"At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide."
--Abraham Lincoln, 1838
While perusing the Internets during the week, I tend to keep an eye out for articles pertaining to the protection (or, more likely, the violation) of civil liberties or civil rights. Oh, there’s nothing I like more than a story on Guantanamo Bay detainees, or gay marriage, or oppressed ethnic minorities to get my blood boiling.
This week, however, rather than the subjects of the articles themselves, I took notice of the authors’ arguments and evidence. Specifically, I twice read an allusion to the same historical event—although to different aspects of the event. Glen Greenwald (a civil liberties watchdog) and Akhil Reed Amar (a law professor), while addressing the legal and judicial issues surrounding suspected and convicted terrorists, each refer to the trial of British soldiers involved in the 1770 Boston Massacre.
In The “pro-Constitution=pro-terrorist” canard, Greenwald responds to a comment Andrew Sullivan made on his blog, the Daily Dish (which I happen to read often). Sullivan said the ACLU and Center for Constitutional Rights had gone too far in offering to provide legal representation for Anwar Awlaki (you know, that US citizen/terrorist propagandist targeted for assassination by the Obama administration, despite the fact he’s a US citizen and not actually a terrorist—and for more on the legal implications of drone-bombing, I suggest you read this Slate article). Rhetorically, Greenwald questions Sullivan on how this stance aligns with his staunch anti-torture history, ultimately wondering (with exasperated bold print) how the eventual arguments linking the Constitution to the defense of terrorists will hold water. But I really don’t want to get into this huge civil liberties quagmire, which has not improved with the Obama administration (like some other quagmires I know.) I’m not an expert; there are too many voices and legal precedents and wars and detainees over the last decade for me to catch up, let alone understand what it all means. Besides, I can really only tolerate reading so much of an infuriating topic, you know, something like an article a week. Or in this case, two.
But the real reason I bring up this article at all is the addendum Greenwald later posted. In it, he asks Sullivan (and other like-minded individuals) if John Adam’s decision to defend in court the British soldiers accused of murdering citizens of Massachusetts in 1770 was a step too far. Adams, he explains, was more proud of this episode of his long, storied life than any other. Greenwald holds up Adams, rightly acting to defend the constitutional principles of the country he would eventually help found, as a guiding example—perhaps now more than ever.
Rather than a gesture of legal counsel to a suspected terrorist, Amar addresses the verdict in the trial of an actual terrorist in It Matters Not How You Get It published in Slate. A jury in Manhattan convicted Ahmed Ghailani of conspiring to blow up the U.S. Embassies in East Africa in 1998—but acquitted him of conspiring to murder the individuals inside the building. Essentially, he will be sentenced for 20 years to life on just one of the more than 280 charges for which he was tried. As the first Guantanamo detainee to be tried by a civilian court, this case has major political implications for the Obama Administration, the Department of Justice, Homeland Security, in-coming Republican representatives, and the future interpretation of constitutional law.
Amar avoids the political repercussions, instead focusing on the origins of this verdict—in the context of the specific case, but more so in the history of legal precedent in American courts. For instance, the judge in this case disallowed testimony from a government witness because it came to light via the torture of Ghailani himself. So, Amar delves into early American jurisprudence as well the original meaning of the Fifth Amendment (defending against self-incriminating testimony), to show that, historically, judges used to allow any and all evidence—precisely because court trials before juries were intended as a forum to present any and all relevant evidence to determine the guilt of the defendant. He brings this narrative forward to the 1892 Supreme Court decision to exclude evidence gained through unreasonable means. The “exclusionary rule” precedent, allowing judges to disallow testimony, has no Constitutional basis. Amar concludes by calling on modern courts to clarify the rule and to refrain from its blanket application.
Despite his focus elsewhere, Amar manages to include a not-so-minor reference to the Boston Massacre trial. He lauds the jury of the Ghailani case for its ability to ignore the excluded testimony and to consider the charges against Ghailani only in light of the presented evidence. They knew he had meant to kill everyone inside the embassies, but the evidence that appeared in court only proved he had intended to—and did—destroy the buildings. Amar compares this effort of compartmentalizing to the 1770 jury’s ability to not be swayed by public opinion or the heated atmosphere of its environs. Here were British soldiers—hated for being quartered in Boston, as if it were some Caribbean island or Indian outpost rather than the sophisticated, commercially significant, and Anglicized city that it was—who had killed “unarmed” (if not necessarily “innocent’) civilians in the street. This was exactly the outcome the Sons of Liberty hoped to incite. By appealing to the jury’s emotions, it should have been an open-and-shut case for the prosecutors. But the jurists considered the evidence carefully, and even distinguished the defendants as individuals with separate charges rather than bowing to guilt by association and convicting them en masse. While Adams et al. defended the rights of the individual to protection under the law, the jury ensured a complementary (and essential) fairness to the trial. That a contemporary jury followed this model is reassuring (and a bit surprising.)
Although running across two articles in one week that reference the trial of British soldiers after the Boston Massacre is something of a coincidence, I cannot say that it is a particularly blog-worthy one. Actually, we should expect to see more allusions to this formative episode in American history as the government continues to pursue a war on terror and prosecute (or not, as it were; see also, Guantanamo Bay) those it considers to be formulating, propagating, and enacting "terror." Hopefully, the government and the judicial system will learn something from John Adams and the case of the "Boston Nine."
