Check out the mission statement or strategic plan of most public or academic libraries, and you will swiftly encounter the near-universal assertion that libraries should strive to “create an inclusive environment.” For example, the Strategic Plan of the Brantford (Ontario) Public Library declares that “[a]n inclusive environment, where diverse backgrounds, identities and perspectives are valued” is essential to its role in the community. Some libraries have gone further and developed entire “inclusion policy statements,” such as the “Diversity and Inclusion Policy” of Hamilton (Ontario) Public Library. The library literature is similarly replete with commitments to inclusion, often in the context of providing equal opportunities for persons experiencing a disability, meeting diverse needs in facility design, welcoming seniors and integrating new immigrants.

These forms of inclusion are very positive and necessary. Most library professionals—and indeed the vast majority of the library-using public—will surely see nothing objectionable in such declarations. After all, who could oppose including all members of the public in publicly-funded libraries? If this is all the term “inclusion” means, then there should be no problem in championing it as a core professional value.

However, what few people understand is that the term inclusion is being used in professional and academic contexts to justify two rather different objectives. James Lindsay, writing at the New Discourses website, articulates the distinction between the two interpretations of inclusion as “not exclud[ing] anybody” on the one hand, and on the other a critical social justice commitment to welcoming marginalized groups by “silencing certain ideas like conservatism, meritocracy, or support for freedom of speech.” The first interpretation is integral to the mission of the public library; the second represents a potential conflict with laws governing free speech and the principle of intellectual freedom.

The first sense—being welcoming to everyone—has long been a core commitment of librarianship, and we see it articulated in the American Library Association’s 1939 Library Bill of Rights. The bill states that “A person’s right to use a library should not be denied or abridged because of origin, age, background, or views.” Over the decades this recognition has expanded to removing barriers to accessibility, and ensuring that libraries are inclusive of persons with disabilities.

This historic view of inclusion contrasts with that espoused over the past couple of decades by critical and radical librarianship—which advocates for broadening the scope of inclusion to encompass matters of race, sexuality and gender identity in pursuit of social justice. This version of inclusion fuels a more activist approach to librarianship. For example, the Inclusion Policy of the Oakville (Ontario) Public Library vows to “actively challenge and break down systemic oppression,” while the Equity, Diversity and Inclusion Policy of the London (Ontario) Public Library, commits to “apply[ing] an anti-racism and anti-oppression lens to our purpose, values [and] strategic plan…”

These opposing views constitute what Stephen Macdonald calls a “Values War” in librarianship between neutrality and interventionism. To establish the nature of this “war,” Macdonald cites a 2022 article I co-wrote with John Wright, in which we articulate two distinct definitions of neutrality: a mistaken ontological belief that libraries are neutral, and a normative ethical commitment that the library worker should strive to carry out their duties in a neutral fashion. Furthermore, we specified that neutrality referred to personal and institutional values, the library’s stakeholders, transparent processes, and respect for the goals of the user. It is this latter version that we recommended, arguing that in diverse, multicultural, and multifaith societies such as ours, activism on the part of the library worker to advance their favored socio-political cause or group risks alienating at least some of those diverse constituencies.

This sense of neutrality and universality is reflected in the Canadian Federation of Library Associations’ “Position Statement on Diversity and Inclusion” which asserts that “Libraries act to ensure that people can enjoy services free from any attempt by others to impose values, customs or beliefs.” However, the critical social justice version of inclusion risks excluding books or speakers to which favored groups might object, and adjudicating rights claims unequally.

Such was the case in an incident at the Mary L. Stephens Davis Library in Davis, California (a branch of the Yolo County Library) in August of 2023: A young woman defending women-only sports and sex-based rights (also known as gender-critical feminism) as part of a program entitled “Forum on Fair and Safe Sport for Girls” (a Moms for Liberty event) was ejected from the program room by the library’s regional director for referring to trans-identified athletes as “males” and “biological men.” The incident sparked a lawsuit filed by the Alliance Defending Freedom, resulting in the library agreeing to change their policy and allow Moms for Liberty to hold their event. Additionally, the library paid the claimants $70,000 in damages and legal fees. Earlier that same year, the London (Ontario) Public Library system cancelled an event sponsored by the Society for Academic Freedom and Scholarship (SAFS) because their speaker Dr. Joanna Williams was to deliver a free public talk entitled “Sex, Gender, and the Limits of Free Speech on Campus.” The Library claimed (with no small irony) that the subject matter would violate their commitment to “anti-oppression” and so the Society was forced to move the event to another venue.

Furthermore, (and as I’ve previously written at Heterodoxy in the Stacks), some librarians have been practicing “shadow banning” of works they find objectionable by refusing to purchase them at all or in sufficient numbers to meet demand. Academic librarians in particular have, in large numbers, publicly disavowed efforts to represent gender-critical perspectives in libraries, whether through adult collections (e.g., purchasing copies of Abigail Shrier’s Irreversible Damage) or public speaking events (e.g., Toronto Public Library hosting Meghan Murphy in 2019). I have therefore argued that

[a]cting with such prejudice towards a particular point of view risks our social license as professionals, the permission granted by the public to act in their interest. For…members of the public, shadow-banning controversial materials concerning gender ideology results in a situation where—as fired Niagara-on-the-Lake Public Library CEO Cathy Simpson argues—the “‘freedom to read’ has come to mean the freedom to read what certain librarians have decided you should have the freedom to read.”

These examples illustrate how “inclusive” policies can result, ironically, in a form of exclusion. In applying this social justice lens to library policy, librarians can end up imposing their own world views onto the craft and seeking to champion diversity and inclusion through the removal of ideas they view as harmful. All other things being equal, however, holding unpopular views–even those some find offensive–is not grounds for censorship.

The public library as an institution has always embraced and trained its workers to expect and accommodate conflicting views. As the Canadian Federation of Library Associations acknowledges, “an acceptance of differences can place individual and collective values in conflict.” For this reason, institutions like public libraries simply cannot embrace a particular political agenda or adopt and champion the grievances of one group, while at the same professing to provide a welcoming environment to diverse, multicultural, multiethnic, and multifaith communities–who will (inevitably) not universally share those priorities.

The problem is not that some public libraries are explicitly positioning their inclusion policies as either “neutral” or “interventionist,” but rather that this distinction isn’t widely recognized. As a result, it’s not difficult to imagine a public library inclusion policy stating both that it strives to be “welcoming to everyone” while also adopting an explicitly “anti-oppression” lens in order to “dismantle systems of oppression,” while not realizing how incompatible these approaches can be in practice.

To be clear, these do not, in policy terms, represent distinctly-articulated and mutually-exclusive approaches, but rather positions existing on a spectrum, whereby an institution leans either in the direction of neutrality or interventionist radicalism. For example, a library espousing neutrality is still capable of recognizing that not all users or user communities come from the same backgrounds, economic capacities, or abilities, and may require extra attention in terms of policies or facilities so that all are afforded equal opportunities to access information. At the other end of the spectrum, political favoritism for one constituency can end up excluding the interests of other groups, resulting in library spaces not only lacking in diversity of ideas but in actually physically removing people from the library for espousing those ideas.

The rights which librarians have always professed to defend, including the freedom to read and the commitment to securing the intellectual freedom of our users, stand jeopardized. If “inclusion” actually means excluding books, ideas, and legal speech that we believe one group may find offensive–or which we personally oppose for ideological reasons–then librarianship as a publicly-trusted profession risks becoming delegitimized in the eyes of the tax-paying public. If public libraries are to promote equal opportunities for users while avoiding being drawn into identitarian conflicts, it matters a great deal what principles libraries choose to include in their definition of “inclusion.” How these centers of knowledge and community understand inclusion can determine which worldviews are allowed to remain, and which are unduly silenced.

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In keeping with our mission to promote a common culture of fairness, understanding, and humanity, we are committed to including a diverse range of voices and to encouraging compassionate, good-faith discourse.

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I first discovered FAIR four years ago when I witnessed the effects of identity politics, bullying, and cancellations across different spaces in education, medicine, and the arts. While volunteering on several initiatives in Los Angeles that aligned with FAIR’s work, I had the privilege of joining projects whose members were thoughtful, intellectually grounded, and genuinely wonderful people, committed to human dignity, freedom of expression, and civil liberties. Again and again, I found that the people who support and contribute to FAIR’s many endeavors represent a pinnacle in generosity and professionalism, and a willingness to stand for pro-human principles.

As I began to focus more on FAIR’s role in both education and the arts, I took on active roles reviewing FAIR’s extraordinary “Many Stories, One Nation” curriculum, co-hosting Fair in Conversation, facilitating FAIR’s Playwright’s Think Tank, its Novel and Poetry Writers Group, and leading one of their many chapters. Throughout, I came to appreciate something increasingly rare: a genuine diversity of thought. For me, especially as an artist, FAIR is a tribe that isn’t tribal. If you were to join one of FAIR’s monthly In-Conversation Zooms or listen to one of the writers’ gatherings, you’d hear disagreement, questioning, arguments, and also appreciation, compassion, and laughter.

In the artist groups, we understand that supporting the art is more important than agreeing on politics, and we are openly able to share our artistic achievements, struggles, disappointments, and convictions. What holds us together is not agreement on every issue, but a commitment to art for arts’ sake, and especially for the principles of civility and mutual respect that allow people who disagree to continue speaking and listening to one another.

This commitment is where FAIR in Arts comes into play and where the organization’s work occupies a particularly important place. The arts are often among the first subjects cut from schools and among the last endeavors supported by public and private institutions. Yet, the arts remain among the most powerful ways a civilization reflects on itself.

After more than thirty years working in theater and publishing, as well as teaching philosophy, writing and literature, I have come to believe that while politics may be downstream from culture, culture is itself downstream from the arts. Depending, of course, on the art.

I’m not talking about the art that imitates whatever ideas happen to be fashionable. Not art created to secure political affirmation or demonstrate conformity. And not art whose expression has been decided before the artist begins the work. I mean art that is deeply human. Art that is introspective, curious, unsettling, original. Art that finds itself in places its creator did not expect to go. Art that asks questions without knowing in advance the acceptable answers.

Today, as throughout history, that kind of art can be discouraged. It can be defunded, censored, ridiculed, and temporarily driven underground.

FAIR in the Arts is where I found the support that I needed to rebuild my own courage to be that kind of artist. It is where I found a community that encouraged me to do what the work itself required without constantly looking over my shoulder for censorship, cancellation, or ideological judgment. And it is also where I discovered that the artists and audiences I hoped were still out there–really are. I have come to think of FAIR in the Arts as a kind of home that is increasingly difficult for an artist to find, which is why I’m committed to supporting it as a space that gives artists the security to think openly and widely, and to make art without first having to demonstrate political usefulness.

There is enormous pressure today for artists to become activists and for works of art to affirm particular social or political perspectives. But activism is not the artist’s obligation.

The artist’s obligation is to the work. To follow an idea wherever it leads. To tell the truth as the artist sees it. To illuminate contradictions rather than conceal them. To explore the complexity of human beings rather than reduce them to categories. I believe that is the kind of art that needs to be protected and supported.

Your contribution, whether monetary or in-kind, helps FAIR create opportunities for artists who still believe in art that reaches us where identity and politics are subordinate to our shared humanity. I hope you will consider supporting FAIR in the Arts to help us preserve a place for artists willing to take the risks that real art has always required. And I hope you’ll subscribe to the FAIR in the Arts newsletter and join us in what comes next.

Warmly,

Karen Howes
Interim Director, Fair in the Arts

karen.howes@fairforall.org

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The opinions expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of Fair For All or its employees.

In keeping with our mission to promote a common culture of fairness, understanding, and humanity, we are committed to including a diverse range of voices and to encouraging compassionate, good-faith discourse.

We are actively seeking perspectives on this topic and others. If you’d like to join the conversation, please send completed drafts to submissions@fairforall.org.

A universal and ineradicable feature of the human condition is our fallibility. We can be, and all of us sometimes are, wrong about things. Even when doing our best to be attentive, intelligent, dispassionate, judicious, and honest, we can draw conclusions that are unwarranted and unsound.

Our fallibility extends not only to minor, relatively unimportant matters; we can be wrong about big, profoundly important questions, too—questions of meaning and value; questions of human nature, the human good, human dignity, and human destiny. Even while sincerely regarding and proclaiming ourselves to be on the side of justice and human rights, we can be wrong—deeply, even tragically—about what justice requires or what are, in truth, human rights. And we can be wrong even when we are supremely confident in our convictions.

Consider that each and every one of us, at every conscious moment of our lives, holds in his or her head some beliefs that are false. That’s certainly not because we want to believe things that are untrue. It’s simply a feature of the human condition.

People of goodwill, intellectually and morally serious people of every shade of belief, have in common a desire to know the truth and to live by the truth. We want to avoid falling so deeply in love with our opinions, whatever they happen to be, that we prefer them to the truth. If something we believe, even if it’s a belief we cherish, is in fact false, we want to know that. We want to get ourselves in line with the truth, even if it means abandoning an opinion we had deeply held. Even when the truth is a hard truth, we’d rather know it than continue to embrace a falsehood, even a comfortable and comforting falsehood.

If, however, we are to swap out at least some of the false beliefs we hold for true beliefs, then not only must we respect the right of freedom of speech of people who wish to challenge our opinions, we must also—and this is more difficult—be willing to actually listen to their challenges and criticisms and engage them in an honest, truth-seeking spirit. This is the upshot of what it means to practice intellectual humility—a virtue without which true civil discourse, and therefore true civic friendship, is impossible.

It is important to understand what civil discourse is—and isn’t. Civil discourse is not mere politesse. It does not consist of merely listening politely and patiently while someone makes the case for a view that is contrary to one’s own opinions. In genuine civil discourse, each party to the discussion or debate allows himself genuinely to be challenged by his interlocutor. Why? Because the goal—shared by the partners—is not winning a victory for oneself or one’s party or tribe; rather, it is getting to, or deepening understandings of, the truth. Participants in civil discourse argue, sometimes passionately, but not with the ultimate objective of winning—as in competitive high school or collegiate debate. And so, the conversation partners consider and assess the arguments presented by their ostensible adversaries in their most favorable light. Each sincerely entertains the possibility that the view he or she currently holds is wrong and should be abandoned.

Of course, this can be very hard indeed.

