This past Independence Day, at the 2020 Salute to America, President Trump spoke at length about how we as Americans should regard the nation’s historical narrative. “Our past,” the President said, is an “incredible story of American progress.” The end result of all this progress, in the President’s view, is the country as it stands today: “the greatest, most exceptional, and most virtuous nation in the history of the world.” This understanding of American history is under attack, according to the President, from the “radical left” and their allies who “tear down our statues” and thus “erase our history”; the President went so far as to say that this coalition of people “are lying about history” and “want us to be ashamed of who we are.”

As I read through the President’s speech, his likening of the demolition of statues with the erasure of history caught my attention because I have heard other people, whose politics are worlds apart from Trump’s, make similar statements over the years. From what I have observed there seems to be an assumption in the minds of many that if a statue comes down it’s like saying “let’s forget about this person or event.”

Yet such an assumption falls apart when you consider that many—if not most—public statues and monuments to historical figures do more than just memorialize; they celebrate. This celebration is often conveyed without words. Think about the Jefferson Memorial in DC. Even if you had no clue who Thomas Jefferson was and couldn’t read the English language, you would still, upon walking into that structure, think to yourself “whoever this guy was he must have been pretty good, because he’s standing on a pedestal in something that looks like a temple.” Right? Perhaps I’m being unsophisticated, but I bet that’s the idea you would get.

Now consider another famous DC monument: the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. If any memorial simply reminds people of something, this one does. As far as I can reckon, the memorial’s only political statement about the Vietnam War is that it is something to be remembered, if only for the sacrifice it demanded of so many Americans—with no hint of celebration.

So what should we celebrate? That’s the real question.

In Charlottesville, Virginia, stands a statue of Robert E. Lee. If I’m remembering it right, Lee is in uniform, on his horse, on a pedestal, on a hilltop. That statue valorizes Lee. Should American society in the year 2020 continue to valorize this man who fought the US Army in an attempt to preserve slavery? I would say no. It seems, if the state of Mississippi’s recent decision to remove the Confederate battle flag from its state flag is any indicator, that many people are of a similar mind. Removing Confederate emblems from the land is a decision to stop the celebration of the Confederacy, which is not the same as forgetting it altogether.

I imagine that for some, the case to take down a statue of Lee feels worlds apart from the case to take down a statue of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln. If the idea of taking down a statue of, say, Thomas Jefferson makes no sense to you, just stay with me for a little bit longer.

Consider the President’s own words on July 4th: the heritage of America “belongs to citizens of every background and of every walk of life. No matter our race, color, religion, or creed, we are one America.” That sounds nice, doesn’t it? One big, happy, country that fully includes in its historical narrative all the different kinds of people who are here and part of “us.” But here’s the crux of the matter: if the “we” of America includes all its citizens— white, Black, gay, straight, English-speaking, Spanish-speaking, religious, non-religious, all of us—then what should we celebrate?

How that fully inclusive ‘we’ thinks about and celebrates its history is going to look different than the typical story told about the United States, the story the President champions in his Fourth of July remarks. The President said that “we will defend, protect, and preserve [the] American way of life, which began in 1492 when Columbus discovered America.” The simple fact is that if the American way of life is understood to mean the free exercise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all its citizens, then the American way of life in no way began in 1492. It actually began much more recently than that and one could argue that it hasn’t started yet. After all, the President said at Mt. Rushmore that we much “teach our children…that no one can hold them down,” but not two months ago George Floyd was held down by a police officer until he died.

So what should we celebrate?

So at this point, it sure does seem like 2020 is going to be a year that Americans are going to remember for a long time. The pandemic spring has transitioned into a summer of mass protests, or so it seems here on June 5.

Today is my son’s birthday—he turns five years old. What will this country be like when he, Lord willing, becomes an adult? He’ll turn eighteen in the year 2033. I can’t believe I’m writing this, but 2033 doesn’t seem too far from now.

What if, in 2033, the collective understanding of the recent past goes something like this: “oh yeah—2020, that was when things starting changing for the better. It had a rocky start, but after the tragedy of Floyd’s murder, the momentum of history started going in the right direction. It’s not perfect now, but let me tell you, there’s a lot less racial inequality and police brutality going around.”

I truly think that at this moment right now it is possible that 2020 could become that fulcrum year. But we all got to keep moving the energy forward.

So what can I do to move it forward?

You know, I once heard a folk singer say on the radio that social change is like a teeter-totter: there’s a giant weight of injustice on one end that weighs down the plank toward the bad. All ordinary people can ever do is to put their little spoonful of good on the other end. It seems like those spoonfuls aren’t going to do anything, but after enough spoonfuls, the whole thing switches in an instant.

I guess this blog is my little spoonful. I’m just one more voice on the huge, messy internet, but here I go.

Make 2020 the Fulcrum Year.

Coming soon: a review of Beyond the Usual Beating: The Jon Burge Police Torture Scandal and Social Movements for Police Accountability in Chicago by Andrew S. Baer.