During one of my high school campaigns to undermine authority, I once attempted to derail a mindlessly stupid English class discussion how racism is bad (newsflash!) by asking why it was that we should be made to feel personally guilty for slavery when there was a good chance that not a single person in the class was descended from anyone who ever owned slaves, and most of our families had not even come to America until after the Civil Rights movement. We were historically blameless, so why did we need this crash course in guilt?
The subsequent discussion, like all our vapid discussions, didn't really go anywhere. Partly, this was because we were dumb, but as I've since learned, a good teacher with a clear direction and definite conclusion in mind can shepherd even most vacuous discussants towards comprehension. But the only discernible goal of this course was that we should be made to feel really bad about oppression and other bad things through exploratory exercises such as looking at photos of the Vietnam War and sharing our feelings about them (sad), writing stream of consciousness essays (mad), and taking our shoes off and meditating on the floor (bad: this activity ended in a chorus of grumbling about each other's stinky feet).
For our final project, which was to be a creative work interpreting one or more of the books we read that year, one of my classmates held up a distinctly familiar "painting" of blue vines against an orange background done in cray-pas. "This represents the contrast between black and white in
Invisible Man," he explained. "See, the orange is the opposite of the blue, and the shading of the vines represents the shades of gray that represent racial tensions caused by white people, who are racist, for the protagonist." Lingering questions about this artwork remained, such as what in
Invisible Man could possibly be represented by vines, and why it was orange and blue instead of black and white, but these questions answered themselves when we caught a glance of the back of the poster while he was turning it in. On it was scrawled his name, and the room number of our third grade art class. Let us just say this project was more of an "adaptation" than an "original work." Nonetheless, his stellar insight into Ellison's portrayal of racism earned him a B+, as far as I recall. This project stands out as one of the more brilliant examples of high school irony in my life. (My effort for this assignment, which was way less awesome than turning in my third grade art exercise in shading for an AP English final, can still be seen
here. Not related, but equally awful.)
So what is the point of telling this story (other than its inherent awesomeness)? My high school English class, it seems, hits on one of the good reasons that
everyone is so down on liberal guilt. Guilt alone--in a personal, juridical, or divine context--is the mark of blame for a crime, and it is the basis for punishment. But what do you do with liberal guilt--a subspecies of historical-political guilt--except wallow in it, and perhaps, if it's a collective guilt, persuade other blameworthy people to wallow with you? Reihan points out that, while
feeling guilty over historical injustices is preferable to being pleased with them, guilt doesn't actually guarantee any better corrective action than cold-hearted calculations of interest, or any other approach. The missing piece between guilt and corrective action is judgment, and the trial analogy breaks down where it requires a disinterested judge to pass a sentence. For the historical-political crime, where is such a judge?
This problem has to be at least as old as the
Oresteia, where the insufficiency of guilt for politics is amply evident. In the House of Atreus, guilt begets guilt in an unending cycle until vengeance gives way to trials as the mode of justice. In Aeschylus' telling, this shift marks the foundation of a city out of disparate collection of warring tribes, since it prevents perpetrators and victims from sitting in judgment of their own crimes, in which they obviously have vested interests. And where does this justice leave the historical-political crime? Well, if Orestes' crime is any indicator, the fact that divine intervention is required to adjudicate it should suggest that it might be problematic for humans to judge.
It's possible that "the first step to justice is an acknowledgment of guilt," but perhaps the more relevant point is trial analogy itself is not well-suited to addressing historical crimes (and, in fact, in our legal system, acknowledging guilt is not actually a prerequisite for being brought to justice). After all, strictly speaking, I might have been correct in my twelfth-grade belligerence to suggest that many of the most apologetic Americans are
not guilty. They may be descendants of the guilty, or they may identify with them, but only gods have ever laid claim to the ability to visit the sins of the fathers on their children, and our comparatively short lifespans tend to make us incapable of doing the same. If the case of my English class has any greater implications, it might very well be that guilt impedes our judgment, and allows us to mistake what is obviously a crude third grade art project for a decent interpretation of Invisible Man so long as it's couched in the rhetoric of racial apology.
Ross agrees that guilt implies culpability, which is impossible to apply directly in hindsight. How can you ever be sure that a conservative in 2008 would've been sympathetic to Jim Crow in 1928, or a German today would've been a Nazi 60 years ago? He suggests that shame and dishonor would be a better paradigm for evaluating historical injustices with which one was not directly involved. This is a finer distinction insofar as current Americans should feel ashamed of slavery and racism, but it's not clear how shame is enough to get us away from wallowing towards a course of action.
So let me suggest another approach. What if we thought about this in terms of responsibility rather than blame? Let us say that I was wrong in my hotheaded assertion that I, having been born in a country where there were approximately zero black people, should bear no guilt for American racial injustices of the past. I should not
feel guilty as a private person, but rather, I should
be responsible as a citizen. Civic responsibility, unlike guilt, exists in the doing of it, it falls on everyone, and it requires the kind of judgment that conflates individual and common interests (maybe that "common good" that no one after the 18th century seems able to define?).
The Eumenides, titular characters of the last play of the Oresteia cycle, are perhaps the best illustration of the transformation of personal guilt into civic duty that is required for the foundation of a city. The Erinyes embodied vengeance, but after Athena's absolution of Orestes' crime and the foundation of a city under law, they are recast as "The Kindly Ones"--civic goddesses who reward those who do them honor with prosperity and punish those who renege. Good-bye Furies, hello patron-goddesses. Good-bye in-class meditation, hello community service.
UPDATE: One of my high school teachers (not the above-mentioned)
responds.