Why? Because of another feature of the human condition. We human beings do tend to fall in love with our opinions. There are beliefs that we deeply hold and, indeed, cherish—especially moral, political, and religious beliefs—that we come to regard as so integral to who we are that we experience challenges to them as personal attacks or assaults on our very selves.

In other words, we human beings tend to wrap our emotions more or less tightly around our convictions.

Now, that’s not necessarily a bad thing; it’s certainly not bad in itself. In a certain respect, it’s a good thing, and indeed a necessary thing. We need some measure of emotional investment in our convictions if we are to get anything done. And this is true not only when it comes to serving big, important causes that may require courage and sacrifices; it’s true of even mundane, but nevertheless important, matters. For example, it would be one thing to have the bare belief that it would be good to get the kids up in the morning, washed, dressed, fed, and sent off to school. But it takes some degree of emotional investment in that belief to actually get oneself to do the work of getting the kids up, washed, dressed, fed, and off to school. Those of you who are parents know what I’m talking about.

So, it’s not wrong—quite the contrary—to wrap our emotions around our convictions. Indeed, we should aspire to be people of conviction who are prepared to act (and sacrifice, and take risks, and bear burdens) for what we believe is good and right and true. And yet, if we wrap our emotions too tightly around our convictions, if we fail to leave at least a little distance between ourselves and our beliefs– enough to consider our fallibility and the possibility that we could be wrong and those who disagree with us and challenge us could be right, or at least partially right)—then we are on the fast track to becoming ideologues, dogmatists, and even fanatics. There are few vices that place freedom of speech and other basic civil liberties in greater jeopardy than ideology, dogmatism, and fanaticism.

What’s more, these vices are the great enemies of the very value that ideologues, dogmatists, and fanatics purport to be upholding, namely truth. They jeopardize truth and undermine the love of truth and the enterprise of truth seeking precisely because they neglect that central truth about the human condition with which I began these reflections, namely, the universal and ineradicable reality of human fallibility.

Truth and truth seeking are under threat today from two opposing impulses. One is the denial, be it formal or merely implicit, of the existence or possibility of objective truth. The spirit of relativism or subjectivism claims that there is no truth to be attained, and therefore none to be sought. Or that there is merely “your truth,” and “my truth,” but no such thing as the truth—at least about questions outside the domain of empirical inquiry—or that “truth,” so called, is simply the rule of the strong, of whoever can force his will upon others.

If there is no truth, then there is no reason to believe in or respect the rights of others, including their right to freedom of speech, or of thought, inquiry, judgment, conscience, and religion. Where there are competing or conflicting desires or perspectives, there is no point in having a conversation or trying to reason with one another, for if there is no truth there is simply nothing to reason about or toward. Contrary to what one hears at cocktail parties or in freshman philosophy classes, relativism—especially moral relativism—is the predicate not of tolerance, but of repression and authoritarianism. Where there is nothing to reason about, because there is no truth, there are no reasons for respecting liberty; there is only power.

At the same time, and now we get to the second great threat to truth, the belief in truth, when severed from an authentic, deep, not merely notional but genuinely existential acknowledgement of one’s own fallibility, poses no less a threat to liberty and to truth itself. Such a belief devolves into dogmatism. Those holding it see no reason to entertain challenges to, or criticisms of, what they deeply believe. They know the truth, or so they suppose, know it more or less completely and perfectly, and therefore have nothing to learn from those with whom they disagree. Their critics, as believers in and promoters of falsehoods, are to be regarded and treated as enemies of truth. They are certainly not to be engaged in the hope of learning from them; rather, they are to be defeated, even destroyed.

By contrast, someone who rejects both relativism, which denies the possibility of objective truth, and absolutism, which refuses to reckon with the reality and universality of human fallibility, will regard reasonable people of goodwill with whom he or she disagrees not as enemies to be conquered but rather as friends who engage each other with the shared goal of getting at the truth of disputed questions or more deeply understanding the truth. In the domain of politics, genuine truth seekers are bound together as civic friends, despite their differences of perspective or belief, by a common goal, a common good, namely the great good of truth. For the sake of this good, they respect and honor freedom of speech, even for those whom they judge to be profoundly mistaken, and engage each other in a truth-seeking spirit—that is, with a view not only to correcting the other’s errors, if, indeed, they are errors, but also learning from them.

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Robert P. George is McCormick Professor of Jurisprudence at Princeton University. This is the text of remarks delivered at the 2026 ARC conference in London.

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The opinions expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of Fair For All or its employees.

In keeping with our mission to promote a common culture of fairness, understanding, and humanity, we are committed to including a diverse range of voices and to encouraging compassionate, good-faith discourse.

We are actively seeking perspectives on this topic and others. If you’d like to join the conversation, please send completed drafts to submissions@fairforall.org.

Growing up, it never occurred to me that my Polish-European grandmother was White and that, by extension, my mother and her siblings were biracial. Even when I was forced to relocate preschools, suffer a mental breakdown, and eventually enter homeschooling (at my own request) as a result of racial bullying, it did not occur to me. My parents never taught me terms like Black, White, Asian, etc., and when I came home and asked what such terms meant—having heard them from others—my parents always replied, “They don’t matter. We are not a box of crayons; we are all just people.” (Back then ‘skin-colored crayons’ were not as common as they are today.)

I can still recall attending my school’s “International Week.” It was a celebratory week aimed at honoring the range of identities at our school, and yet I was told “you can’t be from more than one place” when I chose to honor my Polish, American, and Bahamian identities. Later in life, I recall a student of mine saying “oh well you’re not really American then” when I told her I had grown up in the Bahamas—I am a US citizen.

As a result of my parents’ attitudes toward race—or lack thereof—I grew up without a concept of race and with a concept of humanity centered on simply seeing others as people. I learned to judge people by their actions and not their race, religion, or identity. When I moved to the U.S. at 16, things changed. My relocation came during the BLM marches. At the time I didn’t know much about the movement and thus I felt great fear for mine and my family’s safety. I worried we would be ‘mislabeled’ as Black and face violence as a result. I also faced the classic immigrant experience: new culture shock and loss of the previous culture. I was told the uninspired jokes of “go back to your country” from White friends, to which I replied, “I am in my country. I am a citizen.” I went to a majority White private school. Even then, many “White” students were diverse ethnically, in language, or in religion. What I noticed was a culture of complete erasure of diverse identities and the perpetual retelling of ‘the single story’ rather than one that reflected the reality of diverse people coming in all shades, shapes and histories.

In hopes of feeling more accepted, I joined my high school’s Black Student Union (BSU) but left after one day. The club felt like a living stereotype, with fried chicken and watermelon served and a movie about the “hood experience” being played. We were in the middle of very wealthy downtown Boca. Rather than connecting to the experience of Blackness in front of them, the school created a narrative they felt the students should—even must—subscribe to. It is silly to honor one story of race while ignoring the one in front of you. It creates the idea that all people of a given demographic must have the same experiences and, therefore, beliefs rather than taking each person as an individual with unique experiences that don’t always have to be associated with their phenotype.

In fact, the only reason I attended the club in the first place was because another student told me, “You should join the BSU.” When I told her I wasn’t Black, she dismissed me and told me, “Well, too bad. You look Black.”

That was one of the first times I had ever considered race and had the sudden and horrifying realization that others saw me as Black first and human second. I became more aware of things said to me, of expectations placed on me, of the deviations from ‘the norm’ that I lived, and how my race seemed to wear me.

When I got to college, I had the unwelcome experience of having the N-word written on my dorm door in all caps. I reported the incident to my school’s counseling center, a place I had been visiting to help with the transition of moving halfway across the country from my family in a nation I was still adjusting to. I was effectively dismissed and told there was nothing to be done. I was livid, not because that word necessarily meant anything to me—another term I did not grow up hearing—but because I knew what it meant to others and that, yet again, my whole identity had been collapsed into just my race.

Most recently, I experienced racism in the workplace. My manager began a joke she called “Racism Fridays.” It entailed her berating me with subtle and not-so-subtle racist comments, criticism, and outright remarks. I was only a month or so into the job when it began, and I put up with it for nearly two months after. When—advised by friends and my boyfriend—I did speak up about it, nothing much was done. Our boss got both sides of the story, apologized, and then arranged for my manager to apologize to me. She did, although the apology was mixed in with excuses and passing the whole thing off as an ill-placed joke.

I would like to note, too, that not all my racist experiences have come from White people or non-Black people of color, but also from other Black people.

When my White Canadian boyfriend and I go out for dinner, we have to brace for heckling and comments implying that our “race mixing” is negative. We were once even yelled at during a concert and ultimately had to relocate to another side of the crowd. “Sista, how do you feel about being with this White man?” I was asked, among other harsher comments.

What did these experiences teach me? First off, that hate can come from anywhere. The idea that racism is always White people toward Black people is false. Anyone can be racist, and anyone can face racism.

I learned, too, that I myself will never identify as Black first and won’t allow anyone else to identify me as such. I am not your Black friend or a Black author. I am a friend and an author. My race already precedes me, but I can work to change that.

Standing up is hard and often fruitless, but not pointless. Standing up for myself as a child, when I was segregated from peers, denied recess, punished for no other reason than my race, and accused of bullying when I, in fact, was being bullied, looked like advocating for homeschooling. As a teen and early college student, it was reporting hate, speaking up, holding to my beliefs in crowds, and walking away when I realized situations weren’t for me. Sometimes things can’t be solved in the moment, but that doesn’t mean one should allow themselves to be subjected to mistreatment.

As an adult, standing up still looks like calling out injustice even when it doesn’t immediately create change, and, more importantly, accepting myself. I used to hold firmly to the identity of multiracial. I would suck in my lips, copy trends in Eurocentric fashion and never wear my hair out. Being multiracial made others more comfortable, and I experienced much better treatment when I was “exotic.” I have since accepted the racial marker Black, partially for convenience, but also because if that is what others already see me as, then fine—I will be Black, but I will be my version of Black.

I will wear my afro. I will have a story that goes against stereotypes. I will see myself and others as human first. I am an artist, an author, Polish, American, Bahamian, French-speaking, human... and yes, I am also proudly Black.

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In keeping with our mission to promote a common culture of fairness, understanding, and humanity, we are committed to including a diverse range of voices and to encouraging compassionate, good-faith discourse.

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PBS is often seen as a reliable educational resource, which is why I was concerned when, days before the 4^th of July, they released “The Independence Day History They Don’t Teach You: How America’s Foundation was Built on Propaganda”, produced by Mahebe Media. This video preaches that America’s foundation was built on hardly more than genocide and associated propaganda while also claiming that our governmental systems mainly derived from Native societies. These questionable and conflicting claims lean away from proper context or nuance and also overlook the unique, complex, and successful aspects of our modern American nation. Journalistic standards for productions like this mirror those in education: accuracy, fairness, responsibility, courage, etc. Educators and journalists alike carry the burden of upholding these challenging standards as leaders in fields aimed at being sacred endeavors of truth-seeking and ethics teaching for a complex and controversial world.

Let’s begin with the introductory theme and crux of the video: “Can a national identity built on the erasure of Native genocide ever fully separate itself from propaganda?” This framing suggests that America is built mainly on genocide and associated lies, rather than the more complex reality of colonial war and conquest. Whereas genocide typically focuses on large-scale extermination, conquest usually involves both war and treaties, trading or the purchasing of land. The bad and ugly parts of this history shouldn’t be erased, rather they should be put in an appropriately broad context. We must consider the limits of our present-day perspectives and the reality that an ugly history is often an incomplete story. This oversimplified understanding of genocide vs. conquest occurs throughout the video, such as its portrayal of the Indian Wars. The narrow perspective ignores examples of justice and reparations for Native people and several other founding realities–such as the Founders’ pursuit of liberty–that are fundamental aspects of the “American Identity” worth highlighting and defending.

As the video progresses, the producers make a variety of claims regarding the Founding Principles and social systems of the U.S.: “America often frames democracy as one of its greatest achievements. The irony of it is that Natives were the ones to inspire it.” It is inaccurate to claim that Native people were the primary inspiration for American democracy , or that America brands itself as “the global founder” that “invented democracy”. There certainly were beneficial Native influences that are too often overlooked, but it remains wildly incomplete to ignore the important people and commonly established influences beyond Native people that draw on generations of equally valuable experience and deep debate.

In a related instance, the producers claim that: “When Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, he did not have Black or Native Americans in that vision.” More accurately, Jefferson’s original vision of the Declaration specifically included an anti-slavery component. This component was ultimately omitted to appease the colonies with the intent to create a more unified and hopefully improving nation. The Declaration and Constitution were written intentionally as ideals to be achieved over time rather than a finalized statement of progress. This long, slow march of progress has continued to manifest in remarkable ways that make America today a beacon of hope for many minds, hearts, and hands the world over. As a result, our imperfect Founders should be appropriately honored for their significant virtue and positive contributions. Secondly, Native people’s lack of inclusion in founding visions occurs mainly because they were involved in their own complex wars and diplomatic efforts. Many tribes wanted to maintain national or tribal sovereignty as any nation under threat would.

The Founders’ understanding of liberty is further critiqued: “I guess to them, liberty means freedom to embark on brutal invasions and occupation of Indigenous lands.” Upon further exploration we see the Founders’ philosophical and practical regard for liberty was significantly deeper as peoples who themselves were running from oppression. It must also be acknowledged that “brutal invasions and occupation[s]” were not uncommon and also conducted by Native people towards each other and their territories. Cycles of competition and cooperation are the norm throughout human history—an unfortunate aspect of our shared humanity. Ironically, the first example of Native conquest my research provided was the Haudenosaunee Confederacy during the Beaver Wars in fairly recent colonial times. This is the same confederacy celebrated in the video despite it being a largely undesirable moment in Native history that remained inadequately explored by the video. Despite the controversial history of the time, the narrator takes pride in stating his heritage as part of the Mohawk Nation and Haudenosaunee Confederacy, while simultaneously insinuating that the American national identity and pride is problematic despite having a similarly controversial history. A blatant double standard. Building on these observations, we reach some limits of the term “ancestral homelands.” Although at times, tribes forcefully or violently took territories from each other, including in fairly recent history, some still refer to these gains as ancestral homelands, which may be particularly problematic for some Land Acknowledgments. While we can’t turn back the clock, we can recognize that conquest is an undesirable part of many of our histories, and that today’s world would benefit most from a focus on our most practical options for moving forward united.

