Expression in Contested Public Spaces: Free Speech and Civic Engagement 1793630933, 9781793630933

Table of contents :
Contents
Foreword • Michelle N. Deutchman
Acknowledgments
Introduction • Spoma Jovanovic
1 Free Speech as a Tool of Self-Government: A Short History • Lewis Pitts
PART 1: COMMUNITY VOICES FOR JUSTICE
2 Crossroads of Justice: Conversations and Public Spaces • Spoma Jovanovic
3 The Struggle for Space: Racialized Mass Homelessness, the Privatization of Public Space, and Fundamental Rights • Marcus Hyde and Gary Kenton
4 Greensboro, 1963: Free Speech and the Boundaries of Nonviolence • Thomas F. Jackson
5 Black Women Speaking for Justice • Sarah E. Hollingsworth
6 Money, Speech, and Power: Participatory Budgeting as Free Expression • Vincent Russell and Therese Gardner
PART 2: URBAN SPACES AND CONTESTED SPEECH
7 Legislating Memory: The Legal Landscape of Contested Monuments in the United States • Laura Ricciardi
8 Art, Censorship, and the Battles over Public Spaces • John K. Wilson
9 Balancing the Goods of Free Speech • David Errera
10 Video Games and Free Speech: Reproducing Inequalities and Pushing Justice to the Margins • Yacine Kout and Marina Lambrinou
PART 3: FREE SPEECH IN HIGHER EDUCATION
11 The Tension Between Free Speech and Diversity on Campus • Michael C. Behrent
12 Free Speech, Hate Speech, Snowflakes, and Student Activism: Institutional Accountability • Cerri A. Banks and Lorri M. Riggs
13 A Safe Space for the White Race: An Interrogation of White Nationalist Propaganda on College Campuses • Gabriel A. Cruz and Patrick Sawyer
Index
About the Contributors

Citation preview

Expression in Contested Public Spaces

Expression in Contested Public Spaces Free Speech and Civic Engagement

Edited by Spoma Jovanovic

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www​.rowman​.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL, United Kingdom Copyright © 2021 by The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Jovanovic, Spoma, 1958- editor. Title: Expression in contested public spaces : free speech and civic engagement / Edited by Spoma Jovanovic. Description: Lanham, Maryland : Lexington Books, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021026624 (print) | LCCN 2021026625 (ebook) | ISBN 9781793630933 (cloth) | ISBN 9781793630940 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Freedom of speech. | Public spaces—Political aspects. | Political participation. | Social justice. Classification: LCC JC591 .E97 2021 (print) | LCC JC591 (ebook) | DDC 323.44/3—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021026624 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021026625 ∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Contents

Foreword vii Acknowledgments ix Introduction 1 Spoma Jovanovic 1 Free Speech as a Tool of Self-Government: A Short History Lewis Pitts PART 1: COMMUNITY VOICES FOR JUSTICE 2 Crossroads of Justice: Conversations and Public Spaces Spoma Jovanovic

9 19 21

3 The Struggle for Space: Racialized Mass Homelessness, the Privatization of Public Space, and Fundamental Rights Marcus Hyde and Gary Kenton

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4 Greensboro, 1963: Free Speech and the Boundaries of Nonviolence Thomas F. Jackson

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5 Black Women Speaking for Justice Sarah E. Hollingsworth

89

6 Money, Speech, and Power: Participatory Budgeting as Free Expression 109 Vincent Russell and Therese Gardner

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Contents

PART 2: URBAN SPACES AND CONTESTED SPEECH

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7 Legislating Memory: The Legal Landscape of Contested Monuments in the United States Laura Ricciardi

127

8 Art, Censorship, and the Battles over Public Spaces John K. Wilson

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9 Balancing the Goods of Free Speech David Errera

167

10 Video Games and Free Speech: Reproducing Inequalities and Pushing Justice to the Margins Yacine Kout and Marina Lambrinou

185

PART 3: FREE SPEECH IN HIGHER EDUCATION

209

11 The Tension Between Free Speech and Diversity on Campus Michael C. Behrent

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12 Free Speech, Hate Speech, Snowflakes, and Student Activism: Institutional Accountability Cerri A. Banks and Lorri M. Riggs

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13 A Safe Space for the White Race: An Interrogation of White Nationalist Propaganda on College Campuses Gabriel A. Cruz and Patrick Sawyer

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Index 263 About the Contributors

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Foreword

I was invited to write the foreword for this book almost a year ago. I remember thinking to myself that the timing of this volume’s creation and publication was impeccable—that these evergreen issues of expression and civic engagement had taken on increased significance as we approached the November 2020 election while battling a pandemic that impacted every facet of American life. It never occurred to me that we might need this book even more in 2021: still fighting COVID-19; after witnessing the most significant civil rights protests in over fifty years; after the run up to a contentious—and contested— election; and following a literal assault on democracy during which rioters stormed the U.S. Capitol in an attempt to stop Congress from certifying the results of the presidential election. These insurrectionists did not succeed. However, they came perilously close to undermining what sets our nation apart: free and fair elections and the peaceful transfer of power. What happened on January 6 highlights the brokenness of our system and the gulfs that divide us. So, yes, we need this book more than ever. And who better to put it together than Spoma Jovanovic—a dedicated activist and scholar who infuses democratic engagement into every aspect of her life inside and outside the classroom. I had the privilege of getting to know Spoma while she was a fellow at the UC National Center for Free Speech and Civic Engagement in 2019–2020. She inspired me with her commitment both to using her voice to address social justice imperatives and to giving others the tools so they feel empowered to do the same. In these pages are a diverse group of academics, practitioners, and community organizers who identify and highlight the myriad ways people express themselves in public spaces in order to uphold the core tenets of democracy. vii

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Foreword

Using higher education, historical, and community lenses, this book shares research activity, engaged scholarship, and pedagogical practices in order to frame contemporary free speech challenges—what are the barriers to speaking, whose voices are loudest, and how do we ensure that marginalized voices are amplified? As a First Amendment attorney and advocate, I fervently believe that using our voices—individually and collectively—leads to change. This volume helps guide the way. No matter where you are in your journey of democratic engagement, civic participation, and expression, this book will speak to you. I hope you learn as much from it as I have. Michelle N. Deutchman Executive Director, UC National Center for Free Speech and Civic Engagement February 2021

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to the many people who have explored with me the scholarly questions that led to the development of this book. Foremost among them have been my academic colleagues and students in the Department of Communication Studies at the University of North Carolina, Greensboro (UNCG). Together, we have organized lectures and symposia featuring the activities of community partners and scholars who put principles of free speech and civic engagement into action every day. In doing so, we have aimed to bring into focus how communication has tremendous power to connect people, advance meaningful change, and promote a more just world. One of our largest events was a 2019 Free Speech Conference that brought attention to civic learning surrounding current day concerns about, debates on, and promises for free expression. Several of the presenters at the conference are featured in the pages of this book. My appreciation is extended as well to a number of organizations. The National Communication Association and the American Association of Colleges and Universities provided generous grants to support my projects on civic education and social responsibility. UNCG’s Lloyd International Honor College likewise recognized the value of and supported research surrounding local and international movements for social change during my year serving as a Distinguished Fellow. Finally, the work leading to this book coincided with a prestigious year-long fellowship with the University of California National Center for Free Speech and Civic Engagement that helped to focus my thinking, understanding, and writing surrounding the connections that freedom of expression and civic involvement engender. This book moved from idea to fruition with the encouragement and support from the professionals at Lexington Books. I especially want to thank Nicolette Amstutz and Sierra Apaliski for their guidance and patience.

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Acknowledgments

Finally, my deep appreciation for the value of expression in public spaces comes from walking with brave and committed people at protests, marches, and rallies. I am fortunate to have shared those experiences with my courageous husband Lewis Pitts, my amazing children Jay, Sander, and Lena Mattson, and my dear friends Claire and Larry Morse, Sherry Giles, Glenn Hudak, Ellie Richard, and Matt and Cornelia Barr.

Introduction Spoma Jovanovic

Democracy of the people and by the people relies on active engagement in communal concerns. It is visible in public spaces where the expression of free speech is evident in open-air debates, club meetings, town hall meetings, demonstrations, and rallies. There, people’s voices and bodies noticeably communicate power and purpose. The centrality of voice, and the public actions it leads to, occupies renewed interest following the many organized activities that ordinary people have taken to relieve police-community tensions, address school gun violence, and take charge of climate change conversations (Jovanovic 2019). Democracy is not only relegated simply to matters of government but also to issues of governance located within all aspects of our lives. How we participate in the cultural facets of life and express our views about how dayto-day living should unfold for us and others, are acts of democracy. For Yale constitutional law professor Jack Balkin: The central question of democracy is how people can have power in their own lives and over their own lives. A responsive state accountable to the public is one way to achieve this end, but it is not the only way. There are other forms of power that exist beneath, above, and outside the state. One can also organize or critique private institutions—religions, workplaces, firms, and families—in terms of democratic principles, although the way that democracy operates in each case may differ depending on the nature of the practice. (2016, 1061)

Throughout history, people have deliberated and argued over economic and political decisions, sometimes leading to changes in policy and practices, and other times leaving the status quo in place or reversing progressive ideals. Among these struggles have been efforts to abolish slavery, confront white 1

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supremacy, push back against voter suppression, challenge corporate domination, and apologize for past acts of genocide against indigenous people. The expression of different views has led to efforts to ensure equal rights for women, end child labor, provide reasonable accommodations to people with disabilities, and protect labor and worker’s rights. More recently, people have mobilized to protect the environment and confront the harms of hypercapitalism as it wreaks havoc on wages, access to government-supported programs, and opportunities for self-determination. These contentious struggles and conflicts have shaped the world we live in and the personal stands we are willing to take to ensure justice, equality, dignity, and respect for all. When the calendar turned to 2020, a global pandemic followed and though initial government action was tepid, how people responded was not. Protestors and counter-protestors took to the streets around the world focusing their messages on to open or not to open our public spaces and to wear or not to wear face coverings as critical preventative measures to stem the rapid spread of the virus. Our discourse and our actions raised concerns about limitations on the number of people who could be in the same space, if testing for the virus and antibodies was reliable, and under what guidelines the vaccinations should be distributed. Among those involved in some of the earliest pandemic based face-to-face and online collective actions were Greensboro, North Carolina bus drivers (Wireback 2020), Italian priests (Leali and Oroschakoff 2020), Michigan prisoners (Hausman 2020), New York renters (Gabbatt 2020), university graduate students (Lewis 2020), grocery store and warehouse workers (Neuman 2020), nurses (Leshan 2020), and anti-government protestors (Wehner 2020). Some argued that public safety was being compromised, especially for healthcare and low-wage workers in newly designated essential jobs. Others asserted that the government was overstepping its authority in imposing stay-at-home orders, curfews, and related restrictions to keep people distanced from one another, impacting not only social relationships but also commerce and our economic survival. Other actions were organized, too. Car caravans called attention to the need for additional K-12 education funds (Matsuoka 2020), online petitions urged investments in higher education (Scott 2020), virtual relief fundraising offered financial assistance to artists and musicians (Sweet Relief n.d.), tips circulated to resist Zoom bombing (Green 2020), and food and mask deliveries rolled out (Barron 2020). As the pandemic illustrated, the ways and means vary by which people express themselves to remain civically engaged in unprecedented times. Choosing the best or right path forward vexes many of us as we grapple with essential ethical and political communication questions. As the pandemic swelled, people asked when was it the right time to raise concerns other than COVID-19? What spaces could we turn to, to invite voices that critiqued as

Introduction

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well as commended government action, not only surrounding health concerns but also in response to international security, economic well-being, and educational needs? What avenues could people pursue outside officially sanctioned sources to assert their views and suggestions? To whom could we turn for reliable information and advice amid uncertainty—federal officials, state and local authorities, public health experts, others? Were the restrictions of our civil liberties necessary to provide protection and relief for the people or a ruse for flagrant government-corporate collusion designed to squash important conversations and decision-making by the people? How could businesses best support employees and customers who were rightly fearful of the impacts of pandemic? What calls for federal financial support were warranted and on what grounds, to pay for living subsistence, education, and healthcare, as well as small business support? And, of course, who would pay for the many associated costs? Similar questions envelope matters of police accountability, race (in) equalities, human rights, education, food, health, water access, and climate justice. We put our faith in imagining that these public policy concerns will be negotiated locally and nationally, among residents and neighbors as well as by state officials and leaders of our countries. Unfortunately, the best available data suggests otherwise—economic elites and organized business groups have far greater influence on policy directions than do average citizens and social movements (Gilens and Page 2014). Still, local organizers and activists persist, struggling to ensure their perspectives are included—not dismissed— to influence how we live through and emerge from inevitable crises to make the world more just, not just more of what it was. In a democracy, injustice resisters understand that the responsibility for governance resides with the people first, and their representatives and branches of government second. They embrace the foundations and expressions of free speech as central to matters of responsibility and accountability in a democracy. Through their voices, organizing, and activism efforts, we enact democracy that is responsive to the needs of the people (Thomas 2014). College professors in all academic disciplines are in a prime position at a most propitious time to expand the reach of their institutions’ resources. Faculty action and research coupled with student engagement can bolster the impact of people in communities to affect change that is often long overdue in order to end oppressions where they persist. Following the tradition set forth by Jane Addams, Paulo Freire, John Dewey, Henry Giroux and bell hooks to name a few who recognize that schools are vital social centers that can model democratic practices, the contributors to this volume research, study, and teach about democracy and free speech. The idea for this book emerged from many years of walking with, speaking with, and standing with ordinary people who display the courage and

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commitment required to challenge injustices in public spaces. It is worth saying here that if our democracy operated as our ideals suggest, people would voice their concerns freely and often. However, the fact remains that too often people want to express themselves in ways that are taken seriously by decision-makers, but find instead that their views, ideas, and concerns are summarily discounted and disregarded. The recourse available to that disquieting situation is to speak out in public venues. Sometimes these expressions happen in front of podiums in city and county chambers where elected officials hear from their constituents; other times, voices join together in the streets, on college campuses, in meeting rooms, and in city parks. Common to these varied acts is the far less known but painstaking work of researching, crafting arguments, drafting campaign materials, writing letters to the editor and opinion pieces for the newspaper, holding press conferences, organizing others, and showing up at event after event. Those behind-the-scenes activities reveal a deeper story of the dedication that people hold in their hearts as a reason to stand up and speak out against injustices. As is the case for many people, my civics introduction did not come for the first time in college but came earlier from family influences and lessons in high school of how democracy’s future rested upon people voting in free elections (Holland et al. 2007). Since then, I have come to appreciate voting as an important piece of enacting democracy, but one wholly insufficient on its own to ensure what Benjamin Barber (2004) calls a strong democracy. Unprecedented challenges to democracy, both domestically and internationally, call for citizen engagement that goes beyond voting to coalition building and raised consciousness of pathways to social change. This is especially important now when our democracies and electoral politics have become “rigged in favor of wealth” with corporations and mega-millionaires exerting an unhealthy influence on who gets elected and what laws are passed (Newman 2020, 3). Combined with explosive partisan politics and economic decisions leaving ordinary people feeling insecure about the future, it is no wonder that trust in government is near “historic lows” (Pew Research Center 2020, 6). To accrue the benefits that democracy has to offer, people know that their hearty engagement in civic life is vital because, “The public is likely to be a more certain guardian of its own interests” over and above the preferences of the wealthy and business enterprises (Gilens and Page 2014, 576). The work demands nothing less than a collective, sustained struggle through the exercise of free speech and citizen action to tap into, build upon, and reinforce strong measures of justice (Jovanovic 2017; McIlvenny 1996). At the same time, the struggle must call attention to the undemocratic practices

Introduction

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that are wittingly or not embedded in our institutions to advantage a relative few, resulting in the concentration rather than disbursement of power for decision-making. This book centers itself around two important questions. How do people express themselves and their differences, in ways that amplify the many voices central to the mission of democracy? In what ways and in what discursive forms do people interrupt the status quo or unjust practices to advance positive social change? Scholarship focused on these questions examines the contexts in which people interact, and the processes they employ to advance ethics and justice. This research adds to our understanding and practice of communication in community organizing by considering the many ways and differing contexts in which advocacy occurs. Toward that end, the chapters in this book promote and highlight the democratic arts necessary for meaningful citizen and student civic action. Readers will discover in these pages that our voices still matter in so many contested spaces, every single day. What we say and how we say it has throughout history influenced critical advances that pushed back against unjust policies in our communities, on college campuses, in video games, in our museums, and in other locales, as the chapters in this book illuminate. The authors here call attention to how communication that targets social justice happens in concert with both moments of celebration and dissent, demonstrating that the preservation of free speech and civic engagement relies on the unflinching expression of voices in contested public spaces to advance peace and justice befitting the human condition.

REFERENCES Balkin, Jack M. 2016. “Cultural Democracy and the First Amendment.” Northwestern Law Review 110: 1053–1095. Barber, Benjamin. 2014. Strong Democracy: Participatory Politics for a New Age. Berkeley, CA: University of California. Barron, Richard. 2020.“Greensboro Mask Giveaway Involves Three Suppliers, Top Staffers and Coalition of Nonprofits.” News and Record, May 4, 2020. https​:/​ /ww​​w​.gre​​ensbo​​ro​.co​​m​/bus​​iness​​/gree​​nsbor​​o​-mas​​k​-giv​​eaway​​-invo​​lves-​​three​​-supp​​ liers​​-top-​​staff​​ers​-a​​nd​-co​​aliti​​on​-of​​-nonp​​rofit​​s​/art​​icle_​​7abcd​​430​-9​​​eb0​-5​​8aa​-8​​c7d​-b​​ f3b80​​d8500​​a​.htm​​l. Gabbatt, Adam. 2020.“Thousands of Americans to Take Part in Biggest Rent Strike in Decades.” The Guardian, May 1, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​guard​​ian​.c​​om​/wo​​rld​/2​​ 020​/m​​ay​/01​​/coro​​navir​​us​-am​​erica​​-rent​​​-stri​​ke​-pr​​otest​. Gilens, Martin, and Benjamin I. Page. 2014. “Testing Theories of American Politics: Elites, Interest Groups, and Average Citizens.” Perspectives on Politics 12, no. 3 (September): 564–581.

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Green, Carlton E. 2020. “A Plan for Resisting Zoombombing.” Inside Higher Education, May 5, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.ins​​idehi​​ghere​​d​.com​​/advi​​ce​/20​​20​/05​​/05​/h​​ow​ -re​​spond​​-effe​​ctive​​ly​-zo​​ombom​​bin​g-​​incid​​ent​-o​​pinio​​n. Hausman, Sandy. 2020. “Prisoners Protest as More Than 700 Contract COVID-19.” WVTF, May 12, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.wvt​​f​.org​​/post​​/pris​​oners​​-prot​​est​-m​​ore​-7​​00​-co​​ ntrac​​t​-cov​​​id​-19​​#stre​​am​/0. Holland, Dorothy, Donald M. Nonini, Catherine Lutz, Lesley Bartlett, Maria Frederick-McGlathery, Thaddeus C. Guldbrandsen, and Enrique G. Murillo. 2007. Local Democracy Under Siege: Activism, Public Interests, and Private Politics. New York: New York University Press. Jovanovic, Spoma. 2017. “Speaking Back to the Neoliberal Agenda for Higher Education. Cultural Studies/Critical Methodologies, special issue, 1–6. Jovanovic, Spoma. 2019. “Conversations That Matter.” In Creating Space for Democracy: A Primer on Dialogue and Deliberation in Higher Education, edited by Nicholas V. Longo and Timothy J. Shaffer, 176–183. Sterling, VA: Stylus Publishing. Leali, Girogio, and Kalina Oroschakoff. 2020. “Mass Protests: Italian Priests Vent Fury Over Lockdown Bar on Worship.” Politico, April 29, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.pol​​ itico​​.eu​/a​​rticl​​e​/mas​​s​-pro​​tests​​-coro​​navir​​us​-co​​vid19​​-lock​​down-​​tests​​-ital​​y​-gre​​ece​-f​​ rance​​-germ​​​any​-p​​riest​​s​-pat​​ience​/. Leshan, Bruce. 2020. “1,000 Signs Represented 18 Million Health Care Workers Battling COVID-19.” WUSA, April 17, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.wus​​a9​.co​​m​/art​​icle/​​ news/​​healt​​h​/cor​​onavi​​rus​/o​​ne​-th​​ousan​​d​-sig​​ns​-re​​prese​​nted-​​18​-mi​​llion​​-heal​​th​-ca​​re​ -wo​​rkers​​-batt​​ling-​​covid​​-19​/6​​5​-bb6​​​308c8​​-45bf​​-4731​​-8c7d​​-0226​​92005​​02f. Lewis, Caroline. 2020. “Grad Students Stage Sick-Outs and Rent Strikes to Protest Columbia and NYU’s COVID-19 Response.” Gothamist, May 11, 2020. https​:/​/go​​ thami​​st​.co​​m​/new​​s​/gra​​d​-stu​​dents​​-stag​​e​-sic​​k​-out​​s​-and​​-rent​​-stri​​kes​-p​​rotes​​t​-col​​umbia​​ -and-​​​nyus-​​covid​​-19​-r​​espon​​se. Matsuoka, Sayaka. 2020.“Parents and Teachers Continue to Advocate for Funding for GCS Schools Amidst Pandemic.” Triad City Beat, May 12, 2020. https​:/​/tr​​iad​ -c​​ity​-b​​eat​.c​​om​/pa​​rents​​-and-​​teach​​ers​-c​​ontin​​ue​-to​​-advo​​cate-​​for​-f​​undin​​g​-for​​-gcs-​​sch​ oo​​ls​-am​​idst-​​pande​​mic/. McIlvenny, Paul. 1996. “Poplar Public Discourse at Speakers’ Corner: Negotiating Cultural Identities in Interaction.” Discourse & Society 7: 7–37. Neuman, Scott. 2020. “Essential Workers Plan May Day Strikes; Others Demand End to COVID-19 Lockdowns.” NPR, May 1, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.npr​​.org/​​secti​​ons​ /c​​orona​​virus​​-live​​-upda​​tes​/2​​020​/0​​5​/01/​​84893​​1228/​​essen​​tial-​​worke​​rs​-pl​​an​-ma​​y​-day​​ -stri​​kes​-o​​thers​​-dema​​​nd​-en​​d​-to-​​covid​​-19​-l​​ockdo​​wns. Newman, Daniel G. 2020. Unrig: How to Fix Our Broken Democracy. New York: First Second. Pew Research Center. 2020. “Americans’ Views of Government: Low Trust, But Some Positive Performance Ratings.” https​:/​/ww​​w​.pew​​resea​​rch​.o​​rg​/po​​litic​​s​/202​​0​ /09/​​14​/am​​erica​​ns​-vi​​ews​-o​​f​-gov​​ernme​​nt​-lo​​w​-tru​​st​-bu​​t​-som​​e​-pos​​​itive​​-perf​​orman​​ce​ -ra​​tings​/.

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Scott, Joan W. 2020. “A Petition to Support Higher Education in Crisis.” Academe Blog, April 29, 2020. https​:/​/ac​​ademe​​blog.​​org​/2​​020​/0​​4​/29/​​a​-pet​​ition​​-to​-s​​uppor​​t​ -hig​​her​-e​​duc​at​​ion​-i​​n​-cri​​sis/. Sweet Relief. n.d. “Covid-19 Fund.” https​:/​/ww​​w​.swe​​etrel​​ief​.o​​rg​/co​​vid​-1​​9​-​fun​​d​.htm​​l. Thomas, Nancy. 2014. “Democracy by Design.” Journal of Public Deliberation 10: article 17. Wehner, Peter. 2020. “The Party of the Aggrieved.” The Atlantic, April 21, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​atlan​​tic​.c​​om​/id​​eas​/a​​rchiv​​e​/202​​0​/04/​​party​​-aggr​​​ieved​​/6103​​18/. Wireback, Taft. 2020. “Union Workers Walk Out After Bus Driver Diagnosed With COVID-19.” Greensboro News and Record, April 29, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.gre​​ensbo​​ ro​.co​​m​/new​​s​/loc​​al​_ne​​ws​/un​​ion​-w​​orker​​s​-wal​​k​-out​​-afte​​r​-bus​​-driv​​er​-di​​agnos​​ed​-wi​​th​ -co​​vid​-1​​9​/art​​icle_​​74e09​​9c4​-​5​​ca8​-5​​62e​-8​​b0a​-1​​d062e​​4bd50​​7​.htm​​l.

Chapter 1

Free Speech as a Tool of Self-Government A Short History Lewis Pitts

President Abraham Lincoln delivered his famous Gettysburg Address in the midst of the horrors and division of the Civil War to dedicate the National Cemetery in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. The entire speech, only 272 words, sounded for the United States the importance of raising our voices together. Lincoln began his speech proclaiming America’s foundation was built on the promise of equality for all: “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men [sic] are created equal.” Lincoln, troubled that our nation might not survive as one, divided as it was by the question of slavery, concluded: It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. (Cornel University Library 2013)

It was a dangerous time back then, and it is a dangerous time now. Our nation is rife with stark divisions reflecting very different visions of what kind of society we will have. How do we achieve our patriotic values and goals to establish justice and ensure the general welfare and domestic tranquility for now and later

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generations? The terms found in the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution describe the purpose of our government: We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

In our democratic theory, free speech and self-government go hand-in-hand. First, by recognizing the sanctity and dignity of each and every individual, and second, by having a system of decision-making through voting and free speech that provides an opportunity for people to have a meaningful say on economic and political matters, from pay or wage rates to when our nation goes to war and who has to fight in those wars. Voting is the most popular form of collective expression, but for our democracy to flourish, we also need government openness, transparency, and accountability, along with citizens’ rights to free speech, organizing, and expressing dissent. Only after major struggles including the Civil War, did our national rhetoric began to contain slogans such as one person, one vote and equal justice under law. However, anyone keeping up with history or current news will recognize that these slogans have not yet become a meaningful reality. Instrumental in the struggle for free speech has been the question of who has power and in whose interests. The correlation between wealth and power has long been acknowledged. Louis Brandeis, U.S. Supreme Court Justice from 1916 to 1939 said we had to make a choice: “We may have democracy, or we may have wealth concentrated in the hands of a few, but we can’t have both” (Campbell 2013, 256). In 1990, the U.S. Supreme Court faced the question of whether a corporation’s general funds could be used for electoral campaigns. The Michigan Chamber of Commerce sued the state, asking the court to declare the state’s law that banned the use of any corporation’s general funds for support or opposition to any candidate for state office. The Chamber argued it had a First Amendment free speech right to spend its money for electoral politics. The court upheld the ban on such expenditures as being a fair and legitimate exercise of state power, ruling: Michigan’s regulation aims at a type of corruption in the political arena: the corrosive and distorting effects of immense aggregations of wealth that are accumulated with the help of the corporate form and that have little or no correlation to the public’s support for the corporation’s political ideas. (Austin v. Michigan 1990)

This decision was a victory that limited the use of private money in public elections.

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Then, twenty years later, came the disastrous 2010 U.S. Supreme Court ruling in Citizens United v. FEC which in a 5–4 decision reversed Austin v. Michigan. The slim majority of the court ruled that it was a violation of the First Amendment for the government to restrict independent spending by corporations and outside groups on electoral campaigns. By independent, the court meant spending on ads (pro or con) that was not coordinated with the candidate’s campaign. The court assumed that independent spending (i.e., not coordinated with a candidate’s campaign) would not create substantial corruption of the process and that here would be transparency of the donors. Both assumptions have proven false as dark money expenditures rocketed sky-high in every election since the decision (Mayer 2016). Writing in dissent, Justice John Paul Stevens summed up the majority opinion concisely as “a rejection of the common sense of the American people, who have recognized a need to prevent corporations from undermining self-government.” The Citizens United ruling came at a time of unparalleled and increasing wealth inequality among U.S. residents. That wealth was also accumulating disproportionately along racial lines, with whites accumulating more and people of color getting far less. Everyday people noticed. According to a 2017 survey by the nonprofit Common Cause, “There is almost universal agreement that money is a major driver of government dysfunction. Ninety-six percent of those polled identified ‘money in politics’ as causing dysfunction; 94 percent cited ‘wealthy political donors’” as contributors to the problem (Eisman 2017, para. 5). The warping and corrosive effects of private money in public elections dramatically underscores the importance of the use of people’s rights to free speech. That is not to suggest a belittlement of the value and importance of electoral politics. But voting needs to be supplemented with citizen advocacy, protest, and dissent. Helen Keller, the famous U.S. writer and activist for women’s suffrage, socialism, labor rights, anti-militarism, and the hearing and sight impaired (herself deaf and blind since the age of nineteen months) said in 1911, “Our democracy is but a name. We vote? What does that mean? It means we choose between two bodies of real, though not avowed, autocrats. We choose between Tweedledum and Tweedledee . . . ” (Zinn 2015, 345). If candidates and public officials do not represent genuine public interest, then the public must speak out. CONTESTED SPACES AND THE STRUGGLE FOR JUSTICE: SOME HISTORY Contested spaces for justice involve tensions, struggles, and battles over who gets elected, what policies and laws get passed, and whether they are fair and

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equitable toward both individuals and the general public welfare. According to the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution and a similar version of that amendment in each state constitution, each person is promised the right to organize, leaflet, demonstrate, and protest for or against any government action. Specifically, the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution states: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridge the freedom of speech, or the press, or the right of people to peaceably assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

This right of free speech is certainly not unlimited and law libraries are filled with court decisions sometimes expanding this right and sometimes narrowing the specifics of how far this free speech right goes. Despite the dominant narrative that Supreme Court Justices are neutral referees deciding cases based on the objective law and facts of each case, it is critical to remember that the political party in power through the president and Senate selects justices and judges who have ideological orientations that they prefer and that are almost always slanted in favor of property rights over human rights. Nevertheless, active public support for free speech has influenced the Supreme Court to rule often that protest speech is legally protected even if the protest is highly critical of local or federal police or elected officials, and even if that speech is rude and boisterous. For a stark example, in 1971 as public opposition to the war in Vietnam raged, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that a man wearing a jacket with the words, “Fuck the Draft” on it, while in the public halls of a Los Angeles courthouse could not be convicted of disturbing the peace (Cohen v. California). The controversy surrounded the proper rules of conduct in a public space, namely the courthouse. Still, these types of issues are never settled once and for all. Historically, the tendency is clear—those in power operate to narrow the power of the people while enlarging their share. Free speech rights are merely empty promises on paper unless those rights are exercised and people are willing to struggle for them. Popular myths suggest that free speech is a foundational principle of our government going back to the American Revolution. Not so. Freedom to protest and criticize the government was not contained in the original Constitution. America’s free speech rights were added to the U.S. Constitution in 1791 as part of the Bill of Rights, the first Ten Amendments to the Constitution. Interestingly, the interpretation by the U.S. Supreme Court for well over the first 100 years of our nation rendered free speech rights essentially meaningless. Criticizing the government in public parks or on public streets could

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get you jailed and fined (Kairys 1998). However, by the early 1900s with dissension growing over World War I and the Great Depression, along with protracted struggles for labor rights, women’s rights, religious rights, and racial justice, the country saw more and more people moving into the streets protesting and demanding fairness. In response, the U.S. Supreme Court began to reinterpret the protections of free speech more expansively (Kairys 1998). It is noteworthy that those court decisions evolved into broader protections for protest and dissent. Nevertheless, these twentieth-century U.S. Supreme Court decisions falsely claimed that our nation had had a long tradition, since its founding, of protecting dissent. For example, in 1895, the Supreme Court of Massachusetts ruled against Reverend William F. Davis, an evangelical preacher and long-time activist against slavery and racism, when he was fined for speaking without permission in Boston Common, America’s oldest public park located in the downtown area of Boston. The court wrote: For the legislature absolutely or conditionally to forbid public speaking in a highway or public park is no more an infringement of the rights of a member of the public than for the owner of a private house to forbid it in his house. (Commonwealth v. Davis 1895)

Here, the court said that the government owned and had legal title to the park, and thus it could regulate its use, regardless of the First Amendment. On appeal, the U.S. Supreme Court agreed in Davis v. Massachusetts (1897). After several decades of people protesting in the streets over various social and religious issues for which they were arrested and fined, things eventually changed. In the late 1930s, labor unions planned to distribute leaflets and literature on the streets announcing outdoor meetings to advocate for workers’ rights in Jersey City, New Jersey. The mayor, Frank Hague, beholden to the local business owners, denied permits to the union and had many of the activists tossed out of town. The workers and union appealed all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. That court, in a 180 degree turn around from previous rulings, made its decision in favor of the labor union saying: Wherever the title of streets and parks may rest, they have immemorially been held in trust for the use of the public and, time out of mind, have been used for purposes of assembly, communicating thoughts between citizens, and discussing public questions. Such use of the streets and public places has, from ancient times, been part of the privileges, immunities, rights, and liberties of citizens. (Hague v. CIO 1939)

In this case, the court did not admit that it was overturning the Davis v. Massachusetts decision and all the previous free speech cases. Instead of

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admitting that street protests all across the nation represented a moral force and demand for meaningful free speech rights, the court falsely claimed that the right to free speech had always been protected, from ancient times. The court apparently did not want to concede that regular working people had forced a change in interpretation of the law through their sustained protest and activism. This is a very important lesson for a self-governing democracy. Constitutional rights on paper are like muscles; if you do not use them, they atrophy. They shrink. Thus, how the First Amendment, or any law, is interpreted by courts is not an abstract, predetermined matter. What people do to express their opinions and needs can make a difference. The very drafting of the U.S. Constitution in the late 1780s was so intertwined with contested economic and political interests that the notion of a united group of states nearly failed. The Founding Fathers who drafted the Constitution dreaded and feared regular people, the majority. The Founding Fathers knew the preponderance of Americans were enslaved or their homes and farms were in deep debt, subject to high taxes and foreclosures. Ordinary people were fearing for their economic survival. The wealthy founders thus feared the power of a self-governing democracy, and this fear has remained through today into even the liberal establishment, according to renown linguist and scholar Noam Chomsky. This point is so important and contrary to the dominant narrative of our nation’s origin that Chomsky’s words are worthy of an extensive quote: This shriveled conception of democracy has solid roots. The founding fathers were much concerned about the hazards of democracy. In the debates of the Constitutional Convention, the main framer, James Madison, warned of these hazards. Naturally taking England as his model, he observed that “in England, at this day, if elections were open to all classes of people, the property of landed proprietors would be insecure. An agrarian law would soon take place,” undermining the right to property. To ward off such injustice, “our government ought to secure the permanent interests of the country against innovation,” arranging voting patterns and checks and balances so as “to protect the minority of the opulent against the majority,” a prime task of decent government. (Chomsky 2016, 76) The threat of democracy took on still larger proportions because of the likely increase in ‘the proportion of whose who will labor under all the hardships of life, and secretly sigh for a more equal distribution of its blessings’ as Madison anticipated. Perhaps influenced by Shay’s Rebellion, he warned that “the equal laws of suffrage” might in time shift power into their hands. “No agrarian attempts have yet been made in this Country,” he continued, “but symptoms of

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a leveling spirit . . . have sufficiently appeared in a [sic] certain quarters to give warning of the future danger.” For such reasons, Madison held that the Senate, the main seat of power in the constitutional system, “ought to come from and represent the wealth of the nation.” The “more capable set of men” and that other constraints on democratic rule should be instituted. (Chomsky 2016, 77)

Chomsky’s thesis is that the guardian elite class has felt entitled to rule since the very birth of our nation. Alexander Hamilton, who became the first U.S. Treasurer, made it clear he wanted the government controlled not democratically but by the rich and well-born (Govan 1950). He went so far as to propose the idea that was in time rejected, that the United States should select a president and Senate for life (Zinn 2015). John Jay, the first chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court likewise held the view that the country’s privileged class members were the rightful guardians of the government when he proclaimed, “The people who own the country should run the country” (Walsh 1987, 431). In the conclusion to The Framers’ Coup (2016), Harvard Law Professor Michael Klarman writes: Shay’s Rebellion [of taxpayers and debtors in Massachusetts one year before the Philadelphia Constitutional Convention] and the capitulation of most state legislatures to populist demands for fiscal and monetary relief had caused extreme consternation among the upper classes. In the months before the Philadelphia convention, Madison told [Virginia Governor Edmund] Randolph that “many individuals of weight, particularly in the eastern district [i.e., New England], are suspected of leaning towards monarchy.” (Klarman 2016, 598)

In other words, the elites were terrified of popular democracy but were forced anyway to use the rhetoric of self-government because people were fighting to have a meaningful say in decisions affecting their lives. Karman reflects, “The Revolutionary War had made ordinary Americans more confident in their ability to govern themselves” (Klarman 2016, 618). That final point, that ordinary folks were becoming more confident in their ability and right to govern themselves captures the most revolutionary or transformational aspect of the journey toward the noble goals of a self-governing democracy with liberty and justice for all. The Declaration of Independence boldly embodies that fundamental principle by stating that the people have the right, and duty, to alter or to abolish any form of government that becomes destructive to the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And yet, these unalienable rights also reveal how threatening self-government was and remains to the established political and

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economic systems which primarily serve the interests of a small element. As with the colonists back then and ordinary people today, the human aspirations for well-being, domestic tranquility, and equal justice remain the driving force for evolving standards of moral decency and economic justice. History moves forward, or backward, on the strength of those hopes as reflected in the courage and creativity to struggle for them. People make history. Nourishing the exercise of critical, creative, and courageous free speech by the people is absolutely essential to any concept of democracy. Following the police killing of George Floyd in 2020, tens of thousands of people found renewed interest in voicing their views in the streets, demanding that until Black Lives Matter, all lives cannot matter. Other people have been demanding Medicare for All healthcare as a universal right, as most democratic countries have. And people have been demanding the end of the exploitation of the land, water, and air by corporate polluters; they are demanding the end of fossil fuels that are over-heating the Earth and threatening life as we know it. There is a paradox to this people power. As long as people believe they have it and act accordingly, that power undeniably exists as can be seen from the progress made in the various social movements throughout modern history. But the very minute people doubt or cease to believe they have the power to fight for the unalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, as stated in the Declaration of Independence, they lose that power by not exercising it. The pessimistic virus that says you cannot fight city hall, is a death knell for democracy. Keeping hope alive may be the most important task we face as we work toward a new vision for society, with full economic and political human rights for all. This is the vision of a new birth of freedom referred to by President Lincoln in the Gettysburg Address. He ended that speech with the urgent plea that “government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth” (Cornel University Library 2013). Whether that noble vision of a self-governing democracy perishes or blossoms into a more comprehensive new birth of freedom and justice for all is in our hands. Frederick Douglass, former slave and famous orator, was right when he said, “If there is no struggle, there is no progress” (Douglass 1857, para. 6). The starting point for that struggle is a deep and passionate understanding of the unalienable right to free speech in contested spaces about contested issues.

REFERENCES Austin v. Michigan, 494 U.S. 652, 660 (1990). Campbell, Peter Scott. 2013. “Democracy v. Concentrated Wealth: The Search of a Louis D. Brandeis Quote.” The Green Bag 16, no. 3 (Spring): 251–256.

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Chomsky, Noam. 2016. What Kind of Creatures Are We? New York: Columbia University Press. Citizens United v. FEC, 558 U.S. 310 (2010). Cohen v. California, 403 U.S. 15 (1971). Commonwealth v. Davis, 162 Mass. 510, 511 (1895). Cornel University Library. 2013. “The Gettysburg Address.” https​:/​/rm​​c​.lib​​rary.​​corne​​ ll​.ed​​u​/get​​tysbu​​rg​/de​​​fault​​.htm. Davis v. Massachusetts, 167 U.S. 43 (1897). Douglass, Frederick. 1857. “West India Emancipation Speech.” https​:/​/ww​​w​.bla​​ ckpas​​t​.org​​/afri​​can​-a​​meric​​an​-hi​​story​​/1857​​-fred​​erick​​-doug​​lass-​​if​-th​​ere​-n​​o​-str​​uggl​e​​ -ther​​e​-no-​​progr​​ess/. Eisman, Dale. 2017. “Poll: Most Americans Believe Our Political System Is Broken.” Common Cause. https​:/​/ww​​w​.com​​monca​​use​.o​​rg​/de​​mocra​​cy​-wi​​re​/mo​​st​-am​​erica​​ns​ -be​​lieve​​​-syst​​em​-br​​oken/​. Govan, Thomas P. 1950. “The Rich, The Well-Born, and Alexander Hamilton.” Journal of American History 36, no. 4 (March): 675–680. Hague v. CIO, 307 U.S. 496 (1939). Kairys, David. 1998. “Freedom of Speech.” In The Politics of Law: A Progressive Critique, 3rd ed., edited by David Kairys, 190–215. New York: Basic Books. Klarman, Michael J. 2016. The Framers’ Coup: The Making of the United States Constitution. New York: Oxford University Press. Lau, Tim. 2019. “Citizens United Explained.” December 12, 2019. Brennan Center for Justice. https​:/​/ww​​w​.bre​​nnanc​​enter​​.org/​​our​-w​​ork​/r​​esear​​ch​-re​​ports​​/citi​​zens-​​uni​ te​​d​-exp​​laine​​d. Mayer, Jane. 2016. Dark Money: The Hidden History of the Billionaires Behind the Rise of the Radical Right. New York: Doubleday. Walsh, Anthony. 1987. “The People Who Own the Country Ought to Govern It: The Supreme Court, Hegemony and Its Consequences.” Minnesota Journal of Law & Equity 5, no. 3 (December): 431–451. Zinn, Howard. 2015. A People’s History of the United States. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics.

Part 1

COMMUNITY VOICES FOR JUSTICE

Chapter 2

Crossroads of Justice Conversations and Public Spaces Spoma Jovanovic

In 2020, demonstrations surged in the midst of a global pandemic and in the aftermath of the U.S. police killings of African Americans Ahmaud Arbery (Georgia), Breonna Taylor (Kentucky), and George Floyd (Minnesota). Protests ignited in every U.S. state and in seventy-four countries around the world (Kishi and Jones 2020). An estimated fifteen to twenty-six million people participated in the U.S. based Black Lives Matter protests, representing the largest social movement in the country’s history (Wright 2020). The overwhelming majority of those events, 93 percent, were peaceful, and still 43 percent of Americans polled believed most protesters were trying to incite violence and destroy property (Kishi and Jones 2020). People were in the streets and also speaking out at local government meetings as speakers from the floor to demand change from their government officials. The accounts delivered in city halls, combined with outdoor demonstrations, and other online and small group conversations were carried out to oppose normalized, unjust government operations. Taken together, these efforts produced “thick” collective action with diverse groups, small and large, speaking about initiatives for change (Nabatchi and Leighninger 2015, 15). They tackled comprehensive concerns including the need for racial justice, affordable housing, fair wages, healthcare equity, disability rights, and gender equality. These people-driven efforts were defined by ample opportunities for dialogue to deepen understanding and deliberation to foster critical decision-making (Makau and Marty 2013). Public life in a democracy is destined to be controversial, and even more so when media reports embellish or fail to accurately present details, as activists can attest. For those reasons and for the well-being of democracy, it is essential that people continue to deepen their understanding of political events, protest to assert a collective response against injustice, speak out in varied 21

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venues, advocate for cultural and legislative changes, and engage others in public spaces to educate, inspire, and support civic action. This chapter recognizes people and movements continuing to give primacy to the importance and relevance of expression in public spaces (Jovanovic 2020). They are among those who insist, through their speech acts, that democracy depends upon “open discussion, free exchange of ideas . . . and freedom to criticize” (Schauer 1982, 15). THE STRUGGLES WE INHERIT Examining the history of democracy reveals that it has rarely manifested its ideal of rule by the people. Athens, Greece, in 508 BC may be considered the original site of democratic self-determination, but we know that only men over the age of twenty were eligible for citizenship. Women, immigrants, slaves, and nonproperty owners were denied access to civic and political rights. Similar exclusions unfolded when the founding fathers of the United States signed the Declaration of Independence in 1776, establishing a democracy but ultimately betraying its promise of equality and freedom for all. In the twenty-first century, a range of voter suppression efforts in the United States ranging from questionable voter identification requirements to the elimination of polling locations and implementation of gerrymandered districts to dilute the influence of some voters have most aggressively and negatively targeted African Americans (Giroux 2021). According to the Next System Project (2019) that considers the health and vibrancy of democracies around the world, the United States has failed to make much progress in economic, social, and democratic well-being, and has instead experienced “substantial deterioration” (2019, 3). The situation is unsettling, but not surprising says filmmaker and author, Astra Taylor who adds: The inequalities that plague us today are not an aberration nor the result of whichever party happens to be in power, but a plausible result of the political system’s very design, which in crucial ways was devised by a restricted and privileged class of men. (2019, 7)

Indeed, people are unhappy and distrustful of government. According to thirty-four nations in a Pew Research Center survey, 64 percent of people worldwide believe elected officials do not care about them (Wike and Schumacher 2020). At the same time, support for defending free speech is on the rise, perhaps as an antidote to a general dissatisfaction with the current state of affairs and as an important counter to the rise of misinformation in media sources (Wike and Schumacher 2020).

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An elite few—generally very wealthy people and multinational corporations—continue to hold and wield an unhealthy amount of power, often against the interests of the majority. A handful of America’s upper crust have enshrined their neoliberal ideals into virtually every government operation by pouring millions of dollars into campaign coffers (Mayer 2016). Neoliberalism, an ideology that the private market is best suited to address government, education, and business interests, is far removed from ethical considerations, social solidarity, and the collective obligation to treat all with dignity. This view dismisses the collective wisdom of the people and its representatives in favor of handing over labor, trade, and finance decisions to those seeking to maximize profits, even if that means social safety nets are dismantled in the wake. That is, by manipulating the institutional levers of control, a relative few have usurped the foundational features of democracy for their own interests. International report cards reveal that the United States occupies a poor position among the list of developed countries in the indicators for a fair and just society. The U.S. childhood poverty rate, for instance, is nearly the highest of all economically advanced countries (Adamson 2012); incarceration rates (Walmsley 2016) and death by gun homicide (Quealy and Sanger-Katz 2016) are likewise among the highest. U.S. residents have very poor health outcomes, including shorter life expectancies, higher rates of disease and injury, and among the highest obesity and diabetes rates compared to other wealthy nations, despite more spending on health care (Woolf and Aron 2013). In the civic arena, U.S. voter turnout is regularly among the lowest levels in developed democracies (DeSilver 2016). The situation of rule by the elite is untenable say people who speak out here and in countries around the world. DEMOCRACY, ETHICS, AND JUSTICE Upholding free expression facilitates civic engagement, promotes human dignity, and offers a path in the search for the truth (Fraleigh and Tuman 2011). According to law professors, Erwin Chemerinsky and Howard Gillman, the moral foundation for free speech is clear: “Freedom of speech is essential to freedom of thought; it is essential to democratic self-government” (2017, 23). They explain that First Amendment protection for speech is crucial for guarding against conformity; it enables those in the minority, freethinkers, radicals, and anyone holding an opposing view to the dominant opinion to advance diverse ideas, identities, and perspectives. We expect that “free speech makes it possible for ideas other than our own to gain a hearing” (Arnett 1990, 215) so that we may distinguish fact from falsehood and reason from nonsense.

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The guarantee of free speech, however, is never truly a guarantee unless people speak up and hold officials accountable for ensuring its priority status. That is, absent the vigorous demand to uphold free speech, it is all too easy for government entities to limit its use. The ethical ground upon which thinking and speaking reside is not inconsequential. Ethics moors our bodies and our communication in compassion, generosity, care, and wonder. It drives us to think about what we know, how we speak, and with whom we engage. Ethics, as the response and responsibility for the other (Levinas [1961]1969), beseeches us to communicate with one another in struggles for peace and justice, rejecting the idea that rancor and violence are inevitable. It is in tandem with ethics, that justice flourishes, emerging in our impulse for fairness and decency, and finding its voice in advancing equality, freedom, and the common good. Justice depends on meaningful dialogue and measured dissent to cultivate other important virtues such as listening, courage, and critical questioning that follow from engaging with one another to enact democracy (Mouffe 2000). Reviving the public sphere with more public conversation, debate, and conflict reflecting both an interest in ethical communication and a yearning for justice leads us to open, free expression that defines, at least in part, what it means to be an engaged civic actor. More speech does not, however, mean that reconciling our inevitable differences will come easily, or at all. Still, speaking out in the pursuit of justice is an ethical call many continue to answer, to reclaim the promise of democracy. In England, The Netherlands, and Italy, for example, people from all walks of life talk, shout, pontificate, rebut, and question one another on Sunday afternoons at Speakers’ Corners. Active citizens demonstrate how the human spirit continues to invigorate democracy through speaking out in public places on contested public issues. In Greensboro, North Carolina, community members use the power of grassroots organizing to meet, speak, and fan out into parts of the city to raise consciousness about matters of justice. Some gather, year after year, to demand independent police review and reforms. Others cast their eyes toward finding and reclaiming open-air places for free speech venues. In France, the Yellow Vest Movement, gilets jaunes, launched in 2018 to protect the rights and livelihoods of the majority. Their message was clear: modern democracy is at risk from corporate influence on government policies that favor the rich (Jovanovic 2019a). When people use speech to interrupt or disrupt unfair policies, outdated norms, or inequitable treatment, they demonstrate that social protest carries with it a force that can move elected officials to address issues they had hoped to ignore (Rubenstein 2017). This kind of unpretentious street

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democracy “demands active and collective participation” not only by those speaking, but also by those to whom their speech is directed (Visconti et al. 2010, 520). GREENSBORO: VOICES FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE AND CHANGE Greensboro, North Carolina, occupies a special place in U.S. history, having given rise to the nationwide Sit-In Movement in 1960 to desegregate lunch counters that saw people discuss, protest, reconvene, and protest again to gain advances. The Civil Rights and Black Power movements that followed there continued to activate direct, collective action in the city through the remainder of the twentieth century (Jovanovic 2012). The 1969 Dudley High School Revolt In 1969, for instance, the Dudley High School Revolt erupted when school administrators disallowed student activist Claude Barnes from becoming student body president at the predominantly Black high school, despite his write-in election victory. Hundreds of students boycotted classes and threw rocks and stones at the school buildings, frustrated by the school’s refusal to recognize Barnes’ win (Chafe 1980). The high schoolers also sought the help of college students attending the nearby North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University (A&T), a historically Black institution. According to Nelson Johnson, who was a college student there at the time and founder of the Greensboro Association of Poor People (GAPP), “When the Dudley students said, ‘we need help,’ four hundred of us walked to their school where we installed Claude Barnes, also a member of GAPP, then and there as student body president on the authority of the Black community” (personal communication, May 15, 2019). This act of standing with the high school students was a powerful rhetorical act of acknowledgment designed to move them in the direction of “the good and the just” (Hyde 2006, 7). GAPP was gaining momentum in Greensboro at the time, as the largest community activism organization in the city. GAPP’s charge was to change policies that marginalized Black people. Lewis Brandon, an activist and former middle-school teacher remembers, “This [Black] community tried to resolve the Dudley High School issue through meetings and discussions.” However, those negotiations were not reported to the larger community. Instead, Brandon says, “the pattern and practice of domination by some whites on the school board” prevented a peaceful conclusion to the protests (personal communication, May 15, 2019).

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Following the struggle that began with the high school election and continued for nearly a month, were additional protests that had moved to the A&T campus. As the students’ voices grew, so too did the efforts to contain the situation. The police and the Greensboro Chamber of Commerce stepped in, urging a stop to what they considered an occupation of the campus by militant radicals (personal communication, Nelson Johnson, May 15, 2019). The standoff led to the city’s mayor calling in the National Guard. Upon their arrival into the city, and in the early morning hours, gunfire rang out leaving A&T sophomore Willie Grimes fatally shot in what has remained the longest cold case and unsolved murder in Greensboro’s history (Chafe 1980). Brandon recalls, “They shot everywhere and into [dorm] rooms. They destroyed furniture, TVs, everything. Tear gas was everywhere. We still need an apology from the State of North Carolina” for what happened in 1969 (personal communication, Lewis Brandon, May 15, 2019). Fifty years after the incident, alumni from Dudley High School and A&T, along with community supporters, continue to urge that the story of Willie Grimes’ death be properly told, archived, and noted as another episode that revealed the ugly pattern of race and policing discord (personal communication, Bill Hubbard, May 15, 2019). The 1979 Greensboro Massacre Ten years after the Dudley High School Revolt, Greensboro would become the site of yet another episode of racial violence that raised questions as well about police misconduct. On November 3, 1979, five protest marchers were shot and killed on a Saturday afternoon in a Black neighborhood by members of the Ku Klux Klan and American Nazi Party. No police were present, but television crews captured the carnage on video. Despite the visual evidence, none of the killers ever served time for their crimes (Jovanovic 2012). In 2004, Greensboro installed the country’s first truth and reconciliation commission to examine the causes and consequences of the Greensboro Massacre, culminating with the presentation of a 512-page report to the community following two years of research, interviews, community meetings, public hearings, and a door-to-door campaign to collect heretofore untold stories detailing what happened in 1979 (Greensboro Truth and Reconciliation Commission Final Report 2006). The two-year process featured a rhetorical toolkit for social change that involved storytelling, conversation, information sessions, and conferences in a variety of spaces all designed to “support spontaneous, informal talks, as well as structured discussions, lectures” and online communication (Jovanovic 2012, 123–124). It was a process aimed at connecting people through open and honest talk, created not by government officials, but by a grassroots coalition. The numerous outreach efforts throughout the

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community were a beginning step in garnering support for the Final Report’s efforts to establish the truth that had been long suppressed, and to recommend concrete steps to reconcile a city scarred by racial and economic strife. The commission’s list of recommendations would prompt further conversations, critical questioning, and cooperative action for many years to come. Twenty-first Century Police Protests and Calls for Reform Greensboro’s history illustrates that policing practices have been under scrutiny by the community for well over forty years. Community members, clergy, students, Blacks, whites, businesspeople, and former elected officials have spoken out through the years in response to racial disparities in arrests, assaults, and killings to demand independent police review. In 2018, protest action swelled again, calling for justice surrounding the police killing of thirty-eight-year-old Marcus Deon Smith, a Black homeless man who was stumbling in the streets pleading for help in what was deemed a mental health crisis. Eight police officers responded and later restrained Smith by binding his hands and feet in a position commonly called hog-tying, while county emergency medical technicians on the scene, watched (Craven et al. 2019). Smith was not arrested, had violated no law, and did not have a weapon of any kind, yet he was restrained and then died when he gasped and fell silent, suffocating to death. The State’s Medical Examiner ruled Smith’s death a homicide, yet the city refused to admit its culpability (Craven et al. 2019).  A multiracial, intergenerational alliance grew in numbers and actions, demanding police reform and a financial settlement with the Smith family who filed a federal Civil Rights lawsuit for the abuse by police they saw on body camera footage that led to the death of Marcus Smith (Craven et al. 2019). The activities of individuals and local groups1 have included weekly community expression for change as demonstrated by Monday noontime protests in front of city hall; speakers, sometimes numbering in the dozens, at monthly City Council meetings, a continuous flow of letters to the editor and op-eds published in the local newspapers spanning more than two years, candlelight vigils, car caravans, citizen-organized public meetings, digital and in-person rallies, a birthday parade honor of what would have been Smith’s forty-first birthday, fundraising to pay for Smith’s headstone, individual meetings with elected officials, and organizing meetings including faith-based leaders, civic organizations, and community activists, some taking place in my living room. The organizers have counted on large numbers of the public showing up at the events by not only posting flyers on social media but also by making personal appeals like the e-mail sent out to me and hundreds of others that said:

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Figure 2.1  Protesters call for justice in honor of Marcus Deon Smith. Photo by Spoma Jovanovic.

Yeah I know, it’s cold today. But we need boots on the ground, literally, so if you are able, please join the Making Music For Marcus parade today . . . And if you can’t walk (or drive in the car caravan) PLEASE email the Mayor and Council Members and ask them to settle the Smith family lawsuit NOW and to settle with an amount that shows their commitment to their belief that Black lives matter. (E-mail to author, January 30, 2021)

Greensboro is one example of the many cities where protesters share concern that too little has been done to recognize that Black Lives Matter. They say policing is in need of reform consistent with the suggestions in The Path to Hope written by Stephane Hessel and Edgar Morin (2012) that explicitly call for law enforcement to implement caring processes of humanization if we are to revitalize our relations. This effort relies on expanding and creating more public places, including community centers and public parks to host the community’s voices for change. Free Speech in the Park When a new downtown park was constructed in Greensboro, its location proved ideal for public expression, including rallies and protests in a city that previously did not have a central park. Municipal officials, strapped to provide essential services let alone park amenities, partnered with private,

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economic development agencies to design the park with inviting spaces they hoped would encourage further investments in the community. It required four years of planning and construction before a ribbon-cutting ceremony introduced the small, two-acre park that boasted a pavilion, bandshell, lush grass, commissioned public art, and a large water fountain feature. To nearly everyone, this arrangement seemed like a win-win deal. However, when the park opened, it posted rules and regulations, including prohibition of political speech within the boundaries of the park, causing some community members to take notice and question that regulation. The park officials, including both private and public partners, pronounced that since the park’s construction was funded by private dollars, it was not technically a space of the government, and thus free speech rules did not apply. They argued that people would trample and ruin the grass at the urban park if rallies were held there, thus damaging their investment in the pristine, upscale space designed to highlight the city’s history and culture. Community members2 challenged the interpretation by local officials. They declared that the park looked like a public park, operated like a public park, and for all intents and purposes, was a public park and thus could not restrict the community’s ability to speak out there. Free speech rights were being pitted against and held subservient to private property rights. In response, the officials maintained their position. They added that other city owned and operated spaces were more conducive to hosting free speech events. Community members countered that the new downtown park was the city’s most visible and accessible public space. They said the new park should be added to the list of places for free speech, rallies, and protests, rather than being singled out for exclusion from the list. After repeated conversations and letters highlighting the importance of the First Amendment, the officials unenthusiastically accepted the legal advice rendered by the state’s flagship university’s School of Government. Park rules on all signage, brochures, and websites were amended to remove prohibitions of free speech. Of note is that the prior speech restrictions had also been used to limit other forms of communication by requiring a fee-based permit that effectively disallowed survey collection, area college research collection, and school field trips to the park. The undue influence of corporate and other private business interests in venues that many people see and use as public spaces was halted, but surfaces how restrictions could have spread, absent the protest by local community members. The community members showed that free speech remains a right worth struggling to keep and expand in order to counter the influence of private business interests in government decision-making. That is a message being shared elsewhere around the world.

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SPEAKERS’ CORNERS: CONVERSATIONS AND DISRUPTIONS Vibrant political talk is everywhere at Speakers’ Corners, outdoor locations where people interacting with one another is uncensored, ongoing, and routine. Speakers’ Corners are those spaces—not actual corners—where a speaker, an audience, and sometimes, a heckler, come together. The participants at Speakers’ Corners play different and overlapping roles in “public struggles over interpretation and alignment” of political discourse (McIlvenny 1996, 56). Described sometimes as free universities and other times as spectacle, a form of fellowship emerges at Speakers’ Corners that keeps people coming back for more talk. London, England The most famous and arguably the most active Speakers’ Corner in the world is located in London, England’s Hyde Park which was formally established in 1872 under the Parks Regulation Act. Long before, though, it was home to Tyburn Gallows, where from 1196 to 1783 an estimated 50,000 people were hanged. Large crowds would gather, both in support of and in opposition to the executions, and where they might hear the final words, apology, or speech of those put to death (The Royal Parks n.d.). By the early 1900s, London’s Speakers’ Corner was the central meeting location for the suffrage movement that drew crowds numbering up to 250,000 to advance voting rights for women. In 2003, anti-war protests attracted upward of two million marchers to the same spot. Located on the northeast corner of Hyde Park near Marble Arch, Speakers’ Corner is the last outdoor public speaking place in London that at its peak from 1855 to 1939, boasted one hundred such spaces. Today, Speakers’ Corner is home to people who communicate the passion of their convictions, looking to forge connections with others, while recognizing that interruptions and disruptions are a common staple of the participatory democracy project.  Consider Bob Rogers, a fixture at Speakers’ Corner for over fifty years until he died in 2021 at the age of seventy-three. On a July day in 2019, he was still holding his laminated sign, “It’s going to get worse” to attract people to his spot. Bob spoke, as he had for years, of the need for more public transportation and toilet facilities, and less graffiti and surveillance cameras (Matthews 2021). The mild-mannered Bob Rogers practiced a kind of civil communication designed to attract “allies in a common cause” to secure changes in society (Makau and Marty 2013, 66). His weekly visits to Speakers’ Corner allowed him to meet and share his message with people from all over the world (personal communication, July 21, 2019).

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Figure 2.2  Crowds participate with speakers every Sunday. Photo by Spoma Jovanovic.

These days, many of the people at Speakers’ Corner sit or stand on wooden crates, chained to area fencing and emblazed with the message, Stand Up For Something. The crates were installed by local officials to help disburse the crowds that increasingly have feuded over religious claims. However, for as many crates-as-platforms that are sprinkled throughout the park, there are just as many three-step stools, chairs and card tables, and ladder inventions brought in by the speakers themselves. Another regular at Speakers’ Corner is Mr. IC3, a pseudonym that references the racial code used by British law enforcement to describe him as a Black-skinned man. He is concerned that these forms of identification serve to perpetuate racial divisions in this country. He adds, “The police codes are the equivalent of war weapons. We know the categories exist, but we are not invited to know how they are used” (personal communication, July 21, 2019). When government information is held or used in secret, Mr. IC3 says, it becomes a weapon that can be used against the people. Mr. IC3 is foremost, a community organizer. He has been going to Speakers’ Corner on Wednesdays and Sundays for fifteen years. He says he used to have his platform closer to the center of Speakers’ Corner proper but moved it further away to encourage more calm, focused discussions. He experimented with different speaking configurations and settled on what he thought to be his best yet—a circle of ten chairs to help people avoid the contentiousness and shouting matches that surround other Speakers’ Corner orators. Instead, he seeks to foster dialogue, a communication experience more compassionate than what dispassionate debate on public policy can elicit (Jovanovic 2012). Rooted in the concrete, lived experience, dialogue

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comes by invitation, not demand. It is expressed by way of genuine listening, care, concern, and respect for the other person (Bohm 1996; Stewart 1995).  Mr. IC3 compares the growth of dialogue and free speech to a tree. “You need a solid base—in this case, the topic of identity politics. The base frees up people to discuss anything, like branches of a tree that flutter in the wind but come from that solid base” (personal communication, July 21, 2019). Most of London’s Speakers’ Corner participants are men, but Elsie,3 a woman in her sixties with unnaturally bright red hair, joins Mr. IC3’s circle to provoke discussions of gender that challenge male domination. Her argument is that people are being deliberately and unfairly controlled through the exploitation of women and their reproductive systems. She argues, “The ruling class is happy with sexism, patriarchy, and misogyny. But, women could destroy the human race by simply not having children—they have a kind of power unmatched by mere men” (personal communication, July 21, 2019). Not surprisingly, her comments draw both nods of agreement and expressions of disagreement, all the while continuing the conversation.

Figure 2.3  Speakers’ Corner is site of conversation circles. Photo by Spoma Jovanovic.

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Not everyone at Speakers’ Corner is interested in participating in contentious political debate. For Kareem, Speakers’ Corner is instead a respite “from my boring accountant life.” He has been a regular for fifteen years, he says, commuting an hour every Sunday to participate in “a wonderful training ground for conversation, and a space to learn from others” (personal communication, July 21, 2019). He says he appreciates meeting educated people who contribute to his life-long learning. Andy, a first time visitor to Speakers’ Corner, appears to be in his twenties. He could hardly contain his enthusiasm for the outdoor conversation space. He says a challenging family situation caused him to run away from home in his teens. He landed in New York City, eventually went to college for a year, and then left for travel and adventure. Speakers’ Corner, Andy says, is a place where he finally fits in, explaining: We have cultural clashes everywhere so it’s important to have conversations like the ones here to bring people together. I want to start an online platform where people can trade and barter, something that goes against the assertion of capitalism. What we really need is to have Speakers’ Corners organized on college campuses and in parks everywhere. Everyone has a voice. We need to provide pathways for everyone to express themselves. (Personal communication, July 21, 2019)

After about ten minutes, Andy casually drifted toward another conversation, this time with an older gentleman named Phillip. Phillip is an architect and admirer of Mr. IC3’s efforts. Older, and with only a few strands of hair remaining on his head, he smiles broadly as he tells Andy that Speakers’ Corner grew out of the Greek tradition of dialectic and pursuit of the truth that started with Aristotle and Plato. Amicable disagreement, Phillip insists, is foundational in Western civilizations. He explains: Free speech is a defense against tyranny and arbitrary rule. Let’s face it, it’s to the advantage of the politicians to thwart free speech. When free speech is gone something else will take over. If you move away from protecting free speech you will necessarily turn toward authoritarian rule. (Personal communication, July 21, 2019)

Phillip is worried about the future of the world but says speaking in public spaces encourages a vetting of our ideas that strengthens our reasons for advancing a position. Speaking about political matters, he says, is a way to reclaim humanity that has slipped into a growing obsession with materialism. “When we are obsessed with buying things,” Phillip says, “we become a thing ourselves” (Personal communication, July 21, 2019). 

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Figure 2.4  One of many speakers around the park. Photo by Spoma Jovanovic.

London’s success with its Speakers’ Corner has prompted other countries to take note. It is a hopeful trend worth supporting to help make the abstract concept of self-rule tangible in parks and town squares, including those in Amsterdam and Italy’s town of Lajatico. Amsterdam, The Netherlands Amsterdam’s Speakers’ Corner was constructed in 2005 in Oosterpark, one of the city’s largest commons. Mila who is Dutch and Jack who is English, find joy in sitting, sunning, and speaking at Spreeksteen, the park’s Speakers’ Corner demarcated by a large sculpture of an amplified horn that was installed following the murder of filmmaker Theo van Gogh, a descendent of Vincent van Gogh’s brother. Theo had released a ten-minute documentary, Submission: Part I depicting the violence perpetrated against Muslim women and featuring quotes from the Koran projected onto a naked female body (Burke 2004). On the morning of November 2, 2004, as Theo was bicycling to work, he was shot, stabbed, and left to die with two notes pinned to his body objecting to the film. Theo’s legacy as an outspoken and controversial figure, was memorialized with the sculpture dedicated to free speech. Sunday afternoons are specifically designated for formal debates

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there, but the free speech corner is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Mila and Jack find governments worldwide to be mostly corrupt. They are happy to share with anyone who will listen that they are vegans for political, as well as health reasons. For them, being vegan is a pacifist action that speaks back against the ways in which we normalize the violence perpetrated against animals just so that humans can eat the meat, this in spite of research demonstrating greater health benefits from a plant-based diet. They explain that being vegan touches everything important—the climate, peace, acceptance, diversity, and feminism. By way of example, they declare that the dairy industry is destroying feminine features in humans and animals with its overuse of synthetic hormones (personal communication, July 23, 2019). Imbued with passion, though not force or aggression, Mila and Jack employ what Makau and Marty (2013) refer to as deliberative argumentation. With great sincerity, the couple eagerly share their knowledge, respond to others’ questions, and pose prompts designed for introspection and reflection in order for others to imagine the value of their chosen lifestyle. Lajatico, Italy In the heart of Tuscany, Italy, and thirty minutes from the world-famous Tower of Pisa is the hilly town of Lajatico, birthplace to opera singer Andrea Bocelli and site of another Speakers’ Corner. Though the town’s population is small, just over thirteen hundred, there in the central town square, Piazza Vittorio Veneto, is a Speakers’ Corner adorned with a plaque inviting people to speak, rally, and organize with others each Sunday. At the dedication of the Lajatico’s free speech corner in 2014, Mayor Alessio Barbafieri shared that he was inspired by the people in England to set aside a location and time for people to speak freely of their hopes, concerns, and complaints. He said, “We want to encourage participation and listen to the voices of citizens. They will be the ones, autonomously, to give us advice and suggestions” (Bucci 2014, para. 5). Speakers’ Corner there is a kind of cultural icon. It is symbolic of democracy itself, drawing value from what people say and do, in the company of one another. It is a public space where dialogue can unearth participants’ hopes, fears, and a vision for the future (Jovanovic 2012). Whatever the messages at Speakers’ Corners, all people are welcome to its space, even those who have been excluded from political processes elsewhere, to witness, speak, interrupt, and defend competing views in what some have described as a microcosm of conversations happening all over the world (White 2009). Speakers’ Corners complement, lead to, and follow

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protest action where people put on display the responsibility to speak out in democratic life. YELLOW VESTS: ORGANIZING, ACTIVISM, AND DEMOCRACY France’s Yellow Vests, gilets jaunes, became a movement that proclaimed modern democracy is at risk from corporate influence on government policies that favor the rich. Six months after their November 17, 2018 Saturday protest launch for greater participatory democracy, more than two million people had joined all-day marches each week in Paris and in cities all over the country. At the center of the movement’s grievances was discontent surrounding failed policies of neoliberalism and global capitalism, revealing how democracy had deteriorated into a facade of its ideals. With increasing attention and benefits afforded to the elite, France’s working class since the mid-1980s has been increasingly forced out of cities and into rural communities where public infrastructure lags (McAuley 2018). The movement initially erupted in response to President Macron’s proposed 23 percent fuel tax hike, along with other economic policies that disproportionately impacted the working class and displaced rural residents of the country. Protesters organized in response to the one million signatures collected through an online petition started by thirty-two-year-old Priscilla Ludosky, a Black female who supported environmental measures but not Macron’s policies (McAuley 2019). Mass demonstrations, week after week, were distinguished by people wearing yellow safety vests that since 2008 have been required by the government to be kept in every car. Marchers chanted humanity over money. Against the alienating forces of rising austerity policies, the French people proclaimed, “To don the yellow vest is thus to declare not only that one has value but also that one exists” (McAuley 2019, 14). The Yellow Vests quickly adopted a broader agenda, calling for direct democracy, cost of living increases in wages, better retiree benefits, and lower taxes, especially on essential food. In sum, the movement reflected a comprehensive critique of the instability of capitalism and a declining quality of life for many. Large cities like Paris continued to prosper with a steady flow of resources, while similar investments in the tranquil parts of the nation languished. Chain stores moved into the country, boulangeries closed, other small shops were boarding up, and the French way of life for millions was reduced to a shadow of its former character (McAuley 2019). French residents gathered together and blocked street roundabouts in acts of nonviolent civil disobedience. They regarded the traffic circles as

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important public spaces for visibility and unity, and they claimed, for dialogue and companionship. The police responded by disallowing future protests in the roundabouts, then later in other areas as well where the protests interfered with tourism and spending by consumers. In week sixteen of the protest, marchers gathered Saturday morning near the famed Arc de Triomphe in Paris. The mood was festive on that cold, sunny day as people shared stories of why they came to march. The estimated four thousand people were happy, welcoming, positive, and respectful in their discourse. People wrote messages of hope on the back of their yellow vests, sang songs, laughed, and planned how to help the many people using wheelchairs to navigate the streets. Jacque, a retiree, passed out special editions of a Yellow Vest weekly newspaper he created, welcoming marches to the day as he strolled through the crowds. Forty thousand more people assembled in different locales throughout the country including Marseille, Montpellier, Bordeaux, Toulouse, and northern and western parts of France.  Juliette, a young woman in her twenties, traveled alone for two hours to join the weekly event, after receiving training in nonviolent resistance. She acknowledged her parents were worried for her safety, but supportive of the movement’s ideals. She urged, “Smile for the hope this movement offers” (personal communication, March 2, 2019). Other Yellow Vests proclaimed a similar hope. Greta, a vibrant woman in her seventies who drew a small crowd around her, said, “This is an extraordinary experience . . . I’m here for the young people, my grandchildren, for life,

Figure 2.5  Yellow Vests organize in Paris, 2019. Photo by Spoma Jovanovic.

