Cancel Culture: the practice of withdrawing support for (or canceling) public figures and companies after they have done or said something considered objectionable or offensive. [dictionary.com]

Talk of the Cancel Culture dominates much of what we hear and view these days. And although we’ve more recently given it an official name, it’s been around for a long, long time. You’d be hard pressed to find someone who isn’t intimately familiar with the act and art of cancellation. Talk to kids who’ve perfected the act of covering their ears and babbling nah, nah, nah. They’ve been doing this for years, selectively canceling their brothers and sisters, their neighborhood friends and classmates, their parents and teachers. If you press your hands tightly to your ears, squeeze your eyes shut, and babble loudly enough, you can get the job done, they’ll tell you. Annoying little brother who complains that you’re not playing fairly, canceled. Parents who command you to take out the trash, clean your room, eat your vegetables, canceled. The kid across the street who whines about getting a turn on your new bike, canceled. All you really need is two hands and a mouth, and you, my friend, can be in the cancellation business.

In a recent New York Post article, Brooke Kato cites Dr. Jill McCorkel, Villanova University professor of sociology and criminolgy, who argues that the roots of cancel culture have been present throughout human history. McCorkel said:

Cancel culture is an extension of or a contemporary evolution of a much bolder set of social processes that we can see in the form of banishment.

In a 2019 Vox article, Aja Romano quotes Anne Charity Hudley, chair of linguistics of African America for the University of California Santa Barbara:

While the terminology of cancel culture may be new and most applicable to social media through Black Twitter, in particular, the concept of being canceled is not new to black culture. . . [It is] a survival skill as old as the Southern black use of the boycott.

Charity Hudley maintains that canceling someone(s) is a means of acknowledging that you lack the power to change structural inequality, but as an individual you can still have power beyond measure.

Those of us who’ve used the hands-over-the-ears method of cancellation most likely had no intentions of banishing or boycotting anyone. We probably wouldn’t have even understood what banishing or boycotting meant. And our actions would’ve been less about survival and more about an immediate–albeit temporary–solution to the problem at hand. We didn’t really want to ruin the other person, to discredit or to remove them permanently from the family, the neighborhood, or the school. We just wanted them to shut their mouths, so that we didn’t have to listen to what they were saying. Even as we clapped our hands over our ears, we generally understood the childish nature of our actions and that the very words we were desperate to cancel would invariably be back again to chip away at our resolve.

Today, however, canceling a person may be truly tantamount to ruining them. Cancelers aim to get people fired, to destroy their reputations, and to discredit their life’s work. In The New York Times article, “High School Students and Alumni Are Using Social Media To Expose Racism,” writers Taylor Lorenz and Katherine Rosman explain that students have repurposed large meme accounts, set up Google Docs and anonymous pages on Instagram, Snapchat and Twitter, and wielded their personal following to hold friends and classmates accountable for behavior they deem unacceptable. They quoted one young woman who reported that some students made a Google spreadsheet that identified names, school information, social media profiles and contact information of students who post racist comments on social media. Another student wrote, Someone rly started a Google doc of racists and their info for us to ruin their lives. i love Twitter. And yet another argued that if you prevent these young racists from advancing beyond high school, you’re helping to stop the spread of racist lawyers or doctors or people who make it harder for the black community. For these Google Doc creators and others who’ve harnessed the shaming power of social media, cancellation really does mean ruining someone–or at the very least making it extremely difficult for them to survive in their high schools, colleges, and communities.

Having taught high school and college students for 40 years, I have no doubt that there are those who hold biased, even bigotted views and who speak and act in morally reprehensible ways. I called one young man into my office after overhearing what he’d said about another student. I could’ve called him out in class, could’ve shamed him publicly in such a way as to make his life in our school extremely tough. But I chose to speak to him privately. After confronting him, we had a productive conversation that resulted in genuine remorse and an admission that what he’d said was hurtful and wrong. I’ve been thinking about what might have happened if either his classmates or I had tried to cancel rather than talk with him. Truthfully, it’s hard to imagine positive results.

Certainly, there are legitimate times for public criticism and exposure. If a person, group, institution or corporation has been confronted–individually, collectively, or legally–and continues to speak or act in ways that are generally agreed upon as harmful, then most people accept that public confrontation is necessary and morally responsible. But defining what is harmful and therefore deserving of this type of public exposure is dicey. What is harmful in one person’s eyes may not be in another’s. What some insist should be canceled, others do not. And the fact that cancellation has now evolved from largely targeting celebrities and high profile people, groups, or companies to targeting ordinary people should give us pause. The thought that someone may perceive my words or deeds as harmful and consequently might put all my contact information on their Google Doc/hit list is truly frightening. And the thought that someone may someday try to cancel my granddaughter or grandson is the stuff that nightmares are made of.