Exploring assimilation, the video features the phrase “Kill the Indian, Save the Man”, a slogan tied to the Carlisle Indian Industrial School. This phrase was not literally intended to mean “kill Natives to save colonists”, but rather it was a poorly executed effort to help create better social navigation in the increasingly dominant but often challenging new colonial culture. The hope was to avoid further conflict and distrust. The Carlisle Indian Industrial School is often conveyed as simply an inhumane or nefarious endeavor, but in its time, it had the support of some tribal leaders and mixed success in aiding some Native POWs and others in navigating the profound and fast-developing societal differences of the time. Despite this, it should be simultaneously acknowledged that the school resulted in confusion, despair, and significant hardship for many others. The ethics and realities of assimilation are challenging, but are also a feature of our common humanity. Moving forward, this dual understanding of assimilation in American history and a focus on seeking reciprocal respect, support, and the honoring of differing cultures will be most beneficial to us all.

Overall, there are myriad polarizing claims of truth and converse accusations of propaganda or lying throughout the video, for example: “As always, U.S. propaganda gets in the way of the truth”. Absolute claims like this do not promote healthy discourse or give credence to good faith efforts at representing history. We need to remember that with such statements there are often fingers pointing back at us.

In reflection, the producers brought up many important overlooked points, but an opportunity to promote a more solid and healthy representation of these important, intricate, controversial topics, alongside the time-tested virtues of America was also squandered. As an educator, I worry that videos like this may find their way into the classroom and further damage already declining rates of historical and civic literacy. Journalism and education alike can unfortunately be biased from many angles surrounding American and Native American history. But while American history has seen no shortage of bias, it must be maintained that replacing one revisionist history with another isn’t the answer. Such stark representations may instead create misunderstanding, confusion, distrust, or even resentment, while stunting efforts towards progress for all parties. Left unchecked, misinformation and revisionist narratives can be damaging to how people understand and act in the world, including in this case, by relying too heavily on oversimplified binaries of good vs. bad or right vs. wrong. What results is an undermining of people’s confidence in respectable virtues and systems, and a failure to understand the world in the context of both our diversity and common humanity…for better and worse.

A couple of important but also challenging remedies for this are to focus on informational literacy and intellectual humility by taking the time to be intellectually and emotionally open to the complex facts, circumstances, and ethics of the world. Overall, everyone should muster courage and responsibility to speak up in their arenas. We should be careful to leverage this truly fragile but very important opportunity for understanding and progress through healthy cycles of dialogue, debate, agreement, acknowledgment, and action.

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My name is Natalya Murakhver. In 2021, a year into the Covid-19 pandemic, I sued Mayor Bill de Blasio to reopen New York City’s public schools. Today, I run Restore Childhood, and recently directed my first film: 15 DAYS: The Real Story of America’s Pandemic School Closures.

In the process of creating 15 Days I interviewed nearly 60 people over three years to answer one question: Why did American schools stay closed longer than almost any other schools the world over?

I came into this fight as a parent, not a filmmaker. I went to the hearings, I organized other parents, and I filed the lawsuit. What I kept running into was a decision-making process with no regard for the people it affected most. Parents demanded to be heard during a time of great social, health and educational turbulence and were placated – being told to ‘trust the process’. In all of this, children had no seat at the table. Somewhere in that fight I understood that no one intended to preserve this history honestly, so I picked up a camera.

Eli Steele, a writer, filmmaker and FAIR board of Advisors member, mentored me from the moment I had the idea. He still does today as the film screens around the country in theaters and online. He watched the early cuts. He told me the cameras and lights to buy, the scenes to keep, cut, and rearrange. I could not have made this film without him, and closing out FAIR’s Eli Steele Film Series is a real honor.

Eli makes documentaries that follow the evidence past the point of discomfort. He directed What Killed Michael Brown?, which Amazon banned before public pressure forced it back onto the platform, where it rose to number one in documentaries. He directed How Jack Became Black, a film about the cost of sorting people by group identity, and, after October 7th, Killing America.

15 DAYS digs deeply into what happened to kids when our schools closed. Two doctors in the film, Jay Bhattacharya, now Director of the NIH and Scott Atlas, argued in the fall of 2020 that schools could open safely and that keeping them shut would harm children more than the virus could. What happened next is a civil-liberties story as much as a public-health one. Bhattacharya co-wrote the Great Barrington Declaration on October 4, 2020, with Martin Kulldorff of Harvard and Sunetra Gupta of Oxford. Four days later, NIH Director Francis Collins emailed Anthony Fauci calling for a “quick and devastating published takedown” of three scientists he labeled fringe. Reporters accused Bhattacharya of wanting to let the virus rip. Strangers sent him death threats. Social media platforms suppressed his account, which he only found out about later when internal files surfaced. Whatever you make of his conclusions, a system that answers dissent with suppression instead of debate fails everyone, and children lost a year of school (more in some places) to that failure.

Older students like Garrett “Bam” Morgan paid too. He played high school football in Queens at a level that draws college scouts. New York City shut down public school sports for over a year while private schools kept theirs open. No games, no scouts. No scouts, no scholarship. He repeated his senior year. He rebuilt his life, became his community college’s student body president, and is now headed to Howard University. He will still tell you plainly that he never got that lost year back.

Institutions stopped reasoning from evidence, treated disagreement as a threat to manage, and made life altering decisions for millions of children who had no voice in the matter.

That’s what 15 Days is about.

Join me online on Wednesday, August 12 as FAIR closes its Summer Film Series with a virtual screening of 15 DAYS, followed by a discussion with me, Eli Steele, and FAIR Executive Director Monica Harris.

Register here.

15 DAYS is also streaming on Amazon Prime, Apple TV, Google Play, and the Restore Childhood Substack, where we publish regularly. More about the film at 15daysfilm.com.

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“If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” – George Orwell, Animal Farm

Recently, everyone was buzzing about the latest Substack drama like flies around fresh waste.

Yes, it is true: Andrew Tate, a prominent misogynistic manosphere influencer, is on Substack. Apparently, he has been on the platform since 2024 but only now, after being booted from Meta for “harmful language”, has he moved his subscriber base to Substack. He instantly (and briefly) shot up to #1 bestseller, but has since gone down some slots.

Predictably, there was a furor about it and many argued for his removal from the platform based on his harsh ideas, strong opinions and sexual assault and abuse accusations.

However, they are only accusations. In America we have the rule of law and due process. Innocent until proven guilty. A process that helps provide time for investigations, protects the wrongly accused and better helps to ensure justice. This is a legal practice in any rational democracy.

So, whether you love or hate Tate, he should be allowed on Substack. Why? Because of free speech.

In my view cultural censorship, deplatforming, cancelling, online mobs, campaigns to prevent an author from even getting published to begin with, even book banning, is just as bad and in some ways perhaps even worse than legal censorship.

Free speech has one main purpose: To protect citizens’ unpopular speech.

The problem with people mobbing together and deciding who can stay and who must go is that we as a society don’t have agreed-upon understandings of what is “moral,” “good,” “safe” and “right.”

My point: Society contains multitudes. As a result, open forums like Substack will host many conflicting personalities, ideologies, religions, ideas, and posts that the mainstream may consider outdated, vile or offensive. But I support all people’s right to have bad, caustic ideas because I believe in free speech. We’re all diverse in ideas and word definitions change rapidly. As a result, it could be me or YOU caught by cancel culture next. The idea that we’d be able to be expelled from a platform for having an opinion should be anathema to everyone who cares about democracies.

The only exceptions, of course, are direct, specific calls for violence against an individual or group– “fighting words.” Look, I get it. Substack, like Meta, is a private company. They can technically expel anyone they want if that person violates their guidelines. That’s what Meta did, essentially for “Hate Speech.” Okay. Fine. Fair enough. And if Substack chooses to do that with Tate: Fine. I don’t subscribe to Tate. He clearly has an audience composed mostly of young, insecure men who feel unduly jettisoned by Feminism.

What then is the point? We as Americans and as defenders of Western democracies should use a very high standard for removing someone from a platform. Theoretically the “town square” is now on social media. Yet social media is owned by private companies, one of which, Meta, operates like a monopoly. The whole idea of a democratic nation is that we have the right to criticize our government for any reason. In autocratic nations dissent is crushed. But in democracies we have the right to speak out without fear of state retribution. This isn’t even fully true in some democracies today such as the UK, unfortunately.

As I mentioned earlier, cultural banning, cancellation, and deplatforming is just as bad if not worse than legal banning. No books in America are fully banned everywhere—as far as I know. Sure, some districts have banned certain books in libraries and schools (this is very bad and I hate it as well)…but you can still buy those books on platforms like Amazon. But, when you remove someone from a major platform their voice is actually gone from the public ‘square’.

Why defend someone with as reprehensible views as Andrew Tate? Simple: If you look at culture on both political sides over the past decade the definitions of what is moral, right, good, and normal have changed drastically.

Think about identity politics and ideology over the past ten years. Definitions change rapidly. In 2026 if you ask a cross-section of ages, nationalities, races and genders what racism, sexism, misogyny, capitalism, etc. are you’ll get a plethora of wildly divergent answers. My point: It could be YOU next that faces undue censorship or retaliation for voicing what you as an individual believe or espouse. Not that you will sound like Andrew Tate, but that culture changes, faster now than ever before due to tech and the internet. To be safe—to protect us all—we should protect free speech for everyone, both legally and culturally, unless, as I mentioned earlier, someone is specifically calling for violence. I do not see any other way around this Gordian knot.

If offensive ideologies aren’t banned, what is there to protect us? The answer yet again is free speech. It’s not that actions don’t have consequences or that words can’t cause psychological harm, just that being unpopular shouldn’t be a crime (figuratively or literally). We all have the power to ignore those we find offensive, to support speakers we align with, to engage educationally with opinions we dislike and most importantly—thanks to free speech—voice that dislike openly, publicly and safely.

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For most people, “where are you from?” takes three seconds to answer, but I need a moment.

As a kid, I never really knew what my mother tongue was. The first language I spoke was Russian. But we moved to Israel when I was six, and ever since, I think and dream in Hebrew. So which culture is the more accurate answer?

At 42, the question only got harder. I was born in Ukraine. I grew up in Israel. Now my wife Lital and I are raising our kids on an island in Thailand. If there’s a single clear answer, I still haven’t found it.

My parents left Ukraine for Israel with a box of vodka bottles, which they traded for bananas somewhere in Hungary along the way. They were running from a hard life toward a country that promised them safety and belonging–a tribe.

Thirty years later, their kid walked away from the stability they’d worked so hard to build.

I built my life on the foundations they provided, and I don’t blame them for the stability they worked so hard to create. But eventually, that stability started to feel less like a foundation and more like a ceiling. Everything was predictable, safe, and finished–and honestly, I was suffocating under all that certainty. I realized I needed a little friction just to feel alive. As it turns out, I’m not an outlier. I keep meeting other children of immigrants who are doing the exact same thing: walking away from the safety our parents fought for, not because we reject their struggle, but because it’s not the life we want to live.

For years in Israel, I could predict almost exactly what my life would look like ten years out. Not a bad life, just a predictable one. Same morning traffic, same supermarket, same news, same playgrounds, and the clarity, strangely, started to suffocate me. Apparently, I need some uncertainty to feel alive.

My wife Lital didn’t. She loved what we had. I understood that dragging her and the kids into an adventure she didn’t want wouldn’t end well, so I let the dream go.

And then a war started in our home, Israel. We flew to Thailand for two weeks, to spare the kids the worst of it.

The ability to simply leave, to seek refuge in a tropical paradise while the world we knew was consumed by conflict, is a privilege I know most don’t have. While others were huddled in shelters or facing the front lines, we were able to trade the sound of sirens for the sound of the ocean; a reality that carries a weight of its own.

Two weeks became two months. Two months became almost three years. Without ever intending to, we’d left our whole life behind.

A few months in, we had to fly to Cambodia for a visa run. I thought I was starting to understand Asia. Cambodia didn’t fit any pattern I had previously encountered.

Cambodia didn’t feel like another country, it felt like another planet. Even the airport was a ceremony: lines, entry fees, a police officer offering to move us up the queue with the kids for a little extra. I still don’t know if that was a bribe or an express lane. Even the money felt made up. Tens of thousands of the local currency for a coffee.

That sense of total disorientation–feeling like I’d landed on an alien world– forced me to see how much of my “clarity” was really just lazy pattern recognition. When everything from the money to the social codes becomes unreadable, your brain starts desperately scanning for any familiar anchor just to simplify things again. This is not to suggest one culture is superior to the other. As a multilingual, multicultural traveler, I have experienced the best and worst of many nations. Rather, in a world that often sends us out from our homes, away from our tribes and into places we can’t speak our mother language, familiarity becomes the ultimate comfort.

That was the hard part, actually: I couldn’t read the people around me. I came from a place where people mostly say what they think. Here, “yes” didn’t always mean yes, and a smile didn’t always mean agreement–sometimes it was just a way to keep the peace. Once I pressed my palms together and bowed to thank a taxi driver, the way I do in Thailand. He smiled, then shook my hand. I hadn’t broken a rule, I had just used the wrong cultural gesture. Living between so many shifting worlds meant I was constantly recalibrating, forever switching gears just to avoid stumbling over a cultural line I couldn’t quite see.

One night we had a Friday dinner with a group of Israeli travelers, and everything clicked at once. My people. Same humor, same codes, the same inside language you can’t fake. I felt safe before anyone had said a single real thing.

We all do this. We land somewhere strange and scan the room for someone who looks like us. Drop me into a world of aliens, and suddenly every human feels like family.

But the identity boxes aren’t fixed. That’s the part I didn’t expect.

Lital was sure no place but Israel could ever feel like home. Today she sings in Thai in the island bars, goes out dancing with Thai friends, trains Muay Thai, and has a Thai flag tattooed on her arm. She’s smashed every box that used to define her and built a life she couldn’t have imagined.
What does “where are you from” tell you about her?

It tells you perhaps where she was born or what her passport says, but it tells you nothing about her, who she is, or what cultures she truly belongs to.

And then there are the kids.