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and for everyone else” (personal communication, March 2, 2019). Giles, a biologist in his fifties had been protesting in Paris for ten Saturdays, using his bullhorn to warn marchers of police the area. He went out of his way to speak to people marching, and others watching along the route. Iris Marion Young (2000) defines the elegant simplicity of Giles’ polite greetings as a necessary first step to initiate political interactions. Giles’ sum up of his communication and the movement more broadly is, “This may not be the best way, but is the way we have to express ourselves.” Media coverage offered a different story, one the protesters said failed to capture the heart of the movement, choosing instead to amplify the violence that admittedly ensued with some people setting trash on fire, overturning cars, and smashing store windows. It can be difficult to practice what author Frances Moore Lappe calls civil courage, a long-term habit of acting in solidarity for the common good coupled with deep reflection, when protest is caricatured and collective action is portrayed as vicious rather than as a means to express commitment to democracy’s ideals (Lappe and Eichen 2016). Aggressive policing and the introduction of a new anti-rioter law followed, considered by many an unnecessary overreach of control (Creedon 2019). French artists, musicians, and celebrities responded with a statement of solidarity with the protesters (Personalities 2019). They joined the nation’s lawyers, Amnesty International, the League of Human Rights, the United Nations, the European Union, and French human rights organizations in publicly speaking out against the government’s program to discredit the protesters and limit their constitutional rights to demonstrate (Creedon 2019). In time, the police would be cited for using excessive force, rubber bullets, and grenades (Mazoue 2019). In total, the police arrested 11,000 protesters; 3,000 were convicted and up to 800 remained in jail two years later while hundreds of others were left with serious, permanent injuries to their heads, eyes, and hands (Kaspas 2020). The harsh government sanctions led some to step back from protest action before the pandemic further pulled people away from the public square. Still, the Yellow Vest Movement is credited with securing an $11 billion aid package for the poor (Kennedy and Sullivan 2020). The Yellow Vests remained a vibrant and visible protest movement, the longest social movement in French history (Marliere 2019). By 2020, the Yellow Vests focused their discourse on condemning police brutality, retaining freedom of speech rights, challenging race and religious injustices, and continuing to push for new economic policies as well as criticizing pandemic relief plans (McPhee 2020). The Yellow Vests sparked critical conversations of the possibilities and the potential for self-determination, equality, freedom, justice, and community marked by nondomination by the state or relational others (Young 2000).

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Along with Speakers’ Corners, and city-based actions, people around the world continue to speak out, protest, and challenge policies that too often involve and favor only a few rather than welcoming, including, and responding to the needs of many. THE WAY FORWARD The renewed activism in the twenty-first century is a hopeful development, being driven largely by the need to intervene in the violence against Black lives, the health and economic consequences of the global pandemic, and the mounting frustrations with governments operating in ways detached from the interests of their citizens (Giroux 2021). Around the globe, people are speaking out to protect the foundations of democracy, freedom, and liberty. Among youth, 27 percent protested in 2020 according to a Gallup Poll, a fivefold increase over four years prior (Theobald 2020). The courage, persistence, patience, and knowledge required to stand alone or speak in concert with others in contested public spaces, is worthy of recognition and amplification. Activists and organizers study, prepare, and present their ideals in public spaces, investing considerable time to make visible the concerns of many, and without a guarantee of the outcome. They do so because nonviolence remains the best alternative for expressions of dissent and hope for change. Chantal Mouffe (2000) reminds us that when people are denied the time and space to express their political views, the remaining options are state violence on the one hand, or rebellion by the people on the other hand. Community members and scholars can embolden free expression, even in the face of growing surveillance and increased police violence (Kishi and Jones 2020) that deter free speech. When communities use public spaces to speak, invite others to agree or debate, and present a collective voice of resistance against powerful forces as demonstrated at Speakers’ Corners, in city parks and council chambers, and on the streets, they send a clear message that people are the bedrock of democracy. Educators can help by investing community projects with needed research and resources, and teaching young people the history, values, and skills required to uphold robust free speech and civic engagement (Jovanovic 2019b). Dialogue and deliberation are vital in this pursuit, as are direct action and expressions of dissent. Though often contested, interrupted, and disrupted, conversations in public places offer important avenues for determining together how we want to live, and under what conditions. The efforts of collective action exemplified in the work of people in Greensboro, London, Amsterdam, Italy, and France join an important history of social change efforts that breathe life into democracy.

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NOTES 1. Coordinated action calling for justice and police reform following Smith’s death began with the Homeless Union of Greensboro and the Interactive Resource Center. They were then joined by Greensboro Rising, Democracy Greensboro, the League of Women Voters of the Piedmont Triad, Guilford for All, Good Neighbor Movement, Beloved Community Center, and the Revolutionary Socialists Greensboro, working together under the umbrella of the Greensboro Justice Coalition. 2. Faculty and students from the city’s five colleges and universities, along with several community members, united to oppose the free speech restrictions. 3. Except for Bob Rogers, all Speakers’ Corner names are pseudonyms.

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Mazoue, Aude. 2019. “Yellow Vests, Six Months On: Unprecedented Fury, Uncertain Future.” France 24, May 20, 2019. https​:/​/ww​​w​.fra​​nce24​​.com/​​en​ /20​​19052​​0​-fra​​nce​-y​​ellow​​-vest​​-prot​​ests-​​six​-m​​onths​​-unce​​rtain​​-futu​​re​-eu​​rop​ea​​n​-ele ​​ ction​​s​-mac​​ron. McAuley, James. 2018. “In France, the Pain Behind the ‘Yellow Vest’ Protests is Felt Mostly Outside Paris.” Washington Post, December 1, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.was​​hingt​​ onpos​​t​.com​​/worl​​d​/eur​​ope​/i​​n​-fra​​nce​-t​​he​-pa​​in​-be​​hind-​​the​-y​​ellow​​-vest​​-prot​​ests-​​is​-fe​​ lt​-mo​​stly-​​outsi​​de​-pa​​ris​/2​​018​/1​​1​/30/​​9b3db​​7c2​-f​​​18a​-1​​1e8​-9​​9c2​-c​​fca6f​​cf610​​c​_sto​​ry​ .ht​​ml. McIlvenny, Paul. 1996. “Heckling in Hyde Park: Verbal Audience Participation in Popular Public Discourse.” Language in Society 25, no. 1: 27–60. http://www​.jstor​ .org​/stable​/4168672. McPhee, Peter. 2020. “As Protests Roil France, Macron Faces a Wicked Problem— And It Could Lead to His Downfall.” The Conversation, December 14, 2020. https​:/​/th​​econv​​ersat​​ion​.c​​om​/as​​-prot​​ests-​​roil-​​franc​​e​-mac​​ron​-f​​aces-​​a​-wic​​ked​-p​​roble​​ m​-and​​-it​-c​​ould-​​lead-​​​to​-hi​​s​-dow​​nfall​​-1512​​06. Mouffe, Chantel. 2000. The Democratic Paradox. New York, NY: Verso. Nabatchi, Tina, and Matt Leighninger. 2015. Public Participation for 21st Century Democracy. Hoboken, NJ: Jossey-Bass. Personalities from the World of Culture. 2019. “Yellow Vests: We are Not Fooled.” Liberation, May 4, 2019. https​:/​/ww​​w​.lib​​erati​​on​.fr​​/deba​​ts​/20​​19​/05​​/04​/g​​ilets​​-jaun​​es​ -no​​us​-ne​​-somm​​es​-p​a​​s​-dup​​es​_17​​24724​/. Quealy, Kevin, and Margot Sanger-Katz. 2016. “Compare These Gun Death Rates: The U.S. is in a Different World.” New York Times, June 13, 2016. http:​/​/www​​ .nyti​​mes​.c​​om​/20​​16​/06​​/14​/u​​pshot​​/comp​​are​-t​​hese-​​gun​-d​​eath-​​rates​​-the-​​us​-is​​-in​-a​​ -diff​​​erent​​-worl​​d​.htm​​l?​_r=​​0. Rubenstein, Harry R. 2017. “Beyond the Ballot: The Right of Petition.” In American Democracy: A Great Leap of Faith, National Museum of American History, 96–117. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Books. Schauer, Frederick. 1982. Free Speech: A Philosophical Enquiry. New York: Cambridge University Press. Stewart, John. 1995. Language as Articulate Contact: Toward a Post-Semiotic Philosophy of Communication. New York: State University of New York Press. Taylor, Astra. 2019. Democracy May Not Exist, But We’ll Miss It When It’s Gone. New York, NY: Metropolitan Books. The Next System Project. 2019. Index of Systemic Trends, 2019. https​:/​/th​​enext​​syste​​ m​.org​​/lear​​n​/sto​​ries/​​index​​-syst​​emic-​​trend​​s​?mc_​​cid​=2​​e7336​​ce52&​​mc​_ei​​d​=358​​ 7b37d​​ee​#in​​trodu​​cti​on​​-framing​-the​-long​-crisis. Theobald, Bill. 2020. “Young People’s Political Activism On the Rise, Poll Finds.” The Fulcrum, June 30, 2020. https​:/​/th​​efulc​​rum​.u​​s​/big​​-pict​​ure​/y​​oung-​​vot​er​​s​-202​​0. The Royal Parks. n.d. “Speakers’ Corner.” https​:/​/ww​​w​.roy​​alpar​​ks​.or​​g​.uk/​​parks​​/hyde​​ -park​​/thin​​gs​-to​​-see-​​and​-d​​o​/​spe​​akers​​-corn​​er. Visconti, Luca M., John F. Sherry, Jr., Stefania Borghini, and Laurel Anderson. 2010. “Street Art, Sweet Art? Reclaiming the ‘Public’ in Public Place.” Journal of Consumer Research 37, no. 3 (October): 511–529. http://doi​.org​/10​.1086​/652731.

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Walmsley, Roy. 2018. World Prison Population List, 12th ed. London: Institute for Criminal Policy Research. https​:/​/ww​​w​.pri​​sonst​​udies​​.org/​​sites​​/defa​​ult​/f​​i les/​​resou​​ rces/​​downl​​oads/​​​wppl_​​12​.pd​​f. White, Gavin, director. 2009. Speakers’ Corner: You Have the Right to Remain Vocal. Duncan Walsh, producer. https​:/​/ww​​w​.cul​​tureu​​nplug​​ged​.c​​om​/pl​​ay​/45​​19​/Sp​​ eaker​​s-​-Co​​rner-​​-You-​​Have-​​The​-R​​ight-​​To​-Re​​main-​​Vocal​#:~​:te​​xt​=Sy​​nopsi​​s​%3A%​​ 20​%22​​Speak​​ers​%2​​0Corn​​er​%3A​​%20Y​o​​u​,spe​​ech​%2​​0in​%2​​0all%​​20its​​%20fo​​rms. Wike, Richard, and Shannon Schumacher. 2020. Democratic Rights Popular Globally but Commitment to Them Not Always Strong. Washington, DC: Pew Research Center. https​:/​/ww​​w​.pew​​resea​​rch​.o​​rg​/gl​​obal/​​2020/​​02​/27​​/demo​​crati​​c​-rig​​ hts​-p​​opula​​r​-glo​​bally​​-but-​​commi​​tment​​-to​-t​​​hem​-n​​ot​-al​​ways-​​stron​​g/. Woolf, Steven H., and Laudan Y. Aron. 2013. “The US Health Disadvantage Relative to Other High Income Countries: Findings from a National Research Council and Institute of Medicine Report.” The Journal of the American Medicine Association 309, no. 8: 771–777. Wright, Matthew. 2020. “Black Live Matters Protests May be the Largest in U.S. History as More Than 26 Million Americans Have Been at the More Than 4,700 Demonstrations Around the Country.” DailyMail​.com​, July 3, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​ w​.dai​​lymai​​l​.co.​​uk​/ne​​ws​/ar​​ticle​​-8488​​409​/B​​LM​-pr​​otest​​s​-lar​​gest-​​U​-S​-h​​istor​​y​-26M​​ ILLIO​​N​-​Ame​​rican​​s​-att​​ended​​.html​. Young, Iris Marion. 2000. Inclusion and Democracy. New York: Oxford University Press.

Chapter 3

The Struggle for Space Racialized Mass Homelessness, the Privatization of Public Space, and Fundamental Rights Marcus Hyde and Gary Kenton

In 2015, Ellin Schott, a fifty-seven-year-old resident of Greensboro, North Carolina, and mother of two, died at a local hospital after having been transported there by the Sheriff’s Department (Green and Ginsberg 2016). She had spent the weekend in jail because she was unable to post a $1,000 bond. As a homeless mother, Schott was jailed following her third arrest in a matter of months for violating an ordinance requiring panhandlers to secure a permit from the city before asking others for monetary donations in public places (Green et al. 2016). A subsequent medical examiner’s report indicated Schott died due to “complications of prolonged seizure activity,” after the jail staff had apparently failed to provide her with the prescribed anti-seizure medication upon which she depended, despite her multiple requests for it. Neither the Sheriff’s Department, nor the private company contracted to provide health services within the county’s jails admitted responsibility (Green 2017, 1). There is an unavoidable parallel between the increased privatization of public space in U.S. cities and the limiting of fundamental rights for people experiencing homelessness and poverty, including the right to speak, express oneself freely, or often, simply exist in public space. The Supreme Court’s First Amendment jurisprudence has created a very favorable environment for monied interests to speak to the general public, and as private companies involve themselves more in roles which have traditionally been within the purview of the government—such as the ownership and maintenance of public spaces—the influence of private entities over what messages are tolerated within the public domain is growing. In America, it is legal for companies 45

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to inundate unwilling members of the public with constant messages through advertisements, but the messages that panhandlers communicate—that the economy these advertisements represent has not worked for everyone—have been made punishable offenses. Since the onset of modern mass homelessness in the 1980s, local municipalities have been pressured by business interests, often organized through Business Improvement Districts (BIDs), to enact policies that criminalize visible manifestations of poverty, such as ordinances which penalize people sitting on sidewalks or begging in public spaces, in hopes that such policies will drive the increasing number of inconveniently visible poor people out of public view (Briffault 1999). BIDs spend public money lobbying local governments on behalf of their member businesses to promote the theory that the best way to address social problems is through business-friendly taxation policies, an increased number of police, and punitive social policies which regulate the behavior, speech, and movements of politically unpopular groups and those deemed “undesirable by people in control” (Ortiz and Dick 2015, 2). Homelessness in America today is clearly racialized. Black people comprise only 13 percent of the general population, but over 40 percent of the homeless population (National Homelessness Law Center 2019). More than fifty years after the passage of the Fair Housing Act, racist housing policies still contribute to disproportionate rates of homelessness among people of color, even when controlling for poverty (National Homelessness Law Center 2019). Not surprising, among homeless populations, Blacks report being targeted by police for both their race and economic status; police data confirms that a disproportionate number of citations and arrests for low-level offenses are given to people who are both Black and homeless (Craven et al. 2019). These statistics illuminate what many instinctively assume—that low-level policing is focused on maintaining relationships of social control rather than ensuring public safety (Livingston 1997). The real function of ordinances designed to limit certain behaviors, such as panhandling, begging, and loitering is to criminalize specific groups of people in order to keep them out of public view. The right to self-expression is fundamental to participation in public life, and in order to speak, one needs a place from which to speak. In modern cities, managers of public space who are concerned with design and attractiveness for footloose capital have turned to privatization as a means to exclude the inconvenient poor from public life. This achieves the “annihilation of space by law” where local officials have “turned to a legal remedy that seeks to cleanse the streets of those left behind by globalization and other secular changes in the economy by simply erasing the spaces in which they must live” (Mitchell 1997, 305).

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Of course, these dynamics are not wholly new. America has a long and shameful history of using the power of law to exclude specific populations from public life. American policing institutions were racist at birth, with their origins in kidnapping Black people, repressing labor movements, and keeping control of other poor and landless people (Turner et al. 2006). While legal landscapes have changed, the primary function of policing in America, to maintain systems of power and control, has never been fundamentally transformed. Turning to private entities to decide how to police public spaces has exacerbated issues of exclusion. However, poor and Black people have not simply taken these developments passively. By the late 1980s, a National Union of the Homeless emerged which waged coordinated national campaigns to demand that the federal government stop evicting families from public housing and reverse course in its plan to manufacture mass homelessness (Theoharis 2020). In recent years, communities have challenged the criminalization of homelessness through community organizing efforts, legislative campaigns, and legal challenges. In 2015, the Supreme Court changed the standard it used to review content-based speech restrictions ruling that all governmental restrictions on speech that discriminate against specific types of messages are now be subject to strict scrutiny by the court (Reed v. Town of Gilbert 2015). Since then, over twenty-five legal cases have been filed to challenge panhandling ordinances (because the ordinances ban speech that asks for food or money) across the country, each of which has resulted in either the ordinance being struck down or repealed (National Homelessness Law Center 2019). Through local organizing and advocacy work, dozens of other cities have either repealed or stopped enforcing their panhandling ordinances. Despite these efforts, panhandling bans remain the most common type of criminalization ordinance used to target and remove people experiencing homelessness and poverty from public spaces in America. For 38 percent of U.S. cities, one or more laws prohibit begging citywide, and 65 percent of U.S. cities prohibit begging in particular public places (National Homelessness Law Center 2019). Such speech restrictions are becoming more common. Citywide panhandling bans increased 103 percent in cities nationwide between 2006 and 2019 (National Homelessness Law Center 2019). This chapter discusses several intertwining phenomena: (1) the changing nature of historical exclusion laws in America and how these laws have shaped race relations; (2) the emergence of modern mass homelessness due to shifting federal policy priorities over the last four decades; (3) the efforts of BIDs to privatize space and criminalize visible manifestations of poverty; (4) the impact of these policies on the fundamental rights of people experiencing homelessness, and crucially; (5) communities of resistance that have emerged

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in the face of such oppression, and the ways in which those communities are changing discourse on free expression and the law. HISTORICAL EXCLUSION LAWS, STATE ACTION, AND RACIAL IDENTITY The first vagrancy laws in America’s legal tradition stemmed from the English Common Law, but most were not codified until after the Civil War. Early American colonies adopted parts of the Elizabethan Poor Law, which had criminalized vagrancy in 1530 (Ortiz and Dick 2015). Grounded in the mythos that the majority of poor people were unemployed by choice, rather than a lack of meaningful opportunity—a myth which stubbornly persists today—laws provided legal mechanisms for towns to use “for the punishment of idle and disorderly persons,” and to compel laborers to accept poor working conditions through forced labor (Ortiz and Dick 2015, 2). The Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth amendments to the U.S. Constitution, ratified in the years following the Civil War, were specifically designed to end the conditions that allowed for chattel slavery and give rights to formerly enslaved persons. However, before these amendments were fully enforced, Southern legislatures began working to limit the rights of newly freed Black people in a desperate attempt to maintain a permanent class of menial laborers. Southern officials took advantage of the punishment clause in the text of the Thirteenth Amendment which made an exception on the prohibition of slavery and involuntary servitude for people “duly convicted” of a crime in order to push formerly enslaved persons into a new legal system of forced labor: convict leasing programs (Howe 2009, 1009). One primary tactic used to achieve these goals was to enact Black Codes— local ordinances which criminalized innocent activities such as loitering in public. As Dorothy Roberts explains, “Black people who were out of work or simply present in public without adequate reason were routinely arrested for vagrancy” (2019, 31). Once jailed, Black people were often forced to work doing many of the same tasks they or their ancestors did prior to legal emancipation, often on the same land that had previously been identified as a slave plantation, and often under conditions that were even more brutal (Mancini 1996). Du Bois described the codes as, “nothing more nor less than slavery in daily toil” (1910, 784). If Black Americans had been permitted to exercise their newly won constitutional rights to assemble, speak, and vote, they could have fought back against this new form of indentured servitude, especially in places such as Mississippi, South Carolina, and Louisiana where Black citizens outnumbered whites (Pope 2014). During the first few years following the Civil War, Congress

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passed a series of Civil Rights Enforcement Acts and placed federal troops in Southern states in order to ensure that the rights granted to newly freed persons would be upheld. Throughout the Reconstruction Era, 1865–1877, Black citizens were in fact quite active in political life and organized successful voter registration campaigns, resulting in as much as 80 percent to 90 percent Black voter turnout during peaceful elections (Pope 2014). As a result, the South began to resemble a democracy for the first time. Black men were elected to many local, state, and federal offices during this time, including sixteen Black people who were elected to Congress (Hannah-Jones 2019). This resulted in many civic advancements for both Blacks and whites, including the creation of the first public school systems throughout the South (Hannah-Jones 2019). However, the Supreme Court soon intervened to halt the multiracial democratic project building in the South. In United States v. Cruikshank (1876), the court overturned the federal, criminal civil rights convictions of racially motivated vigilantes. The case stemmed from the Colfax, Louisiana, massacre where at least twenty-eight Black persons were killed when attempting to vote (Pope 2014). To make that ruling, the court created the state action doctrine that meant the federal government did not have the constitutional power to stop individual racist violence; it could only stop state sanctioned violence, such as acts carried out by law enforcement agencies. Thus, the ruling left in place the practice at the time of state officials refusing to prosecute white supremacist terror and violence against Black people. Also in 1876, Southern states began passing ordinances to bar Black people from sharing public spaces with white people (Ortiz and Dick 2015). The court gave a more explicit endorsement of these Jim Crow segregation ordinances in the famous case of Plessy v. Ferguson (1896), which allowed states to mandate that private companies have separate accommodations for white and Black customers because such regulation did not explicitly deny members of either race the “equal protection of the laws, within the meaning of the [F]ourteenth [A]mendment” (1896, 548). In so doing, the court not only blessed the racial hierarchy of American white supremacy but also disguised its role in creating and enforcing racial inequality through its invention of the separate but equal doctrine. Following the Plessy decision, Jim Crow laws and so-called separate but equal facilities proliferated across the country (Ortiz and Dick 2015). These boundaries became deeply engrained in the experiences of racialized Americans. As Elise Boddie explains, spatial arrangements became “deeply intertwined with the meaning of race itself” (2010, 433), because “space both produces and is produced by race,” and thus, “race and space are mutually operative and synergistic” (462). Exclusion laws persisted throughout the twentieth century but had to adapt as legal challenges mounted. In 1948, the Supreme Court ruled that the

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Fourteenth Amendment barred local governments from using their courts and police to enforce racial exclusion covenants in real estate dealings (Shelley v. Kraemer 1948). However, Sundown Town rules, which barred nonwhite people from residing within a municipality after dark, were more often enforced by private actors and through nonofficial means, and thus remained de facto policy for many years. (Ortiz and Dick 2015). The court reversed some of the reasoning put forth in Plessy v. Ferguson when it declared in Brown v. Board of Education (1954) that separate public schools for different races necessarily had a negative effect on the psychological development of children: “To separate them . . . solely because of their race generates a feeling of inferiority as to their status in the community that may affect their hearts and minds in a way unlikely ever to be undone” (Brown v. Board of Education 1954). Then, two years later, in a case stemming from the Montgomery Bus Boycott protests, the court expanded its anti-segregation ruling to apply to all public facilities, reasoning that the state could not use its policing powers to enforce so-called separate but equal policies without violating the Constitution (Browder v. Gayle 1956). Vagrancy laws written in race-neutral language developed legally along a different tract. The early American poor laws and Black Codes Era vagrancy ordinances served as precursors for the more well-known Anti-Okie laws of the 1930s, which restricted the rights of poor people from migrating to Western states in search for work during the Great Depression and criminalized the act of aiding migrant workers. Anti-Okie laws were overturned in 1941 when the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that California could not shut its doors to poor migrants without unfairly burdening the rest of the country and violating the Commerce Clause of the Constitution (Edwards v. California 1941). The first known ugly law ordinance was passed by the Board of Supervisors in San Francisco in 1867, two years after the end of the Civil War. It criminalized “diseased, maimed, mutilated, or in any way deformed,” individuals from occupying public spaces in order to “prohibit street begging, and to prohibit certain persons from appearing in the streets and public places” (Schweik 2010, 2). Cities across the country followed suit with similar ordinances. The last documented arrest under an ugly law statute was in 1974 when a policeman in Omaha, Nebraska “wanted to arrest a homeless man but had no basis for it” (Schweik 2010, 6). While the court reasoned in this case and others that such ordinances put too much discretion in the hands of the police, the court left open a door for cities to define mundane activities as criminal behavior. Due in large part to the lobbying efforts of BIDs, local municipalities moved swiftly to do just that through quality-of-life ordinances and tough on crime policing.

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Racial Territoriality and Poor People’s Bodies in Public Spaces America has struggled and too often turned away from the face of poverty. In 1967, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. made a public call for poor people to travel to Washington DC and erect a tent city on the Washington Mall. He hoped this tactic—putting poor people’s bodies in the center of the political commons—would force the nation to address American poverty (Engler 2016). The benefits of Franklin Roosevelt’s earlier New Deal programs, and later, the anti-poverty programs of Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society, had not been evenly distributed. Social Security and unemployment insurance provided a dignified entitlement to primarily white, male wage earners and their dependents, while Aid to Dependent Children (ADC) “doled out humiliating relief to poor single mothers” who were often subject to intrusive interviews about their moral character (Roberts 1996, 1568). The unequal provision of governmental assistance was even more pronounced along the lines of race. The government used specious racial classifications to privilege white Americans in jobs programs, housing programs, and in the allotment of government benefits. Although many people now view welfare dependency today as a primarily Black problem, for most of America’s history of welfare provision, Black Americans have been excluded from receiving benefits (Roberts 1996). When the Federal Housing Administration (FHA) was established in 1934 for instance, the government explicitly refused to back loans to potential Black homeowners (Madrigal 2014). The effects of this policy on race relations and future policy decisions cannot be overstated. As Cheryl Harris describes, whenever “the law recognizes, either implicitly or explicitly, the settled expectations of whites built on the privileges and benefits produced by white supremacy, it acknowledges and reinforces a property interest in whiteness that reproduces Black subordination” (1993, 1731). By 1959, the FHA proudly announced that it had financed three out of every five homes purchased in the United States (Gotham 2000, 292), thereby congratulating itself for its role in institutionalizing the spatial arrangements of Jim Crow segregation. Not only where nonwhite people barred from sitting at the same lunch counter as white people due to overt discrimination, but white identity was also fostered through neighborhood development and the creation of new municipalities. A variety of ethnic groups—English, German, Irish, Italian, anyone who could pass for white and thus qualify for a government subsidized mortgage—could assimilate to a white identity in the suburbs, which was juxtaposed to the image of Black Americans who lived in neighborhoods with poorer services, worse job opportunities, and poorer housing. Thus, the “racial territoriality” of neighborhood and municipal boundaries represented

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“more than a physical set of boundaries or associations: They correlate with and reinforce cultural norms about spatial belonging and power” (Boddie 2010, 438). Just as housing patterns developed and discriminated along racial lines, so too did public assistance programs. The National Welfare Rights Organization emerged in the 1960s—a grassroots movement composed of poor mothers who joined together with legal services lawyers and others to agitate for major changes in the welfare system’s eligibility and procedural rules (Roberts 1996). Aligning with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s Poor People’s Campaign, the National Welfare Rights Organization and other anti-poverty organizing efforts led to opening up eligibility for government assistance programs for many who had been previously excluded. By 1967, “a welfare caseload that had once been eighty-six percent white had become forty-six percent nonwhite” (Perlstein 2009, 1572). But this victory turned out to be short-lived. As public assistance programs became increasingly associated with Black motherhood, politicians and media personalities fabricated a narrative about lazy and irresponsible Black mothers leaching off the government. In turn, welfare program administrators came under increasing pressure to create eligibility requirements that focused on behavior modification regimens and new work requirements. Over the next decade, a white backlash to the Civil Rights, Black Power, and Welfare Rights movements would motivate legislatures to gut the budgets of welfare and public housing programs (Roberts 1996). From 1964 until 1968, the country witnessed massive rebellions—often called riots in the media—in every major city. These uprisings were often precipitated by a white police officer brutalizing or killing a Black person. In Los Angeles, a six-day rebellion broke out in the Watts neighborhood following a traffic arrest of a Black man in 1965 leading to $40 million of property damage, 4,000 arrests, 34 deaths, and over 1,000 people being injured (Shawki 2006). In 1967, Dr. King anticipated the conservative response that “told Negroes that there were limits to their progress; that they must expect to remain permanently unequal and permanently poor. The white backlash said Negroes should not confuse improvements with equality. True equality, it said, will be resisted to the death” (King 1967, para. 7). THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN RACIALIZED MASS HOMELESSNESS Mass homelessness in the United States is the most brutal face of widespread poverty created by government policies over the past four decades. But

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homelessness is so ubiquitous throughout America today, that much of the public cannot imagine or remember an America without it. Street homelessness first became a national crisis following a nearly 80 percent cut to federal affordable housing funding between 1978 and 1983 (Western Regional Advocacy Project 2010). Just as neighborhoods began to racially integrate, politicians began campaigning on white racial resentments in order to justify federal divestment from and demolition of public housing (Taylor 2019). Thus, American cities went from segregated housing, enforced through red-lining and racial exclusion clauses, to an insincere federal mandate to integrate housing and a legislative plan to divest from public housing and ensure the emergence of racialized mass homelessness (Taylor 2019). This was just one component of a conservative reactionary wave of federal policy changes that followed the Civil Rights and Black Power Movements of the 1960s and 1970s. Richard Nixon is the politician most famous for using dog whistles—thinly veiled messages intended to garner support from white voters without using explicitly racist language—as part of his campaign to win the presidency in 1968 (Haney-López 2014). He frequently used Fair Housing as code for forced integration during his campaign (Taylor 2019) and he would similarly denounce welfare programs. Politicians from both major parties engaged in these tactics in subsequent years. For instance, in 1976 then president Jimmy Carter alluded to a “black intrusion,” and pledged to not “arbitrarily use federal force” to change the “ethnic purity” of “established neighborhoods” during his first full day of campaigning for president (Lydon 1976, para. 1). Two days later, he stated, “If the phrase had racial connotations, I’ve apologized” (Lydon 1976, para. 16). As recently as July 2020, Donald Trump used affordable housing as a dog whistle to roll back an Obama-era fair-housing rule meant to combat discrimination. Trump said, “All of the people living their Suburban Lifestyle Dream” will no longer be hurt by affordable, low-income housing in neighborhoods, thereby promising “Your housing prices will go up based on the market, and crime will go down” (Liptak and Wallace 2020, para. 2–3). Simultaneous with programs to discourage affordable housing, the emergence of mass homelessness worsened racial disparities. As Dr. KeeangaYamahtta Taylor explains, by relegating the provision of affordable housing to the free market, “the federal government was impaired in its ability to aggressively regulate an industry that had [already] employed racial discrimination in its determined pursuit of insatiable profit as a business principle” (2019, 16). Further, by choosing to create only small funding streams for emergency services which local communities had to compete for, rather than adequately fund housing programs through the Department of Housing and Urban

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Development (HUD), congress communicated to cities that they were largely on their own to figure out how to respond to the growing crisis of mass homelessness. A study analyzing homeless populations in 182 U.S. Cities found that homeless population rates tripled between 1981 and 1989 (Burt 1991). But rather than correct course and adequately fund affordable housing programs, the House Appropriations Committee created the Emergency Food and Shelter Plan which included a small stream of funding administered by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) for community groups to apply for small grants through in order to procure emergency supplies, such as canned food and blankets.1 These policy changes were never reversed. Over the next four decades, HUD’s public housing budget would never be restored to 1978 levels and America lost over half of its public housing stock to demolition or sale through a series of HUD managed programs called the Urban Revitalization Demonstration (URD), HOPE VI, and its current program, the Rental Assistance Demonstration Project (RAD). The approximately 95,000 units of supportive housing built using homeless assistance funds between the 1980s and 2010 pale in comparison to the hundreds of thousands of units of publicly owned housing units lost during the same time period (Western Regional Advocacy Project 2010). In turn, plans to address homelessness became tied to local politics, and often, mayoral campaigns. This pitted people experiencing homelessness and their advocates against local business groups who each then tried to convince local officials how to best manage public spaces, which were suddenly being used by people who had previously had housing of their own but were now forced to survive within the public commons. Unfortunately, for the growing number of people experiencing homelessness, businesses had already begun to implement a system for using public funds to lobby local officials to implement their policy priorities and manage space according to their wishes: private taxation authorities called BIDs that promoted Broken Windows policing. Broken Windows Policing In 1982, The Atlantic magazine published an influential article, titled “Broken Windows,” which helped lay the ideological framework for the tough on crime policing which BIDs would promote across the country for decades to come (Kelling and Wilson 1982). The authors of “Broken Windows,” George Kelling and James Wilson, were two career law enforcement officers who lamented the ways in which recent Supreme Court decisions and a growing prison reform movement in the 1960s and 1970s had limited the police’s effectiveness and inhibited law

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enforcement’s ability to maintain order. The police, they argued, could no longer adequately address one of the primary sources of community fear—the fear of “being bothered by disorderly people. Not violent people, nor necessarily, criminals, but disreputable or obstreperous or unpredictable people: panhandlers, drunks, addicts, rowdy teenagers, prostitutes, loiterers, the mentally disturbed” (Kelling and Wilson 1982, para. 5). The Broken Windows Theory held that the best way to crack down on large-scale and violent crime was to get tough on petty crime and social deviance, thereby illustrating the idea that if a single window was broken and not immediately repaired in an otherwise pristine neighborhood, lawlessness would quickly follow. “The prospect of a confrontation with an obstreperous teenager or a drunken panhandler,” Kelling and Wilson wrote, “can be as fear-inducing for defenseless persons as the prospect of meeting an actual robber” because, “serious street crime flourishes in areas in which disorderly behavior goes unchecked. The unchecked panhandler is, in effect, the first broken window” (1982, para. 25).

BUSINESS IMPROVEMENT DISTRICTS AND MAKING PUBLIC SPACES, PRIVATE Today, BIDs are one of the most influential, yet least understood, forces shaping American cities and public space management. They exist in every state, and nearly half exist in municipalities with populations under 100,000 people (Cloar 2011). BIDs, which go by other names including Municipal Service Districts and Tax Increment Finance Zones (Selbin et al. 2018), are bounded geographic areas, wherein property owners are assessed compulsory fees in order to fund enhanced services within the designated, often downtown, district (Hoyt and Gopal-Agge 2007). While BIDs are created by government, they are governed by private “autonomous entities that engage in a broad array of activities largely independent of state and local oversight” (Selbin et al. 2018, 4). As author Christian Parenti describes, “BIDs embody all the power and privileges of the state yet bear none of the responsibilities and limitations of democratic government” (2001, 96). Most BIDs were created after 1980, as the burgeoning crisis of mass homelessness created new challenges for public space management (Briffault 1999). They wield broad policymaking autonomy and are legally permitted to lobby local government for their own interests (Briffault 1999). They have been among the most influential proponents for Broken Windows Policing and ordinances that criminalize homelessness.

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BIDs often work in close coordination with police to advocate for and occasionally pay for homeless encampment dispersal operations, colloquially known as “sweeps” (Selbin et al. 2018, 10). In some instances, BIDs directly enforce anti-homeless laws using private security guards or BID ambassadors (or outreach staff) that hire people experiencing homelessness to clean sidewalks and hand out brochures about shopping amenities to visitors, but also function as a private security force intended to enforce anti-homeless laws, including loitering, panhandling, and camping ban ordinances. BIDs often coordinate actions through voluntary member organizations such as the International Downtown Association (IDA), which promotes itself as a “world leader and champion for vital and livable urban centers” (2020, para. 1). As legal challenges mount against anti-homeless legislation, the IDA offers local BIDs access to research and suggestions for strategies to update their policies in order to withstand future legal challenges. The coordination is quite apparent. In Colorado, for instance, twenty-three cities have adopted anti-panhandling ordinances that use the exact same phrase, “loitering for the purpose of begging” (Ruan 2018, 13). As of 2019, 72 percent of American cities have at least one law prohibiting sleeping in public spaces; 55 percent of cities prohibit sitting or lying down in public; 60 percent of cities restrict sleeping in a vehicle; 83 percent of cities outlaw begging; 9 percent prohibit sharing food in public; 76 percent prohibit scavenging for food (i.e., dumpster diving); 55 percent have laws against storing personal belongings (such as backpacks, carts, and buggies) in public spaces; 83 percent of cities prohibit public urination and defecation; and at least 60 percent prohibit loitering, loafing, or vagrancy in particular public places (National Homelessness Law Center 2019). Moreover, between 2006 and 2019, laws prohibiting loitering, loafing, and/or vagrancy as well as begging increased by 103 percent; the number of laws prohibiting camping increased by 92 percent (National Homelessness Law Center 2019). These laws are selectively enforced and disproportionately harm people experiencing homelessness, communities of color, and LGBTQ+ people, who, as a result, become “further entangled in the justice system and face more barriers to finding supportive housing” (National Homelessness Law Center 2019, 39). In 2017, for instance, 52 percent of all arrests made by police in Portland, Oregon were arrests of people experiencing homelessness (The Oregonian 2018). Policing and Black Lives In 2015, Greensboro, North Carolina, came into national focus when the New York Times ran a front-page story, “The Disproportionate Risks of Driving while Black” that analyzed data from routine police traffic stops and arrests

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in the city, finding that Greensboro officers “used their discretion to search black drivers or their cars more than twice as often as white motorists—even though they found drugs and weapons significantly more often when the driver was white” (LaFraniere and Lehren 2015, para. 9). City leaders promised to reform policing practices following the unwanted national media attention (Queram 2015), yet four years later, the Greensboro Police Department’s own data reports, in 2019, that 82 percent of people searched by the police were Black, though Black people comprised only 43 percent of the city’s population (Southern Coalition for Social Justice 2020). Moreover, 83 percent of use of force incidents reported by the Greensboro Police Department that same year involved Black residents (Southern Coalition for Social Justice 2020). Racial disparities are likewise pronounced in homeless population counts in Greensboro, with Black residents accounting for 72 percent of people experiencing homelessness (Craven et al. 2019). Of those surveyed, 44 percent of people experiencing homelessness believe that they have been ticketed or arrested because of their race in Greensboro, and 43 percent believe that they have been targeted by police because they appeared to be homeless (Craven et al. 2019, 25). Homeless residents point to harassment or citation and arrest by the Greensboro Police Department for many reasons: 51.5 percent for loitering; 50 percent for sleeping in public spaces, 48.5 percent for sitting or lying down, 35.2 percent for panhandling, 20.3 percent for jaywalking, and 16.3 percent for receiving free food (Craven et al. 2019). These statistics correlate with arrest records data provided by the Greensboro Police Department: over a span of two years, 85.7 percent of people arrested for loitering listed a homeless shelter as their residence and were identified as African American (Craven et al. 2019). Likewise, 75 percent of people arrested for urinating in public, 59.9 percent people arrested for trespassing, and 50 percent of people arrested for impeding traffic during the same time period were both homeless and Black (Craven et al. 2019). Even after Greensboro reluctantly repealed its panhandling ordinance, homeless and Black residents reported police harassment and brutality despite no law being violated (Green 2018). As one homeless resident said, “If there be a lot of Black people standing hanging around, they will lock us up, that is all I got to say, they will lock us up . . . a lot of what is going on is racial, and it is all in the police department” (Craven et al. 2019, 24). And in the case of Marcus Deon Smith, this dynamic of brutal policing of Black and homeless residents resulted in a tragic death. Marcus Smith was a thirty-eight-year-old Black resident of Greensboro who was having a mental health crisis in downtown Greensboro when police approached him during the early morning hours of September 8, 2018. Smith asked the police to take him to the hospital. Instead, they let him pace around

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the street frantically before momentarily placing him in a patrol car, only to then pull him out, place him on the ground, and hogtie him using a “Hobble” restraint devise per department policy. Even though Smith was never under arrest, the police handcuffed his arms together behind his back and then tied his legs to the handcuffs, contorting his body so that his shoulders and knees lifted off the ground (Complaint 2019). Marcus Smith was a beloved member of the homeless community in Greensboro, and a son, brother, and uncle to a large family that shares his name. After his death, members of the Homeless Union of Greensboro and his family were suspicious when the Greensboro Police Department issued a press release describing Marcus as “suicidal” who had become “combative” and “collapsed” (McDowell 2018, para. 10–11). Their suspicions were confirmed when months later the State Medical Examiner’s Office declared the manner of Smith’s death a homicide and under pressure from concerned citizens, the City of Greensboro released the body camera footage of the incident allowing the public to see the way in which Smith was tied up and killed (Barron 2018). Two years later, no member of the Greensboro Police Department had been disciplined for the death of Marcus Smith despite video evidence revealing that the police had brutally tied Smith’s body up in a way that was known to be medically dangerous (McDowell 2019). How does a community respond to such violence? Despite a long history of resistance, litigation, and organizing work, people experiencing homelessness in Greensboro and across the country are still frequently subjected to harsh and discriminatory and often brutal policing. In many places, quality of life ordinances and Broken Windows Policing amount to the wholesale criminalization of homelessness enforced by both police and private security forces. These policies are encouraged by the growing influence of BIDs intent on privatizing public space to exclude the voices of poor and homeless people. CONCLUSION: ASSERTING OUR RIGHTS REQUIRES A MEASURE OF RESISTANCE The most basic and fundamental right required to participate in democracy is that of free expression. For people experiencing homelessness, that right has been nullified or criminalized by a myriad of laws from panhandling bans, to homeless exclusion ordinances that keep poor people from existing and surviving in public spaces. The growing influence of private actors overseeing public policy and public functions has exacerbated issues of exclusion and often shielded the government from being accountable to the democratic standards of equitable treatment. A white backlash to the civil rights movement led to drastic policy changes in the mid-twentieth century including the

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defunding of public programs. This encouraged private actors to take over traditional government functions, including public space management and the provision of emergency services. BIDs in particular are aggressive in using public funds to advocate for tough on crime policies which aim to exclude people experiencing homelessness and poverty from city centers. When this kind of quality of life policing is carried out by private security forces and so-called ambassador teams, on semiprivate property, these forms of private discrimination are often difficult to challenge through the courts due to the state action doctrine which limits Fourteenth Amendment equal protection claims to addressing provably intentional discrimination done by state actors. Many cities, for instance, lack citywide anti-homeless restrictions, but criminalize otherwise constitutionally protected behavior inside BIDs or in areas managed by public-benefit authorities that operate as quasi-private entities with their own board of directors. In New York City, there is no blanket citywide panhandling ban, but a person may be fined for solicitation in areas managed by the Metropolitan Transportation Authority or in certain “Designated Activity Zones” managed by BIDs such as the Times Square Alliance. That these neoliberal semipublic but privately managed spaces are becoming more common is cause for concern for free speech advocates. There are still some remedies available to people seeking redress before the courts. In April 2019, after months of inaction by the local government, Marcus Smith’s family filed a lawsuit against the City of Greensboro, the County of Guilford, the eight officers, and the two EMT personnel who were present at the time of his hogtying homicide death. The suit says that the defendants had a de facto policy of permitting officers to take unlawful actions against people in custody and violate their civil rights. The complaint pointed to the “long history of racist police violence and misconduct and deliberate indifference . . . which causes Greensboro police officers, such as the officers in this case, to believe that they can abuse African American citizens with impunity and with no fear of consequences” (Complaint 2019, 57). The resurgence of protests against police brutality over last several years, and especially in 2020, have been powerfully effective at advancing the conversation about what the true nature and construe of the law is, and what public safety should mean. Within weeks of George Floyd’s murder at the hands of Minneapolis police in May 2020, a national dialogue about defunding the police and abolition took hold. This public reimagining of how we approach social issues would not have been possible without the sustained pressure of massive protests. Among the more encouraging aspects has been the reconsideration of the role of police in addressing public health issues such as homelessness. Undeniably, police department funding and staffing has no bearing in solving the crisis of homelessness. Guaranteeing access to safe and affordable housing as a fundamental human right is the only solution.

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The Black Lives Matter movement also provided deep lessons regarding their approach to dealing with the law, in order to address fundamental rights and structural inequality. Where liberal reformers have often focused on the courts and legislative bodies as the places where progressive policy change happens, the Black Lives Matter movement decentralizes formal government structures and openly questions the legitimacy of those systems. Members of Black Lives Matter unapologetically give voice to what Black and poor people have been saying for years: our laws are not fair and were not designed to treat people equally; their violence is “lethal and routine” (Akbar 2015, 355). The Black Lives Matter movement does not merely want a few less police killings each year; it calls instead for a wholesale transformation of the relationships of power which allow for Black people to be killed with impunity. Unless power relationships change, all advocates and lawsuits can do is force the language of laws to change (and they should), but those in power will surely find new ways to continue to exclude socially marginalized people. In light of the current debate over defunding the police, there is a very real danger placing more power in the hands of private security forces, including BID security teams will likely lead to more ruinous effects yet for poor and homeless people. Campaigns to defund or abolish the police should not stop. Homeless organizing has shown that our existing policing systems are fundamentally unjust and cannot be merely reformed. We must indeed call for radical transformation. The laws by which we live must certainly be grappled with and cannot be ignored, but they cannot be the sole focus of our energy. Rather, we must de-center the law and instead center the lives and voices of people directly affected by criminalization and mass incarceration. Only then will it be possible to reimagine and transform the power in our society so that our structures might resemble justice. In 2020, the devastating coronavirus pandemic laid bare many of the inherent contradictions in American democratic life. As a result of COVID-driven losses of jobs, income, and healthcare protections, researchers suggest that unless the federal government commits itself to large-scale interventions, homelessness will increase as much as 49 percent by 2025 (Flaming et al. 2021). The pandemic has made clear what people experiencing homelessness have known; the vast majority of Americans are not far from being on the street themselves, and that our communities are only as healthy as the least cared for, and the least insured. Unless we, as a society, commit to using our collective resources to ensure that no one is doomed to homelessness, the number of people on the streets being kicked awake by police or criminalized for asking others for help is bound to grow, and many Americans will soon come to the realization that their rights, too, are nonexistent in the modern neoliberal city.

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NOTE 1. This fund was established through the Temporary Emergency Food Assistance Act of 1983, PL 98–8 (HR 1718), adopted March 24, 1983, as part of Reagan’s Emergency Jobs Appropriation Act, 97 Stat. 13 (1983).

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Roberts, Dorothy E. 2019. “Abolition Constitutionalism.” Harvard Law Review 133, no. 1 (November): 1–122. Ruan, Nantiya. 2018. “Too High a Price: What Criminalizing Homelessness Costs Colorado.” University of Denver Sturm College of Law. https://doi​.org​/10​.2139​/ ssrn​.3169929. Schweik, Susan M. 2010.The Ugly Laws: Disability in Public. New York: New York University Press. Selbin, Jeffrey, Stephanie Campos-Bui, Joshua Epstein, Laura Lim, Shelby Nacino, Hannah Stommel, and Paula Wilhlem. 2018. “Homeless Exclusion Districts: How California Business Improvement Districts Use Policy Advocacy and Policing Practices to Exclude Homeless People from Public Space.” UC Berkeley Public Law Research Paper. https://doi​.org​/10​.2139​/ssrn​.3221446. Shawki, Ahmed. 2006. Black Liberation and Socialism. Chicago, IL: Haymarket Books. Shelley v. Kraemer, 334 US 1 (1948). Southern Coalition for Social Justice. 2020. “Open Data Policing: Greensboro Police Department.” https​:/​/op​​endat​​apoli​​cing.​​com​/n​​c​/age​​n​cy​/1​​05/. Taylor, Keeanga-Yamahtta. 2019. Race for Profit: How Banks and the Real Estate Industry Undermined Black Homeownership. Justice, Power, and Politics. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. The Oregonian. 2018. “Portland Homeless Accounted for Majority of Police Arrests in 2017, Analysis Finds.” June 27, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.ore​​gonli​​ve​.co​​m​/por​​tland​​ /2018​​/06​/p​​ortla​​nd​_ho​​meles​​s​_acc​​​ounte​​d​_fo.​​html. Theoharis, Rev. Dr. Liz. 2020. “The Revival of the National Union of the Homeless.” The Nation, March 30, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​natio​​n​.com​​/arti​​cle​/s​​ociet​​y​/nat​​ional​​ -home​​​less-​​union​/. Turner, K. B., David Giacopassi, and Margaret Vandiver. 2006. “Ignoring the Past: Coverage of Slavery and Slave Patrols in Criminal Justice Texts.” Journal of Criminal Justice Education 17, no. 1: 181–195. United States v. Cruikshank, 92 U.S. 542 (1876). Western Regional Advocacy Project. 2010. “Without Housing: Decades of Federal Housing Cutbacks Massive Homelessness and Policy Failures 2010 Update.” https​ :/​/wr​​aphom​​e​.org​/​/wp-​​conte​​nt​/up​​loads​​/2008​​/09​/2​​010​%2​​0Upda​​te​%20​​Witho​​u​t​%20​​ Housi​​ng​.pd​​f.

Chapter 4

Greensboro, 1963 Free Speech and the Boundaries of Nonviolence Thomas F. Jackson

When citizens feel their voices are not heard in the corridors of power, and when, nevertheless, they come to believe that they can collectively change injustices, they innovate upon languages of mass action. They exercise their constitutional rights of free speech and assembly. At moments of crisis, they push en masse against constraints of normal politics which usually favor monied interests or privileged peoples. They seize public spaces and disrupt business as usual: Black Lives Matter in 2020, the Women’s March in 2017, the Nuclear Freeze protests of 1982, and the subject of this chapter, the “Negro Revolution of 1963,” as it was then widely referenced. Public protest at its most effective is one tool in a flexible kit of strategies which sustain communities and change institutions. And when nonviolent action provokes violence, from any corner following any dialectic of action and reaction, the boundaries between democratic expression and civil order become contested terrain. Nevertheless, testing and expanding the boundaries of legitimate protest has been and will continue to be key to promoting and defending multiracial democracy. Greensboro, North Carolina, represents one wave in a tidal surge of African American activism in 1963 that swept everyone in its path and altered basic features of the social landscape in the United States. From April to September, Black people in over 200 cities protested in over 700 demonstrations against segregation, job discrimination, police violence, and a tangle of related grievances. The national scope and unprecedented scale of these mass actions in public spaces made the Civil Rights Act of 1964 both possible and necessary—especially Title II, wherein Congress prohibited discrimination in places of public accommodation, and Title VII, wherein Congress made 65

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job discrimination a federal crime. Historical memory has reduced this 1963 Revolution to shrunken facsimiles of two events, however—the May uprising in Birmingham, Alabama, against segregation and brutal police repression, and the August March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom—the one labeled violent, the other peaceful. Like Black Lives Matter, the 1963 protests were everywhere. They were nearly everywhere nonviolent. But then, as now, some journalists, public officials, and right-wing opponents isolated and amplified acts of violence against property or persons to justify police repression or white vigilantism which only escalated violence. Contests for public space at this scale invariably become contests over the acceptable risks of nonviolence (Jackson 2007). In May and June of 1963, Greensboro’s Black citizens turned the city inside-out through relentless nonviolent protest in the streets, in the jails, and at the doors of segregated whites-only restaurants, theaters, and hotels. Greensboro was less newsworthy than Birmingham precisely because it was less violent. Birmingham’s strategy of crisis must be briefly summarized for purposes of comparison. Organized by Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), hundreds of adult and college-age picketers attempted in April to persuade Birmingham’s department store owners to integrate their facilities and to hire Blacks. Despite Dr. King’s famous Good Friday arrest, they failed. On May 1, they launched a Children’s Crusade, which mobilized thousands of hastily trained nonviolent protesters from high schools and junior high schools. Soon, over 2,400 were incarcerated, refusing to post bail. When Police Commissioner Eugene “Bull” Connor deployed German Shephard dogs and high-pressure fire hoses against crowds, young people defiantly dodged the jets and fought the dogs. One powerful jet slammed Fred Shuttlesworth against the walls of his church and sent him to the hospital. Bystanders with no fealty to nonviolence heaved rocks and paving stones at their oppressors. The movement won a partial victory on May 11, when big businessmen realized such mayhem might permanently stain the city’s good image. Downtown stores would desegregate, with the promise of jobs to follow. Before more concrete job guarantees could be negotiated, SCLC suspended demonstrations, after assurances from the Kennedy Administration they would soon draft a civil rights bill to put before Congress. Graphic scenes of violence charged an international media scandal that threatened President Kennedy’s carefully curated image of free world leadership (Jackson 2007; Morris 1993; Eskew 1997). But the scene worsened on the evening of May 11, when Governor George Wallace’s Alabama state troopers waded into crowds swinging batons and cracking skulls. The Ku Klux Klan bombed Dr. King’s hotel room and his brother’s house. Miraculously, neither man was injured. Blacks from the

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neighborhoods rose in violent protest, looting stores and burning two of them. Here was a nightmare every southern mayor wished to avoid, and Black activists everywhere knew it. Cities might suffer Birmingham’s fate, should local elites stonewall legitimate Negro grievances (Jackson 2007; Eskew 1997). Birmingham Blacks had maintained a remarkable degree of nonviolent discipline, but the violence cut two ways. In the White House Oval Office on May 12, for example, President Kennedy decided to press forward with drafting a civil rights bill, especially if the Birmingham settlement unraveled. But John Kennedy also told his brother Robert, the Attorney General that, for all the grievances and provocations, “in Birmingham it has largely been the Negroes who have gotten out of hand” (Meetings 1963a). Nonviolence was dangerously entangled with violence in their thinking. They had scarcely better intelligence than they had during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Racist southern officials pushed the onus further: Dr. King was denounced as the high priest of nonviolent violence. When Kennedy made his eloquent moral case for legislation on June 11, he cautioned against more nonviolence: “The fires of frustration and discord are burning in every city, North and South. Where legal remedies are not at hand, redress is sought in the streets, in demonstrations, parades, and protests which create tensions and threaten violence and threaten lives” (Kennedy 1963b). The fear was widely shared among even liberal public officials. Greensboro’s truly mass protests coincided the Birmingham settlement and riot. Mass picketing, marching, and civil disobedience met police restraint and cooperation in a way that avoided the violence that made international news. Coordinated by a local chapter of the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), the Greensboro strategy resembled Birmingham: send protesters into downtown retail districts, disrupt business as usual, fill the jails, stay in jail without posting bail, do all this to compel concessions by imposing high costs on businesses, and city government. At one point, over 1,500 students, adults, and juveniles overflowed three makeshift jails. Protesters pushed past white definitions of civility and goodwill, the polite indoor forms of communication, compromise, and exchange that whites deemed essential to progress in race relations. Blacks’ new language of action rejected civil norms that they now believed had simply delayed social justice through endless talk. Marching on the downtown, exercising rights to freely assemble in public, they pushed into private business spaces that served the public. These restaurants and theaters denied equal service to Blacks on a hallowed principle—a business owner’s property right to choose his customers. Realizing that they could not count on international publicity or federal intervention, that they must involve the mayor and City Council, activists pushed past boundaries of the law to foment local crisis. They violated trespass and fire ordinances at restaurants and theaters in a segregated city that had repealed legal

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segregation ordinances. On May 17, they agreed on a strategy of filling the jails and refusing bail. After a moratorium and frustrating delays, on June 5, they crossed the cooperative boundaries of protest into the territory of disruptive civil disobedience, sitting down in the downtown’s busiest traffic intersection without informing police. Only after their charismatic leader Jesse Jackson was arrested for inciting a riot, and only after his arrest failed to deter larger civil disobedience on Main Street did the mayor and downtown businessmen concede the principle and change their practices. Private property rights could no longer justify segregation, at least many of them said under pressure. Mass protest forced the city to deal honestly with its contradictions. The campaign was intensely local (Chafe 1980). But the movement drew support from diverse corners that have not yet been fully appreciated: the U.S. Supreme Court, the U.S. Attorney General, the CBS News Corporation, and a president alarmed about white mobs and armed Negroes over the horizon. Although Birmingham electrified the nation, the Greensboro movement was rooted in local institutions and protest traditions. In 1960, students drawn from North Carolina Agricultural and Technical University (A&T) and Bennett College, a private women’s college sponsored by the Methodist Church, seeded a region-wide protest movement. Sitting-in at dime-store lunch counters, they politely demanded, and won, equal service. The student movement rapidly spread across the South, but in Greensboro, most restaurants and theaters remained segregated. No Black could eat in the fancy restaurants, and all Blacks had to climb steep stairs to sit apart in theater balconies. In February 1963, editors of the A&T student newspaper, The Register bemoaned the city’s slow progress since 1960. Some restaurants desegregated. Businesses hired “a few Negro salesclerks, and not much else.” Why? They faulted Greensboro’s timid and disorganized adult Negro leadership class, “people in love with their status in the community and the favors it brings.” Negotiations only led to “promises of more negotiations and that is not enough” (Register 1963). The newspaper was silent on the issue, however, until the editors collected candidates’ statements a four-way race for student body president on May 1. Jesse Jackson listed a priority near the bottom of his platform: “Social Action Committee. We started the sit-down; our job isn’t finished yet” (Jackson 1963). Jesse Jackson won, but he had to be recruited into the movement by others who recognized that a photogenic, popular football player and student body president might be a perfect front man. Greensboro’s Black community leaders proved themselves indispensable once the students got moving. They elaborated a longer-term agenda and created an infrastructure for protests before and after the 1963 revolt. Adults mediated negotiations and lent credibility to transitory students whom white elites would not recognize as leaders. Organizations dedicated to long

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haul community action can ground, sustain, and build upon seasons of mass action. Generational and strategic differences persisted in Greensboro, but ministers such as Otis Hairston, Sr. of Shiloh Baptist Church printed thousands of leaflets and opened churches to mass meetings. Dr. George Simpkins led the local NAACP chapter and negotiated for the students, even as he won a federal court case in 1963 against Moses Cone Hospital’s practice of denying attending privileges to Black doctors. Thousands of adults joined silent marches when students were restricted to campus, and when word spread of harrowing conditions in the jails. Bennett College women venerated their president, Dr. Willa Player, who promised to educate women to free a South “enslaved with the chains of hate and segregation.” Player’s courage and legal savvy helped rescue the entire movement (Civil Rights Greensboro, Stanley and Hairston Interviews by Chafe; Brown 2013, 99). At Bennett College in the summer of 1962, a cadre of adults and students cemented an alliance with national activists from CORE after they had joined CORE’s Freedom Highways campaign, which desegregated North Carolina’s Howard Johnson’s restaurants. Students learned Gandhian nonviolent theory and practice from CORE field organizers. The rules were strict. Only after pursuing all options for negotiated change should activists undertake direct action. Start with picketing and community boycotts. At all times act respectably. Do not act independently of group decisions. Never retaliate, even when it becomes necessary to break laws and submit to arrest. Initially, a faction led by Bennett Professor Rev. John Hatchett argued that picketing for jobs should be their central strategy that restaurant desegregation mattered little if people lacked the money for the meals. Hatchett also doubted whether students could remain nonviolent, but a direct-action faction coalesced around William Thomas, a brilliant A&T student who as a high school student helped successfully conclude the 1960 sit-ins. On October 13, CORE’s picketing gave way to mass marches of fifteen hundred students from both Black colleges. A week later, 2,000 students and faculty repeated the march. Greensboro’s black ministers called for “immediate desegregation of the entire downtown area, both from the standpoint of service and job opportunities” (Spivey 1962; Civil Rights Greensboro, Hatchett and Lucas Interviews with Pfaff). On Thanksgiving, forty-eight members of CORE sat in at the upscale S&W Cafeteria, which catered to the city’s white clerks, executives, shoppers, and shopkeepers. They were promptly arrested. When the mayor appointed a Human Relations Committee, CORE granted a moratorium. But by March 1963, CORE had run out of patience. Led by Hatchett, 30 CORE activists marched on City Hall. “We have tried in all good faith to negotiate for equal service in downtown restaurants and cafeterias and it hasn’t seemed to work,” Hatchett told reporters. Editors had earlier declared Hatchett a

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fiery extremist, but now they printed a photograph of orderly well-dressed picketers with signs: “Men still stand tall—COWARDS still stand behind segregation.” “Segregation is too expensive for white Greensboro.” “Are you a rainy-day Christian?” “We Negotiate but We Insist on ACTION!” (Greensboro Record 1963a). Still, students held back, then Birmingham provided an example that mass action could work. North Carolina cities like Raleigh and Durham commenced mass protests and arrests. For Lois Lucas, an early Bennett CORE member, direct action elsewhere fed her “frustration that the genteel way” of picketing and waiting for negotiations would never force whites to do “what is real and what is right.” Frustrations with police and counterdemonstrators also propelled them toward broader confrontation. On May 11, thirty-one students requested service at McDonald’s, a mile north of downtown. Four picketers submitted to arrest after refusing to move away from the service window. William Thomas was joined in jail by a new twenty-five-year-old CORE leader and Presbyterian minister, Rev. A. Knighton “Tony” Stanley, a master of moral persuasion who complimented Thomas’ genius for protest tactics. When they returned to McDonald’s, the next day after posting bail, a jeering contingent of the Ku Klux Klan threatened them. One white dumped a can of beer on someone’s head and was promptly arrested. But police did little to contain the white counterdemonstrators, who waved crude signs like “Go Back to Africa.” Someone with a bullhorn warned they would all “go to hell if they did not follow the way of the Lord.” Thomas declared that if police could not do more to contain whites and separate crowds, “another Birmingham will break out in Greensboro.” More and more, they focused on the downtown and the new mayor, David Schenck. “CORE has always been willing to negotiate but cannot get any support from the city government,” Thomas complained (Greensboro Daily News 1963a; Civil Rights Greensboro, Thomas interview by Pfaff). Schenck confirmed that whites feared another Birmingham. Deploring demonstrations, he called on “dedicated and courageous citizens of all races” to avoid “the tragic drama being enacted in other cities” (Greensboro Record 1963b). Daily News editorial page writer William Snider was more blunt: “Greensboro will be no more immune to mobs in the streets and potential violence than Birmingham and Raleigh” (Greensboro Daily News 1963b). The campuses roiled with anger over the arrests and provocations. By May 15, protests grew tenfold, as 350 demonstrators marched downtown to confront the restaurateurs and theater owners. A small victory had followed initial efforts, and portended larger change. “McDonald’s agreed to integrate its three stores in Greensboro,” Phyllis Strong Taylor wrote to her mother on May 15. “The kids were shouting all over the campus about this achievement. I hope this spirit keeps up, because there are quite a number who are ready to go to jail without bail.

