit of the doubt when it comes to their belief in this principle. And yet there is something else at work in the letter, something that lurks within its paternalistic tone, within the very grammar in which it is written. Consider this: The letter assumes the first-person plural point of view, which is explicitly contrasted with “the radical right,” but also—oddly enough—with “the public” and “the state.” I’m not sure what to make of this, except to say that the letter is clearly written by and addressed to the elites within the culture industry, while at the same time attempting to chasten the general public for its intolerant excesses. The letter’s collective yet exclusive first-person plural goes a long way toward explaining why its signatories feel compelled to speak out about this issue in this particular way. It seems to me that, to a significant degree, they do not consider themselves to be part of the public. On the contrary, they consider themselves to be thought-leaders and taste-makers, and they would like to be free to shape public opinion without actually having to be accountable to the public. In other words, the Harper’s letter is bound up in defending the freedom and prestige of a privileged class of intellectuals against raucous counter-speech on social media and university campuses, all while ignoring the state-sanctioned violence that all too many Americans have experienced while exercising their 1st Amendment rights in recent weeks.

None of this is to discount the potential chilling effect that public shaming and professional retribution may have on writers, artists, educators, and others who work in the culture industry, nor is it to chide the letter writers for publishing the letter. As I stated earlier, my sympathies are with the letter’s sentiments insofar as they challenge censorious, illiberal tendencies wherever they may be found. However, I also recognize that there are norms governing social behavior, including standards of acceptable speech, and that those norms are always being contested. What was socially acceptable fifty years ago may not pass muster today. As Percy Shelley wrote: “Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow; / Nought may endure but mutability.” Speech is, in many regards, much freer now than it was fifty years ago, and where there are strong social pressures against certain types of speech, they often exist to ensure greater justice and equality within the social contract. We should recognize that these social pressures are categorically different than the sort of repressive censorship that led, say, the San Francisco police to arrest Lawrence Ferlinghetti for publishing Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, just as they are categorically different from the sort of social control and enforced conformity that led J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI to ruin the careers of so many people in the entertainment, education, and government sectors. We have come a long way since the repressive 1950s. To suggest that the current discursive struggle is akin to Cold War blacklists, or even that it constitutes an emerging social crisis—as the Harper’s letter so clearly does—strikes me as an unfortunate and misleading exaggeration. If the letter’s signatories are sincere in their call for more “exposure, argument, and persuasion” as opposed to “public shaming and ostracism,” then they can begin by rejecting false equivalencies, embracing nuance and context, and being much more honest about the power dynamics that are so often at play in debates over free speech.

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Hot Damn! Vietnam!

Here is something that offended LBJ: The Vietnam Day Committee (VDC) insisted on using his image—presented upside down—on its promotional materials in the days leading up to their attempted march on the Oakland Army Terminal in 1965. These materials clearly intended to mock Johnson by displaying his portrait in a topsy-turvy manner, but what may be less obvious is that turning the president upside down can also be understood as casting a hex on him. The practice of symbolically turning someone upside down as part of a curse can be traced at least as far back as late-antiquity. For example, Christopher A. Faraone and Amina Cropp have shown evidence of Romans using an incantation against their enemies that included an inscription meaning, “turn upside-down!” Similar language is evident in the fourth-century curse that states, in part, “turn him, turn him upside-down!” In this way, VDC activists engaged in the sort of satirical practice outlined in Robert C. Elliott’s foundational study The Power of Satire: Magic, Ritual, Art and exemplified most hilariously in Ishmael Reed’s “D Hexorcism of Noxon D Awful,” which is anthologized in the aptly titled 19 Necromancers from Now, and Philip Roth’s Our Gang, two texts that satirically hex Richard Nixon.

The story of how the VDC came to deploy this particular strategy is interesting, especially insofar as it reveals something about the influence of postwar American writers on the symbols that the Anti-War Movement adopted during the mid- to late-Sixties. It is also very funny. Here is what happened . . .

Over a two-day period in May of 1965, the VDC hosted one of the nation’s first and largest teach-ins at the University of California, Berkeley. The event was organized by Jerry Rubin, Barbara Gullahorn, and Stephen Smale, and it featured a range of speakers and entertainers, including Norman Mailer, I. F. Stone, Benjamin Spock, Mario Savio, Robert Moses, Dick Gregory, Paul Krassner, Kenneth Rexroth, Phil Ochs, and the San Francisco Mime Troupe. Attendance at the event is estimated to have ranged between ten and thirty thousand people, depending on which source you consult, but the one thing that is certain is that the gathering ultimately proved to be a defining moment in the Vietnam-era Anti-War Movement.