We recently got stuck in Vietnam for three weeks–another visa run. Almost every day we’d take the boys somewhere to burn off energy: a play zone, a roller rink, a park.

It never stopped amazing me. Every time I came to collect them, they were in the middle of a pack of Vietnamese kids, proudly introducing them to me: “Dad, I made two new friends.”

No shared language. No shared country. No passports checked. Just two new friends, in a city we were only passing through.

I went to Cambodia looking for my own tribe, just to feel safe. Lital learned you can belong to more than one. The kids don’t look for tribes at all, they just look for someone to play with.

Maybe that’s the real difference. Some of us have to understand a person before we’ll connect. Others connect first, and understand later.

When was the last time you met someone before it mattered where they were from?

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About the Author:

Vic Levitin built four startups, then stepped off the default path to rebuild life from the ground up on a Thai island with his family. Writing about the experiment at viclevitin.com

We welcome you to share your thoughts on this piece in the comments below. Click here to view our comment section moderation policy.

The opinions expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of Fair For All or its employees.

In keeping with our mission to promote a common culture of fairness, understanding, and humanity, we are committed to including a diverse range of voices and to encouraging compassionate, good-faith discourse.

We are actively seeking perspectives on this topic and others. If you’d like to join the conversation, please send completed drafts to submissions@fairforall.org.

With America’s 250th anniversary having just passed, many conflicting opinions on the nation have risen to the surface. There are those who are enamored with our great nation and whose faith in the American dream is unshakable. On the opposite end of the conversation are those who see endless issues with the USA and can’t wait to emigrate elsewhere. While both stances are valid in their own rights, I feel the truth is somewhere more in between.

As a Bahamian-American raised primarily outside of the US, I feel uniquely able to bridge this gap. I have experienced life in a developing nation, and the hustle of modern American life.

Growing up on the tiny island of Nassau–147 square miles and less than the length of the average marathon–I was fortunate to have a two-parent household, a private education and enjoyed a middle-class lifestyle. Despite these privileges I was only partially shielded from the reality at hand. Many Bahamians can’t swim–which is dangerous when you live in a country surrounded by water, many don’t pass grade school, and have no post-secondary education options unless they leave the country. While Nassau has two hospitals—one private and one public, both lacking in many ways–other islands–such as Grand Bahama where I lived for three years–have no real medical facilities.

Food and water are also a national concern. The majority of food in the Bahamas is imported, as a result supply chain issues, governmental corruption and resource scarcity have increasingly devastating effects on the population. Water that isn’t bottled is unsanitary for drinking and alternatives, such as rainwater collection, are costly and hard to maintain.

Additionally , the nation operates on an insufficient power grid as a result of the government catering to the power needs of ever-expanding hotels. These touristic hubs take precedence over residential neighborhoods and the daily power needs of locals because tourism is the nation’s sole industry–there is an economic reliance on foreign comfort. Most homes, excepting those who can afford a generator of which my family was not one, are without power daily for substantial lengths of time. The frequent on/off of the power damages appliances, and interrupts business. It also makes it impossible to cool homes–the ones that have air conditioning–which is hazardous in a hot humid nation.

The geographical location of The Bahamas also makes it a prime target of severe yearly hurricanes. Candle light baths with salvaged water and cold rationed dinners were not uncommon during hurricane season. Coupled with high rates of violence, an astronomical cost of living, an internationally valueless dollar, a corrupt government and storms that can leave locals without adequate food and water for weeks to months, the Bahamas is a travel beauty but a living disaster.

Hurricane Dorian, for example, was a category five storm that decimated the nation after stalling over islands like Grand Bahama for three days (storms usually blow through in a matter of hours). Dorian flooded 80% of the island, left the island’s only airport out of commission and forced locals to rely on foreign aid. It also led to an unreported death toll in the dozens without any concrete plans to rescue people or rebuild infrastructure.

Despite the hardship of life in the Bahamas, I love the country of my childhood and celebrate its joys just as I love my present American home.

I moved to America after losing a lot: My parents gave up their dream of owning a house in their home nation in favor of moving to a nation of greater stability. I had to, in the middle of high school and in the months precursing covid, change schools which brought a total cultural whiplash. Travel is expensive and time consuming, as is filing mountains of paperwork to demonstrate that your family are decent law-abiding people. Paper work that often makes no sense without legal guidance becomes an all day task. Packing is busy and even busier when you realize you will have to sell or leave behind boxes of belongings that meant so much to you. Learning that the humane society you had spent years volunteering at had become a watery death trap for pets and the brave workers who stayed with them during the storm reminds you that you have lost a lot and yet still less than others.

Walking away with my life, family, pets and most important belongings was a sobering experience and has given me a deep appreciation of our American nation. While we can argue about the government, bicker about history, acknowledge that the American dream is fleeting or take issue with any number of things across the country, one thing remains true: This is a great nation. That doesn’t mean perfect or always unified, but it does mean great. We live in a nation where we can freely voice opinions, contact our leaders, demand representation, access any part of the country reliably through public transport, and receive medical care from a licensed doctor who is up to date on modern medicine (however expensive it might be). We can select our educational paths, shop online and in-person, and reliably expect both the availability of products and the consistency of pricing.

I will never forget the first time a package arrived at my door after I moved to the United States. It felt like magic. I will never forget my first time in a Super Walmart. I thought it was a mall—I couldn’t imagine such abundance. I will never forget my first time riding a train or visiting a library or museum, many of which are free in America. Having police that respond in minutes, a court system that takes its cases seriously, and being able to vote in ways that bring about impact are all things that as an American I am thankful for and as a Bahamian am amazed by.

So, as we move beyond July 4th and continue our celebration of the 250th year of this great nation, I hope that we can all remember that it is ok—and even good —to love your home nation, to love your American nation and to simultaneously recognize its faults. Our areas for growth should not detract from our greatness and do not detract from the value of celebrating 250 years of that American greatness.

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Allen Levi’s Theo of Golden is this summer’s go-to read for BookTokers and academics alike—and it broke every rule in contemporary publishing.

This past week, The Wall Street Journal ran a feature on Levi’s unconventional journey to literary fame following the publication of his bestselling novel Theo of Golden. While I tend to gloss over most contemporary fiction news (which often pertains, as The Wall Street Journal admits, to BDSM or vampires), this particular story immediately captured my attention: Since its publication, three years ago, Theo of Golden has sold 2.5 million copies—amazing for an originally self-published work.

That fact alone should give every editor in New York City pause: If a novel capable of reaching millions of readers could not initially find a home in the traditional publishing industry, then literary professionals have erroneous assumptions about what readers desperately crave today.

Upon its initial release, Theo of Golden sold three thousand copies—a more than respectable number for a self-published title. It continued to reach indie fiction lovers across the country until Simon & Schuster finally recognized what readers knew long ago: Our culture is in desperate need of serious literary fiction.

As someone who has spent the past few years analyzing trends in the publishing industry, I can only chuckle at the reaction of Levi’s literary agent, who felt like she was “walking into the woods and discovering a unicorn.”

No hate for Theo of Golden, which abounds with beautiful sentences and complex ideas, but the irony is, of course, that the book only appears to be a unicorn because the publishing industry has spent decades engineering a literary landscape in which slow, introspective, and profound books have become exceedingly difficult to find.

The rise of BookTok culture—a TikTok book community characterized by algorithm-driven content and bite-size recommendations—has increasingly conditioned readers to expect stories that deliver immediate gratification rather than those that require sustained intellectual engagement. Several “BookTokers,” in fact, admit to reading only dialogue in novels while skipping over “slower” scenes, creating a reading culture where books are almost literally reduced to screenplays. Publishers, in turn, cater to the BookTok community, and the cycle continues.

In other words, Theo of Golden has only earned its claim to uniqueness precisely because the publishing industry systematically turns away all other books like it.

Every year, the publishing industry churns out hundreds of new fiction titles that all sound the same. Teeming with short sentences and declarative phrases, these books no longer require readers to consider what a work of fiction means. The value of a book has been reduced to its ability to provide quick, digestible entertainment rather than to challenge its reader.

The result is an entire literary ecosystem that has surrendered its capacity for reflection—and a broader culture that has lost its ability to think critically about our world.

Let’s look at some examples from recent literary fiction bestsellers, starting with Sally Rooney’s Normal People.

Marianne answers the door when Connell rings the bell.

She’s still wearing her school uniform, but she’s taken off the sweater, so it’s just the blouse and skirt, and she has no shoes on, only tights.

Oh, hey, he says.

Come on in.

She turns and walks down the hall. He follows her, closing the door behind him.

Rooney’s sentences are simple to a fault. Her prose contains overly simplistic words and ideas, communicating only the bare minimum information required to advance the plot.

One could excuse the publishing industry if it were just Rooney writing in this infantile style, but such literary minimalism has infested nearly every single literary fiction title that lines our shelves today.

Let’s take a look at another bestselling example—Caro Claire Burke’s Yesteryear, the literary rave of the past few months.

THIS IS THE LAST DAY of the life I imagined for myself.

I woke up two minutes before my alarm went off, like usual.

Five fifty-eight and bing: eyes wide open, ready to greet the day. I’ve never had a hard time waking up in the morning. Never used the snooze button, either, not once in my life. Sobriety helps. I don’t drink. Discipline helps, too.

Burke’s prose follows much the same pattern as Rooney’s: short, declarative sentences move the reader rapidly from one assertion to the next. We can describe Burke’s prose as utilitarian, creating a novel that is easy to consume but difficult to contemplate.

Let’s contrast these examples with the opening of Levi’s Theo of Golden:

On his first full day in Golden, Theo woke early, pulled back the curtains of his hotel room, and looked out over the southern dawn. He had arrived the previous afternoon from his home in New York City, where winter, with a newsworthy late-season mixture of snow and ice, was in full fury. The flight to Atlanta (on a private jet) and the drive farther south to Golden (in a chauffeur-driven Lincoln Town Car) had transported him to a world of warmth, abloom in myriad shades of green, yellow, lavender, and pink.

The difference is almost immediately apparent. Where Rooney’s prose reports, Levi’s evokes; where Burke explains, Levi reveals. Theo of Golden demonstrates that language is not simply a vehicle for plot but an art form in its own right. Levi trusts his readers to slow down and savor the cadence of a well-crafted sentence—and the meaning of his ideas as a whole.

Theo of Golden therefore stands as a direct antithesis to the prevailing wisdom of the contemporary publishing industry. It challenges the broader orthodoxy that readers want fiction that reads like a movie script.

But if readers are clearly willing to embrace the thematic and stylistic complexity of Theo of Golden, why, then, does the publishing industry keep pushing out didactic and minimalist literature?

The fact is that the stylistic similarities among the novels we examined above are not accidental—they reflect an editorial philosophy that increasingly equates literary quality with accessibility.

In the contemporary publishing world, minimalism has become not only the norm but a hard requirement. Publishing professionals routinely claim that any sentence over fifteen words causes readers to “concentrate too hard.” Such language suggests that the publishing industry has not only become convinced that readers of contemporary fiction do not have the attention spans to digest long, flowery sentences but also that the industry itself has shaped the tastes of its own readers.

Operating in this paradigm, writers are frequently told to avoid “poetic prose and metaphors,” with one agent offering the following advice on her blog:

Often times the writers will focus on sounding “literary” and write meandering, prosy or metaphor laden sentences. While it is a style choice, it’s not usually a successful one… Flowery prose and metaphor often detract from your writing.

Thus, this type of “literary” voice becomes not only the less desirable writing style but an active faux pas. Writers who take after Fitzgerald or Nabokov face rejection, while writers who produce “legible” writing see their books line our shelves. Over time, these editorial preferences have created the very reading habits they claim merely to reflect: Readers are told they no longer have the patience for long, intellectually demanding books but are rarely given the opportunity to encounter them in the first place.

Despite this, the success of Theo of Golden offers hope for a civilization that has increasingly abandoned its capacity for reflection.

Publishing shapes our culture more than we like to admit. The very books championed by our publishing professionals become the books that we not only read and discuss but also aspire to write ourselves. If year after year the publishing industry rewards simpler, faster, and more disposable fiction, then readers inevitably become accustomed to “fast-paced” books that require no afterthought.

If, on the other hand, publishers start championing ambitious, intellectually rich novels again, then there is every reason to believe readers would rise to meet them.

As our literature loses its capacity to challenge readers, an entire generation of thinkers becomes less comfortable with complexity—but we can restore the critical thinking brought by complex stories by daring to publish difficult books again.

Perhaps, then, the real lesson of Theo of Golden is not that readers suddenly rediscovered serious literary fiction but that they never stopped wanting it.

So maybe it’s time for the publishing industry to take notes from Theo—and to believe in its readers again.

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Three years ago, July 13, 2023, I received the dreadful news that our friend, Richard Bilkszto, had taken his own life. Nothing prepares you for news like that.

Our friendship started through a FAIR meeting for Ontario educators and carried its course through our mutual concerns, commitments, and convictions. Those who knew Richard remember his belief in supporting the most vulnerable students, his efforts to stop the bullies, and his understanding of the needs of students who did not fit in some way or another.

The last time I was in touch with Richard was a week before this tragic event when I had messaged him. His response was brief: two-words, “thank you”. I assumed he was simply busy. I should have called. I should have asked. The “what ifs” and the regrets will not undo this tragedy. They will not bring him back to his family, to us, to the many people he was so passionate about helping or to those whose lives he touched when he didn’t have to. As a retired principal, he could have easily chosen to sit back on a beach, relax, and enjoy the well-deserved, hard-earned freedom of retirement.

But that was not who Richard was.

Even though we will never know exactly what or who pushed Richard to the edge, the fact remains that something did. Someone did. Society did. The system did. A system that claims to value diversity, equity, and inclusion — words I now loathe. A system that constantly beats the drum about the importance of mental health, yet has no qualms about blaming everything on the white man. Yes, that is what he was accused of being by a paid presenter, for expressing his opinions while numerous other administrators – principals and vice principals who attended that session – remained silent and went on with the flow. Appalling! They should have objected, stood up, walked out, denounced. Nope! They did no such thing. They approved the blatant racism by remaining a bystander. Ironically they are the ones running our schools. Go figure!

Openly blaming people simply for being white, specifically men at that time, was the prevailing trend. Now, the attitude seems more subtle, implied in job and admissions applications like an underlying disease that, instead of being treated, has simply been managed.

