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CNN
25-05-2025
- CNN
A Black 18-year-old college student was lynched on a playground 95 years ago. His nephew just accepted his posthumous degree
Student life Crime Race & ethnicityFacebookTweetLink Follow As Imam Plemon El-Amin stood on stage at Morehouse College in front of hundreds of people, donning graduation regalia his uncle Dennis Hubert never got to wear, all he could think was that Hubert would never be forgotten – even 95 years after he was killed. Hubert, an 18-year-old African American divinity student at Morehouse College, was lynched in June 1930 by a mob of seven White men on the playground of a segregated Atlanta school. Last Sunday, the historically Black all-male college where Hubert was a rising sophomore awarded him a posthumous Bachelor of Arts degree in religion. At the commencement ceremony, Morehouse President David Thomas called Hubert a 'son of Morehouse, a martyr of justice, and what history now sees as the Trayvon Martin of the 1930s in Atlanta.' El-Amin, who never met Hubert, says the moment reminded him of an Islamic saying: There are three things a person leaves behind after their death – their charity, knowledge and family members who pray for them. 'Many prayers were said in his name,' El-Amin said about the ceremony, where the 75-year-old accepted the posthumous degree on his uncle's behalf. 'Many people remembered him and were informed about his life and his legacy, and so the knowledge was there, as well as the charity of him sacrificing his life so that we would be more conscious of the value of young life and the value of human life, but also the value of justice.' El-Amin's family has had 'a long tradition' of a 'connection with Morehouse,' he said, with multiple generations graduating from the institution. Ten men in his family graduated from Morehouse and seven women graduated from its sister school, Spelman College. 'I was proud of Morehouse to give Dennis the honor, and I'm quite appreciative,' El-Amin said. 'The whole Hubert family is really appreciative of that.' Hubert's family had well-established roots in the community: his father was a prominent preacher and his mother was the principal of the elementary school where Hubert was killed, according to El-Amin. 'For one of their promising children, who (was) a rising sophomore at the Morehouse College to be murdered just in cold blood … at that time, 1930, is saying that there (were) no human rights given to the people of Georgia,' El-Amin said. Hubert was one of at least 38 lynching victims killed in Fulton County between 1877 and 1950, according to the Equal Justice Initiative. In Georgia, nearly 600 African Americans were lynched in that period – the second highest number of lynchings in any state. 'When we begin to address this history, when we begin to try to create remedies for the harm and suffering that terror violence and lynching violence created, I think we lay a path down that will help us move forward, which is why I was so pleased that Morehouse decided to award a degree posthumously to Dennis Hubert,' said Bryan Stevenson, the executive director of the Equal Justice Initiative. Like many lynching victims, Hubert was a young man with a bright future ahead of him. When he was killed, the student had been the driver for John Hope, the first Black president of Morehouse. 'This is a recognition of Dennis as not only a human being, but also as someone that had made his mark and was beginning to make his mark at Morehouse, and was not able to make his full mark here in the city or in life, but that people have a high regard for him,' El-Amin said. Less than 15 minutes after Hubert arrived at the Crogman School for Negroes that fateful evening on June 15, 1930, several White men attacked Hubert, falsely accusing him of insulting a White woman. 'What do you want of me? I have done nothing,' Hubert told the mob before one of the men shot him point-blank in the back of the head in front of two dozen witnesses. Hubert's killing sent shockwaves across the community, and the men were soon indicted in connection with his killing – accountability that was rare during that period, according to the Fulton County Remembrance Coalition. The defense argued the killing was 'justifiable homicide' because of the alleged insult. 'The African American community was pushing for justice, and they did get some things that were first in terms of justice between Black and White folk,' El-Amin said. Two days after the men were denied bail, the home of Dennis Hubert's father, Rev. G. J. Hubert, was burned to the ground, according to the coalition. When a Black Baptist church held a fundraiser to rebuild the home and support prosecution of the men, a White mob bombed it with tear gas. Days later, Dennis Hubert's cousin, Rev. Charles R. Hubert, escaped an attempt on his life, and the Spelman College chapel was attacked, according to the coalition. The men were acquitted of murder charges, and only two were convicted of lesser offenses, according to the coalition. One man received a sentence of 12 to 15 years for voluntary manslaughter, while another who confessed to firing the fatal shot received a sentence of just two years. El-Amin's mother, who was 12 when her brother was killed, scarcely spoke about Hubert because of the pain his loss had wrought. 'He was probably her protector and her person that she looked up to,' El-Amin said. But when she grew older and El-Amin became her caretaker, his mother would often call him 'Dennis,' which was 'quite moving' for El-Amin. Though Hubert died 20 years before his nephew was born, the tragedy scarred the family for generations. Growing up as the only son in his family, El-Amin said his mother worried about him because she couldn't bear to lose another family member. Other family members moved out of Atlanta to escape the trauma. They were among more than six million Black people who fled the South to escape racial terrorism between 1916 and 1970, according to the coalition. While Hubert's death traumatized El-Amin's family, he says he's comforted by his faith. 