Are the Culture Wars History?: A Conversation with Andrew Hartman
The following is an
interview with Andrew Hartman, author of the new book, A War for the Soul of America: A History of the Culture Wars (Chicago, April 2015). You may also be interested in Hartman's recent talk with The Boston Globe. Hartman is the founding President of the Society for U. S. Intellectual
History (S-USIH) and a regular blogger there.
He is also chair of S-USIH’s upcoming conference in Washington DC in
October.
1. You mention in
your Acknowledgements that Leo Ribuffo gave you the topic for this book. Could you say more about how and why it came
about?
After one of Professor Ribuffo’s seminars that I took in
graduate school, Leo offhandedly suggested that I should write my dissertation
on the battles over education during the 1950s. A few years later I had a
dissertation, which he directed, and a few years after that I had my first
book, Education and the Cold War. Leo
seems to have a knack for knowing how to match my interests to the gaps in the
literature. So in 2008, just as my first book had come out, Leo once again
offhandedly suggested in an email that perhaps my second book should be a
history of the culture wars of the 1980s and 1990s. He knew then, and I soon
discovered, that no historian had ever written a monograph about the culture
wars. And the topic really did match my interests since it allowed me to
explore education, politics, and culture—all through the lens of intellectual
history.
But Leo suggesting that I write a history of the culture
wars was also deeply ironic, because he doesn’t think that historians should
take the “culture wars” label seriously. He always prefaces the “so-called
culture wars.” He thinks it’s hyperbolic and that Americans have always had
shouting matches related to the national identity.
2. You write that
“the history of America, for better and worse, is largely a history of debates
about the idea of America” (p. 2). In
seeing the culture wars as struggles over normative American identity, you seem
to be hinting at a “long culture wars” argument to be made explicit by Stephen
Prothero in his forthcoming book, Why Liberals Win. Of course, culture is
always a contested space, but do you think that broadening the scope of the
culture wars (as you and Prothero seem to be doing) risks losing what made the
cultural contests of the 1980s and 1980s unique?
Actually I argue that, yes, the struggle over a normative
American identity is as old as the nation itself, but that what we call the
“culture wars” is specific to the 1980s and 1990s and that what makes that
era’s cultural struggles unique is the cultural revolution otherwise known as
the “sixties.” You’ll note that my argument, and the entire book, hinges on the
sixties as a sui generis decade. So
although I can’t judge Prothero's book until I read it, my guess is we’ll
differ on this question of change and continuity. I don’t think the cultural
conflicts of the 80s and 90s bear that much resemblance to earlier
conflicts—and this is because of the sixties, which served to fracture American
political culture.
Many American intellectual historians argue that the forces
of modernity altered the landscape of American culture well before the sixties.
For many, the sixties are now best
understood not as a rupture, but as one point along a more protracted
trajectory. Dan Wickberg consents to this historiographical turn in a recent review essay he wrote for Modern
Intellectual History. “Mid-twentieth
century American intellectual history is in the midst of a boom,” he writes. “A
younger generation of historians, now half a century distant from the era, and
less inclined than their immediate forerunners to be committed to a vision of
the 1960s as a critical turning point in modern culture, is reshaping what has
been an underdeveloped field.” Wickberg argues “that there is a great deal more
continuity than an image of the 1960s as cultural watershed would allow.” How
so? “Questions of the contingency of all knowledge and values, critique of the
claims of all authority, a sense of both the liberating intellectual freedom
and the moral danger of a world unmoored from tradition: these
characteristically ‘modernist’ concerns came to be articulated in their fullest
way in the United States in the decades before and after World War II.” In
short, the fractures associated with the culture wars are old.
This historiographical
correction is necessary insofar as the epistemological orientation of so-called
postmodernity is not far removed from that of modernity proper. Foucault was
said to have revolutionized American intellectual life with claims such that
“knowledge is not for knowing, knowledge is for cutting.” But by then it had
been over a half-century since William James’s antifoundationalist
position that “‘the truth’ is only the
expedient in the way of our thinking, just as ‘the right’ is only the expedient
in the way of our behaving.” More to the point, perhaps: In the 1940s,
all Harvard students were assigned to read Margaret Mead, who did much to
popularize the relativistic notion that what we might think is “natural” is
actually cultural, an indication that perhaps part of American political
culture had fractured well before the sixties.
But as I argue in my
book, the sixties universalized fracture. Many Americans prior to the sixties,
particularly white, middle-class Americans, were largely sheltered from the
“acids of modernity,” those modern ways of thinking that subjected seemingly
timeless truths, including truths about America, to the lens of suspicion. Put
another way, prior to the sixties, many Americans did not yet recognize the
hazards of a world freed from tradition. They did not yet realize their sacred
cows were being butchered. Many Americans only felt their worlds coming apart
once they experienced such chaos as a political force, as a movement of peoples
previously excluded from the American mainstream. They only grew wary of “an assault
on Western civilization” after the barbarians had crashed the gates. The radical political mobilizations of the
sixties—civil rights, Black and Chicano Power, feminism, gay liberation, the
antiwar movement, the legal push for secularization—destabilized the America
that millions knew. It was only after the sixties that many, particularly
conservatives, recognize the threat to their once great nation. This
recognition was the motor force of the culture wars.