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We’ll lick’em sooner or later. They’ll have to open up all facilities soon!” (Brown 2013, 133). Not if the white businessmen could help it. The next day, 1,000 students marched downtown without confronting the owners. The mayor and Human Relations Commission met with the Chamber of Commerce, who quickly endorsed “the principle of equal treatment of all persons, without regard to race, color, or religion.” The Merchants’ Association called for removing “all policies . . . in both government and business . . . which deny rights or services to any citizens.” That was fine talk, but the Chamber hedged. “Good community relationships” would collapse under the weight of assemblies which “endanger public safety and disrupt the orderly movement of people and traffic” (Greensboro Record 1963c). Echoing this theme of illegitimate militancy, businessmen on the hotseat would not budge. Attorney Armistead Sapp announced that his client, the S&W Cafeteria would not “change its local policy of refusing to serve demonstrators, white, Negro or polkadot.” Black Greensboro knew that the cafeterias had never served Negroes or Polkadots—precisely why Negroes became demonstrators. Boyd Morris, a former mayor and the owner of the Mayfair Cafeteria, was confident the Supreme Court would soon side with him. Weren’t the “rights of an individual to operate his business as he wishes” the cornerstone of the American Way? Morris simply desired to “make a living and pay my honest debts and keep 134 people gainfully employed. It is my prayerful hope that I can continue.” He was sure his customers would abandon him if he changed his policies. He would have much more to do than pray and hope (Greensboro Daily News 1963c). So then too would CORE. On May 17, they began the strategy of jail, no bail, when 400 students submitted to arrest for trespassing and blocking fire exits. “Both Negroes and police knew precisely what to do,” the Daily News noted. “At each of the theaters and the S&W cafeteria the operation proceeded on an assembly line basis.” William Thomas had worked out the terms of mass arrests with police Captain William Jackson, who came to admire and rely upon the precision with which Thomas organized and deployed protesters. One A&T student at the S&W door made a simple request that sliced open the absurd guts of segregation. “My father cooks for you all, and I’d like to come in and eat some of his cooking!” (Greensboro Daily News 1963d; Chafe 1980). By May 19, over 1,000 students overflowed Greensboro’s jails, the National Guard Armory, and the Old Polio Hospital, a convalescent facility which had been mothballed in 1961 and repurposed as a makeshift jail. Stanley and Thomas meanwhile had recruited Jesse Jackson. Jackson led a crowd of 600 through the downtown, gathering 400 more on the way to the hospital. They removed their hats and belted out the StarSpangled Banner, whereupon city police “stood at attention and saluted.” An

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unnamed girl promised to “keep on singing, working, praying, and hoping for our freedom. . . . We don’t mind troubles. We want the world to know we want our freedom today and that we will keep fighting” (Greensboro Daily News 1963e). The next day, 420 more students submitted to arrest and were crammed into the facilities. A mass meeting of 1,000 Blacks agreed to a community boycott to end “the evil of segregation” (Greensboro Daily News 1963f). National CORE director James Farmer arrived May 19 to learn that CORE was running out of college students. He immediately appealed for adults and younger volunteers. “When they start putting our children in jail, then they’ll have to get us too,” he preached. The moment was historic: “when dogs bite our people in Birmingham, we bleed all over the country” (Greensboro Daily News 1963e). Governor Terry Sanford then effectively removed hundreds of A&T students from jail and confined them to campus with a threat of expulsion coerced from University President Lewis Dowdy. Bennett students refused to return to campus, proudly claiming the title of “jailbirds.” Nothing galvanized the community more than word of the privations and dire conditions in the jails. Through every channel of communication, including a new movement newsletter entitled The Candle, everyone learned the shocking details of overcrowding, poor food, violations of women’s sexual privacy, inadequate mattresses, blankets, toilets, and wash facilities (Papers of CORE. Greensboro 1963; Greensboro Daily News 1963f; Chafe 1980). Sandra Echols Sharp recalls in vivid detail their terror that the poliovirus might still linger in the moldy mattresses of the Old Hospital. “I slept on the floor. It was a cold, cold floor. . . I didn’t cry. I actually became more brazen,” she remembered. “We were on a mission.” Her mother gained entry disguised as a nurse, documented abuses, and called Attorney General Kennedy in Washington, DC. He leaned on the governor, who sent some blankets (Sharp 2018). President Willa Player of Bennett College had visited the jail and promised students her full support. A secret tip strengthened her hand with Captain Jackson when she learned the hospital had never been inspected by the health department. Player insisted that until all charges were dropped, dumping students on campus would transform the free liberal arts Bennett College into a prison. The jailbirds could not be pushed around. Legions of parents and faculty brought food and homework. Yvonne Johnson, a native of Greensboro and its future mayor, was amazed at adult support: I was incarcerated for three days. We sang all night long. We did not go to sleep, and the guards could not get any rest. We . . . knew that Dr. Player would stand up for us. She had our backs. . . . My mother was not afraid for me. . . . I found out that my aunt had sat down on the street during one of the big marches, and

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that the Black professionals had lost their reservations about demonstrating and joined the fight. (Brown 2013, 111)

Under such heat, a unified movement coalesced. On May 22, 2,000 adults marched silently, two by two, through the downtown, including most Black school principals, ministers, doctors, and teachers. The next day, 1,200 marched again, mainly adults and juveniles. They now confronted several hotels and even more restaurants. The next night, 760 marched again, with no arrests, Jesse Jackson prominently in the lead. Employers and supervisors threatened to terminate working-class Blacks if they joined.1 The silent marchers were disciplined, but police and journalists remarked at the growing numbers of juveniles and the growing exhaustion of police. By the following Sunday, May 26, at a mass meeting of 1,200 people, Reverend Charles Anderson announced, the students “have set up a beachhead on the shores of freedom, and we’re going to move in” (Greensboro Daily News 1963g). The shores of freedom were no longer at ebb tide, as they were in the heyday of McCarthyism and massive resistance to school desegregation. Liberalmoderate politicians, Democrat and Republican, now championed America’s soul of freedom and equality. Resisting the call for Freedom, Now, these men moved cautiously, dragging feet caked with customs of Carolina clay. But they did name the beachhead, and they removed some legal barbed wire impeding Blacks’ frontal assault. The Supreme Court, news executives of CBS-TV, the Kennedy brothers, even Governor Terry Sanford, all acknowledged publicly that Boyd Morris’ brand of segregation was sinking. After beating the segregationist candidate in the 1960 Democratic primary, Sanford had declared that North Carolinians must “quit unfair discrimination and give the Negro full chance to earn a decent living for his family.” Robert Kennedy came to Asheville on May 17. Voluntary acceptance of racial justice became the theme in his Cold War seminar before local Jaycees. Russian Soviets were making hay out of Birmingham, he explained. Even journalists in allied nations blamed the U.S. government for oppressing Negroes. Segregation could not be squared with America’s free world leadership. Kennedy assured the businessmen they could solve their problems without federal meddling. American “democracy rests on the rights of the states and the freedom of individuals,” he conceded. But freedom had to mean something tangible to Negroes, he insisted. Radio Moscow had interviewed Mayor Schenck, and protesters carried signs, “Moscow is Watching” (Greensboro Daily News 1963h). Meanwhile Greensboro’s liberals in the Greensboro Community Fellowship had gathered thirteen hundred signatures for desegregation. In the Oval Office on June 1, Bobby Kennedy advocated a civil rights bill that would move the movement “off the streets and into the courts.” “What’s going on in Jackson, what’s going on in North Carolina, we’ve had twenty-five, thirty

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demonstrations this week,” he told the president. A bill would make a strong “argument that we should just end those and get them off the front page of the papers.” This was urgent. “It’s bad for the country,” he said. “It’s bad for the world!” (Meetings: Tape 90. 1963). Racial liberalism was also ascendant in the Supreme Court. Since the 1920s, the Justices had drip-by-drip favored the incorporation of Bill of Rights guarantees into Fourteenth Amendment prohibitions on states’ police power. In the 1960s, the drips became a flood. The court widened boundaries of press freedom, criminal defendants’ rights, reproductive rights, interracial marriage rights, even rights to go on interracial dates without risking arrest for vagrancy. In February, the court voided convictions of 187 protesters whose only offense had been marching, carrying signs, and chanting slogans at the South Carolina Capitol. Such convictions made “criminal the peaceful expression of unpopular views,” argued Justice Potter Stewart. Police could only arrest those who exceeded “bounds of argument or persuasion” and undertook “incitement to riot” (Edwards v. South Carolina 1963). That was wholly public space. What about public-private spaces like Boyd Morris’s Mayfair Cafeteria in Greensboro, businesses serving the public and licensed by local governments? On May 20, the Justices overturned dozens of 1960 criminal convictions in cities where sit-in demonstrators had been arrested in privately owned businesses.2 CBS News happened to be in Greensboro when the court seemed to decisively redefine the boundaries of constitutional free speech. Movement activists celebrated. Charles Collingwood of CBS called it the most important decision since Brown v. Board of Education. The court rendered a more ambiguous decision about liminal spaces, however. Liberal Justice William O. Douglas had argued for a sweeping application of the Fourteenth Amendment to any licensed business: “There is no constitutional way in which a State can license and supervise a business serving the public and endowed with the authority to manage that business on the basis of apartheid which is foreign to our Constitution.” But Justice John Marshall Harlan vehemently dissented: “Freedom of the individual to choose his associates or his neighbors . . . to be irrational, arbitrary, capricious, even unjust in his personal relations, are all . . . areas of private rights upon which federal power should not lay a heavy hand.” Harlan did not want to overturn an 1883 decision that voided the Civil Rights Act of 1875; only state action was prohibited under the Fourteenth Amendment’s equal protection clause. Let Congress decide the issue, he argued (Ackerman 2018; CBS News 1963). Chief Justice Earl Warren did not want to overturn precedent either, even as the court’s majority overturned the sit-in convictions. Anywhere “the voice of the State directed segregated service”—either by municipal ordinance or statements by public officials—arrests of demonstrators in

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public accommodations were unconstitutional. Greensboro had no segregation ordinances, and Mayor Schenck endorsed the equal rights statements of the Chamber of Commerce in the same breath that he disavowed authority over private business choices. The Daily News editors defended the city’s “neutral” trespass laws and fire ordinances. “Negro demonstrators, just as Governor Sanford warned . . . can go too far in inviting arrests,” they admonished. Crowding sidewalks and blocking entrances created “hazardous conditions which neither property owners nor city police can ignore or condone.” Negroes themselves might be hurt economically if they tarnished Greensboro’s good business image, and they would “lose public support by turning peaceful demonstrations into ludicrous sideshows.” Aiming for balance, the editors weakly warned businessmen not to use “freedom of private property in a discriminatory manner.” In light of new public norms, they might “lose more patronage than they gain.” But Boyd Morris was sure his white patrons would fly if they could not flock together, and the editors were not calling him ludicrous (Greensboro Daily News 1963i). Civil rights leaders used the media to spin the court’s decision in their favor and to defend their mass arrests as serious main-stage action, not side shows. James Farmer told reporters that in Greensboro “the principle is the same . . . Segregation is both illegal and wrong.” Over fifteen thousand young people had been arrested since Greensboro started the sit-ins in 1960, he instructed, still the great debater. “Had they stopped short of getting arrested, we would not have this Supreme Court ruling” (Greensboro Daily News 1963j). CBS’s Dan Rather asked Martin Luther King, “after Birmingham, would protests accelerate?” King may have sounded contradictory to whites who saw the law as a simple matter: “On the heels of the Supreme Court decision outlawing segregation at lunch counters and outlawing city ordinances that make segregation possible . . . Negroes will take advantage of these new rights and we will see more mass jail-ins in order to gain these rights.” Did Negroes need to break laws to gain the same rights they had just won? King made sense only if viewers appreciated that rights might be formally granted and neither respected nor implemented. In the absence of violent repression and saturation media coverage, mass jail-ins would continue to supply the “crisis” needed to bring elites to the table (CBS News 1963). CBS’s Eyewitness: Week of Decision aired nationally on Friday, May 24, crisply interviewing Farmer, Sanford, King, and explaining the court decision. Viewers surely found most arresting the spirited Greensboro twilight street scenes intermittently lit by flashing TV lights. Jubilant Black choruses of “Freedom! Freedom!” surround Jesse Jackson and James Farmer as they squeeze through dense Main Street crowds. White hecklers mimic farm animals and sing “The Farmer takes a wife. The Farmer takes a wife. . . A white wife!” James Farmer stiffly thanks the ticket seller at the Center Theater box

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office after being denied entry. A stagy confrontation ensues between Jesse Jackson and Boyd Morris, which neatly encapsulated conflicting claims of property and human rights, and sharp differences over the legitimacy of protest. A quizzical Jesse Jackson approaches Boyd Morris. Hundreds of protesters sing out an increasingly up-tempo version of “We Shall Overcome.” Lights flash on Jackson: “May I be admitted?” Morris: “No sir-ee. You can NOT be admitted.” “Why?” “I am NOT going to serve you.” “Because of my race?” “I am not going to serve you.” “Because of my race!” “Move on! I’m not going to serve you.” “Why? Why don’t I qualify? I’m human.” Morris, agitated, will not admit Jackson, or admit the obvious reason. Jackson continues, with a brazen breach of southern racial and generational etiquette: “I don’t dislike you, Boyd.” Morris, eyeing Jackson: “I don’t dislike you.” “Why don’t you serve me?” “I’m not going to serve demonstrators! Today, tomorrow, or any day!” “If I came back by myself, would you permit?” “Nope, you’re a demonstrator.” “I wouldn’t be a demonstrator.” “You’re a demonstrator!” Jackson pulls away, glances at the TV audience, as if to say, “can-you-believe-this?” (CBS News 1963). Jackson clearly exposed the hypocritical denial of respectable “qualified” Negro individuals who would not be criminalized for requesting service and protesting injustice. Morris stood his ground with anyone inclined to disqualify a dangerous mob of raucous “demonstrators” from the protections of first-class citizenship. Still, the legal limbo into which the court had thrown the former mayor was not stable ground. Morris could not safely deny service to Negroes if any public official openly approved of segregation. The only safe ground was defense of public safety, and his private right to nonracially choose his customers. The Daily News misquoted Morris to say that he would “not serve any Negro, today, tomorrow, or any day.” Someone made sure they corrected that—Morris “did not use the noun ‘Negro’”—the very next day (Greensboro Daily News 1963k, 1963l). “Eyewitness” ended on a hopeful note: “Negro leaders say they hope that they can force North Carolinians proud of their progress in dealing with the integration problem to live up to their pretenses.” But Collingwood also echoed the mayor’s worries that Greensboro “came dangerously close to an explosion.” Such reification saturated news coverage. Statements of white fears gained the weight of facticity. “Rising tensions” and “community unrest,” the imminent or real “eruptions” of violence headlined stories. Too many reports alarmed readers without clarifying agency or responsibility for nonviolent or violent actions or reactions. Some beat reporters, like Jo Spivey of the Greensboro Record, the city’s evening paper, captured the movement well. She printed thoughtful statements by the leaders and foot soldiers. She captured their exuberance, their songs, their fortitude in jail, and their nonviolent discipline when confronted with menacing white counterdemonstrators.

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But the men who authored the editorial pages of both papers consistently delegitimized protests. So did the mayor whenever they quoted him, and they quoted him often. Editorials rang with the passive voice of both sides objectivity that put integrationists and segregationists on equal moral planes. Not that reporting is easy or straightforward. Whoever initiates or escalates violence is often contested or indeterminable. But in many stories, aggressive whites act on the periphery or in between the lines, in narratives that handle them delicately or hide their role in shaping official fears. White reporting in media controlled by and produced for whites betrays biases of omission or obfuscation. Increasingly, spectators flooded the downtown. On May 21, 1,600 people surged around 800 demonstrators moving from the restaurants to the theaters. Reporters noted an uptick in hostilities. A white woman fainted, and a crowd rushed to her aid. A scare near the train station drew screaming police cars from the Carolina Theater. Spectators ran in pursuit. Police broke up a fistfight and reported a routine incident, but they had to form “a human chain by linking arms to force the mob back.” Here is an unwritten subtext. A county of over 250,000 souls, 80 percent white—these are white mobs. “Tension appeared to be higher” the Daily News reported (1963k). Police signaled they were “weary of coping with the unruly spectators.” Faced with violent counterdemonstrators, nonviolent discipline became a challenge for Blacks. Yvonne Johnson relates how safe space for nonviolence often depended upon defenders. As she marched on the Carolina Theater, “Someone threw a knife that went right past me and landed at my feet. They were calling us ‘niggers.’ I heard a loud crack and one of the football players from A&T knocked out one of the hecklers. I looked around and the white guy had landed on the sidewalk. We just kept walking” (Brown 2013, 111). Mayor Schenck projected a tough resolve, endorsing both private property rights and the principle of equal treatment, denying again and again that protest could ever produce progress in liberal Greensboro. “We will brook no violence in this city, and there can be no compromise with law and order,” he announced. Charlotte, Raleigh, Winston-Salem, all were desegregating their downtowns faster. But Schenck falsely claimed they had done so calmly, without protests. His police were exhausted and stretched. With white crowds flooding the downtown, and the mayor increasingly the focus of demonstrations, Schenck started to make concessions. He appointed a new Human Relations Commission that more accurately reflected the newly assertive constituencies needed for any settlement. Its chairman, Dr. George Evans promised the Black leaders would discourage arrests. But Evans insisted the city “make every effort to discourage counterdemonstrations,” revealing where he thought resided the true risks of violence. On May 23, 1,300 demonstrators marched, but only fourteen submitted to arrest. The mayor did not see the

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concession. The City Council had gone as far as it could, he said, repeating their “considered opinion” that “equal treatment of all people . . . should be encouraged.” Wasn’t this enough? (Greensboro Daily News 1963m). William Thomas took the mayor’s new commission and the Black community’s restrained show of solidarity as an opportunity to declare a weekend truce on May 25. It lasted until June 2. Liberal supporters rallied. The Greensboro Community Fellowship published a white pro-integration petition that garnered thirteen hundred signatures. Attorney General Robert Kennedy met with the theater owners on May 27 and urged desegregation. They announced they had “no choice” but to pursue “sincere efforts” toward desegregation “on a voluntary experimental basis.” Tony Stanley promised that no one would “crow” about it if businesses desegregated (Greensboro Daily News 1963n). Black tempers eased when on May 28, a judge dismissed charges against 209 protesters. Arresting officers could identify none of them in court by name. Sandra Echols Sharp remembered thinking: “My God. That’s what en masse means!” “Go in numbers,” and they could not convict. “That’s real power!” (Sharp 2018). Students awakened to their power, while CORE and Greensboro leaders formed a Coordinating Council of Pro-Integration Groups that hammered out a strategic platform in a five page “Action Ideal” on May 24. Demands for downtown desegregation unfolded into goals only the city could meet: “equal job opportunities in city employment, qualified Negro representation on all city boards, review of records of Negro policemen with an eye to promotion, employment of Negro detectives, and establishment of a permanent biracial commission with member groups of the coordinating council represented.” They wanted desegregation of schools by September, assignment of Negro teachers to white schools, and desegregation in the hospitals. “It developed from one thing to another,” William Thomas recalled. “We started economic action, we started political action, our demands broadened. . . . It expanded from just the desegregation of public accommodations to employment, to increased voting rights, to the whole area of human rights that we now focus on” (Schenck Papers, 8, Statements; Civil Rights Greensboro, Thomas interview by Pfaff). A blast from the owners soon chilled movement optimism and set the stage for renewed action. Attorney Armisted Sapp demanded that the movement pay $38,500 for alleged “malicious destruction of property” to the jail facilities (Greensboro Daily News 1963o). Sapp sniffed a noxious stew labeled “instant integration,” composed of “three measures government, three measures mob violence, season with communism to taste, top with committee icing to disguise the recipe, and force-feed the public quickly before it realizes what it is consuming.” Stanley called upon the mayor to show some “spunk” (Chafe 1980, 194), but Sapp was corralling the owners and turning

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up the heat. One complained the mayor was inviting “gangsters and communists” to take over the city. Another admonished Schenck that there would be “no end to it” if he failed “draw the line here. . . . The next line of battle will be churches, private clubs. They’ll want managerial jobs and we’ll have to take them on as cashiers,” he huffed (Greensboro Daily News 1963p). Militants already were balking. On June 2, Jesse Jackson led 300 rainsoaked adults and high school students downtown. Now Jackson was answering only to “the community,” he announced, not to CORE or the Coordinating Council. For the first time, no one notified police. Jackson demanded “actions, not words” (Greensboro Daily News 1963q). On June 4, CORE announced protesters would resume midday pickets and evening silent marches, followed by mass arrests should the city not concede. Jackson was determined to push the boundaries of civil disobedience with or without CORE. Again, not informing police, he led 500 to City Hall on Wednesday June 5. Tony Stanley and Lois Lucas held back, worried about frenzied teenagers who hadn’t thought the thing through, and fearful some white nut would plow his car through the crowd. The marchers circled the busy blocks surrounding City Hall. The Daily News described the “chaos” when they crisscrossed streets and halted traffic. At 7:15 p.m., at Jackson’s behest, they “swarmed” into the street to sit down and pray. Dozens of white hecklers shouted epithets. A furious Captain Jackson shouted: “Now you’re messing up, Jesse!” Jackson shouted back that the do-nothing City Council had already “messed up.” Captain Jackson pulled a knife-wielding white man off an A&T sociology professor, arrested and charged him with felonious assault. Some white reporters were turned away from the mass meeting afterward, but others recorded militant words. Ike Reynolds, a CORE field organizer just in from Birmingham, was jubilant: “tonight was just the beginning. We’ll take over the city tomorrow.” Jesse Jackson announced there would be “demonstrations without hesitation” at 6:00 p.m. “We’re not going to wait a day longer [for] nothing less than total desegregation.” Freedom Now fever had come, but moderates were nervous (Greensboro Daily News 1963r; Civil Rights Greensboro, Stanley interview by Pfaff). Then the city overstepped its own bounds, arresting Jesse Jackson for incitement to riot, and thereby unifying the fracturing Black coalition for a final act. The arrest warrant, dutifully quoted in the papers, would have been serviceable for Nat Turner or John Brown. Jackson “did unlawfully and willingly arouse, stir up, urge, provoke, encourage, spur on, goad, and incite to riot such persons, to the state unknown, more than 200 . . . in such manner as to interfere with the rights of others . . . and to inspire terror against the peace and dignity of the state.” Jackson flipped his persona from seditious terrorist to Christian patriot in a perfectly orchestrated “media event,” Tony Stanley recalls. From the sanctuary of the Episcopal Church of the Redeemer,

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he made police wait until television and still cameramen arrived to capture a sharply dressed young Negro emerge and grab the hand of a perturbed and rumpled Captain Jackson, “as if greeting one of his parishioners,” Stanley recalls. Then he pivoted to a secular sermon for the movement: I’m going to jail without fear [and] to the chain gang if necessary. You’re just as much in jail as I will be. . . . Many of our fathers fought in the Second World War, some spent long months in prisoner of war camps. My father fought . . and came home “to the land of the free and the home of the brave.” Only he wasn’t free. This movement won’t stop with me in jail. Or you in jail. We have plenty of leaders. I’m not bitter. My feelings for America transcend my feelings for Greensboro. I am not a communist. . . . Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. (Greensboro Daily News 1963s)3

Thousands of flyers distributed throughout Greensboro proclaimed: “Your great leader has been arrested.” Ezell Blair, Sr., the father of one of the original “Greensboro four” arrested at Woolworth’s in 1960, affirmed: “We have a lot of Jesse Jacksons. He’s in the right. He broke no law.” Blair carried weight in the community. As a local high school shop teacher, he had organized community boycotts for jobs in the 1950s and advised the four on their historic action. After Jackson’s arrest, Tony Stanley played the role of moderate militant. The Daily News captured him declaring that if the city did nothing by 1:00 p.m. Friday, “we are going to jail and just sit back and let you radicals take over” (Greensboro Daily News 1963t). Thursday, June 6 climaxed the protests, when 850 protesters participated in a two-hour sit-down in Jefferson Square, the busiest intersection in the downtown. Police hauled 284 protesters into custody. The Daily News must have landed like a firebomb on Mayor Schenck’s fashionable Irving Park doorstep the next morning. “A shouting, chanting, handclapping mob of Negro demonstrators turned Jefferson Square into a nightmare scene early last night as they swarmed into the street, sat down and refused to move.” A large photo under a banner headline hardly bears out this description. Perhaps fifty Negroes, from teenagers to grandmothers, sit in the square, ringed by a cordon of police ready to make arrests. Nobody was hurt, or even roughed up. One militant is pictured “resisting arrest,” but he is surrounded by no fewer than seven cops. Reporters quoted the judgments of others: “To onlookers, hundreds of them, it appeared to be a hopeless situation, explosive and dangerous” (Greensboro Daily News 1963t). The mayor had to do something beyond preach civility to demonstrators. North Carolina cities were outstripping the pace of Greensboro’s desegregation, and right over the county line in Lexington, a textile town of 18,000, a truly lethal nightmare worse than Birmingham shadowed the city

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and state. A Daily News column detailed it all next to the big sit-in in the Square. Two whites had been shot while assaulting the Black community. A handful of Blacks tested a cafe and bowling alley on Wednesday night, but whites chased them away. Thursday night, as the Jefferson Square sitdown unfolded, 500 Lexington whites peeled off from a mob of 2,000 and invaded the Black community, confronting 100 Blacks exiting an NAACP meeting. Reporters described a scene where rocks and gasoline-filled bottles flew in both directions. As the mob closed in on an apartment building where Blacks took shelter, they shrank before a volley of bullets, one of which tore through the head of a twenty-five-year-old white counterdemonstrator. Police charged nine whites with inciting a riot and arrested seven Blacks on “open charges” (Greensboro Daily News 1963u). “A man lies dead. Another is in the hospital, a bullet still in his back,” read an editorial in the High Point Enterprise. The survivor was a photographer for the Enterprise, which covered High Point and Lexington across the county line. The editors blamed everyone and no one. “Those who go out to meet the demonstrator and to perhaps do him battle have no right on their side. However, it must be firmly understood that the blame here is not one-sided. The man who goads another into violent counteraction must share the responsibility for the result,” they wrote. If “they” had only stayed in their place (High Point Enterprise 1963). Nonviolence and riot, Greensboro and Lexington were too close to call for the mayor, and ultimately, for President Kennedy. On June 8, Kennedy devoured a New York Times story that detailed the Lexington tragedy and ended with Mayor Schenck’s decisive statement that morning (Hunter 1963). Schenck issued a principled rebuke to Greensboro businessmen who put property rights over human rights. Schenck had dramatically flipped his order of priorities as he summoned Greensboro businessmen to a meeting on June 7. Kennedy liked his statement so much that he read it to the U.S. Conference of Mayors in Honolulu. “‘I say to you who own and operate places of public accommodation in the city, the hotels, motels and restaurants, that now is the time to throw aside the shackles of past customs. Selection of customers purely by race is outdated, morally unjust, and not in keeping with either democratic or Christian philosophy.’ So spoke the Mayor of Greensboro, N.C. and I think it is good advice for all of us,” the president concluded (Kennedy 1963a). With ringing moral clarity, Schenck had decisively marshaled Christianity and patriotism in a direct appeal for desegregation. Yet he still juggled principled equal rights talk, honor for white property rights, and deprecation of counterproductive protest. “Turmoil and demonstrations” had impeded good faith negotiations all along, he said again. Mass arrests must cease. He would “uphold the law in this city.” But the crisis was costing the city, and

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temporarily at least, the mayor placed the onus of responsibility onto stubborn businessmen. We recognize the right under the law of the property owner or business proprietor to use his property and conduct his business in any fashion he chooses so long as public safety and morals are not violated. But how far must your city government and your fellow businessman go to protect that right? Must the business of downtown Greensboro be disrupted, and the city be brought to a point of serious explosion? Must extra policemen, sheriffs, Highway Patrol and even the National Guard be kept on silent alert to enforce your private business decision? When our image in the nation is damaged, for whatever reason our citizens of all races suffer. (Schenck Papers, 8, Statements)

Greensboro Record editor Colvin Leonard concurred in the name of dollars and sense. A businessman told him about “the ugly image Greensboro had gotten nationally from publicity about the racial demonstrations. Greensboro has been put at a great disadvantage with such cities as Charlotte and Winston-Salem in competition for new business,” he agreed. Nowhere did any white person in power acknowledge the rightness of the Negroes’ cause, the audacity of their new language of protest, the courage of their persistence, or the nobility of their nonviolence. The editors echoed what the mayor had been saying all along. “Negroes may suffer economically if demonstrations continue to disturb the peace and contribute to an unwholesome business as well as social climate in Greensboro.” What should have been honey to the movement was sandwiched between stale prejudices about Negro misbehavior and penny-pinching bids to rescue the city’s business reputation (Greensboro Record 1963d). That was enough, for now, however. Victories are never pure, unalloyed with persistent injustices. The theaters, hotels, S&W Cafeteria, and 40 percent of Greensboro’s restaurants agreed to desegregate by the fall. Several businessmen declared that they saw no loss of good business in Negroes’ perfectly green dollars. They wrote to the mayor praising his leadership. Just as many wrote Schenck accusing him of righteous hypocrisy for not desegregating the Country Club in his own Irving Park backyard. Full desegregation awaited the Civil Rights Act the following year. The college students were graduating and moving on anyway. CORE deferred to the Coordinating Committee as they hashed out details, taking considerable pride in each agreement. Boyd Morris refused to meet with anyone or change his policies. The “overwhelming preference of my customers,” and his bottom line, he tersely informed the mayor, was to keep things as they were. Twenty-eight of his Mayfair customers wrote Schenck to support Morris’ “right to conduct his business as he sees fit,” condemning all

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the “marches, harassments and intimidations.” After the demonstrations, desegregation in Greensboro still was resisted more than any other big city in North Carolina. Power concedes nothing without a demand (Schenck Papers, 4 Letters). No one in Greensboro was fully aware of how much the city’s drama had informed the secretly recorded deliberations in President Kennedy’s Oval Office, especially Robert Kennedy’s conclusions that Moscow’s propaganda about Birmingham, Jackson, and Greensboro was bad for the country and bad for the world that they aimed to lead. Kennedy’s famous civil rights address to the nation on June 11, announcing his historic civil rights bill, made vivid the injustices of segregated businesses, whites-only ballot boxes, youth unemployment, job discrimination, and diminished life chances of Negro babies. He spoke with moral conviction. “The events in Birmingham and elsewhere have so increased the cries for equality that no city or State or legislative body can prudently choose to ignore them.” Still Kennedy refused to endorse the movement’s methods as well as its dreams. Instead, he lamented the “demonstrations, parades, and protests, which create tensions, and threaten violence, and threaten lives” (Kennedy 1963b). All the civil rights leaders promised more protests at the August March on Washington. The Kennedy bill, the boldest in a century, was a century late, and deferred as many dreams as it fulfilled. In Greensboro, at the point of victory in public accommodations, the real gains were up for debate. Tony Stanley later recalled: “We knew full well in the summer of 1963 that we were revolutionaries without a cause that we could handle so well. We could go anywhere in Greensboro that we wanted to, but we were already raising the question, ‘What the Hell, if people can’t afford food on their table at home, it matters not what they can eat at the fancy little restaurants in Greensboro’” (Civil Rights Greensboro, Stanley interview by Chafe). What felt like a revolutionary moment lasted through the March on Washington that August. But until Black Lives Matter, Greensboro never mobilized again on such a scale. Activists resumed the more patient and complex work of empowerment that preceded and created the institutional infrastructure for protest. As Lewis Brandon recalls, after dramatic and exhausting marches and arrests, activists redirected their efforts into voter registration, community improvement, and economic development. A leader of Greensboro’s Beloved Community Center today, Brandon recalls ongoing meetings after 1963 with “the city and the Redevelopment Commission to talk about street improvements—because all the streets at that point were dirt streets—improving the houses, bringing houses up to code, putting in streetlights, and the conversion of the city dump . . . into a city park, a park for the community” (Civil Rights Greensboro, Brandon interview by Pfaff).

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It is a truism in the study of social movements that activists change themselves more than they do the society they wish to transform. For many of the students, a season of direct action led to dedicated lives of service. After seminary, Reverend Jesse Jackson joined King’s SCLC and became the lead negotiator for Operation Breadbasket in Chicago, which won jobs through leveraged community boycotts. Jackson forged the Rainbow Coalition and ran for president in the 1980s. But it is the oral histories of the foot soldiers and jailbirds who sustained weeks of protest for a transcendent cause that most fully captures the personal and political possibilities that protest opened up for students, especially the Bennett College women. Sandra Echols Sharp came away from the protests with immense pride in her college, its president, their shared nonviolent discipline, and the power of collective action to change society and foster educations in creative expression, saying: Women do need to realize that we’re powerful. That we can change the world. That we have a voice. That we had a voice. We created a voice. . . . We’re not the famous ones . . . We’re your foot soldiers who did the work . . . The idea was, could I keep my head? Could I do this without exploding? Could I do this without thinking about hatred? . . . You can do something to help your society. You can do something to help your people. You can do something to help yourself. (Sharp 2018)

“This period absolutely influenced the rest of my life,” attests Elizabeth Riggs, who later ran local War on Poverty programs in Greensboro, earned a law degree, and rose to a Judgeship in California’s Superior Court (Brown 2013, 121). For Freda Byron Twymon, the “demonstrating, marching, singing, the arrest, the booking, the days of confinement make me more appreciative of those on the same journey, those who journeyed before, most of whom I’ll never know, and those who still journey today” (Brown 2013, 100). Today’s journey is similar but changed. On Memorial Day 2020, the police murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis ignited the largest wave of direct-action protest in American history. For several weeks, hundreds, and then thousands of Greensboro citizens of every race and ethnic background marched and rallied to demand police reform and an end to systemic racism. Few references to the events of 1963 remain in Greensboro’s commemorative culture. Nevertheless, central lessons of Greensboro’s and Black America’s wave of mass protest fifty-seven years ago are deeply embedded in Black activist culture. On May 31, 2020, a Greensboro organizer known locally as Anthony, AJ, and Freedopemajor led a nonviolent interracial protest of 1,000 people from downtown Greensboro to Highway I-40. There, protesters blocked traffic with full knowledge and protection from forces under the command of Greensboro Police Sergeant Eric Goodykoontz. “I

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like to call him Sgt. Goody because he’s a good man,” AJ explained to YES! Weekly freelance reporter Ian McDowell (2020). Police made no arrests and there was no violence. AJ explained: “Our fathers marched. Their fathers marched. We’re tired of marching. It’s sad that we have to continually do this and beg the media to stand by us. We shouldn’t have to. The police should be laying down their arms and protesting with us” (McDowell 2020). Police were not marching, but neither were they arresting or attacking nonviolent protesters. After ten hours of protest, at 10:30 p.m., the police had to rush downtown because “all hell was breaking loose downtown,” AJ recalled. An unidentified driver in an SUV had barreled through protesters, and the crowd’s mood changed. “People who do something like that are literally inciting violence. They literally want to go to war,” AJ claimed. Someone—a right-wing agent provocateur, a protester enraged by the weaponized SUV, an opportunistic looter, a protester convinced that nonviolence gets you nowhere—smashed a window of the Civil Rights Center and Museum. Others followed with a night of window-smashing and looting of restaurants, bookstores, and coffeehouses frequented by young progressives and college students. Black Lives Matter Greensboro advertised T-shirts that widely sold to raise money for the downtown businesses whose insurance did not cover instances of civil insurrection. “Now, more than ever, we need our voices to be heard,” AJ argues. “We are not destroying our city! I led a protest for ten hours, with no violence, no arrests, no vandalism.” Only a handful of whites in 1963 had marched with the protesters. Those that did were special targets. Now, an outpouring of allies, with women organizers in prominent roles, spoke out and sustained nonviolence in the face of provocations from resurgent right-wing white supremacists. “They want a race war,” AJ concluded. “They’re eager to come into the streets and shoot it out with us. We can’t afford that. That’s why we need our voices to truly be heard. And honestly, we just want what we’re owed” (McDowell 2020).

NOTES 1. It is impossible to count these bodies that did not march. One supervisor at Cone Hospital cafeteria threatened to fire her whole staff. Jaqueta Fulani interview by anonymous, in author’s possession. 2. The main “sit-in cases” were Peterson v. City of Greenville, 373 U.S. 244 (1963); Lombard v. Louisiana, 373 U.S. 267 (1963); Avent v. North Carolina, 373 U.S. 375 (1963); Gober v. City of Birmingham, 373 U.S. 374 (1963). Full arguments are contained in U.S. Reports: Peterson v. Greenville, 373 U.S. 244 (1962). Library of Congress. https://www​.loc​.gov​/item​/usrep373244/

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3. An in-depth account of Jackson’s arrest was written by a UNCG undergraduate, with slightly different order of words. See Robert W. Watson, 1963, “A Game of Non-Violence in Greensboro, N.C.” Special Collections and University Archives, UNCG, MSS084 Robert W. Watson Papers, 1948–1980.

REFERENCES Ackerman, Bruce. 2018. We the People, Volume 3: The Civil Rights Revolution. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Brown, Linda Beatrice. 2013. Belles of Liberty: Gender, Bennett College, and the Civil Rights Movement in Greensboro, North Carolina. Greensboro, NC: Women and Wisdom Press. CBS News. 1963. “Eyewitness: Week of Decision.” Aired May 24, 1963, Library of Congress Audiovisual Division, Washington, DC. Chafe, William H. 1980. Civilities and Civil Rights: Greensboro, North Carolina, and the Black Struggle for Freedom. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Civil Rights Greensboro Digital Archive Project, Jackson Library, University of North Carolina at Greensboro. William Chafe Oral History Collection, Eugene Pfaff Oral History Collection. http:​/​/lib​​cdm1.​​uncg.​​edu​/c​​dm​/la​​nding​​page/​​colle​​ction​​/Ci​vi​​lRigh​​ts. Edwards v. South Carolina 372 U.S. 229 (1963). Eskew, Glen T. 1997. But for Birmingham: The Local and National Movements in the Civil Rights Struggle. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Greensboro Daily News. 1963a. “Two Men Arrested in Demonstration.” May 13, 1963. Readex. America’s Historical Newspapers. Greensboro Daily News. 1963b. “While There is Still Time.” May 15, 1963, A8. Greensboro Daily News. 1963c. “Integration Move by Civic Groups Runs Into Snag.” May 17, 1963, B1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963d. “400 Arrested in Demonstration Here.” May 18, 1963, A1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963e. “Adults Warned to Be Prepared to Go to Jail.” May 20, 1963, B1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963f. “Conditions in Jail Cited.” May 20, 1963, B1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963g. “Negroes Plan to Continue Efforts.” May 27, 1963, A1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963h. “Communism on Defensive, Says U.S. Attorney General.” May 18, 1963, B5. Greensboro Daily News. 1963i. “The Sit-In Decisions.” May 22, 1963, A8. Greensboro Daily News. 1963j. “Criticism is Termed Absurd.” May 21, 1963, B1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963k. “More Demonstrators Arrested.” May 22, 1963, 1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963l. “Silent March is Staged by Negroes.” May 23, 1963, A1, A9. Greensboro Daily News. 1963m. “Mayor Asks Committee to End Racial Rallies in Downtown Areas.” May 25, 1963, B1.

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Greensboro Daily News. 1963n. “Statement Issued by Theaters.” June 3, 1963, 1, 5. Greensboro Daily News. 1963o. “Destruction by Negroes Is Scored: Counsel Urged to File Suit.” June 4, 1963, B1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963p. “Firm Heads, Attorney Confer.” June 10, 1963, B1, 10. Greensboro Daily News. 1963q. “200 Demonstrators Stage March Through Midtown.” June 3, 1963. Greensboro Daily News. 1963r. “Negroes Continue Demonstrations, Stage SitDown.” June 6, 1963, 1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963s. “Integration Leader Arrested and Jailed: Under $1000 bond.” June 7, 1963, 1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963t. “278 Arrested In Demonstration Here.” June 7, 1963, 1. Greensboro Daily News. 1963u. “One Killed, One Hurt in Riot.” June 7, 1963, 1. Greensboro Record. 1963a. “City Hall is Picketed by Negroes.” Greensboro Record, March 13, 1963, B1. Readex. America’s Historical Newspapers. Greensboro Record. 1963b. “Council Meet is Scheduled Next Thursday.” May 14, 1963, A16. Greensboro Record. 1963c. “Merchants Call for Integration: Action Also Taken Here by C of C.” May 16, 1963, A1. Greensboro Record. 1963d. “At Critical Stage.” June 8, 1963. High Point Enterprise. 1963. “An Editorial.” June 7, 1963. https​:/​/ww​​w​.new​​spape​​rs​ .co​​m​/new​​spage​​/43​10​​2936/​. Hunter, Marjorie. 1963. “Carolina Seizes 17 in Racial Riot.” New York Times, June 8, 1963, 10. Jackson, Jesse. 1963. “Respond with Vigor.” Register, May 1, 1963. North Carolina Agricultural and Technical University. https​:/​/di​​gital​​.libr​​ary​.n​​cat​.e​​du​/at​​r​egis​​ter/. Jackson, Thomas F. 2007. From Civil Rights to Human Rights: Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Struggle for Economic Justice. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Kennedy, John F. 1963a. “Address to U.S. Conference of Mayors, Honolulu, Hawaii.” June 9, 1963. Papers of John F. Kennedy. Presidential Papers. President’s Office Files. John F. Kennedy Library. https​:/​/ww​​w​.jfk​​libra​​ry​.or​​g​/ass​​et​-vi​​ewer/​​ archi​​ves​/J​​FKPOF​​/044/​​​JFKPO​​F​-044​​-043. Kennedy, John F. 1963b. “June 11, 1963: Address on Civil Rights.” Miller Center for Public Affairs. https​:/​/mi​​llerc​​enter​​.org/​​the​-p​​resid​​ency/​​presi​​denti​​al​-sp​​eeche​​s​/jun​​e​ -11-​​1963-​​addre​​​ss​-ci​​vil​-r​​ights​. McDowell, Ian. 2020. “Leader of Saturday’s First Peaceful Protest Speaks Out.” Yes! Weekly, June 2, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.yes​​weekl​​y​.com​​/news​​/lead​​er​-of​​-satu​​rday-​​s​ -fir​​st​-pe​​acefu​​l​-pro​​test-​​speak​​s​-out​​/arti​​cle​_7​​08ee8​​9e​-a5​​0b​-11​​​ea​-bc​​ca​-a3​​eadba​​7cb7c​​ .html​. Meetings: Tape 86. 1963a. Cuba/Civil Rights. Miller Center for Public Affairs, University of Virginia, White House Tapes. Presidency: John F. Kennedy, May 12, 1963. https​:/​/mi​​llerc​​enter​​.org/​​the​-p​​resid​​ency/​​secre​​t​-whi​​te​-ho​​use​-t​​apes/​​meeti​​ngs​-t​​ ape​-8​​6​-cub​​acivi​​​l​-rig​​hts​-1​​2​-may​​-1963​.

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Meetings: Tape 90. 1963b. Civil Rights. Miller Center for Public Affairs, University of Virginia, White House Tapes. Presidency: John F. Kennedy, June 1, 1963. https​ :/​/mi​​llerc​​enter​​.org/​​the​-p​​resid​​ency/​​secre​​t​-whi​​te​-ho​​use​-t​​apes/​​meeti​​ngs​-t​​ape​-9​​0​-civ​​il​​ -ri​​ghts-​​1​-jun​​e​-196​​3. Morris, Aldon D. 1993. “Birmingham Confrontation Reconsidered: An Analysis of the Dynamics and Tactics of Mobilization.” American Sociological Review 58, no. 5 (October): 621–636. Papers of the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), 1941–1967. ProQuest History Vault. Register. 1963. “The Third Anniversary. 1963.” February 6, 1963. North Carolina Agricultural and Technical University. https​:/​/di​​gital​​.libr​​ary​.n​​cat​.e​​du​/at​​r​egis​​ter/. Schenck, David, Papers #5288, Southern Historical Collection, The Wilson Library, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. https://finding​ -aids​ .lib​ .unc​ .edu​ /05288/. Sharp, Sandra Echols. 2018. “Interview by Amelia Leuschen.” March 9, 2018. In author’s possession. Spivey, Joan. 1962. “Ministers Push for Integration.” Greensboro Record, October 26, 1962, 1.

Chapter 5

Black Women Speaking for Justice Sarah E. Hollingsworth

Black women have long engaged in free speech activities aimed at creating lasting social change and social justice for themselves and others. In fact, in 1832, Maria Stewart, a Black woman who was an early abolitionist and women’s rights advocate, was likely the first woman in U.S. history to speak publicly to an audience of both women and men. Karlyn Kohrs Campbell, a renowned rhetorical scholar argues, “Although what [Stewart] preached differed little from the sermons of Afro-American ministers, the fact that she was a woman, especially one who dared speak in public to audiences of men and women, made her message unacceptable” (1989, 18). Ultimately, Stewart only gave a total of three speeches to public audiences because of the hostility she faced for her courage to speak out. Many Black women have encountered similar circumstances when engaging in free speech in the United States. Another early example is Sojourner Truth. Her famous speech to the Women’s Rights Convention in Akron, Ohio in 1851 entitled, “Ain’t I a Woman?” was likely one of the earliest examples of Black feminism. In addition to focusing on the need for expanded women’s rights in the speech, Truth also commented on “the special impact of racism and prejudice on Afro-American women” (Campbell 1989, 19). Like Stewart, Truth’s speech was not initially celebrated; according to Mandziuk (2014), white newspaper reporters and authors of the time critiqued Truth’s use of Black vernacular and portrayed her physical form as grotesque and abhorrent. Today’s Black women speakers have continued in Stewart’s and Truth’s footsteps by using their voices to speak on a range of social justice issues in the United States, and, their work is now beginning to be more widely seen and appreciated. For example, the Black Lives Matter Movement has recently been at the forefront of the American sociopolitical landscape, and for that, we can thank Black women. In the aftermath of George 89

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Zimmerman’s 2013 acquittal of the murder of unarmed Black teenager, Trayvon Martin, Alicia Garza coined the phrase, “Black Lives Matter” in a Facebook post. Since then, the Black Lives Matter Movement has takenoff, and Garza formed the Black Lives Matter Global Network with two other Black women, Opal Tometi and Patrisse Cullors (Hartigan 2020). After the death of another unarmed Black man, George Floyd, at the hands of Minneapolis police in May of 2020, Garza’s singular statement of fact (both simple and complex) was used as a rallying cry for racial justice and police reform in cities all over the United States. Still, many are not aware of Garza’s contribution to such a powerful movement for racial justice in America. When asked if she thinks it’s significant that Black women were the ones to begin the Black Lives Matter Movement, Garza responded with, “Even though we’re told different stories, we know the facts. And the facts are that women have always weaved community in places where it was missing because our survival depended on it. I think the same is true today” (Hartigan 2020). In her collection of essays, In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens, Alice Walker writes: And I looked at Shirley Chisholm’s face . . . and was glad she has kept a record of her political and social struggles, because our great women die, often in poverty and under the weight of slander, and are soon forgotten. And I thought of how little we have studied any of our ancestors, but how close to zero has been our study of those who were female . . . and I have asked myself: Who will secure from neglect and slander those women who have kept our image as black women clean and strong for us? (1983, 274–275)

In this chapter, the words and works of Black women are highlighted in the hopes that we might all begin to see and hear those activists and voices that have long been overlooked or silenced. Especially pertinent to discussions of Black women’s free speech is Patricia Hill Collins’s (2009) concept of controlling images (stereotypes specific to African American women). With that as a grounding point, I first describe how Black women’s free speech has been contested and how they responded before introducing some of Collins’s ideas and theorizing related to controlling images. I then describe some of the ways that controlling images impact the rhetorical choices and possible outcomes of Black women’s free speech by drawing on the speeches of four African American women who are social justice activists and community organizers. I conclude by pointing to the lessons Black women offer in the advancement of free speech and social justice.

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BLACK WOMEN’S SPEECH AND INTERSECTIONALITY One of the primary reasons for the contestation of Black women’s free speech is the unique form of oppression that U.S. American Black women face related to their race, gender, sexuality, and socioeconomic status. To better understand how these different forms of oppression impact the lives of Black women, Crenshaw (1991) coined the term “intersectionality.” In her investigation of family and sexual violence experienced by Black women, Crenshaw argues, “The intersection of racism and sexism factors into Black women’s lives in ways that cannot be captured wholly by looking at the race or gender dimensions of those experiences separately” (1991, 1244). Similarly, Myers contends that “Race, class, gender and other dimensions are intertwined, and they cannot be separated” (1999, 110). These intersecting aspects of Black women’s identity result in tangible consequences in their everyday lives. Collins argues, “U.S. Black women encounter societal practices that restrict us to inferior housing, neighborhoods, schools, jobs, and public treatment” (2009, 29). This reality of intersecting oppressions has led many Black women to rely on free speech platforms in order to advance justice for themselves and others. Grayson contends, “It is Black women’s culture of resistance, their refusal to internalize their own oppression by rejecting its ideological justifications, that enables, indeed demands that Black women work for political and social change” (1999, 135). Thus, it is the real, felt implications of their oppression that prepare Black women to engage in meaningful free speech and activism that will not only work toward ending their oppression but also the oppression of other marginalized communities in the United States. One example of this comes from Septima Clark, an educator who taught in Citizenship Schools with Myles Horton during the Civil Rights Movement. According to Gyant and Atwater, “Along with teaching students to read and write so that they could register and vote, the Citizenship School sought to have people within the community teach the classes and work with the students” (1996, 586). Clark believed that all of society is improved when we work on behalf of marginalized communities. In her autobiography, Echo in my Soul, Clark argues: In teaching [the poor and underprivileged] and thereby helping them raise themselves to a better status in life, I felt then that I would be serving my state and nation, too, all of the people, affluent and poor, white and black. For in my later years I am more convinced than ever that in lifting the lowly we lift likewise the entire citizenship. (1962, 52)

Clark’s work in Citizenship Schools is just one example of how the free speech and activism of Black women works to empower all of us.

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Another example of Black women speaking out on behalf of communities to which they do not belong comes from activist Angela Davis. Davis’s speech and activism mostly focus on abolishing the prison-industrial complex in the United States. While this particular institution disproportionately cages Black men, Davis insists that to truly understand the impacts of prisons, abolitionists must take a feminist approach and look at the experiences of transwomen who are imprisoned. In a speech entitled “Feminism and Abolition: Theories and Practices for the 21st Century” given at the University of Chicago in May of 2013, Davis contends that a feminist approach would insist both on what we can learn from and what we can transform with respect to trans and gender non-conforming prisoners, but also it insists on what this knowledge and activism tell us about the nature of punishment writ large, about the very apparatus of the prison. (CSRPC U Chicago 2013)

Davis’ activism, like the efforts of many other Black women, advances justice for disenfranchised groups of people who may not necessarily include Black women, and, her words remind us that we can learn a great deal about powerful institutions by focusing attention on how those institutions wield their power on and against the most marginalized populations. Although it is clear that African American women have a lot to teach us about oppression in U.S. American culture, their speech and activism is not always welcomed or celebrated. In her book, Talking Back, bell hooks describes Black women’s speech of resistance as “true speaking” and she reminds us that “It is a courageous act—as such, it represents a threat . . . to those who wield oppressive power, that which is threatening must necessarily be wiped out, annihilated, silenced” (2015, 8). Just as the oppressive structures that spur their activism have material consequences on Black women’s everyday lives, so can their resistance through the use of free speech. To illustrate, many African American women “who played critical roles in the development of the social and political movements of the ‘60s and ‘70s found themselves in either prison or jail or exile” (Smith 1999, 228), including Angela Davis and Assata Shakur. While Angela Davis’s current activist work is directed toward abolishing the prison-industrial complex, that work is directly informed by her early experiences in the anti-capitalist, Black liberation movement. Davis was a member of the Black Panther Party (BPP) from 1967 to 1968 and was also affiliated with the Los Angeles Communist Party. In 1969, Davis was an assistant professor at the University of California, Los Angeles, when she was fired for her communist views and outspoken activism. In 1970, she was wrongfully accused of planning a kidnapping which resulted in her being the third woman in history

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to be placed on the FBI’s “Most Wanted” list. She was later acquitted of all charges (Rosenthal 2017). Davis’s experience with the criminal justice system made her uniquely aware of the harms inflicted upon Black Americans by that system and has led her to remain active in the fight against mass incarceration. Assata Shakur was also a member of the BPP and in the early 1970s, she became a leader of the Black Liberation Army (BLA). In 1973, Shakur and two members of the BLA were pulled over by the New Jersey State Patrol and a shootout ensued. One BLA member and a New Jersey State Trooper were both killed; Shakur was shot and severely injured. After awaiting her trial for a year in solitary confinement, Shakur was convicted of murder. In 1979, with the help of several BLA members, she escaped prison and fled to Cuba where she remains in exile and continues to write and speak out against state-sanctioned violence enacted through the U.S. criminal justice system (Adewunmi 2014). Davis and Shakur’s experiences highlight some of the more damaging repercussions Black women have faced for exhibiting the courage and resilience to use their voices. There have also been other, less violent ways that Black women’s free speech has been silenced or erased. For example, many African American women who participated in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s are rarely mentioned in the historical accounts of that struggle. Smooth and Tucker explain that in the Civil Rights Movement, Black women’s “activism typically took the form of behind-the-scenes organizing and did not include traditional leadership roles” (1999, 243). The tireless organizing and support work of African American women, however, enabled the Civil Rights Movement to achieve its widespread impact. One famous example is the boycott of the Montgomery bus system that began after Rosa Parks’ arrest on a city bus in 1955. At the time, African Americans were required to give their seats to any white riders who entered the bus; Parks refused this humiliation and was consequently arrested. Standley contends that “Martin Luther King, Jr. is usually cited as the leader of the Montgomery Bus Boycott . . . Yet the boycott was started by a woman, Jo Ann Robinson, and by the women’s group she headed, the Women’s Political Council” (1990, 184). After Parks’ arrest, Robinson mustered the support she had built in the Women’s Political Council (WPC) to ensure the success of the boycott. Along with four fellow Black women of the WPC, Robinson crafted 52,000 flyers to be distributed to Black citizens of Montgomery instructing them not to ride the busses beginning December 5, 1955 (McGuire 2010). Black women had long been mistreated by bus drivers and police in Montgomery in the same way that Parks was humiliated and abused when she refused to give up her seat on that bus. Thus, Black women were all too ready to participate in the boycott even when it first caused them great inconvenience and later when they were met with violence from city leaders.

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Two months into the boycott, the Mayor of Montgomery, W. A. Gayle, declared it was time to “get tough” on the boycotters. As a result, “Jo Ann Robinson was terrified when two white men threw a brick through her window. Shortly thereafter she saw two policemen pour acid on the hood of her car” (McGuire 2010, 120). Days later, Martin Luther King Jr.’s Montgomery home was dynamited. Mayor Gayle then instructed a city judge to call a grand jury who indicted eighty-eight African American citizens for starting a boycott without just cause. Although the entire group turned themselves in to police, the city dropped the charges against all but Martin Luther King, Jr. The notoriety of this arrest worked in part to launch King as the leader of the larger Civil Rights Movement in the United States. However, it was Jo Ann Robinson who “negotiated with city leaders and bus company officials, edited the [Montgomery Improvement Association’s] newsletter, and ferried African Americans to and from work for nearly 381 days, all while holding down a full-time teaching job at Alabama State” (McGuire 2010, 110). Because of the hard work and dedication of Black women such as Jo Ann Robinson and other members of the WPC, the U.S. Supreme Court, in 1956, decided that “segregation, even outside public schools, violated the due process and equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment” (McGuire 2010, 133). Black women’s organizing work and leadership in the Civil Rights Movement was often overlooked and outshined by the male-dominated control of southern, Black preachers. Standley argues, “According to women who achieved prominence within the movement, such as Septima Clark . . . the ministers’ sexism and authoritarian views of leadership prevented women from assuming command of any of the movement organizations” (1990, 184). Although rarely mentioned in accounts of the Civil Rights Movement, Septima Clark had an immeasurable impact in advancing the rights of Black Americans. In the 1950s, many southern states had laws that restricted voting to only those who could read. At the time, Clark was a teacher and she realized that in order to make longstanding changes to segregation laws of the time, African Americans had to be able to vote, and thus they had to be literate. Clark got to work and with the help of Myles Horton and Esau Jenkins, she developed the Citizenship Schools. According to Cynthia Stokes Brown, “By 1970 nearly 2 million more black people were voting than had been in 1955” (1990, 8–9). Clark is one woman of the Civil Rights Movement who has since commented on the sexism in the movement. In recounting her experiences to Brown, Clark said, “I see this as one of the weaknesses of the civil rights movement, the way the men looked at women” (1990, 79). Clark went on to say, “If you talk to the women who were there, you’ll hear another story. I think the civil rights movement would never have taken off if some women hadn’t started to speak up” (Brown 1990, 83). Clark’s dedication to

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educating African Americans has clearly had a lasting impact on our nation. However, due to sexism, she never received popular acclaim as a leader of the Civil Rights Movement. BLACK WOMEN SURVIVAL Although there have often been attempts to silence or erase their noteworthy acts of free speech and activism, African American women have a long tradition of courageously using their voices to ensure their own group survival. Collins describes these Black women’s efforts as those “actions taken to create Black female spheres of influence within existing social structures” (2009, 219). Early examples of Black women’s free speech for group survival come from activists such as Ida B. Wells and Mary Church Terrell who boldly spoke on behalf of African American women’s suffrage in the 1890s. Wells and Terrell attempted to make space for Black women within the women’s suffrage movement even in the face of overt racism from the white leaders of the movement (Campbell 1989). One rhetorical characteristic of Wells’s and Terrell’s speeches was their use of “extended examples” or stories of their own and others’ experiences with racism and sexism in the U.S. American south (Campbell 1989, 147). These stories gave white, male audience members an idea of what it might be like to experience the world as an African American woman. Wells’s and Terrell’s use of story or parable as evidence in their argumentation highlights a direct link to one of the foundations of Black women’s social justice rhetoric: traditional Black preaching. Preaching was and still is mainly reserved for men in African American communities (Williams 2018). However, this might have been the sole position that afforded African Americans the chance to hone their speaking skills during and post U.S. American chattel slavery. Hamlet’s investigation reveals the importance of storytelling and hermeneutics to this style of speaking. Hamlet says that “As it relates to religion, hermeneutics may be defined as the process through which the bible is read, examined, interpreted, understood, translated, and proclaimed” (1994, 102). Black preachers used hermeneutics to draw parallels between the enslavement of Jewish people by Egyptians and the enslavement of Africans in the United States. Through the analysis of these stories, Black preachers advocated for their communities’ survival. Similarly, African American women have used their voices to tell their own stories and to advocate for change. In her examination of Black women’s narrative legacy, Etter-Lewis notes that “For African American women . . . the telling of their lives represents a break with ‘tradition.’ Putting into words their philosophies, experiences, and feelings means that the fictional culture and history that has

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victimized all Americans ultimately will be reconstructed” (1991, 436). Thus, through sharing their stories, Black women begin the important social justice work of reshaping the possibilities of their futures and ensuring their survival within systems that were not created with their survival in mind. One way that Black women use storytelling is in their active organizing of local communities. In her analysis of Black women’s health activism of the 1980s and 1990s, Grayson discusses how Black women have been “both used and ignored in health research” and how, through telling their stories, they work toward empowerment in the U.S. healthcare industry (1999, 143). It is a fact that African American women’s bodies have historically been used in health experimentation, especially during U.S. American chattel slavery. For example, in a 2008 lecture in London on her book Post Traumatic Slave Disorder, Dr. Joy DeGruy Leary recounts the story of J. Marion Sims whose creation of the vaginal speculum in the 1840s relied on its exploitive, experimental use on Black women. According to DeGruy Leary: He built the first vaginal speculum from a pewter spoon and he reasoned that slave women were able to bear great pain, meaning [they] don’t need any anesthesia because their race made them more durable and thus they were well suited for painful medical experimentation . . . because we didn’t feel like other women could feel, this man would cut into women, cut into them and just said “well, since they’re Black, they don’t really feel it.” (Carney 2016)

While this level of dehumanization of Black women in the U.S. healthcare industry may no longer exist, vast health disparities for African American women remain. For instance, in their Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), Richardson and her colleagues found that from 1999 to 2014 rates of breast cancer in Black women greatly increased and that mortality rates for Black women with breast cancer were 40 percent higher than their white counterparts. Black women have also historically had less access to resources and support for navigating their diagnosis and treatment which may offer one explanation for their increased mortality rates (Grayson 1999). In response, Black women have worked as community organizers to create support groups in which Black women can share their stories and knowledge about the disease. Grayson (1999) includes one example of this in her research: Zora Kramer Brown, a breast cancer survivor, founded the Breast Cancer Resource Center in 1989 in Washington, DC. The resource center was home to a support group called “Rise, Sister, Rise” through which Brown and her colleagues spoke of their experiences with breast cancer “in churches, housing projects, and neighborhood centers to combat the Black community’s silence in regard to the disease” (Grayson

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1999, 142–143). In sharing their stories, Black women worked to ensure that others were not similarly harmed by institutions such as the U.S. healthcare industry. In addition to using storytelling to organize their communities, African American women have also engaged in direct action to address a range of injustices, including the fight to end police violence. Shortly after the death of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis police officers on May 25, 2020, protests and activism against police violence erupted in cities across the United States. Black women were, of course, among the organizers of protests, teach-ins, and campaigns to remove police from public schools (Bennett 2020). For example, Brianna Chandler, who was just nineteen years old, used “social media to organize a teach-in for local high school and college students to learn about racial justice” in her hometown of St. Louis (Bennett 2020). When asked about what drives her activism, Chandler’s response called upon the work of Septima Clark; she said, “I think educating people is essential to movement building. There are a lot of different parts of a movement” (Bennett 2020). Another young activist, Zee Thomas (15), organized and led a protest march with the help of several friends; that peaceful protest rally was attended by 10,000 people in Nashville, TN. These young, Black women activists continue the work of so many Black women who came before them by using their voices to advocate for justice and equality. From speaking as an act of resistance and radical storytelling to organizing communities, African American women have engaged in painstaking work to use their voices to create lasting social change in their communities. They have courageously spoken out in public spaces even in the face of the overt contestation of their speech due to systemic racism and sexism. A BLACK FEMINIST PERSPECTIVE To understand the unique perspectives of Black women, it is useful to investigate rhetorical artifacts which reveal how speakers and audiences engage in the cocreation of meaning and action. A half century ago, Leland Griffin ([1952] 2006), a leading scholar of the rhetoric of social movements, suggested the need for students and scholars to use rhetorical theories that best resonate with the speakers or writers of the texts of their time. Applying that advice to Black women’s social justice rhetoric is critical. Patricia Hill Collins’ theory of Black feminist thought (BFT) offers a particularly helpful lens through which to consider Black women’s rhetoric. The core theme of BFT suggests that Black women experience oppression based on their intersecting identities and that the empowerment of Black women to overcome this oppression is dependent upon truly listening to and believing them when

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they speak and write about their experiences (Collins 2009). Collins was not the first to argue for BFT. In her 1985 essay entitled, “Toward a Black Feminist Criticism,” Barbara Smith contends that an “approach to literature [and speech] that embodies the realization that the politics of sex as well as the politics of race and class are crucially interlocking factors in the works of black women writers [and speakers] is an absolute necessity” (5). Both Collins and Smith argue that we cannot truly understand the speech and activism of African American women by using traditional, white-male-centered theories of communication. Because Black women must often work harder and longer than white men to have their voices heard at all, there are distinguishing features of Black women’s speech that provide valuable instruction for activists engaging in free and contested speech. BFT embraces empowerment through activism that allows Black women to engage in self-definition as opposed to being defined by dominant, oppressive culture. Of relevance here is Patricia Hill Collins’ notion of “controlling images” or societally imposed roles that box Black women into performing one of several stereotypes of Black femininity (2009, 76; Harris-Perry 2011). According to Collins, “Portraying African-American women as stereotypical mammies, matriarchs, welfare recipients, and hot mommas helps justify U.S. Black women’s oppression. Challenging these controlling images has long been a core theme in Black feminist thought” (2009, 76). Most, if not all, controlling images for Black women stem from three major stereotypes: the mammy, the jezebel, and the Sapphire/angry Black woman. One of the most common early stereotypical images for Black women in literature, films, and popular media is the mammy or “the faithful, obedient, domestic servant” (Collins 2009, 80). Mammy is the loving Black woman who works diligently to take care of the white family she serves. We see her in films like Gone with the Wind, as a spokeswoman for restaurants such as Popeye’s Louisiana Kitchen, and even as the promotor for the cleaning product, Pine-Sol. The numerous and various depictions of mammy highlight the salience of this stereotype in U.S. American culture. Collins argues, “Created to justify the economic exploitation of house slaves and sustained to explain Black women’s long-standing restriction to domestic service, the mammy image represents the normative yardstick used to evaluate all Black women’s behavior” (2009, 80). Another overused controlling image for Black women is that of the jezebel which positions Black women as sexually promiscuous. Collins contends, “Jezebel’s function was to relegate all Black women to the category of sexually aggressive women, thus providing a powerful rationale for the widespread sexual assaults by white men typically reported by Black slave women” (2009, 89). While statistics undergirding the claim that white men often raped Black women during and postslavery are not available, there are

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many stories of this reality thanks to the tireless work of Black women activists of the Civil Rights Movement. For example, Rosa Parks was working for the Montgomery, Alabama branch of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) in 1944 when she was called to investigate the case of Recy Taylor. Taylor was brutally raped by six white men when walking home from an Abbeville, Alabama church service on September 3, 1944 (McGuire 2010). Taylor’s was just one of many rape cases that Parks investigated while working for the Montgomery NAACP. The common occurrence of rape and sexual assault of Black women at the time indicates the salience of the jezebel image. In addition, one more controlling image that comments on the sexuality of Black women is the stereotype of the welfare mother. This image positions Black women as using their sexual/reproductive abilities to produce more children than they can financially care for in order to take unfair advantage of federal and state assistance programs (Collins 2009). Collins argues, “Creating the controlling image of the welfare mother and stigmatizing her as the cause of her own poverty and that of African-American communities shifts the angle of vision away from structural sources of poverty and blames the victims themselves” (2009, 87). This controlling image truly works to control Black women by concealing the impacts of institutionalized racism and sexism in the U.S. American capitalist economy. Finally, the controlling image of the Sapphire or angry Black woman got its name in the 1950s with the airing of the television show, Amos ‘n Andy, a situation comedy featuring a Black family living in Harlem, New York. Sapphire Stevens was a character on the show who was known for being harsh and aggressive. Harris-Perry argues that the controlling image of the Sapphire or angry Black woman “does not acknowledge black women’s anger as a legitimate reaction to unequal circumstances . . . It can be deployed against African American women who dare to question their circumstances, point out inequities, or ask for help” (2011, 95). Thus, the controlling image of the angry Black woman does not allow for the possibility that Black women’s anger is justified or required in the face of persistent injustices. THE STORIES: COUNTERING CONTROLLING IMAGES THROUGH FREE SPEECH These controlling images have a direct impact on the way that Black women are viewed and treated in the United States; these stereotypes have led to further contestation of Black women’s free speech. We can explore how these stereotypes work to limit Black women’s free speech by examining the experiences and speeches of four Black women speakers in the United States

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today: Aishah Shahidah Simmons, a city-based activist and film maker who speaks on issues of rape and sexual assault in African American communities; Charlene Carruthers, a Chicago community organizer focused on Black liberation, Fania Davis, a restorative justice community organizer in Oakland, California, and Tanya Fields, a food and economic justice community organizer in the Bronx of New York. These four women have spoken to countless audiences across the globe at events ranging from formal, planned keynote addresses to impromptu, street speeches at protest marches. Their speeches and recorded interviews reveal the strategies used to speak back to the existence and consequences of controlling images, specifically through the use of stories and by advancing new, empowering roles for Black women. Fighting to Be Known as More Than a Welfare Mom In a keynote address entitled “Lettuce Liberate” for the Marion Institute’s conference, “Connecting for Change: A Bioneers Network Event” in 2013, Tanya Fields shares her personal experience with food and economic injustice; Fields says: And I struggled; I struggled as a mother with limited means and support; I struggled as a student; I struggled as an employee who wanted to be recognized as smart, talented, and worthy, but was instead seen as unmarried, marginally educated . . . and arrogant, the nerve of me wanting all those things while being all those things; and I struggled as a resident surviving welfare and displacement. (MarionInstituteTV 2013)

In this recounting of her feelings and experiences as a young, Black mother trying to provide for her family, Fields both invokes and calls-out the controlling image of the welfare mother. She says she knew she was, but no one could see her as a hard-working mother who was “smart, talented, and worthy.” Instead, she was reduced in the eyes of people everywhere as “unmarried, marginally educated . . . and arrogant.” That stereotype of a welfare mother persisted, despite Fields’ struggle. As she shares her story with the audience, she asserts her credibility as someone who has lived the hardships of which she speaks, first-hand. She acknowledges the reality of mothers who must live on welfare while simultaneously challenging the stereotypical controlling image of women, like herself, who are working toward greater economic and food justice for all. Later in the same speech, Fields goes on to say, “I found myself breaking down under the weight of poverty; struggling [against] impending poor health . . . I was a powder keg and I was waiting for the right fool to set me off” (MarionInstituteTV 2013). Here, the audience is made aware of Fields’s

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anger at poverty and the unhealthy lifestyle that typically comes hand-in-hand with lower socioeconomic status. Fields describes caring for her daughter who developed asthma as a result of poor air quality in the Bronx. She also mentions the weight she and her family gained after eating unhealthy food that was the only affordable option in their neighborhood. Fields says, “It was easier for me to [buy fast food] than go to the grocery store and pick up a head of broccoli because it was wearing a fur coat or tomatoes that were on the brink of rotting” (MarionInstitute 2013). By comparing herself to a “powder keg” that was ready to blow, Fields risks being seen as the Sapphire or angry Black woman. Yet, Fields’s justification for her anger details a fire inside her that rages against a hyper-capitalist society that leaves poor people without adequate resources to care for themselves and their families. According to a report to the U.S. Census Bureau, in 2019, there were thirty-four million people living in poverty, and the poverty rate for Black Americans was double that of white Americans (Semega et al. 2020). Even more troubling is what the U.S. Census Bureau calls “deep poverty” which is “having income below half the federal poverty level” (Lei 2013). According to Lei, “More than one-third of those in deep poverty are single mothers and their children” (2013). Tanya Fields is just one single mother and activist who uses her own experiences to organize her community in the fight against the effects of deep poverty by taking ownership of their food system through planting urban gardens and developing mobile food pantries. Black Women Speak Out for Equal Treatment In addition to acknowledging and challenging controlling images in their own stories, Black women also share stories of other Black women to amplify their experiences of struggle to confront controlling images. For example, Aishah Shahidah Simmons explains that Black women are even treated differently than Black men. Following the death of Trayvon Martin in 2012, Simmons spoke on a Duke University produced show called Left of Black where she argued, “I always say that when a man, when men, Black men are brutalized by racist violence, it’s a community issue, as well it should be. [But] when Black women and girls are sexually assaulted, it’s their own individual issue” (John Hope Franklin Center at Duke University 2012). Because the controlling image of the jezebel exists to position Black women as hypersexual, their rape and sexual abuse is not as likely to be questioned or condemned. Simmons’s statement acknowledges that the image of the jezebel operates under the surface of discourse about Black women’s sexual abuse. Simmons challenges this controlling image when she calls out contradictions in the ways violence against Black men is viewed as a community problem while sexual violence against Black women is viewed as a personal failing.

