This was going to be a post about the sanitization of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but the events in Arizona have altered its focus. Saturday's tragic shooting of Representative Gabrielle Giffords and 19 others, six fatally, has precipitated a heated and passionate discussion about the kind of rhetoric that has come to characterize American political discourse in recent years. In the weird way of the universe, the Huck Finn controversy and the shooting in Tuscon both serve to emphasize the power of language, the shaping force of words.
The touchstone of the American psyche is and has always been the First Amendment. The Founding Fathers recognized its importance – there's a reason it's the First Amendment to the Constitution. Thanks to them, we have the freedom, unprecedented in history, to say what we want, pretty much how we want to say it, when we feel like saying it. Criticism of the powers-that-be is, in a way, the pulse and energy of American government; we do not hesitate to remind our leaders that they work for us. Artistically, we can create work that offends some, exhilarates others, and leaves still others indifferent. We can plaster our cars with bumper stickers, send letters to the editor, and makes gross jokes about the high and mighty. We can say "fuck" in church and "Mr. President, you are an idiot" without legal reprecussions. Free speech is a great and empowering thing.
But free speech is not the same thing as speech without consequence. Mark Twain recognized this when he said, in another context, "The difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug." Which is why the excision of the n-bomb from Huck Finn is offensive on so many levels. Twain chose the word because it was how white people in the South spoke during the time of the novel; it also served to emphasize his theme (see Chapter 31 if you don't know what that theme is). The editing assumes readers are too stupid to recognize historical context and narrative voice – which is kind of a horrible attitude in a college professor.
It also serves to remind us that, in America, who says something is frequently as important as what is said. The professor who initiated the bowdlerization of Twain because the word made him uncomfortable did not suggest taking it out of all the literature his students read. Would anyone suggest taking the n-word out of Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, or Notes of a Native Son, or The Autobiography of Malcolm X? (See Mark Bauerlein's excellent New York Times op-ed on this here. ) This is all part of the complicated, tangled history of race in our country and our squirming inability to discuss it thoughtfully.
Taking this a step further relative to yesterday's events, imagine for a minute if it had been a black male whose website had had gunsites over certain Congressional districts, including one whose representative had just been shot in the head, and over which were the words, "We've diagnosed the problem – help us prescribe the solution." Or if it had been a Muslim American who said, "The crossfire is intense, so penetrate through enemy territory by bombing through the press, and use your strong weapons – your Big Guns – to drive to the hole. Shoot with accuracy; aim high, and remember it takes blood, sweat and tears to win." What would have been the public response then? But no, these things were said by a pretty, perky, popular, middle-class white woman who, despite her claims to be a private citizen, is the spokesperson-by-acclimation of a political movement.
I am not suggesting for a minute that Sarah Palin was advocating assasination. She is a demagogue employing metaphor. The thing about demagogues – and let me be absolutely clear here and say that demagoguery knows no political party; in American history, the biggest demagogue of them all might have been Huey Long, a Democrat – is that, by definition, they know how to use language to excellent effect. They imploy metaphor and analogy, and they are expert at tapping into disaffection and saying what their audiences want to hear. (Click here for one of Huey Long's "Share the Wealth" speeches, and keep in mind the audience was an America in the throes of the Great Depression. In particular, notice his use of analogy and humor.) But the terrible power of language is that it is where ideas begin. And, while we do not yet know the shooter's motives, how easy it is for someone already so-inclined to interpret this kind of metaphor as a call to violence. (If you think demagogues don't know the impact of their words, consider this: Palin has spent the past 24 hours "scrubbing" her website, Facebook page, and Twitter account of all the lock-and-load imagery. Long, after being told by someone that his plan to distribute the wealth of the rich would result in each American receiving something less than 25 cents, is reported to have said, "When they figure that out, I'll have something else for them.")
So do we tell the Sarah Palins and the Huey Longs – or anyone – that they cannot say the things they say? Do we shut down their speech because it is offensive to some and to others may be seen as license to commit acts of violence? No, we don't, because that is a slippery slope that, even with the best intentions, we don't dare begin to climb. (Ironically – or perhaps not – when Congress read aloud the entire Constitution last week, Representative Giffords was chosen to read the First Amendment.)
The answer to offensive or disturbing speech, as Mario Van Peebles points out in his excellent documentary, "Poetic License," is more speech. It is acting on our responsibility to call each other to account, even those whose ideas we agree with or who bring voters in, even our friends. It is acknowledging that what we say, while we have every right to say it, has impact. It is recognizing the power of the lightning and saying, "What you say matters. What I say matters. And how we say it matters, too."