Richard’s tragic passing in July 2023 stirred an uproar not only in Canada and the United States but also globally, with coverage appearing across different media outlets and in multiple languages. The DEI mandates came under scrutiny and continue to be scrutinized, not only by some institutions and organizations, but most importantly by members of the general public, some of whom are gradually, but finally, beginning to question them.

Yet like any other news story, it is only “breaking” until something else breaks — and as we all know, things keep breaking all around the world. So, to not let Richard’s legacy be forgotten, a group of his friends who shared his values on education, merit, fairness, and equality of opportunity decided to recognize, encourage, and honour exceptional teachers, and future teachers in his honor. Friends of Richard Bilkszto was born. The group continues their advocacy for preserving and improving the education system including but not limited to policies regarding specialized programs.

Why things have to get really bad before they start getting better beats me—it is such an uncommon sense.

Three years ago, under the umbrella of DEI, the merit- and qualification-based admission process for specialized programs was revoked and replaced with a lottery system that considered historical backgrounds and, bluntly put, perceived victimhood as eligible criteria for admission. The community consultation meetings in which many of us — parents and teachers alike — participated and voiced our opposition to the idea, were simply a checkbox exercise; the decision had clearly already been made. A decision that was influenced, in no small part, by the loud voices of those who had the time and energy to accuse the system of racism and, quite literally, disrupt a system that was working and had proven successful. At the very least, it was not failing.

Like many of us, Richard was also opposed to this change. He recognized the social injustices that students in less fortunate families face, he was familiar with the barriers in their way, however, like me, he did not believe the new lottery-based admission policy is the solution. We both had ideas that would address the issue in the long term. He was vocal about his concerns and my proposed solutions received a written rejection and a verbal warning by the people above. Nevertheless, we worked together to try to prevent the change from happening or, at the very least, to educate the public and parents about the inevitable negative consequences of implementing such policies on a large scale without addressing the underlying causes of adversity. At a minimum, conducting small-scale pilot projects, or simply listening to us — the teachers who work with students day in and day out, those who know the lay of the land should have been better explored

That would have made sense.

There is a possibility that the entire process was a way to eliminate specialized school programs that required significant investment and funding by making them appear ineffective. The best way to justify getting rid of them would be to demonstrate that they were no longer successful. That is exactly what happened after the top-down implementation of the lottery system. Many of the students admitted through this process struggled to manage the workload, academic level, and intensity required to complete such programs. As a result, some schools adjusted their programs to better match students’ level. This effectively diluted and lowered the standards of programs initially designed to educate students at a much higher level. Once again, professionals who knew better went along with the flow.

There is something sinister about this approach.

Family and education are the foundations of a society. One would expect these two pillars to be treated as sacred and protected, especially by those entrusted with serving the public. Yet, instead of strengthening and preserving these pillars, there appears to be an insistence on making them irrelevant, fragile, or reduced to something resembling casual entertainment. Whether this is done intentionally or out of ignorance is ultimately irrelevant. The leadership responsible for this flagrancy must be held accountable. After all, we are the ones paying their salaries.

Three years have passed, and the lottery admission policy has now been revoked.

The students entering the specialized programs in the 2026–2027 school year have been admitted based on a centralized evaluation test. It is the closest one can get to merit-based admissions; however, it is still not the ideal approach. Different specialized schools offer different programs, each with its own requirements and standards for admission, which were designed based on the specific nature and demands of those programs. Those who deliver these programs are best positioned to establish the appropriate entrance criteria, and that is something a centralized test cannot fully accomplish. Nevertheless, it is a significant improvement over a lottery system and the consideration of victimhood as a determining factor in admission to specialized programs that require a strong foundation as a prerequisite.

During the past three years, instead of selecting the best of the crop and educating them according to their abilities so they could become the best contributors to their society, as one would expect to be the purpose of our schools, our education system ignored the professional judgment of its own teachers, wasted three years of students’ time, and misused publicly funded programs. The last cohort of students admitted to merit-based specialized programs graduated in June 2026. The next cohort of students admitted through a semi-merit-based process will begin these programs in September 2026. Over the past three years, the larger number of students admitted to these programs, in between these two groups, were placed in a difficult and unfair situation, while many others were denied the opportunity to gain admission. The result speaks for itself.

An inevitable and preventable failure. What a shame.

It has taken three years and an insane amount of work for an army of teachers, parents, individuals, and organizations such as Friends of Richard Bilkszto and Save our Schools Ontario to pressure the Ministry of Education to reverse this decision. Going backwards and returning to where we were in 2023 is not an improvement; that said, it could be considered one if it marks the point at which we stop the downward spiral of destructive policies.

Richard would be happy to know that we are closer to restoring what we had, and therefore the prospect of improvement could now be on the horizon. Rest in peace, Richard. You are in our thoughts and prayers.

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Libraries have been advancing democracy and social justice long before they became consumed by critical social justice ideology a decade ago. They served that mission by providing free access to books and inculcating a love of learning in children, teens and adults of all socioeconomic backgrounds. University libraries supported the mission of their parent institutions, which was to build and transmit knowledge across generations. These goals have always been integral to advancing society by creating community spaces, more equitable access to education, and an informed population.

Unfortunately, many of today’s libraries reject the library profession’s foundational value of institutional neutrality: that is, the development of balanced collections, services and programming. The value that has displaced institutional neutrality is “social justice,” meaning that many librarians see it as the library’s job to educate people about what they see as the right way to think about contested social and political issues.

Tailoring library collections and programming to reflect their worldview, or not allowing certain groups to meet in the library, are the main tools librarians use to advance a “social justice” mission. But just as important for these librarians is to work with people who agree with them, and enthusiastically.

Diversity Equity and Inclusion (DEI) staff trainings are one vehicle for communicating the social justice worldview—while at the same time encouraging staff to defer to the activists by raising the cost of disagreement. These trainings tend to be mandatory (whether explicitly or effectively). New training guidelines were developed in 2022 by the American Library Association’s College & Research Libraries division, replacing just ten-year old cultural competency guidelines that were based on longstanding library best practices. Instead of learning practical steps to serve populations who speak languages other than English, for example, the new Cultural Proficiencies for Racial Equity guideines encourage libraries to implement a staff training program that aims to develop only four competencies: awareness of racial identity, manifestations of racism, commitment to countering racism, and analysis of racialized outcomes.

“As LIS workers, our foundational growth is strengthened by an ability to identify and acknowledge ways in which whiteness and white supremacy have impacted the field of librarianship. Beyond this, Libraries and LIS workers must actively engage in practices that address and redress these inequities.” (Cultural Proficiencies for Racial Equity, ALA, 2022)

It is typical in these DEI trainings to elicit, and then to probe and challenge, the personal beliefs of individual library workers. You can see this proselytizing mission clearly by dipping into the content of any of these trainings (a good example is this account of a former longtime University of Virginia Library employee’s DEI training program). If a library worker challenges anything in one of these trainings it will be made clear to them that failure to embrace this content is unwelcome or even taken as a personal insult (e.g., “denying the existence” of the trainer’s identity); it may also result in a complaint to human resources or the library’s governing board, leading to an investigation or worse.

One staff training program in a university library asked workers “What are the last five books you read? What is the racial mix of the authors?” Those are questions that explicitly violate librarianship’s respect for privacy as articulated in the American Library Association’s Library Bill of Rights: “All people, regardless of origin, age, background, or views, possess a right to privacy and confidentiality in their library use.” Do library workers not also have privacy rights? Is not one’s personal reading a private matter? Is it not an individual worker’s right to share—or not—their own beliefs without their employer trying to change those beliefs, or to cast judgment on them? Trainings such as these amount to forcing employer-endorsed political views on staff. They violate both library professional ethics and library workers’ personal privacy.

Just as how an organization treats its workers reflects the values of that organization, so does DEI staff training provide a window for outsiders to see into what a library culture is like. When a privacy-defending public service entity such as a library fails to protect the diversity of thought and privacy of its own employees it has shown itself to have profoundly lost its way.

Those librarians who build collections and workforces that conform to their own politics, and who subject their staff to a politicized workplace, jeopardize the position of trust their library has earned with its community. Trust in a library is built on its being useful and responsive to all segments of its community. Libraries are trusted because they help people think for themselves, without violating personal privacy and without opprobrium. They are big-tent institutions intentionally distanced from the tribal passions of the day. When librarians explicitly disavow institutional neutrality and privacy of thought in favor of becoming partisan institutions, the trust they have earned can be quickly eroded—as we are seeing now. Where we stand today, libraries are at risk of becoming simply another political pugilist in society instead of the glue that binds people together across our differences and between one generation and the next.

If the profession is able to reinvest in its core values, it may be strong enough to weather the damage. As in the broader society, there’s both a hunger and an opening for change right now in the library profession. This change is being pursued through an alternative professional association (the Association of Library Professionals), as well as FAIR for Libraries’ development of resources to support library board members and members of the general public who care about their libraries.

While undeniably weakened by politicization right now, libraries ranging from public libraries of all sizes and in nearly every community to multi-million-volume research libraries, still in meaningful ways embody the twin values of privacy and neutrality. Those values hold within them a profound democratic truth. And in that truth lies resilience.

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This morning, I did not need to boil my water to drink it. My power has been on uninterrupted for many months. When I go out later, the vast majority of other drivers will be predictable and follow traffic laws. I will inevitably, at some point, criticize people in power in a very direct and public way, and I will not fear retribution from the government or other powerful people for doing so. When I go to the store, prices will be higher than I like, but they will probably be exactly what’s listed on the shelf, and the products I buy I can almost certainly expect to work properly. If I go for a walk in the park, strangers will greet me with a smile and a “hello.” I will drive past a farmstand that consists only of a shelter, products, and a box to put money in, unmonitored, and there will be both cash and products there. I recognize this isn’t universally true. Prices are unaffordable for some families and a walk in some neighborhoods carries real risk. These are real exceptions, and they matter. But my point is that these are exceptions, not the rule.

I type this from a nation about to turn 250 years old, having spent a great deal of my life in places where all of the above have not been true.

No, I have not described a utopia, but I have described a place we have all taken for granted — or even worse, needlessly denigrated, at one point or another.

Although I do not use social media, I know well that if I took a look at any social media platform I would be bombarded by nonstop cynical rhetoric about how America is a great evil in the world, a failed state, a terrible place to live, a place some long to escape from — a pox on the earth that would be best undone and abandoned.

I think we can reasonably expect that rhetoric to escalate quite a bit at the least appropriate time, as we celebrate 250 years of independence. But I believe a bit of thanks for that independence feels more in order.

Gratitude work has become widely regarded as a huge boost to mental health. The concept is simple: spending time intentionally focusing on what we are happy about in our lives can give us (according to an article from Harvard Women’s Health Watch) “… greater emotional and social well-being, better sleep quality, lower depression risks, and favorable markers of cardiovascular health.”

So, gratitude is good for us. Knowing this makes many anti-America remarks and the deep and unrelenting cynicism on social media look as bad as a pack-a-day cigarette habit.

Some will criticize the US as being “no better than a third-world country”, losing sight of the incredible comfort that we (yes, even many poor people) experience here compared to the vast majority of other countries. Others will talk about how the founders guaranteed only the rights of “rich white men”, willfully disregarding the slow but undeniable progression to guaranteeing those rights for everyone and how absolutely novel that is in history. Others will claim that America “has no culture,” an odd statement to make about the greatest cultural exporter in modern history — a culture that would not be nearly as rich without the contributions of those people they see as “systemically oppressed”.

They’ll make these criticisms from their safe, comfortable, air-conditioned homes. They’ll make them with zero fear of retribution or consequence. They’ll make these criticisms to an audience of similarly cynical, resentful, and ungrateful people who will reinforce their vitriol.

To me, this is like the teenager in the McMansion who screams at his parents, storms out, and speeds off in the BMW they bought him. Where are you going, kid? You’ll be back in your nice bedroom with your childhood toys tonight, and your parents probably won’t even ask you to apologize for your behavior.

That said, there is absolutely plenty to be unhappy about. I believe that on almost all fronts, American society is declining and losing much of what makes us special. I fear that my ability to live on my own terms here is under threat more and more as time progresses. But I also believe that a big part of the reason these problems exist is because so many in our “intellectual” classes are demoralized by this relentless strain of perspective-free self-hate.

A part of how we got here is social media: cynicism, self-righteousness, and snarky jabs at those who are perceived as “powerful.” Hot takes generally play better there, as they drive engagement. That seems to reinforce the shibboleth-like nature of American self-hate as a means of accessing the purported “intelligentsia”. As Benedict Beckeld, author of Oikophobia: Why Successful Societies Turn Against Themselves, says:

“Like Diogenes’ sneers and sarcasms about his fellow Greeks, or Voltaire’s snarkiness about French tradition and religion, little virtue-signaling asides about American faults are de rigeur for those Americans wishing to communicate how cosmopolitan and superior they are.”

It should not be news to anyone that spending all of one’s time incessantly criticizing others is not a strong indicator of moral superiority, but rather a substitute for it. Confidence and competence are quiet because security does not require belittlement.

Having spent half my adult life living in the People’s Republic of China and a great deal of time traveling the rest of the world, I can tell you this: having a global perspective puts the contrast between American society and most others in the world in stark light.

My anecdotal experience aside, simply looking at net migration numbers tells you an undeniable story: In 2025, enough people chose the United States over their home country that, standing in a line holding hands, they would stretch from New York City to Miami.

Being grateful does not mean willfully ignoring real problems or being revisionist about history. But willful ignorance and revisionism cut both ways: as much as they can be used to “whitewash” true evils, they can also be used to reinforce needless negativity. You know what’s wrong with America today. You’re probably bombarded with these problems in your social media feeds, so I’m not going to spend time discussing them here. I, too, am feeling the embarrassment of our broken political system and the existential dread brought about by the state of our economy.

Yet despite the challenges we face today and the many ghastly moments of our history, what we choose to focus on is key to the solution. Allow me to anthropomorphize our nation for a moment. Have you ever loved someone whose bad choices brought them to a bad place? If you truly wanted them to get better, would you spend your time constantly berating them for their flaws and proclaiming how bad they are to everyone you both know? Once you’ve acknowledged their reality, what is the purpose of staying critical? To feel better about yourself? Because some part of you fears you’re just like them? Be honest.