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Simmons’ comments reflect the fact that the jezebel stereotype has not only impacted Black women in relation to white men in the United States but also to Black men. In her film, No!: The Rape Documentary, Simmons includes the stories of Black women who have been raped by Black men, but had a difficult time speaking out about it because they did not want to contribute to more Black men being imprisoned in the United States. Thus, the controlling image of the jezebel also functions to silence Black women in their own communities. Simmons is advocating for Black women to participate in “true speaking” that might work to empower them (hooks 2015). Black Women’s Knowledge Contributes to Justice for All Charlene Carruthers, like Simmons, pointed to the experiences of other Black women who have struggled but not been recognized fully for their sacrifices. In a speech given as part of a symposium for the “Twenty-Ninth Annual Martin Luther King Jr. Celebration” at the University of New England, entitled “#SayHerName: Stories and Strategies to End Mass Criminalization,” Carruthers shares a story about the women who helped shape Dr. King’s thought and action during the Civil Rights Movement. Carruthers claims that King’s “consciousness about poor people was highly informed by women who were part of the National Welfare Rights Organization, right, who during one meeting checked him on his lack of knowledge about welfare rights in this country” (University of New England 2016). That women informed Dr. King about welfare rights demonstrates how their voices and experiences had been previously discounted. Carruthers explains that these women “checked” Dr. King on his “lack of knowledge about welfare rights in this country” (University of New England 2016). Having to navigate the welfare system yielded specific knowledge that Dr. King simply could not have. This brief anecdote acknowledges the existence of the controlling image of the welfare mother but rather than blaming women for their plight, demonstrates the power of women to influence and educate even Dr. King. Thus, in Carruthers’s speech, the one-down stereotype of the welfare mother becomes invested with humanity, dignity and expertise. BLACK WOMEN: EMPOWERING WORDS FOR FREEDOM AND JUSTICE In addition to challenging controlling images in their speech, Black women activists also create new, empowering roles for all Black women. One empowering image that appears in Black women’s contemporary speech is the role of Black women as “spiritual/life guides.” This model recognizes

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Black women as capable of creating and sharing knowledge in ways that guide others on their own paths of discovery of self or knowledge. In a speech entitled “Building a Black Freedom Movement: How Black Queer Feminism Builds Power for us All” delivered as a Chapel Talk at Wabash College in 2016, Charlene Carruthers cites the work of several Black women throughout history who advanced social justice activism and paved the way for others to do the same. She says: This idea of Black queer feminism helps to get us all free. I do believe that it can be found in the words and the actions of women like Harriet Tubman, Ida B. Wells, Marcia P. Johnson, Audre Lorde, and again today on the streets and the demonstrations that you all have seen. I find sanctity in the work of these women, like I think that there is something, perhaps this isn’t the right word, but there is something holy about the work of Harriet Tubman; there’s something beautiful about that; there’s something that strikes me at the core of my soul. (Wabash College 2016)

Carruthers wholeheartedly rejects any controlling images that might have been used to describe these or other Black women, and instead opts for the image of a spiritual guide. For Carruthers, Black women activists can be seen as guiding all who work for social justice toward the light of freedom. Carruthers goes on to speak more specifically about the work of Harriet Tubman; she explains, “In addition to her going from the south to the north and freeing hundreds of people, she also led a successful battle at the Combahee River during the Civil War” (Wabash College 2016). To celebrate Tubman’s bravery and to honor her fighting spirit, a group of Black feminist activists of the 1970s named themselves the Combahee River Collective. The Collective held regular retreats and conferences throughout the 1970s to discuss their views on feminism; of particular importance to the group was the goal of creating a distinct Black feminism that focused on sexism, racism, heterosexism, and class oppression in Black communities. These women argued that the feminism of the Women’s Liberation Movement and even the theorizing of Black feminist organizations of the time such as the National Black Feminist Organization had failed to consider the views and experiences of all women, especially Black, lesbian women (Taylor 2019). In 1978, the group created one of the foundational texts of current Black feminism called the Combahee River Collective Statement. Carruthers describes the Combahee River Collective and their statement as a sacred text for those who are striving for social, racial, and economic justice: And for many of us . . . it’s as close as you’re going to get to Scripture . . . it is as close to being holy as something that is secular can be, right? . . . They

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wrote that, “Black women have always embodied, if only in their physical manifestation, an adversary stance to white male rule, and have actively resisted its inroads upon them and their communities in both dramatic and subtle ways.” Essentially, what this says is that we have always resisted; we have always resisted; we have always done this work, and for them it was a combined antiracist and anti-sexist position that drew them together initially. And, I’ll read them, “As we develop politically, we address ourselves to heterosexism and economic oppression under capitalism.” They understood then, in 1978, that the experiences of Black women illustrated that we lived in systems of oppressions that were interlocking . . . Even if you’re not Black, you’re not queer, and you’re not a feminist, there are things to learn from the Combahee River Collective statement and we should put it right next to any other major body of work. (Wabash College 2016)

For Carruthers and other Black feminists, the Combahee River Collective Statement functions as a religious text might operate for the faithful. Although Carruthers quotes only two sentences from the statement, she seems to be engaging in a performance that is very similar to the hermeneutical storytelling of traditional Black preaching studied by Hamlet (1994). Carruthers’s positioning of the Combahee River Collective Statement as scripture is especially interesting given that she is speaking in a chapel. She easily takes on the role of pastor as she pulls from her scripture to help the audience consider this “holy” text in relation to their own lives. From Carruthers’ perspective, not only should we read and listen to the words of Black women, but we should also revere their words as guiding principles for movements and organizations that seek to end oppression in its many, varied forms. Today’s Black women orators also (re)position Black women as public intellectuals and social justice warriors. In her 2014 keynote address to the “Beyond the Bars: Breaking Through” conference at Columbia University, Fania Davis highlights the advantages of using a restorative justice approach as opposed to traditional disciplinary action in high schools. She describes her journey of self-definition as a public intellectual, saying, “I intuitively knew that I needed an infusion of creative, and feminine, and spiritual, and healing energies to recalibrate myself . . . Learning about restorative justice integrated the warrior, the healer, and the lawyer in me” (The Justice Initiative at Columbia University 2014). Davis explained how she had spent years fighting and being a warrior against racism and sexism. She says oppression made her angry and motivated her to fight against, instead of fighting for, something, leaving her burned out and exhausted from the work. When she became tired of fighting against everything, she found restorative justice as something worth fighting for. In the telling of her re-creation of self, Davis releases the controlling image of the angry Black woman and chooses a new image for herself—that of public

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intellectual and social justice warrior. Davis steps away from justified anger to create something and someone new who could engage the fight for greater social justice in alternative and hopefully more productive ways. Taken together, these stories demonstrate that Black women who speak out in public spaces for social justice must address the existence of controlling images in their speech. At the same time, they use their public platforms to directly contest those controlling images. In doing so, they create new, powerful roles through which Black women can be viewed. Black women’s social justice rhetoric is powerful and courageous in demonstrating how women continue to advocate for their own rights and the rights of other people. By opposing controlling images, Black women continue the crucial work of their foremothers that has always aimed at greater justice for everyone. For instance, it is Black women who have been at the forefront of police reform, immigrant rights, advocacy for children’s rights to a fair and just education, and recent school integration efforts (Bethea 2018; Evans and Patrick 2018; Hassmer et al. 2018). Black women have a lot to teach us about free speech in contested public spaces. Their courage and resilience to advance social justice is a part of our rhetorical tradition and should be studied as an art and distinct form of free speech. If Black women’s speech has long been overlooked, what other forms of free speech are being too casually dismissed today? How might lessons from Black women be used by people with disabilities? Could the rise of transgender discourse, so longing to be heard, benefit from what Black women have lived and spoken of, historically? When we listen to those who look different from us, we can learn new strategies for engaging in free speech that works to create more justice for all. In an essay entitled “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action,” Audre Lorde says, “it is not difference which immobilizes us, but silence. And there are so many silences to be broken” ([1984] 2007, 44).

REFERENCES Adewunmi, Bim. 2014. “Assata Shakur: From Civil Rights Activist to FBI’s MostWanted.” The Guardian, July 13, 2014. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​guard​​ian​.c​​om​/bo​​oks​/2​​014​ /j​​ul​/13​​/assa​​ta​-sh​​akur-​​civil​​-righ​​ts​-ac​​tivi​s​​t​-fbi​​-most​​-want​​ed. Bennett, Jessica. 2020. “These Teen Girls are Fighting for a More Just Future: Like Legions of Black Women Before Them, These Four Young Activists are Building a Better Tomorrow.” The New York Times, June 26, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nyt​​imes.​​ com​/2​​020​/0​​6​/26/​​style​​/teen​​-girl​​s​-bla​​ck​-li​​ves​-m​​att​er​​-acti​​vism.​​html. Bethea, Amani. 2018. “Black Women Built That: Activist Queens Featuring Elaine Brown & Opal Tometi.” National Women’s Law Center, February 23, 2018. https​

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:/​/nw​​lc​.or​​g​/blo​​g​/bla​​ck​-wo​​men​-b​​uilt-​​that-​​activ​​ist​-q​​ueens​​-feat​​uring​​-elai​​ne​-b​r​​own​-o​​ pal​-t​​ometi​/. Brown, Cynthia Stokes with Septima Poinsette Clark. 1990. Ready from Within: Septima Clark and the Civil Rights Movement, A First Person Narrative. Trenton, NJ: First Africa World Press. Campbell, Karlyn Kohrs. 1989. Man Cannot Speak for Her: A Critical Study of Early Feminist Rhetoric. Westport, CT: Praeger. Carney, Terrance. “Dr. Joy DeGruy Leary: Post Traumatic Slave Disorder.” YouTube Video, 1:21, September 12, 2016. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​v​=BGj​​Sday7​​f​ _8​&l​​ist​=P​​L​-dFT​​07VXm​​4v14D​​P​​-mQ2​​kK9c4​​V10Yu​​sbR. Clark, Septima Poinsette, and LeGette Blythe. 1962. Echo in my Soul. New York: Dutton. Collins, Patricia Hill. 2009. Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment. New York: Routledge. Crenshaw, Kimberle Williams. 1991. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence Against Women of Color.” Stanford Law Review 43, no. 6: 1241–1299. CSRPC UChicago. “Angela Y. Davis at the University of Chicago- May 2013.” YouTube Video, 1:06, May 10, 2013. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​v​=IKb​​​ 99K3A​​EaA. Etter-Lewis, Gwendolyn. 1991. “Standing Up and Speaking Out: African American Women’s Narrative Legacy.” Discourse & Society 2, no. 4: 425–437. Evans, Nia, and Kayla Patrick. 2018. “Black Women Built That: Anna Julia Cooper & Nikole Hannah-Jones.” National Women’s Law Center, February 5, 2018. https​ :/​/nw​​lc​.or​​g​/blo​​g​/bla​​ck​-wo​​men​-b​​uilt-​​that-​​anna-​​julia​​-coop​​er​-ni​​kol​e-​​hanna​​h​-jon​​es/. Grayson, Deborah R. 1999. “‘Necessity Was the Midwife of Our Politics’: Black Women’s Health Activism in the ‘Post’-Civil Rights Era.” In Still Lifting, Still Climbing: African American Women’s Contemporary Activism, edited by Kimberly Springer, 131–148. New York: New York University Press. Griffin, Leland M. (1952) 2006. “The Rhetoric of Historical Movements.” In Reading on the Rhetoric of Social Protest, edited by Charles E. Morris III and Stephen Howard Browne, 9–14. State College, PA: Strata Publishing. Gyant, LaVerne, and Deborah F. Atwater. 1996. “Septima Clark’s Rhetorical and Ethnic Legacy: Her Message of Citizenship in the Civil Rights Movement.” Journal of Black Studies 26, no. 5: 577–592. Hamlet, Janice D. 1994. “Understanding Traditional African American Preaching.” In Our Voices: Essays in Culture, Ethnicity, and Communication, edited by Alberto González, Marsha Houston, and Victoria Chen, 100–103. Los Angeles: Roxbury Publishing. Harris-Perry, Melissa V. 2011. Sister Citizen: Shame, Stereotypes, and Black Women in America. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Hartigan, Rachel. 2020. “She Co-Founded Black Lives Matter: Here’s Why She’s so Hopeful for the Future.” National Geographic, July 8, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nat​​ional​​ geogr​​aphic​​.com/​​histo​​ry​/20​​20​/07​​/alic​​ia​-ga​​rza​-c​​o​-fou​​nded-​​black​​-live​​s​-mat​​ter​​-w​​hy​ -fu​​ture-​​hopef​​ul/.

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Hassmer, Sarah, Mary Katherine Falgout, and Helen Blank. 2018. “Black Women Built That: Marian Wright Edelman, Sophia Bracy Harris, and Lenice C. Emanuel.” National Women’s Law Center, February 16, 2018. https​:/​/nw​​lc​.or​​g​/ blo​​g​/bla​​ck​-wo​​men​-b​​uilt-​​that-​​maria​​n​-wri​​ght​-e​​delma​​n​-sop​​hia​-b​​racy-​​harri​​s​​-and​​-leni​​ ce​-c-​​emanu​​el/. hooks, bell. 2015. Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black. New York: Routledge. John Hope Franklin Center at Duke University. “Left of Black with Aishah Shahidah Simmons, Michael Simmons and Meta DuEwa Jones.” YouTube Video, 49:20, April 2, 2012. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​v​=y94​​​Voyo6​​m1I. Lei, Serena. 2013. “The Unwaged War on Deep Poverty.” Urban Institute. https​:/​/ww​​ w​.urb​​an​.or​​g​/fea​​tures​​/unwa​​ged​-w​​ar​-de​​​ep​-po​​verty​. Lorde, Audre. (1983) 2007. Sister Outsider. Berkley, CA: Crossing Press. Mandziuk, Roseanne M. 2014. “‘Grotesque and Ludicrous, but Yet Inspiring’: Depictions of Sojourner Truth and Rhetorics of Domination.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 100, no. 4: 467–487. MarionInstituteTV. “CFC Keyonte- Tanya Fields: Lettuce Liberate.” YouTube Video, 22:34, October 28, 2013. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​time_​​conti​​nue​ =1​​&v​=w​z​​RzF3_​​YXcs. McGuire, Danielle L. 2010. At the Dark End of the Street: Black Women, Rape, and Resistance—A New History of the Civil Rights Movement from Rosa Parks to the Rise of Black Power. New York: Vintage Books. Myers, Kristin. 1999. “Racial Unity in the Grass Roots?: A Case Study of a Women’s Social Service Organization.” In Still Lifting, Still Climbing: African American Women’s Contemporary Activism, edited by Kimberly Springer, 107–130. New York: New York University Press. Richardson, Lisa C., S. Jane Henley, Jacqueline W. Miller, Greta Massetti, and Cheryll C. Thomas. 2016. “Patterns and Trends in Age-Specific Black-White Differences in Breast Cancer Incidence and Mortality—United States, 1999–2014.” Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. https​:/​/ww​​w​.cdc​​.gov/​​mmwr/​​volum​​es​/65​​/wr​/m​​m65​40​​a1​.ht​​m. Rosenthal, Emma. 2017. “Black Power in American Memory.” http:​/​/bla​​ckpow​​er​.we​​ b​.unc​​.edu/​​2017/​​04​/an​​gela-​​yvon​n​​e​-dav​​is/. Semega, Jessica, Melissa Kollar, Emily A. Shrider, and John Creamer. 2020. “Income and Poverty in the United States: 2019.” United States Census Bureau. https​:/​/ww​​ w​.cen​​sus​.g​​ov​/co​​ntent​​/dam/​​Censu​​s​/lib​​rary/​​publi​​catio​​ns​/20​​20​/d​e​​mo​/p6​​0​-270​​.pdf. Smith, Barbara. 1985. “Toward a Black Feminist Criticism.” In Feminist Criticism and Social Change: Sex, Class, and Race in Literature and Culture, edited by Judith Newton and Deborah Rosenfelt, 3–18. New York: Muthuen. Smith, Jennifer E. 1999. “ONAMOVE: African American Women Confronting the Prison Crisis.” In Still Lifting, Still Climbing: African American Women’s Contemporary Activism, edited by Kimberly Springer, 219–240. New York: New York University Press. Smooth, Wendy G., and Tamelyn Tucker. 1999. “Behind but Not Forgotten: Women and the Behind-the-Scenes Organizing of the Million Man March.” In Still Lifting,

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Still Climbing: African American Women’s Contemporary Activism, edited by Kimberly Springer, 241–258. New York: New York University Press. Standley, Anne. 1990. “The Role of Black Women in the Civil Rights Movement.” In Women in the Civil Rights Movement: Trailblazers and Torchbearers, 1941–1965, edited by Vicki L. Crawford, Jacqueline Anne Rouse, and Barbara Woods, 183– 202. New York: Carlson. Taylor, Keeanga-Yamahtta. 2019. “Black Feminism and the Combahee River Collective.” Monthly Review: An Independent Socialist Magazine, January 1, 2019. https​:/​/mo​​nthly​​revie​​w​.org​​/2019​​/01​/0​​1​/bla​​ck​-fe​​minis​​m​-and​​-the-​​comba​​hee​-r​​​ iver-​​colle​​ctive​/. The Justice Initiative at Columbia University. “Beyond the Bars: Breaking Through 2014—Fania Davis.” YouTube Video, 19:04, May 29, 2014. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​ com​/w​​atch?​​v​=NHf​​​dkeL5​​9cc. University of New England. “#SayHerName: Stories and Strategies to End Mass Criminalization.” YouTube Video, 52:12, February 1, 2016. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​ com​/w​​atch?​​v​=Q​-O​​​iA9wv​​uOU. Wabash College. “WABASH COLLEGE CHAPEL TALK—Charlene Carruthers.” YouTube Video, 26:10, February 4, 2016. https​:/​/ww​​w​.you​​tube.​​com​/w​​atch?​​v​ =QQU​​​K50k4​​lPA. Walker, Alice. 1983. In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens. New York: Harcourt. Williams, Corey. 2018. “For Black Women at Church, It’s More Than the Aretha Eulogy.” Associated Press News, September 9, 2018. https​:/​/ap​​news.​​ com ​ / 7​​ 5 f555​​ 9 fdd6​​ 2 4fd2​​ a 5e9d​​ 5 f3d3​​ 7 692b​​ 5 ​ / For​​ - blac​​ k ​ - wom​​ e n​​ - at​​ - chur​​ c h,​ -it’s-more-than-the-Aretha-eulogy.

Chapter 6

Money, Speech, and Power Participatory Budgeting as Free Expression Vincent Russell and Therese Gardner

On a Saturday morning in May, something unprecedented happened in Denver’s Cole neighborhood.1 The basketball gym in the local recreation center had been transformed into a public forum where residents submitted project ideas to allocate $30,000 in their neighborhood, the first phase in a deliberative democratic process called participatory budgeting (PB). PB is a “form of participatory democracy in which citizens and civil society organizations have the right to participate directly in determining fiscal policy” (Marquetti et al. 2012, 63), and the event happening in the Cole neighborhood was the launch of the first PB process in Colorado. Local organizers had set up six tables in the gym, and attendees walked between the tables. At each table, neighbors were told about the PB process taking place in their community, a process organized by local activists and nonprofit organizations. Attendees then reflected on what they liked about their neighborhood and what could be improved before sharing their stories about living in the neighborhood and the project ideas they thought could benefit their neighbors. Although the weather outside was dreary, the event bustled with energy and excitement. Mariachi music played over a stereo, light refreshments were served, children had their faces painted, and attendees created visual art to depict the type of neighborhood in which they wanted to live. People talked, laughed, and danced as they collectively decided how to spend $30,000 to benefit the neighborhood. As one of the attendees, Jamie,2 explained, “Many residents have been wanting change for many years without being heard. They are eager for someone, anyone, to listen and help them make a better community.” PB offered that opportunity for Cole residents to freely express themselves by directly influencing the conditions of their neighborhood. Given the current crisis of public participation in the United States, explorations of participatory and deliberative forms of free expression are 109

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warranted. For example, the United States trails most of the other more economically developed countries in voter participation rates (DeSilver 2018), and, in 2018, nearly half of Americans (45%) reported that they were not at all engaged civically or politically (Jones et al. 2018). Decreases in public participation disproportionately impact historically marginalized communities, creating a form of double disempowerment, where marginalized communities have less influence than privileged populations at the voting polls and in-between elections, because politicians tend to listen to people who voted for them in the last election and to those who politicians believe will vote in the next election (Lerner 2014b). In this chapter, we extend debates about free expression into the realm of public budgeting by providing a case study of two PB processes that occurred in Denver, Colorado. We argue that (a) PB offers a pathway to free expression by granting residents direct control over funds that benefit the public; and, (b) That lessons from these PB processes can help government actors design better public participation processes. We begin with an overview of how free expression has been theorized to differentiate between positive and negative liberty, with our approach emphasizing free expression as a positive liberty. We then define PB and explain how it works before turning to a discussion of the ways that PB participants in Denver saw their deliberations as constituting free expression in public budgeting—a significant departure from traditional participation processes. Finally, the chapter concludes with recommendations for advancing free expression in overlooked areas of public life, such as public budgeting. First, though, we explore differing theories of free expression and make the case for free expression as a positive liberty. EXPRESSION AS A NEGATIVE AND POSITIVE LIBERTY Any conception of free speech depends on an implicit conception of democracy (Baker 2011), and we focus on participatory and deliberative democracy for the purposes of this chapter. Participatory democracy emphasizes mass participation of the public (Fishkin 2019). The contemporary understanding of participatory democracy emerged from the social movements of the 1950s–1970s in the United States, wherein citizens increasingly participated in people-led movements rather than formal civic institutions (Held 2006). Participatory democracies seek to redistribute material resources to ameliorate the unsuitable conditions of many social groups, minimize unaccountable power in public and private life, and provide an open information system to ensure informed decisions (Held 2006). In deliberative democracy, nonelite citizens provide equal consideration of the views that result from discussions related to public issues and then make collective decisions about what to do

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to address the public issues (Fishkin 2019). If the quintessential examples of participatory democracy are large, organized groups protesting in the streets and committing civil disobedience, then a deliberative democracy would have those same actors sit around a table to weigh options about a public issue, make a decision about what should be done, and that decision would have a binding effect. Similar to participatory democracy, deliberative democracy seeks to engender widespread participation from the demos because of assumptions that participation generates learning effects in citizens and increases the legitimacy of political decision-making. Contemporary issues about the limits of free speech often probe the effects of that speech (e.g., whether it causes harm; Curtis 2000). Therefore, concerns about free expression typically are entangled with speech’s material effects, which brings us to the distinction between free expression as a negative or a positive liberty. Free expression, typically, is understood as a negative liberty that elides questions about material conditions and power (Davis 2012). Negative liberty is an absence of barriers to doing something, typically associated with individuals (Carter 2019). Negative liberties are premised on the notion that government is the enemy of liberty (Fiss 2009). Free expression as a negative liberty means that it provides the individual the right to do what they wish without interference, as long as it is lawful. Negative liberty “places a premium on the right to own property, to accumulate wealth, to defend property by arms, to mobility, expression, and political participation” (Kelley 2012, 7). For example, arguments against laws prohibiting hate speech typically assume free speech as a negative liberty. One might oppose banning hate speech because the state is interfering with people’s individual right to say and do what they want. To protect freedom, the argument goes, one must oppose government regulation of expression. Despite the dominant understanding of free speech as a negative liberty, several scholars have criticized the notion. P.E. Moskowitz argues that claims of free speech are a “smokescreen” because Americans live in a grossly unequal society where the ultrawealthy have the ability to bankroll entire political campaigns (2019, 2). For example, in theory, an everyday citizen is just as free to speak as a billionaire. However, in practice, a regular citizen’s individual speech does not have the same ability to influence as a billionaire’s speech. Moskowitz (2019) concluded that free speech has never really existed in the United States because freedom and liberty have never really existed for most Americans, due to the material effects of racism, sexism, xenophobia, and income/wealth inequalities. Similarly, Anshuman Mondal (2018) argues that free expression as a negative liberty fails to account for the ways culture and ideologies predetermine what any single person can say or do as well as the possible effects of that expression. In other words, all possible ideas

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and modes of expression are not always equally available to every citizen. Mondal outlined how the concept of free speech itself is constrained by hegemonic norms that define the boundaries of freedom, meaning that the very understanding of free expression as a negative liberty is bounded by dominant cultural ideas of what constitutes the terms, freedom, and expression. In contrast to free expression as a negative liberty, we emphasize the concept as a positive or collective liberty (hereafter, “collective liberty”), one that recognizes people’s material constraints. Collective liberty is the possibility of doing something to take control of one’s life (Carter 2016). Collective liberty is collective rather than individualistic, where each citizen is “free” only to the extent that each participates in democratic processes and therefore exercises their power (Carter 2016). Our understanding of free expression as a collective liberty is influenced by Angela Davis (2012). For her, collective freedom means: The freedom to earn a livelihood and live a healthy, fully realized life; freedom from violence; sexual freedom; social justice; abolition of all forms of bondage and incarceration; freedom from exploitation; freedom of movement; freedom as movement; as a collective striving for real democracy. (Kelley 2012, 7)

In this understanding, freedom is not granted by the government in the form of a law. Instead, it is struggled for through a participatory process that requires different ways of thinking and being (Kelley 2012). Collective liberty necessitates a radical conception of community, where individual actors are bound together such that no one is free until everyone is free, and actors resist the tendency to reproduce social hierarchies. By shifting the focus of free expression to that of a collective liberty, the state can become the friend of free speech rather than its enemy (Fiss 2009). The government could bar speech that makes it impossible for disadvantaged groups to participate in the public sphere. For example, unlimited political campaign contributions could be banned because they put the poor at a disadvantage in the political arena and effectively silence them (Fiss 2009). Another example might be the Voting Rights Act of 1965, which enacted government regulations to guarantee Black citizens access to the ballot box, thereby safeguarding the free expression of those citizens. As Karst (1990) explains: “Expression is power. Power is capacity. The power of expression includes the capacity to expand the boundaries of our natural community. To include all our peoples as equal citizens is to recognize that their views deserve to be heard” (149). In other words, free expression as a collective liberty requires that governing systems be designed in such a way as to guarantee that groups can collectively speak their truth and have the same chance of influencing public debate—a situation that does not exist currently

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in U.S. society, where women, people of color, LGBTQ people, differently abled people, and the poor are frequently ignored or excluded from public discourse. Our theorization of free expression as collective aligns well with our focus on deliberative, participatory democracy, where speech is concerned with collective decision-making and equal opportunities for participation in the public sphere. Furthermore, this is the concept of free speech that activist groups throughout the centuries have advocated for—free expression as a liberty that addresses unjust power systems and provides a better quality of life for underprivileged populations (Karst 1990). Given the connections between free expression and material conditions, we turn next to a discussion of PB as one example of deliberative, participatory democracy and a potential pathway to free expression in the realm of public budgets. PARTICIPATORY BUDGETING Before explaining PB, we offer a brief description of typical public budgeting practices. Traditional forms of input on public budgeting often are boring and discouraging. A local citizen may have to attend a public budget hearing, sit through complex discussions of numerical figures that are seldomly contextualized, and only provide input at the end during a question and answer period. Frequently, to make an impact on budgeting, one must be able to demonstrate some form of accounting expertise. Indeed, it is precisely because public budgets are so opaque and complicated that they deserve attention and input from the general public (Lerner 2014a). However, too often, ordinary citizens are denied a seat at the table to provide input or have significant influence over public budgets, despite the fact that budgetary decisions impact nearly every aspect of a person’s life, from how much money their school receives, to how many units of affordable housing are built in their community. In contrast to interpreting budgets simply as technocratic actuarial accounts, the PB process takes as its starting point that budgets are moral documents. That is, public budgets lay out taxpayers’ priorities and possess ethical implications about whose interests among the demos will be best served (Lerner 2014a). PB was created in Porto Alegre, Brazil, in 1989 because residents and their elected officials realized that traditional participation processes had disproportionately benefited economically privileged populations at the expense of the poor. PB, therefore, has a long-standing association with social justice. Since its inception, PB was intended to promote participation among marginalized, oppressed, and historically excluded community residents in redirecting capital funds to meet their needs (de Souza Santos 1998; Fung and Wright 2003). Studies of PB since then have found that the process

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increases governmental transparency (Goldfrank 2011; Shah 2007; Wampler 2000), improves government accountability (Alves and Allegretti 2012; Goldfrank 2011; Shah 2007), and promotes social equity (Gonçalves 2014; Touchton and Wampler 2014). Because of these effects, PB has been implemented in more than 3,000 locations worldwide, and it has been endorsed as a best practice for democracies by entities as varied as the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and the Movement for Black Lives (Lerner 2011; Phelps 2016). A typical PB process proceeds in five phases and lasts for eight to nine months. In the first phase, organizers invite residents of a geographic area to form a steering committee. The selection process for committee members varies; in Europe and North America, members are often appointed by elected officials, whereas in Latin America, typically, members are nominated by civil society organizations to serve as representatives of those organizations and their constituents (Leighninger and Rinehart 2016). Once appointed, steering committee members design the PB process and write a rulebook that includes rules for people’s inclusion and participation, project eligibility criteria, process timeline, number of events to be held, and any subcommittees to be formed (Hagelskamp et al. 2016). After steering committee members create the rulebook, PB moves into the second phase of idea collection, with organizers and steering committee members inviting all eligible residents who meet the participation criteria to identify community needs and submit ideas for community improvement projects. This phase often includes what are termed neighborhood assemblies, such as the one depicted at the start of this chapter, with residents of the city coming together to identify common problems experienced in their communities and brainstorming potential solutions. In the third phase of PB, residents volunteer to serve as budget delegates who vet project ideas according to the steering committee’s project eligibility criteria. Those budget delegates work with city officials to develop eligible project ideas into full-fledged project proposals that include estimated cost, project design, and completion timeline. In the fourth phase, successful project proposals are placed on a ballot, and participants vote for projects to fund, with those receiving the most votes being funded, within the constraints of the budget allocated to the PB process. Finally, in the fifth phase, local government implements the funded projects, the steering committee revises the rulebook (e.g., to find ways to increase participation rates, refine project eligibility criteria, and/or improve communication by steering committee members, budget delegates, and city officials), and the process repeats itself the next year. In Porto Alegre, Brazil, the process achieved impressive results. Before PB was implemented, approximately one-third of Porto Alegre’s 1 million

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residents lived in slums on the city’s outskirts and lacked access to basic infrastructure, such as clean water, sanitation, medical facilities, and schools. After nine years of employing PB, 98 percent of households possessed sewer and water connections, and the city increased spending on public housing, schools, and health services (Bhatnagar et al. 2003). Participation in PB in Porto Alegre increased from less than 1,000 to more than 14,000 participants from 1989 to 2000, which corresponded with higher levels of government transparency and accountability, by increasing perceived levels of governmental legitimacy among the populace (Baiocchi 2003). Michael Touchton and Brian Wampler (2014) found that PB in cities across Brazil improved citizens’ well-being. Specifically, they found that PB led to an estimated 6 percent increase in spending on health care and sanitation, an 8 percent increase in the number of civil society organizations operating in a municipality, and an 11 percent decrease in infant mortality per 1,000 births. In North America, a meta-analysis was conducted of findings from all forty-six jurisdictions (e.g., cities, public housing authorities, and schools) on the continent that implemented and evaluated a PB process between July 2014 and June 2015 (Hagelskamp et al. 2016). The study found that PB processes were relatively successful in engaging participation from members of underrepresented populations. In all of the processes included in the study, the minimum eligible age for voting in PB was lower than eighteen years old, with the most common minimum voting age being fourteen or sixteen. In comparing demographics of each jurisdiction that implemented PB, residents under eighteen years old and older adults were overrepresented in PB; additionally, “in nearly all communities, black residents were overrepresented or represented proportionally to the local census among voter survey respondents” (Hagelskamp et al. 2016, 6), although Latin Americans were underrepresented in most PB sites. Residents from lower-income households and, in most communities, women, were also overrepresented or represented proportionally to local census figures, but people with less formal education were underrepresented. The relationship between free expression and PB can be understood clearly once the process is separated into two key dimensions: a communicative dimension and a sovereignty dimension (Baiocchi and Ganuza 2017). In other words, PB provides an opportunity for residents to deliberate in public fora, and the PB participants can then exercise their sovereignty over budget dollars, thereby combining issues of free expression (the communicative dimension of PB) with material conditions and the exercise of power (the sovereignty dimension of PB). Because of PB’s effects on public participation, we focus our attention in the next section on the relationships between the process and free expression. Specifically, we analyze two PB processes that occurred in Denver, CO, and

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the ways that participants saw their deliberations as a way to exercise agency and influence their communities. PARTICIPATORY BUDGETING AND FREE EXPRESSION IN DENVER In 2018, a coalition of local nonprofit organizations, using private grant funds, launched two PB processes in Denver: one on the Auraria higher education campus (home to a community college and two state universities) and one in the Cole neighborhood. The nonprofits called this grassroots experiment in direct, deliberative, and participatory democracy, This Machine Has a Soul (TMHS). The organizers believed the local government’s existing processes for budgeting and citizen engagement were opaque, machine-like, and soulless. Organizers wanted PB to remind residents and city leaders that this machine—the PB process—did indeed have a soul, for it was powered by the people of the city who are vital to its functioning. The organizers chose to implement two processes so as to spread the benefits of PB to multiple communities, with each site allocating $30,000 for community improvement projects. Organizers indicated that TMHS would serve as a pilot project, and they hoped that the processes’ success would spur city leaders to implement PB citywide with a larger pot of money. The analysis that follows is derived from data collected from both PB sites.3 We implemented a community-based research project by partnering with the organizers to develop research questions, data collection instruments (survey questionnaires and interview protocols), and practical recommendations for improving future PB processes. Community-based research consists of a collaborative enterprise between academic researchers and community partners and promotes social change to advance social justice (Strand et al. 2003). The data included participant observations and semistructured interviews. We attended thirty-three TMHS events, which generated just over 400 pages of fieldnotes, and we interviewed seventeen PB participants, with each interview lasting approximately thirty to sixty minutes. Participants expressed concerns about free expression when contrasting PB with traditional forms of public participation, and when discussing how the process could counteract oppressive forces. PB Compared to Traditional Public Participation Denver PB participants explicitly compared the communication that occurs in PB with communication that occurs in other traditional forms of public participation (e.g., attending government meetings or contacting elected

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officials). Maya was a facilitator for the Cole PB process, and she had worked previously for a Denver city council member. In an interview, she contrasted speech in traditional participation processes with speech that occurs in PB, explaining that city staff in municipal budget hearings already have their desired projects selected, and the community’s input is relegated to questions about the city’s predetermined plans. For Maya, PB was important because it garnered participation from people who did not usually attend budget hearings, and it meaningfully incorporated their views. Her remarks illustrated that the supposed free expression allowed in local government meetings was, in fact, disempowering because policymakers already had made up their minds. In contrast, the PB process ensured that resident voices made an impact on public spending. Several Cole residents remarked on how the PB process was a more effective form of public participation because the process was run by their neighbors, instead of elected officials, and because their contributions were meaningful. They saw PB as providing an opportunity for their community to collectively exercise power. In an interview, Tonya, a steering committee member, contrasted the disempowering aspects of traditional participation processes with PB: Usually, we don’t have a voice. Usually, the money comes into the neighborhood along with a program, along with the staff, and either we participate or we don’t. And it doesn’t seem to matter. And then the money leaves, and the staff leave because they’re not residents. This [PB] was totally the opposite. They were seeking people from the neighborhood.

PB participants understood the process as providing a significant alternative to traditional forms of public participation, especially in the ways that PB offered them agency, autonomy, and opportunities to raise a collective voice. As a final contrast with the city’s other forms of participation, many PB participants appreciated opportunities to build relationships with their neighbors, thereby expanding the notion of community. Reyna, a Cole steering committee member, thought that relationships needed to be at the forefront of PB. She said, “If we’re going to do things different than the city and county of Denver . . . then we need to act like it.” For her, that meant PB participants needed to continue to “hit the streets” and talk to people in the neighborhood. “We really need to make relationships and connections,” Reyna explained, emphasizing the importance of getting to know neighbors over time. PB, therefore, offered an opportunity for dialogic encounters with others, where communication between actors is intersubjective and foregrounds ethical responsibilities. In dialogue, interlocutors emerge as whole persons through interactions with another, and the encounter incorporates recognition of the

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sacredness of other persons in a way that does not assimilate or subsume their otherness but rather cherishes them in their difference (Lipari 2004). In working with their neighbors over months through PB, participants developed relationships with one another in ways that traditional forms of civic engagement lacked. PB guaranteed that participants would have an audience, that they would be heard, and that their ideas would make an impact—all relevant aspects of free expression as a collective liberty. Resisting Oppression Understanding free expression as a negative liberty often obscures social inequities and thereby reinforces dominant social systems. In contrast, Denver PB participants saw their engagement in the process as an opportunity to resist oppression and advance social justice discourses. PB afforded participants space to express themselves in such a way as to address historic inequities. Camila demonstrated the ability of PB to voice counter-hegemonic discourses in an interview: “With participatory budgeting, what we do is place power in people’s hands. People will make decisions based on the value systems that have been cultivated through family, through the institutions that they’re a part of.” Making budgetary decisions based on familial values, especially for families of color, is a significant departure from the actuarial, rationalized framing of government budgetary decisions. Engagement with PB offered opportunities to make budgeting decisions based on ancestral traditions and value systems (e.g., intergenerational solidarity, environmental sustainability, and community ownership), rather than supposedly objective mathematical formulae. For example, PB voters in Cole—despite a lack of participation from young people—approved a project that would support youth empowerment programming, demonstrating recognition from adults that young people needed their support. Another winning project provided garden beds and home gardening lessons so that residents could grow their food sustainably. Lastly, to promote community development and collective ownership over public goods, PB voters in Cole approved an outdoor movie set up so the neighborhood could host outdoor movie nights for local residents. In the Auraria PB process, budget delegates were directed to consider issues of equity when evaluating projects. For example, at one meeting, the facilitator Jeremiah discussed several hypothetical project ideas with the group. He said project ideas such as prayer rooms, wheelchair ramps, and food pantries deserved full consideration. As Jeremiah explained, “We want you to consider how much need there is in the whole community versus how much impact there is on those who use it.” In other words, a project such as a wheelchair ramp may not benefit a large number of students on campus, but it would significantly improve the quality of life for students in wheelchairs

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and therefore should be weighted according to its ability to affect the lives of under-resourced community members. These concerns for equity imbued the entirety of the Auraria PB process. For example, one student proposed a retreat for Indigenous youth on campus to help them build community and adjust to life on campus. That project, despite only benefiting a small number of Auraria students, was approved by budget delegates and placed on the ballot. Ultimately, the Indigenous retreat placed high enough in the vote results (eighth place) that it received funding to be implemented. In the Cole PB process, participants saw PB as offering an opportunity to fight back against oppressive systems. According to one woman, the question for the community was “Did we fight? Did we say anything while this change was goin’ on? Yeah, we did.” PB was that opportunity to fight back against undesirable change. Nicole explained in an interview that Cole was a diverse neighborhood, but it was being gentrified, “and the people who are able to be engaged the most are the people who have the most privilege.” In another interview, Camila explained the justification for implementing PB in the Cole neighborhood: Today, we have one of the highest concentrations of poverty, low levels of education, and high levels of immigrant and monolingual Spanish speakers in the community. [The neighborhood] was a perfect target for a project like this because they [city officials] didn’t expect for community [sic] to have the financial or political resources to fight back.

Despite having formal equality in expressing themselves, many Cole residents lacked the resources necessary to effectively influence civic affairs, leading to local officials adopting policies that incentivized wealthier residents moving into the neighborhood and increasing housing costs. In understanding expression through PB as a collective liberty, the organizers and participants utilized the process to address the concerns of marginalized residents, thereby providing discursive space to resist oppressive conditions. According to Nicole, equity was “the foundation of everything” in their PB process. CONCLUSION PB provided opportunities for residents to exercise collective agency over a public budget. Participants recognized PB as a dramatic departure from traditional forms of civic engagement because it was more inclusive and built relationships among neighbors. Participants understood the dialogic encounters that occurred through PB as an improved form of public expression because they recognized each other’s humanity and the responsibilities

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they all possessed to improve their communities, rather than simply pursuing individual self-interests. Lastly, participants utilized PB as a way to ensure that their communication resisted oppressive systems. Expressions during the PB process countered hegemonic norms, and the project outcomes of the process were intended to advance social justice by addressing inequities within their communities. The findings from this study possess several implications for those interested in the exercise of free speech. Low-income communities of color have been effectively censored from providing input in public spending decisions. Liberal democratic values of moral equality, although valuable, often fall short of illuminating the material barriers that prevent people from exercising effectively their right to free speech. Furthermore, notions of free speech as a negative liberty do not take into consideration the effects of expression, and the right of collectives to be heard and exercise their power to influence public discourse. In pushing at the boundaries of free speech studies, we hope more people will begin to ask questions about arenas of public life over which they possess not just the right to free speech but also the right to influence outcomes that can advance social justice. More attention ought to be focused on public budgets and other forms of civic input processes as an arena of free speech. Are hearings inclusive? Are they participatory? Do citizens’ contributions have a demonstrable effect on the outcomes? When these questions are answered in the negative, actions ought to be taken to pursue systemic reform that protects free speech not just as a negative liberty but also as a collective liberty. Readers could work with friends, neighbors, and classmates to advocate for the adoption of PB on their campus or city. As we have demonstrated in this chapter, PB provides one pathway for free expression in public budgets, an area of civic life that, too often, is neglected. The process offers opportunities for residents to exercise collectively their rights, be heard by government officials and neighbors, and work together to create a more just world. NOTES 1. We would like to thank Warm Cookies of the Revolution, Project VOYCE, and Project Belay for their collaboration on the larger research project. We also want to thank Denver’s Cole neighborhood residents and Auraria campus students who participated in the participatory budgeting processes. 2. All participant names are pseudonyms. 3. For additional details about research methods, see Russell and Gardner (2019) and Gardner and Russell (2020).

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REFERENCES Alves, Mariana Lopes, and Giovanni Allegretti. 2012. “(In)Stability, a Key Element to Understand Participatory Budgeting: Discussing Portuguese Cases.” Journal of Public Deliberation 8, no. 2: Article 3. Baiocchi, Gianpaolo. 2003. “Participation, Activism, and Politics: The Porto Alegre Experiment.” In Deepening Democracy: Institutional Innovations in Empowered Participatory Governance, edited by Archon Fung and E.O. Wright, 45–76. New York, NY: Verso Books. Baiocchi, Gianpaolo, and Ernesto Ganuza. 2017. Popular Democracy: The Paradox of Participation. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Baker, C. Edwin. 2011. “Autonomy and Free Speech.” Constitutional Commentary 27, no. 2: 251–282. Bhatnagar, Deepti, Animesh Rathore, Magüi Moreno Torres, and Parameets Kanungo. 2003. “Participatory Budgeting in Brazil.” World Bank. https​:/​/si​​teres​​ ource​​s​.wor​​ldban​​k​.org​​/INTE​​MPOWE​​RMENT​​/Reso​​urces​​/1465​​7​_Par​​tic​-B​​udg​​-B​​ razil​​-web.​​pdf. Carter, Ian. 2019. “Positive and Negative Liberty.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta. Metaphysics Research Lab, Stanford University. https​:/​/pl​​ato​.s​​tanfo​​rd​.ed​​u​/arc​​hives​​/win2​​019​/e​​ntrie​​s​/lib​​erty-​​posit​​​ive​-n​​ egati​​ve/. Curtis, Michael Kent. 2000. Free Speech, “The People’s Darling Privilege”: Struggles for Freedom of Expression in American History. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Davis, Angela Y. 2012. The Meaning of Freedom and Other Difficult Dialogues. San Francisco, CA: City Lights Books. DeSilver, Drew. 2018. “U.S. Trails Most Developed Countries in Voter Turnout.” Pew Research Center (blog), May 21, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.pew​​resea​​rch​.o​​rg​/fa​​ct​-ta​​ nk​/20​​18​/05​​/21​/u​​-s​-vo​​ter​-t​​urnou​​t​-tra​​ils​-m​​ost​​-d​​evelo​​ped​-c​​ountr​​ies/. Fishkin, James. 2019. “Democracy When the People Are Thinking: Deliberation and Democratic Renewal.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 163, no. 2: 108–121. Fiss, Owen M. 2009. The Irony of Free Speech. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Fung, Archon, and E. O. Wright. 2003. “Thinking about Empowered Participatory Governance.” In Deepening Democracy: Institutional Innovations in Empowered Participatory Governance, edited by Archon Fung and E. O. Wright, 3–42. New York, NY: Verso Books. Gardner, Therese, and Vincent Russell. 2020. “Cole Has a Soul 2018: Participatory Budgeting Research and Evaluation Report.” https​:/​/sc​​alar.​​usc​.e​​du​/wo​​rks​/p​​artic​​ ipato​​ry​-bu​​dgeti​​ng​​-20​​19​/in​​dex. Goldfrank, Benjamin. 2011. Deepening Local Democracy in Latin America: Participation, Decentralization, and the Left. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press.

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Gonçalves, Sónia. 2014. “The Effects of Participatory Budgeting on Municipal Expenditures and Infant Mortality in Brazil.” World Development 53: 94–110. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​016​/j​​.worl​​ddev.​​2013​.​​01​.00​​9. Hagelskamp, Carolin, Chloe Rinehart, Rebecca Silliman, and David Schleifer. 2016. “Public Spending, by the People: Participatory Budgeting in the United States and Canada in 2014–2015.” Public Agenda. https​:/​/ww​​w​.pub​​licag​​enda.​​org​/r​​eport​​s​/pub​​ lic​-s​​pendi​​ng​-by​​-the-​​peopl​​e​-par​​ticip​​atory​​-budg​​eting​​-in​-t​​he​-un​​ited-​​state​​​s​-and​​-cana​​ da​-in​​-2014​​-15/. Held, David. 2006. Models of Democracy, 3rd ed. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Jones, Robert P., Daniel Cox, Rob Griffin, Maxine Najle, Molly Fisch-Friedman, and Alex Vandermaas-Peeler. 2018. “American Democracy in Crisis: Civic Engagement, Young Adult Activism, and the 2018 Midterm Elections.” Public Religion Research Institute. https​:/​/ww​​w​.prr​​i​.org​​/wp​-c​​onten​​t​/upl​​oads/​​2018/​​10​/Ci​​ vic​-E​​ngage​​​ment-​​NovB.​​pdf. Kelley, Robin D.G. 2012. “Foreword.” In The Meaning of Freedom and Other Difficult Dialogues, 7–16. San Francisco, CA: City Lights Books. Leighninger, Matt, and Chloe Rinehart. 2016. “Brazil Has Reduced Inequality, Incrementally—Can We Do the Same?” Public Agenda. http:​/​/www​​.publ​​icage​​ nda​.o​​rg​/fi​​les​/B​​razil​​HasRe​​duced​​Inequ​​ality​​Incre​​menta​​lly​_P​​ublic​​​Agend​​a​_201​​6​.pdf​. Lerner, Josh. 2011. “Participatory Budgeting: Building Community Agreement Around Tough Budget Decisions.” National Civic Review 100, no. 2: 30–35. https://doi​.org​/10​.1002​/ncr​.20059. Lerner, Josh. 2014a. Everyone Counts: Could “Participatory Budgeting” Change Democracy? Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Lerner, Josh. 2014b. Making Democracy Fun: How Game Design Can Empower Citizens and Transform Politics. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Lipari, Lisbeth. 2004. “Listening for the Other: Ethical Implications of the BuberLevinas Encounter.” Communication Theory 14, no. 2: 122–141. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​ .1​​111​/j​​.1468​​-2885​​.2004​​.t​b00​​308​.x​. Marquetti, Adalmir, Carlos E. Schonerwald da Silva, and Al Campbell. 2012. “Participatory Economic Democracy in Action: Participatory Budgeting in Porto Alegre, 1989–2004.” Review of Radical Political Economics 44, no. 1: 62–81. https://doi​.org​/10​.1177​/0486613411418055. Mondal, Anshuman A. 2018. “The Shape of Free Speech: Rethinking Liberal Free Speech Theory.” Continuum 32, no. 4: 503–517. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​080​/1​​03043​​12​ .20​​18​​.14​​80463​. Moskowitz, P. E. 2019. The Case against Free Speech: The First Amendment, Fascism, and the Future of Dissent. New York, NY: Bold Type Books. Phelps, Paulina. 2016. “How to Make City Budgets Racially Just? Let Citizens Do the Numbers.” YES! Magazine, October 25, 2016. https​:/​/ww​​w​.yes​​magaz​​ine​.o​​rg​/ so​​cial-​​justi​​ce​/20​​16​/10​​/25​/h​​ow​-to​​-make​​-city​​-budg​​ets​-r​​acial​​ly​-ju​​st​-le​​t​-​cit​​izens​​-do​-t​​ he​-nu​​mbers​/. Russell, Vincent, and Therese Gardner. 2019. “Auraria Participatory Budgeting 2018 Research and Evaluation Report.” https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​3140/​​RG​.2.​​2​.189​​​40​.90​​249.

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Shah, Anwar, ed. 2007. Participatory Budgeting. Public Sector Governance and Accountability Series. Washington, DC: World Bank. http:​/​/doc​​ument​​s​.wor​​ldban​​ k​.org​​/cura​​ted​/e​​n​/635​​01146​​83309​​86995​​/pdf/​​39498​​0REVI​​SED01​​01OFF​​IC​IAL ​​ 0USE0​​ONLY1​​.pdf. Souza Santos, Boaventura de. 1998. “Participatory Budgeting in Porto Alegre: Toward a Redistributive Democracy.” Politics & Society 26: 461–510. https​:/​/do​​i​ .org​​/10​.1​​177​/0​​03232​​92980​​​26004​​003. Strand, Kerry, Sam Marullo, Nick Cutforth, Randy Stoecker, and Patrick Donohue. 2003. Community-Based Research and Higher Education: Principles and Practices. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass. Touchton, Michael, and Brian Wampler. 2014. “Improving Social Well-Being Through New Democratic Institutions.” Comparative Political Studies 47, no. 10: 1442–1469. https://doi​.org​/10​.1177​/0010414013512601. Wampler, Brian. 2000. “A Guide to Participatory Budgeting.” Partizipation & Nachhaltige Entwicklung in Europa. http:​/​/www​​.part​​izipa​​tion.​​at​/fi​​leadm​​in​/me​​dia​ _d​​ata​/D​​ownlo​​ads​/t​​hemen​​/A​_​gu​​ide​_t​​o​_PB.​​pdf.

Part 2

URBAN SPACES AND CONTESTED SPEECH

Chapter 7

Legislating Memory The Legal Landscape of Contested Monuments in the United States Laura Ricciardi

A monument is a physical, visual representation of the past. In stone, bronze, or marble, building a monument is predicated on the idea that the monument will endure, both physically and symbolically (Elliott 1964). Monuments are careful, purposeful attempts, usually initiated by a small subset of the population, to control the meaning of a past moment in the collective consciousness of a nation, and to do so through a visual, physical medium in a public space. What happens when collective memory is disjointed? Is it possible to manage multiple meanings of a monument and, more importantly, multiple valences? Who are the relevant stakeholders, and can or must they all be accommodated? Who has the authority to speak on behalf of a monument, or a public? When a monument is contested, what are the legal parameters for free expression in that space? How do legislative and judicial processes impact the removal of a controversial monument? What role do monuments, and free expression at contested monuments, play in effectuating and legitimating social change? This chapter explores the relationship between law and monuments, focusing on controversial or contested monuments, and the ways in which the legal landscape of monuments, and the citizen response to this landscape, shape free expression in these contested spaces. LEE CIRCLE AND BLACK LIVES MATTER In the summer of 2020, as protests against police brutality and systemic racism erupted across the United States, Lee Circle in Richmond, Virginia 127

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emerged as a hotbed of controversy. At the center was the monument to Confederate General Robert E. Lee. Once the capitol of the Confederacy and the birthplace of Lee, Richmond had long been a center of the debate over Confederate monuments. According to a 2019 study by the Southern Poverty Law Center, Virginia stands at the nation’s apex in Confederate iconography, with nearly 250 symbols, more than any other state. Of these symbols, 110 are monuments, and 13 of these monuments are in Richmond (Southern Poverty Law Center 2019). Beyond the sheer number of monuments, Richmond has long played a pivotal role in the unfolding of the narratives around Confederate monuments and their continued function as spaces of contestation. Erected in 1890, the monument to Robert E. Lee in Richmond was one of the first attempts to commemorate the Confederacy in a public space (Leib 2002, 286). Towering at 60 feet, the bronze-casted general on a horse stood triumphantly atop a 46-foot stone pedestal, bifurcating the boulevard that would later become known as Monument Avenue, the site for other Confederate Monuments. The placement of the Lee Monument was part of a broader design to reimagine the city of Richmond as the center of a new, dignified South (Monument Avenue Commission 2018, 19). Yet this new South, along with the entire nation, carried with it the bitter legacy of racism. In his address at the dedication of the Lee Monument, Colonel Archer Anderson began: “Fellow citizens, a people carves its own image in the monuments of its great men” (Southern Historical Society 1889, 1). One need only look to the experience of Black Americans and other marginalized groups of people in the United States to understand the extent to which this phrase lies at the very core of the contemporary debate over public monuments: Who is a citizen, who are the people, and what does it mean for a people to carve its own image? By 1902, Virginia had instituted Jim Crow laws that further disenfranchised African Americans, and by 1907, lynchings were rampant across the South (Monument Avenue Commission 2018). The dedication of additional Confederate monuments in Richmond tracks the renewed efforts to maintain white supremacy. In 1907, and again in 1929, monuments were erected with the specific goal of glorifying white supremacy, crafting a narrative of the Lost Cause. Invoking the imagery of the Confederacy, white supremacists sought to bolster their mission of maintaining white supremacy, under the guise of memorializing Confederate soldiers such as Robert E. Lee. It comes as no surprise that a second wave of Confederate monuments occurred during the 1950s and 1960s, in response to the civil rights movement (Southern Poverty Law Center 2019, 11). As the architectural historian Dell Upton (2019) notes, monuments tell us more about the people who built them than about the figures they represent.

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Beyond the people who built them, monuments tell us about the people who contest them. Moreover, the processes through which those contestations occur reveal insights about the role of law and citizen response to law, in the pursuit of justice in a democracy. Defining Monuments Much of the legal, political, and social debate surrounding public monuments involves underlying questions regarding their purpose and function. A discussion of these issues therefore hinges on understanding the intended, perceived, and actual functions of monuments in a society. This section endeavors to articulate four ways of conceptualizing what monuments do in the world. While in many cases, a monument may operate in a nuanced combination of several or all of these functions, this section seeks to categorize the different ways of understanding the role of monuments that undergird the various discourses around controversial monuments. Monuments as Reverential Visual History Perhaps the most widely recognized purpose of a public monument is to represent and honor a moment of the past. Monuments serve as visual analogues to written histories. Just as a written history relies on a historian’s interpretation of facts and her judgment regarding what is noteworthy or relevant, a monument, by its very existence, communicates ideas about what is worthy of commemoration, and what is not.1 Yet unlike written histories that may offer critical engagement and nuance, monuments seek to present a singular perspective and have long operated as sites of public reverence. On pedestals and in prominent public spaces, monuments, as they have been traditionally understood, commemorate and honor the figures and events that they represent. While some contemporary artists have sought to redefine the function of a monument by challenging its traditionally reverential nature, most monuments that are contested today were built with the purpose of public reverence. Monuments are an act of authorship, with careful deliberation of what is said and what is unsaid, who is honored and who is not, what a society seeks to remember and what it seeks to forget.2 This is in part why marginalized groups often turn to public monuments as symbols of their inclusion into a popularly understood idea of a collective, national history. For example, when a sculpture depicting three white suffragettes was to be placed in the U.S. Capitol rotunda in 1997, the National Political Congress of Black Women argued that Sojourner Truth should be added to the sculpture. As chairperson C. Delores Tucker asserted, “We have been left out of history

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too much and we’re not going to be left out anymore” (Levinson 1998, 29). Decisions surrounding monument-building—if and when to build a monument, where to place it, what exactly it should represent—are fraught with questions of inclusion, particularly in a multicultural society. Similarly, calls to take down problematic monuments are rooted in the notion that a monument can only represent one perspective and can never be adequately recontextualized. This hinges on the notion that a monument is inherently singular in meaning and undeniably reverential, precluding all possibility of renegotiating its meaning, as cultural and societal norms change. Monuments as Repositories of Public Memory Beyond the mere physical representation of a historical event, monuments become hotbeds of controversy because they are often perceived as signifiers of a collective, public memory of that event (Purcell 2003). Public memory can be understood most simply as “a body of beliefs and ideas about the past that help a public or society understand both its past, present, and by implication, its future” (Bodnar 1992, 13). Thus monuments consciously and intentionally shape a public space—both physically and conceptually—in which we understand our past and build our future. As historian MichelRolph Trouillot notes: Commemorations sanitize further the messy history lived by the actors. They contribute to the continuous myth-making process that gives history its more definite shapes: they help to create, modify, or sanction the public meanings attached to historical events deems worthy or mass celebration. As rituals that package history for public consumption, commemorations play the numbers game to create a past that seems both more real and more elementary. (2015, 116)

Embodied in permanent physical forms, monuments seek not only to create the public meanings attached to historical events but also to control those meanings over time. It is this enduring function of monuments that renders them the perpetual site of contestation of those meanings. Monuments as Memory Sites: Bridging History and Memory As the debates over Confederate monuments have shown, public memory is not singular or unitary. It is continually contested and renegotiated. Monuments frequently become sites of these contestations, where history and memory lie in visible tension. Historian Pierre Nora considers the oppositional nature of history and memory:

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Memory remains in permanent evolution, open to the dialectic of remembering and forgetting, unconscious of its successive deformations . . . susceptible to being long dormant and periodically revived. History, on the other hand, is the reconstruction, always problematic and incomplete, of what is no longer. Memory is a perpetually actual phenomenon a bond tying us to the eternal present; history is a representation of the past. (1989, 8)

Can a monument represent the past, while at the same time remaining open to the dialectic of remembering and forgetting? If public memory is understood as dynamic and multifaceted, it would follow that asserting a singular viewpoint of a given historical event is in direct opposition to the idea of remaining open to the continual development of memory. Nora’s conceptualization of a lieux de mémoire, or memory site, is based on the idea that public memory does not spontaneously emerge, but instead relies on what Nora calls “commemorative vigilance” to form and re-form public memory (1989, 12). It is the push and pull of the effort to stop time, the “moment of history torn away from the movement of history,” that produces the space in which memory and the contemporary, collective meaning of that past event can be contested and renegotiated (Nora 1989, 17). This recognizes not only the choices made in erecting a monument, but more significantly, the work in maintaining, preserving, or contesting the monument. Public memory is produced neither by the state nor individual citizens, but rather emerges from the intersection between official (state) and vernacular (public) expressions (Bodnar 1992, 13). Public memory unfolds in a nation’s confrontations, contestations, and in some cases, reappropriations of official state expressions, whether those expressions are state-sponsored monuments or the legal landscape of those monuments. Monuments as Icons of Civic Religion Legal scholar Stanford Levinson defines monuments by their placement in what he terms a nation or community’s “sacred space”: the Capitol Grounds in Washington DC, a city’s main thoroughfare, a town’s central square (1999, 152). Levinson argues that monuments necessarily exist in a nation or community’s sacred space in order to perform their crucial function of teaching desired political lessons. In these spaces, they serve as what Levinson terms “icons of a civic religion,” powerful symbols in maintaining political order (1999, 152). It is a monument’s semiotic power that makes it a hotbed for controversy, and the very contestation of the meaning of the monument and its place in a community further legitimates its power as a symbol. Monuments necessarily exist in spaces that are public and always in relation to a larger urban or suburban plan. In some cases, monuments

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divert traffic, compelling the viewer to submit to the monument’s presence, even without full awareness of the monument. As the historian Dell Upton notes: There is a more subtle way in which monumental landscapes work. They are the ubiquitous setting of our everyday lives. Monuments, in their carefully chosen settings, mutually reinforce one another and purport by their simple presence to define our civic DNA. They are key tools in the creation of what Antonio Gramsci called hegemony, the process by which people accept the legitimacy of the current order without the necessity of (much) violent enforcement. (2020, 18–19)

Upton highlights the way in which monuments often go dormant, rendered invisible and ordinary, only to later become hotbeds of controversy. Their periodic invisibility, Upton argues, is part of their ideological function, to render the contentious everyday, indisputable, seemingly collectively agreed upon. In a 2019 lecture, Upton notes: Monuments become part of the everyday landscape . . . The function of this monumental landscape as we move through it every day is to make these people and events seem like a natural part of the landscape of our everyday lives and the conditions of our lives . . . Even when people don’t know what it is—they miss it—it’s part of their consciousness, and every now and then, they pop back up into visibility (0:30:17 to 0:31:25).

A monument lies dormant, but when it wakes up, Upton argues, there arises, “a new devotion, different in detail, but not in spirit” (0:37:58 to 0:38:20). This was perhaps most viscerally evident in the 2017 Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Virginia where hundreds of people converged from around the country, in response to the city’s decision to remove its statue of Robert E. Lee. The rally brought together groups identified with the alt-right, anchoring their rhetoric of white nationalism in a call for the preservation of the statue. When looking at the intersection of government action and citizen response, it is important to examine the role of law in shaping the terms under which monuments are built, maintained, and contested. Surely, the meaning of a monument is socially constructed, therefore, continually contested and renegotiated. However, those contestations occur in the context of a broader legal landscape that reveals both the expansive control of the state over the process of contestation, as well as the opportunities for citizen engagement within and through that landscape.

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LEGAL LANDSCAPE OF MONUMENTS Historic Preservation Legislation The statutory framework surrounding federal public monuments emphasizes permanence and preservation. The National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA) requires that the National Park Service locate historic resources, determine their eligibility for the register, and assume responsibility for preserving historic properties. Four of the seven statute provisions in Section 1(b) read: The Congress finds and declares that: (1) the spirit and direction of the Nation are founded upon and reflected in its historic heritage; (2) the historical and cultural foundations of the Nation should be preserved as a living part of our community life and development in order to give a sense of orientation to the American people; (3) historic properties significant to the Nation’s heritage are being lost or substantially altered, often inadvertently, with increasing frequency; (4) the preservation of this irreplaceable heritage is in the public interest so that its vital legacy of cultural, educational, aesthetic, inspirational, economic, and energy benefits will be maintained and enriched for future generations of Americans.3 The NHPA points out that historic properties help determine the “direction of the Nation.” In this sense, the statute is consistent with the idea that monuments must endure so that they can, as Levinson argues, “convey and thus teach the public desired political lessons” (1998, 10). The NHPA further notes that monuments should be preserved “as a living part of our community life and development” (Levinson 1998, 10). Though the legal effect of the NHPA is to prevent alterations to monuments, the language of the statute reflects an understanding that the meaning of monuments may be in fact dynamic, and that their function may be more akin to a memory site, compelling a renegotiation of meaning through community engagement. If historic monuments are a living part of our communities, then perhaps the federal statute, though focused on preserving heritage, can be read to accommodate the contestation of monuments over time. It is important to note, however, that the NHPA is rarely invoked in the debate over Confederate monuments, because most of the contested monuments lie on municipal property, rather than state or federal property, and therefore largely fall under the purview of local government. This is in part what has enabled local governments to respond directly to citizen dissent regarding Confederate monuments and facilitate their removals, despite legislative efforts to the contrary.

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In response to swift local action, state legislatures began passing in 2013 what have been termed “statue statutes,” legislation aimed at preventing cities and counties from removing Confederate monuments. Some states bolstered existing historic preservation legislation, while others passed entirely new statutes with a broad reach, such as the Alabama Memorial Preservation Act, prohibiting local governments from removing, modifying, or renaming any monument that is over forty years old (Southern Poverty Law Center 2019). The Tennessee Heritage Preservation Act, by contrast, specifically notes “the War between the States” as a state-recognized historical event and mandates that public monuments memorializing the event must not be altered, removed, or otherwise disturbed.4 These legislative efforts have been largely unsuccessful at blocking municipal action to remove statues on city property. For example, the Robert E. Lee Monument in New Orleans was removed following a lawsuit in which a federal appellate court ruled that the monument fell under the jurisdiction of the city, and therefore state legislative efforts to block the city of New Orleans from removing Confederate statue did not apply.5 The monument was removed on May 19, 2017 (Opinion 2017). First Amendment Jurisprudence While the case law surrounding Confederate monuments has largely focused on questions of property law and jurisdiction, there exists a body of Supreme Court precedent relevant to monuments that centers on the First Amendment. It concerns the role of the government in sanctioning monuments and considers how the First Amendment might be implicated in those processes. Government Speech The area of First Amendment jurisprudence that is perhaps most immediately relevant to monuments is the government speech doctrine. In simplest terms, the doctrine states that when the government speaks for itself, it is immune to First Amendment challenges. Originating in Rust v. Sullivan, the government speech doctrine hinges on the distinction between the government’s role as speaker and its role as sponsor.6 Several federal circuit courts have applied a four-pronged test to determine if the government is acting as speaker and therefore immune to First Amendment challenges, considering: (1) the government’s expressive purpose, (2) where editorial control rests, (3) the government’s role as literal speaker, and (4) where the ultimate responsibility rests (Olree 2009, 386–387). The Supreme Court has yet to explicitly adopt or reject this test, but the court’s analysis of government speech tracks this formulation.

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The government speech doctrine is pertinent to the debate over Confederate monuments because the doctrine allows for circumstances in which the government need not maintain neutrality. This is a departure from one of the core tenets of the First Amendment. First Amendment jurisprudence tells us that in public forums, which are generally understood to be parks, sidewalks, and spaces that have been traditionally open to public debate, including the spaces in which most monuments are located, a government entity cannot engage in what we call viewpoint discrimination. That is, the government cannot favor or disfavor a particular voice because of the content of the speech.7 This is the legal mechanism that has enabled protest art and other expressions of contestation at many Confederate monuments. The government speech doctrine offers an exception to content neutrality, allowing the government to take a position. If the government is acting as a speaker, if it is speaking for itself, then government entities are free to make decisions, promulgate ideas, and speak about issues and topics related to its programs and goals. It does not need to remain content-neutral. This pertains not only to what the government chooses to say but also to what it chooses not to say. As Foucault (1972) and Trouillot (2015) remind us, monuments are defined by both the said and the unsaid, what they seek to remember and what they seek to forget. The government speech doctrine thus allows government entities to take a stand on a particular monument without violating the First Amendment. The key question then becomes: what counts as government speech in the context of monuments? Do permitting decisions count as speech? Does funding a particular monument count as speech? Does removing it? Does removing protest graffiti from a monument count as permissible government speech? In Pleasant Grove City v. Summum, the Supreme Court ruled that “permanent monuments displayed on public property typically represent government speech.”8 This allows a government entity to voice an opinion through its choice to display a permanent monument on public property. While the court has articulated a clear determination on the choice to display a monument, there has yet to be a legal precedent for whether the choice to remove a monument is protected government speech. The notion that removal constitutes permissible government speech seems to fall in line with the principles of the government speech doctrine, but this has not been affirmed in the courts. Instead, courts have carved narrow rulings in the recent cases involving the removal of Confederate monuments, deciding the matters on issues of property law and avoiding any questions of government speech.

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Compelled Speech Operating as a counterbalance to the government speech doctrine is the compelled speech doctrine. It states that the government cannot require a citizen to promote the government’s message. The Supreme Court first articulated this principle in the 1943 case West Virginia v. Barnette, in which the court held that requiring public school students to salute and pledge allegiance to the flag violated the First Amendment.9 The origins of the compelled speech doctrine, however, can be traced to an 1894 case in which the Georgia Supreme Court held that “liberty of speech and of writing is secured by the constitution, and incident thereto is the correlative liberty of silence.”10 This liberty of silence is at the core of the compelled speech doctrine, which focuses on whether the individual forced to speak would have endorsed the message in question. In a 1977 case, the Supreme Court held that it was unconstitutional to require an individual to display the state motto on his license plate, ruling that the government may not “require an individual to participate in the dissemination of an ideological message.”11 While it focuses specifically on messages displayed on private property in public view—the individual’s vehicle—the Wooley decision sets the groundwork for broader claims that the government may not, as the court phrases it, compel an individual “to be an instrument for fostering public adherence to an ideological point of view he finds unacceptable.”12 The application of the compelled speech doctrine to monuments would require expanding beyond the current limits of the doctrine—Wooley and subsequent case law focus on an individual’s speech on private property, not public property—as well as a particular, and a rather unconventional, understanding of how monuments work. A petitioner may argue that, given the way in which monuments operate in the public space, citizens are being compelled to bear the speech promulgated by the government, whether the monument is sanctioned by the municipality, the state, or the federal government. The argument hinges on the notion that citizens are being compelled to see the monument and to move around it physically, even if they disagree with the message it expresses, and that this form of participation, or submission to the monument’s presence, reinforces the legitimacy of the monument and its message. However, in order to fall under the compelled speech doctrine, it is not sufficient to note that an individual is compelled to bear the speech. That citizen must be compelled to speak that message or otherwise participate in the dissemination of the message. The compelled speech doctrine is applicable when the promulgation of the message relies on participation by the public. Invoking the compelled speech doctrine here is contingent on a characterization of a monument as both physically and discursively imposing, subjecting passersby to its message without regard to the passersby’s ability to consent to participation in that form of speech. Such

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a conclusion would also rely on a characterization of participation that encompasses passive forms of participation, such as merely walking by the monument or acknowledging its name. This is an attenuated connection, and there exists no precedent for such an argument in First Amendment jurisprudence. Architectural theory, however, may provide the basis for a plausible argument. In his book, Approaching Monumentality in Archeology, James Osbourne defines a monument as “an object, or suite or objects that possess an agreed upon meaning to a community of people” (2014, 4). This conceptualization of monuments focuses on the relationship between the monument and the people who experience it, situating them as central to the monument’s meaning and function in a community. Architects such as Hal Foster discuss monumentality from a relational perspective, characterizing “architecture as a site of public space of public discourse” (Foster 2010, 136). This is a discourse that occurs between the architectural form and the bodies that surround it, either in acceptance or in resistance to the authority exerted by the monument (Kevorkian 2018; Butler 2018). A monument, by its very existence in a public space, presupposes a public that participates in its ideological function, whether in an outright manner or through tacit acceptance (Gramsci 1973; Kong 2008; Upton 2020). A monument like the Lee Monument in Richmond, for example, that bifurcates the road compelling drivers and pedestrians to move around it, gives the viewer no choice but to submit to its presence. As Upton (2019) and Levinson (1999) have noted, a monument’s semiotic power lies in its ability to assert its control through its placement in a prominent, public space. Their physical placement in the sacred spaces of a nation or community, and the public’s presence in those spaces, are an integral part of their ideological function. It is one that relies on the participation of the public by its very presence in the space, whether that public is aware of the ideology or not, to legitimize the ideas embedded in the monument. As Upton aptly notes: [A]s a technique of legitimacy, hegemony needn’t mean that we embrace the monumental so wholeheartedly. We might object to some or even many aspects of it. We may even reject it wholesale, but not enough to do anything about it. We grant it a grudging acceptance as a fact of life: that’s just the way things are. And the presence of these monuments in the everyday landscape, even if we don’t pay particular attention to them, facilitates this acceptance. A succinct definition of a successful ideology might be that it convinces people that a particular interpretation of society is actually a natural and unalterable phenomenon. (Upton 2020, 19)

It is this formulation of a passive participation that might allow for the compelled speech doctrine to be invoked in the debate over contested monuments.