3. Speaking to the
“uniqueness” question, what about the Cold War?
Your first book looked at American education in light of geopolitical
conflict, yet this new work hardly mentions international developments at all. Where they not a significant part of the
culture wars?
The Cold War might not have ended until 1989 or 1991, but
the Cold War as the pervasive shaper of American political culture had ended by
the early 1960s. So the Vietnam War not only helped destroy the Cold War
liberal consensus, it and the movement that arose to stop it ended the power of
the Cold War to determine the fate of political culture. So whereas I
dramatically concluded my first book—an intellectual history of education up
until the early 1960s—by stating that Americans had created an educational
system to aid the nation in fighting the Cold War, such international
conclusions did not reveal themselves to me during my research into the culture
wars. The debates that riveted the nation during the culture wars had very little
to do with fears about a foreign enemy.
Ironically it was when the Cold War officially came to an
end that the nation’s role in the world became a major culture wars anxiety. I
deal with this in Chapter 9—“The Contested American Past”—where I contend that
the frenzied national debate over the Smithsonian’s Enola Gay exhibit was a significant barometer of the confusion
regarding the nation’s role in a post-Cold War world. The history wars of the
1990s challenged the legacies of old frontiers—the West, the Cold War—precisely
because new, unknown frontiers were on the horizon. When Bob Dole complained
about the exhibit’s message—that “the Japanese were painted not as the
aggressors but as the victims of World War II”—he was expressing discontent
with the lack of agreement over what he considered an exalted national purpose.
4. Were religious
issues, institutions, and persons central to the culture wars? You write that evangelicals “formed the
demographic bedrock of the conservative culture wars” (p. 101), but you also
suggest that the culture wars began as a “shouting match between the New Left
and the neoconservatives” (p. 69). Were
Phyllis Schlafly and Jerry Falwell not as important as others have made them
out to be?
I’ll repeat what I wrote in an earlier guest post here at
the RiAH Blog because it serves as the best way to answer this important
question.
5. Are the tools of
intellectual history the best way to make sense of the culture wars? How do you see your work relating to
sociological or cultural studies accounts of American disunion?
There is more than one way to skin this cat. Certainly
Hunter’s sociological approach or, say, Michael Berube’s cultural studies
approach in his excellent book Public
Access: Literary Theory and American Cultural Politics (Verso, 1994), or
the more political historical approach taken by David Courtwright in his
excellent No Right Turn: Conservative
Politics in a Liberal America (Harvard, 2010) have all added important
dimensions to how we conceptualize the culture wars. But ultimately the culture
wars are a heated national debate about the idea of America and its relation to
ideas about human nature, freedom, tradition, identity, and history. So yes I
do think intellectual history is the best method for understanding the culture
wars.
6. You conclude that
“the logic of the culture wars has been exhausted. The metaphor has run its course” (p.
285). Are the culture wars really
history? If so, are you ready to declare
a victor? And, if so, are we heading
toward a new period of national unity?
I absolutely do not see national unity anywhere on the
horizon. Cultural polarization will remain the order of the day. But our
current conflicts have ever so slightly begun to have a different feel to them.
I think this is evident in the recent national debate about Indiana’s religious
freedom law. The nation’s attitudes about homosexuality have become radically
more tolerant. Homophobia is on the wane. A rapidly growing majority of
Americans favor the legalization of same-sex unions. The courts have followed
suit by upholding the legality of same-sex marriage in state after state. Even
a majority of Republicans under the age of 50 now support same-sex marriage.
Leaders of Focus on the Family and the Southern Baptist Convention have
recently admitted defeat in the gay marriage debate.
And yet, I would not rule this an unadulterated victory for
the left. The almost singular focus on marriage equality signifies a narrowing
of a vision elaborated by gay liberation activists of the sixties, and later by
queer theorists like Eve
Kosofsky Sedgwick, who
radically challenged what they saw as heterosexual norms like marriage. As the
cultural historian Lisa Duggan argues, the marriage agenda complements
conservative economics. “In the broadest
sense,” Duggan writes, “‘marriage promotion’ in welfare policy aims to
privatize social services by shifting the costs of support for the ill, young,
elderly and dependent away from the social safety net and onto private
households.” In other words, more radical or queer notions about kinship
rights—which would afford those bound together in complex, often non-nuclear
ways with basic legal protections—have been forgotten in the push for gay
marriage.
This is what I mean by the conflicts
seeming more different. Freedoms and rights have been vastly expanded. In some
ways this signifies a victory for the left. But in other ways, in terms of our
mutual obligations to the larger society, which have largely eroded, I think
this has meant that the right has won. So we’re in a very paradoxical moment,
and the history of the culture wars helps make sense of this paradox.
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