So on this anniversary of independence, if you feel compelled to say that we are inappropriately celebrating 250 years of oppression, imperialism, exploitation, racism, slavery, brutality, and warmongering, spare us the complaints. Take that energy and go make something better instead.

We here in the USA are so damn lucky. Yes, even you. And while things may feel dystopian at this particular juncture in our history, only by choosing to be grateful for what we have can we stave off those threatening to take it away from us.

As we celebrate America’s 250th birthday, join FAIR in cultivating a common culture of gratitude. The more of us who do, the less we’ll have to criticize.

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Libraries across North America have recently been under fire from parents and authorities concerned that their collections of children’s and young adult books contain material that is sexually graphic. In many cases, the books in question are perceived as part of a progressive agenda that pushes the young to question their sexuality and gender identity. Books introducing gender and sexuality viewpoints to very young audiences have become alarmingly common in libraries. While only a minority veer into graphic sexual territory, together they raise community concern about age-appropriateness.

For the libraries in question, the defensive position is one that invokes intellectual freedom. Outside forces should not limit or direct the content of library collections—that is the purview of professional librarians, who choose material in accordance with carefully considered criteria with the goal of serving the needs of their users and communities. This argument is invoked with particular fervor when it comes to books that express the viewpoint of “marginalized” groups, because these are the groups deemed most vulnerable to censorship. The stated goal is a wide variety of viewpoints, including viewpoints that are potentially not aligned with majority opinion. But how did we get to the point where the professional selection process, seeking to include a wide variety of (often unpopular) opinions, actively collects books that promote a progressive ideology to such an extreme that graphically sexual material is allowed for young people. Has indoctrination of the vulnerable become the norm?

First, let me make clear that in many, if not most public libraries, the actual selection of books by staff librarians is limited. In the past, librarians may have spent hours perusing catalogues and review journals, and in some cases attending publishers’ showcases. Today, public libraries often do not have the resources for that level of labor-intensive work. The number of books published in a given year, thanks to electronic and self-publishing, has grown too large, and library budgets are increasingly stretched.

Instead, many public libraries rely on their suppliers to do part or all of the work. A small number of library wholesalers are in the business of supplying libraries with pre-selected books and providing them shelf-ready, with catalogue records, spine labels, and security tags included. These wholesalers select materials based on profiles that the library supplies, which detail community demographics, interests, genres, copies-to-waitlist ratios, and other criteria. Typically, a local librarian will examine the shipments before acceptance, modify the profile as needed, and supplement these “automatic release plans” with backlist orders, customer request items, specialized books, local history, and anything else that the plan doesn’t cover. The profiles in question often contain a reference to “diversity” with specified targets of books written by or about particular minority groups. In practice, the books that meet these criteria are inevitably skewed toward the progressive viewpoint within these minorities.

But the libraries and wholesalers are only one part of the selection ecosystem. The other players are the publishers themselves, eager to satisfy their progressive impulses, who trip over themselves to sign “minority voices”; and the professional book reviewers and journals, who also are eager to support identity-based causes. This favoritism—born out of an effort to support unheard voices—creates a new silence for stories and others that fall outside of target groups. Wholesalers base their decisions on major publishers’ offerings and positive reviews in library and literature journals. The resulting pipeline leading to library acquisition is ideologically skewed, and deviating from it would take some effort, even if local libraries were not ideologically captured themselves.

Even if these elements are not always aligned, the process still results in library collections being stacked with books for kids on gender and sexuality that skew heavily toward a one-sided viewpoint. These views, presented as fact to an audience not yet capable of critical analysis, are in some cases accompanied by descriptions and illustrations of a sexually explicit nature, compounding the age-inappropriateness of the works. All the actors consider “queer inclusion” to be part of their mandate, not a political stance, and even where skepticism exists, it often succumbs to self-preservation.

Opponents of gender ideology in kids’ books will often call it “grooming.” This is hyperbole; it’s more akin to propaganda, the presentation of a contested ideology as fact in an environment that is intended to be neutral and non-political. Prospects for reform make for some difficult choices. Governmental oversight, community review, and parental permission regimes all present their own challenges to the independence and effectiveness of public libraries. Somehow, we have to find a way to take social-justice ideology out of the decisions at all levels.

To combat some of this skewing and keep libraries neutral and reading options open, readers should request books—most libraries have a purchase request option online. Librarians should try to operate with more autonomy and critically evaluate what publishers are putting out even when it sacrifices some efficiency. As individuals, we should prioritize the value of experiencing a range of literary topics and viewpoints, allowing us to expand our horizons and keep us open to a wide variety of experiences.

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My lifelong career in radio astronomy began in 1972 when I joined the National Radio Astronomy Observatory (NRAO) as a new postdoc in Charlottesville, VA. After four decades as a Tenured Astronomer, I became an Astronomer Emeritus. Working with its excellent astronomers, engineers, and computer scientists was extremely rewarding—until the NRAO betrayed its founding principles of non-discrimination and merit in favor of DEI discrimination. For example, its revised hiring policy, “If two candidates for the same position have equal qualifications within the uncertainties, the candidate from the under-represented group should be hired” mandated discrimination against majority candidates, violating both Title VII of the 1964 Civil Rights Act and the 14^th Amendment guarantees of equal protection. All scientists and managers were expected to “champion” NRAO’s version of “diversity,” which promoted performative inclusion. Most NRAO employees who oppose DEI discrimination have been silenced by fear of losing their jobs.

In 2017 the NRAO required its employees to complete online training on NRAO’s non-discrimination policies and certify that they understood them. I believed the policies were self-contradictory, and balked at this compelled speech. Consequently, in 2018 I was tasked by the NRAO Director, HR Head, and Office of Diversity and Inclusion (ODI) to write a confidential memo documenting institutional discrimination that I observed during my four decades at the NRAO.

I emailed my memo “Institutional Discrimination by Race and Sex at AUI/NRAO” to the Director. I hoped he would follow HR’s investigation policy and promptly address my claims. Instead, he tried to suppress them. Legal discovery later revealed his email to the heads of HR and ODI: “ugh. Despite how we may feel about the fight, we really need this to die down and go away.” That email showed that the NRAO would never oppose discrimination in the name of maintaining DEI standards. A month later, the HR Head emailed me to suggest I seek employment elsewhere and threatened to place a negative note in my HR file. Having tenure and nearing retirement, I was annoyed but not intimidated.

In August of 2020, the NRAO Director held my UVa PhD student hostage by threatening to remove me as her supervisor. Having nearly finished her thesis and applied for several postdocs, removing me would have set her research career back a year. I had to pay her ransom by falsely certifying that I understood NRAO’s DEI policies. Even though the NRAO Director could not punish me directly, he could exploit others to compel my speech.

On September 14, 2022 the NRAO announced that “Advance broader, equitable, inclusive participation in science and engineering” had been added to its original mission statement. The announcement also linked to NRAO’s web page advertising several prima facie discriminatory DEI programs. Who could speak up for those grad students, job applicants, and employees who would not be accepted, hired, or promoted because they were of the wrong race, sex, or sexual orientation, or because they simply wouldn’t “champion” DEI discrimination? As a 77-year-old unpaid Astronomer Emeritus, I could and so I had to. I reluctantly sent an email to the whole scientific staff publicly opposing NRAO’s discriminatory programs and policies.

The Director promptly halted the scientific staff emailer. Within an hour, he proposed to the AUI President the method of retaliation approved by the AUI Board of Trustees at its next meeting.

Less than four hours after my email, the Director emailed the Heads of HR and ODI:

“I am going to suggest to a carefully selected few members of scistaff that they create a petition (outside observatory resources) to state their support for D[E]I, then get every damn member of scistaff to sign it and present [it] to the observatory to show their support. Every. Damn. One.”

The next day he emailed the AUI President “I have seeded an effort in the scientific staff to provide a widespread condemnation of Condon’s actions/opinions, and demonstrate a firm D[E]I support.” The resulting condemnation was deceptively styled “grass-roots” but was astroturf seeded by the Director for his own benefit.

The NRAO Director also emailed the scientific staff, falsely describing my email as an “egregious abuse” of the Scistaff emailer. The Director also claimed my email disparaged other members of the staff, and AUI later claimed that I falsely alleged that NRAO engaged in career-ending retaliation. My email did neither; both claims were based on fabrications. This completed his “degradation ceremony” and led to my cancellation an hour later by the UVa Astronomy Department, where I had taught their radio astronomy course ten times.

On November 4, 2022 I was shocked to receive a letter from AUI President Cohen informing me that my Astronomer Emeritus status had been revoked, any access I had to NRAO resources would be discontinued, and I should remove my personal items from the NRAO Headquarters building under guard. The letter didn’t say why, but it was in retaliation for my public opposition to DEI discrimination by race and sex at the NRAO. I hadn’t expected the AUI Board would retaliate because the previous AUI President had explicitly promised all NRAO employees “that you will never be subject to retaliation for reporting any concern that has the objective of helping this organization and its people.” Nor had I imagined the Board would act behind my back, denying basic due-process rights.

I was dismayed that my research career would be truncated by losing access to NRAO’s physical and digital libraries, critical computer support, and being made too “radioactive” for my colleagues to work with me. A week later, I removed my personal items from my office, saving what would fit into my small car and losing the rest. I will never forget looking back on the building where I arrived as a postdoc 50 years ago and was now leaving in disgrace, never to return.

I was unfairly dismissed from my lifetime career. Forcing employees to affirm contradictory policies is unjust compelled speech. I worried for the future of qualified scientists like myself who would be excluded due to their race or sex—which is ironic for DEI. Consequently, I sued AUI in federal court for retaliation made illegal by Title VII of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. This can cost about $100,000 out-of-pocket for legal expenses, several hundred hours of work helping your legal team prepare your case, and a three-year wait for results. The expensive and time-consuming process makes lawsuits like this impossible for most employees to resist injustice.

Soon after the judge ruled “AUI’s reason for terminating him [Condon] was pretext,” my case concluded in March 2026 with a clear legal victory—a judgment in my favor ordering AUI to pay $130,000 damages plus $79,171.52 to reimburse legal expenses.

Was my legal victory worth the ordeal? I was terminated, but the NRAO director was not. Because I was silenced, most NRAO employees are still afraid to oppose DEI discrimination. Even so, I don’t regret having opposed DEI discrimination, and now I can no longer be silenced. I believe that widely exposing NRAO’s actions is the best way to discourage any future attempts at discrimination or retaliation. The real issue throughout all of this ordeal was never about a truly diverse workplace where all are judged equally on their merits; it is about using diversity to justify compelled speech, bullying, discrimination, and retaliation by employers.

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After devoting half of my life to academia, I learned a career-destroying lesson in irony: In a workplace that celebrated diversity, equity, and inclusion, discussing my own experiences as a woman post-doctoral researcher was professionally dangerous.

It started at lunch in a restaurant with my non-binary research supervisor and two graduate students. We were discussing short-term visiting professor positions in our field (chemistry). Often these positions lack a clear path to stability, and so position-hopping can continue indefinitely. I made an observation (backed by data from Stanford University): Men are less likely than women to relocate for their partner’s career. I admit I was hyperbolic: “Men won’t follow women around for their careers,” I vented. At the time, I was struggling to find academic positions that would allow me to remain in contact with my friends, family, or partner. I worried that I would have to choose between human connection and employment.

My supervisor (whose wife is fortunate enough to have a dual-hire arrangement — the kind of institutional accommodation that, for some, solves the problem I was describing) became visibly angry and shouted: “You can’t say that!” Even though I explained that I was referring to a possible statistical or cultural pattern, their response was to liken my observation to the racist misuse of crime statistics.

I was stunned and shaken, too distressed to explain myself in a more nuanced way. My supervisor’s publicly posted policy was to immediately fire anyone who said anything they deem racist, sexist, or “-phobi”c: “The consequences will be swift and severe.” That didn’t stop others in the group from routinely making sweeping generalizations about society and identities without consequence. Yet when I referenced a sex-based pattern I had noticed in my own life, I was loudly and publicly shut down.

My supervisor heavily promoted their nascent research group as a place where people should “bring their whole selves to work.” Discussions of sexuality, gender identity, mental health, and personal struggles were common. I always listened supportively when others shared their experiences, feelings, and identities.

Initially, I brushed off the incident. My young supervisor and I were close: I cat-sat for them, and we went night-time owl-watching together. They shared a lot of personal information with me, so I felt comfortable making myself vulnerable. I was their ally and sang their praises to anyone who would listen. After a conference we attended together, they texted me their hope to remain “lifelong friends.” But over time, further conflicts arose between us whenever I mentioned issues that disproportionately affect women.

A few months later, while discussing my academic career plan with my supervisor, I opined, “Nobody wants to talk about it, but I think there are differences between men’s and women’s experiences in academia.” I mentioned that some women may face cultural and biological realities—such as women’s health problems necessitating a hysterectomy, or menopause—that affect their ability to remain in extended periods of geographical mobility and career uncertainty. I was not criticizing men (and certainly not non-binary people) or arguing that women are a uniquely oppressed group. I was sharing my own anxieties as a woman on the tenure-track academic job market who also hopes to have a family someday. In that same meeting, I also tried to explain to my supervisor how their often belittling or even angry comments about my “terse,” “direct” academic writing style contributed to my feeling deeply discouraged about my professional future.

By the end of the meeting, I thought we had achieved mutual understanding. But a few days later, I received a formal email stating that my speech had made my supervisor feel “unsafe” and “extremely uncomfortable.” The department chair and Faculty Affairs were alerted. My supervisor planned to reduce mentorship and seek official guidance on ominous “next steps.” My request for mediation through the ombuds office was declined. It seemed that I would imminently be fired—“swift and severe consequences.” My supervisor updated their group policy sheet with boldface and underlining to emphasize the dire consequences for anyone perceived as being intolerant at any time.

I spent over a month trying to figure out what I had done wrong. Eventually, my supervisor revealed that my comments had “made [them] feel like [they were] being binned in with a gender that [they] don’t identify with.” Apparently, any discussion of my personal, female experiences could be reframed as an attack on another gender.