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Hate Speech If one of the ideological functions of a monument is to make the contentious seem every day and collectively agreed upon, then what legal recourse might there be for contentious speech that is hateful? Scholars and activists have made the claim that a vast majority of Confederate monuments were built as symbols of white supremacy, and that they continue to operate as such.13 If we take these claims seriously, is there an argument that Confederate monuments are tantamount to hate speech? It is important to note that in the United States, hate speech is considered protected speech under the First Amendment. In a 2017 case, the Supreme Court noted that “speech that demeans on the basis of race, ethnicity, gender, religion, age, disability, or any other similar ground is hateful; but the proudest boast of our free speech jurisprudence is that we protect the freedom to express ‘the thought that we hate.’”14 While hateful speech is protected under the First Amendment, there are limits to that protection. For example, if speech is inciteful, whether it is hateful or not, it can be prohibited without violating the First Amendment.15 If speech is tantamount to harassment, it can be prohibited without violating the First Amendment. Nonetheless, there exists growing movement among activists and scholars to allow for the regulation of hate speech sui generis. Formulated by critical race theorist Mari Matsuda, a narrowly defined classification of hate speech would provide redress for the harms caused by hate speech. Matsuda argues that “because racist speech is seen as private, the connection to loss of liberty is not made” (Matsuda 1989, 2378). This is in part why arguments to prohibit hate speech fail on First Amendment grounds, and instead rely on private remedies such as boycott, counter-speech, and social approbation. “State silence,” as Matsuda terms the government’s permissibility of hate speech, “is public action where the strength of the new racist groups derives from their offering legitimation and justification for otherwise socially unacceptable emotions of hate, fear, and aggression” (1989, 2378). It is in this way that the parallels to white supremacist monuments can be drawn. By allowing symbols of hatred to stand, particularly in light of growing popular sentiment that a monument was not only built as a symbol of white supremacy but also that it continues to be, the government legitimizes those views. Under Matsuda’s formulation for a narrow actionable hate speech, speech would be prohibited if: (1) the message is of racial inferiority; (2) the message is directed against a historically oppressed group; and (3) the message is persecutorial, hateful, and degrading (Matsuda 1989, 2357). While the proposed formulation is not binding law, it presents a potential framework for approaching monuments and symbols that could pose a harm.

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LITIGATION AT LEE CIRCLE The previous section sought to lay the groundwork for understanding the legislative and constitutional issues at play in the debate over Confederate monuments. However, in recent litigation over Confederate monuments, courts have largely avoided addressing these questions, choosing instead to rule narrowly on matters of land use and property ownership. The litigation over the Lee Monument in Richmond, though at the time of this writing still in progress, appears to be unfolding in the same vein. On June 4, 2020, in response to the protests that followed the May 2020 murder of George Floyd, Virginia governor Ralph Northam announced that the Lee Monument would be removed (Suderman and Rankin 2020). For many in the Richmond community, this decision came after years of protest and calls for the monument’s removal. While other Confederate monuments in the city had been taken down swiftly, the Lee Monument presented a particular challenge. It was located not on city property, but on state property. For monuments on city property, the municipality was able to make removal decisions without state intervention, in part due to a declaration of state of emergency in the city of Richmond declared and extended by the governor at the mayor’s request following unrest in the city. The Lee Monument, however, fell under the authority of the State of Virginia, and immediately following the announcement by the governor about the imminent removal of the statue, a lawsuit was brought by William C. Gregory, the great-grandson of the individuals who gave the land on which the Lee Monument sits to the State of Virginia.16 In his complaint, Gregory cited the language in the deed signed by his great-grandparents and by the State of Virginia, noting that Virginia agreed to “hold said statue and pedestal and circle of ground perpetually sacred to the monumental purpose to which they have been devoted and that she will faithfully guard it and affectionally protect it.”17 While the Gregory complaint was dismissed, an additional lawsuit was brought by five property owners of the area surrounding Lee Circle, Monument Avenue Historic District. Invoking similar language of holding the statue and land on which it stands as “perpetually sacred,” the property owners argued that removing the statue would decrease property value and undercut tax incentives if the National Historic Landmark designation were to be removed from Lee Circle.18 On June 8, 2020, a Richmond Circuit Court issued an injunction, temporarily blocking the State from removing the statue until the resolution of the lawsuit.19 The injunction was later extended, and ultimately dissolved, with a holding that the State of Virginia’s proposed executive action to remove the statue did not contravene public policy, nor did it violate the Virginia Constitution.20 At the time of this writing, this decision is pending appeal to the Supreme Court of Virginia.

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CITIZEN ENGAGEMENT AND AESTHETIC EXPRESSION AT LEE CIRCLE As the protests against police brutality and systemic racism began gaining traction across the United States in the summer of 2020, Lee Circle became a meeting point for protestors in Richmond. It became a site for organizers to address the community, and in early June of that year, the mayor joined a protest march through the city, marching up to the Lee Monument with thousands of demonstrators. The use of the space as a site for community gathering and protest began long before the 2020 protests. The 2020 demonstrations brought renewed support for the long-held fight for social justice in Richmond. For example, the current debate over Lee Monument strengthened citizen-led efforts to rename the circle Marcus-David Peters Circle, in honor of the twenty-four-year old African American man who was shot and killed by Richmond police while experiencing a mental health crisis in 2018. In June 2020, a sign was placed at Lee Circle declaring it Marcus-David Peters Circle. The site is referred to as MDPC by activists, gaining traction among the broader community, with references to MDPC in news outlets and on social media. Aesthetic interventions at Lee Monument mirror and constitute the protest activity at the site, with graffiti along the pedestal declaring “Black Lives Matter,” “Stop white supremacy,” “We want justice,” and other anti-racist messages. Similar to the tagging that has occurred on Confederate monuments since the late 1990s, graffiti operates as a means of resisting the authority of the monument and its purported message. It is a vernacular expression, a citizen-driven inscription that operates as counter-speech to the words and images carved in stone, sanctioned by the state. By asserting control over the monument in this way, by contesting its meaning, tagging creates space for the further reclaiming of that monument through other aesthetic expressions. One of these expressions began on June 2, 2020, when artist Dustin Klein projected a video created by the Black Lives Matter movement, with the images of forty-six victims of police brutality. The images spanned the entire pedestal, with the letters BLM superimposed on the Lee figure at the top of the monument. “There were tags all along the bottom, and they moved up the monument too, but you just can’t get to the top of the monument,” Klein noted. “Even if you look at it now, the top is still untouched” (personal communication, July 8, 2020). Through audiovisual projection, Klein was able to reach the top of the monument, with a simple and clear protest message: the letters BLM superimposed over a bronzed Robert E. Lee. Alongside content creator Alex Criqui, Klein projected images and video of both victims of police brutality and prominent Black leaders, including Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, Angela Davis, Malcolm X, and

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Martin Luther King, Jr. On July 4, Klein and Criqui projected a video of Jimi Hendrix’s performance of the Star-Spangled Banner. Reflecting on his work, Klein remarked: “I heard people saying, ‘Don’t take down our history,’ and then others asking, ‘Well, what about our history?’ It made me think about what you don’t see when you’re looking at the monument” (Personal communication, July 8, 2020). It is this form of counter-speech that resists the function of monuments as sites of the enduring meaning of a past event, and presents the possibility of contesting, renegotiating, and reclaiming meaning. In this way, citizen engagement and aesthetic interventions at monuments disrupt the notion of permanence of meaning in a monument, allowing for new expressions of collective memory.21 

Figure 7.1  Projections by Dustin Klein. Photo by Zach Fichter.

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Aesthetic interventions at Lee Monument have expanded beyond visual art such as graffiti and audiovisual projections. On June 5, ballerinas Kennedy George and Ava Holloway, both age fourteen, posed in tutus and pointe shoes in front of the tagged monument, their fists in the air, symbols of Black female power and beauty. Within days, other Black Richmonders posed in front of the graffiti-filled pedestal in joyful, carefree, liberated expressions; others more somber yet victorious. As Matthew Barbour, who posed in all black in front of the tags on Lee Monument, notes, “The standing in front of it, the dancing—it symbolizes a level of freedom that [B]lack people have never had before. As African-Americans, it’s freeing us” (McCammon 2020). With the backdrop of protest graffiti, these expressions of Black joy, beauty, and power are in and of themselves an act of self-liberation in the face of oppression. For many in the Richmond community, the Lee Monument has become a site for both resistance and transformation. Criqui offered this reflection on November 30, 2020, as part of a panel presentation hosted by the State University of New York, Purchase, New York: It was amazing not only to be a part of this movement, but to witness what was happening, and to see our community change and see the space in the circle change . . . I go there and I find joy now. I find beauty. I find music. I find people with their children. I find people contemplating lives lost. I find people celebrating graduations and weddings . . . That was a very empty and cold space before, and now I think for a lot of people in Richmond, it is a symbol of community. It’s a symbol of the future we want to have.

It is important to note that the aesthetic interventions at the Lee Monument have occurred within the context of a legal structure that has both created space for expression in contested spaces, while also seeking to curtail it. For example, Klein and Criqui have gone to great lengths to continue their projections despite a city ordinance that generators and audiovisual equipment cannot be used in the park after sunset. This ordinance was put into effect in early July, arguably in response to demonstrators who had occupied Lee Circle after sunset. Klein and Criqui continued the project, using Klein’s car to power the equipment rather than a generator, and occasionally setting up on adjacent private property, with permission, in order to avoid being removed from the public space by law enforcement. Klein and Criqui’s artwork is also subject to nuisance law, and in response, they chose to keep the volume low and project the images only for a limited time. Klein and Criqui have continued their work, in large part because the medium of expression they have chosen, light, cannot be as easily regulated as dance, for example, which would require dancers to cross the nearly

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eight-foot-tall fence that was installed around the monument in late January 2021. Artistic expression, particularly expression that is political, like the works by Klein, Criqui, George, and Holloway, receive bountiful First Amendment protection, and still artists and activists are confronted with limits created by other areas of law, which necessarily shape their expressions.

LAW, MONUMENTS, AND MONUMENTALITY This chapter has aimed to map the legal landscape surrounding monuments, highlighting the contours of that landscape that shape the way in which monuments are contested in the United States. There are significant parallels between law and monuments: in the specific mode through which each wield power and exercise authority, in the manner in which citizens resist that exercise of control, and in their shared quality of monumentality. In 1944, the architect Louis Kahn defined monumentality as “a quality, a spiritual quality inherent in a structure which conveys the feeling of its eternity, that it cannot be added to or changed” (1944, 1). Law and monuments share goals of permanence, specificity, and transcendence through time. The U.S. legal system is based on the notion that legal precedent must be carried forward, that all decisions must follow previous decisions, and that new ideas can only find legitimacy in old ones. Yet law is socially constructed; it is the result of interaction with human actors who often push up against the limits of law, contesting its meaning, function, and legitimacy, in order to find elasticity within the rigidity of law and its perpetual presence. A specific piece of legislation or case law can be contested, renegotiated, and re-formed, but law itself is structurally abiding. Law, as a construct, endures. Monuments are similarly socially constructed. Though carved in stone and physically embedded in the ground on which they rest, monuments are in constant flux, their meaning contested and renegotiated continually. As monuments fall and others are erected, as monuments are contested and recontextualized, there remains the impulse to commemorate, to honor, and to create physical forms through which collective memory can form, begging the question: what does it mean to create not only spaces of memory, but also of dialogue, free speech, and public discourse in a democracy?

NOTES 1. For a discussion of absences and silence as constitutive of the process of historical production, see Trouillot, Michel-Rolph. 2015. Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History, pp. 48–49.

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2. The characterization of monuments as authorial and authoritative is rooted in Foucault’s discussion of the incorporeal discourse: the “never said, an incorporeal discourse, a voice as silent as breath, a writing that is merely the hollow of its mark.” A Foucauldian understanding of monuments may consider a monument “no more than a repressive presence of what it does not say,” the “not-said,” a hollow that serves to silence voices that have long been repressed and oppressed. 3. Section 1,16 U.S.C. § 470 (b). 4. Tenn. Code Ann § 4-1-412 (2016). 5. Monumental Task Comm., Inc. v. Chao, No. 16-30107 (5th Cir. 2017). 6. Rust v. Sullivan, 500 U.S. 173 (1991). 7. Speech here is being used as it is generally understood in legal discourse, that is, any expressions that are understood to fall under the First Amendment. These can be written forms, spoken words, artistic works, but it can also encompass expressive conduct or symbolic speech such as the display of a flag or the use of an armband. The legal test for determining whether behavior is expressive and therefore considered speech is twofold: (1) whether the speaker intended to convey a particular message, and (2) whether the message is likely to be understood by listeners. See generally Spence v. Washington 418 U.S. 405 (1974) and Texas v. Johnson 491 U.S. 397 (1989). 8. Pleasant Grove v. Summum, 555 U.S. 460, 467 (2009). 9. West Virginia v. Barnette, 319 U.S. 624 (1943). 10. Wallace v. Ga., C. & N. Ry. Co., 22 S.E. 579, 579-80 (Ga. 1894) in Volokh, Eugene Volokh, The Law of Compelled Speech, 97 Texas L. Rev. 355 (2018). 11. Wooley v. Maynard, 430 U.S. 705, 713 (1977). 12. Id. at 715, qtd in Volokh at 370. 13. For a discussion of the white supremacist origins of Confederate monuments and the role of Confederate monuments in the alt-right movement, see Southern Poverty Law Center 2019. 14. Matal v. Tam, 137 S. Ct. 1744 (2017). 15. The legal test for incitement is speech that (1) is directed to inciting or producing imminent lawless action, and (2) is likely to incite or produce such action. The Supreme Court has consistently held that the government’s prohibition on inciteful speech does not violate the First Amendment. See Brandenburg v. Ohio 395 U.S. 444 (1969). 16. Court documents and legislative materials largely refer to the Commonwealth of Virginia, rather than the State of Virginia. In some documents, they are used interchangeably. I use the word “state” here, as the term is commonly recognized. 17. Compl. for Declaratory Judgment and Injunctive Relief, Exhibit A. Gregory v. Northam, Case No. 20-2441-5, Va. Cir. Ct., Richmond, filed June 8, 2020. See also “Lee Statue Deed.” Making History. Library of Virginia. http:​/​/vir​​ginia​​memor​​y​.com​​ /tran​​scrib​​e​/scr​​ipto/​​trans​​cribe​​​/4096​​/1411​6 18. Compl. for Declaratory Judgment and Injunctive Relief. Taylor v. Northam, Case No. 20-2489-7, Va. Cir. Ct., Richmond, filed June 15, 2020. 19. Taylor v. Northam, 2020 Va. Cir. LEXIS 180 (Va. Cir. Ct., Aug. 3, 2020). 20. Taylor v. Northam, 2020 Va. Cir. LEXIS 443 (Va. Cir. Ct., Oct. 27, 2020).

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21. For a discussion of protest art as counter-monument in Confederate monuments, see Kevorkian, E. 2018. “Recasting Monumentality: Performances of Public Protest at Confederate Monuments.”

REFERENCES Baldwin, James. 1985. The Price of the Ticket: Collected Nonfiction, 1948–1985. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Bodnar, John. 1992. Remaking America: Public Memory, Commemoration, and Patriotism in the Twentieth Century. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Brandenburg v. Ohio 395 U.S. 444 (1969). Butler, Judith. 2018. “Bodies in Alliance and the Politics of the Street.” In Notes Toward a Performative Theory of Assembly. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Complaint for Declaratory Judgment and Injunctive Relief. Taylor v. Northam, Case No. 20-2489-7, Va. Cir. Ct., Richmond, filed June 15, 2020. Complaint for Declaratory Judgment and Injunctive Relief, Exhibit A. Gregory v. Northam, Case No. 20-2441-5, Va. Cir. Ct., Richmond, filed June 8, 2020. Criqui, Alex. “Reimagining Monuments: Free Expression at Lee Circle.” Panel Presentation, State University of New York, Purchase, NY, November 30, 2020. Elliott, Cecil D. 1964. “Monuments and Monumentality.” Journal of Architectural Education 18, no. 4: 51–53. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​080​/0​​04722​​39​.19​​64​​.11​​10220​​0. Ferguson, Stephen. 2015. Philosophy of African American Studies: Nothing Left of Blackness. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Foster, Hal. 2010. “New Monumentality: Architecture and Public Space.” Perspecta 42: 135–139. Foucault, Michel. 1972. The Archeology of Knowledge and the Discourse on Language. Translated by A. M. Sheridan Smith. New York: Vintage Books. Gramsci, A. 1973. Letters from Prison. New York and London: Harper and Row. Halbwachs, M. 1992. On Collective Memory. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Kahn, Louis I. 1944. “Monumentality.” In New Architecture and City Planning: A Symposium, edited by Paul Zucker. Kevorkian, E. 2018. “Recasting Monumentality: Performances of Public Protest at Confederate Monuments.” Master’s Thesis, Wesleyan University. https://doi​.org​ /10​.14418​/wes01​.2​.208. Kong, L. 2008. “Power and Prestige.” In The Sage Companion to the City, edited by T. Hall, P. Hubbard, and R. Short, 13–28. London: SAGE. “Lee Statue Deed.” Making History. Library of Virginia. http:​/​/vir​​ginia​​memor​​y​.com​​ /tran​​scrib​​e​/scr​​ipto/​​trans​​cribe​​/​4096​​/1411​​6. Leib, Jonathan I. 2002. “Separate Times, Shared Spaces: Arthur Ashe, Monument Avenue, and the Politics of Richmond, Virginia’s Symbolic Landscape.” Cultural Geographies 9, no. 3: 286–312. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​191​/1​​47447​​4002e​​​u250o​​a.

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Levinson, Sanford V. 1998. Written in Stone: Public Monuments in Changing Societies. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Levinson, Sanford V. 1999. “Silencing the Past: Public Monuments and the Tutelary State.” Cardozo Arts & Ent. L.J. 17: 149–158. Matsuda, Mari J. 1989. “Public Response to Racist Speech: Considering the Victim’s Story.” Michigan Law Review 87, no. 8: 2320–2381. McCammom, Sarah. 2020. “In Richmond, Va., Protesters Transform A Confederate Statue.” National Public Radio, June 12, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.npr​​.org/​​2020/​​06​/12​​ /8761​​24924​​/in​-r​​ichmo​​nd​-va​​-prot​​estor​​s​-tra​​nsfor​​m​-a​-c​​​onfed​​erate​​-stat​​ue. Monument Avenue Commission. 2018. “Monument Avenue Commission Report.” Accessed May 25, 2020. https​:/​/ri​​chmon​​d​.com​​/monu​​ment-​​avenu​​e​-com​​missi​​on​-fi​​ nal​-r​​eport​​/pdf_​​98dfb​​ab1​-3​​a10​-5​​2d4​-a​​b4​7​-f​​4a2d9​​55008​​4​.htm​​l. Monumental Task Comm., Inc. v. Chao, No. 16-30107 (5th Cir. 2017). Natalia Krzyżanowska, Natalia. 2016. “The Discourse of Counter-Monuments: Semiotics of Material Commemoration in Contemporary Urban Spaces.” Social Semiotics 26, no. 5: 465–485. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​080​/1​​03503​​30​.20​​15​​.10​​96132​. Neuman, Scott. 2020. “Virginia Judge Blocks Plan to Remove Statue of Robert E. Lee.” National Public Radio, June 9, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.npr​​.org/​​secti​​ons​/l​​ive​-u​​ pdate​​s​-pro​​tests​​-for-​​racia​​l​-jus​​tice/​​2020/​​06​/09​​/8727​​07016​​/virg​​inia-​​judge​​-bloc​​ks​-pl​​ an​-to​​-remo​​​ve​-st​​atue-​​of​-ro​​bert-​​e​-lee​. Nora, Pierre. 1989. “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire.” Representations 26 (April): 7–24. https://doi​.org​/10​.2307​/2928520. Olree, Andy G. 2009. “Identifying Government Speech.” Connecticut Law Review 42: 365–398. Opinion. 2017. “Mitch Landrieu’s Speech on the Removal of Confederate Monuments in New Orleans” The New York Times, May 23, 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nyt​​imes.​​com​/2​​ 017​/0​​5​/23/​​opini​​on​/mi​​tch​-l​​andri​​eus​-s​​peech​​​-tran​​scrip​​t​.htm​​l. Osborne, James F. 2014. “Monuments and Monumentality.” In Approaching Monumentality in Archaeology, edited by James F. Osborne, 1–22. Albany, New York: State University of New York Press. Owusu, Portia. 2019. Spectres from the Past: The “History” of Slavery in West African and African-American Narratives. New York: Routledge. Pleasant Grove v. Summum, 555 U.S. 460, 467 (2009). Purcell, Sarah. 2003. “Commemoration, Public Art, and the Changing Meaning of the Bunker Hill Monument.” Public Historian 25, no. 2 (May): 55–71. https://doi​.org​ /10​.1525​/tph​.2003​.25​.2​.55. Rust v. Sullivan, 500 U.S. 173 (1991). Southern Historical Society. 1889. “The Monument to General Robert E. Lee.” Southern Historical Society Papers 17: 312–335. Southern Poverty Law Center. 2019. “Whose Heritage? Public Symbols of the Confederacy.” Hate and Extremism. https​:/​/ww​​w​.spl​​cente​​r​.org​​/2019​​0201/​​whose​​ -heri​​tage-​​publi​​c​-sym​​bols-​​​confe​​derac​​y. Southern Poverty Law Center. 2020. “Whose Heritage?” Last modified July 2, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.spl​​cente​​r​.org​​/data​​-proj​​ects/​​whose​​​-heri​​tage. Spence v. Washington 418 U.S. 405 (1974).

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Suderman, Alan, and Sarah Rankin. 2020. “Virginia Governor to Announce Removal of Lee Statue.” Associated Press, June 3, 2020. https​:/​/ap​​news.​​com​/7​​5e6f0​​d57a8​​ 96207​​551c1​​c0e88​​​68cb2​​7. Taylor v. Northam, 2020 Va. Cir. LEXIS 180 (Va. Cir. Ct., Aug. 3, 2020). Taylor v. Northam, 2020 Va. Cir. LEXIS 443 (Va. Cir. Ct., Oct. 27, 2020). Tenn. Code Ann § 4-1-412 (2016). Texas v. Johnson 491 U.S. 397 (1989). Trouillot, Michel-Rolph. 2015. Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History, 20th Anniversary Edition. Boston: Beacon. Upton, Dell. 2019. “A Difficult Heritage: The Afterlife of Fascist-Era Architecture, Monuments, and Works of Art in Italy.” Conference, American Academy in Rome, Rome, Italy, March 12, 2019. https​:/​/li​​vestr​​eam​.c​​om​/aa​​rome/​​event​​s​​/859​​7096. Upton, Dell. 2020. “Monuments and Crimes.” Notes & Queries. Journal 18. Accessed June 25, 2020. http:​/​/www​​.jour​​nal18​​.org/​​nq​/mo​​numen​​ts​-an​​d​-cri​​mes​-b​​y​​ -del​​l​-upt​​on/. Volokh, Eugene. 2018. “The Law of Compelled Speech.” Texas Law Review 97: 355–395. Wallace v. Ga., C. & N. Ry. Co., 22 S.E. 579, 579-80 (Ga. 1894). West Virginia v. Barnette, 319 U.S. 624 (1943). Wooley v. Maynard, 430 U.S. 705 (1977). Young, James E. 1992. “The Counter-Monument: Memory against Itself in Germany Today.” Critical Inquiry 18, no. 2: 267–296.

Chapter 8

Art, Censorship, and the Battles over Public Spaces John K. Wilson

In 2020, protests around the world in support of the Black Lives Matter movement forced a public reckoning about the nature of our public monuments and how glorifying the racist past helps create a racist future. Statues of Christopher Columbus, Robert E. Lee, and various Confederate monuments have been vandalized by protesters and removed by public officials (Ortiz et al. 2020).1 Who deserves a statue, and who decides? These questions also raise larger issues about public art and censorship when we decide which values will prevail in the public sphere. The power of these symbols is undeniable. In 2017, white nationalists marched in Charlottesville, Virginia, to support a statue of Robert E. Lee, attacking counterprotesters in many incidents, including the murder of Heather Heyer by a self-professed neo-Nazi who ran over people at a protest with his car (Signer 2020, 3). For some people, the answer is easy: All Statues Matter. Donald Trump, a president who seemed to care more about a few dozen Confederate statues falling than hundreds of thousands of Americans dying from COVID-19, tweeted: “Very sad to see States allowing roving gangs of wise guys, anarchists & looters, many of them having no idea what they are doing, indiscriminately ripping down our statues and monuments to the past. Some are great works of art, but all represent our History & Heritage, both the good and the bad” (Trump 2020). The notion that statues should represent the bad part of our history is baffling. Do we erect statues of Richard Nixon to honor the crimes of Watergate? Should we build a statue of a maskless Trump to represent his failure to stop the spread of COVID-19 in America? Public statues are, by definition, acts of glorification (Bromwich 2020). Trump does not think the painting of Black Lives Matter on Fifth Avenue in front of Trump Tower in New York City 149

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must remain because it is now part of our history; he wants it to be destroyed (Cascone 2020). Historically, statues are typically symbols of conquest. They are physical reminders to subjugated peoples about who rules and who is ruled. When oppressive regimes are overthrown, their statues fall as well. Art historian Erin Thompson has noted about the long history of statues, “destruction is the norm and preservation is the rare exception” (Bromwich 2020, para. 5). However, the destruction of art is also a horrific tactic of authoritarian regimes. In Nazi Germany, “Degenerate Art” was forbidden and often destroyed (Barron 1991). During China’s Cultural Revolution, artists were condemned as counter-revolutionaries and put in prison. In 2014, the Islamic State destroyed vast numbers of mosques, churches, and historic artifacts in Iraq and Syria (Harkin 2016). Destroying art, even mediocre art, is a troubling idea. Most libraries remove some outdated books to make room for new work, but they do not purge anything written by racists and hold a bonfire. Confederate monuments pose some of the easier questions, because the Confederacy embodies the closest thing to pure evil in American history. The Civil War was the most destructive conflict for America in its history, causing 620,000 military deaths (about 2% of the entire American population) and massive devastation and suffering (Gilpin 2008). The Confederacy stands for armed revolution to destroy the United States, causing mass death in order to enslave Black people. It stands for treason in defense of oppression. Trump claimed that the Confederate monuments “were done after the war in order to heal.” In reality, virtually all Confederate statues and monuments were constructed from the 1890s to the 1950s as monuments to the Jim Crow era of segregation, and part of a campaign of terror and repression against African Americans (Little 2017). Is this art? Is this history? Of course, it’s art. Of course, it’s history. But not all art gets put up on a pedestal in the public square. Not all figures in history are celebrated with a statue on public grounds. Moral judgments are made about who is worthy and unworthy. One proposed solution is to move Confederate statues into museums, but there is rarely anything museum-worthy about them. They teach nothing about history. Even if these Confederate statues were donated to art museums, they would probably never be displayed because they have no real significance as works of art. From an artistic perspective, the question of “Should we preserve this statue of Robert E. Lee?” is not fundamentally different from asking, “Should we preserve this paint-by-numbers painting of Elvis on black velvet?” They are both art, but they are not necessarily important art. One can imagine an appropriate museum for Confederate monuments (e.g., a museum about racism), but those museums generally do not exist. Even a

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museum about the history of racism would probably not want a statue glorifying Robert E. Lee. After all, Holocaust museums include many displays of horrific, offensive, and bigoted material, but none of them feel the necessity to include a monument to Hitler in order to remind people about history. Building museums to celebrate past evil can be an expensive proposition. After protesters in 2018 at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill (UNC) tore down the Silent Sam Confederate statue, the Board of Trustees proposed building a $5.3 million museum for it that would cost almost a million dollars each year in maintenance and security (Stancill and Grubb 2018). In 2019, UNC officials arranged a deal to give the statue (and a $2.5 million trust to care for it) to the Sons of Confederate Veterans, only to see a judge overturn the settlement in 2020 (Murphy 2020). Critics view statue removal in extreme terms. Trump retweeted the claim of Congressman Matt Gaetz (R-FL) that tearing down statues is attempted “cultural genocide” (Idliby 2020, para. 4). Fox News host Tucker Carlson argued that “healthy societies do not destroy their own history” (Carlson 2020, para. 7), of course not. But statues are not history. Statues are about the interpretation of history, and that’s something that constantly changes. After all, when North Korea’s totalitarian dictatorship finally falls one day, will Carlson insist that they maintain the statues to honor the men who caused so much death and misery? Still, a mob with a rope is not an ideal form of art curation. Those celebrating the destruction of Confederate monuments would not also argue that white nationalists have a fundamental right to destroy monuments of African Americans, and even well-intentioned protesters can make mistakes. A statue of Matthias Baldwin in Philadelphia was defaced on June 10, 2020, with the words colonizer and murderer spray-painted on the pedestal, even though Baldwin was an abolitionist who fought for African American voting rights in the 1830s and built schools for African American children (Mikkelson 2020). We need to debate the role of public spaces and who should be honored in them. CONTROVERSIES OVER HISTORIC ART Statues are not the only public objects being protested. Public artwork created decades ago sparks opposition as public opinion changes over time and people demand that art reflect their values today. At San Francisco’s George Washington High School, the school board voted unanimously in June 2019 to destroy a historic mural (Wilson 2020). The 1936 mural, Westward Vision by Victor Arnautoff, is remarkable for its harsh realism because it critically depicts George Washington’s role in

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slavery and the killing of Native Americans. Ironically, if the mural had simply whitewashed history and depicted Washington as a hero, there would probably be no concern about it. But the images have been controversial for a long time, as African American students objected to seeing negative images despite their historical accuracy. In 1974, the school board came up with a solution, to keep the old mural but install a new mural, Multi-Ethnic Heritage, with more positive imagery by African American artist Dewey Crumpler, who still opposes removing Amautoff’s work (Markowitz and Siler-Gonzales 2019). But the old murals remained a source of opposition and now only litigation stands in the way of them being covered up. If artistic depictions of injustice are going to be banned for the potential psychological harm they might cause, then controversial public art will be impossible, and it is not clear why the problem is limited to art. Public discussions of slavery and racial injustice in novels, movies, history books, and classrooms have the same potential psychological impact as artwork. A battle in the courts over race and art is being waged at the University of Kentucky, where administrators are planning to remove a 1934 fresco by Ann Rice O’Hanlon that includes depictions of enslaved people and a Native American holding a tomahawk. Karyn Olivier, a Black artist commissioned by the university to install an artwork in the same building in 2018 that responds to O’Hanlon’s mural and reproduces its depictions of Black and Native American people, has called for removing her own work if O’Hanlon’s is censored (Jacobs 2020). University of Kentucky president Eli Capilouto explained, “The spaces we have created for dialogue, and the work we have commissioned to expand conversation and contextualize art, haven’t worked, frankly” (Parks 2020, para. 9). He noted, “One African American student recently told me that each time he walks into class at Memorial Hall he looks at the Black men and women toiling in tobacco fields and receives the terrible reminder that his ancestors were enslaved, subjugated by his fellow humans” (Capilouto 2015, para. 5). The Black Student Advisory Council held a sit-in in 2019 demanding removal of the mural, and then president Tsage Douglas, argued: “Taking down and completely removing the mural is not with the purpose of destroying art or covering up necessary conversations, but with the intent of giving Black students room to heal” (Douglas 2019, para. 4). Many of the debates over racist art are taking place on college campuses, where the desire to provide a welcoming environment for a diverse population can conflict with the values of free expression. Resolving these conflicts requires finding alternatives to the simple choice of either censoring art or doing nothing about offensive symbols and images. Just as more speech is often the best solution to bad speech, more art can be the better way to address bad art. Counterart, as a variation on counterspeech,

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provides a way to keep historical art while refusing to ignore its problematic qualities. Of course, counterart needs to have proper context. A Confederate statue is a celebration of its subject and merely putting up an explanatory placard or a statue celebrating an African American hero is not enough to offset the reverence for a symbol of evil. But it is important to remember that removing symbols of past racism will not necessarily reduce racism if the problems of injustice are simply forgotten. Artwork about Native Americans often sparks controversy because it celebrates the history of invasion, occupation, and genocide. Notre Dame decided to cover up celebratory murals of Christopher Columbus on campus in 2017, after hundreds of students and faculty signed a letter asking the university’s president Rev. John Jenkins to censor the murals (Neuendorf 2019). Dartmouth University removed a set of murals that depicted Dartmouth founder Eleazar Wheelock bringing a cask of rum and educational books to Native Americans. The murals were described as “disturbing” and “incompatible with Dartmouth’s mission and values,” and were moved to an offcampus storage facility (Boutwell 2018, para. 3). The University of Wisconsin at Stout moved frontier paintings of Native Americans canoeing in a river with French trappers to what were considered controlled campus rooms due to fears of potentially harmful effects on students (Hesselberg 2016). At Yale University in 2016, a carving on Sterling Library’s building depicting a settler with a musket and a Native American with a bow became controversial after a remodel turned it into the main entrance for the library. At first, Yale tried to cover up the musket with stonework so that instead of showing a settler pointing a gun at the Native American, he appeared to be about to smash the Native American’s head with a rock (Branch 2017). Yale’s Committee on Art in Public Spaces “determined that leaving the depiction in place would have the unintended effect of giving it a place of honor that it does not deserve.” Yale president Peter Salovey declared, “we cannot make alterations to works of art on our campus. Such alteration represents an erasure of history, which is entirely inappropriate at a university” (Branch 2017, para. 7). Instead, the art was moved to a less visible location with context added to it. Still, this response inspired mockery from conservatives such as George Will, who wrote a column titled, “Yale saves fragile students from a carving of a musket” (Will 2017). We should question the idea of removing all depictions of Native Americans from college campuses simply because they might seem offensive (as many of them are), because the alternative is likely to be colleges without any Native Americans visible at all. Historic art can be put in a historical context that exposes its flaws and reveals the critiques of it. But this kind of

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flawed art is fundamentally different from a statue whose purpose is to perpetually honor an individual who represents terrible actions. At Williams College, a 1942 mural, depicting Ephraim Williams with Colonel Titcombe, Mohawk Leader Hendrick Theyanoguin, and Mohawk soldiers on a battlefield in 1755, sparked controversy among students, faculty, and staff for its stereotypical portrayal of Native Americans. Then president Adam Falk responded by covering the mural and forming the Committee on Campus Space and Institutional History. In 2016, that group recommended adding an informational label. The added label approach is a path that allows for critiques of historical racism without censoring or damaging historic art. However, in 2020 a new president, Maud Mandel, ordered the murals removed and put in storage (Arias and Hartigan 2020). One alternative to the invisibility of Native American is to display artwork by Native Americans, but that can be controversial for different reasons. In 2017, American University in Washington, DC, removed a sculpture installed in front of its AU Museum and Katzen Arts Center after receiving violent threats from outside groups and complaints, including from an association of FBI officers (Lyle 2017). The nine-foot sculpture by California artist Rigo 23 was based on a self-portrait by incarcerated Native American activist Leonard Peltier. The installation of the sculpture was timed to coincide with Peltier’s latest application for clemency on claims of innocence after his conviction for killing two FBI agents in 1976 and with a symposium for the Peltier Defense Committee hosted by the University’s law school. If public art is limited to what a centrist consensus permits, then the ability of artists to challenge the status quo will be in jeopardy. ART AND RACISM On June 13, 2016, Corey Menafee, a Yale University employee, used a broomstick to smash a stained-glass window at Yale that depicted enslaved African Americans picking cotton (Puglise 2016). He was charged with a felony and resigned his job, but after a public outcry Yale rehired him, on the condition that he obey a gag order about his reasons for breaking the window. Before Yale imposed a gag order on him, Menafee explained that he broke the window because he was tired of looking at smiling slaves depicting a false image about the oppression of slavery. In many ways, the gag order is the worst response Yale could do. A prohibition on people being art critics is something no university should do. The problem is that Menafee destroyed art, not that he criticized it. Maya Layne argued, “Don’t tell me that breaking things isn’t useful. Yale students and faculty complained about the stained glass for years and nothing

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came of it—until Menafee. He shattered an image that celebrated Black captivity” (Layne 2020, para. 5). But sometimes the destruction of an offensive image helps to cover up the issue. Instead of Yale being forced to address the art, or to acknowledge the racism in its past, Menafee took away the problem for them. The other issue with glorifying the broomstick approach to offensive art is that it’s deeply problematic to let individuals decide for themselves what art is going to be destroyed. If the right to destroy art is regarded as a fundamental liberty, we’re going to end up with a lot of broken glass. The call for removing offensive historic art sometimes reflects the dangerous assumption that public art is supposed to be celebratory and never disturbing. But it also reflects the question of who controls public spaces and which values will prevail. Indiana University refused to remove a Thomas Hart Benton mural painted in 1933 for the Chicago World’s Fair, on the history of Indiana. The mural included a depiction of hooded members of the Ku Klux Klan (KKK), intended by Benton as a critique of the KKK’s secret influence on Indiana politics (Cascone 2017). The university declared that murals such as this “serve as a reminder and testimonial to an unsavory and criminal portion of Indiana’s history” (Saliby 2017, para. 10). Unlike a statue’s glorification, a mural is an artwork that can convey greater complexity. But art cannot convey evil without providing a visual depiction of that evil, and the more horrible the crimes, the more horrible the images will need to be to depict that evil. Some of the most contentious recent debates about art address racism. Images intended by the artist to criticize racism (particularly images involving the KKK and nooses) often lead to calls for censorship, sometimes when people are unaware of the artist’s intent, and sometimes even when people understand the point. In November 2016, Salem State University asked artist Garry Harley to supply artwork about the presidential election for an exhibit titled “State of the Union.” Harley’s contribution, which included photo illustrations of the KKK and of Jews arrested after the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in Germanoccupied Poland during World War II, was intended to emphasize the connections he saw between President Donald Trump’s campaign rhetoric and historical efforts to oppress minority groups (Gay 2016). Soon after it opened, students voiced complaints about the imagery in Harley’s work—but the students were not Trump supporters upset by seeing the comparison between the president and racists. One student wrote, “Why did Salem state think it was OK to put a pic of the KKK in the art gallery during election time??” (Jaschik 2016, para. 6). The university responded by first covering the glass doors so that the gallery’s content would not be visible from outside, and then posting a sign outside warning of the content

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inside. Then they shut down the exhibit temporarily, and days later, Salem State reopened the exhibit—but this time, with drapes around Harley’s KKK painting, to protect students from accidentally viewing it. In 2014, responding to the grand jury decisions in the Michael Brown and Eric Garner cases and the #BlackLivesMatter protests that followed, University of Iowa Visiting Assistant Professor Serhat Tanyolaçar created a KKK hood and robe covered in a collage of newspaper images of racial violence (Jones 2014). Tanyolaçar placed it in an open area on campus without telling anyone or getting permission and remained nearby to discuss the installation with students and others who passed by. As public attention to the artwork increased, so did opposition, culminating in UI officials’ instruction to Tanyolaçar to remove it that same day. 

Figure 8.1  Pentacrest Installation After the Grand Jury Declined to Indict Pantaleo on Criminal Charges for Garner’s Death by Serhat Tanyolaçar.

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In an e-mail to the campus, the vice president for Student Life declared: “There is no room for divisive, insensitive, and intolerant displays on this campus.” Two days later, President Sally Mason sent another e-mail apologizing “[f]or failing to meet [UI’s] goal of providing a respectful, all-inclusive, educational environment,” and stating that the installation “immediately caused Black students and community members to feel terrorized and to fear for their safety” (Einspruch 2015). In 2015, University at Buffalo student Ashley Powell posted White Only and Black Only signs outside water fountains and bathrooms as an art project about segregation and racism that was not appreciated on campus (White 2015). At Austin Peay University, an art project featuring rainbow-colored yarn tied up as nooses—to signify the suicides of lesbian and gay individuals—led to campus police removing it and the university president apologizing for the “deeply disturbing and hurtful” yarn and its “impact to the campus” (Kutner 2016, para. 3). Winthrop University in 2016 even threatened to expel one of its students over an art installation made in protest of the name of the university’s main building, Tillman Hall is named for Benjamin Tillman (“Pitchfork Ben”), who advocated for lynch mobs while governor of South Carolina (1890–1894). The artists hung a series of nylon stockings shaped like abstract figures and filled with mud, on trees outside the hall, and taped a piece of paper over the sign outside the hall that read “Tillman’s Legacy.” Samantha Valdez was one student who helped create the art and was brought up on disciplinary charges, and she was eventually punished by being required to complete thirty-two hours of community service (FIRE 2018). The Museum of Contemporary Art Cleveland canceled a 2020 exhibit that featured drawings depicting Black and Latino men killed by police because the museum feared the artwork “could stir trauma, leading to pain and harm.” The artist, Shaun Leonardo, declared, “institutional white fragility led to an act of censorship” (Dafoe 2020, para. 3). Leftist attempts at censoring art can sometimes be counterproductive to the progressive goals they seek. Most of the artists censored by the left are in fact progressives themselves whose work has simply been misunderstood. By calling for the repression of racist images, even when those images promote an anti-racist agenda, critics can sometimes erase the racism of the past and the present. These acts of censorship provide precedents supporting censorship which can be used by the right against controversial art by progressives, and leftist censorship is used to promote the myth of political correctness and to conceal the fact that most censorship in America still comes from the right.

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THE POLITICS OF ART Conservative political trends after the election of Ronald Reagan in 1980 brought increasing attacks on art at the same time that the AIDS crisis radicalized many artists who brought sexuality and politics into their work to protest the establishment’s indifference to the spread of a deadly virus. In 1989, Andres Serrano’s Piss Christ and Robert Mapplethorpe’s The Perfect Moment (an exhibit canceled at The Corcoran Gallery of Art due to political pressure) led to growing pressure from politicians on the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA). In 1990, the NEA pulled funding for the catalogue of Tongues of Flame, an exhibition of AIDS-related work by David Wojnarowicz at Illinois State University. NEA chair John Frohnmayer vetoed grants to four controversial performance artists. The artists, known as the NEA Four, would eventually win their case in the U.S. Supreme Court, but the NEA ultimately banned all grants to individual artists (Dubin 2016). The right-wing desire to silence controversial art also includes symbols of patriotism such as the American flag. In 1989, a student exhibition at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC) was denounced for Dread Scott’s What Is the Proper Way to Display a U.S. Flag?, which seemed to invite viewers to step on an American flag. President George H.W. Bush declared the work “disgraceful,” Scott was publicly denounced by the U.S. Senate (some of whom sued, unsuccessfully, to ban the art). The reaction led to the passage of the Flag Protection Act of 1989, which was ultimately overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court in Texas v. Johnson after Scott and others were arrested for burning a flag on the steps of the U.S. Capitol to protest the law (Cohen 2018b). The American flag remains an inspiration for artistic work and censorship. In 2018, Kansas Governor Jeff Colyer and Secretary of State Kris Kobach pressured officials at the University of Kansas to remove Josephine Meckseper’s Untitled (Flag 2), which is a collage of an American flag and a painting of the contours of the United States divided in two, to symbolize the national polarization that her artwork became intertwined with (FIRE 2018). SEXUALITY AND ART CENSORSHIP Sexual imagery has always been a key part of art, and its censorship. In Piarowski v. Illinois Community College (1985), the seventh U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals upheld a state college’s decision to relocate a controversial art exhibit from a prominent ground-floor gallery to a less prominent fourthfloor space because of sexual content (Hughes 2017).

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In 2003, John Trobaugh’s homoerotic photographs of Ken dolls and G. I. Joe figures were removed from the photo gallery of Shelton State Community College at the direction of the college president who claimed that the images “created a negative impression” and were “offensive” and “controversial” because they might be interpreted as an endorsement of homosexuality (Kennicott 2003, para. 2). While conservative critics often call for censorship of sexualized artistic images, some objections come from the left. After a statue of a sleepwalking man clad only in tight white underwear was installed near the center of Wellesley’s campus, some students found it a threatening symbol of male sexual violence. Tony Matelli, the artist, noted: “I think people should feel safe on campus, obviously, but they can’t feel safe from dangerous ideas.” Lisa Fischman, the art museum director, said after meeting with students who objected to it, “What the students really wanted was recognition of and dialogue around sexual assault” (Cohen 2018a, para. 6). The statue remained on exhibit, although it was vandalized with yellow paint. Sexual violence was also the subject of what was one of the most influential pieces of student performance art ever created. During her senior year at Columbia University, Emma Sulkowicz carried a 50-pound mattress around wherever she went, a performance-art project called “Carry That Weight” which was her senior thesis. Sulkowicz created this work as a protest against the school’s handling of her 2012 sexual-assault allegations (Bauer-Wolf 2017). Paul Nungessor, the student she accused of sexually assaulting her, sued Columbia in 2015, arguing that allowing Sulkowicz to engage in this performance art and an art exhibit was “intimate partner violence” and a violation of Title IX. Columbia settled the lawsuit, and the terms are confidential, but we should worry about lawsuits seeking to ban art (Taylor 2017). Art censorship is an issue around the world, especially because the First Amendment in the United States often protects artwork in public spaces. In August 2016, the German University in Cairo (GUC) fired Tarek Abol Naga, a professor of architecture, in apparent retaliation for student projects he supervised. In July 2016, university security officers destroyed designs by two of Professor Naga’s students. Parents had complained about the designs, which were exhibited on campus and explored themes including “nudity in the history of humanity” and “feminine divinity across civilizations” (Scholars at Risk 2016). THE POLITICS OF ART Political messages in art are a common reason for censorship. In 2006, FBI agents investigated some of the artwork in an exhibit at Columbia College of

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Chicago, including Al Brandtner’s Patriot Act, showing President Bush on a mock stamp with a revolver pointed at his head. When the exhibit traveled to the University of Wisconsin at Green Bay, the chancellor ordered Patriot Act removed from the show (Government Attic 2010). In 2008, Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute shut down “Virtual Jihadi,” a video art exhibition by Iraqi-American artist Wafaa Bilal and announced the creation of a committee to “vet and monitor” artwork on campus after College Republicans opposed the exhibition (Jaschik 2008). In 2013, the University of Kansas Dykes Library Interim Director Dr. Vince Loffredo ordered the removal of Tom Gregg: Unsold—Grenades, Cute Animals and Bad Apples ahead of its scheduled end date and closed the library’s exhibition hall permanently. The work featured in Unsold—including paintings of grenades, pistols, and rotten apples—apparently did not support the campus’ “core mission” (Lowrance 2013). At the Glasgow School of Art in 2017, an artwork was removed from an exhibit after concerns that it violated Great Britain’s counter-terrorist program, Prevent. James Oberhelm’s “Effects” [The Enthronement], about the geopolitics of the Middle East, included two videos made by Isis, including an execution. The art was reviewed by the “Prevent Concerns Group” and then banned from the show (Kopsky 2017). The election of Donald Trump in 2016 sparked many controversies over art. Polk State College rejected a submission to a faculty art exhibit from Serhat Tanyolaçar (who had earlier caused controversy when he taught at the University of Iowa). His piece, called “Death of Innocence,” depicts poets, writers, President Trump, and other political figures engaging in sexual activity to highlight “moral corruption and moral dichotomy.” Polk State informed him it could not be displayed because the campus offers classes to local high school students and “we feel that that particular piece would be too controversial to display at this time” (Flaherty 2018, para. 1).   Another source of art censorship reflects the influence of large donors. The Bernard A. Zuckerman Museum of Art at Kennesaw State University (KSU) commissioned Ruth Stanford to create an installation chronicling the history of a piece of land gifted to the university in 2009. That land was the homestead of writer Corra Harris. In “A Walk in the Valley,” Stanford sought to highlight Harris’ “complicated legacy,” including an 1899 magazine article in which Harris rationalized lynching and called African Americans “savage brute[s].” Before the opening of KSU’s new museum, President Daniel Papp ordered the installation’s removal because it did not fit the event’s “celebratory” nature (FIRE 2018). In 2020 at Bellevue College, administrators removed one sentence about a major donor to the college in an explanatory label for a public artwork about Japanese immigrants and their connection to Bellevue: “After decades of

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Figure 8.2  Death of Innocence by Serhat Tanyolaçar.

anti-Japanese agitation, led by Eastside businessman Miller Freeman and others, the mass incarceration of Japanese Americans included the 60 families (300 individuals) who farmed Bellevue.” The outcry against this attempt to whitewash the bigotry of a major campus donor was so intense that Bellevue ended up firing the Vice President of Advancement as well as the president of the college who were involved in the decision (Bayang 2020, para. 9). This may be the first time that top administrators have ever been punished for censoring art on campus. There is something powerful about how a visual image can convey ideas and feelings that mere words cannot match. This is the power of art, and it is the danger to art. Censorship is a reaction to the influence art has over us, and resisting the repression of art is particularly important to a free society where artists have the liberty to create and display controversial art. But the decisions about what art deserves to be displayed in public spaces are fundamentally products of a political process. Challenges to the statue status quo in America and around the world are part of a changing political landscape about what values and which stories in our history deserve to be told and who gets to tell them. NOTE 1. Links to these images and others mentioned throughout the chapter can be found at  https://johnkwilson​.wordpress​.com​/art/.

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Dafoe, Taylor. 2020. “A Cleveland Museum Canceled a Show of Shaun Leonardo’s Drawings of Police Violence. Now, Two Other Museums Are Stepping in to Display Them.” Artnet News, August 24, 2020. https​:/​/ne​​ws​.ar​​tnet.​​com​/a​​rt​-wo​​rld​/s​​ haun-​​leona​​rdo​-d​​rawin​​gs​-po​​lice-​​viole​​nce​-r​​estag​​ed​-​tw​​o​-mus​​eums-​​19038​​08. Douglas, Tsage. 2019. “For Black Students at UK, Removing m\Mural ‘Is About Our Healing. It Is About Our Trauma.’” Lexington Herald-Ledger, April 12, 2019. https​ :/​/ww​​w​.ken​​tucky​​.com/​​opini​​on​/op​​-ed​/a​​rticl​​e2291​​​70904​​.html​. Dubin, Steven C. 2016. Arresting Images: Impolitic Art and Uncivil Actions. New York: Routledge. Einspruch, Franklin. 2015. “When Artists Fear their Audience.” City Journal, January 23, 2015. https​:/​/ww​​w​.cit​​y​-jou​​rnal.​​org​/h​​tml​/w​​hen​-a​​rtist​​s​-fea​​r​-the​​ir​-au​​​dienc​​e​-984​​9​ .htm​​l. Faust, Drew Gilpin. 2008. This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War. New York: Knopf. Flaherty, Colleen. 2018. “Polk State College Accused of Censoring Art Instructor’s Anti-Trump Work.” Inside Higher Ed, February 21, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.ins​​idehi​​ ghere​​d​.com​​/quic​​ktake​​s​/201​​8​/02/​​21​/po​​lk​-st​​ate​-c​​olleg​​e​-acc​​used-​​censo​​ring-​​art​-i​​nstr​ u​​ctors​​-anti​​-trum​​p​-wor​​k. Foundation for Individual Rights in Education (FIRE). 2018. “One Man’s Vulgarity”: Art Censorship on American Campuses. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​fire.​​org​/r​​esear​​ch​/pu​​blica​​ tions​​/one-​​mans-​​vulga​​rity-​​art​-c​​ensor​​ship-​​on​-a​m​​erica​​n​-cam​​puses​. Gay, Malcolm. 2016. “Salem State Art Exhibit Closed Over KKK Painting to Reopen.” Boston Globe, November 30, 2016. https​:/​/ww​​w​.bos​​tongl​​obe​.c​​om​/ar​​ts​/ar​​ t​/201​​6​/11/​​30​/na​​messa​​lem​/p​​Ap5ZK​​wHpow​​KL906​​​Oz9CP​​O​/sto​​ry​.ht​​ml. Government Attic. 2010. “Secret Service Investigation of An Art Show at Columbia College, Chicago, IL Regarding An Exhibit Titled, ‘Axis of Evil, The Secret History of Sin,’ 2005.” Government Attic, July 19, 2010. https​:/​/ww​​w​.gov​​ernme​​ntatt​​ic​.or​​g​/3do​​cs​/US​​ SS​_Ax​​isOfE​​​vil​_2​​005​.p​​df. Harkin, James. 2016. “The Race to Save Syria’s Archaeological Treasures.” Smithsonian, March 2016. https​:/​/ww​​w​.smi​​thson​​ianma​​g​.com​​/hist​​ory​/r​​ace​-s​​ave​-s​​ yrias​​-arch​​aeolo​​gical​​-trea​​​sures​​-1809​​58097​. Hesselberg, George. 2016. “UW-Stout Moves Paintings After Native American Objections.” Wisconsin State Journal, August 5, 2016. https​:/​/ma​​dison​​.com/​​wsj​/ n​​ews​/l​​ocal/​​educa​​tion/​​unive​​rsity​​/uw​-s​​tout-​​moves​​-pain​​tings​​-afte​​r​-nat​​ive​-a​​meric​​an​ -ob​​jecti​​ons​/a​​rticl​​e​_ab2​​7a93e​​-8518​​​-5472​​-b551​​-4787​​976f4​​15f​.h​​tml. Hughes, Kyonzte. 2017. “Art Controversies.” Freedom Forum Institute, March 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.fre​​edomf​​orumi​​nstit​​ute​.o​​rg​/fi​​rst​-a​​mendm​​ent​-c​​enter​​/topi​​cs​/fr​​ eedom​​-of​-s​​peech​​-2​/fr​​ee​-sp​​eech-​​on​-pu​​blic-​​colle​​ge​-ca​​mpuse​​​s​-ove​​rview​​/art-​​contr​​ overs​​ies. Idliby, Leia. 2020. “Trump Spends Monday Morning Bingeing Fox & Friends, Then Attacks Network as a ‘Disaster.’” Mediaite, July 13, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.med​​iaite​​ .com/​​trump​​/trum​​p​-spe​​nds​-m​​onday​​-morn​​ing​-b​​ingei​​ng​-fo​​x​-fri​​ends-​​then-​​attac​​ks​-n​e​​ twork​​-as​-a​​-disa​​ster.

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Neuendorf, Henri. 2019. “After a Yearslong Protest, the University of Notre Dame Decides to Cover Up an Epic Mural of Christopher Columbus.” Artnet News, January 24, 2019. https​:/​/ne​​ws​.ar​​tnet.​​com​/a​​rt​-wo​​rld​/u​​niver​​sity-​​of​-no​​tre​-d​​ame​-c​​ hrist​​opher​​-colu​​​mbus-​​mural​​-1447​​603. Ortiz, Erik, Kaleigh O’Boyle, and Savannah Smith. 2020. “The Next Wave of Statue Removals is Afoot. See Where They’re Being Taken Down Across the U.S.” NBC News, June 12, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nbc​​news.​​com​/n​​ews​/u​​s​-new​​s​/202​​0​-nex​​t​-wav​​e​ -sta​​tue​-r​​emova​​ls​-​af​​oot​-m​​ap​-n1​​23050​​6. Parks, Natalie. 2020. “It’s Coming Down: After Years of Hesitancy, UK to Remove Memorial Hall Mural.” Kentucky Kernel, June 5, 2020. http:​/​/www​​.kyke​​rnel.​​com​ /n​​ews​/i​​ts​-co​​ming-​​down-​​after​​-year​​s​-of-​​hesit​​ancy-​​uk​-to​​-remo​​ve​-me​​moria​​l​-hal​​l​-mur​​ al​/ar​​ticle​​_da60​​7f48-​​a750-​​​11ea-​​af8c-​​b7f28​​a3cc5​​e4​.ht​​ml. Puglise, Nicole. 2016. “Yale Employee Battling for Job After Smashing Stained Glass Depicting Slaves.” The Guardian, July 12, 2016. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​guard​​ ian​.c​​om​/ed​​ucati​​on​/20​​16​/ju​​l​/12/​​yale-​​slave​​ry​-st​​ained​​-glas​​s​-win​​do​w​-c​​orey-​​menaf​​ ee​-jo​​b. Saliby, Sophia. 2017. “Petition Calls for Removing Controversial IU Mural Depicting KKK.” Indiana Public Media, August 25, 2017. https​:/​/in​​diana​​publi​​ cmedi​​a​.org​​/news​​/peti​​tion-​​calls​​-remo​​val​-c​​ontro​​versi​​al​-iu​​-mura​​l​-dep​​ictin​​​g​-kkk​​ -1262​​671​.p​​hp. Scholars at Risk. 2016. “Scholar’s Contract Terminated, Student Projects Destroyed.” Scholars at Risk, September 28, 2016. https​:/​/ww​​w​.sch​​olars​​atris​​k​.org​​/2016​​/09​/s​​ chola​​rs​-co​​ntrac​​ted​-t​​ermin​​ated-​​stude​​nt​-pr​​​oject​​s​-des​​troye​​d. Signer, Michael. 2020. Cry Havoc: Charlottesville and American Democracy Under Siege. New York: Public Affairs. Stancill, Jane, and Tammy Grubb. 2018. “UNC Officials Recommend $5.3 Million New Building on Campus for Silent Sam.” The News & Observer, December 3, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.new​​sobse​​rver.​​com​/n​​ews​/l​​ocal/​​artic​​le222​​5​3877​​0​.htm​​l. Taylor, Kate. 2017. “Columbia Settles with Student Cast as a Rapist in Mattress Art Project.” New York Times, July 15, 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nyt​​imes.​​com​/2​​017​ /0​​7​/14/​​nyreg​​ion​/c​​olumb​​ia​-se​​ttles​​-with​​-stud​​ent​-c​​ast​-a​​s​-a​-r​​apist​​-in​-m​​​attre​​ss​-ar​​t​-pro​​ ject.​​html. Trump, Donald (@realDonaldTrump). 2020. “Very Sad to See States Allowing Roving Gangs of wise Guys, Anarchists & Looters, Many of Them Having No Idea What They Are Doing, Indiscriminately Ripping Down Our Statues and Monuments to the Past. Some Are Great Works of Art, But All Represent Our History & Heritage, Both the Good and the Bad.” Twitter, June 24, 2020. https​:/​/ tw​​itter​​.com/​​realD​​onald​​Trump​​/stat​​us​/12​​75998​​5845​5​​13748​​49. White, Adam. 2015. “How Political Correctness at University is Threatening Student Art.” Huck, December 4, 2015. https​:/​/ww​​w​.huc​​kmag.​​com​/p​​erspe​​ctive​​s​/uni​​versi​​ty​ -po​​litic​​s​-thr​​eaten​​i​ng​-s​​tuden​​t​-art​. Will, George F. 2017. “Yale Saves Fragile Students From a Carving of a Musket.” Washington Post, August 30, 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.was​​hingt​​onpos​​t​.com​​/opin​​ions/​​ yale-​​saves​​-frag​​ile​-s​​tuden​​ts​-fr​​om​-a-​​carvi​​ng​-of​​-a​-mu​​sket/​​2017/​​08​/30​​/4e45​​b67e-​​ 8da7-​​11e7-​​9​1d5-​​ab4e4​​bb76a​​3a​_st​​ory​.h​​tml.

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Wilson, Emily. 2020. “In San Francisco, a Panel Defends Controversial WPA Mural at George Washington High School.” Hyperallegic, February 24, 2020. https​:/​/hy​​ peral​​lergi​​c​.com​​/5443​​53​/ge​​orge-​​washi​​ngton​​-high​​-scho​​ol​-al​​umni-​​assoc​​iatio​​n​-pan​​el​ -​wa​​shing​​ton​-m​​urals​. Wilson, John. 2021. “Images for Art, Censorship, and the Battles Over Public Spaces.” https://johnkwilson​.wordpress​.com​/art/.

Chapter 9

Balancing the Goods of Free Speech David Errera

We share an historical moment marked by the horrors of mass shootings and violence. Devastating school shootings in the United States (Barron 2012; Burch and Mazzei 2018; Martin et al. 2018), recent shootings at Mosques in New Zealand (Gelineau and Gambrell 2019), and other mass shootings over the years (BBC 2016; Chappell and McCallister 2017) have forced communities to face tragedy, and these tragedies have inspired difficult questions—like “Why did this happen?” and “What could we have done?” People respond to these questions in public discourse. Often, arguments are articulated about how policy could address the weaknesses or vulnerabilities brought to light by tragedy, and especially in the case of school shootings, speakers often talk about gun control. This has changed, however, in the wake of mass shootings and violence that have been motivated by hate. One such event took place on October 27, 2018, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. That day, a gunman entered the Tree of Life Synagogue at 9:50 a.m. on a Saturday morning and murdered eleven people while he shouted anti-Semitic slurs at the congregation. He was armed with an AR-15 style assault rifle and several handguns. After firing at his victims and leaving the scene, he was confronted by police officers. He shot at the officers and wounded one before being forced to retreat and hide for another hour until he surrendered (Robertson et al. 2018). The gunman was a forty-six-year-old man with no criminal record who had been posting anti-Semitic slurs and conspiracy theories on his social media profile on a platform called Gab before the attack. Gab claims to promote free speech as a platform that arose from concerns about anti-conservative biases on traditional social media to become a common meeting ground for far-right and alt-right thinkers. Not long before attacking the synagogue, the gunman posted about “going in” because the synagogue had been involved 167

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in helping immigrant groups. He was charged with twenty-nine criminal counts related to the attack, which included hate crimes and capital offenses (Saldivia et al. 2018). While in the days following the tragedy, there were typical public statements made about security and guns, some people in Pittsburgh expressed concerns that exemplify how questions about free (and responsible) speech are coming to the fore in public discourse. Over and above the issues of gun control, members of the Pittsburgh community, especially protesters in Squirrel Hill, expressed concern for the shooter’s shameless endorsement of anti-Semitic views by asking U.S. President Trump, whose speech they believed had emboldened people like the shooter, not to come to Squirrel Hill as they grieved their loss (Balingit et al. 2018). These members of the community wanted the president to be held accountable for his speech—speech that they felt was irresponsible. This is one-way questions of free and responsible speech are announced as an important topic in public discourse. Rather than racing into the gun debate, public speakers in Pittsburgh expressed themselves in a new realm of public discourse that asks how standards of responsible speech should be set and enforced in democratic society. Why should someone consider President Trump’s refusal to meaningfully condemn anti-Semitic white nationalism irresponsible? Leaders in a community that lost the lives of eleven innocent people might say that the president’s speech was irresponsible because it emboldened people like the man who murdered their community members. In the wake of the Tree of Life Shooting, there was local, national, and international outcry. The prime minister of Israel expressed remorse over the tragedy and said that Israel grieved with those in Squirrel Hill; many American national and state political leaders likewise issued statements condemning the violence, including President Trump. He called for armed guards at the synagogue and other places of worship and supported efforts seeking the death penalty (Saldivia et al. 2018). At the time, Americans, and the Jewish community particularly, were growing concerned about the growing sentiments of hatred and violence in the country (Balingit et al. 2018). The shooting was not understood as an isolated incident but as an event connected to the rise of hate, violence, and mass shootings in America. Locally, there were interfaith vigils held in Pittsburgh to grieve the tragedy, including three that took place just hours afterward (Balingit et al. 2018). Duquesne University also hosted an interfaith service for the Pittsburgh community a couple of days after the tragedy (Duquesne University 2018). Those who attended the service did not gather to discuss security or guns, or for public moral argument about how gun control policy could have prevented the tragedy. Instead, the gathering was designed to show solidarity with those who were hurting. In his closing address, Duquesne University President Ken Gormley spoke on the issue of speech in current public discourse. He

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implored his fellow community members to be respectful of those around them and to be weary of the poison that had infected public discourse and swayed people like the shooter at the Tree of Life Synagogue. He advocated for a sense of responsibility in our free speech, and he suggested that we hold ourselves to a high standard of it. Expressions like those articulated by national and international leaders, the protesters in Squirrel Hill, and University President Gormley beg the question of how people should be held accountable for their speech. What standards of responsible speech should we use? How should we respond when people violate those standards and espouse hateful, hurtful, and evil positions in public discourse? Whose ideals should guide us? Answering these questions and developing standards of responsible speech require exploring the tension between our desires to hold people publicly accountable for what they say and our interests in preserving the right to free speech protected by the First Amendment to the Constitution. Arneson and Dewberry (2006) point to this tension between the private goods of individual self-expression and the public goods of accountability when they write: Many legal scholars and philosophers suggest that individual expression in and of itself is a rationale for defending free speech. In this light, self-fulfillment is the end while speech is the means. Free speech as an end places the speaker or artist as sovereign of what might be said, which may or may not address the needs of the collective. (Arneson and Dewberry 2006, 204)

On the one hand is our belief in the private goods of free speech. We believe that the opportunity to speak honestly in the public forum is an important mode of self-fulfillment and that the right to free speech is an acknowledgment of individual human dignity. On the other hand is our belief in the public goods of free speech, which “address the needs of the collective” (Arneson and Dewberry 2006, 204). Democratic societies believe in democratic processes not just because of the individual self-fulfillment that can be achieved by participation in political discourse but also because widespread participation promotes group deliberation that generates prudent political decisions that are good for democratic communities. As a legal right guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution, free speech has been ardently defined and protected by the U.S. Supreme Court. In American free speech jurisprudence, the U.S. Supreme Court has tended to protect the content of American citizens’ speech regardless of how vile or irresponsible it may be. The court subscribes to an ideal of the marketplace of ideas, which suggests that the solution to bad or irresponsible speech is simply more speech—not more law. This sets narrow limits on the law’s ability to enforce standards of responsible speech (Belavusau 2010).

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While the U.S. Supreme Court has held that the government may hold people accountable for using “fighting words” (Chaplinsky v. New Hampshire 1942), it has been careful not to allow the government to censor or hold people accountable for hate speech (Virginia v. Black 2003; Snyder v. Phelps 2010). The court’s reluctance implies that the ideals of responsible speech, especially regarding hate speech, are to be negotiated and enforced outside the scope of the law. Standards of responsible speech beyond not shouting fire in a crowded building, inciting lawless conduct, or maliciously lying must be worked out in public discourse. Unfortunately, public discourse and standards of responsibility have fallen into disarray. In the current historical moment, sentiments of “existential homelessness” (Arnett 1994, 229–246) have promoted discursive practices in public discourse that are plagued by emotivism and cynicism. The ongoing cultural validation of “Argument by ‘I feel’” (Arnett 1994, 232) is exemplary of these discursive practices. This phenomenon in public discourse is noticeable in popular insistence that individuals be validated, even celebrated, for expressing their own personal “truths” without being held accountable to any good beyond their own self-validation (e.g., Friedersdorf 2018). The validation and celebration of arguments grounded solely on how a particular speaker feels represents a radical shift in the balance between the private and public goods of free speech. Because this kind of emotivistic argumentation promotes a lack of accountability to a narrative tradition beyond the interests of the self (Arnett 1994), this shift is toward the private goods of self-fulfillment. Because the private and public goods of free speech exist in dialectical tension with each other, this shift is made at the expense of the public goods of successful democratic processes. This chapter investigates the tension between the private goods of selfvalidation and the public goods of democratic civic discourse by retrieving democratic virtues from where the principles of free speech were first formulated: Ancient Athens. Referred to as the “cradle of democracy” (Arneson and Dewberry 2006, 200; Mitchell 2015), the democratic society that arose during the fifth and fourth centuries BCE in Athens was one of the first to debate over the standards of free and responsible speech. Sophists helped form and justify some of the ideals of free speech that were accepted in Athens, and those ideals are recognizable in light of the ideals of free speech that have guided American free speech jurisprudence since the early twentieth century. By reading the historical ideals of free speech in ancient Athens and comparing them with the ideals of American free speech in current times, this chapter demonstrates how understanding ancient democratic virtues may open pathways to addressing the concerns for free and responsible speech in contemporary democratic society.