Dr. Jill McCorkel explains that cancellation creates a sense of shared solidarity, a sense that you are a part of something larger than yourself, but others like corporate diversity consultant Aaron Rose believe that it may give us little more than a short-term release of cathartic anger. For Rose, rejecting the cancel culture doesn’t mean that you have to reject social justice principles. For him and others who oppose the cancel culture, the real issue is whether or not you believe that people targeted for cancellation can change. Rather than being primarily concerned with expressing outrage and working collectively to destroy someone, he argues that we should adopt a more traditional approach, one that, according to Vox writer Aja Romano, includes apology, atonement, and forgiveness.

Still, we are as divided on the issue of cancel culture as we are on so many other issues. There are those like Aaron Rose who maintain that real and lasting change comes through helping people learn to genuinely communicate and to treat each other humanely; there are others who, as Vox writer Aja Romano argues, regard cancel culture as an extension of civil rights activists’ push for meaningful change.

After my attempts to cancel one of my siblings by covering my ears, most often I was promptly reported to my mom who asked me to apologize. And within moments, all was well. Our country needs a cosmic mom right now, a compassionate yet powerful mother to call us into the house, to lovingly confront us, and to ask us to atone. We need a mom to cry and vent to, to wisely rebuke and encourage us. Above all, we need a mom who truly expects us to change and to treat others as we would like to be treated ourselves.

Actually, this job is much too big for one mom. We need a tsunami of moms who sweep over us, washing away all our desires and attempts to cancel each other. This would be a welcome storm, for in its wake, we might find opportunities for real and lasting change.

photo by Collyn Ware

Marmalade Moon

As the moon rises
it spreads marmalade across the treetops.
 
Too often, the world is a wafer
broken easily by brittle words.
But tonight, we who live lean
stand dumb in the presence
of such decadence:
 
a light feast,
a banquet of lunar nectar.
 
In this month of marmalade moons
we remember how the world ripens;
how the sweet peach of summer swallows
all our pits and stones;
how we rest in the nectarine assurance that—
if even for a moment—
there is enough for all.

We had entered an era of limitlessness, or the illusion thereof, and this in itself is a sort of wonder. My grandfather lived a life of limits, both suffered and strictly observed, in a world of limits. I learned much of that world from him and others, and then I changed; I entered the world of labor-saving machines and of limitless cheap fossil fuel. It would take me years of reading, thought, and experience to learn again that in this world limits are not only inescapable but indispensable.
― Wendell Berry, Bringing it to the Table: On Farming and Food

I have some questions about limits that will undoubtedly bring the disapproval and dismissal of those who will argue that only one with privilege would dare to ask them. And I concede that, to a great degree, this is true. Those without privilege rarely ask that limits be established when they’ve been limited in one way or another, by one group or another, their entire lives. In this light, then, as a white woman of privilege with questions about limits, I am guilty. But I really want to know. Regarding works of art–statues, paintings, sculptures, even architecture–I want to know if limits identifying what should and should not be removed from public venues, are not only inescapable but indispensable, as Berry writes?

Most of my life, I’ve shouldered the helpful harness of limits: curfews and deadlines, defined duties and expectations, organizational structures of every shape, shape, and origin. Using The Shape A Writer Can Contain, a composition manual my father wrote in the 70s, I learned to write, and later teach, a coherent, organized, and focused essay. The parameters of its parts–the introduction, the body, and the conclusion–yoked my many-legged ideas which threatened to bolt for other pastures. The framework of a single paragraph trained me to look closely and dig deeply, exploring and expounding upon one good insight. The stricture of a thesis statement or topic sentence kept me honest and bound to the ideological contract I’d made with my readers.

It wasn’t until the 80s when I attended an English Language Arts conference that I was told that assigning my students a five-paragraph essay was a quick road to composition hell. This traditional structure didn’t even merit purgatory. No, force your students to write it, and you condemned them to the eternal and dreadful compliance of expository hell. Let them write organically, the presenters argued. Let their ideas grow freely and naturally as they will. As a relatively young teacher, I stewed and fretted all the way home from the conference, admonishing myself for such naivety. Maybe there were better ways to help students learn to write. Maybe I’d been simply unaware.

After two excruciating months of organic writing during which more students suffered and failed than not, I returned to the form which had proven itself over and over again, convicted that its limits were more helpful than harmful.

But most limits, even those that may be largely beneficial, are not without controversy. Laws regarding mandatory seatbelt use: personal limits for safety or an affront to civil liberty? Dress codes for restaurants (no shoes, no shirt, no service): reasonable public health restrictions or an infringement on personal freedom? By their very nature, limits are restrictive and exclusive; they define what is acceptable and what is not, what is in and what is out.

Certainly there are–and have always been–limits that privilege, please, and protect some groups and not others. In our country, we don’t have to go back too many decades to identify examples of these. The Jim Crow laws are some of the most aggregious examples. It goes without saying that limits may be helpful or destructive; they may serve the greater good or serve a privileged few. The best ones are always carefully considered, ethically examined, and clearly defined.