Early in my post-doctoral appointment, the university counseling center dropped the “TQIA+” from the “LGBTQIA+ Peer Support Space” calendar event listing, an ultimately temporary omission. My supervisor described the “erasure” as “genocide” on our research group messaging board, and I responded with a prayer emoji to offer my sympathy for their distress at the university’s seeming pre-emptive over-compliance with new government mandates. But it occurred to me that once an issue is cast in terms of “genocide,” colleagues who hold different views can easily be treated as participants in violence who deserve “swift and severe” punishment. In retrospect, I should have foreseen my fate.

A few more tense months passed until I spoke up again. I was troubled by what I perceived as new, retaliatory, gendered work expectations. I knew my supervisor had told the department chair that I was a productive researcher. But my supervisor started to limit my autonomy while still allowing my male colleague the freedom to work from home at his own discretion, on his own schedule. Now, my workdays were spent listening to loud student conversations in the chaotic group office and doing what felt like student babysitting at the expense of my productivity and career.

They summoned me to their office to discuss my written concerns. That day, my attempt at self-advocacy culminated in a threat to withhold future recommendation letters. In academia, that is career-ending. My concerns and observations were dismissed as “unprofessional” and even unspeakably disgusting when they involved women’s health. My supervisor warned me to look harder and more broadly for a new job. Then they told me to get out of their office. Leaving tearfully, I explained how much their friendship meant to me, emphasizing that I respected their gender identity. Nevertheless, HR began an “information-gathering process” later that day.

Months later, I have still received no resolution from the university, which committed $1 million to start up my supervisor’s lab. Faculty Affairs and HR conspired to employ misleading tactics, tried to impose a prohibited gag order, and, before seeing the evidence, told me I was somehow more “unprofessional” than my supervisor. I decided to complain to the Title IX office. After an initial interview, the office failed to follow up as promised or even respond to my emails for two months until my Family Medical Leave Act job protection was scheduled to end. (Having my career threatened for a perceived transgression took a toll on my mental health and triggered an autoimmune flare, necessitating unpaid leave.) The university appeared far more responsive to accusations framed through the gender-identity lens than to concerns I raised as a subordinate woman. This is an issue because it unjustly serves one group over the other rather than providing dignity for both sides and the opportunity to respectfully resolve conflict. As a result of my experiences, I’ve made the decision to leave academia—happily, at this point.

A woman describing sex-based realities affecting her career makes no one “unsafe.” A healthy intellectual community should be able to tolerate imperfect conversations and different viewpoints. I am not rejecting inclusivity or efforts to make all people feel welcome in science. I am asking whether the exhortation to “bring your whole self to work” actually includes everyone. Instead of empowering the performatively self-righteous to demand ideological obedience, we should promote open communication and professional tolerance of different lived experiences—for all people, not just select groups.

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The first time I approached the story of Saartjie Baartman, I built a cage around the audience. It was a sound cage — an attempt to make the audience feel, even for a moment, what it might mean to be placed on display. My movements triggered a sound loop that repeated through the room as the choreography continued. Beat after beat, the structure relied on repetition until sensation overtook comfort. In her time, Baartman was displayed throughout Europe objectified and exhibited as a curiosity for audiences eager to consume difference. I wanted to trouble the act of looking itself. I set out to haunt the conscience of the room. Instead, I found myself haunted.

Beneath the concept of exploring objectification and discomfort was something more personal. A tell-tale heart — a sound that grows louder the more you try to contain it. I believed that if I engineered the structure precisely enough, the meaning would land — that scale would intensify truth. Instead, the performance structure exposed me. During one performance, the loop cut out. The repetition vanished — and with it the cool effect that made the work seem innovative. The floor went silent. I stood there, aware that the audience was no longer watching the concept. They were watching me. In frustration, I broke the fourth wal l— not as strategy, but as ego. I cussed out the audience — not at them, but because I had just ruined my own piece.

From the ruins of the piece, I had a realization. It is easier to accuse spectatorship than to examine one’s own role in it. I was trying to make something architecturally airtight and intellectually impressive. If I am honest, I was also trying to sound smart. The work did not falter because it lacked ambition. It faltered because I had not yet aligned myself with what I was asking the work to hold.

Saartjie Baartman’s name carries historical weight. A South African woman, she was exhibited in 19th-century Europe under dehumanizing conditions. Ultimately, her body became a spectacle and taxonomy. For artists, that symbolism is potent and opens urgent conversations about race, power, and objectification. As I continued researching her experience, something unsettled me. My lived experience as a contemporary Black American woman did not mirror Baartman’s historical conditions. I could study her life. I could feel proximity to her story. But proximity is not equivalence.

Around that same time, I was volunteering with young people who had survived sexual exploitation. Listening to them shifted something fundamental. In their stories, I heard echoes of lives that felt closer to Baartman’s historical reality than to my own. The recognition was sobering. One question kept returning: Was I constructing work around inherited suffering that was not fully mine to perform? Instead of abandoning the project, I complicated it.

I met a visual artist willing to imagine Baartman differently. Together we began rewriting her —not as a specimen or tragic emblem, but as a superhero in a mini zine titled Wildcard. Saartjie, or Lady Sarah, was self-possessed, wry, powerful, and refused containment.

In a deck of cards, a wildcard does not belong to a single suit. It can shift value. It can alter the direction of the game without overturning the table. The name felt right. Baartman’s historical image had been fixed — categorized, labeled, contained. A wildcard refuses fixed placement. It introduces movement into systems that prefer certainty.

And still, I wrestled with form.

At one stage, I borrowed the beat from L’il Mama’s Lip Gloss and looped it until the room leaned forward. I understood what that rhythm carries — shine, visibility, consumability, and I let the complexity sit there. I bopped to it, and so did the audience. A rhythm can celebrate presence. It can also shrink Black women into surface. That tension lived inside the work.

I stitched body parts into the choreography as fragments layered onto fragments, intending to critique the dissection and display imposed on Black bodies. Yet in doing so, I confronted how easily critique can mirror the structure it seeks to expose. The piece had become a creature assembled from theory, history, sound, and ego. The gloss shimmered, but the question of alignment did not disappear.

In later iterations, the work shifted tone. I presented Wildcard in academic and community spaces where satire replaced immersion. The setting became Club Afterlife: a liminal space where history loosens its grip long enough to be examined differently. Here women of history who have faced undue objectification could imagine a new end to their stories.

Marie Antoinette and Saartjie Baartman were not adversaries. They were unlikely companions — two women shaped by spectacle in different centuries, comparing notes — yet history had flattened them into symbols. In this imagined afterlife, they could speak.

The metaphor was simple: Can you perform a whole-bodied act in parts? Can you separate intellect from flesh, head from torso, history from body — and still succeed? Marie strategizes. She intellectualizes. At one point, she even removes her head, determined to prove that thought alone can win. She still loses. Saartjie stays intact. The body refuses fragmentation.

At one conference, I invited the audience to test the theory. We found ourselves — academics in sensible shoes included — bending backward beneath an imaginary bar in a hotel ballroom. It was slightly absurd. But it was also clarifying. We were all trying very hard to understand embodiment. Then we had to embody it. Embodiment cannot be footnoted. Integration cannot be compartmentalized.

In the years following the pandemic, conversations around identity and representation intensified across artistic spaces. Statements often came before movement. Language grew sharper. Expectations became more explicit. I felt the subtle pressure to position myself before I moved — to define my place in the conversation before making the work. Instead, I found myself asking a quieter question: Was I aligned with the work I was making? Not politically aligned. Not rhetorically aligned. Ethically aligned. Nearly nine years of sobriety have taught me the difference between intensity and clarity. I know what heat feels like. I also know what quiet feels like. If Wildcard was going to survive, it needed alignment — not proximity to trauma, not institutional approval.

Before literary ghosts entered the room, the name Faulkner already lived in my family. My great-grandmother was Marie Faulkner. The story began at a kitchen table long before it entered theory. Choosing the pen name M. Octavia Faulkner was not an attempt to borrow weight. The “M.” holds two lineages — my great-grandmother Marie, and Mary Shelley, whose stitched creature once echoed in my studio experiments. Blood and imagination. Inheritance and invention.

Wildcard is evolving into a larger work — part satire, part embodied inquiry- and what I call a “satirical séance.” Unlike the private haunting of misalignment, this séance is communal. It invites participants to call history into the room not to reenact spectacle, but to examine it together. The workshops that accompany the piece are designed as spaces of reconnection rather than division. Through movement, dialogue, and humor, participants explore what it means to remain whole — to resist fragmentation in their own thinking and bodies. The aim is not accusation, but integration. Wholeness is not achieved in isolation; it is practiced in relationship.

The FAIR Artist Grant supports this developmental stage: rehearsal time, collaboration, embodied testing. Applying did not feel like chasing validation. Receiving the grant did not feel like triumph. It felt like seeking and making room. Room to draft. Room to test. Room to build without constructing another cage. Saartjie — Lady Sarah — is no longer displayed. No longer compartmentalized. No longer engineered.

FAIR’s support allows Wildcard to move from concept into embodied experimentation, where these questions live not just on the page, but also in the body and in the community. The tell-tale heart I once tried to engineer into the floor was never Baartman’s alone. It was my own misalignment, beating louder each time I tried to bury it beneath structure, theory, or spectacle. I mistook intensity for truth. I mistook volume for clarity. Alignment does not silence the heart. It steadies it. Fully whole, she wins, we all win — and in her wholeness we are reminded that none of us stand intact alone. The script is still in progress. The stage is waiting.

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I consider myself a law-abiding person. I’ve never seen a jail cell, I’ve never been sued. I’ve gotten one speeding ticket (I was driving to the airport and was concerned I would miss my flight) and two parking tickets (both times were unintentional). I begrudgingly pay my taxes — on time and always respect the rights of others.

So why am I, of all people, formally notifying my employer that I won’t comply with their policy on “respectful treatment” in the workplace? Because it demands that I use names and pronouns to affirm a gender identity I do not believe exists. My refusal isn’t about disrespect. It’s about refusing to let the government, or my taxpayer-funded employer, force me to speak words I do not believe.

I work as a substitute fitness instructor for South Suburban Parks and Recreation District (SSPRD) in south metro Denver. I’ve been there for several years, teaching a few classes a month. I love this job! The recreation centers are community hubs where people of all ages come to move, sweat, connect, and feel alive. There’s joy in the air, but also real responsibility: I’m recertified in first aid every two years because instructors have literally saved lives when patrons suffer heart attacks or strokes mid-workout. Safety isn’t optional here. It’s part of the community culture.

SSPRD recently updated its definition of harassment to include the “deliberate use of the wrong name or gender pronouns.” Under this policy, a woman who objects to undressing alongside a trans-identifying male in the women’s locker room — or who simply voices discomfort — now risks being accused of harassment. These are not abstract concerns. Locker rooms and restrooms are spaces where women and girls are at their most physically vulnerable. The expectation of privacy is not a preference; it’s a fundamental aspect of human dignity that the law is now stripping away. The district is simply following state law, but that law has pushed Colorado into dangerous territory.

Living in this state feels increasingly surreal. Colorado’s governing majority has made it crystal clear: the feelings of the LGBTQ community must be protected at almost any cost. No hurt feelings. No perceived slights. No “misgendering.” Ever. The message is that immutable sex, as well as the privacy and safety needs of women and girls in sex-segregated spaces, — must take a back seat. If you’re a woman like me who believes that sex is a biological reality determined by chromosomes, not feelings, and that locker rooms, restrooms, and sports should reflect that reality, you’re the problem. You’re the one who must be retrained, silenced, or punished.

This isn’t balance. It’s ideology enforced by law. This is compelled speech, and it has gone too far. Constitutional scholar Jonathan Turley recently called Colorado “arguably the most anti-free speech state in the union.” In a recent opinion piece, he documented how the state’s latest law — HB 25-1312, the so-called Kelly Loving Act — expands the Colorado Anti-Discrimination Act to treat “chosen names” and preferred pronouns as protected aspects of “gender expression.” Refuse to play along in employment or public accommodations, and you risk a discrimination claim. Turley sees this as part of a broader, relentless pattern: Colorado keeps passing laws that compel speech, punish dissent, and test the limits of the First Amendment — only to lose in federal court again and again.

I’m not a lawyer or an activist. I’m a mom, a fitness instructor, and a woman who simply wants to do her job without being forced to overlook basic biology. I will treat every patron and coworker with basic courtesy and professionalism. I will use neutral language where possible. But I will not affirm what I believe to be false. And I will not quietly accept that women must surrender our privacy in locker rooms and restrooms to accommodate a trans-identifying man’s feelings.

This is why FAIR sent a letter to SSPRD leadership on my behalf in March. The letter puts SSPRD on notice that compelling employees to use language that violates their sincerely held beliefs implicates the First Amendment, and that FAIR is prepared to pursue legal remedies if the district moves to discipline or terminate me for my refusal. I will not comply with any directive that compels me to speak against my conscience. I remain fully committed to performing every other aspect of my job. If the district chooses to discipline or terminate me for this, I am prepared to defend my rights under the First Amendment.

The Colorado Legislature has determined that compelling speech on a contested ideological matter is a legitimate condition of employment. They have decided that one group’s emotional comfort outweighs everyone else’s speech rights and physical safety. And they have put every taxpayer-funded public entity in an extraordinarily difficult position: either comply with the statute and risk infringing on the First Amendment rights of employees and patrons, or prioritize those constitutional protections and prepare for a potential confrontation with the state Civil Rights Commission. It is unfortunate that well-meaning employers like SSPRD are caught in the middle of this broader legal and cultural conflict.

Two things can be true at once: every person deserves to be treated fairly and with dignity, and no one should be required by the government or their employer to affirm beliefs they do not hold. I hope that the Colorado Legislature comes to that understanding sooner than later.

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From my first encounters with literature as a child — Anne of Green Gables and The Secret Garden — I had a sense I was in contact with something sacred and eternal. As a teenager working part-time at my neighborhood bookshop in Toronto, I marked up my novels with passionate highlights, asterisks, and margin notes on sentences that seemed to transcend earthly boundaries. My old copy of Émile Zola’s Germinal contains my favorite margin note in all-caps: HUMANITY PREVALENT. A novel about the plight of coal miners in 1860s France, Germinal is political but its primary concern is something much more profound. This is precisely why it endures — and why a fifteen-year old on her summer vacation in 1990s Canada found it gripping and moving and unforgettable.