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The chapter proceeds first by explaining some of the history of free speech in ancient Athens. Second, it uses the history of free speech (parrhesia) in Greece as a lens for investigating concerns about free and responsible speech in the current historical moment. Third, it investigates the rhetorical possibilities of reconciliation and accountability in public discourse, and fourth, it closes with remarks on how the private and public goods of free speech may be reconciled by standards of responsible speech. FREE SPEECH IN ANCIENT ATHENS During the fifth and fourth centuries BCE, significant cultural changes took place in Athens that were characterized by transitions from aristocratic cultural and political systems to democratic ones (Poulakos 1995, 12–13; Jarratt 1991, xv; Kerferd 1981, 15–16). These democratic reforms have been largely attributed to the leadership of Pericles, who implemented democratic policies and encouraged intellectualism in Athens (Mitchell 2015, 98–110; Kerferd 1981, 15). Democratic reform was not without its critics, and the social discourse on free speech often featured debate over differences between aristocratic and democratic values (Raaflaub 2004). Through these debates, ideals of free speech that are recognizable today were developed and negotiated in ancient Athenian society (Raaflaub 2004; Balot 2004). This section covers how the Greek term most often translated to free speech (parrhesia) was developed and negotiated in ancient Athens through this process, and how it was intertwined with questions of standards of responsible speech. Parrhesia referred to the freedom to speak honestly or frankly usually despite what others, especially authorities, might think (Saxonhouse 2006, 86; Foucault 2001, 12). Parrhesia was a key word for those advocating for democracy during the fifth and fourth centuries BCE because ancient Athenians believed that the honest expression of free people’s opinions would nourish civic deliberation and lead to rational group decision-making (Raaflaub 2004, 58; Balot 2004, 234–236). Ancient advocates of democracy articulated a positive reading of parrhesia based on these goods of civic deliberation. For them, parrhesia meant that citizens spoke their honest opinions before the assembly, and the diversity of expressions lent itself to productive public deliberation that promoted rational decisions for the good of the polis (Balot 2004, 234). Often, parrhesia connoted the courage to speak at the risk of litigation or social harm (Balot 2004, 236–242). This civic courage (Balot 2004) was important for the authenticity of civic deliberation and the positive reading of parrhesia embraced in Athens. Through this lens, parrhesia was expected to be tempered by the public goods it offered to the polis. Speakers

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disclosed their opinions and participated in deliberation for the sake of their community. Parrhesia was problematized in ancient Athenian society after the earliest generations of democracy because many of the aristocratic concerns about how free speech would affect Athenian society gained traction as Athens fell prey to individualism and demagoguery (Foucault 2001, 77–87). Some critics celebrated the public goods of democratic deliberation but expressed fear about the influence of irresponsible speakers. Isocrates was one such critic (Schiappa 1999, 174–180). He identified the irresponsible orators and demagogues of his time as those who expressed only what the people (demos) wanted to hear, regardless of their arguments’ usefulness to the polis. Isocrates sensed an “opposition between the people’s will [private goods] and the city’s best interests [public goods]” (Foucault 2001, 82), and he responded to the problem by emphasizing the need for standards of responsible speech that were guided by the goods of the polis (Schiappa 1999, 162–184). Such standards could be encompassed by the Greek term arete, which meant virtue and excellence. The harms of demagoguery and individualism witnessed by Isocrates and other critics at the time developed as parrhesia became less about an honest and courageous disclosure of opinion made on behalf of the polis and more about the freedom to shamelessly speak whatever came to mind. Parrhesia transformed from a “fearless truth-telling” (Foucault 2001, 75–88) to “the democratic practice of shamelessness” (Saxonhouse 2006, 89). The freedom to speak whatever came to mind joined with the egalitarian impulses of democracy and created a tendency in public discourse to view all parrhesiastic utterances on equal terms (Saxonhouse 2006, 88–93). This compromised the democratic ideals of parrhesia, which had been judged according to whether it promoted the public goods of the polis. In response, Isocrates, as well as other critics, advocated for a sense of responsible speech informed by the good of the polis (Schiappa 1999, 162–184). He knew the dangers of selfish, individualistic action in public discourse and trained his students to follow civic virtues that demanded commitment to public goods beyond their own personal interests and satisfactions. In this sense, his pedagogy reinforced the traditions of responsible speech in Athenian society that had played a leading role in validating parrhesia before the Greek assembly. These were traditions that demanded that speakers in public discourse express themselves on behalf of the goods of the polis rather than only on behalf of themselves. This kind of commitment to the good of the community had been developed in Sophistic discourses on virtue (arete). The Sophists were a part of the democratization of Greek culture (Poulakos 1995, 12–13), and they helped develop a democratized understanding of arete (Kerferd 1981, 131–138) that

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articulated guidelines for responsible speech that reconciled the goods of individual fulfillment and the good of the polis (Johnstone 2006, 270). While the Sophists shared a common label, many of them were individualistic thinkers. They developed nascent theories of language (logos) that were essential for the goods of the newly forming democracy in Athens. Some histories of rhetoric have painted the Sophists as dubious tricksters who learned how to use colorful language to trade rational discourse for deceptive imagery; however, this picture does not do justice to the contributions the Sophists made to ancient Greek discourse and to the development of what would become the rhetorical tradition (Walker 2000, 17–45). The Sophists were a part of a tradition of theorizing about language that carried the older poetic traditions of wisdom and eloquence in Homer and Hesiod through time into the burgeoning political and philosophical discourses that arose as democracy was coming into its own in Greece (Schiappa 2003, 157–174). This is not to say, however, that there were no bad Sophists or that the historical and contemporary concerns about sophistry are unfounded. Indeed, there were ruthless, powerful speakers who used language manipulatively and taught their students how to do so. These sycophants were a dangerous force in Greek democracy, and they inspired those who promoted the just use of language (e.g., Isocrates and Plato) to distinguish themselves from those who taught how to use language only as an instrument of power (Walker 2000, 37). Protagoras of Abdera was the first sophist to come to Athens. He developed theories of logos based on language’s place in civic deliberation and a rhetorical pedagogy based on the goods of civic excellence or “civic arete” (Schiappa 2003, 168–171; Johnstone 2006). Protagoras taught civic arete in terms of how to achieve the private goods of wealth and influence through practices of responsible speech, which meant through speech that promoted the public goods of the community. Protagoras’s “civic arete” (Schiappa 2003, 168–171) then was at the nexus of individual desire for success and the standards of excellence set according to the goods of the polis. For this reason, Johnstone (2006) describes “Sophistic wisdom,” as “perceiving in private and public circumstances opportunities for just and advantageous action, both for oneself and for the community as a whole” (270). Such wisdom meant following the standards of civic arete by engaging in parrhesia (free speech) excellently and virtuously. For Protagoras and other Sophists like Isocrates, private and public success—personal political power and civic virtue—were inseparable from one another (McLuhan 2005, 63). Protagoras’s pedagogy highlighted the important role that standards for responsible speech can play in democratic society. These standards hold free speech accountable to a tradition of the good that is greater than just the

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personal tastes or desires of the speaker. For the Athenians, this good was the good of the polis, or their community. The next section will show how these ancient considerations of free and responsible speech translate to similar kinds of concerns about speech that are relevant today. CONTEMPORARY CONCERN OVER RESPONSIBLE SPEECH Since the early twentieth century, American free speech jurisprudence has shown that it subscribes to a cultural trope about free speech and the marketplace of ideas. Peters (2005) has described the trope as follows: The story tells of courageous revolutionists and stout-hearted printers who risked life, limb, and profit by defying the censorship of crown or church . . . By ignoring the inhibitions and edicts of the censors, these heroes (so the story goes) formed a “marketplace of ideas” where any notion, good, bad, or ugly, could be evaluated on its own merits and whose price would be set by nothing but free and open competition. This marketplace is supposed to be the motor of democratic life and the place where the public blossoming of the logos so central to democracy can occur. (Peters 2005, 14–15)

The trope is a story about the roots of American speech being embedded in courage, defiance, and free expression as the model for public discourse. The American free speech tradition informed by this trope has protected the rights of citizens to express their thoughts in public discourse regardless of how hateful or evil their thoughts may be. This is because the tradition is founded on confidence in the capacity of the marketplace of ideas to operate as a mechanism for discerning the best, most truthful public judgements about the world and political issues. American free speech jurisprudence has suggested that the marketplace of ideas curtails the need for hate speech laws by providing a laissez-faire means of handling harmful and offensive speech, which is to subject such speech to public scrutiny. Thus, the Supreme Court has often found that its duty is to promote both the private and public goods of free speech by protecting the conditions of the marketplace of ideas in public discourse (Belavusau 2010). The tradition of American free speech jurisprudence and its accompanying cultural trope about the roots of free speech have much in common with the positive reading of parrhesia that was accepted by the ancient Athenians. Both cultures had confidence in free speech’s ability to foster strong public deliberation and lead to good public decision-making. The ideal for both was that as long as citizens could speak and deliberate honestly, prudent decisions

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could be made on behalf of the community, and in both cases, belief in the success of free speech presupposed that speakers spoke on behalf of the public goods of the community and not on behalf of their own private interests. In both cultures, cases for free speech in democratic society initially succeeded and the freedom of speech was accepted. In America, this happened when the First Amendment became a centerpiece of American legal values after the landmark free speech cases of the early twentieth century (Belavusau 2010). In Athens, this initial success expired when parrhesia was transformed into the freedom to say whatever came to mind and compromised the ability to hold public speakers accountable for their speech; sadly, something similar has happened today. The expectation that people be allowed to shamelessly express their truth in public discourse absent being publicly accountable to some higher standard is like the problematic transformation of parrhesia from fearless truth-telling on behalf of the polis to shameless expression on behalf of the self. What follows is that bad faith and cynicism seem inevitable (see Arnett 1994; Arnett and Arneson 1999). These circumstances leave public discourse ill-prepared to deal adequately with tragedies like the one at the Tree of Life Synagogue—tragedies that are at least partially attributed to irresponsible and hateful speech. Traditions of excellence and virtue that would mark the extremist, anti-Semitic views promoted by murderers and bigots as shameful have been compromised by an impulse to welcome the expression of every individual opinion into public discourse regardless of how vile it may be. There is a lack of a “background narrative” (Arnett and Arneson 1999, 52) for making normative ethical judgements about people’s speech in public discourse, and there is a legal tradition that says it will not do anything to hold people accountable for hate speech (Belavusau 2010, 166–169). This means that there is no legal recourse and only limited public accountability for those who shamelessly articulate the hateful views that swayed people like the man who attacked the Tree of Life Synagogue. Without a tradition of responsible speech that accords to some public good beyond the self-fulfillment of every individual speaker (e.g., the good of our communities, institutions, policies, or democracy), the disgraceful views of Nazi’s and Klansmen are just as responsible as anyone else’s. These groups practice the same kind of shamelessness as the ancient individualists and demagogues witnessed by Isocrates and other critics who called for heightened standards of responsibility. Just as was the case in ancient times, the problems of individualism and demagoguery have emerged in the current historical moment as standards of responsible speech disintegrated. So in the case of the Tree of Life Shooting, why should the U.S. president condemn anti-Semitic white nationalism? Why should he respect a letter from a community struck by tragedy? Why should the shooter have felt

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shame for the abhorrent views he expressed online before his act of terror? For a community like Squirrel Hill, current public discourse and American free speech jurisprudence have few satisfactory answers to these questions. Some say that the president, anti-Semitic white nationalists, and the shooter are entitled to their opinions, and they are all guaranteed the right to express those opinions by the First Amendment. But does this mean they should not be held accountable? Should President Trump or the anti-Semitic nationalists that Squirrel Hill claims he has emboldened be just as welcome to Squirrel Hill as anyone else? Surely not. The people who express the views that swayed the murderer should be held publicly accountable, and if President Trump has emboldened people like the shooter with his speech, he should be held accountable too. Of course, those who share the beliefs of the shooter should not be as welcome to Squirrel Hill as anyone else. These sentiments turned into the calls for public accountability that were the exigency for this chapter. Protesters in Squirrel Hill demonstrated a commitment to a tradition of responsible speech beyond the validation of a self by publicly asking President Trump not to visit their community. University President Gormley called on the members of his community to hold themselves accountable to a tradition that promoted a commitment to the public goods of free and responsible speech in democratic society. In doing so, the rhetorical calls pointed to possible pathways for cultivating something of an American civic arete. Rather than just accepting that those who express hate speech have just as much right as anyone else to express their truth, these leaders promoted commitment to holding others accountable to the public goods of free speech in American democracy. University President Gormley said, “We can no longer tolerate, as a society, hateful rhetoric and brush it off as a ‘necessary evil” (Duquesne University 2018). His message served as a call to promote a sense of public responsibility and accountability for our own and others’ speech that could introduce the possibility of reconciling both the private goods of self-fulfillment and the public goods of civic deliberation. After that speech, University President Gormley dedicated time and resources to implement an Equity and Inclusion Master Plan to deploy the intellectual resources of students, faculty, and administrators toward constructive change. In developing the project, key university stakeholder voices were critical to the project, most notably the leadership of the Black Student Union (Duquesne University 2020). The Equity and Inclusion Master Plan demonstrates sensitivity to questions of accountability and reconciliation in its pending construction of a Bias Response Team to “provide educational and restorative responses to reported incidents of bias” (Duquesne University 2020). This kind of initiative

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demonstrates how reconciliation and accountability can mitigate hurtful and marginalizing events that are brought to light. Thoughtful responses help bring closure to experiences of pain and injustice. Moreover, the concern for speech in this kind of context is highlighted by the pending Bias Response Team’s responsibility to “develop a comprehensive speech policy” (Duquesne University 2020). Explicitly including speech in the domain of the team points to the connection between speech and instances of bias and marginalization, as well as subsequent responses that can cultivate accountability and reconciliation. But what does that mean? What is there really to be done when injustice is invoked by people’s speech acts? These questions return to the broader questions of this chapter about what can be done in public discourse to hold others accountable for their speech. The next section tackles these questions by looking into the rhetorical possibilities of reconciliation. RECONCILIATION AND ACCOUNTABILITY IN PUBLIC DISCOURSE Moving toward accountability and reconciliation is difficult and situational. What might make for reconciliation in one situation could cause more harm in another. Different people, different actions, different cultures, and different meanings all make reconciliation something that resists formulaic approach. Reconciliation works from in between the hurt of injustice and a future of diminished conflict, and it can be understood as a fundamentally rhetorical concept (Doxtader 2003, 268). Reconciliation is rhetorical insofar as it functions through the persuasive use of language. When successful, reconciliation has the potential for holding people accountable for their actions and transforming a hurtful communicative environment into something better. Reconciliation demands authenticity and honesty. It requires faith in the words of those involved and in the authenticity of people’s commitments to making a more just future (Doxtader 2003, 270). This faith is not naive or unreflective. It relies heavily on ethos, a speaker’s character (McPhail 2004, 401). Ethos is the level of credibility and trustworthiness of a speaker that is recognized by the audience. Rather than being buried inside the individual, somewhere underneath her intentions and thoughts, ethos is recognized by the audience through a speaker’s outward words and actions; it exists outside the speaker between herself and the audience (Cissna and Anderson 1999). Ethos refers to an audience’s recognition of “good sense, good moral character, and goodwill” in a speaker (Aristotle 1954, 91). Cultivating an ethos of reconciliation is not easy. In situations where reconciliation is needed, wrongdoers must be willing to meet those who have been wronged and meaningfully acknowledge what they are accountable for.

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Those who have been wronged must be willing to meet wrongdoers and work toward a future that ends the pains of injustice. Here the notion of “coherent reconciliation” (Hatch 2003, 738) is helpful. This term excludes the possibility of glossing over the wrongs of the past for the sake of moving on or forgetting painful memories because it is convenient. Coherent reconciliation emerges from an authentic engagement between groups that are called to deal with injustice in a way that remembers it and learns from it. Coherent reconciliation works toward ending guilt in a way that requires making amends for what happened. In literary terms, it transforms a tragic situation into a comic one (Hatch 2003, 738). This kind of reconciliation allows for the agents responsible for injustice to be separated from their acts of injustice and for the sufferers of injustice to be recognized and made amends with. Such a rhetorical process first requires meaningful apology and acknowledgment of wrongdoing (Jovanovic and Hollingsworth 2014). This is why ethos is essential for reconciliation. Reconciliation requires that speakers demonstrate strong ethos by persuading their audiences that their apologies are heartfelt and honest. This is only possible when a wrongdoer is willing to acknowledge responsibility and take meaningful action to rectify past harms. Wrongdoers must demonstrate goodwill and good character in their discursive moves toward reconciliation, so their audiences may have faith in them and avoid cynicism. Cynicism may only be avoided when speakers act upon public goods of justice and not private goods of forgetting. In addition, those who have been harmed must be willing to hear an apology and acknowledge rectifying action. In sum, reconciliation is a “call” (Doxtader 2003, 278) for continuous dialogic engagement that restores relationships and rectifies injustice. Reconciliation is a call insofar as it emerges as being needed within the circumstances of an historical moment. To be successful, all sides must recognize the need for reconciliation. Furthermore, reconciliation is not a one-off moment of apology; it is a dialogic process of authentic engagement with questions of public goods and justice (Jovanovic 2012). It is in the pursuit of these goods that relationships and identities marred by injustice may be restored, and a tragic moment marked by injustice may be transformed into something that will be remembered, honored, and learned from in the future. What does this mean for contemporary questions about hate speech? Or about the attempts made by protesters in Pittsburgh to hold President Trump accountable for his speech? What might accountability and reconciliation look like today? Unfortunately, the ethos of reconciliation has been missing from the situation. Hate speech is poisonous and harmful. All too often, those who voice hate speech double down rather than express apology and those who call out hate speech seek to chastise rather than forgive.

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For example, thousands of Pittsburgh residents, including its mayor, considered President Trump’s remarks immediately following the Tree of Life tragedy to be unconvincing attempts at engaging their grief. President Trump declared that violence was inevitable and the reason to heighten security with armed guards at places of worship. To those Pittsburgh residents, a visit from President Trump who had promoted divisiveness in the country, would only fuel the flames of discord further. Accountability hinges upon the ability in public discourse to measure people’s words and actions against standards and values of responsibility. Reconciliation hinges upon dialogic engagement between those who violate the standards and values of responsibility and the people hurt by the injustice such violations cause. Rhetorical appeals to public goods are at the heart of accountability and reconciliation. This means accountability and reconciliation require (1) public acknowledgment of and apology for injustice and (2) meaningful action based on dialogic engagement that seeks to heal the wounds of injustice, remember the wrongs of the past, and learn from them. Today, advancing these goals is difficult because of a lack of meaningful standards of responsibility and a tendency to marginalize the public goods of public discourse. CLOSING REMARKS This chapter shows how the ideals of arete that were claimed to be taught by ancient Sophists like Protagoras provide a good starting point for promoting responsible speech in public discourse. “Civic arete” (Schiappa 2003, 168– 171) functioned in ancient Athenian discourse as a reconciliation between the private and public goods of free speech in democratic society. Civic arete reconciled the tension between the private and public goods of free speech by integrating them. Learning from Protagoras meant learning how to achieve the private goods of speaking excellently in public discourse (e.g., reputation, wealth, influence) by promoting the public goods of free speech (e.g., rational group decision-making, successful democratic processes). Achieving reconciliation between the private goods of self-fulfillment and the public goods of successful democracy is one goal that could push contemporary discourse toward heightened standards of responsible speech. At the very least, it could serve as a step toward a “background narrative” (Arnett and Arneson 1999, 52) for holding speech publicly accountable to a tradition beyond the validation of a self. It would help turn public attention away from protecting every individual’s right to express poisonous arguments and turn it toward improving its institutions and its communities through productive public discourse.

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Public accountability is possible against a background framework of standards of responsibility for which speakers may be held accountable. Such a background framework is viable insofar as it upholds the public goods of free speech and public discourse. In this way, standards of responsibility offer paths to reconciling the private and public goods of free speech because they carve publicly responsible avenues for achieving private success in the public sphere. Public accountability means measuring speakers’ words and actions against public standards of responsibility; when these standards have been violated, public accountability requires public acknowledgment, apology, and meaningful restitution. In closing, this chapter serves as a call for renewed commitment to the public goods of democracy. It makes a case for committing our free speech to something beyond self-validation and holding our speech accountable to standards of responsibility that uphold the public goods of free speech. In today’s multicultural and pluralistic context, public discourse is filled with speakers who view the world in diverse ways; it can be tempting to suggest that free speech in this context means validating every individual’s expression of their truth. The inevitable incommensurability of these truths, however, does not end discussion. It starts it. Arguments must be evaluated and disputed according to how they promote the public good. This is the kind of public discourse promoted by civic arete, and it is the kind that could appropriately balance the private and public goods of free speech in a democratic society.

REFERENCES Aristotle. 1954. Rhetoric. Translated by W. Rhys Roberts. New York: Random House. Arneson, Pat, and David R. Dewberry. 2006. “Mapping Free Speech Scholarship in the Communication Discipline: 1969–2006.” Free Speech Yearbook 43, no. 1: 199–228. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​080​/0​​89972​​25​.20​​06​​.10​​55633​​7. Arnett, Ronald C. 1994. “Existential Homelessness: A Contemporary Case for Dialogue.” In The Reach of Dialogue: Confirmation, Voice, and Community, edited by Rob Anderson, Kenneth N. Cissna, and Ronald C. Arnett, 229–246. Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press. Arnett, Ronald C., and Pat Arneson. 1999. Dialogic Civility: Community, Hope, and Interpersonal Relationships. Albany, NY: State University of New York. Balingit, Moriah, Avi Selk, and Mark Berman. 2018. “Shooting Victim’s Family Shuns President Trump in Pittsburgh as Top Officials Decline to Join Him.” Washington Post, October 30, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.was​​hingt​​onpos​​t​.com​​/nati​​on​/20​​ 18​/10​​/30​/d​​espit​​e​-cal​​ls​-st​​ay​-aw​​ay​-tr​​ump​-h​​eads-​​pitts​​burgh​​-af​te​​r​-syn​​agogu​​e​-mas​​ sacre​/.

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Balot, Ryan K. 2004. “Free Speech, Courage, and Democratic Deliberation.” In Free Speech in Classical Antiquity, edited by Ineke Sluiter and Ralph M. Rosen, 233–259. Boston: Brill. Barron, James. 2012. “Nation Reels After Gunman Massacres 20 Children at School in Connecticut.” New York Times, December 14, 2012. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nyt​​imes.​​com​ /2​​012​/1​​2​/15/​​nyreg​​ion​/s​​hooti​​ng​-re​​porte​​d​-at-​​conne​​cticu​​t​-ele​​​menta​​ry​-sc​​hool.​​html. BBC. 2016. “Orlando Nightclub Shooting: How the Attack Unfolded.” BBC, June 15, 2016. https​:/​/ww​​w​.bbc​​.com/​​news/​​world​​-us​-c​​anada​​-​3651​​1778. Belavusau, Uladzislau. 2010. “Judicial Epistemology of Free Speech Through Ancient Lenses.” International Journal for the Semiotics of Law 23, no. 2: 165– 183. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​007​/s​​11196​​-010-​​​9147-​​z. Burch, Audra D. S., and Patricia Mazzei. 2018. “Death Toll is at 17 and Could Rise in Florida School Shooting.” New York Times, February 14, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nyt​​ imes.​​com​/2​​018​/0​​2​/14/​​us​/pa​​rklan​​d​-sch​​ool​-​s​​hooti​​ng​.ht​​ml. Chaplinsky v. New Hampshire, 315 U.S. 568 (1942). Chappell, Bill, and Doreen McCallister. 2017. “Las Vegas Shooting Update: At Least 59 People Are Dead After Gunman Attacks Concert.” NPR, October 2, 2017. https​ :/​/ww​​w​.npr​​.org/​​secti​​ons​/t​​hetwo​​-way/​​2017/​​10​/02​​/5549​​76369​​/sect​​ion​-o​​f​-las​​-vega​​s​ -str​​ip​-is​​-clos​​ed​-af​​ter​-​m​​usic-​​festi​​val​-s​​hooti​​ng. Cissna, Kenneth N., and Rob Andersen. 1994. “Communication and the Ground of Dialogue.” In The Reach of Dialogue: Confirmation, Voice, and Community, edited by Rob Anderson, Kenneth N. Cissna, and Ronald C. Arnett, 9–30. Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press. Doxtader, Erik. 2003. “Reconciliation—A Rhetorical Concept/ion.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 89, no. 4: 267–292. https​:/​/do​​i​.org​​/10​.1​​080​/0​​03356​​30320​​​00160​​ 954. Duquesne University. 2018. “Duquesne Holding Interfaith Service for Victims of Tree of Life Synagogue Shooting.” Last modified October 29, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​ .duq​​.edu/​​news/​​relea​​ses​/d​​uques​​ne​-ho​​lding​​-inte​​rfait​​h​-ser​​vice-​​for​-v​​ictim​​s​-of-​​tree-​​of​ -li​​​fe​-sy​​nagog​​ue​-sh​​ootin​​g. Duquesne University. 2020. “Equity and Inclusion Master Plan Announced by President Gormley.” Last modified September 17, 2020. https​:/​/ww​​w​.duq​​.edu/​​ news/​​relea​​ses​/e​​quity​​-and-​​inclu​​sion-​​maste​​r​-pla​​n​-ann​​ounce​​d​-by-​​​presi​​dent-​​gorml​​ey. Foucault, Michel. 2001. Fearless Speech. Edited by Joseph Pearson. Los Angeles: Semiotext. Friedersdorf, Conor. 2018. “The Difference Between Speaking ‘Your Truth’ and ‘The Truth.’” The Atlantic, January 8, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​atlan​​tic​.c​​om​/po​​litic​​s​/arc​​ hive/​​2018/​​01​/th​​e​-pow​​er​-an​​d​-per​​ils​-o​​f​-spe​​aki​ng​​-your​​-trut​​h​/549​​968/. Gelineau, Kristen, and Jon Gambrell. 2019. “New Zealand Mosque Shooter is a White Nationalist Who Hates Immigrants, Documents and Video Reveal.” Chicago Tribune, March 15, 2019. https​:/​/ww​​w​.chi​​cagot​​ribun​​e​.com​​/news​​/nati​​ onwor​​ld​/ct​​-mosq​​ue​-ki​​ller-​​white​​-supr​​emacy​​-2019​​​0315-​​story​​.html​. Hatch, John B. 2003. “Reconciliation: Building a Bridge from Complicity to Coherence in the Rhetoric of Race Relations.” Rhetoric & Public Affairs 6, no. 4: 737–764. https://doi​.org​/10​.1353​/rap​.2004​.0008.

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Saxonhouse, Arlene W. 2006. Free Speech and Democracy in Ancient Athens. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schiappa, Edward. 1999. The Beginnings of Rhetorical Theory in Classical Greece. New Haven: Yale University Press. Schiappa, Edward. 2003. Protagoras and Logos: A Study in Greek Philosophy and Rhetoric, 2nd edition. Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press. Snyder v. Phelps, 562 US 443 (2011). Virginia v. Black, 538 U.S. 343 (2003). Walker, Jeffrey. 2000. Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity. New York: Oxford University Press.

Chapter 10

Video Games and Free Speech Reproducing Inequalities and Pushing Justice to the Margins Yacine Kout and Marina Lambrinou

Video gaming has sprawled into the everyday lives of millions of Americans and people around the world. It has transformed the way individuals and groups engage with each other and with other forms of media. Video gaming has expanded into films, books, food, clothing, and sports. In spite of this gargantuan presence, many view video gaming as inconsequential beyond the respite it provides from the routinization of everyday life, as an activity fundamentally disconnected from the social fabric of our lives. Some in and out of academia even refer to video gaming as a “magic circle,” a place of dreams and fantasy where people flock to in order to escape the pressures of the real world (Adams and Rollings 2009, 8). The idea that video games carry social messages that inform our thinking about the world and our actions in it is still not widely understood. Our chapter addresses this gap by operating from the premise that video gaming, like other forms of media, is intimately linked to, and contributes to, shaping social actors’ understanding of the world and the actions they undertake. We examine video gaming as a force of socialization, and more specifically, how it operates as an expression of free speech. In 2011, the Supreme Court ruled that video games qualified as a form of protected free speech. Justice Antonin Scalia wrote, “Like the protected books, plays, and movies that preceded them, video games communicate ideas—and even social messages . . . that suffices to confer First Amendment protection” (Brown v. Entertainment Merchants Association 2011, 2). Here, we interrogate video gaming as free speech through the conceptual framework of subaltern counterpublics. Our definition of free speech reaches beyond its juridical meaning carved out in the First Amendment. We define free speech as a dynamic concept which encompasses more than just words 185

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or verbal proclamations. Free speech also incorporates an embodied dimension emerging as subaltern counterpublics seeking to disrupt the status quo. We rely on autoethnography to analyze the experiences of our longstanding video game playing. Through our research, we have identified three themes or ways in which video gaming functions as free speech: player actions in and out of games; game narratives; and industry dynamics. In each theme, two different sets of subaltern counterpublics are present. One set acts as an oppressive force, the other as a liberating one. We use video gaming stories plucked from the experiences of one of the authors as well as news stories to illustrate our points. We end this chapter by inviting readers to reflect on their own engagement with video gaming and other forms of media. CONCEPTUAL FRAMEWORK Video games have been theorized as a cultural phenomenon (Muriel and Crawford 2018), as social capital (Molyneux et al. 2015), and as social networks that undergird human interaction and relationships (Suderman 2019). As such, video games form part of the social world and are subject to the type of stratification which underlies social structure. Society is inherently unjust and unequal. Dominant groups assert their power over historically marginalized and minoritized groups through forms of oppression; these power dynamics are perpetuated and reproduced by systems and social institutions, such as education and schooling, criminal justice, healthcare, and also media which increasingly shapes the way social actors see the world. Subaltern Counterpublics To elucidate how these forms of oppression operate and how they can be countered, we draw from Nancy Fraser’s concept of subaltern counterpublics to inform our theoretical framework. Subaltern counterpublics derive from Habermas’ notion of the public sphere, a space where everyday citizens come together and collectively act as a decision-making body for the social challenges and problems affecting them. Habermas’ (1962) rationale was that the kind of political engagement warranted through participation in the public sphere would enable private citizens to shape government decisions and thus partake in affairs of the state. Consequently, the concept of the public sphere could be viewed as a way of expanding political participation for those who do not occupy positions of power. However, because Habermas’ formulation was premised on participants’ ability to reason, or be rational in their decision-making, it became the basis for excluding certain groups of people from engaging in the public

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sphere. Rationality is a Western Eurocentric concept dating back to Kant’s notion of humanism (Biesta 2016), grounded in the belief that rationality and reason are markers of humanity. If one appeared to be bereft of what constituted reason or rationality one would be deemed irrational or prerational (i.e., children) and, by extension, not human. The issue here is that those who did not conform to these arbitrary standards, including women, people identifying as LGBTQIA+, people who are differently abled and racially minoritized, would not only be excluded from what it means to be human, but would also lack a legitimate voice to protest against their own exclusion. Thus, marginalized populations were not only excluded from official positions of power in government, but they were also denied the opportunity to engage in forums extending participation opportunities to other citizens. Fraser criticized Habermas’ formulation on this basis, arguing that it focuses too much on the bourgeoisie and thus fails to take into account other “nonliberal, nonbourgeois, competing public spheres” (Fraser 1990, 56). Fraser’s competing version of the public sphere, therefore, includes such counter-movements as well as “multifarious ways people who are oppressed have formed alternative publics” (Fraser 1990, 58) and promote counterdiscourses. The formation of such counter-movements known as “subaltern counterpublics” rests on the premise that “the oppressed, if given the chance . . . can speak and know their conditions” (Spivak 1993, 69). It is important to note that subaltern counterpublics are not “necessarily virtuous” (Spivak 1993, 70) in the sense that while in some cases they function as spaces for the oppressed, in others they operate as forums where dominant groups gather and flex their proverbial muscle. Subaltern Counterpublics and Free Speech The notion of counterpublics recognizes unequal power relations while also challenging normative frameworks delegitimizing activities at the margins. The subaltern is recognized as a figure at the margins of social and political life. The subaltern may be seen as powerless, but she defies the conditions of her oppression by forming solidarity alliances amounting to resistance to her subjugation. Our work highlights the inherent contradiction in free speech; namely, that it can be used to perpetuate oppression, but it can also be used to expose oppression and battle against it. Free speech is legitimated by the legal protections it is afforded and is presented as a colorblind, gender-neutral construct enshrined in the U.S. Constitution. A striking example of this legitimation is illustrated in the Supreme Court’s 2011 ruling on Westboro Church’s right to exercise homophobic speech (Snyder v. Phelps et al. 2011). In 2006, Fred Phelps, a Westboro Church faithful, and his followers marched with hateful

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signs that read “Semper fi, Semper Fag” and other insidious slogans at the funeral of Marine Lance Corporal Matthew Snyder because they blamed the death of American soldiers on the growing acceptance of same-sex relationships (Alexiou 2011). The court held that Westboro Church members were speaking on matters of public concern on public property and thus were entitled to protection under the First Amendment (Alexiou 2011). This decision allowed the Westboro Church faithful to continue to exercise homophobic speech. Free speech also operates as a tool to combat oppression by affording the right to protest inequitable conditions (Gitlin 2012). The oppressed are combating these forms of domination and expressions of hate by creating counterpublic movements aimed at challenging unequal power structures. Occupy Wall Street is one such movement that burst on the scene, seemingly out of nowhere, beginning with a few participants camping in Zuccotti Park in New York City in 2011. It soon swelled into a phenomenon that overtook major cities in the United States and around the world (Gitlin 2012). The Occupy Movement started as a protest against income and wealth inequality but soon gained mass appeal following the dire economic effects of the 2008 recession drawing big crowds to expose corporate greed and a financial landscape overwhelmingly favoring the top 1 percent of income earners over the remaining 99 percent (Gitlin 2012). While Occupy’s short-term success was considered by some to be limited, as its demands were not met in the immediate aftermath of the movement’s launch, the ideas championed by it endured and have found a home in the policy agenda and movement built by and around Senator Bernie Sanders en route to his two bids to the White House. Moreover, the very idea of the 1 percent has entered common discourse and has played a role in educating the masses about wealth inequality. Finally, the Occupy Movement experienced somewhat of a resurgence with the birth of the Occupy City Hall Movement in New York City in June 2020 (Garza 2020). The origins of this particular Occupy Movement are grounded in the efforts to root out systemic racism and the criminal justice system. George Floyd’s killing by then Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin led to massive, sweeping protests across the United States and gave rise to calls to defund the police and divest funds toward supporting communities of color (Garza 2020). In New York City, upward of 100 locals flocked to City Hall ahead of the city’s July 1, 2020, budget deadline where protesters remained for a week to inflict pressure on Mayor Bill De Blasio and the City Council to divest $1 billion from the NYPD’s budget. The Occupy Movement is a subaltern counterpublic using free speech in a liberating way to challenge the economic and sociopolitical status quo, whereas the Westboro Church case illustrates conversely how protection

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of free speech can reproduce social oppression. Our methodology section addresses both expressions of free speech as they manifest through two different subsets of subaltern counterpublics unfolding within video game narratives, industry dynamics, and player actions within and outside or games. METHODOLOGY Autoethnography is the analysis of a specific culture through the vigorous writing of the self. Autoethnography analyzes a set of experiences within a culture to gain a better understanding of that culture. It goes beyond personal accounts and toward an understanding of our world. Poulos describes it as follows: An autobiographical genre of academic writing that draws on and analyzes or interprets the lived experience of the author and connects researcher insights to self-identity, cultural rules and resources, communication practices, traditions, premises, symbols, rules, shared meanings, emotions, values, and larger social, cultural, and political issues. (2021, 4)

A key point of autoethnography is reflexivity. Through the wording of their experiences, autoethnographers constantly look “inward and outward” (Ellis 2004, 37) questioning their experiences within broader interlocked cultural, social, and political contexts. In that light, our work engages with the idea of free speech and video gaming through the wording and analysis of the experiences of one of the authors, Yacine Kout, who has grown up with video gaming. We used a three-pronged process to collect and make sense of our data: a memory set, an observation set, and discussions. Memory Set Yacine recorded twenty epiphanies retracing important video gaming moments of his life. These epiphanies cover a three-year-long relationship with video gaming. The earliest epiphany dates back to 1991. The most recent took place in 2018. He relied on Richardson’s concept of writing as a method of inquiry to word his experiences (2003). This concept centers language as a way to produce meaning and create social reality. Observation Set Yacine documented his video gaming experiences during a two-month period, a timeframe informed by established guidelines on virtual ethnography (Boellstorff et al. 2012). In the tradition of ethnography (Goodall 2000), he

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used field notes to keep track of his experiences with video games in and out of screen time. He took note of the titles of the games he played, the times during which he played them, and who he played them with. He also recorded his interactions with video gaming outside of play by documenting the video game ads he encountered, video game news stories he read, as well as discussions about video games he had with friends, acquaintances, and family members. We complemented this research with news stories to support our findings. In addition to these field notes, Yacine journaled every day during the two-month time frame. He recorded his feelings and reflections daily. His journaling also situated each day’s experiences within the larger scope of the two-month period. Our Research Discussions We analyzed Yacine’s two sets of writing through the lens of subaltern counterpublics to draw our findings. We met in person, via Skype, and by phone to discuss stories, exchange ideas, word our findings, challenge each other’s findings, reword them, set some aside, and decide on how to best present them. Saldaña (2009) writes that such discussions are an essential part of the research and writing process. They allow authors to shape or refine findings. We present our analysis as a layered text which Richardson (2003, 530) describes as “putting yourself into your text and putting your text into the literatures and traditions of social science.” We have weaved different pieces of writing from our data to give body to our findings. Quotes, reflections, questions, and creative segments were used as threads that we organized to unveil the complexity of free speech in video gaming through the idea of subaltern counterpublics. FINDINGS Our analysis illustrates that through the idea of free speech, the video gaming culture reproduces the same subaltern counterpublics dynamics operating in larger society. That is, one subset of subaltern counterpublics uses free speech in video gaming to reinforce injustice while another subset of subaltern counterpublics uses free speech in video gaming to resist injustice. As shown in Table 10.1, we have organized these free speech dynamics into three categories: (1) Game narratives; (2) Player actions in and out of games; and (3) Industry Dynamics. For each of these categories, we start by sharing a story that reinforces injustice, then follow with a story of resistance. We start with an examination of injustice because our findings show that injustice is at the core of the

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Table 10.1  Themes retracing free speech dynamics in video gaming

Game narratives Player actions in and out of games Industry dynamics

Subaltern counterpublics using free speech to reinforce injustice Hatred Discord and Unite the Right rally

Subaltern counterpublics using free speech to resist injustice Valiant Hearts Black women organizing in Xbox Live

A bro-culture of sexism at Riot Games, Inc.

Riot Games walk out

Source: The chapter authors created this table.

video gaming culture. Moreover, stories of resistance to injustice demonstrate that this resistance operates from the margin of the video gaming culture. It is important to note that these dynamics do not exist independently of each other. They are interlocked and inform each other.  GAME NARRATIVES Subaltern Counterpublics Use Oppressive Free Speech: Hatred My stomach turns as I watch the video game trailer for Hatred (Destructive Creations 2014). I don’t know what hits me most, disgust or anger. The trailer reminds me of The Sandy Hook massacre (Kranz and Harrington 2018). It is not far. It can never be far. Twenty elementary school children and seven adults murdered. A moment that shook many across the country. One specific story resonates with me. The words of Nicole Hockley, mother of Dylan Hockley who died in the massacre. She shared while fighting tears that her son had been found in the arms of Ann Marie Murphy, his teacher. Dylan had been taken from this world in the arms of a loved one (Candiotti and Patterson 2013). This is seared in my memory. The trailer continues. The nameless figure loads his guns. This massive body with long dark hair partially covering his face gets his arsenal ready. Bullets, metal, a voice deep like a tomb. Armed to the teeth, he steps out ready to rampage everything that stands in his way and everything that does not. If it moves, it dies. It if breathes, it dies. Just shoot. Pile up the bodies and run up the score. We wanted to create something contrary to prevailing standards of forcing games to be more polite or nice than they really are or even should be . . . Yes, putting things simply, we are developing a game about killing people. (Campbell 2014, para. 7)

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These are the words of Jarosław Zieliński, creative director at Destructive Creations. Hatred (Destructive Creations 2014) is an example of the consequences of free speech protection granted by Brown vs. Entertainment Merchants Association (2011). While Destructive Creations is a Polish company, the debate that surrounds this game is linked to its sale on Steam, an American platform. Through its free speech status, Hatred invites players to take on the role of a mass shooter. The player roams the streets murdering bystanders and police officers in their way. My heart was not the only one ripped apart by the idea of making a game about mass killings. Steam, one of the most popular platforms for independent developers to fund their and sell their projects, took Hatred down before its actual release. Zieliński responded with the following online post: Now YOU can vote and decide to bring the game to one of the most popular gaming platforms! Don’t just wait until it happens. Tell your friends about it and let their friends tell their friends, so the news will spread everywhere! (McWhertor 2014, para. 4)

Zielinski called on his army. Who are these troops? An army of trolls? Defenders of freedom of speech in all its forms? The “I don’t agree with your ideas, but I will fight for your right to speak them” crowd? The anger rises and does not stop there. Later that same day, Destructive Creations posted on their Facebook account an e-mail written by Gabe Newell, president of Valve, the company that developed Steam. In his e-mail, Newell apologizes for taking their game down stating it was not a good decision to do so. The coverage of this story was widespread. The same old arguments for and against video games were made. They included calling this an issue of free speech, censorship, video game violence, morals, and urging that politics be kept out of video games. Each post added more fuel to the fire and led to more free advertisement for Destructive Creations, and consequently more sales and profits. The game was successful enough for the company to later release additional content priced at $3.99 in addition to the $19.99 for the core game. The health of these sales contrasts with the diseased narrative of the game. Hatred is not the only game that fits the oppressive narrative theme in video gaming. Custer’s Revenge (Mystique 1982) places the player in the shoes of General Custer, a historical figure famous for being defeated by Native Americans at the battle of Little Bighorn (History​.c​om 2009). The game, in some twisted way, aims to correct that. The goal of Custer’s Revenge is to “navigate a battlefield to have sex with an Indian maiden . . . tied to a post,” (Cassidy 2002, para. (1) in other words, to rape her. Under the protection of free speech, video game narratives like those of Hatred and Custer’s Revenge

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reinforce hatred, violence, and injustice by normalizing oppressive ideas such as violence, sexual assault, and racism. Subaltern Counterpublics Use Free Speech to Resist Injustice: Soldats Inconnus: Mémoires de la grande guerre My mouse, keyboard, and monitor take me to World War I. In this game, Émile, a French grandfather, was ripped from his family to fight in the name of France against the German army. He was forced to leave his daughter, his grandchild, and his German son-in-law, Karl. Throughout the game, he refused to succumb to the atrocities of war. Toward the end of the game, Émile and his fellow foot soldiers were ordered to charge the Germans like cannon fodder. This was certain death. This was butchery. Émile refused. Émile’s officer confronted him. Blood boiled over the sound of flying bullets. Fists were thrown. Unfortunately, Émile accidentally killed the officer during the altercation. The next scene showed Émile, feet shackled, escorted out of his prison cell by French soldiers. Émile’s voiceover narrative accompanies his steps as he advances toward the firing squad. The letter he wrote to his daughter Marie is displayed as he slowly walks toward his inevitable fate. These are the last moments of the game. Émile’s last words to his daughter still echo in my head: Dearest Marie: As the war ends for me, I have no regrets. I’ve seen too much horror. I hope fate has been more merciful to you. Our time on Earth is brief, and mine has been filled with so much joy, that I can only be thankful for how much I’ve been blessed, most especially for the wonder you brought into my life. This letter is my last, I’ve been found guilty by a military court for the death of an officer. It was not my intention to kill him. War makes men mad. Though I failed Karl, I know my sacrifice has not been in vain. I fought for my country and my liberty, my honour is assured. Since it is the will of God to separate us on Earth, I hope we’ll meet again in heaven. Keep me in your prayers. Your loving papa, always.

Émile finally turned around and faced the French soldiers, armed with carbines. They all took aim at Émile. The screen turned black. I heard gunshots and the thumping sound of a body falling to the ground. The idea of war as honorable and worthy of sacrifice is deeply entrenched in American culture. This message works to erase the atrocities and senselessness of war. Soldats Inconnus: Mémoires de la Grande Guerre offers a different narrative about war. It works as a subaltern counterpublic by presenting war as the enemy. There is no winner in this game. Only inhumanity can win. Instead of presenting war as the simplistic opposition between two

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countries, the game is built to expose the bonds between people across countries and across conflicts. Players take control of several characters all tied by the horrors of war. One character after another, players experience a difference narrative about war. Instead of playing to kill, the gameplay focuses on puzzle solving. Players help the characters progress through the game by, for example, escaping a camp or fixing a car. The most significant storyline is that of Karl and Émile. The French father-in-law and the German son-in-law ended up on opposite sides of the conflict, pulled from the warmth of their family house to the coldness of the warfront. Players take on these roles in a narrative that invites them to play immersed in a war that only tears families apart and destroys peace. The subaltern counterpublic in Soldats Inconnus: Mémoire de la Grande guerre invites players to ponder the role of war and violence. This expression of free speech carries a counternarrative to the idea of war as a solution to achieving peace. Through this expression of free speech, players are introduced to a new way of thinking; one that stands in direct opposition to the one they have been bombarded with through movies, games, and books that glorify the victors of war as champions of good. The players are invited to question the idea that war necessarily leads to a better world.

PLAYER ACTIONS IN AND OUT OF GAMES Subaltern Counterpublics Use Free Speech to Reinforce Injustice: Unite The Right Rally Tears are filling my eyes. I try to focus on the road, but my heart is heading towards the ditch. Yessica, my wife, had told me that this story was for me. She could not know how hard that podcast was going to hit me. The podcast goes on. Kevin Roose describes how he joined a Discord server to investigate the American white supremacist movement. At that time, Discord was the latest en vogue communication tool used by PC video game players. Discord allows players to speak to one another and coordinate their efforts in the games they play. It also provides a place for players to chat and stay in touch outside of games via messages, memes, emojis, videos, gifs, and pictures. As its website states “We built Discord to bring gamers together” (Discord, n.d.). Discord is indeed a mix between social media and voice communication for video gamers. Roose explains that hate started to boil over into Discord after the Charlottesville, Virginia City Council voted in February 2017 to remove the statue of Robert E. Lee, a symbol of the confederacy and white supremacy (Tyree 2017). Leaning on the protections afforded to free speech, Discord

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gave way for a hateful protest to brew. White supremacists used Discord to speak and organize the 2017 Charlottesville Unite the Right rally. It became a major event. Neo-Nazis and other white nationalists swarmed the city. They showed the country that they continue to be a force with which to reckon. A counter-protest movement arose. The frictions became bloody as a participant of the Unite the Right rally drove his car at anti-protesters killing Heather Heyer (Roose 2017). Thinking about those events caused me to ask, why wouldn’t they use Discord? The gaming world is a white, sexist, racist, patriarchal space. Of course, these gamers would use the tools they know to rally and organize. A group of people coming together to push for a kind of change chants “one people, one nation, end immigration,” “Jews will not replace us,” “White lives matter” (Fernández Campbell 2017). The change they speak of enjoys the support of the First Amendment. The podcast featured online discussions. I could hear the voices of the Unite the Right rally organizers. It threw me off, left me numb. I could see myself in my chair, in front of my computer, my feet up on the left side of my desk, a bottle of apple cider to the right, listening to my friends as their Discord icons lit up on my screen. I was not ready to hear that alt-righters were using Discord. I was not ready to imagine these voices coming out of my speakers. Video games have been a part of my life for more than 30 years. They have helped me grow. They have helped me see the world differently. Sometimes it is their gameplay that impacted me, sometimes their stories, other times, both. Part of me still believes in the mirage of the magic circle. It was clear then that through the expression and protection of free speech and protests that followed, that video gaming community harbors subaltern counterpublics that contribute to some of the gravest social ills of our society. Subaltern Counterpublics Use Free Speech as Resistance to Injustice: Black Women Players Organizing in Xbox Live Xbox Live is the online service for the Xbox gaming console. It allows for games such as first-person shooters like Call of Duty to be played online. Xbox Live connects over 65,000,000 players all over the world. One of the most popular online game modes pits two groups of players against each other and allows them to communicate via voice chat. This competitive mode is renowned for its toxicity. Homophobic, racist, sexist, and antisemitic insults are hurled to humiliate or put down other players. Kishona Gray (2014) documented that women of color constitute a group that is much more likely to be a target of these insults. By communicating via voice chat, an essential element of online gaming, women of color are linguistically

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profiled. Auditory cues are used by players to confirm or speculate on the racial background of an individual (Baugh 2003). Feminine voices are also profiled making women of color the targets of sexism and racism. Gray (2014) writes about Black women in particular and describes Xbox Live as “An extension of black life in a white world and there was no place for them” (49). To fight against the hate they are subjected to, female players of color exercise free expression in three ways. First, they use their voices to announce the abuses to which they are subjected. They use the reporting system to flag players insulting them. By doing so, they make the attacks against them visible and call on Microsoft, the parent company of Xbox Live, to address these issues and potentially ban the accounts of racist and sexist players. Second, they organize their own response to these attacks. They create their own group within the game and work on taking down any player in the game who engages in racist remarks against one of them. Third, they work to recruit other members by posting messages on forums denouncing the insults and the rampant hate. Beyond recruitment, these posts aim at building a new presence beyond the one typically defined as a white male teenage space as well as affirming a stronger sense of identity and belonging in the Xbox Live community. The women reinforce their subaltern counterpublic movement. Gray (2014) qualifies the work of female players of color and her own research as a “call to action to address the normalization of sexist and racist violence within these online communities” (p.xii). By exercising their voices, the women aim to change the video gaming culture by becoming a more powerful force within the community. To date, Microsoft has not responded positively. The players Gray interviewed reported that they have not seen the requisite actions from Microsoft and that their experience online has remained unchanged. The abusers and abuses remain rampant, thus perpetuating a system of sexism and racism. Moreover, many of the forum posts by female players of color have been removed by Microsoft. According to Microsoft, these messages denouncing sexism and racism breach their terms of service. Yet, sexist and racist posts targeting women of color are not consistently taken down even when they are flagged. While the exercise of free speech constitutes an avenue for this subaltern counterpublic movement to tackle injustice, Microsoft’s actions communicate scorn of decency on two levels. First, by allowing racist and sexist posts to remain online, the company signals its acceptance and even approval of offensive language. Second, Microsoft, like other digital platforms, wants to dismiss responsibility to uphold civil discourse and use the veil of free speech to increase usage, especially in matters of conflict, that in turn increase their profits. This positions subaltern counterpublics that speak against this injustice as operating from the margins.

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INDUSTRY DYNAMICS Subaltern Counterpublics Use Free Speech to Reinforce Injustice: A Sexist Culture at Riot Games The use of oppressive language in the video gaming world also occurs within the very companies that create video games. The culture that reigns within the walls of Riot Games is such an example. Riot Games is a successful video game company famous for developing League of Legends. In this company, upholding free speech is used as a weapon to normalize sexism through microaggressions and sexual harassment. One of Riot Games’ many mottos is “default to trust” (D’Anastasio 2018, para. 61). Based on this motto, male managers have circulated e-mails asking to rate female employees based on their perceived sexual performance and have asked female team members if it was hard for them to work at Riot Games because of how cute they are. While these comments are vile, what makes Riot Games a sexist company is the culture and power structure that protected this type of speech and allowed it to normalize sexism in the company’s culture. As a matter of fact, female employees were reprimanded for reporting that their coworkers had used terms such as “bitch” and “pussy.” These female employees were told that their male coworkers were not using these words as gendered insults; the females were treated as if they were not defaulting to trust and therefore breaching the company’s motto. Furthermore, female employees were portrayed as untrustworthy, wanting to control the speech of their male counterparts. At Riot Games, free speech protections were on the side of those uttering sexist comments thus contributing to a culture of sexism within the company. What can and should companies do to ensure free expression? At Riot Games, everyone is entitled to their opinions, even when they reinforce injustice. It is important to note that sexism at Riot went further than words and a demeaning climate. Women were shunned from leadership positions even when they were qualified or had served as interim leaders (D’Anastasio 2018). Women there were simply used in times of need until a man was found to fill in leadership positions permanently. The use of language to reinforce sexism and injustice more broadly is not new or alien to the video gaming culture. Recent reports named alleged sexual harassers highly placed in the industry; yet, companies shielded them for years. However and finally, some actions are being taken. For example, Ubisoft placed Tommy François, vice president of the editorial department and creative services on administrative leave in July 2020 (McWhertor 2020). François was reported to have placed his hands around a female employee’s neck and squeezed.

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Investigative journalism and the reports of brave women in the gaming industry demonstrate that free speech protections inside video gaming works to the advantage of powerful abusers. Upholding free speech works, sadly, to cultivate oppressive cultures. It normalizes toxic behaviors. Subaltern Counterpublics Use Free Speech as Resistance to Injustice: Riot Games Employees Walk Out A few months after the stories of sexual harassment at Riot Games went public, five current and former employees sued the company (MacDonald 2019). Riot responded by filing a motion to force two current employees into arbitration, thus aiming for the suit to not go in front of a jury. The move was designed to ensure the raucous culture and trial’s outcome would not be disclosed to the public. Employees responded by exercising their voices, organizing, and protesting as an exercise of free expression. On May 4, 2019, more than 100 Riot employees walked off the job in Los Angeles and San Francisco. They gathered in the guest parking lots and displayed signs denouncing the sexist culture within their company; one sign read, “I reported and he got promoted” (MacDonald 2019, para. 3). Employees also organized discussion groups to name, describe, and address the issues they faced in their own company (Crecente 2019). This walkout was the most significant in video gaming history (MacDonald 2019), demanding that Riot Games cease forced arbitration and stop protecting sexual harassers, especially those in positions of power. While the core of these walkouts took place in the Los Angeles and San Francisco, the movement spread to other locations (D’Anastasio 2019). Tweets were posted and the hashtag #RiotWalkout began trending (Crecente 2019). Labor organizations and their representatives expressed their support of the walkouts, including Liz Shuler, Secretary Treasurer of the American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial Organizations (AFL-CIO), who tweeted her support (Shuler 2019). Another notable supporter was the organization, Game Workers Unite (GWU), an emerging and aspiring video game labor union (Game Workers Unite 2019b). GWU released a statement noting that employees were rightly speaking out for change: Well, today, you have certainly shown up and used your collective voice to make a demand more powerful than any one of you could have done alone. You are demonstrating to all of us in this industry that real change can only come when you and your coworkers stand up for one another, share mutual respect, and develop deep relationships of care and support in the workplace. (Game Workers Unite 2019c, para. 3)

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Employees exercising their right to peacefully assemble is still in its infancy in the video gaming industry. GWU (2019a) is working on connecting “prounion activists, exploited workers, and allies across disciplines, classes, and countries” (para. 1) Employee walkouts and GWU constitute subaltern counterpublics as they position themselves with workers to fight against “all forms of oppression and exploitation” (Game Workers Unite 2019b, para. 3) such as sexism, racism, homophobia, transphobia, and classism. These dynamics show that expression in contested public spaces to demand justice in the video gaming industry is too often found only at the margin. FREE SPEECH AND ITS CONTRADICTIONS Free speech is a constitutional right fraught with contradictions. Heralded as a beacon of democracy and freedom, it serves both as a conduit for justice and shield for injustice. Some members of the video gaming community have used their voices to promote social change through community building, positive game narratives, and protests against hate in its many forms. Other members of the video gaming community have relied on protections of their speech to produce oppressive game narratives and foster actions in and out of games to oppose social justice. These dynamics echo those in broader society. Through free speech, social movements such as Black Lives Matter encompass the fight for racial justice, a space for community building, and protests. Oppressive groups use free speech protections to push back against social justice, building their own oppressive communities through protest actions such as those in Charlottesville, VA. The growing violence in the United States perpetrated in the name of white supremacy is a testament to issues tied to free speech (Brooks 2020). For instance, the Charlottesville incident made the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) a champion of the right to free speech, reconsider its stance (Blasdel 2018). The incident also gave rise to questions such as whether it is appropriate to tolerate forms of hate speech and whether, given the United States’ history and legacy of oppression as well as lingering social inequities, only certain members of the population are truly allowed to speak (Blasdel 2018). Additionally, given recent U.S. administrations’ penchant to violate the rights of minoritized populations, notably through Trump’s family separation policy (Rhodan 2018) and its rollback of Obama era health protections for transgender people (Diamond and Pradhan 2018), it is important to consider whether erstwhile legal interpretations of the First Amendment are out of step with social and political reality (Signer 2020). This is a reality fraught with tension, but in which oppressed groups, in the form of subaltern counterpublics, rise to contest their subjugation.

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A prominent example of the rise of subaltern counterpublics was in the form of ongoing protests against police violence and brutality, spurred by the murder of George Floyd, at the hands of Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin. Chauvin pressed his knee against Floyd’s neck for 8 minutes and 46 seconds while two other policemen looked on (Hill et al. 2020). In the aftermath of Floyd’s death, protesters gathered across the United States to express outrage and grief (Taylor 2020) and apply powerful pressure for substantial reforms, including divesting funds from the police to reinvest in community resources, particularly for marginalized groups (Collins 2020). This particular counterpublic movement was so powerful that it resulted in moves beyond the boundaries of the United States to cities around the world, attended by individuals of all ages and races, and culminating in a multicultural and intergenerational coalition demanding structural change (Miller 2020). The diversity of support for this movement is also reflected in Americans’ growing support for the Black Lives Matter and police reform (Parker et al. 2020). This counterpublic movement’s engagement in free speech was so consequential that it resulted in the abolition of the Minneapolis Police Department (Milman 2020) and in sweeping legislation to American policing being introduced in the U.S. House of Representatives (Kane et al. 2020). As this example illustrates, the expression of free speech can be integral to the emancipation of oppressed groups. It requires civic engagement by the masses. Yet free speech, when operating as hate speech, can inflict as much damage as emancipatory free speech can confer benefits; the Trump administration and its supporters responded to calls for justice with threats of violence that materialized too often (Sprunt 2020). Regrettably, the deployment of the National Guard led to incapacitating many peaceful protesters with tear gas, pepper spray, and other chemical irritants (Gibbons-Neff et al. 2020). Free speech is routinely seized upon as pretext for the expression of hyper-individualism, often at the expense of the collective good. Public opposition against face coverings in the United States during the coronavirus pandemic is a perfect illustration of this tendency. Despite ample scientific evidence that wearing a face mask significantly reduces the risk of transmission (Godoy 2020), mask wearing was heavily politicized by then president Trump who framed it as a matter of individual liberty without concern for public health (Dukakis 2020). Consequently, perpetuating oppression and endangering public health through free speech under the guise of rights and freedoms granted by the Constitution is not only intellectually dishonest, but is also fundamentally problematic and unjust. To confront this, we offer two suggestions to address the challenges presented by free speech, not as definitive solutions, but instead as opportunities for collective thinking about how to uphold free speech as a communicative means to drive out its connections to injustice and inequities.

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First, we look to Europe where free speech is more regulated. To begin with, Americans’ and Europeans’ perceptions of free speech vary significantly. According to Eshun (2018), this difference in approach is situated within the particular and diverging historical trajectories of the two; American reverence for free speech originated in the distrust of government and embrace of individual and civil liberties. Europeans, on the other hand, having lived through the horrors inflicted by the Nazi regime during World War II, prioritize the protection of groups that are vulnerable to hate speech over the right to exercise such speech (Eshun 2018). According to a 2017 Cato Institute-YouGov survey (Friedersdorf 2017), 59 percent of Americans are in favor of protecting the right to free speech even when it comes to statements that are offensive to minority groups. A majority of Americans, including 78 percent of Democrats, say that banning hate speech is not realistic since there is no clear consensus on what constitutes hate speech (Friedersdorf 2017). Conversely, a majority of Europeans prioritize protecting human rights over safeguarding free speech (European Parliament 2019). Interestingly and perhaps not surprising, in the United States, a supermajority of African Americans believe that hate speech can be banned while also protecting the right to free speech (Friedersdorf 2017). This indicates that among minority groups in the United States who disproportionately suffer the effects of hate speech, there is a desire to regulate aspects of free speech which may, in time, change the nature of the conversation around free speech in the United States. The differences in perception between Americans and Europeans are reflected in legislation; European free speech laws are less vigorous than the First Amendment, thus allowing a certain degree of flexibility in making adjustments to existing provisions (Mchangama 2018). The European Convention of Human Rights and the European Court of Human Rights protect free speech but with greater limits that exist in the United States; they describe free speech as “important, but not absolute” (Versteeg 2017, para. 8) and insist that the principle of free speech be always balanced against its potential effects on human dignity. Conversely, U.S. courts have prioritized the protection of free speech over other considerations (Eshun 2018). Moreover, European legislation limiting free speech has been bolstered in response to the current sociopolitical context which has seen the rise of nativist populist political movements in Europe, such as the one that fueled Brexit. Germany, for instance, adopted a social media law in 2017 known as the Network Enforcement Act or NetzDG compelling social media companies to provide better oversight over its online content, by removing offensive material that could be considered hate speech (Human Rights Watch 2018). Definitions of offensive content range from insults to actual threats of violence and are met with fines up to 50 million euros (Human Rights Watch

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2018). Recently, Facebook and Twitter faced heavy fines for not regulating hate speech on their platforms “to the satisfaction of the German authorities” (Feldman 2017, para. 1) While the United States is still far from implementing such sweeping measures, there is some evidence of change when it comes to regulating social media content. In May 2020, Twitter flagged an erroneous claim made by then president Trump on its platform, adding a fact-checking feature to their service (Conger and Alba 2020); similarly, Facebook removed Trump campaign advertisements that used a Nazi symbol from its platform in June 2020 (Wong 2020). The difference is that in European nations such as Germany, regulation of social media content is a result of government intervention, while in the United States, at least some platforms, such as Twitter, engage in self-regulation. Many argue that free speech policing would not be tolerated in the United States given its history and affinity for the First Amendment. Additionally, the European model is, itself, flawed as it can sometimes lead to deleterious effects vis-a-vis the very populations that free speech policing intends to protect. A relatively recent example of this was the 2004 French law banning the wearing of a hijab as an expression of free speech in public schools and public spaces, followed by a 2010 law prohibiting the use of a full-face veil anywhere in public (Diallo 2018). Second, we offer a philosophical pondering. American society has placed freedom of speech on a pedestal. In this paradigm, the individual who speaks is positioned as the center of their world. This is very much aligned with individualism, segregation, and alienation of the other. A different model for our society and world would foreground our duty to listen, not center our freedom to speak; a society that would foreground our collective well-being, not individuals in a way that disconnects them from their peers; a society that would foreground addressing the needs of the vulnerable, not elevating those who are already in power. What would a society look like if one of its core values was to listen to the oppressed and respond to those in need? The duty to listen shifts the focus from a culture of individualism to a culture of collective concern for those in need, helping us address social injustice. Video games are a small but important slice of our social world. They continue growing in ways that reinforce oppression and in ways that offer hope through pockets of resistance. Studying them in all their complexity sheds light on how video gaming operates in and beyond the video gaming culture. In sum, we conceptualize video gaming as another battleground in which social actors should work to carve out possibilities for social transformation. Our analysis of the oppressive forces shaping video gaming may be a surprise to many. For those who do not play these games, the findings may constitute another reason not to pick up video gaming or to continue vilifying them. For those who do play, the responses may range from shrugging shoulders (thus

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accepting the status quo) to rage and the will to quit altogether. We invite our readers to reflect more broadly about our findings. Video games constitute one of many media that operate through First Amendment protection. Our findings demand that we call into question the dynamics of free speech in books, plays, movies, and songs to name a few. Our findings invite us to ask: How is free speech employed to reflect the perspectives of a subaltern counterpublic in this media? How does a certain type of media expand our understanding of the world and how does societal oppression work through the shield of free speech? How does free speech operate as a tool of emancipation for the subaltern or does it reinforce injustice? How can we, as consumers of media and free speech, make more informed choices about the type of content we consume in order to understand the perspectives and lived experiences of the subaltern? What do we know about the actions of companies, producers, and actors outside of the movies with which they are involved? The answers to these questions are likely to take away some of the wonder that surrounds our experience with various forms of media. This is understandable and expected. Gaining a critical consciousness involves disenchantment. It can leave people feeling powerless. However, people also hold power over the media. Without viewers, listeners, and players, our media cannot survive. This leads to one culminating question: How can we, as consumers of media, exercise our voices to influence media production and its use to bring our society closer to a more just one? The resistance stories we presented offer possibilities from which to draw inspiration. These stories call attention to free speech, organizing, sharing counter stories, and demanding socially just change. We need expressions of dissent in the face of injustices. As the Riot employees stated when they walked out: “We’re doing this because we deeply believe in Riot’s mission and we love this place and we want to make cool stuff together. And we know that we are part of Riot” (Farokhmanesh 2019, para. 8). By exercising our voices and collective action, we can build community and movements strong enough to mend the ills of our world.