However, since it is incredibly unlikely that adults in power will actually change their mindset or reconsider an issue in light of history (American history! Even featuring one of the Founders—and those guys were never wrong), it would be most effective to influence their children and grandchildren aka. the Hope of the Future.
And what form of education/entertainment do kids love that can easily contain an embedded message? If you said "picture books," then you must be a children's book author and/or illustrator, because no one buys those any more. "If it ain't got no screen, it ain't for my teen" goes the saying (actually, I'm pretty sure no one has ever said this). But seriously, who buys picture books for children nowadays? (Certainly not children.) If children are going to read at all, it will be a chapter book that develops their vocabulary and comprehension skills—not a dozen haiku strung out over 40 pages with some crappy pictures that a child could have drawn. And some don't even have words! Son, if it got no words, it ain't a book. (Gutenberg's spinning in his grave at the very idea.)
Sure, adults today probably cherished many picture books in their childhood—but that was pre-Internet, and before they became parents. Now, kids sit in strollers with iPads watching videos. Books (in general) just cannot compete, especially those awkwardly large picture books jutting out of shelves at the bookstore. Who do they think they are, trying to lure you with their shiny, attention-grabbing award stickers? Or sadder yet, with their "artwork."
Actually, if the title of this blog is any indication, I do intend to discuss picture books seriously, without a heavy dose of sarcasm—but only because I stumbled upon a compelling and relevant subject. (You want me to care about the dietary habits of a caterpillar? C’mon!)
In the very same week that I found the above articles, I happened to notice a potentially interesting title among the picture books at Strand Bookstore: For Liberty: The Story of the Boston Massacre. (I was on my way to the restroom, of course—as if I wanted to browse children’s books.) Forty pages of black-and-white, pen-and-ink drawings depict, in extreme detail, the Boston Massacre as it unfolded on one March night in 1770. The author carries the reader to a snow-covered city, seemingly somnolent, but actually harboring the sparks of discontent. When the Customs House is threatened by rowdy colonialists, dutiful soldiers of the King’s army arrive to defend the property of the realm. Tensions rise with each arriving citizen, swelling the crowd around the handful of nervous troops and their officer. It was not inevitable that violence would mar the night, that thrown ice and rocks and slurs would be met with a volley of musketfire. But it happened. Several wordless images convey the confusion and anxiety that enveloped the scene. And in the ensuing silence, the screams and gunshots fading into the night, five bodies lay dead on the ground. Really, the book is something that should be read and seen (it’s not that long)—a written description does no justice. Unfortunately, until you do buy and read it (as you should), you’ll have to take my word for it.
But, For Liberty is more than just another illustrated recounting of a formative event in American history. Audaciously “addressed to the inhabitants of America,” the entire book—from the cursory explanation of the origins of the tensions in colonial America (something to do with European empires), to the vivid and thorough depiction of the incident in Boston—culminates in the final pages. Here the author presents both his message and the often overlooked denouement to the event: the trial of the accused officer and soldiers in a court of law. (Now do you see how this all ties together?) Prominent Massachusetts lawyer John Adams was asked to help represent the soldiers before a jury prudently selected months after the killings from beyond the vicinity of Boston. Adams and fellow attorneys not only defended these men, but liberty itself. As the author emphasizes, this defense also served as a check on the rule of the incensed mob—restoring civility and justice to a situation that may have wholly ignored or intentionally trampled these principles. This is the significance of this book and this episode: while the Boston Massacre was but one event in a series that (may or may not have) led to a revolution, the ramifications of the trial have had—and will continue to have—a greater impact on the fate of the nation forged from the crucible of that war. (And ironically, it seems that what Adams and the defense did—proving the actions of the men resulted from self-defense, and thus achieving the acquittal of charges against all but two of the accused soldiers—was actually a function of the British legal system.)
Now more than ever (remember those articles I mentioned?) Americans should consider Adams and this trial. Yes, the Founders are already more popular than ever—especially among conservatives, ie. the not-so-subtle allusion to the Boston Tea Party. But the Founders are incredibly mis-remembered (intentionally or not)—almost as badly as the meaning of “socialism” and “fascism.” (The same country that fought fascist Germany and Italy seventy years ago did not elect one of its proponents to the presidency, just for the record.) And this is where accurate history and effective art come in—especially concerning meaning and cultural relevance.
Works on contemporary topics have a brief shelf-life (and will soon be found in the Strand basement), unless they manage to successfully tap into a universal theme and establish staying power. That theme or meaning does not necessarily have to be something deep and intrinsic to human nature, or a beguiling philosophical quandary that compels consideration every generation. Rather, it may merely be relevant to the prevailing culture, its beliefs and attitudes. This does not require prescience, but it does necessitate a certain amount of skill. For instance, For Liberty evokes the Boston Massacre as a defense of liberty as successfully—and as necessarily—today as much as it did when it was written (back in the dark days of the Bush administration.) The book does so as an engaging synthesis of visual representation, narrative, and historical antecedent designed to educate, to fascinate, and to inspire—an incredibly noble triad found in the author’s other published works. And yes, as hard as it may be to believe, this career is oriented toward a youth audience—how lucrative. But, as Gandhi may have said, "Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it."
And what is the point of all this? Why did I write this much, and why did you read this far?
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