In his 1954 introduction to Germinal, Leonard Tancock observed: "A work of art must have some fundamental human truth; it must not merely make a number of puppets dance to a political tune . . . Zola is not merely concerned with demonstrating some theory of his about trade unions or socialism, but with universal human nature." His conclusion: "Humanity, then, is the real hero of Germinal.”

Herein lies the tragedy of the modern literary world. Reaching for the universal, the transcendent, and the eternal in works of fiction is not just de-emphasized, it is actively discouraged by those with the power to publish these books. Over the past ten years, the industry has shifted sharply to focus on topics and criteria that divide us— on parameters that restrict, muddle, and sideline artists and undermine literature as a force that unites, illuminates, and uplifts.

My journey as an author, first published by a Big Five publisher in 2017, coincided with the rise of this new, flattening orthodoxy. Seemingly overnight, literary gatekeepers made inclusivity their responsibility and primary purpose: agents heavily prioritized identity categories in their bios and wish lists; publishers hired sensitivity readers to screen manuscripts and ensure words did not "trigger" readers; and literary estates altered the works of great authors like Roald Dahl and Ian Fleming posthumously to align them with present-day progressive standards. Literary art was now judged by criteria unrelated to its quality or substance. The vision of the writer was subjugated to the anticipated feelings of a subset of readers. "Everyone has a story to tell" became the industry mantra, but only if you tell it the right way — and only if your profile checks the right boxes.

Working on my sophomore novel in this new regime, I second-guessed everything I wrote, my fingers freezing at the keyboard. Instead of focusing on the pursuit of beauty — what had always been my motivation to write — I was preoccupied with whether gatekeepers would find my work "acceptable." As a fiercely independent person who has always charted my own course, resisting labels, tuning out trends, and having no desire to make political statements with my work, I felt immense pressure on all of these fronts. An intrusive ogre loomed over my shoulder, evaluating my sentences against a politically-charged rulebook, filling me with dread, and choking my inspiration.

I wasn’t alone. This was happening to writers the world over. In 2021, Sir Kazuo Ishiguro spoke out about the "climate of fear" and self-censorship spreading among less established writers, calling it "a dangerous state of affairs." Lionel Shriver described the "universal cowardice at the top [of publishing] and complete capitulation to orthodoxy in younger staff who you would think have no power, but…they've started running the place." A mass muting was in progress: artistic expression was being tamped down and distorted to meet a set of non-negotiable requirements. I was dismayed when a young, aspiring novelist wrote to me: "I added a progressive left lean to the ending of my novel . . . I think it's just aligned with my views to not seem too forced but I probably wouldn't have done it if I wasn't afraid of getting it seen otherwise."

As a lifelong believer that literature is the expression of the human soul — divinely inspired to illuminate the human condition and offer meaning and light in pain and darkness — I wasn't willing to alter my work to meet external standards. When pitching my new novel, I ran straight into the brick wall of gatekeepers, who told me my writing didn't honor the current political and social climate, lacking relevance and committing the ultimate crime of insensitivity. One literary agent said my characters’ response to the 9/11 tragedy, written from my Xennial vantage point, would offend Gen Z readers, many of whom were toddlers or not yet born on 9/11, who could not fathom their behavior. Surprised by the intensity of emotion surging inside me, I replied:

"Part of [literature's] purpose is to enlighten people with a point of view about the human condition . . . To offer a porthole out of their own bubble. Yielding to others' sensitivities, expectations, or ideologies not only interferes with that enlightenment, but also puts a stranglehold on the creative process. This leads to more and more homogeneous and theatrical literature, with authors more concerned about offending people and saying the 'right thing' than producing beautiful and genuine art. What a tremendous loss to the world. Wuthering Heights would not exist if Emily Brontë had shaped her story around societal sensibilities or adjusted it to fit other people's expectations."

The world of literature, the domain of my childhood dreams, was turning into a factory spitting out compliant products disconnected from the divine and worshipping at an ideological altar. In this construct, the artist shrivels into a useful cog, only welcome if they are willing to fall in line. There is no expansion and illumination of human nature. There is no pursuit of truth and beauty. There is no true human variety, which is how literary fiction has always enhanced empathy and theory of mind more than any other genre. Humanity, I realized as I remembered my old Germinal margin note, is no longer prevalent. Literature is dying.

• • •

Then a new ogre swung into the frame like a wrecking ball. My social media feeds began filling with AI hysteria, with people I know “writing” AI-assisted books and chirping shiny talking points about the mass expansion and enhancement of creativity. LLMs and AI writing tools like Sudowrite were praised as “a salvation” by mainstream media including The New Yorker. (Sudowrite’s FAQ reads like sacrilege: “Is this magic? . . . Yes. But so is life, isn’t it?”)

The flattening of art and subversion of artists was only a precursor to the next, devastating chapter: the active overwriting of the human voice and soul by unstoppable technology, once again billed as “progress.” In hot pursuit of profits, mainstream publishing has taken no stand against the infiltration of AI despite the widespread outcries of authors, many of whom ardently support the dogmatic approach that paved the way for it. The system is forcing us into a brave new world where authenticity, variety, nuance, complexity, and strife are replaced by performance, compliance, uniformity, submission, and ease. What will happen if beautiful, heartfelt, human art — produced through struggle and expressed without mandates and machine intervention — disappears? Our civilization will lose its inner life: numbed by the algorithms, unable to think and feel deeply, with nothing to hold onto when the world goes dark. This blow could be as devastating as nuclear war — not to our bodies, but to our souls.

When I discovered FAIR, relief flooded through me. Nothing is more revitalizing than learning you are not alone when the system insists that you are the problem. I found kinship with artists around the world, from all backgrounds and demographics, spanning every medium and tradition, who believe true art — beautiful, excellent, and unapologetically human — is worth fighting for.

A few months later, I founded Dogstar Press as a refuge from ideology and artifice: a literary press uniquely devoted to beauty, sincerity, and fiction as an exclusively human art form. As AI-written and AI-assisted novels slip into the publishing machine without disclosure, Dogstar is defending the human voice and the pursuit of beauty without constraints. Our 100% Human seal — deliberately pro-human, not anti-AI, and backed by a legally binding verification process — is a badge of authenticity for readers who believe literature can only be conceived and crafted by people.

The hyper-political, hyper-digital life that has been forced upon us is a toxic condition, antithetical to our natural, God-given one. As human beings we are part of an ancient lineage, wired to seek meaning and look for silver pinpricks in a pitch-black sky to guide us. This is the role of literature and all forms of art. As the algorithms thrum away, silent and ruthless, artists seeking truth, meaning, and beauty are the last link keeping people’s hearts and senses awake. We must stand together and find patrons to sponsor this life-affirming work. It is the only way humanity will prevail.

Kimberley Tait is a novelist, writer, editor, brand builder, and founder of Dogstar Press—the independent publisher devoted to beauty, sincerity, and 100% human fiction. She is part of a New Romantic movement rising above the age of algorithms.

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In keeping with our mission to promote a common culture of fairness, understanding, and humanity, we are committed to including a diverse range of voices and to encouraging compassionate, good-faith discourse.

We are actively seeking perspectives on this topic and others. If you’d like to join the conversation, please send completed drafts to submissions@fairforall.org.

Several years ago I began hearing whispers of something I couldn't quite believe: interracial relationships like mine were now under suspicion. People of color who chose white partners were being labeled "white-adjacent," as if somehow complicit in their own erasure. White partners, in turn, were accused of “exploiting” or “colonizing” the bodies of people they love. As someone who has spent her entire life in interracial and interethnic friendships and relationships, I was mystified and disheartened by this new narrative.

Because my mother was an anthropologist, her research endeavors and social functions often immersed me among people from a variety of races, ethnicities and cultures different from my own. I learned to appreciate differences but also to recognize our shared humanity from a young age. In high school, my first boyfriend was Mexican American; the next, Native American and French; another, Puerto Rican.

As a college student traveling the world, I was drawn to people of all ethnicities and origins, eager to learn new perspectives and ways of being. It was during that time that I met and married my former South African husband. The women in my life who came later were equally varied: one Mexican American, another Jewish American; my wife of twenty years is African American. Throughout the years of study, travel, and career, my friendships extended across an even wider range of races, ethnicities and cultures. Cultivating connections across differences is, quite simply, in my nature.

Until 2020, I never gave much thought to the “interracial” nature of my own family beyond ensuring that our multiracial son fostered relationships with both sides of his extended family and had mentors who reflected his unique heritage. Family and friends in California and Montana have always embraced us. But shortly after the death of George Floyd, I started paying attention to the messages our 7th grade son was absorbing from teachers and administrators at his school. I noticed they were categorizing him as "black" to boost their diversity numbers while assigning him to read Stamped for Kids, a book that sorts every child into one of two roles: oppressor or oppressed.

Except our adopted son is neither.

His birth father is African American, and his birth mother is Mexican-Zacatecan. His two mothers are African American and European American. Our son isn’t a fraction of any of these heritages; he is all of them — just like Myles, one of the children in W. Kamau Bell and Melissa Hudson Bell’s HBO documentary 1000% Me, who describes himself as “100% Filipino, 100% African American, and 1000% a person.”

Multiracial kids are 100% of each of their parent’s ancestry, all at once and simultaneously. Yet this reality wasn’t reflected in the “black” box our son’s school had forced him into.

• • •

This experience prompted me to look more deeply into the historical practice of flattening people's identities into a single category. That’s when I learned that the monoracialization and invisibility of multiracial children runs throughout American history and continues today — initially to discriminate against people of color, and now to satisfy diversity, equity and inclusion metrics

In the 1800s, the infamous “one-drop rule” was instituted to exclude any individual with a known black ancestor from White society. Anti-miscegenation laws criminalized interracial marriage and treated the children of those unions as illegitimate. “Mulattoes,” as multiracial people were referred to at the time, were removed from the 1900 census, restored in 1910, then dropped once more in 1930. Each shift was driven by the political interests of the day.

In 2000, the U.S. census model changed once again, permitting Americans to “mark one or more” races to describe themselves. The multiracial population has since climbed to roughly 8.5 million Americans in 2024, growing about 2.7 percent a year and ranking among the fastest-growing of any demographic group. This demographic is also the country’s youngest: the median age of multiracial Americans of black ancestry, like our son, is just 19.5 years old, and nearly half are under 18.

Multiracial children comprise a large share of the next generation, yet many of them aren’t being counted — and even more aren’t being understood.

This dynamic even plays out in descriptions of our most prominent multiracial Americans. Barack Obama, whose mother was white, is almost always described as “the first black president.” On the other hand, Kamala Harris, whose parents are Jamaican American and Indian American, is described as the “first black and Indian American Vice President.” When both heritages are non-white, each is acknowledged; when one is white, however, that heritage quietly disappears. This pattern — so consistent and so unexamined — convinced me that this was a story far bigger than my own family.

• • •

I had seen this same erasure play out closer to home. For two years I served on the DEI committee of our son’s school in Missoula. My wife joined me in proposing the school become a FAIR School, committed to cultivating an environment that honors both unique identities and common humanity, welcomes diverse perspectives, and teaches civil discourse as a skill for democratic life. We presented our proposal to the school, after which the DEI committee dutifully formed a subcommittee to “explore” the idea. Despite our numerous attempts to follow up, we never heard from it again.

Months later, when the committee turned its attention to comparing the diversity of the school’s student body to that of Missoula and Montana more broadly, I volunteered to gather the data. What I found surprised me. The largest non-White group in the city, and in the state as a whole, is multiracial — yet our school provided no category for multiracial or biracial students. These children were instead sorted into a single ethnic minority box chosen by administrators: “African American,” “Asian American,” or “Latin American.” Regardless of which non-white heritage the school elected to assign, the rest of the child — every other heritage they were 100% of — simply disappeared from the data.

Determined to see how widespread this was, I pored over the school’s family directory and discovered that every single “student of color” enrolled had a white parent. They were either adopted by, or born to, a white and non-white parent. In other words, the school's diversity profile consisted almost entirely of children whose white heritage had been erased to meet diversity metrics.

Ironically, school administrators had the diversity they claimed to want. They simply refused to see it.

Watching our son navigate these frameworks made one thing clear: they weren't built for him. Race essentialism, mandatory affinity groups, and rigid oppressor/oppressed binaries do more than oversimplify the identity of multiracial children; they subtract from them. These children, and all children, deserve an education that does the opposite: one that honors every part of who they are, recognizes both America's failures and its successes, and cultivates the discourse skills needed to live in a diverse democracy.

My family’s experience, it turns out, wasn’t unusual. While listening to FAIR Advisors Eli Steele and Greg Thomas discuss multiracial identity and how to navigate belonging when society demands we choose, something clicked. That’s when I realized that arguing against existing frameworks wasn't enough. Someone needed to build a better one, starting with the children these frameworks were leaving behind.

• • •

That conviction ultimately led me to FAIR’s curriculum work. I served as the lead curriculum developer for Many Stories, One Nation, a high school Ethnic Studies course that tells the American story through the lived experiences of diverse and historically underrepresented communities, all within the framework of our shared founding principles. The curriculum has been independently assessed by the Johns Hopkins School of Education, meets ethnic studies standards in California and Oregon, and is adoption-ready for Fall 2026.

The second lesson in the curriculum’s first unit — “Identity Beyond Boundaries: Understanding Multiracialism in America” — puts students in direct conversation with the questions our family has been navigating for years. Through Toni Morrison’s short story Recitatif and contemporary case studies, students examine how racial categories are socially constructed, how multiracial experiences illuminate identity complexity for everyone, and how navigating multiple heritages can build resilience rather than fracture identity. Across nine units, the curriculum centers Indigenous, black, Latino, Asian, multiracial, religious, and immigrant voices alongside the founding ideals their experiences have tested and expanded. Civil discourse — the ability to engage across difference with honesty and respect — is woven throughout the course.

FAIR built Many Stories, One Nation for students like our son and for all students navigating a country that’s more complex than any single category can capture. If you’re an educator, administrator, or parent who wants to learn more or bring this curriculum to your school, please visit manystoriesonenation.com.

This is the course I truly hope my son has an opportunity to take before he finishes high school.

Lisa Gilbert, MPH, MA, is founder of Convergence Educational Consultancy. She lives in Montana with her wife and son.

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