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Part 3

FREE SPEECH IN HIGHER EDUCATION

Chapter 11

The Tension Between Free Speech and Diversity on Campus Michael C. Behrent

In his Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion, G. W. F. Hegel offers an intriguing analysis of Antigone, Sophocles’ classic tragedy. The play, it will be recalled, recounts the confrontation between Antigone, Oedipus’ daughter, as she pleads with Thebes’ leader, Creon, to be allowed to bury her brother, whose body, following his death in a fratricidal war, lies beyond the city walls, exposed to vultures and the elements. What interested Hegel about Greek tragedy was the way that it brought into play a “higher cleavage,” in which “the ethical powers themselves appear as severed and coming into collision” (1988, 353). Tragedy, in short, pits powerful moral ideas against one another. Antigone brings such conflict into unusually sharp relief. In this play, Hegel observes, “the love of family, the holy, the inner” and everything belonging to “sentiment . . . comes into collision with the right of the state” (1988, 353). Against those who might be spontaneously inclined to sympathize with Antigone’s emotional plea to grant funereal rites to her dead brother, Hegel insists: “Creon is not in the wrong; he maintains that the law of the state, the authority of the government, must be preserved and punishment meted out for its violation.” The play’s drama-triggering tension lies in the fact that both Antigone and Creon are ethical powers, as each sees a moral ideal all the way through to its logical consequences. The problem the play explores is what happens when one pursues one compelling moral idea while denying validity to another, equally appealing ethical claim. Hegel dubs such choices one-sided. Drawing Antigone’s philosophical conclusions, the philosopher writes: “Each of these two sides”—Antigone (honoring her duties to family) and Creon (upholding the laws of the state)—“actualizes only one of the two, has only one side as its content. That is the one-sidedness, and the meaning of eternal justice is that both are in the wrong because they are one-sided, but both are also in the right” (Hegel 1988, 353). 211

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My claim in this chapter is that the current free speech crisis on university campuses obeys dynamic similar to the one Hegel identified in Greek tragedy. Two ethical powers, two compelling moral ideas are at odds with one another. Both are one-sided. Yet what makes the situation tragic, in Hegel’s sense, is that both are also in the right. On the one hand, a concatenation of social, political, and demographic factors has made diversity, inclusivity, and antiracism goals that universities not only espouse, but also feel they must urgently achieve. On the other hand, free speech and academic freedom remain foundational principles of academic life, particularly in a time characterized by intense political polarization, administrative interference, and changing youth and technological cultures. The tragedy of this situation lies in the zero-sum character these debates have begun to assume. Partisans of diversity and inclusivity denounce free speech advocates as espousing the most unreflective kind of white privilege, while free speech fundamentalists inveigh against a woke culture that would rather be coddled and spoon-fed uplifting fairy tales then grapple with history’s more disturbing aspects. This tension is exacerbated by the fact that it not only straddles the left-right partisan divide (with diversity roughly on the left, and free speech broadly on the right) but also seems to divide the (for want of a better term) progressive camp itself—which itself is a noteworthy historical development, given the left’s long association with civil liberties. This conflict is a crucial feature of our cultural moment: it belongs to the horizon of historical possibility that we currently inhabit. It will require the work of history itself—the slow process whereby ideas, values, and discourse are decanted through theory and practice—before the tools and resources for resolving this divide will be found (Behrent 2019). In this chapter, my focus is the current face-off between the warring values of diversity and free speech and the logic according to which these tensions play out in contemporary university settings. Specifically, I discuss how my university, a public institution in North Carolina, dealt with an incident that pitted these principles against one another, not long after the state had adopted a conservative campus free speech law. In my conclusion, I offer some highly preliminary thoughts on what a resolution of this conflict might look like—or at least, to identify what some aspects of this resolution might be. THE CAMPUS FREE SPEECH MOVEMENT On July 31, 2017, the North Carolina Restore/Preserve Campus Free Speech Act became law. The bill, approved by both houses of the General Assembly, drew on enough Republican support that it did not even require the signature of the state’s Democratic governor to enter into effect. The law

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was lifted directly from the model bill proposed by the Goldwater Institute, an Arizona-based conservative think tank, in January 2017. The sample legislation was included in a report by Stanley Kurtz, James Manley, and Jonathan Butcher entitled Campus Free Speech: A Legislative Proposal (Kurtz et al. 2017). The legislation’s immediate context was a series of protests and disinvitations that occurred on American campuses in 2017—at Berkeley, Middlebury, and UCLA, among others—prompting a kind of moral panic on the right. Many of these movements specifically targeted speakers who were perceived as defending white privilege or who were, at minimum, critical of the antiracist ideas that crystallized around the Black Lives Matter movement, born several years earlier. At Middlebury, protestors objected to an invitation extended by a conservative organization to Charles Murray, the conservative scholar who wrote The Bell Curve, which suggested that inequality is rooted, in part, in genetic differences between races (Beinart 2017). At UCLA and Claremont McKenna, protestors objected to the inviting of Heather Mac Donald, a Manhattan Institute scholar critical of Black Lives Matter and its denunciation of law enforcement (Jaschik 2017). In addition to Black Lives Matter itself, protestors at these events belonged to groups such as white students for racial justice. They called conservative speakers fascists and white supremacists. Though the slickly produced Goldwater Report included some strategically placed pictures of Black students, it made no reference to the concerns about racism and white privilege that had risen exponentially since Black Lives Matter’s inception, even though these were unquestionably the primary concerns driving the protests.1 The adoption of the campus free speech law cannot, moreover, be separated from the broader political situation in North Carolina. Though Wisconsin’s Scott Walker attracted considerable national attention, illustrating the kind of agenda that could be achieved by a fiercely ideological Republican state government, North Carolina has, since 2010, essentially been Wisconsin lite. In 2010, the year of the Tea Party, North Carolina Republicans, funded by politically active multimillionaires like Art Pope (Mayer 2011), won majorities in both houses of the North Carolina legislature for the first time in over a century. From 2013 to 2017, Republicans also held the governorship. The Republican-dominated legislature acted swiftly to implement their agenda. In addition to redistricting the state in a way that aimed at securing their domination of state politics, they also made deep cuts to the state school system (Strauss 2015). The legislature’s actions sparked a major social movement, led by the Reverend William J. Barber II, known as the Moral Mondays, which consisted of regular acts of civil disobedience at the state legislature in Raleigh. Though his movement was a broad coalition, the question of racial justice always lay at the forefront of Barber’s concerns (he had, among other

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roles, been the president of the state chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People). The Republican legislature was, moreover, particularly invested in controlling the public university system, which it regarded as a hostile institution. The state’s sixteen public universities belong to the University of North Carolina System, under the authority of a Board of Governors (BOG) that is appointed by the state legislature. Since 2010, membership of the UNC BOG has consisted almost entirely of Republicans, including not only business people but also lobbyists and former legislators. Its composition is also overwhelmingly white and male. In particular, the BOG has sought to shut down or place restrictions on campus units that engaged in what Republicans regarded as ideological (i.e., liberal) activism. In 2015, the Board closed three centers at three different UNC campuses: the Center for Biodiversity at East Carolina University, the Institute for Civic Engagement and Social Change at NC Central University, and the Center on Poverty, Work, and Opportunity at UNC Chapel Hill. While the board’s objections to the biodiversity center was tied to its positions on climate science, the racial stakes of the other two centers were thinly veiled: NC Central University is a historically Black college, while the poverty center at Chapel Hill was squarely focused on racial disparities. In 2017, moreover, the Board prohibited the Center for Civil Rights, a legal clinic at the UNC Chapel Hill Law School, from engaging in litigation. Though the center’s purpose was to provide law students with realworld experience, it also provided, in practice, free legal assistance to people of color engaged in civil rights cases (Wegner 2017). Finally, the Board was drawn into the contentious struggle at UNC Chapel Hill concerning a monument to a Confederate soldier, widely referred to as Silent Sam. The racism with which the statue was indelibly associated (it was erected in a 1913 ceremony with an overtly white supremacist message) had long distressed many campus constituencies. In August 2018, protestors managed to topple the statue. The campus and system response raised serious concerns about how they would deal with future student protest movements. For instance, a UNC Chapel Hill Report on disposing of that statue included a recommendation, buried in one of its appendices, for a “mobile force platoon” that could assist campus police in dealing with “civil disorder and violence at future campus events” (Behrent 2018b, para. 1). Meanwhile, the BOG proved particularly intransigent to finding an acceptable solution to the situation. When UNC Chapel Hill Chancellor Carol Folt simultaneously announced the permanent removal of what remained of the statue from campus and her own imminent resignation in January 2019, the BOG went out of its way to insist that she step down more or less immediately. In short, during the 2010s, many faculty in the University of North Carolina System were worried about a perceived hostility to higher education

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and progressive activism on the part of the state legislature and its appointees on the BOG. This hostility was, moreover, suffused with racial tensions, as the abovementioned considerations make clear. It was in this context that the North Carolina Restore/Preserve Campus Free Speech Act (SL 2017-196) became law. Consistent with the Goldwater model bill on which it was modeled, the law provided for strict disciplinary measures on individuals charged with violating the free-speech rights of others. The law also required the UNC BOG to compile annual reports on free speech at its constituent campuses. Finally, the legislation stipulated that universities must adopt neutral positions on issues of public controversy. The leading advocate and promoter of the law was the state’s Republican lieutenant governor, Dan Forest. After the law passed, Forest declared: The new law ensures that our universities will follow the First Amendment and protect the rights of students, faculty, and guests to speak freely on all the issues of the day . . . In order for our universities to be effective, the marketplace of ideas must be open on campus. Today, with this bill becoming law, free speech will once again be restored and preserved. (Travis 2017, para. 18)

In keeping with another provision of the legislation, the BOG adopted, later in 2017, a policy that defined how the law would be applied to the UNC System’s seventeen campuses (sixteen universities and one high school). The policy, entitled “Free Speech and Free Expression within the University of North Carolina,” banned expression that “substantially interferes with the protected free speech rights of others,” including “protests and demonstrations that materially infringe upon the rights of others to engage in and listen to expressive activity when the expressive activity (1) has been scheduled pursuant to this policy or other relevant institutional policy, and (2) is located in a nonpublic forum” (1300.8 Policy on Free Speech). The policy also introduced several restrictions not included in the law itself: it coined, for instance, terms such as “acceptable forms of dissent” and “expressive activity event[s].” RESISTING CAMPUS FREE SPEECH LAWS At the time the law and policy were implemented, I was the president of my campus’ chapter of the American Association of University Professors (AAUP) and vice-president of the North Carolina State Conference of the AAUP. With other members of these organizations, my immediate concern was that these measures, given the political forces that had supported them and their recent track record, were intended to repress certain forms of free expression—specifically, those that had expressed itself in the Moral

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Monday movement, opposition to the BOG, and (at a later point) the Silent Sam protests. As Hank Reichman of AAUP’s national organization pithily summarized the issue in a supportive essay, “North Carolina Trustees Would ‘Defend Free Speech by Attacking It” (Reichman 2017). In a context in which struggles for racial justice had become particularly acute, notably in North Carolina, many feared that the new policy’s most likely targets were people of color. For these reasons, I became involved in a concerted effort, led by AAUP, to call statewide attention to the law and, after the law had already been passed in the summer of 2017, to prevent the BOG from adopting the related university policy. Later, I also was the primary author of a report published by AAUP’s national organization that analyzed “campus free speech” legislation and traced its progress across the country (AAUP 2018). In these contexts, I developed my initial, highly critical view of these laws and the assumptions that underpinned them. To begin with, the North Carolina AAUP Conference tried to convey the law and policy’s potential dangers to state campuses and the public in general. For AAUP’s Academe Blog, I interviewed William P. Marshall, the William Rand Kenan, Jr. distinguished professor of law at UNC Chapel Hill and a well-known authority on the First Amendment. His analysis was that the policy was “overbroad and [would] work to chill constitutionally protected speech.” In particular, Marshall was concerned about the policy’s impact on constitutionally protected student speech. “Taken literally,” Marshall contended, this policy means that a student could be sanctioned for protesting (or maybe even just vehemently disagreeing) with an unscheduled speaker (which presumably could mean anybody including a fellow student) almost anywhere on campus—given that the word ‘speaker’ is not defined and most areas of college campuses are nonpublic fora. This means students could be disciplined if they attempted to shout down a speaker outside their dorm room or eating hall.

Marshall also questioned the cogency of the law’s ban on interfering with the rights of others to “listen to expressive activity.” He wondered: “Is speaking too loudly near an unscheduled speaker sanctionable? Is trying to talk over the speech of another person a possible subject of discipline? The policy discusses actual physical obstruction with access or egress to the location where the speaker is speaking but the language of both the policy and the statute reach far more than physical obstruction.” Marshall concluded, in short, that the policy was “inconsistent” with the First Amendment. “As the policy purports to recognize,” he said, “the first amendment protects both speech and counter-speech. The approach taken by both the policy and

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the statute, however, creates a preference for only one type of speech that is inconsistent with first amendment principles and treads far too broadly into core first amendment expression” (Behrent 2017). Highlighting these arguments, the state AAUP conference crafted a petition, directed at North Carolina’s citizens and public university constituents in particular, calling upon the BOG to vote down the proposed policy. The petition emphasized several key objections to the policy: that it would make “dissent scary, unsafe, and punishable,” “chill healthy academic discourse and debate,” and “give preference to some forms of speech over others.” The petition received 469 signatures from across the state and was submitted to BOG Chair Louis Bissette and UNC System President Margaret Spellings (“UNC Board of Governors: Vote ‘No’”). Despite these objections (in addition to those of the American Civil Liberties Union), the board, without debate, voted to approve the policy on December 15, 2017 (“Board of Governors Approves Free-Speech Policy” 2017). A year later, I wrote an article for Academe Blog assessing the law and policy’s impact on university campuses. While noting that some conservative groups had declared the law a success because no shout-downs or related incidents had occurred on UNC System campuses over the previous twelve months, I also reported that none of our worst fears had transpired. Specifically, I knew of no example on any UNC campus of students being subject to disciplinary sanctions established by the law and policy. Most universities had established administrative structures for monitoring free speech issues. Each campus was required to name a responsible officer for handling matters relating to the policy. General counsels, vice provosts for faculty affairs, and deans of students were among the administrators assigned these responsibilities on different campuses. They were required to undergo free speech training, provided by the School of Government of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. The policy also mandated free speech training at student orientation. I was able to get hold of PowerPoint slides used in new student presentations at several campuses. One of them stated: “As a university student you will experience ideas and opinions that you may find unwelcome, disagreeable or even deeply offensive. (And we have resources if this happens! We WANT to support you!).” Further points included: “We are a Public university with an open campus” and “You can’t drown out someone else’s speech because you don’t like it.” Some campuses also organized free speech discussions or celebrations of the First Amendment. I was invited, for instance, to speak at a university-sponsored panel in November 2018 entitled: “Say What? Examining Freedom of Speech at App State.” In my assessment, I conceded that, rather than chilling free speech, the policy had, so far, done little more than generate new administrative titles and platitudinous statements about open communication—in short, nothing much

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at all. I wrote: “We also sense that most campus administrators are uneasy with and embarrassed by the law, and while none have explicitly spoken out against it, they seem to share a desire to downplay its effects” (Behrent 2018a). USING CAMPUS FREE SPEECH LAWS STRATEGICALLY Though it was becoming apparent that the campus free speech law contained a healthy dose of bluster, my concern was still that it could be used for repressive purposes—to forbid or restrict activist speech that purportedly limited the free speech rights of others. Early on, however, I began to see how the law might be a double-edged sword. For instance, I found myself in a conflict with a colleague who presided a major university committee over my ability to contribute to the committee’s e-mail list. The colleague believed that they had the right to narrowly limit the content of the discussions and that they alone should initiate exchanges. This limitation struck me as entirely unreasonable. Consequently, I wrote to the campus’ two responsible officers—one in Academic Affairs, the other in Student Affairs—lodging what I took to be a formal complaint under policy 1300.8 (as it was formally known). As a result, Academic Affairs did organize a facilitated discussion between my colleague and me, which resulted in a resolution of sorts. On another occasion, while serving as Faculty Senate chair, I sent an e-mail to the campus that was critical of some administrative policies. University Communications monitors these announcements on my campus, and the e-mail I sent did not appear on the predicted schedule. Consequently, I wrote University Communications inquiring about the e-mail’s status, expressing concern that it had not be shared with the campus while specifically citing policy 1300.8 and copying the responsible officers. The e-mail was soon distributed to campus—though I cannot say for sure that it was due to my reference to the policy. I learned, in short, that the campus free speech policy could be used strategically, to open up and create opportunities for deliberation in university spaces reined in by administrative priorities that are utilitarian or even authoritarian—to introduce some life world into the system, in Jürgen Habermas’ terms (1984). After having been concerned about the law’s chilling effects, I had, in short, come to believe it might be beneficial to free speech, under the right circumstances—a conclusion that was no easy concession, as it involved at least partially recognizing that the law’s premises had some merit. But my next encounter with it led to very different conclusions—and it is significant that this incident was one in which the “warring gods” of free speech and racial justice found themselves pitted against one another (Behrent 2019).2

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In early 2020, at a time when I was serving as Faculty Senate chair, I learned of a situation in which a white faculty member was accused by a Black student of using a racial epithet in class. The faculty member was reading from a text by a canonical Black author, in the context of a discussion about racism. Several Black students expressed concerns to the faculty member about their use of the term. They had a series of conversations which, while initially seeming productive, failed to resolve the situation. The upshot of the situation was that one of these students, guided in part by Academic Affairs, filed a complaint against the faculty member under the University’s Policy on Discrimination and Harassment. The university ultimately found the faculty member to have created a hostile environment under that policy. Though the administration did not impose a serious sanction (which would have created an opportunity for the finding to be grieved), the faculty member had a letter placed in their personnel file and was required to undergo training. Needless to say, this is one of the most intractable situations in which one can find oneself on a contemporary American campus. The faculty member believed that they were exercising their academic freedom, teaching a class as they had regularly taught it, well within established norms for teaching in their field. The faculty member, moreover, had a well-documented expertise in anti-racist theory and pedagogy. They had developed an academic specialty in African American issues and chose to regularly teach classes on this topic. While I did not know this individual well, I was familiar enough with their reputation to know that they were aligned with a range of progressive issues. I do not think such a profile inoculates anyone from charges of racism, but it is relevant information. Yet at the same time, whatever one thinks of the context in which they did so, the students were expressing outrage at racism’s persistence and exercising their agency as persons of color at a predominantly white institution. I would not have gotten involved in this issue if the faculty member had been charged with an overt act of racism—if, say, they embraced white supremacy or had used an epithet in a way that was not clearly quoted. Furthermore, I am completely open to the idea that faculty should not use certain words in class, even if they are quoting a text. In thinking about free speech, I have been persuaded by the arguments made by legal scholar Jeremy Waldron, who maintains that some speech is not just controversial, but deliberately designed to threaten the status of some groups as full-fledged members of a community—that some words, in short, are not just “the speech we hate,” but a “disfiguring of our social environment” that denies some individuals’ claims to “equal citizenship” (Waldron 2012, 33). I do, however, believe that if such words are to be banned from the classroom, this should be mandated by a policy specifying what words and images are banned from the classroom (presuming this is even possible at public universities): faculty, in

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such situations—especially those who elect to teach classes on charged and sensitive topics such as race, religion, sexuality, and gender—should have a safe harbor—that is, a reasonable opportunity to behave in a way that would shield them from vague charges like creating a hostile environment. This incident also provided me with an opportunity to rethink the campus free speech policy. The colleagues of the concerned faculty member, as well as members of the campus AAUP chapter, brought the matter to my attention. At the time, the concerned faculty member had been placed under investigation. It immediately occurred to me that the university’s action against this faculty member was a prima facie violation of policy 1300.8. I discussed the concerned faculty member’s situation in a conversation with the provost and an administrator in Academic Affairs who was the responsible officer under the policy. I expressed my concerns at how the case was being handled and followed up shortly afterwards with an e-mail in which I specifically claimed that, in my opinion, “the university has not honored the free speech rights [the concerned faculty member] is afforded under UNC Policy,” adding: “Whatever the university decides about this matter, it must, at minimum, uphold these rights.” I noted that policy 1300.8 clearly states: Students, staff, and faculty have the freedom to discuss any problem that presents itself, as the First Amendment permits and within the limits of viewpointand content-neutral restrictions on time, place, and manner of expression that are necessary to achieve a significant institutional interest. The constituent institutions must assure that any such restrictions are clear, published, and provide ample alternative means of expression.

“Based on this policy,” I concluded, the concerned faculty member “had reason to expect that [their] pedagogical approaches would be respected. [They had] reason to believe that [they are] being investigated for failure to follow a speech code that imposes restrictions on her free speech rights that are neither ‘clear’ nor ‘published.’” For these reasons, I requested that the “university immediately comply with policy 1300.8 and inform [the concerned faculty member] in writing and in no uncertain terms that the university recognizes [their] rights and that [they are] not being considered by the university for any form of misconduct whatsoever related to [their] actions.” When it became evident that the university was pursuing its investigation of the faculty member, I decided to immediately file a formal complaint. The problem, however, is that the policy defines no formal procedure for making such a complaint. It does say that the duties of the campus-designated responsible officers include serving as “the primary point of contact for any student, faculty member, staff employee, or other individual’s questions or concerns about compliance with the law or policy or to assist with interpretation of the

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law or policy” (1300.8 Policy on Free Speech). Though the policy expressly states that it applies to faculty and makes clear that it is intended to limit administrative actions, it is explicit only on issues such as the disciplinary measures to be imposed on individuals that disrupt public forums. How one might use the policy to object to an administrative attempt to punish classroom speech by faculty was more elusive. Consequently, the letter I wrote to the responsible officers was a shot-in-the-dark effort to make a complaint in the absence of any well-defined procedure. “In your capacity as responsible officers under UNC Policy 1300.8,” I wrote, “I am hereby filing a complaint under that policy . . . concerning the university’s violation of its provisions as they relate to the rights of [the concerned faculty member].” Though I exchanged a few e-mails with the responsible members and received some acknowledgment of my complaint, the process essentially stopped there. The university administration clearly did not feel constrained to follow the policy, nor did it seem particularly worried by the Systemwide scrutiny the policy was designed to attract. I had worried the policy would chill free speech; I then hoped it might send shivers down the spine of administrators terrified of pleasing their own superiors. In practice, the policy proved to be a total dud. LEARNING THAT CAMPUS FREE SPEECH LAW ARE POINTLESS I tried, at least, to see if the UNC System Office—the bureaucracy in Chapel Hill that administers the seventeen-campus system—might be more concerned about running afoul of the Republican legislators who passed the law and who completely controlled the BOG. Specifically, I wrote to an attorney in the System’s General Counsel office. Citing my belief that a 1300.8 violation had occurred, I explained: “My concern is that the very offices on campus that are charged under the policy and law with monitoring it are also those who seem to be violating its provisions.” I also pointed out that the statute specifically charged the BOG with monitoring “any barriers to or disruptions of free expression within the constituent institutions,” making clear that I believed that problems of this nature had transpired on my campus. In his response, the attorney simply reminded me of the policy’s key provisions—many of which I had cited in my own e-mail—and reiterated the role of the responsible officers. He added: “To the extent that you have concerns about [your institution’s] responsible officers’ ability to perform the responsibilities under UNC Policy 1300.8, I would recommend that you direct these concerns to the constituent institution chancellor, who designates these officers” (Personal correspondence with the Division of Governance, Legal, and

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Risk in the UNC System Office, March 2–3, 2020). He also noted that he had contacted my own institution’s general counsel about my correspondence. I knew, of course, that the administration on my campus—particularly the chancellor (i.e., president) and the general counsel—were in lockstep with Academic Affairs. Part of the premise of the law and policy was to subject individual campuses to review by the UNC System Office and the BOG— indeed, this had been one of my greatest apprehensions about them. Now, however, at a time when it would have been particularly useful for me to appeal to a higher body, I was simply referred back to the very administrators who, I believed, were violating the policy to begin with. The other option I pursued was contact with the Foundation for Individual Rights in Education (FIRE). My history with this organization was almost as conflicted as with policy 1300.8. I supported FIRE’s advocacy on behalf of faculty free speech and appreciated that the organization had often taken the side of faculty who had been penalized by administrators for exercising their First Amendment rights. But I also knew that it received significant funding from conservative donors like the Koch family, that it was not particularly invested in other features of the academic profession, such as shared governance, and that its single-minded focus on the First Amendment made it latently hostile to movements focused on a more capacious understanding of justice. I essentially saw it as a conservative (in the sense of classically liberal) organization attempting to establish hegemony over free expression issues—that it was extending a beckoning finger to leftist academics, to persuade them that their real friends were on the right. Yet FIRE is a very reliable and effective organization. It responds quickly to queries, takes free speech violations seriously, and makes its considerable resources and legal acumen available to faculty that find themselves ignored or oppressed by administrators. I also thought FIRE might hold sway with my campus’ administration precisely because the organization had solid conservative credentials, at a time when the UNC System remained firmly in the grip of conservative forces. Indeed, my university’s chancellor had specifically touted the fact that our campus was, in terms of its policies, in FIRE’s good graces: we had a green light, the organization’s top rating. For these reasons, I wrote FIRE, and received a response soon after. They began a discussion with the concerned faculty member. Within a few weeks, FIRE had crafted a first-rate letter to our chancellor. The letter stated that FIRE was “concerned about the threat to freedom of expression and academic freedom” at my institution posed by its investigation of the faculty member. It declared unequivocally that the university’s actions were “inconsistent with its legal obligation as a public university bound by the First Amendment.” The letter’s primary legal claim was that the First Amendment and the university’s stated commitment to academic freedom precluded even an

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investigation (and not simply punitive action) against the faculty member. The university’s status as a public institution made its obligations under the First Amendment particularly compelling. “Academic freedom and freedom of expression,” it noted, “entail a right to confront, use, and discuss offensive language in teaching and scholarship.” FIRE also condemned the repressive way in which the university had handled the investigation itself: the “gag order” it had placed on the faculty member, prohibiting them from discussing the investigation as it was underway, was, FIRE asserted, a First Amendment violation in its own right. The letter concluded by saying that the organization appreciated the university’s avowed principles (in other words, there was nothing in its formal policies that were out of line with FIRE’s standards) but called upon the administration to bring its actions in line with those principles by ending the investigation (FIRE letter to university administration, March 24, 2020). FIRE at least managed to get our chancellor’s attention. In a brief response sent several days later (on which I was copied), she acknowledged receipt of the correspondence, stating: “As you noted in your letter, Appalachian is committed to upholding the free speech rights and academic freedom of every member of its faculty.” She added: “The University is equally committed to fostering an environment of inclusive excellence for all of our faculty, staff and students.” In a complete nonsequitur, the chancellor then essentially “pleaded COVID” for not providing a more robust excuse (the university had pivoted online shortly before), explaining: “Appalachian’s primary concern currently is the health and well-being of each member of our campus community” and “providing students with high-quality online education while following all local and state orders in an effort to curtail the spread of the coronavirus disease” (Chancellor’s letter to FIRE, April 2, 2020). I was not privy to any subsequent exchanges the university had with FIRE. Unsurprisingly—at least, in retrospect—efforts to object to the treatment of this faculty member on free speech grounds failed. By imposing a relatively minor sanction on the faculty member, the university probably avoided sustained scrutiny. It remained unmoved by FIRE’s objections. As for the campus free speech legislation and policy, the university does not seem to have felt that it constrained its actions in the least. In the annual report on free speech incidents that the UNC System is legally required to submit each year, no reference or allusion to this incident is to be found. Indeed, my institution is touted in this very report—for the period when this incident occurred—for the green light ranking it still receives from FIRE, despite having received a letter from FIRE firmly stating that the university’s administration had blatantly violated a faculty member’s First Amendment rights. Despite the sense of urgency pervading the Goldwater Institute’s discourse about campus free speech several years ago, the latest UNC report placidly concludes: “no

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constituent institution reported an institutional barrier or disruption of free expression during the academic year” (The University of North Carolina System 2020). Looking back, I probably exaggerated the extent to which this policy could be specifically invoked in the kind of situation with which my colleague found themselves. The law and policy do present themselves as protecting faculty, but their actionable measures are narrowly focused on the issue of preventing disruptions at campus events. I had hoped to make a strategic use of the campus-free speech laws to restrain administrative efforts to take punitive action against faculty members. I was naive, twice over: first in believing the policy would chill free speech on campus, then in believing the policy could be invoked to prevent unwarranted administrative penalization of faculty. In the end, the most ordinary of outcomes resulted. Flaunting its adherence to policy while ignoring it in practice, the administration simply did as it pleased. CONCLUSIONS OR, HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND (SORT OF) APPRECIATE CAMPUS FREE SPEECH LAWS Though I have focused on a single experience that occurred at my own university, this situation, I believe, consists of issues and dynamics that are characteristic of the current moment in which higher education finds itself: one in which the country as a whole is intensely polarized, universities have become a major stake in political debate, administrators feel less beholden to values like academic freedom and shared governance, and, most importantly, a serious and as yet unresolved debate is underway over how to settle the conflict between the twin imperatives of free expression and racial inclusivity—and to avoid contexts in which these values work at cross purposes. What conclusions can be drawn from this incident? First, it was a mistake to see campus free speech laws as a significant danger. Part of me wishes they did have some muscle, as that would at least make them tactically reversible—that is, measures that could, in the right context, be used to advance faculty interests. Instead, what happened was that a think tank crafted a copy-and-paste model bill, a few unenterprising state legislators used it to gain easy media attention on a hot button issue for conservatives, after which university administrators finessed the law’s implementation in a way that rendered its practical impact negligeable—even as they chirpily espoused the very goals they were scuttling. Beware of conservative think tanks bearing bills. Beware even more of university administrators charged with policy implementation.

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Second, it is important to understand the motivations of administrators who invoke diversity concerns to discipline faculty. I do not doubt that many are serious, at a personal level, about fighting racism and promoting inclusivity. But administrators are often driven by careerist concerns. The provost I dealt with on this issue had been on the job for less than a year and her prior background was entirely in the business school. At no point, that I am aware of, did she teach or write about issues having to do with race or diversity. After the George Floyd protests in the summer of 2020, the provost criticized the faculty in sweeping and general terms, suggesting that many students had experienced racism in the classroom—only to clarify, when pressed, that the source of this information was random postings on social media. Yet when asked, in Faculty Senate, to speak out against the appointment to the UNC BOG of Art Pope, the conservative businessman and bankroller of the state Republican party, who has a disturbing record of racial issues, including apparent support of white supremacist causes, she had only the most mild and noncommittal remarks to offer. Administrative concern about discrimination goes only one way up (or rather, down) the chain of command. And administrators like denouncing systemic racism while overlooking the fact that they, to an extent, are the system. Indeed, I suspect that at my institution, which, under pressure from the state, is increasingly enrollment driven, the focus on diversity is an extension of the student-as-customer model: administration is eager to accommodate the concerns of students of color because it does not want to lose them to competing institutions (now that even public universities have competitors). Even so, it is crucial not to lose a sense of complexity on these matters. It is a positive development that administrators now see promoting diversity as an institutional priority that they have a careerist interest in furthering. Faculty does at times bring unacknowledged prejudices and even racism into the classroom, and administrators must address these issues. But administrators are, in many cases, first and foremost institutionalists. They are motivated not by the categorical imperative, but by what someone in a hierarchical structure expects them to do. One must not lose sight of this fact. Third, we do need to be concerned about the instrumentalization of the issue of diversity on college campuses. Consider, for instance, the history of another highly compelling discourse of social justice—specifically, Bolshevism during Soviet times. I do not say this to make some trite argument about diversity being a form of cultural Marxism—a claim that frequently goes hand in hand with a total misunderstanding of contemporary social movements and of Marxism. In his landmark study of a community that industrialized under Stalin’s Five-Year Plan, historian Stephen Kotkin talks about how “speaking Bolshevik” became the way in which an entire range of social issues were discussed and negotiated (1995, 198–237). For

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instance, the wife of a widely regarded locomotive driver wrote to the wife of one of the least regarded locomotive drivers to complain about the latter’s negative impact on the community. In making her case, she namechecked, in a private letter, the entire gamut of regime values—the dignity of labor, the virtues of the working class, “Comrade Stalin,” the “Party,” and so on. “Bolshevik” had become, Kotkin argues, “the obligatory language for selfidentification and as such, the barometer of one’s allegiance to the cause” (Kotkin 1995, 218–220). Today, diversity functions in higher education in a similar way: it is the obligatory language of self-identification and the barometer of allegiance to the cause. Kotkin’s point—herein lies its originality—is that this kind of language is not inherently disingenuous or restrictive. He is not saying, exactly, that it is simply a variation on political correctness. Rather, he is suggesting that a massive social undertaking often requires an idiom that allows people to recognize one another as participants in a collective effort and for negotiating their interests and priorities in relation to this effort. Along the way, however, this language can be instrumentalized: the same lingua franca that can be used to advance morally compelling social goals can also be employed to serve venal and careerist interests. At present, we must learn to embrace the causes of diversity and antiracism, while also being sensitive to the ways in which, precisely because these goals are so important, its emancipatory language and concerns will often be coopted for less exalted interests and provide new justifications for distinctly unprogressive forms of authority. Finally, we must learn how to argue that free speech and diversity need not conflict, despite the powerful contemporary forces that put them at loggerheads. There is a tendency in current campus discourse to conflate free speech and even individual rights as such with white privilege. Some of the so-called specialist literature that has drawn the attention of administrators makes this very case.3 And we should recognize that there is a rationality to these views, as free speech rights have often been invoked to give legal and philosophical cover to privileged and racist behavior (at present and deep into the past). Yet at the same time, we are inclined to forget that, more often than not, it has been those who challenge mainstream positions—including dominant white culture—who have invoked free speech rights and academic freedom to defend their ability to make controversial claims. To cite an example well known in the state where I teach, the North Carolina legislature tried in the 1960s to resist the civil rights movement by adopting a Speaker Ban law. In the name of prohibiting Communists from speaking at public universities, it sought to deprive advocates of racial justice an opportunity to address college students (Nichol 2001). In instances such as these, free speech was a threat to white privilege; the invocation of individual rights did not bolster racial hierarchies but contested them.

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At the same time, defenders of free speech must be wary of being First Amendment fundamentalists (like partisans of the Second Amendment). They must take seriously the idea not only of a living Constitution, one that adapts to new social circumstances, but also to the idea that the Constitution is fundamentally invested not only in individual freedom but also in the promotion of democracy (Breyer 2007). Individual rights that “poison” democracy (Waldron 2012, 4) should not be completely absolute, though any limitations should be made gingerly and consistent with due process. Yet as Hegel would have recognized, the tension between these competing values cannot be resolved theoretically. Only the sieve of history can provide a solution. NOTES 1. Though the protests mentioned here occurred after the publication of the Goldwater Report, similar concerns were certainly at play in the campus activity the report cited as evidence of the campus free speech crisis. 2. The warring gods trope derives from Max Weber (1946, 153). 3. Thus, Robin DiAngelo associates the idea of “seeing ourselves as individuals, exempt from the forces of racial socialization” as exemplifying whiteness (2018, 68).

REFERENCES 1300.8 Policy on Free Speech and Free Expression Within the University of North Carolina System. UNC Policy Manuel and Code. https​:/​/ww​​w​.nor​​thcar​​olina​​.edu/​​ apps/​​polic​​y​/ind​​ex​.ph​​p​?sec​​​tion=​​1300.​​8. AAUP. 2018. Committee on Government Relations, “Campus Free-Speech Legislation: History, Progress, and Problems.” Bulletin of the AAUP. Behrent, Michael C. 2017. “‘Free Speech’ Policy Could ‘Chill’ Protected Speech on UNC Campuses.” Academe Blog, November 3, 2017. https​:/​/ac​​ademe​​blog.​​org​/2​​ 017​/1​​1​/03/​​free-​​speec​​h​-pol​​icy​-c​​ould-​​chill​​-prot​​ected​​-spee​​ch​​-on​​-unc-​​campu​​ses/. Behrent, Michael C. 2018a. “‘Campus Free Speech Legislation’ A Year Later: The Lessons from North Carolina.” Academe Blog, August 30, 2018. https​:/​/ac​​ademe​​ blog.​​org​/2​​018​/0​​8​/30/​​campu​​s​-fre​​e​-spe​​ech​-l​​egisl​​ation​​-a​-ye​​ar​-la​​ter​-t​​he​-le​​ssons​​​-from​​ -nort​​h​-car​​olina​/. Behrent, Michael C. 2018b. “‘Silent Sam’ at UNC: A Pretext for Mobile Police Forces, Crowd Control, and Intelligence Gathering?” Academe Blog, December 5, 2018. https​:/​/ac​​ademe​​blog.​​org​/2​​018​/1​​2​/05/​​silen​​t​-sam​​-at​-u​​nc​-a-​​prete​​xt​-fo​​r​-mob​​ile​ -p​​olice​​-forc​​es​-cr​​owd​-c​​ontro​​l​-a​nd​​-inte​​llige​​nce​-g​​ather​​ing/. Behrent, Michael C. 2019. “A Tale of Two Arguments about Free Speech on Campus.” Academe 105: 1.

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Beinart, Peter. 2017. “A Violent Attack on Free Speech at Middlebury.” The Atlantic, March 6, 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​atlan​​tic​.c​​om​/po​​litic​​s​/arc​​hive/​​2017/​​03​/mi​​ddleb​​ury​ -f​​ree​-s​​peech​​​-viol​​ence/​​51866​​7/. “Board of Governors Approves Free-Speech Policy for UNC Campuses.” 2017. WRAL​.com​, December 15, 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.wra​​l​.com​​/boar​​d​-of-​​gover​​nors-​​appro​​ ves​-f​​ree​-s​​peech​​-poli​​cy​-fo​​r​-unc​​-​camp​​uses/​​17188​​508/. Breyer, Stephen. 2007. Active Liberty: Interpreting Our Democratic Constitution. New York: Vintage. DiAngelo, Robin. 2018. White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism. Boston: Beacon Press. Habermas, Jürgen. 1984. The Theory of Communicative Action, trans. Thomas McCarthy. Boston: Beacon Press. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. 1988. Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion (The Lectures of 1827), edited by Peter C. Hodgson, trans. R. F. Brown, P. C. Hodgson, J. M. Stewart, H. S. Harris. Berkley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press. Jaschik, Scott. 2017. “Another Speech Shut Down.” Inside Higher Ed, April 10, 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.ins​​idehi​​ghere​​d​.com​​/news​​/2017​​/04​/1​​0​/pro​​test-​​over-​​speak​​ers​-v​​ iews-​​race-​​and​-c​​rime-​​preve​​nts​-e​​vent​-​​takin​​g​-pla​​ce​-pl​​anned​. Kotkin, Stephen. 1995. Magnetic Mountain: Stalinism as Civilization. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kurtz, Stanley, James Manley, and Jonathan Butcher. 2017. Campus Free Speech: A Legislative Proposal. Phoenix: Goldwater Institute. Mayer, Jane. 2011. “State for Sale.” New Yorker, October 10, 2011. Nichol, Gene R. 2001. “Bill Aycock and the North Carolina Speaker Ban Law.” North Carolina Law Review 79(6): 1725–1742. Reichman, Hank. 2017. “North Carolina Trustees Would ‘Defend. Free Speech by Attacking It.” Academe Blog, December 12, 2017. https​:/​/ac​​ademe​​blog.​​org​/2​​017​/1​​ 2​/12/​​north​​-caro​​lina-​​trust​​ees​-w​​ould-​​defen​​d​-fre​​e​-spe​​ech​​-b​​y​-att​​ackin​​g​-it/​. Strauss, Valerie. 2015. “North Carolina’s Step-by-Step War on Public Education.” Washington Post, August 7, 2015. https​:/​/ww​​w​.was​​hingt​​onpos​​t​.com​​/news​​/answ​​er​ -sh​​eet​/w​​p​/201​​5​/08/​​07​/no​​rth​-c​​aroli​​nas​-s​​tep​-b​​y​-ste​​p​-​war​​-on​-p​​ublic​​-educ​​ation​/. The University of North Carolina System. 2020. “Report: 2019–20 Report on Free Speech and Free Expression Within the University.” September 16, 2020. https​ :/​/ww​​w​.nor​​thcar​​olina​​.edu/​​wp​-co​​ntent​​/uplo​​ads​/r​​eport​​s​-and​​-docu​​ments​​/lega​​l​/201​​9​ -20-​​repor​​t​​-on-​​free-​​speec​​h​.pdf​. Travis, Kari. 2017. “Bill Protecting Free Speech Becomes Law, Without the Governor’s Signature.” Carolina Journal, August 1, 2017. https​:/​/ww​​w​.car​​olina​​ journ​​al​.co​​m​/new​​s​-art​​icle/​​bill-​​prote​​cting​​-free​​-spee​​ch​-be​​comes​​-law-​​witho​​ut​-th​​e​​ -gov​​ernor​​s​-sig​​natur​​e/. “UNC Board of Governors: Vote ‘No’ on your anti-Free Speech Policy.” 2017. North Carolina AAUP petition, Action Network [2017]. https​:/​/ac​​tionn​​etwor​​k​.org​​/peti​​ tions​​/unc-​​board​​-of​-g​​overn​​ors​-v​​ote​-n​​o​-on-​​your-​​anti-​​f​ree-​​speec​​h​-pol​​icy. Waldron, Jeremy. 2012. The Harm in Hate Speech. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

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Weber, Max. 1946. “Science as a Vocation.” In From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, edited by H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills. New York: Oxford University Press. Wegner, Judith Welch. 2017. “Why Litigation is Academic Freedom.” Academe Blog, July 5, 2017. https​:/​/ac​​ademe​​blog.​​org​/2​​017​/0​​7​/05/​​why​-l​​itiga​​tion-​​is​-ac​​ade​mi​​ c​-fre​​edom/​.

Chapter 12

Free Speech, Hate Speech, Snowflakes, and Student Activism Institutional Accountability Cerri A. Banks and Lorri M. Riggs

Like many in higher education, we have been troubled by narratives that claim college and university students are snowflakes—a derogatory term used to indicate that students are oversensitive and not able to engage with people, ideals, images, information, and ideologies that are different from their own particularly when these ideas challenge their own identity-based experiences or make them feel uncomfortable (Banks and Vasquez 2021; Nicholson 2016). The term is hurled at college students for all kinds of reasons. For example, students calling for the removal of statues and other historical and modernday artifacts from their campuses that reinforce racism and celebrate historical atrocities are often called snowflakes. Students who ask a professor to give them notice if graphically violent or sexually explicit content will be shown or covered in class are called snowflakes. Those wedded to this term also use student protests of controversial speakers as evidence that students are snowflakes. While there have been some cases exploited and publicized by the media and others to make this case (Quintana 2018), we maintain that labeling college students and their protests against racism, sexism, homophobia, and other abuses of power that lead to marginalization and even death, is a limited and inaccurate generalization. Yes, some surveys show that there are college students who believe that free speech should be suppressed if it is hate speech (Lindsay 2019; Hauslohner and Svriuga 2017). Instead of accepting this finding as evidence of fragility or a victim complex, we agree with Dr. Sigal Ben-Porath, scholar and author of Free Speech on Campus (2017). Ben-Porath wrote about students at Middlebury who protested to stop social scientist Charles Murray 231

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from speaking at their school. Murray is a social scientist known to perpetuate “racist pseudoscience and misleading statistics to argue that social inequality is caused by the genetic inferiority” (Southern Poverty Law Center 2021). Ben-Porath stated: Portraying protesting students as vulnerable or refusing to think seems simplistic and unfair. Their rejection of Murray’s views (again, putting aside the violence, which should be condemned) is an effort to expand the democratic reach of free speech to groups they see as harmed and silenced, not an effort to protect themselves with a liberal cocoon. (Ben-Porath 2017, 53)

Political arguments about freedom of expression including that individuals have the constitutional right to say whatever they want, and the belief that colleges and universities are trying to suppress free speech, make it appear that we have eradicated racism, sexism, homophobia, and the like. We know that this is not true and that all expression has repercussions, ones that are particularly severe when speech and expression are hateful. A white person, wearing blackface as part of a costume for Halloween maybe freedom of expression, but it does not erase the historical context and modern-day affect and implications of this display. When people want to exercise the right to free speech but not accept the responsibility or consequences that come with that right, and when they deny the significant harm some speech, like hate speech, has on others, and then actively work to silence voices that oppose their words and behavior, it becomes clear why students and others engage in activism including protest. It is not because they are snowflakes. It is because they are committed to justice, equity, and inclusion. FREE SPEECH, EQUITY, AND ACTIVISM The current discourses about free speech, equity, and activism do not always recognize that language is connected to power and that those with the most power are generally allowed freedom of speech and expression with little to no consequences when the speech is hateful and abusive. This stance fails to acknowledge that people are differently affected by hate speech: some are empowered, some are indifferent, and some are terrorized. When college students exercise their right to free speech and publicly challenge racism, they are often subjected to hateful and violent vitriol from the very groups and individuals who claim to support the First Amendment. Students are accused of using the race card and being unamerican. Doxing, that is, searching for and making private student information public with malice intent, and other

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threats of violence and harm to students and their families are examples of the desire to silence speech that calls out racism. In a conversation about free speech a Black student stated, “If someone is speaking hateful things against African American students or Latinx students, I’m not going to say, ‘let’s sit and have a dialogue.’ I don’t want to do that. But there are other people who can step in and do that because it affects them differently.” This student is exercising her agency to make decisions about how to participate and respond to incidents of hate speech. She also understands that power is connected to identity and that hateful speech has differing impacts and costs. In other words, other people less harmed by the hateful speech can intervene, sometimes with greater influence. This student is not a snowflake. She is demonstrating a deep understanding of the complexities of the challenge and her role in it. On the other hand, students, and all campus constituents need to understand that even hateful and discriminatory expressions are protected by the First Amendment. A private college or university may and a public institution must allow a speaker even if the institution does not share the speaker’s views (Chemerinsky and Gillam 2017). It is also important for students to understand why speakers seek out the academy even when they disagree with the institution’s ideals. In his book, What Snowflakes Get Right-Free Speech, Truth, and Equality on Campus, Ulrich Baer explained: The speakers of our day seek the platform and prestige of universities because a college invitation functions as a tacit endorsement and legitimation of a point of view . . . speakers seek out the University because that is where some of the rules are made about what counts as legitimately established knowledge and what ideas are simply bunk. It is this function of the university of vetting and legitimating knowledge, with the aim of winnowing truth from settled falsehoods, that make speech debates so important. (Baer 2019, xix)

This quest for legitimacy and the academy’s role in certifying it is one reason universities and colleges must take student resistance to ideas that run counter to justice and equity seriously. While following mandates about free speech, schools must also work to do no harm, educate the campus community, and support democratic principles. Students will, at times, be unsatisfied with the outcome of their activist movements, requests, and demands. At one college, students were angry that a staff member had a confederate flag in their personal vehicle. At another, a student had a Pepe the Frog poster (a meme that has been appropriated as a symbol of the alt right) hanging in a residence hall window. In both cases, there were calls for expulsion or firing. In each case a conversation was initiated with the individual accused of committing the offense. In one case, the item was removed. In the other it was not.

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Helping students understand the nuances and complexities in free expression debates builds skills and prepares them for effective democratic citizenship. Rather than spinning their wheels and being frustrated by the limited outcomes of call out and cancel cultures (Ross 2020), they can and often do stand firm in their values and convictions while finding more effective ways to facilitate change. Students can also choose self-care and selfpreservation, sometimes leaving the challenge for extended discussion to other institutional constituencies namely staff, faculty, and administrators, to manage. These are empowering choices for students not demoralizing ones. What becomes important is helping students, faculty, and staff on every side of the political spectrum understand the First Amendment and that free speech and expression comes with responsibility. There are consequences, intended and unintended, that need to be navigated if we are truly committed to both the First Amendment, and equity and inclusion. This level of education takes institutional leadership, commitment, and preparation. Problems occur when colleges and universities are unclear about values and expectations, have no free speech and expression policies in place, and do not communicate institutional standards. It is also difficult when institutions are unprepared, reactive, and disorganized when hate speech occurs or when they do not recognize and mitigate the influence of outside agitators on campus free speech and activism. Colleges and universities must prepare for these trials before they arise. The pace at which incidents occur both on campus and off, combined with the way media, especially social media, allows information to spread quickly and vastly, means campuses often find themselves perpetually behind. They are often reacting, in ineffective ways, to events and narratives that spark controversy and discord. For example, it is very common for colleges and universities to rely on campuswide open forums when incidents of hate speech or expression occur. There is usually a community message denouncing the matter followed by an open meeting where emotions run high and promises are made to do better. Rarely do these meetings alone lead to long-term institutional change. We think of these forums as higher education’s version of the phrase thoughts and prayers that we hear after tragedies like school shootings. Just like the often hollow thoughts and prayers saying does not prevent the next school shooting, the forums rarely present a systemic action plan to move the institution forward. Open forums have a place for communities to come together in solidarity and to denounce hate and harm, but they must be accompanied by training, policies, and programs that educate and offer accountability when values are breached (Thomas 2019, 34–35). This work must take into account the varying power dynamics that exist on campuses and in discussions about free speech and expression. It must be woven into

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the fabric of the institution and take into consideration the four-year exchange every college has as students graduate, and new classes come in. We maintain that regular proactive education and programming for the whole campus has proven to be an effective method of preparation. As institutions of higher learning, it is our obligation to provide knowledge and skills regarding free speech and expression to our campus communities. This work supports the educational mission and fosters a campus climate that is inclusive, honest, and collaborative as all members grapple with the questions and problems together. What follows is one example of a campuswide program created to meet these aspirations. SKIDMORE SPEAKS Skidmore Speaks is a multiday annual program created by the dean of students office at Skidmore for the entire campus. It is designed to address current critical topics pertinent to campus climate. The program launched in 2018 and has covered topics of sexual and gender-based misconduct and Title IX, social media, and the First Amendment and free speech. The goals of the program are to identify critical issues and trends facing the campus community, engage the campus with experts before a crisis arises, and develop a plan for education, policy, and practice. It is important that the entire community is invited to participate in the program for it to be effective for students. Choosing topics that cross constituents and providing access points by differentiating elements of the program helps members of the community feel connected to the topic and open to participating. The first Skidmore Speaks was entitled, “Conversations about the First Amendment and the Meaning of Free Speech.” The topic was chosen for a number of reasons including • the activist responses from students to speakers labeled controversial coming to campus; • student resistance to alt right speakers and representatives wanting campus access and using the campus as a platform for their agendas; • the need to help students better understand free expression, the First Amendment, hate speech, and censorship; • the desire to provide students with skills, strategies, and a range of options to address issues of hate speech and other controversies. The goal was for students to feel empowered not just victimized and afraid. The week started with a presentation from Sanford J. Ungar, the former president of Goucher College and the director of the Free Speech Project at

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Georgetown University. His talk was entitled, “The Paradox of Free Speech in America Today.” His remarks gave an overview of the First Amendment, the history of activism related to free speech, and current political discourses on the topic. The talk was followed by a facilitated dialogue with Director Ungar and Philip A. Glotzbach (President emeritus, Skidmore College). This talk and dialogue at the beginning of the program gave the campus community a foundation of understanding, a relevant vocabulary, and an opportunity to ask questions. It helped prepare the community for the rest of the week’s events. The second day consisted of a student workshop, a talk, and book signing by Zachary Wood, the author of Uncensored: My Life and Uncomfortable Conversations at the Intersection of Black and White America. Wood is a graduate of Williams College. While a student at Williams, Wood was the president of the student group, Uncomfortable Learning, that sought to “bring speakers with controversial perspectives to campus” (Williams College 2021). Wood’s book was provided to all who wanted it. Discussions with Wood followed about the book, his experiences with bringing individuals who he adamantly disagreed with to his campus, and how Wood navigated angry responses. As a recent college undergraduate, Wood was close in age to the student participants. It was clear that as students both learned from and challenged Wood, that the students could hear messages from him that they sometimes resisted coming from college professionals. The following day, Sigal Ben-Porath provided constituent-based workshops for students, staff, and faculty. All participants received her book and the workshops focused on “inclusive freedom” (Ben-Porath 2019, 37) and student activism. The final keynote address was given by Scott Jaschik, editor and a founder of Inside Higher Ed. His talk was entitled, “Free Speech Contradictions: Why the Debate on Free Expressions on Campus is Important, and Why it is so Misunderstood.” He focused on the need to address the harm of hate speech and freedom of expression. Jaschik discussed activist moments he has observed and gave advice on a range of ways to strategically respond without shutting down conversation. He did acknowledge that there are times when the expression is so egregiousness, like calls for violence, it may require stopping a conversation. Throughout the week Skidmore alum Emily Rizzo, artist, activist, and storyteller, and student Sanjna Selvarajan, an international affairs major and media and film studies minor with a passion for documentary filmmaking, and social justice, interviewed and filmed Skidmore students, staff, and faculty about their understanding of free speech. The result was a documentary film entitled, And We Talked. On the final day of Skidmore Speaks, several viewings of the documentary film were held, along with community conversations based on the film and the week’s programming. The feedback,

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suggestions, and ideas collected were used to draft Skidmore’s free speech and expression policy. The conversations about free speech continued on campus the following semester. Ben-Porath returned to advise a working group on speech and free expression polices at Skidmore. Nadine Strossen, the first woman to lead the American Civil Liberties Union and author of Hate: Why We Should Resist it with Free Speech Not Censorship (2018), spoke at a luncheon about tackling hate speech with counter speech. Skidmore Speaks Outcomes There were several outcomes that were immediately visible during the programming for the week. Community members reported that they felt better informed about the First Amendment and prepared to contribute to policies for the campus. Staff and faculty explained that they had acquired more language to address hate speech and other challenges when they occur inside and outside of the classroom. Most importantly, students demonstrated their new skills and strategies the very next semester when Christina Hoff Sommers, a resident scholar at the American Enterprise Institute who studies the politics of gender and feminism visited campus. The American Enterprise Institute is regarded as a conservative public think tank, based in Washington, DC. The students who invited Sommers described her as “somewhat controversial.” For example, Sommers believes that there is no evidence to support that America systematically battered women and denied them equal pay for equal work. Many students found Sommers’ ideas counter to theirs surrounding gender equity. The campus prepared for the visit by issuing talking points to the community that stressed Skidmore’s commitment to the free exchange of ideas and the safe participation in the event for all in attendance. The work of Skidmore Speaks programming and the ongoing work on campus regarding free speech and expression were publicized. One very promising foreshadowing moment occurred when a student wrote an email urging other students, faculty, and staff to attend, be respectful and challenge the speaker vigorously about her ideas. She wrote: A group of female students including myself has decided to advocate for attendance at this event . . . we want listeners to pack the auditorium, respectfully listen to what this professor has to say and then be prepared to voice our concerns . . . I personally believe that it is important to have lots of people with different ideas at this event so that if there are anti-feminist remarks being made, students and staff feel empowered to stand up and question them. I hope to utilize this opportunity to promote a meaningful conversation with

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representation from all points of view so that we can all strive to better understand one another.

The talk was well attended, and Skidmore students showed up and showed out in the best way. They listened, they asked challenging questions, and when egged on by the speaker to be more radical or reactive, they did not take the bait. Students continued to present their critiques and ask that Sommers justify her view on gender particularly through of lens of equity and justice. The conversation continued well past its scheduled time without violence and shouting down of the speaker. The student who sent the email sent another note at the end of the event: For those of you who were not at the lecture, you should know that while the speech was extremely hateful and intense, students remained respectful. There were no protests, rather students listened and then asked questions or pointed out flaws in her research. Myself and at least 20 other students stayed after the talk until 11:00 pm asking more questions, and then talking to one another about how we can protect students on campus and address this type of hate.

Days after the event, several students said that they felt empowered by the discussion and referenced what they had learned during Skidmore Speaks as part of the reason they were able to engage in the difficult conversation. Not every student participated, learned, and then showed such skills, however all students there were able to witness their peers modeling positive ways to engage and demonstrate the critical thinking and questioning skills needed for open dialogue. The outcomes described are the result of deliberate choices made when planning the Skidmore Speaks program. The depth and breadth of this level of programming requires funding and commitment. It may mean giving up less effective programming to focus on this work. Skidmore Speaks was intentionally designed as an annual signature program connecting community voices to credible field experts with a range of experiences and opinions in order to model for students how conversations can occur across differences. Providing a range of ways for campus constituents to participate and allowing students to have leadership roles in the planning and programming were important features of the program. Opportunities to participate included planning workshops, hosting film viewings and discussions, and arranging keynote addresses and meetings over meals. Additionally, the events were scheduled at a range of times, morning, midday, and evening so that all who wanted to, could attend. Finally, Skidmore College informed the community of future plans, based on the learning and information we collected. Skidmore Speaks has become a highlight on the

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campus calendar. Students, faculty, and staff have suggested future topics to explore. PREPARING FOR EDUCATION AND ACTIVISM RELATED TO FREE SPEECH AND EXPRESSION Colleges and universities do not exist in a vacuum. Campuses are impacted by what happens socially and politically, locally, nationally, and globally. Institutions must be aware that critical issues facing higher education, including free speech and expression debates, have influence on espoused institutional values and the lived experiences of students, faculty, and staff. Leaders must have an understanding of why affronts to democracy, equity, justice, and inclusion lead to activism. Some steps schools can take that show commitment and accountability include: • Get to know students and how they are affected by hateful speech and expressions as well as other forms of oppression. This will help institutions understand why students show resistance to speech and expressions that cause community harm. • Engage the entire campus community in conversations about free speech and expression. Institutions should show commitment both to free speech and inclusion by collaboratively creating curricular and cocurricular opportunities and events that can foster trust. • Help students understand what academic freedom means and how to address speech and expression matters in the classroom. Help faculty be open to critiques that come in these educational moments. • Assign point persons on campus who are educated about free speech and expression who can respond to flash points and crisis when they arise. Build relationships with experts in the field who can assist. • Show support for student activists. Provide them with information about their rights and responsibilities. Make sure students understand the limitations of what campuses can do to keep them safe when they protest in local communities. • Develop proactive programming that focusses on education and skillbuilding. Programming should be ongoing as opposed to reactive to specific incidents. Programming about free speech and expression should include topics like, the use of social media, individual accountability, and positive ways to support each other even when holding each other accountable. • Have clear free speech and expression policies in place. Engage the entire community in developing the policies and communicate them to the campus. The policies must reflect institutional values connected to equity.

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Embed the policies in institutional moments like orientations and student, staff, and faculty trainings and handbooks. The policies should be easy to find on campus websites. This list of strategies is not exhaustive. Each campus must consider their constituents, culture, climate, and needs when planning to address free speech and expression education and programming. Being ready will help every campus be more effective in this work. Students care deeply about what is happening in the world and on college and university Campuses. They are willing to take on tough situations related to free speech and expression. Understandably some college students may not possess the full complement of skills or strategies necessary to successfully move this agenda forward on their own and thus need help and support from the institution. Even so, students are willing to courageously initiate difficult dialogues and exchanges with faculty, staff, administrators, and each other, even engaging in protest to challenge systems of power. They deserve support, affirmation, and gratitude for their leadership.

REFERENCES Anderson, Greta. 2020. “When Free Speech and Racist Speech Collide.” June 23, 2020. Inside Higher Ed. https​:/​/ww​​w​.ins​​idehi​​ghere​​d​.com​​/news​​/2020​​/06​/2​​3​/fir​​st​ -am​​endme​​nt​-re​​spons​​e​-fir​​st​-re​​s​pons​​e​-rac​​ism​-c​​ampus​. Baer, Ulrich. 2019. What Snowflakes Get Right: Free Speech, Truth, and Equality on Campus. New York: Oxford University Press. Banks, Cerri A., and Alex E. Vasquez. 2021. No Justice, No Peace. College Student Activism, Race Relations and Media Culture. New York: Peter Lang Publishing. Ben-Porath, Sigal R. 2017. Free Speech on Campus. Pennsylvania: University of Pennsylvania Press. Chemerinsky, Erwin, and Howard Gillam. 2017. Free Speech on Campus. New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Press. Hauslohner, Abigail, and Susan Svriuga. 2017. “Free Speech or Hate Speech? Campus Debates Over Victimhood Put Universities in a Bind.” October 20, 2017. The Washington Post. https​:/​/ww​​w​.was​​hingt​​onpos​​t​.com​​/nati​​onal/​​free-​​speec​​h​-or-​​ hate-​​speec​​h​-cam​​pus​-d​​ebate​​s​-ove​​r​-vic​​timho​​od​-pu​​t​-uni​​versi​​ty​-of​​ficia​​ls​-in​​-a​-bi​​nd​ /20​​17​/10​​/20​/7​​f610d​​fe​-a​a​​07​-11​​e7​-92​​d1​-58​​c702d​​2d975​​_stor​​y​.htm​​l. Lindsay, Tom. 2019. “New Report: Most College Students Agree that Campus Free Speech is Waning.” May 31, 2019. Forbes. https​:/​/ww​​w​.for​​bes​.c​​om​/si​​tes​/t​​omlin​​ dsay/​​2019/​​05​/31​​/new-​​repor​​t​-mos​​t​-col​​lege-​​stude​​nts​-a​​gree-​​that-​​campu​​s​-fre​​e​-spe​​ech​ -​i​​s​-wan​​ing/?​​sh​=12​​756e2​​21433​.

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Nicholson, Rebecca. 2016. “Poor Little Snowflake—The Defining Insult of 2016.” November 28, 2016. The Guardian. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​guard​​ian​.c​​om​/sc​​ience​​/2016​​/ nov/​​28​/sn​​owfla​​ke​-in​​sult-​​disda​​​in​-yo​​ung​-p​​eople​. Quintana, Chris. 2018. “Colleges Are Creating ‘a Generation of Sanctimonious, Sensitive, Supercilious Snowflakes,’ Sessions Says.” July 24, 2018. The Chronicle of Higher Education. https​:/​/ww​​w​.chr​​onicl​​e​.com​​/arti​​cle​/c​​olleg​​es​-ar​​e​-cre​​ating​​-a​-ge​​ nerat​​ion​-o​​f​-san​​ctimo​​nious​​-sens​​itive​​-supe​​rcili​​ous​-​s​​nowfl​​akes-​​sessi​​ons​-s​​ays. Ross, Loretta J. 2020. “What If Instead of Calling People Out, We Called Them In?” November 19, 2020. The New York Times. https://liveskidmore​.sharepoint​.com/​:w:​ /r​​/site​​s​/Cha​​pter/​​_layo​​uts​/1​​5​/Doc​​.aspx​​?sour​​cedoc​=​%7B6​​5FEA0​​E2​-48​​E2​-4E​​42​-A4​​ 7C​-00​​3FDFD​​53C99​​%7D​&f​​i le​=f​​ull​%2​​0spom​​a​%20d​​raft%​​20(LM​R).do​cx&ac​tion=​ defau​lt&mo​biler​edire​ct=tr​ue. Southern Poverty Law Center. 2021. “Charles Murray.” https​:/​/ww​​w​.spl​​cente​​r​.org​​/ figh​​ting-​​hate/​​extre​​mist-​​files​​/indi​​vidua​​l​/ch​a​​rles-​​murra​​y. Srossen, Nadine. 2018. Hate: Why We Should Resist it with Free Speech. New York: Oxford University. Thomas, Nancy. 2019. “Activism, Free Speech, and Power.” In Student Activism, Politics, and Campus Climate in Higher Education, edited by Demetri L. Morgan and Charles H. F. Davis III, 21–39. New York: Taylor & Francis. Williams College. 2021. “Gaudino Fund, Williams Gaudino Fund Uncomfortable Learning.” https​:/​/ga​​udino​​.will​​iams.​​edu​/h​​ist​-2​​3​-unc​​omfor​​tabl​e​​-lear​​ning/​

Chapter 13

A Safe Space for the White Race An Interrogation of White Nationalist Propaganda on College Campuses Gabriel A. Cruz and Patrick Sawyer

In an interview with The Atlantic, Richard Spencer, the president of the National Policy Institute, shared his vision for society. He proclaimed his dream of “reviving the Roman Empire, it would be an empire that would be welcome to Italians, to Scots, to Russians, to white Americans, to Finns, etcetera. To have a safe space for all Europeans from around the world” (Lombroso 2016). Spencer’s vision of a utopia is a modern take on a centuries-old ambition: A white nationalist ethnostate. According to the AntiDefamation League, white nationalism is a term used to describe “a form of white supremacy that emphasizes defining a country or region by white racial identity and which seeks to promote the interests of whites exclusively, typically at the expense of people of other backgrounds” (Anti-Defamation League 2020d, para. 1). White nationalism should be understood as a division of white supremacy which is an umbrella term for a variety of sociopolitical perspectives that are unified in their agreement that white culture is inherently superior and that nonwhites are defined by characteristics that necessitate their subjugation lest they overwhelm and dilute the white population (Anti-Defamation League 2020f). This perspective of advocating for a legally codified white-exclusive/ white-dominant ethnostate has an extensive history in the United States. From the United States’ colonial origin through the early twentieth century, there have been laws meant to specifically regulate people of color (Gotanda 1995). Modern hate groups such as those discussed in this chapter seek to reimpose and strengthen America’s apartheid that has defined much of U.S. history. Some white nationalist organizations are merely content to spread propaganda and engage in public discourse as their primary means of enacting 243

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change. Organizations such as American Renaissance, an online publication that characterizes itself as a research source for those interested in what it describes as race realism, work to disseminate information that supports pseudo-intellectual arguments regarding race, culture, and science. The philosophy of race realism asserts that race is an important aspect of individual and group identity, that different races build different societies that reflect their natures, and that it is entirely normal for whites (or for people of any other race) to want to be the majority race in their own homeland. If whites permit themselves to become a minority population, they will lose their civilization, their heritage, and even their existence as a distinct people. (American Renaissance 2020, para. 1)

This perspective of race realism is supported by antiquated notions of biological race and serves to perpetuate this fundamental falsehood in the service of legitimizing segregationist systems and policies. Spencer’s National Policy Institute (NPI), a white nationalist think tank founded in 2005, serves a similar function as American Renaissance by publishing race-related pseudo-science material, organizing events, and promoting the white supremacist agenda of the alt-right. The institute is “dedicated to the heritage, identity, and future of people of European descent in the United States and around the world” (National Policy Institute 2020, para. 1) and disseminates racist propaganda toward that end. Organizations such as NPI and American Renaissance function as think tanks for the alt-right movement whose goal is to achieve mainstream cultural legitimacy by incorporating white supremacist talking points into conventional conservatism (Hartzell 2018). In addition to engaging in public discourse, some white nationalist’s activities have also taken the form of what the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) refers to as domestic terrorism and homegrown violent extremists (HVE) (U.S. Congress 2019). In recent years, there have been efforts by white nationalists engaging in acts of domestic terror involving the targeted murder of minorities. Three particularly high-profile cases represent HVE: the 2015 massacre of nine African American members of the historic black Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina (Robles 2015); the 2018 lethal shooting at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (Roose 2018); and the 2019 massacre at a Walmart in El Paso, Texas where the shooter specifically targeted Mexicans (Wong 2019). Research indicates that white nationalist organizations have gained increased support and expanded enrollment in their organizations. From 2017 to 2020, the number of white nationalist groups increased by 55 percent (Southern Poverty Law Center 2020d). A common recruitment strategy for these groups is to target college students through the distribution of propaganda on university

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campuses. Since January of 2016 and the political rise of U.S. President Donald J. Trump, there has been a significant and steady increase of this type of recruiting by white nationalist organizations (Anti-Defamation League 2020e). In 2019, white nationalist groups spread propaganda for recruiting on 433 college campuses in forty-three states and the District of Columbia, with the states of California, New York, Texas, Massachusetts, Ohio, New Jersey, Washington, Virginia, Kentucky, and Florida having the most activity (Anti-Defamation League 2020e). The trend of increased recruitment efforts, combined with the rise of officially designated hate crimes has motivated the FBI to elevate the national threat consideration of racially motivated extremist groups, in particular white supremacist organizations, to a priority level on par with ISIS and other terrorist organizations (Donaghue 2020). In this chapter, first, we provide an overview of how to consider the concept of free speech in the college and university setting. Second, we focus on two significant white nationalist organizations: American Identity Movement (AIM) and Patriot Front. These are representative examples of the broader white power movement and will provide important context in understanding white nationalism. Third, we analyze how white nationalist organizations recruit on college and university campuses via the dissemination of their propaganda materials. This is achieved through close inspection of the text, iconography, motifs, and slogans of the propaganda materials. Fourth, we repudiate and counter the overt and embedded racist messaging contained in the propaganda materials. Finally, we believe that hateful speech and bad ideas are best defeated by edifying speech and better ideas. Consequently we urge scholars and students to promote dialogue and healthy discussion regarding free speech in the face of racist, bigoted, and hateful speech. FREE SPEECH AND THE UNIVERSITY Before continuing our discussion of white nationalist propaganda, it is important to first contextualize this type of material within the realm of free speech on university campuses. Scholars of political expression have noted that hateful, vitriolic speech that vilifies entire groups of people is still protected under the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution (Lawrence 2017), and as such it is illegal to ban inflammatory material such as the propaganda discussed in this chapter. To do so on the basis of content would be to inadvertently create a tool that could be used by courts, university administrations, or other regulatory bodies for the suppression of political thought that is intended to support and enfranchise marginalized communities (Chemerinsky and Gillman 2017). One might then reasonably ask what can be done about the proliferation of this material on university campuses. The solution to

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this hateful speech, we suggest, is more speech rooted in a comprehensive understanding of the material. The purpose of this chapter is threefold: (1) To equip the reader with the requisite knowledge for identifying white nationalist materials; (2) To educate the reader on how these materials are used to rhetorically appeal to potential recruits; and, (3) To prompt discourse rooted in critical engagement with the material that leads to increased awareness within the campus community in order to facilitate greater solidarity against white nationalist attitudes and organizations. FOCUS: PATRIOT FRONT AND AMERICAN IDENTITY MOVEMENT Because of the heightened activity of white nationalist groups on college and university campuses and the genuine threat posed to the well-being of our nation’s students, we have chosen to examine how these groups increase their visibility and attempt to grow their ranks. For this study, we look at a number of flyers from several prominent white nationalist groups. We highlight Patriot Front and AIM as representative samples because the Southern Poverty Law Center has indicated that these groups have been at the forefront of distributing white power propaganda, such as flyers, stickers, and various other literature in the United States from 2017 to 2019 (Southern Poverty Law Center 2020c). A primary location of their distribution efforts has been the college and university campus. American Identity Movement AIM, originally founded as “Identity Evropa” is a white nationalist organization primarily concerned with combating the demographic shifts occurring in the United States. Their activities typically involve anti-diversity protests and vocally opposing government policies that would benefit immigrants and communities of color, such as the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrival (DACA) program which offers temporary protection from deportation to a narrow category of individuals who are in the United States without authorization. Patrick Casey, who is part of AIM’s leadership, describes the organization’s vision and goals for the United States. We don’t believe America needs to be 100.00 percent white, but we do think that America isn’t going to be America if there isn’t a European-America super-majority. So when it comes to policies and so forth we’re concerned with reversing these trends. We want to end immigration for the time being. And in the future we would like to have immigration policies that favor high-skilled immigrants from, you know, Europe, Canada, Australia and so forth. And we

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also do want to have programs of re-migration wherein people who feel more of a connection to another part of the world, another race, another culture, even another religion in the case of Islam can return to their native homelands essentially. (Southern Poverty Law Center 2020a, para. 7)

This type of language uses terms like homeland and high-skilled immigrants’ to legitimize and even romanticize their vision for immigration and the forced removal of nonwhites from the United States. This method of framing the issue of immigration is meant to seem rational and more acceptable to conventional conservatism than overtly calling for ethnic cleansing. The group’s goal of appealing to and then radicalizing mainstream conservatives is reflected in their name change from Identity Evropa to AIM. The shift occurred in the wake of the nonprofit media organization, “Unicorn Riot,” successfully obtaining and releasing the chat logs of Identity Evropa (Southern Poverty Law center 2019). The released chat logs prompted the rebranding because they revealed, contrary to the group’s public-facing messages, the organization is not a nonviolent group of prowhite identitarians. In truth, they embrace Nazi ideology, and members frequently use racial slurs along with other hate speech in the chats. The organization rebranded in order to appear more palatable for mainstream society (Schiano and Martinez 2019). This was especially risky for Identity Evropa as the organization and several of its key members were defendants in a lawsuit related to the 2017 Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, where anti-racist protestor, Heather Heyer was run over and killed by a white nationalist who was later found guilty of first-degree murder and other charges related to Heyer’s death (Burke and Sotomayor 2018). In response to the release of the information by Unicorn Riot, the group attempted to distance itself from the name of Identity Evropa and the lawsuit by rebranding as AIM, a name that could appeal to more mainstream conservatives who place importance on identifying as American. The focus on appealing to mainstream conservatives and often those who identify as Republicans is a tactic AIM uses to gain visibility and persuade the public to support the legal codification and cultural normativity of a white majority ethnostate. While this is certainly a strategy of AIM, it is important to note that many who identify with conservatism and the Republican Party do not share AIM’s vision of America and would in fact repudiate their aims and goals. Patriot Front Similar to AIM, Patriot Front is a white nationalist organization that asserts that the only legitimate Americans are those whose roots are in what it terms

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the pan-European culture. According to the manifesto on the Patriot Front website, When our pre-Columbian forefathers left their European homes, they found a savage continent. They held a variety of purpose, yet against the harsh life on the frontier and the common enemy in the strange and unexplored reaches of America yet to be touched by civilization, they found a common cause and a common identity as Americans. From the varied nations and cultures of Europe a new nation was forged in the flames of conquest. E Pluribus Unum was the new creed that bound our people together with their pan-European identity as Americans. To be an American is to be a descendant of conquerors, pioneers, visionaries, and explorers. This unique identity was given to us by our ancestors, and this national spirit remains firmly rooted in our blood. (Patriot Front 2020, para. 2)

Patriot Front’s ultimate goal is to transform the United States into a fascist white ethnostate, a territory that is majority or exclusively white that adheres to the sociopolitical ideology of fringe conservatism similar to that of Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini. Toward that end, Patriot Front engages in a propaganda campaign designed to increase their numbers and influence public opinion. It is worth noting that Patriot Front, like AIM, is a rebranded organization that was renamed and restructured after the 2017 Unite the Right rally. Originally named Vanguard America, the group, along with Identity Evropa/AIM and others, helped organize the rally and consequently were part of the subsequent lawsuit. In the wake of the turmoil from the rally, Vanguard America split into two different organizations: the vocal Patriot Front and the smaller, explicitly Neo-Nazi group, National Socialist Legion (Anti-Defamation League 2020c). The reconstruction of Vanguard America into Patriot Front was meant to distance the group from the rally and from the high-profile death of Heather Heyer. Additionally, the selection of the name Patriot Front was designed to appeal to more moderate, yet sympathetic members of the public. According to the leader Thomas Rousseau, It can help inspire sympathy among those more inclined to fence-sitting, and can be easily justified to our ideaology [sic] and worldview. The original American patriots were nothing short of revolutionaries. The word patriot itself comes from the same root as paternal and patriarch. It means loyalty to something intrinsically based in blood. (Southern Poverty Law Center 2020b, para. 10)

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Patriot Front uses the mythos of the patriots of the American Revolution to inspire allegiance to their cause and galvanize those who may be interested but require further prompting. Given Patriot Front’s rebranding, overall propaganda campaign, and their efforts to distribute recruiting materials at institutions of higher learning, it seems Patriot Front views white college students as what they term, fencesitters, who merely need a push in their direction. In addition to being sites where vulnerable, fence-sitting college students gather, colleges and universities promote and platform public discourse on a range of issues and topics. White nationalist organizations take advantage of this characteristic of our institutions of higher education. These groups see colleges and universities as fertile sites where their propaganda will be viewed as protected speech under the First Amendment. Hate speech is protected so long as it does not involve specific threats against individuals, and since university administrations are rightly reluctant to restrict speech on the basis of content (Chemerinsky and Gillman 2017), it is likely that white power groups will continue to besiege the college campus with their hate and bigotry through flyers, posters, stickers, and other materials. A textual analysis of material being distributed on college and university campuses by white power groups reveals their rhetorical tactics and provides insight into how to expose and counter their messaging. In this study, we analyzed flyers from a number of white nationalist organizations with the view that in order to challenge the spread of this insidious and destructive ideology, we must first understand both its content and tactics. METHODOLOGY For this study, we applied two frameworks for analysis: narrative criticism and visual rhetorical analysis. The narrative paradigm developed by Walter Fisher (1985) contends that humans organize the world and their experiences as narratives and evaluate those narratives based on coherence and fidelity. In this context, the term “coherence” means that there must be internal consistency and logic within the narrative; essentially, the story must make sense. Fidelity refers to the degree to which the narrative logic matches one’s own lived experiences. In this way, a story must seem plausible relative to the experiences of the person perceiving the narrative. People often use narratives to interpret the world and their own experiences by transforming occurrences into coherent stories that provide a frame for comprehending the world and engaging in sense-making (Fisher 1985). These stories are laden with ideological meaning and when embraced and consumed can be persuasive in forming one’s

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understanding of reality (Atkinson and Calafell 2009). We apply a critical rhetorical application of the narrative paradigm to critique how white power propaganda flyers create narratives that are designed to persuade an audience to their ideological standpoint. Each flyer was treated as a rhetorical text that contained an argument rooted in a certain narrative construction of the world. As such, each flyer functioned as a window into that narrative construction of reality proposed by the white nationalist organization that created it. Each proposal of reality contained a narrative that hinged on assertions meant to be coherent while also attempting to strike a chord of fidelity for the viewers and readers. In this way, the narratives were designed to render the proposal plausible, even reasonable, and thus prompt interest in joining the group. We also used visual rhetorical analysis to examine the flyers. This form of rhetorical criticism operates with the understanding that the intentional construction of imagery as a means of communication is an inherently ideological process (Foss 2005) and can be used to effectively communicate with an audience (Foss 2004). Therefore, we position these flyers as texts that explicitly attempt to use specific imagery to persuade audiences to subscribe to particular articulations of white nationalist ideology. In this regard, it is important to bear in mind that white nationalist groups use a variety of iconography to evoke different meanings in the audience and identify themselves to others. Examples include pagan symbolism, Christian iconography, and imagery used by various governments (Anti-Defamation League 2020b) to conjure specific notions of heritage, history, and legitimacy in the minds of the audience. Consequently, we have deemed it prudent to use visual rhetorical analysis in conjunction with narrative critique to gain a more holistic and thorough understanding of the texts and how they may appeal to potential recruits. Our analysis is informed by critical race and whiteness studies scholarship as white power propaganda relies on race-based cultural appeals. Critical race and whiteness research offer several salient observations that are immediately relevant to our analysis of white nationalist recruiting materials. First, historically and currently, whiteness has been centered in U.S. society to the point of invisibility (Nakayama and Krizek 1995). That is, whiteness is the unseen norm, the acceptable standard, the unnoticed backdrop for which everything else is judged. Ergo, to be white is to be normal. Therefore, to be nonwhite is to be abnormal, to be a deviation from the norm, and thus a moral violation in the minds of some. Second, this ideology is interpellated through its prominence in mass mediated texts, both fiction and nonfiction forms of media. Third, while the supposed inherent positivity of whiteness has been challenged in recent decades academically, and in recent years, at the popular level, whiteness is still often constructed as generally virtuous,

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while nonwhiteness is often constructed as inherently inferior. In particular, white hegemonic masculinity is deemed superior to the other racial and gender expressions which are depicted as prone to violence (Bogle 2016), criminality (Mastro et al. 2007, 348; Lacy and Haspel 2011), naturally subservient (D’Amore 2008), hypersexual (Oh and Kutufam 2014; Brown 2014), and generally in need of assistance from white individuals in order to succeed (Schultz 2014). Finally, an intersectional perspective that incorporates gender as a component of race construction in mass media further indicates that white masculinity is not only the most culturally legitimized racialized gender identity, it is also necessary for taming the virulent nonwhite body (Fitzgerald 2014), preserving the frail virtue of white femininity (Prividera and Howard 2006). Mass mediated and culturally driven knowledge about the construction of race is important to consider in the context of this project for two reasons. First, the creators of the recruitment material live in the United States and are influenced by the media pervading our society that portrays and reifies race-based stereotypes. We recognize that there is not a one-to-one correlation between consuming this type of media and arriving at the conclusions about nonwhites that white nationalist groups express. Moreover, we are certainly not claiming a causal relationship. However, those who are already predisposed to white nationalist ideology find fuel for their racism and bigotry in subtle and not so subtle expressions and representations in the media. Second, analysis of white nationalists’ recruiting propaganda demonstrates that these groups are in certain ways trying to leverage racist stereotypes reinforced in the media in an attempt to relate to various base fears and worries that their audience may have about culture and society. This is an attempt to legitimize their claims and arguments to potential recruits. The texts we analyzed for this project were flyers authored by a number of white power organizations including Vanguard America/American Vanguard, Patriot Front, and Identity Evropa/AIM. Recognizing that these organizations are regularly renaming and rebranding themselves, going forward, we will be using the names American Vanguard, Patriot Front, and AIM to maintain consistency when referring to these groups. The flyers we examined were distributed between 2017 and 2019 at the following colleges and universities: University of California San Diego (San Diego, CA), Chapman University (Orange, CA), University of Nebraska (Lincoln, NE), University of Utah (Salt Lake City, UT), John Logan Community College (Carter, IL), Southern Methodist University (Dallas, TX), University of North Texas (Denton, TX), University of Texas (Austin, TX), University of Virginia (Charlottesville, VA), University of Florida (Gainesville, FL), and Wagner College (Staten Island, NY).