Even in rural Iowa, most people I know agree that we should limit the public display of Confederate statues that profile individuals known primarily for defending and promoting the pre-Civil War South, including and especially the institution of slavery. Although they may argue that it’s not acceptable to destroy or deface them, they will concede that these statues should be removed from the public positions they’ve held.

But the removal of other statues and pieces of art isn’t as clear cut. In a recent Boston Globe article, “Lincoln’s emancipation statue triggers debate on how the Black experience should be commemorated,” Meghan E. Irons writes:

But nearly 150 years after its debut here, the statue has become a flashpoint in the nation’s latest reckoning with public art portraying figures from the Civil War and its aftermath. What was intended as a depiction of liberation can look demeaning to 21st-century eyes: a submissive Black man bending at the feet of the president. Yet even as activists in Boston and Washington have urged the statues be torn down or repurposed, some argue against, saying the art, however challenging, is worth preserving.

Even the distant relatives of Archer Alexander, the black man used as the model for the statue’s kneeling figure, disagree over whether or not the emancipation statue should be removed. One of Alexander’s distant relatives, Keith Winstead, contends that the statue is a tribute to a critical period in Black history and to an American hero who risked his life to help Union soldiers during the Civil War. Another descendant, Cedric Turner believes that taking down the statue is akin to wiping out the story of freed slaves who donated money for the statue, and of Alexander himself, who helped his country during the Civil War.

But there is also distant relative, Maryum Ali, who argues that it is degrading and offensive and said that she was certain that her great-great-great-great grandfather would not want to be viewed as bowing down to anyone — Lincoln or anybody else. Like Ali, Raul Fernandez, a lecturer and associate dean at Boston University who has extensively researched the statue, claims that it is clearly a tribute to white supremacy. 

So how do we proceed? What stays and what goes? What is acceptable and what is not? What celebrates and what offends?

I began to seriously consider these questions when I thought about the bronze statue of my father that stands outside of the university classroom building where he taught for much of his life. The statue is a beautiful piece of artwork, lovingly crafted by sculptor Martha Pettigrew. But it is a statue of a white male teacher/poet flanking a building that has also housed a black teacher/poet. So, some would consider my father’s statue a microinvalidation, a piece of art that excludes, negates, or nullifies the psychological thoughts, feelings, or experiential reality of a minority person. Has the bronzed Don Welch invalidated and excluded the minority person who, instead, should stand as an affirmation of teaching excellence on the University of Nebraska Kearney campus? And if so, should my father’s statue be removed because it’s yet another symbol of the systemic racism that privileges whites over blacks?

My father was a man of the truest integrity and one of the finest teachers, thinkers and writers I have known. I believe that the statue his friends and colleagues commissioned is a worthy testament to my father’s legacy as an excellent teacher. Still, I’m not naive enough to assume that a majority would vote to keep his statue if a national poll was taken today. For there really are no clear parameters that identify what we should keep and what we should remove. And without these, what specific criteria–if any–do we use? And who decides upon this criteria?

I know there will be some who consider me foolish for worrying about my father’s statue. After all, it’s not like my dad was a Confederate officer or former slave owner, and it’s not like he has a history of racist speech and actions. And yet, there will be others who would argue that, because my father was a white man, his statue should removed and replaced with one that validates and celebrates the reality of minority persons.

Like Keith Winstead and Cedric Turner who prefer that the emancipation statue remain, I prefer that the statue of my father remain. There will be others who prefer that both statues be removed and forgotten. But preferences are not carefully considered, ethically examined, clearly defined limits. They are simply personal predilictions, individual desires. And as such, they leave us in a quagmire. There are as many preferences as there are people who hold them, so whose preference should prevail?

I’ve read that my desire for clear limits regarding public art is yet another symptom of my white privilege. Perhaps it is. But even so, is this desire wrong? Would such limits cause more harm than good to most people? And might not the discussion of such limits be a progressive step forward?

These statues weren’t intended to be idols before which we worship. Rather, most of them were created as public pieces of art intended to commemorate imperfect human beings whose prevailing legacies are honorable and good. In the end, someone or some group will decide if a public statue stays or goes. I would like to think that their decisions will be carefully considered, ethically examined, and clearly defined so that the criteria used to make these decisions may be applied consistently–or at least more consistently.

Before we remove or destroy them, then, I’d like to know if we might come to a consensus regarding the criteria we will use to determine what stays and what goes. I’d like to know if there will be any limits beyond preference to guide our decisions. I’m painfully aware of the challenges that establishing such limits will pose. This is messy stuff–perhaps the messiest. Done well, however, it should take us beyond politics and preferences to sound, ethical guidelines that we can collectively agree upon. Done well, it should be part of the solution rather than exacerbating the problem. Done well, it should result in limits that are truly indispensable.