Mailer’s speech—which he punctuated with the refrain, “Hot damn! Vietnam!”—was an irreverent attack on the president and his advisors. It was full of derision and mockery, but it also included a stark warning:

Listen, Lyndon Johnson, you’ve gone too far this time. You are a bully with an Air Force, and since you will not call off your Air Force, there are young people who will persecute you back. It is a little thing, but it will hound you into nightmares and endless corridors of night without sleep. It will hound you. For listen, this is only one of the thousand things they will do. They will go on marches and they will make demonstrations, and they will begin a war of public protest against you which will never cease. It will go on and on and it will get stronger and stronger.

Prophetic as Mailer may have been, his remarks were, up to this point, relatively mundane. Threatening marches and demonstrations was hardly a novel proposition, after all. But as Mailer’s speech develops, it takes an altogether more creative, zany, and downright funny turn:

But listen to just one of the thousand things that they could do. Just listen to this little thing, which is one. These young people are, I think, going to print up little picture of you, Lyndon Johnson, the size of post-cards, the size of stamps. And some of them will glue these pictures to walls and posters and telephone booths and bill-boards. I don’t advise it. I would tell these students not to do it to you, but they will. They will find places to put these pictures. They will want to paste your picture, Lyndon Johnson, on a post-card and send it to you. Some will send it to your advisors. Some will send these pictures to men and women in other schools. These pictures will be sent everywhere. These pictures will be pasted up everywhere—upside down! Silently, without a word, Lyndon Johnson, that photograph of you is going to start appearing everywhere. Your head will speak out, even to the peasant in Asia. It will say that not all Americans are unaware of your monstrous vanity, overweening piety and doubtful motive. It will tell them that we trust our President so little and think so little of him that we send his picture everywhere upside down. Vietnam! Hot Damn! You, Lyndon Johnson will see those pictures up everywhere—upside down. Four inches high and forty feet high. You, Lyndon Baines Johnson, are going to be coming up for air, everywhere, upside down. Everywhere, upside down! Upside down!

Tongue-in-cheek disclaimers about not advising students to engage in this sort of tactic aside, Mailer was clearly planting a subversive idea in his audience’s mind. He was showing the tens of thousands of young people at Berkeley that day how to use a form of symbolic violence to degrade and humiliate a national leader who was rapidly losing credibility among the American Left.

The young activists listened, and they would not disappoint.

Over the coming weeks, the VDC produced and distributed flyers, buttons, and other materials that prominently featured LBJ’s topsy-turvy face. The button pictured below is one such item. It is a striking example of how the Anti-War Movement appropriated LBJ’s image and presented it in a visually arresting manner to mock and discredit his authority as president and commander in chief. But it is also evidence of the direct influence Mailer had on the movement. Not only does the button turn LBJ upside down, as Mailer had warned that activists would do, but it incorporates his famous refrain—“Hot Damn Viet Namn!” The button is, in this regard, an iconic symbol of the relationship between Mailer and the radical activist base of the Anti-War Movement. Perhaps only Allen Ginsberg had a more direct influence on the Sixties protest movement.

But what is perhaps most remarkable about this satirical hexing is that news of the tactic made its way to the Oval Office. In his excellent history of the radical student movement in Berkeley, Subversives: The FBI’s War on Student Radicals, and Reagan’s Rise to Power, Seth Rosenfeld recounts how the FBI attempted to interrupt the VDC’s distribution of LBJ’s upside down portrait. This involved federal agents harassing the small business owner who had agreed to produce thousands of buttons like the one pictured above. Rosenfeld writes, “The buttons were of particular interest, according to an agent’s report, because ‘President Johnson has now become aware that his picture has been displayed in VDC demonstrations in an upside down manner. He is provoked about this'” (273). Amazingly, Mailer and the VDC had succeeded in vexing, if not hexing, the president.

There can be little question that irritating LBJ, even to the point of causing him to suffer “endless corridors of night without sleep,” was one desired aim of symbolically turning him upside down. Another would be to materially damage his reputation. There is ample evidence of Vietnam-era satirists—literary and extra-literary alike—targeting political figures, including sitting presidents, with vicious representations that often approached the legal definitions of slander and libel. The aim of these satirists was to make fun of powerful men and thus galvanizing energy against them, but they also sought to damage their targets with symbolic violence. By using ironic, derogatory language and visual representations to symbolically damage their enemies, postwar American satirists drew on the deep connection between satire and ritual magic to affect social change. They vexed and they hexed, and in so doing they helped develop radical sentiment against the war.

Mailer is a problematic figure in all sorts of ways, but I admire the principled stand he took against the Vietnam War. He was a steadfast anti-war activist and a leader among writers in organizing resistance to the reckless foreign policy that led to this most unpopular war. Mailer is also responsible for two books that masterfully capture the mentality of America during the Vietnam War. The first is his extraordinary journalistic account of the 1967 March on the Pentagon, The Armies of the Night: History as a Novel, the Novel as History, for which he was awarded both the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award. The second is his satirical novel Why Are We in Vietnam?, which captures something of the insanity of the war without even mentioning it until the last page of the book. Both are excellent and remain powerful reads even today.