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In addition to examining flyers at each of these locations, we also examined the websites for Patriot Front and AIM. As we will discuss later, a key goal of the flyers, posters, and other propaganda material is to pique the interest of readers sufficiently to compel them to visit the organizations’ websites where the ideological indoctrination continues and intensifies. The following questions were instrumental to our analysis: What practical efforts were made to reach students? What symbols, iconography, and motifs were used to convey meaning to the potential recruits? What narratives were presented to students through the flyers? What rhetorical appeals were present in the flyers and how were they used? FINDINGS, ANALYSIS, AND DISCUSSION The white power recruitment efforts that take place on hundreds of college and university campuses each year means that the number of individual flyers, posters, and stickers passed out and posted are in the thousands. Few parts of the country are left unscathed. Fighting against the racist hate and vitriol of these groups, both veiled and explicit, requires being clear-eyed about their messaging and the spurious claims and misleading implications the propaganda contains. In this section, we offer textual analysis of specific representative pieces of propaganda used by white nationalist groups on college and university campuses. We describe the flyers discussed in detail and include search links active at the time of publication. To begin our analysis, we recognize that a strategy of white power groups is to have two different sets or styles of propaganda. One is a softer, more benign, seemingly more reasonable message. The other is an aggressive and purposely provocative message. In this section, we address two representative examples from the multitude of texts we analyzed. The first flyer is from American Vanguard and was profiled in an article by WNYC Studios (The Takeaway 2018).1 We begin with a description of the flyer, and then deconstruct the flyer. The image appears in grayscale with a black background at the top and bottom, with a white background in the middle section. The top segment with the black background features the words “What Made America Great” in bold letters. The middle section features the phrase “Blood and Soil” in bold letters next to a silhouette of a man holding a flag, and behind the silhouette and phrase is a clipart-esque image of a mountain range. The flag bears a logo used by Patriot Front, an eagle midflight carrying a fasces which is a bundle of sticks attached to an axe blade. The lead phrase and question, “What Made America Great?” is a clear and strategic association with U.S. President Trump’s campaign slogan

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and administration mantra, “Make America Great Again.” President Trump’s constituency supported him for a variety of reasons, and it is fair to say that his more politically radical supporters resonated to some extent with white nationalist ideals, even though Trump’s more normative voting base likely did not. The use of American Vanguard’s phrase is multifaceted. First, it is an attempt to mainstream American Vanguard. It takes the organization out of the margins of our national consciousness where extremism finds a home and attempts to recalibrate it to a place in mainstream society. In other words, this phrase is an attempt to legitimize American Vanguard with the status quo. Second, the use of the phrase enables American Vanguard to capitalize on an idea popularized by the Trump campaign leading up to the 2016 election: America being “Great.” Consequently, it makes good advertising sense to appropriate this sentiment given its place in the political zeitgeist during the flyer’s usage. Third, the phrase and question, “What Made America Great?” is a form of dog-whistling. Dog-whistling is coded racial language meant to appeal to particular audiences in a way that is less visible, and thus easier to ignore to those outside of the intended audience while also allowing the speaker to maintain plausible deniability when accused of violating social norms (Drakulich, Wozniak, Hagan, and Johnson 2020). Human beings cannot hear a dog whistle; the dogs nevertheless can. The unconverted cannot hear the dog whistle, the converted nevertheless can. The next phrase on the flyer is, “Blood and Soil.” While the phrase predates Nazi Germany, it was popularized during Hitler’s reign (Epstein 2017). It was a phrase used to rally the hard-working farmers and agrarian workers of supposed pure Nordic blood who owned and worked the land against the backdrop of the opportunistic, impure Jewish bankers and retailers who were attempting to seize societal power and control (Epstein 2017). The implication is that “Blood and Soil” is what made America great. White nationalist groups domiciled in the U.S. have coopted this phrase to send the message that white blood is the rightful occupier, owner, and controller of the land that is the United States and that Black Americans; indeed, all persons of color, have no place in it. Such a claim is a fabrication and has no legitimate basis in anything whatsoever. Not ontology, not biology, not history, not culture, nothing. Indeed, the very concept of race as existing scientifically and biologically is entirely wrong (Lee 1995; American Anthropological Association 2020). While recognizing that nations and societies come and go via a plethora of complex and multilayered factors, if we were going to apply the rubric of a generalized principle of “blood and soil” to determine who controls the part of the planet that is now the United States, we would be forced to prioritize Native Americans. But reason is not a driver of white power. Rather, the historical narratives asserted by white nationalist groups as evidenced in their recruitment material favor a fiction that so highly

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regards white identity to the point that it is broadly divorced from reality. Moreover, any greatness America has, had, or hopes to attain, is not and will not be exclusively rooted in whites and whiteness, but rather rooted in the myriad of ethnicities, covering the range of melanin, that makes up the United States. As Martin Luther King Jr. (1963) contended in his “I Have A Dream” speech, if “America is to be a great nation” (para 20) that greatness will be rooted in freedom for “all of God’s children” (para 6). Finally, the phrase, “blood and soil” and its association with the brutality of the Nazi regime is meant to elicit fear and serve as a warning to nonwhites. This point cannot be overstated. The next image on this same flyer is a man holding a flag with an eagle grasping a fasces. The fasces in the context of white power discourse and messaging represents a nod to fascist power under Benito Mussolini’s regime in Italy in the 1920s and 1930s (Anti-Defamation League 2020a). Mussolini established the Fasci di Combattimento, commonly known as the Fascist Party, in 1919 in Italy. The party was known for its extreme nationalism, totalitarian leanings, and hatred of Marxist ideology and political and cultural liberalism (Mussolini 1935). While Mussolini’s fascism was slower to embrace anti-Semitic ideology than Hitler’s, it ultimately took root with Mussolini’s formal alliance with Hitler and with the Jews being increasingly, almost axiomatically, associated with hated liberalism. White nationalist groups utilize the emblem of the fasces in their messaging to both signal and underline their anti-Semitic hatred. At the bottom of the flyer is written “Keep It That Way, Join the Vanguard” accompanied by the American Vanguard web address. The phrase, “keep it that way” implies two things that are false. The first is that the message conveyed by “Blood and Soil” is the answer to what makes America great and the second is that what makes America great is in jeopardy of being lost, hence, we need to be active in “keeping it that way.” The discourse of the fear of losing something is prominent in white power propaganda. The idea carries the freight that the loss of culture, traditions, customs, jobs, resources, safety, and overall way of life is imminent for whites. This framing is designed to create a sense of fear and panic, a sense of urgency that something needs to be done swiftly. The exhortation to “Join the Vanguard” is presented as the mechanism and solution to keep all those things, “keep it that way,” keep the reality of “blood and soil,” that is, whites controlling the United States. The flyer’s message ends with American Vanguard’s web address in order to give anyone who would like to “join the Vanguard” a simple way to do so. As well as offering the utility to join, the website address also communicates professionalism and community. It signals that there is an existing, legitimate organization ready to support their mission and movement. The website encourages others to learn about their ethos.

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Another flyer we found has been depicted in an article by The Daily Utah Chronicle (Anderson 2017).2 It is tonally much more aggressive in its messaging. The flyer uses a black background and white lettering for three sentences, each with a line in bold text accompanied by subtext directly beneath. The sentences are “[bold text] STOP THE RAPES [subtext] Over 100 White women are raped or sexually assaulted by Black men every day in the United States; [bold text] STOP THE CRIME [subtext] Blacks are 136 times more likely to commit a violent crime against Whites than vice versa; [bold text] STOP THE MURDER [subtext] Blacks commit 50% of all murders, despite being only 12% of the population.” Beneath these lines of text, which are just more than half of the flyer, is the website BloodAndSoil​.or​g. Beneath that web address on the bottom left of the flyer is a clipart-style image of a Black man excitedly grappling with a white woman as she struggles in anguish to escape his grasp. Opposite the image on the bottom right of the flyer is a section with a white background and the phrase STOP THE BLACKS in black text. The flyer also contains a gray watermark of the logo of the eagle grasping a fasces. Immediately, we see the messaging is noticeably more aggressive and blatantly unambiguous. Unlike the first flyer, there are no phrases or symbols that may not be immediately understood or recognizable to the recipient. The message of the flyer is to conflate violent crime with being Black. The assertion is that if Black people are stopped, then rape, crime, and murder will cease as well. Such a conflation and implied 1:1 correspondence is an egregious, gross perversion of truth and reality. While statistical claims are made in small print on the flyer, there are no sources for the claims. We note that even a cursory review of crime data from the FBI’s Uniform Crime Reporting Program demonstrates that white people commit over 1.5 times the amount of aggregate violent crime than Black people which we would expect given their respective population sizes (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2018). In other words, the patent and obvious reality is that “stopping blacks” will in no way stop rape, murder, and crime. Finally, there is the image of the Black man and white woman. In addition to the depiction of sexual assault on a white woman by a Black man, the image is meant to betray the striking differences in beauty, intellect, and innocence. Historically, as seen in the racist film The Birth of a Nation from 1915, the first movie blockbuster in the United States, and other mass mediated texts, the imagery of a white damsel in distress being terrorized and violated by the animalistic lusts of a Black man is an all too common historical trope (Bogle 2016). The flyer leverages the historical commonality of this image and idea in attempt to stimulate a sense of fear and sense of urgency among whites. It bears saying that the actual cultural and historical context of the United States and the reality of 350 years of slavery, Black Codes, and Jim Crow together demonstrate that Black women have been violated and

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terrorized by white men in much greater numbers than white women have been by Black men, and that white men often committed these crimes with impunity (Hale and Matt 2016). From the Physical to the Virtual It is not an over statement to say that the primary point of white power recruitment efforts on college campuses is to get students to go to their websites. The flyers, posters, stickers, and other propaganda material are designed to lure students to a deeper level of indoctrination. The flyer acts as a gateway drug to the harder drug—the website—where the visuals, sounds, and dogma, along with their visceral impact, are radically amplified. In addition, the websites make direct connection to the mission of white power and a range of legitimate values and interests that are often, but not exclusively, associated with mainstream conservatism such as patriotism, national sovereignty, family, hard work, community, freedom, and liberty. White nationalist websites emphasize these values and interests in an attempt to pair them exclusively to whiteness. Moreover, they make this attempt from the context and standpoint that these values and interests are under siege, that they are at risk and in jeopardy of being lost forever. White nationalists contend that whites need to reclaim the nation to ensure they can reclaim these values and interests. Such a thesis requires an identifiable enemy; chief among them are Black people, Jews, brown immigrants, liberal and progressive whites, whites that ally themselves with people of color, and centrist to conservative whites who directly speak out against racism and white power ideology. These sites often have visuals reflecting a paramilitary aesthetic. As such, there is no confusion as to how white nationalists see their enemies and their willingness to use violence to achieve their vision of the world. Such an aesthetic also signals there is no room for any nuance or middle ground. The message is clear: it is us against them all the way down. CONCLUSION Being keen to the messaging being propagated by white nationalist groups on college and university campuses is critical to discursively combating their influence and creating an atmosphere that hinders their recruiting efforts. By identifying and critiquing the various components of their recruiting materials and deconstructing the attending narratives we become better equipped to effectively engage and challenge the messaging. As advocates of free speech, it is our belief that the answer to bad speech and

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destructive ideas is more speech and better ideas (Chemerinsky and Gillman 2017). When we demystify white nationalist recruiting efforts while simultaneously fostering dialogue, we have the opportunity to articulate and implement ideas and beliefs inclusive of more voices and experiences that in turn enhances the possibilities for all constituencies in society to thrive and prosper. White nationalist organizations ultimately attempt to appeal to whites, and especially white men, with warped and distorted versions of conservative perspectives by constructing an ideological narrative that the society they love and cherish is under assault. They argue that white men are the best hope for defending our society as we know it against encroaching cultural genocide. The ideological underpinning of this perspective is made clear in their flyers and other propaganda. Other flyers that we analyzed, in addition to what is profiled here, use phrases that position the prospective recruit in a place of vulnerability and yet-to-be-realized empowerment. They use such phrases as follows: “We have a right to exist” accompanied by an illustration of a white man and woman; “protect your heritage” situated alongside an image of what appears to be an European statue; and “defending your people is a social duty not an anti-social crime.” The positioning of white identity as being under attack is a call to arms. This prepares the soil for the adoption of a combatant mindset. As an example, the Patriot Front website features a recruitment video laden with military themes and visuals including hand-to-hand combat training, hiking with gear, and coordinated acts of vandalism while wearing uniforms with masks and the Patriot Front insignia. The propaganda of white nationalists seeks to force a binary choice between working with the organizations to protect one’s land, freedom, family, and prosperity or to be part of the problem. As mentioned earlier, the use of terminology such as “family,” “tradition,” and “liberty,” is strategic. It is an effort to use discourse to appeal to people who conflate such terms with conservatism and recruit from that pool of people even though the terms are legitimate interests and concerns of many who do not identify as radical extremists. To conclude, it is our hope that analyzing and deconstructing the messages of white nationalist recruiting efforts on the college and university campus provides a greater understanding and awareness necessary to productively combat white nationalist recruitment efforts. Doing so requires unpacking the meaning and intention of a variety of symbols, iconography, motifs, and slogans that are used in flyers and other recruitment materials in order to see the narratives and rhetorical appeals embedded in their propaganda as deliberate attempts to undermine critical thinking and reflection necessary for democracy.

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NOTES 1. https​:/​/ww​​w​.wny​​cstud​​ios​.o​​rg​/po​​dcast​​s​/tak​​eaway​​/segm​​ents/​​white​​-supr​​emaci​​sts​​ -t​​arget​​-coll​​eges 2. https​:/​/da​​ilyut​​ahchr​​onicl​​e​.com​​/2017​​/08​/1​​2​/rac​​ist​-p​​oster​​s​-f​ou​​nd​-u-​​campu​​s/

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Schiano, Chris, and Freedy Martinez. 2019. “Neo-Nazi Hipsters Identity Evropa Exposed in Discord Chat Leak.” Unicorn Riot, March 6, 2019. https​:/​/un​​icorn​​riot.​​ ninja​​/2019​​/neo-​​nazi-​​hipst​​ers​-i​​denti​​ty​-ev​​ropa-​​expos​​ed​-in​​-disc​​​ord​-c​​hat​-l​​eak/. Schultz, Jaime. 2014. “Glory Road (2006) and the White Savior Historical Sport Film.” Journal of Popular Film and Television 42, no. 4: 205–213. Southern Poverty Law Center. 2019. “White Nationalist Group Identity Evropa Rebrands Following Private Chat Leaks, Launches ‘American Identity Movement’.” March 12, 2019. https​:/​/ww​​w​.spl​​cente​​r​.org​​/hate​​watch​​/2019​​/03​/1​​2​/whi​​te​-na​​tiona​​ list-​​group​​-iden​​tity-​​evrop​​a​-reb​​rands​​-foll​​owing​​-priv​​​ate​-c​​hat​-l​​eaks-​​launc​​hes. Southern Poverty Law Center. 2020a. “Identity Evropa/American Identity Movement.” Accessed June 13. https​:/​/ww​​w​.spl​​cente​​r​.org​​/figh​​ting-​​hate/​​extre​​mist-​​files​​/grou​​p​/ ide​​ntity​​-evro​​paame​​rican​​-i​den​​tity-​​movem​​ent. Southern Poverty Law Center. 2020b. “Patriot Front.” Accessed June 13. https​:/​/ww​​ w​.spl​​cente​​r​.org​​/figh​​ting-​​hate/​​extre​​mist-​​files​​/grou​​p​/pa​t​​riot-​​front​. Southern Poverty Law Center. 2020c. “Spotlight on Tactics: A Flurry of Flyering in 2019.” Accessed June 13. https​:/​/ww​​w​.spl​​cente​​r​.org​​/news​​/2020​​/03​/1​​8​/spo​​tligh​​t​ -tac​​tics-​​flurr​​y​​-fly​​ering​​-2019​. Southern Poverty Law Center. 2020d. “The Year in Hate and Extremism 2019.” Accessed June 13. https​:/​/ww​​w​.spl​​cente​​r​.org​​/news​​/2020​​/03​/1​​8​/yea​​r​-hat​​e​-and​​-e​xtr​​ emism​​-2019​. The Takeaway. 2018. “College Campuses: The New Recruiting Ground for White Supremacists.” WNYC Studios, February 14, 2018. https​:/​/ww​​w​.wny​​cstud​​ios​.o​​rg​/ po​​dcast​​s​/tak​​eaway​​/segm​​ents/​​white​​-supr​​emaci​​sts​-​t​​arget​​-coll​​eges. U.S. Congress. House Oversight and Reform Committee. 2019. Confronting White Supremacy. 116th Cong., 1st sess. https​:/​/ww​​w​.fbi​​.gov/​​news/​​testi​​mony/​​confr​​ontin​​ g​-whi​​te​​-su​​prema​​cy. Wong, Julie C. 2019. “El Paso Shooting: Suspect Confesses to Targeting Mexicans, Officials Say.” The Guardian, August 9, 2019. https​:/​/ww​​w​.the​​guard​​ian​.c​​om​/us​​ -news​​/2019​​/aug/​​09​/el​​-paso​​-shoo​​ting-​​suspe​​ct​-co​​nfess​​e​d​-at​​tack-​​mexic​​ans.

Index

AAUP. See American Association of University Professors academic freedom, 219 accountability, 180; for free speech, 169; in public discourse, 177–79 ACLU. See American Civil Liberties Union activism, 25; African American, in 1963, 65–66; of Black women, 90–93, 95–103; on campus, 214–15; change and, 84; of CORE, 69; of Davis, A., 92; free expression and, 239–40; free speech and, 113, 232–35, 239–40; in Greensboro, 83, 84; against hate speech, 138; labor unions and, 13–14; PB as, 109; renewal of, 3, 39; student, 231–40; of Yellow Vest Movement, 36–39. See also protests ADC. See Aid to Dependent Children AFL-CIO. See American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial Organizations African Americans, 21–22; activism of, in 1963, 65–66; in BIDs, 56–58; community, 25, 95, 100, 103; denial of service of, 67–68; homelessness of, 46; mass media depictions of, 255–56; in Reconstruction Era, 48–49; religion of, 95. See also specific topics

AIDS crisis, 158 Aid to Dependent Children (ADC), 51 AIM. See American Identity Movement alt right, 233 American Association of University Professors (AAUP), 215–16, 220 American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), 199 American Enterprise Institute, 237 American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial Organizations (AFL-CIO), 198 American flag, 158 American Identity Movement (AIM), 245; foundation of, 246; goals of, 246–47; rebranding of, 247; Republican Party and, 247; websites for, 252 American Nazi Party, 26 American Renaissance, 244 American Revolution, 249 American Vanguard: flyers from, 252– 53; legitimizing, 253 Amnesty International, 38 Amsterdam, Speakers’ Corner, 34–35 Anderson, Archer, 128 Anderson, Charles, 73 Anti-Defamation League, 243 Antigone (Sophocles), 211 Anti-Okie laws, 50

263

264

Index

anti-racism, 219 anti-Semitism, 167; of Trump, 168, 175–76; in white nationalism, 254 apologies, 178 Approaching Monumentality in Archaeology (Osbourne), 137 Arbery, Ahmaud, 21 Arc de Triomphe, 37 arete, 172–73 Aristotle, 33 Arnautoff, Victor, 151–52 Arneson, Pat, 169 art: censorship of, 157; censorship of, and sexuality, 158–59; controversies over, 151–54; dialogue about, 152; donor influence on, 160–61; First Amendment on, 159; homosexuality in, 159; politics of, 158–61; racism and, 154–57. See also monuments Athens, ancient: democracy in, 22, 170; free speech in, 171–74; responsible speech in, 173–74 Austin Peay University, 157 Austin v. Michigan, 11 authenticity, 177 authoritarianism, 150 autoethnography, of video games, 189–90 Baer, Ulrich, 233 Baldwin, Matthias, 151 Balkin, Jack, on democracy, 1 Barbafieri, Alessio, 35 Barber, Benjamin, 4 Barber, William J., 213–14 Barbour, Matthew, 142 Barnes, Claude, 25 The Bell Curve (Murray), 213 Bellevue College, 160–61 Beloved Community Center, 40n1 Bennett College, 68–69, 72 Ben-Porath, Sigal, 231, 236–37 Benton, Thomas Hart, 155 Bernard A. Zuckerman Museum of Art, 160

BFT. See Black feminist thought Bias Response Team, 176–77 BIDs. See Business Improvement Districts Bilal, Wafaa, 160 Bill of Rights, 2 Birmingham protests, 66–68 The Birth of a Nation, 255 Bisette, Louis, 217 Black Codes, 48, 50, 255 Black feminist thought (BFT), 89, 97–99, 103 Black Lives Matter, 16, 28, 65–66, 140, 149, 156, 199; goals of, 60; in Greensboro, 85; Lee Circle and, 127–33; protests, 21; support for, 200 Black Panther Party (BPP), 92–93 Black Power movement, 25, 52, 53 Black Student Advisory Council, 152 Black women: activists, 90–93, 95–103; in Civil Rights movement, 94–95, 102; communication of, 98; communities, 95–97; dehumanization of, 96; empowering, 102–5; equal treatment for, 101–2; free speech of, 91–95, 99–105; intersectionality, 91–95; police violence fought by, 97; rape of, 99; sexuality of, 98–99; social justice rhetoric of, 95, 105; stereotypes of, 98–99; storytelling of, 96; survival of, 95–97; Xbox Live organizing by, 195–96 Blair, Ezell, Sr., 80 Blood and Soil phrase, 253–54 Boddie, Elise, 49 Bolshevism, 225 Boston Common, 13 BPP. See Black Panther Party Brandeis, Louis, 10 Brandon, Lewis, 25–26, 83 Brandtner, Al, 160 Brazil, 113–15 Broken Windows Theory, 54–55, 58 Brown, Cynthia Stokes, 94 Brown, John, 79–80

Index

Brown, Michael, 156 Brown, Zora Kramer, 96 Brown v. Board of Education, 50, 74 Brown v. Entertainment Merchants Association, 192 “Building a Black Freedom Movement” (Carruthers), 103 Bush, George H. W., 158 Business Improvement Districts (BIDs), 46–48, 50, 54; African Americans in, 56–58; history of, 55–56; in New York City, 59; police and, 56–58; public spaces and, 55–58; sweeps of, 56 Butcher, Jonathan, 213 Campbell, Karlyn Kohrs, 89 campus free speech laws, 212–14; appreciation of, 224–27; pointlessness of, 221–24; resisting, 215–18; strategic use of, 218–21. See also higher education Capilouto, Eli, 152 Carlson, Tucker, 11 Carolina Theater, 77 Carruthers, Charlene, 100, 102–4 Carter, Jimmy, 53 Casey, Patrick, 246–47 CDC. See Centers for Disease Control and Prevention censorship: of art, 157; of sexuality, 158–59 Census Bureau, U.S., 101 Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), 96 Chandler, Brianna, 97 Chapel Hill, 214 Charleston, 132 Charlottesville, 132, 199, 247 Chauvin, Derek, 188, 200 Chemerinsky, Erwin, 23 Children’s Crusade, 66 China, 150 Chomsky, Noam, 14 Citizens United v. FEC, 11

265

civic engagement: in emancipation of oppressed groups, 200; free expression and, 23, 39; at Lee Circle, 140–43; in PB, 118–19; protester, 140–43 civic life, in democracy, 4–5 civic religion, monuments as, 131–32 civic rights, exclusion from, 22 civil courage, 38 civil liberties, 212 Civil Rights Act (1875), 74 Civil Rights Act (1964), 65–66, 82 Civil Rights Enforcement Acts, 49 Civil Rights movement, 25, 52, 53; Black women in, 94–95, 102; sexism in, 94–95 Civil War, 9–10, 48–49 Claremont McKenna, 213 Clark, Septima, 91, 94, 97 Cohen v. California, 12 coherence, 249 coherent reconciliation, 178 collective expression, voting as, 10 collective liberty, 112 collective memory, disjointed, 127 Collingwood, Charles, 74, 76 Collins, Patricia Hill, 90, 95, 97–98 Columbia College of Chicago, 159–60 Columbus, Christopher, 149, 153 Colyer, Jeff, 158 Combahee River Collective, 103–4 commemorative vigilance, 131 Commerce Clause, 50 Common Cause, 11 communication, 2–3; of Black women, 98; civil, 30–31; in community organizing, 5; ethics and, 24; imagery in, 250; in PB, 115–17; in reconciliation, 177; restriction of, 29 communism, 225–26 community: African American, 25, 95, 100, 103; of Black women, 95–97, 101–2; communication in organizing, 5; free speech and, 199, 239–40; grassroots organizing, 24; Greensboro, 24–30, 68–73, 77–84;

266

Index

homeless, 47–48, 53–54, 58, 60; housing crisis, 53–54; monuments in, 133, 137, 139; online, 196; open forums for, 234–35; oppression of marginalized, 91, 110, 245–46; PB in, 114–19; public goods of, 175; public spaces utilized by, 39; reconceptualizing, 112; of resistance, 47–48; in Sophist discourse, 172–73 compelled speech, 136–37 Confederate monuments, 128–29; First Amendment on, 134; government speech and, 134–35; Supreme Court on, 134–35; Trump on, 150 Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), 67, 71, 78–79; activism of, 69 Connor, Eugene “Bull,” 66 conservatism, 244, 247 Constitution, U.S., 10, 48; Commerce Clause, 50; drafting of, 14. See also specific amendments contested spaces, history of, 11–16 Coordinating Council of Pro-Integration Groups, 78 CORE. See Congress of Racial Equality COVID-19, 60, 149, 223; civic engagement during, 2–3 Crenshaw, Kimberle, 91 criminalization, 60; of homelessness, 47; of poverty, 47–48 Criqui, Alex, 140–43 critical race theory, 138, 250 Crumpler, Dewey, 152 Cuban Missile Crisis, 67 Cullors, Patrisse, 90 Cultural Revolution, 150 Custer’s Revenge, 192 cynicism, 178 DACA. See Deferred Action for Childhood Arrival Dally Utah Chronicle, 255 Davis, Angela, 112, 140; activism of, 92 Davis, Fania, 100, 104 Davis, William F., 13

Davis v. Massachusetts, 13 De Blasio, Bill, 188 Declaration of Independence, 15, 22 deep poverty, 101 Deferred Action for Childhood Arrival (DACA), 246 DeGruy Leary, Joy, 96 dehumanization, of Black women, 96 demagoguery, 172 democracy: in Athens, 22, 170; Balkin on, 1; challenges to, 4; civic life in, 4–5; communal concerns in, 1; deterioration of, 22; direct, 36; governance in, 1–2; groups excluded from, 22; justice in, 24; origins of, 170; public goods of, 180; public life in, 21–22; selfexpression in, 5; strong, 4; struggles within, 1–2; in U.S., 22–23 Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), 53–54 desegregation, 73–74, 81–82 Designated Activity Zones, 59 Destructive Creations, 192 Dewberry, David R., 169 dialogue, 39; about art, 152; about free speech, 236, 245; justice and, 24; in PB, 117–18; protesting as, 21; at Speakers’ Corner, 31–32, 37. See also communication DiAngelo, Robin, 227n3 direct action, 39, 69–70, 84, 97 direct democracy, 36 discord, 194–95 diversity, 225; free speech and, 226–27; in higher education, 211–27 dog whistles, 53, 253 domestic terrorism, 244 Douglas, Tsage, 152 Douglas, William O., 74 Douglass, Frederick, 16, 140 Dowdy, Lewis, 72 doxing, 232–33 Du Bois, W. E. B., 48 Dudley High School Revolt, 25–26 Duquesne University, 168–69, 176–77

Index

eagle imagery, 254 Echo in My Soul (Clark), 91 education. See higher education elections, private money in, 10–11 El Paso Walmart massacre, 244 Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, 244 Emergency Food and Shelter Plan, 54 Emergency Jobs Appropriation Act, 61n1 English Common Law, 48 equity, 232–33 Equity and Inclusion Master Plan, 176–77 Eshun, Sally, 201 ethics, 211; communication and, 24; free speech and, 23–24; justice and, 24; in PB, 113; in public discourse, 175 ethnic cleansing, 247 ethos, of reconciliation, 177–78 Etter-Lewis, Gwendolyn, 95 Europe, free speech in, 201 European Convention of Human Rights, 201 European Court of Human Rights, 201 Evans, George, 77 exclusion: from civic rights, 22; from democracy, 22 exclusion laws, racial identity and, 48–52 Facebook, hate speech on, 202 Fair Housing Act, 46, 53 Falk, Adam, 154 Farmer, James, 72, 75 fasces, 254 FBI, 159–60, 255; on white nationalism, 244–45 Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), 54 Federal Housing Administration (FHA), 51 FEMA. See Federal Emergency Management Agency feminism. See Black feminist thought

267

“Feminism and Abolition” (Davis, A.), 92 FHA. See Federal Housing Administration fidelity, 249 Fields, Tanya, 100–101 fighting words, Supreme Court on, 170 FIRE. See Foundation for Individual Rights in Education First Amendment, 10–12, 29, 45–46, 175, 222–23; on art, 159; on Confederate monuments, 134; hate speech under, 138, 249; interpretations of, 14; jurisprudence, 134, 137; Marshall on, 216–17 Fischman, Lisa, 159 Fisher, Walter, 249 Flag Protection Act of 1989, 158 Floyd, George, 16, 21, 84–85, 139, 188; murder of, 59, 200 Folt, Carol, 214 Forest, Dan, 215 Foucault, Michel, 135, 144n2 Foundation for Individual Rights in Education (FIRE), 222–23 Fourteenth Amendment, 48–50, 74, 94 the Framers’ Coup (Klarman), 15 France, 36–39; anti-rioter laws, 38; hijab ban in, 202; police in, 38 François, Tommy, 197 Fraser, Nancy: on public sphere, 186– 87; on subaltern counterpublics, 186 free expression: activism and, 239–40; civic engagement and, 23, 39; as negative liberty, 110–13; PB and, 116–19; political arguments for, 232; as positive liberty, 110–13; of students, 234 Freeman, Miller, 161 free speech, 12; accountability for, 169; activism and, 113, 232–35, 239–40; in Athens, 171–74; of Black women, 91–95, 99–105; campus engagement with, 239; community and, 199, 239–40; contradictions of, 199–203;

268

Index

defining, 144n7, 185–86; dialogue about, 236, 245; diversity and, 226– 27; emboldening, 39; ethical ground of, 23–24; in Europe, 201; as Greek tragedy, 211–12; in Greensboro, 28–29; in higher education, 239–40, 245–46; history of, 12–13; individualism and, 200; for injustice reinforcement, 194–95, 197–98; for injustice resistance, 193–96, 198–99; limits of, 111; moral foundation of, 23–24; oppression perpetuated by, 187–88, 191–93; of private companies, 45–46; protections, 201; public and private goods of, 170; in public spaces, 47–48; responsibility in, 168–69; struggle for, 10; subaltern counterpublics and, 187–89; Supreme Court on, 12–14, 46–47; against tyranny, 33; in U.S., 174–75, 201; video games and, 185–86, 202–3. See also campus free speech laws Free Speech on Campus (Ben-Porath), 231–32 Free Speech Project at Georgetown University, 235–36 Frohmayer, John, 158 Fulani, Jaqueta, 85n1 Gab, 167–68 Gaetz, Matt, 151 Gallup Polls, 39 Game Workers Unite (GWU), 198 GAPP. See Greensboro Association of Poor People Garner, Eric, 156 Garza, Alicia, 90 Gayle, W. A., 94 George, Kennedy, 142–43 German University in Cairo (GUC), 159 Gettysburg Address, 16 gilet jaunes. See Yellow Vest Movement Gillman, Howard, 23

Glasgow School of Art, 160 Glotzbach, Philip A., 236 Goldwater Institute, 213, 215, 223 Good Neighbor Movement, 40n1 Goodykoontz, Eric, 84–85 Gormley, Ken, 168–69, 176 Goucher College, 235–36 governance, in democracy, 1–2 government speech, Confederate monuments and, 134–35 Gramsci, Antonio, 132 grassroots organizing, 24 Gray, Kishona, 195–96 Grayson, Deborah R., 91, 96 Great Depression, 50 Great Society, 51 Greek tragedy, 211–12 Greensboro: activism in, 83, 84; Black Lives Matter in, 85; community, 24–30, 68–73, 77–84; Dudley High School Revolt, 25–26; free speech in park, 28–29; homelessness in, 56–57; protests in, in 1963, 65–85; twentyfirst century protests in, 27–28 Greensboro Association of Poor People (GAPP), 25 Greensboro Community Fellowship, 78 Greensboro four, 80 Greensboro Justice Coalition, 40n1 Greensboro Massacre, 26–27 Greensboro Rising, 40n1 Gregory, William C., 139 Griffin, Leland, 97 Grimes, Willie, 26 GUC. See German University in Cairo Guilford for All, 40n1 gun control, 167–68 GWU. See Game Workers Unite Habermas, Jürgen, 218; on public sphere, 186–87 Hague, Frank, 13 Hairston, Otis, 69 Hamilton, Alexander, 15 Hamlet, Janice D., 95, 104

Index

Harlan, John Marshall, 74 Harley, Garry, 155 Harris, Cheryl, 51 Harris, Corra, 160 Harris-Perry, Melissa V., 99 Hatchett, John, 69–70 hate speech: activism against, 138; banning, 201; consequences of, 232; on Facebook, 202; under First Amendment, 138, 249; protection of, 245, 249; suppression of, 231–32; of Trump, 178–79; on Twitter, 202 Hatred, 191–93 Hegel, G. W. F., 211, 227 hegemony, 132 Hendrix, Jimi, 141 Hesiod, 173 Hessel, Stephane, 28 Heyer, Heather, 149, 195, 247–48 higher education: diversity in, 211–27; free speech in, 239–40, 245–46; Patriot Front infiltrating, 249; student activism, 231–40; white nationalist propaganda in, 245; white power movement on campuses, 249. See also specific universities hijab ban, 202 historic preservation legislation, of monuments, 133–34 Hitler, Adolf, 248, 253 Holloway, Ava, 142–43 homegrown violent extremists (HVE), 244 homelessness: of African Americans, 46; community, 47–48, 53–54, 58, 60; criminalization of, 47; in Greensboro, 56–57; mass, 52–55; privatization and, 45–46; racialized, 52–55; in U.S., 45–46, 52–55; violence against homeless people, 58 Homeless Union of Greensboro, 40n1, 58 Homer, 173 homophobia, 187–88 homosexuality, in art, 159 honesty, 171–72; in reconciliation, 177

269

hooks, bell, 92 Horton, Myles, 91, 94 housing, 52–53 HUD. See Department of Housing and Urban Development humanism, 187 Human Relations Committee, 69, 71, 77 human rights, 201 HVE. See homegrown violent extremists IDA. See International Downtown Association Identity Evropa, 246–48, 251 immigrants, 247; Japanese, 160–61 incitement, 144n15 incorporeal discourse, 144n2 Indiana University, 155 individualism, 172; free speech and, 200 injustice: free speech for reinforcement of, 194–95, 197–98; free speech for resistance of, 193–96, 198–99; subaltern counterpublics reinforcing, 194–95, 197–98; subaltern counterpublics resisting, 193–96, 198–99 In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens (Walker), 90 International Downtown Association (IDA), 56 intersectionality, 91–95; Crenshaw on, 91; defining, 91 ISIS, 245 Islamic State, 150 Isocrates, 172, 173 Italy, 35–36; Fascist Party in, 254 Jackson, Jesse, 68, 71–73, 75–76, 79– 80, 84, 86n3 Jackson, William, 71 jail-ins, 75 Japanese immigrants, 160–61 Jaschik, Scott, 236 Jay, John, 15 Jenkins, Esau, 94 Jenkins, John, 153

270

Index

jezebel stereotype, 98–99, 101 Jim Crow laws, 49, 51, 128, 150, 255 Johnson, Lyndon, 51 Johnson, Nelson, 26 Johnson, Yvonne, 72, 77 justice, 4–5, 9–10; in democracy, 24; dialogue and, 24; ethics and, 24; struggle for, 11–16. See also injustice Kahn, Louis, 143 Kant, Immanuel, 187 Keller, Helen, 11 Kelling, George, 54–55 Kenan, William Rand, Jr., 216 Kennedy, John F., 66–67, 83 Kennedy, Robert, 73 Kennesaw State University (KSU), 160 King, Martin Luther, 52, 66, 75–76, 102, 141, 254 Klarman, Michael, 15 Klein, Dustin, 140, 142–43 Kobach, Kris, 158 Koch family, 222 Kotkin, Stephen, 225 Kout, Yacine, 189 KSU. See Kennesaw State University Ku Klux Klan, 26, 66–67, 70, 155, 156 Kurtz, Stanley, 213 labor unions, 13–14 Lajatico, Speakers’ Corner, 35–36 Lappe, Frances Moore, 38 Latin America, 115 Layne, Maya, 154 League of Human Rights, 38 League of Legends, 197 League of Women Voters of the Piedmont Triad, 40n1 Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion (Hegel), 211 Lee, Robert E., 128, 140, 149, 194–95 Lee Circle: aesthetic interventions at, 140–43; Black Lives Matter and, 127–33; civic engagement at, 140– 43; litigation at, 139

Lee Monument, 128, 139, 142 Lei, Serena, 101 Leonard, Colvin, 82 Levinson, Stanford, 131–32, 137 Lexington, 81 LGBTQ+ people, 56, 187 life world, 218 Lincoln, Abraham, 9, 16 London, Speakers’ Corners, 30–34 Lorde, Audre, 105 Los Angeles Communist Party, 92 Lucas, Lois, 70, 79 Ludosky, Priscilla, 36 MacDonald, Heather, 213 Macron, Emmanuel, 36 Madison, James, 14 Make America Great Again slogan, 253 Making Music for Marcus, 28 Malcolm X, 140 mammy stereotype, 98 Mandel, Maud, 154 Mandziuk, Roseanne M., 89 Manley, James, 213 Mapplethorpe, Robert, 158 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, 66 Marcus-David Peters Circle, 140 marginalized populations, 186–87 Marshall, William P., on First Amendment, 216–17 Martin, Trayvon, 90, 101 Marxism, 225 Mason, Sally, 157 mass homelessness, 52–55 mass media: African Americans depicted in, 255–56; in race construction, 251; racial stereotypes portrayed in, 251; racism of, 255–56 mass shootings, 167 Matelli, Tony, 159 Matsuda, Mari, 138 McCarthyism, 73 McDowell, Ian, 85 Meckseper, Josephine, 158

Index

Medicare, 16 Menafee, Corey, 154 Metropolitan Transportation Authority, 59 Microsoft, 196 Mondal, Anshuman, 111–12 Montgomery Bus Boycott, 50, 93 monumentality, 143 monuments: as civic religion, 131–32; in community, 133, 137, 139; Confederate, 128–29; defining, 129, 135, 137; historic preservation legislation of, 133–34; as history, 129–30, 149–50; legal landscape of, 133–38; power of, 149; as public memories, 130–31; social construction of, 143; white supremacy and, 128, 138 morality, free speech and, 23–24 Moral Mondays, 213–14 Morin, Edgar, 28 Morris, Boyd, 71, 73–76, 82–83 Moskowitz, P. E., 111 Mouffe, Chantal, 39 Murray, Charles, 213, 231–32 Museum of Contemporary Art Cleveland, 157 Mussolini, Benito, 248, 254 NAACP. See National Association for the Advancement of Colored People Naga, Tarek Abol, 159 narrative criticism, 249–52 National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), 99 National Black Feminist Organization, 103 National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA), 133 National Park Service, 133 National Policy Institute (NPI), 243, 244 National Political Congress of Black Women, 129 National Socialist Legion, 248

271

National Union of the Homeless, 47 National Welfare Rights Organization, 52, 102 Native Americans, 154 Nazi Germany, 150 Nazis, 175, 247, 254 negative liberty, free expression as, 110–13 neoliberalism, 23, 60 Neo-Nazis, 195, 248 Netherlands, 34–35 NetzDG, 201–2 New Deal, 51 Newell, Gabe, 192 New York City, BIDs in, 59 Next System Project, 22 NHPA. See National Historic Preservation Act Nixon, Richard, 53, 149 No!, 102 nonviolence, 66–67, 69, 81, 84–85 Nora, Pierre, 130–31 Northam, Ralph, 139 North Carolina Restore/Preserve Campus Free Speech Act, 212–13, 215 Notre Dame, 153 NPI. See National Policy Institute Nuclear Freeze protests, 65 Nungessor, Paul, 159 Obama, Barack, 199 Oberhelm, James, 160 Occupy City Hall Movement, 188 Occupy Movement, as subaltern counterpublic, 188–89 Occupy Wall Street, 188 O’Hanlon, Ann Rice, 152 Olivier, Karyn, 152 Oosterpark, 34 Operation Breadbasket, 84 Osbourne, James, 137 panhandling, 47 Papp, Daniel, 160 Parenti, Christian, 55

272

Index

Paris, 37 Parks, Rosa, 93, 99 parrhesia, 171–72 participatory budgeting (PB), 120; as activism, 109; civic engagement in, 118–19; communication in, 115–17; in communities, 114–19; defining, 110; dialogue in, 117–18; ethics in, 113; free expression and, 116–19; as oppression resistance, 118–19; phases of, 114–15; public participation compared to, 116–18 participatory democracy, 110 The Path to Hope (Hessel and Morin), 28 Patriot Act, 160 Patriot Front, 245, 251; on college students, 249; foundation of, 247–48; rebranding of, 248; websites for, 252 patriotism, 158 PB. See participatory budgeting Peasant Grove City v. Summum, 135 Peltier, Leonard, 154 Pepe the Frog, 233 The Perfect Moment, 158 Pericles, 171 Phelps, Fred, 187–88 Piarowski v. Illinois Community College, 158 Piss Christ, 158 Plato, 33 Player, Willa, 69, 72 Plessy v. Ferguson, 49 police: abolition, 59; BIDs and, 56–58; in France, 38; reform, 200 police brutality, 140–41; Black women fighting against, 97; protests against, 59 polis, 171 Polkadots, 71 Polk State College, 160 Poor People’s Campaign, 52 Pope, Art, 213, 225 positive liberty, free expression as, 110–13

Post Traumatic Slave Disorder (DeGruy Leary), 96 Poulos, Christopher N., 189 poverty: criminalization of, 47–48; deep, 101; privatization and, 45–46; public spaces and, 51–52; selfexpression and, 46 Powell, Ashley, 157 prison reform, 54–55 private companies, free speech of, 45–46 private property rights, 77–78 privatization: homelessness and, 45–46; poverty and, 45–46 Protagoras of Abdera, 173, 179 protests: in Birmingham, 66–68; as dialogue, 21; in Greensboro in 1963, 65–85; against police brutality, 59; rights, 12–13; Vietnam war, 12 public discourse, 170; accountability in, 177–79; ethics in, 175; reconciliation in, 177–79; in U.S., 174–75 public life, in democracy, 21–22 public memory, monuments as, 130–31 public participation, PB compared to, 116–18 public spaces: BIDs and, 55–58; communities utilizing, 39; free speech restrictions in, 47–48; poverty and, 51–52; race and, 49 public sphere, Fraser on, 186–87 race: exclusion laws and, 48–52; public spaces and, 49; racialized homelessness, 52–55; rape and, 255; social construction of, 250–51 race realism, in white nationalism, 244 racial liberalism, 74 racial territoriality, 51–52 racism: of mass media, 255–56; online, 196; in U.S., 46–47 RAD. See Rental Assistance Demonstration Project Rainbow Coalition, 84 Raleigh, 213–14 rape: of Black women, 99; race and, 255

Index

Rather, Dan, 75 rationality, 187 Reagan, Ronald, 158 reconciliation, 179; coherent, 178; communication in, 177; ethos of, 177–78; honesty in, 177; in public discourse, 177–79 Reconstruction Era, 48–49 Reichman, Hank, 216 religion, in African American communities, 95 Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, 160 Rental Assistance Demonstration Project (RAD), 54 Republican Party: AIM and, 247; in North Carolina, 212–15, 221, 225 responsible speech, 168–69; in Athens, 173–74; contemporary concern over, 174–77 Revolutionary Socialists Greensboro, 40n1 Revolutionary War, 15 Richardson, Laurel, 189, 190 Richardson, Lisa C., 96 Richmond, 127–33, 140 Riggs, Elizabeth, 84 Riot Games: employee walk out, 198– 99; sexism at, 197–98 Rise, Sister, Rise, 96–97 Rizzo, Emily, 236 Roberts, Dorothy, 48 Robinson, Jo Ann, 93, 94 Rogers, Bob, 30, 40n3 Roose, Kevin, 194–95 Roosevelt, Franklin, 51 Rousseau, Thomas, 248–49 Rust v. Sullivan, 134 sacred space, 131 SAIC. See School of Art Institute of Chicago Salem State University, 155–56 Salovey, Peter, 153 Sanders, Bernie, 188 Sandy Hook massacre, 191

273

Sanford, Terry, 72, 73, 75 San Francisco, 50 Sapp, Armistead, 71, 78–79 Sapphire stereotype, 99 Scalia, Antonin, 185–86 Schenck, David, 70, 77–78, 80 School of Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC), 158 school shootings, 167 Schott, Ellin, 45 SCLC. See Southern Christian Leadership Conference Scott, Dread, 158 segregation, 72, 75–77 self-expression: in democracy, 5; poverty and, 46 Selvarajan, Sanjna, 236 Serrano, Andres, 158 sexism: in Civil Rights movement, 94–95; online, 196 sexuality: art censorship and, 158–59; of Black women, 98–99 sexual violence, 101–2, 159 Shakur, Assata, 92–93 Sharp, Sandra Echols, 72, 78, 84 Shay’s Rebellion, 14–15 Shelton State Community College, 159 Shuler, Liz, 198 Shuttlesworth, Fred, 66 Silent Sam Confederate statue, 151, 214 Simmons, Shahidah Aishah, 100–102 Simpkins, George, 69 Sims, J. Marion, 96 sit-ins, 25, 68, 85n2 Skidmore Speaks: foundation of, 235; goals of, 235–36; outcomes, 237–39 slavery, 9, 154 Smith, Barbara, 98 Smith, Marcus Deon, 27, 40n1, 57–59 Snider, William, 70 snowflakes, 231–33 social change, 5 social justice, Black women and rhetoric of, 95, 105 Social Security, 51

274

Index

Soldats Inconnus, 193–94 Sommers, Christina Hoff, 237–38 Sophists, 179; on community, 172–73 Sophocles, 211 Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), 66 Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC), 128, 246 Speaker Ban Law, 226 Speakers’ Corner: Amsterdam, 34–35; dialogue at, 31–32, 37; Lajatico, 35–36 Speakers’ Corners, London, 30–34 Spellings, Margaret, 217 Spencer, Richard, white nationalism of, 243 Spivey, Jo, 76–77 SPLC. See Southern Poverty Law Center Squirrel Hill, 168–69, 176 Stalinism, 225–26 Standley, Anne, 93 Stanford, Ruth, 160 Stanley, A. Knighton, 70 Stanley, Tony, 78–81, 83 state action doctrine, 49 state silence, 138 state violence, 39 statues: historical use of, 149–50; as history, 151. See also monuments Steam, 192 stereotypes, racial: of Black women, 98; jezebel, 98–99, 101; mammy, 98; mass media portrayal of, 251; Sapphire, 99; welfare mother, 99–101 Stevens, John Paul, 11 Stewart, Maria, 89 Stewart, Potter, 74 strong democracy, 4 subaltern counterpublics: Fraser on, 186; free speech and, 187–89; injustice reinforced by, 194–95, 197–98; injustice resisted by, 193–96, 198– 99; Occupy Movement as, 188–89; video games as, 186–87, 190–99 Sulkowicz, Emma, 159

Sundown Town, 50 Supreme Court, U.S., 10–11, 75; on Confederate monuments, 134–35; exclusion laws of, 48–52; on fighting words, 170; on free speech, 12–14, 46–47; Justices of, 12; on video games, 185–86 Talking Back (hooks), 92 Tanyolaçar, Serhat, 156, 160 Taylor, Astra, 22 Taylor, Breonna, 21 Taylor, Keeang-Yamahtta, 53 Taylor, Phyllis Strong, 70–71 Taylor, Recy, 99 Tea Party, 213 Temporary Emergency Food Assistance Act, 61n1 Tennessee Heritage Preservation Act, 134 Terrell, Mary Church, 95 Texas v. Johnson, 158 Thirteenth Amendment, 48 This Machine Has a Soul (TMHS), 116 Thomas, William, 69, 71, 78 Thomas, Zee, 97 Times Square Alliance, 59 TMHS. See This Machine Has a Soul Tometi, Opal, 90 Touchton, Michael, 115 “Toward a Black Feminist Criticism” (Smith, B.), 98 Tree of Life Synagogue shooting, 167– 68, 175, 244 Trobaugh, John, 159 Trouillot, Michel-Rolph, 130, 135 Trump, Donald, 53, 149, 155, 160; anti-Semitism of, 168, 175–76; on Confederate monuments, 150; hate speech of, 178–79; slogans of, 252– 53; white nationalism of, 245 Truth, Sojourner, 89, 129 Tubman, Harriet, 103, 140 Tucker, C. Delores, 129 Turner, Nat, 79–80

Index

Twitter, hate speech on, 202 Twymon, Freda Byron, 84 tyranny, free speech as defense against, 33 Ubisoft, 197 UCLA, 213 ugly law ordinance, 50 unalienable rights, 15–16 Uncensored (Wood), 236 Ungar, Sanford J., 235 Unicorn Riot, 247 United Kingdom, 30–34 United Nations, 38 United States (U.S.): democracy in, 22–23; free speech in, 174–75, 201; homelessness in, 45–46, 52–55; public discourse in, 174–75; racism in, 46– 47; voter suppression in, 22; voting in, 23; whiteness in, 250–51, 254 United States v. Cruikshank, 49 United the Right Rally, 194–95 Unite the Right rally, 132, 194–95, 247 University at Buffalo, 157 University of Kansas, 160 University of Kentucky, 153 University of North Carolina, 151, 214, 217, 221–22 Unsold, 160 Upton, Dell, 128–29, 132, 137 Urban Revitalization Demonstration (URD), 54 U.S. See United States vagrancy laws, 48, 56 Valdez, Samantha, 157 Valve, 192 van Gogh, Teo, 34 Vanguard America, 248, 251 veganism, 35 video games: autoethnography of, 189–90; conceptual frameworks for, 186–89; free speech and, 185–86, 202–3; industry dynamics, 197–99; narratives, 191–93; player actions

275

in, 194–96; popularity of, 185; as subaltern counterpublic, 186–87, 190–99; Supreme Court on, 185–86 Vietnam War protests, 12 violence, 66; against homeless people, 58; sexual, 101–2, 159; of white people, 255; of white supremacy, 199 visual rhetorical analysis, 249–52 voter suppression, in U.S., 22 voting: as collective expression, 10; in U.S., 23 Voting Rights Act of 1965, 112 Waldron, Jeremy, 219 Walker, Alice, 90 Walker, Scott, 213 “A Walk in the Valley,” 160 Wallace, George, 66–67 Wampler, Brian, 115 War on Poverty, 84 Warren, Earl, 74 Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, 155 Washington, George, 151–52 Watergate, 149 Weber, Max, 227n2 welfare mother stereotype, 99–101 Welfare Rights movement, 52 Wells, Ida B., 95 Westboro Church, 187–88 West Virginia v. Barnette, 136 Westward Vision, 151–52 And We Talked, 236 What Is the Proper Way to Display a US Flag?, 158 What Snowflakes Get Right (Baer), 233 Wheelock, Eleazar, 153 white nationalism: anti-Semitism in, 254; defining, 243; FBI on, 244–45; goals of, 256–57; methodology for study of, 249–52; propaganda of, 257; propaganda on campus, 245; race realism in, 244; recruitment strategies, 244–45; of Spencer, 243; support for, 244–45; of Trump, 245; as white supremacy division, 243

276

Index

whiteness, 51–52; in U.S., 250–51, 254 white power movement, 245; Blood and Soil phrase in, 253–54; on college campuses, 249; eagle imagery in, 254; fear in rhetoric of, 254; propaganda, 246, 250; virtual presence of, 256 white supremacy, 213, 219, 225; on Discord, 194–95; monuments and, 128, 138; privileges produced by, 51; prosecution of, 49; violence of, 199; white nationalism as division of, 243 Will, George, 153 Williams, Ephraim, 154 Williams College, 154, 236 Wilson, James, 54–55 Winthrop University, 157 Wojnarowicz, David, 158 woke culture, 212

Women’s Liberation Movement, 103 Women’s Political Council (WPC), 93 women’s rights, 32–33 Wood, Zachary, 236 Wooley, 136 WPC. See Women’s Political Council Xbox Live, Black women organizing in, 195–96 Yale University, 154 Yellow Vest Movement, 24; activism, 36–39; demands of, 36–37; foundation of, 36; victories of, 38 Young, Iris Marion, 38 Zieliński, Jarosław, 192 Zimmerman, George, 89–90 Zuccotti Park, 188

About the Contributors

Spoma Jovanovic (PhD, University of Denver) is a professor in the Department of Communication Studies at the University of North Carolina, Greensboro. Her research and teaching center on collaborations with community members and activists to enhance ethical conversations and action related to civic literacy, cultural understanding, democratic participation, and social justice. Jovanovic was a 2019–2020 fellow with the University of California National Center for Free Speech and Civic Engagement. She is the author of numerous journal articles, book chapters and the book, Democracy, Dialogue and Community Action: Truth and Reconciliation in Greensboro as well as coauthor of Communication Ethics: Activities for Critical Thinking and Reflection. Michael C. Behrent is associate professor of history at Appalachian State University. His field is modern European intellectual history and modern French history. His research primarily deals with French political thought. He is coeditor, with Daniel Zamora, of Foucault and Neoliberalism (2016). Cerri A. Banks (PhD, Syracuse University) is Vice President for Student Success and Deputy to the Sr. Vice President, Student Experience at Syracuse University. Previously, she was dean of students and vice president for student affairs at Skidmore College. She also served as vice president for student affairs and dean of the college at Mount Holyoke and as the dean of William Smith at Hobart and William Smith Colleges. Banks’ teaching, research, and writing draw from educational, feminist, and critical race theories. Banks has won a wide array of honors and awards. A graduate of Monroe Community College before transferring to Syracuse University, she was inducted into Monroe’s Hall of Fame. 277

278

About the Contributors

Gabriel A. Cruz (PhD, Bowling Green State University) is a lecturer in the Department of Communication Studies at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. His research interests include intersectional critical race analysis of popular culture as well as White Nationalist rhetoric. His work has appeared in the academic periodicals Journal of Alternative and Community Media and Howard Journal of Communications; and the book Deadpool and Philosophy: My Common Sense is Tingling. David Errera is a PhD student and graduate assistant in the Department of Communication & Rhetorical Studies at Duquesne University. He serves as an adviser for the Duquesne University chapter of the National Society of Leadership and Success. He is also a book reviewer and invited contributor for Listening: Journal of Communication Ethics, Religion, and Culture. His research interests include health communication, free speech, and classical rhetoric. Therese Gardner (BA, University of Colorado Boulder) is the program and communication coordinator for Lighthouse Writers Workshop, a nonprofit organization in Denver, CO. She was the 2020 William W. White Outstanding Senior for the Department of Communication at the University of Colorado Boulder. Her experience with nonprofit organizations has led her to collaborate previously with Transformative Teach, New Era Colorado, and Denver Film Festival. Her work emphasizes storytelling, dialogue, community engagement, and facilitation. Sarah E. Hollingsworth (PhD, Southern Illinois University) is a teaching assistant professor in the Department of Psychology at Oklahoma State University. She utilizes rhetorical criticism and other qualitative methods in her research on social justice speech and rhetoric, civic and community engagement in higher education, and critical pedagogy. Hollingsworth is coauthor of “From Conflict to Peace: Truth, Forgiveness, and Reconciliation in Greensboro” in Crimes Against Humanity in the Land of the Free: Can a Truth and Reconciliation Process Heal Racial Conflict in America? Her work has been presented at various regional and national research conventions including the Southern States Communication Association, the Central States Communication Association and the National Communication Association. Marcus Hyde is pursuing a Juris Doctor degree at City University of New York Law School. He remains an organizer with the Homeless Union of Greensboro and has been working on issues related to homelessness, housing, and policing since he stopped being homeless in 2008. He has worked with community organizations, legal groups, and educators at the University of Colorado at Denver, Denver University Sturm College of Law, Guilford

About the Contributors

279

College, and the University of North Carolina at Greensboro to conduct research on policies that criminalize homelessness and poverty, write legislation, and engage in impact litigation to protect the rights of people experiencing homelessness and to combat mass incarceration. Thomas F. Jackson, PhD, is an associate professor in the Department of History at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. He is the author of From Civil Rights to Human Rights: Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Struggle for Economic Justice Gary Kenton is a community activist and an adjunct professor of communications at North Carolina A&T State University. He is the author of Transmission and Transgression: The History of Rock ‘n’ Roll on Television (Peter Lang, 2020). He has been elected to public office three times. Yacine Kout earned his doctorate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro in Educational Leadership and Cultural Foundation. He is a faculty member at the University of North Georgia where he teaches in the Social Foundations of Education Division of the Culture, Language, and Leadership Department. Marina Lambrinou is a doctoral student in the PhD program in Educational Studies with a concentration in Cultural Studies at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. Marina is originally from Cyprus, holds an undergraduate and two postgraduate degrees, and has taught English Language Arts at North Carolina middle schools. Her current research focuses on the intersection between migration studies, immigration policy and education, citizenship construction and deconstruction, and transnationalism and refugee students. Lewis Pitts is a retired civil rights attorney and a community activist. His activism and writing has focused on environmental justice, children’s rights, racial justice, and most recently police accountability. He has been recognized for his community and legal services by the North Carolina chapters of the ACLU, NAACP, Bar Association, and Academy of Trial Lawyers. Laura Ricciardi is an assistant professor of Arts Management and lecturer in Entrepreneurship for the Arts at the State University of New York at Purchase College. Her research examines the First Amendment implications of public monuments and the regulation of online speech. She has counseled with visual artists, designers, playwrights, and publishers. Her artwork has been exhibited in New York and Connecticut, including a recent public

280

About the Contributors

art installation at South Street Seaport. She is a member of the New York State Bar Association and serves as a volunteer for several New York City nonprofits. She graduated magna cum laude with a BA in history from Yale University and earned her JD at New York University School of Law. Lorri M. Riggs is the assistant dean for Student Success within the Dean of Students Office. In this role, she provides support to students throughout their college career to help them achieve their academic and personal goals. She has been a part of the Skidmore community in various positions for eighteen years and has over eight years of experience in Student Affairs. Lorri received her undergraduate degree from Seton Hill College double majoring in Business Management and Studio Arts and recently graduated from the University of Albany’s MBA Program. As an active member of her local community, she has served on numerous committees and currently working with the Village of Ballston Spa Police Reform Committee. Vincent Russell (PhD, University of Colorado Boulder) is an assistant professor and the director of liberal studies in the Department of Communication at Western Carolina University. A former community organizer, he works with activists to promote social justice through his research on grassroots social movements, public deliberation, and participatory budgeting. Russell has published a dozen academic journal articles and book chapters that have appeared in Communication and Critical/Cultural Studies, Communication Education, The Journal of Civil Society, and The Handbook of Applied Communication Research, among other outlets. Patrick Sawyer (PhD, University of North Carolina, Greensboro) is a lecturer in the Department of Communication Studies at the University of North Carolina, Greensboro. His research interests are along three lines: cultural studies, media studies, and higher education. One of his recent publications, “Fatal Attraction: A Critical Analysis of the Toxic Love Affair of the University and Neoliberalism,” was published in Philosophy, Theory, and Foundations in Education. John K. Wilson (PhD, Illinois State University) is a contributing editor at AcademeBlog​.o​rg for the American Association of University Professors (AAUP). His research focuses on higher education, free speech, the history of academic freedom, conservatism, and U.S. politics. He was a 2019–2020 fellow at the University of California National Center for Free Speech and Civic Engagement. He is the author of eight books, including The Myth of Political Correctness: The Conservative Attack on Higher Education, Patriotic Correctness: Academic Freedom and Its Enemies, and Trump Unveiled: Exposing the Bigoted Billionaire.