You can hear Mailer’s speech on the 1966 Folkways Records recording of the teach-in, Berkeley Teach-In: Vietnam, which is available for streaming here. In addition to Mailer, the recording includes speeches by Robert Scheer, Paul Krassner, Benjamin Spock, I. F. Stone, Mario Savio, Dick Gregory, and others. It’s a wonderful bit of history that gives voice to the event that inspired a hex on LBJ. Hot damn!

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Black Austin Rally and March for Black Lives

Two weeks to the day since police officer Derek Chauvin murdered George Floyd, an African American man, in the streets of Minneapolis, and after massive nation-wide protests, rioting, hideously aggressive police tactics, and the deployment of the National Guard in more than twenty states, protests against police brutality and in defense of Black lives continue across America and around the world. Here in Austin, Texas, protesters have been in the streets since late May, targeting the Capitol building, the Austin Police Department HQ, and the highly-trafficked Interstate Highway 35, which cuts directly through the center of the city. There has been violence, most notably by police who have critically injured several people,1 yet there has also been a tremendous display of nonviolent outrage against the over-policing of Black communities and the white supremacy that justifies this system.

The largest protest occurred Sunday afternoon, when the Austin Justice Coalition held a nonviolent march from Huston-Tillotson University, Austin’s only HBCU, to the Austin State Capitol, which is currently occupied by the Texas Army National Guard. Billed as the Black Austin Rally and March for Black Lives, this Black centered yet multiracial event drew thousands to the streets to demand justice for victims of police brutality and the end of systemic racism, especially as it operates in the criminal justice system. I was humbled to march with them, and I came away from the protest deeply moved by what I saw and heard there.

The first thing I should note is that the sheer size of the protest was astonishing. It is difficult to estimate how many people were in attendance, but on two occasions I climbed up roadside embankments, and I was unable to see the end of the crowd as it stretched both before and behind me. I know crowd sizes can be deceiving when so many people are gathered in such close proximity, and being in the middle of a mass of people makes estimating its size all the more difficult, but my impression was that many thousands were in the streets. After so many days of protests, a crowd of this size is impressive and suggests that the Black Lives Matter movement has real staying power. I was also encouraged by the demographic makeup of the protest. There were large numbers of African American Austinites in attendance, and they took the lead in speaking and marching to the Capitol, but the crowd was diverse, both in terms of race/ethnicity and age. It was heartening to see a cross section of the Austin community come together to demand justice for victims of police brutality and the end of racist police practices.

I should also note that the crowd’s mood was both solemn and positive, odd as that mix may seem. The solemnity came from listening to members of the African American community speak about the pain of living in a racist society, but also from hearing them call on white people to do the hard work of dismantling racism within their own hearts, as well as within the larger culture. It was difficult to listen to Brenda Ramos, mother of Mike Ramos, who was Black and Latinx, speak about her unarmed son being shot to death by the Austin police.2 Yet despite these heavier moments, people seemed energized and positive—sharing water and snacks, distributing masks and hand sanitizer, playing drums and chanting together—and there was a palpable sense of solidarity as we marched to the Capitol.

But what touched me most deeply about the day’s events were the comments delivered by Chas Moore, founder of Austin Justice Coalition, at Huston-Tillotson University before the march officially began. He spoke directly to Black people, affirming their value and reminding them that they are not the problem. But he also spoke directly to white people such as myself, challenging us to look deep within our hearts and ask: What are we willing to sacrifice in order to achieve racial justice in America? Are we willing to be honest with ourselves and recognize that we are the ones who have built and maintained a system of white supremacy that benefits us while causing so much harm to our neighbors? Do we have the courage to fight from within ourselves and our communities to dismantle this system, even if that means relinquishing power? These are challenging questions that penetrate directly to the root of the problem, questions that carry with them the clear moral imperative to act against racial injustice.

Moore is right when he says that marching for racial justice means very little if we are unwilling to first transform ourselves and then take practical steps to achieve true equality. Better than marching is demanding just redistributive measures, even if those measures come at your own expense. Better than chanting slogans is supporting affordable housing, even if doing so depresses your own property value. Better than posting a black square to Instagram is sending your children to public schools, even if you have the means to pay tuition at a private school. And perhaps those of us with PhDs who are struggling with the current academic job market should be getting certified to teach in the public schools rather than looking to private academies as an alternative to colleges and universities. I wish I felt more confident that a majority of white Americans have the courage and love of justice to do these things—and much, much more—but listening to Moore call for such courage was deeply stirring nonetheless.

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