'Life doesn't stop with death and … God rewards those who are oppressed and those who are unjustly murdered,' he said. Part of the tragedy of Hubert's lynching was a lack of awareness surrounding his story among Morehouse graduates until only recently, several alumni said. Michael Tyler, a 1977 Morehouse graduate, said he doesn't 'believe that any of my classmates, or anybody during our generation, was aware of what had transpired with Dennis Hubert.' A few years ago, Tyler learned of Hubert's story when he visited an exhibit memorializing him at the National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery, Alabama. Sean Jones, a 1998 graduate who serves as president of the Atlanta branch of the Association for the Study of African American Life and History, discovered that piece of his school's history in 2021, then called for a discussion of it at the next alumni meeting. As a board member of the Fulton County Remembrance Coalition, Jones constantly advocated for the college to formally recognize Hubert and educate both students and alumni about his story. 'It's personal, it's painful, and … oftentimes it's a scary thing, because some persons have nightmares about it once they hear this kind of history,' Jones said. 'But it is something that must be discussed, must be highlighted.' The lack of awareness about the tragedy – even among Morehouse graduates – made the college's tribute that much more meaningful, Tyler and Jones said. 'It was extraordinarily significant and compelling, and something that I am exceedingly proud of my alma mater for doing – telling a story that had not been told in the public domain as it needed to be,' Tyler said. With the long-overdue recognition, '(Hubert's) memory will continue to inspire a new generation of Morehouse Men to serve with courage, speak truth to power, and uphold the ideals of equity and moral leadership in their respective callings,' a Morehouse College spokesperson said in a statement. Morehouse had approached El-Amin about the decision to award Hubert a degree a year and a half ago and initially planned to recognize Hubert last year, he said. Morehouse's faculty and students had nominated Hubert for the honorary degree, according to the college president. 'We remember the son who should have become a man here. We remember the voice that would have preached liberation. We remember the dreamer who was never given the chance to dream aloud,' Thomas said at the ceremony. El-Amin believes the school's decision to honor Dennis was influenced by the work of the Fulton County Remembrance Coalition and the Equal Justice Initiative to memorialize Hubert along with other lynching victims. The organizations in 2021 collected soil from the site of Hubert's killing – now the Crogman School Lofts apartment complex – and placed a marker there in his honor in 2022. A group of Morehouse students who attended the 2022 commemoration joined hands, encircled the memorial marker and sang the 'Dear Old Morehouse' hymn in Hubert's honor, Tyler recalled. 'Ninety-five years later, people are conscious of his life, which means he's still alive, though not here with us physically or in body, but his life, his will, and he is providing inspiration for those of us left behind,' El-Amin said. Such memorials may help educate future generations and prevent the return of past injustices, community members said. They're especially important today 'when there's such a hostility in some spaces to learning the history of struggle and violence against Black people,' Stevenson, of the Equal Justice Initiative, said. 'We can see that those very, very terrible times are not that far away and can easily come back,' El-Amin said.
CNN
25-05-2025
- CNN
A Black 18-year-old college student was lynched on a playground 95 years ago. His nephew just accepted his posthumous degree
As Imam Plemon El-Amin stood on stage at Morehouse College in front of hundreds of people, donning graduation regalia his uncle Dennis Hubert never got to wear, all he could think was that Hubert would never be forgotten – even 95 years after he was killed. Hubert, an 18-year-old African American divinity student at Morehouse College, was lynched in June 1930 by a mob of seven White men on the playground of a segregated Atlanta school. Last Sunday, the historically Black all-male college where Hubert was a rising sophomore awarded him a posthumous Bachelor of Arts degree in religion. At the commencement ceremony, Morehouse President David Thomas called Hubert a 'son of Morehouse, a martyr of justice, and what history now sees as the Trayvon Martin of the 1930s in Atlanta.' El-Amin, who never met Hubert, says the moment reminded him of an Islamic saying: There are three things a person leaves behind after their death – their charity, knowledge and family members who pray for them. 'Many prayers were said in his name,' El-Amin said about the ceremony, where the 75-year-old accepted the posthumous degree on his uncle's behalf. 'Many people remembered him and were informed about his life and his legacy, and so the knowledge was there, as well as the charity of him sacrificing his life so that we would be more conscious of the value of young life and the value of human life, but also the value of justice.' El-Amin's family has had 'a long tradition' of a 'connection with Morehouse,' he said, with multiple generations graduating from the institution. Ten men in his family graduated from Morehouse and seven women graduated from its sister school, Spelman College. 'I was proud of Morehouse to give Dennis the honor, and I'm quite appreciative,' El-Amin said. 'The whole Hubert family is really appreciative of that.' Hubert's family had well-established roots in the community: his father was a prominent preacher and his mother was the principal of the elementary school where Hubert was killed, according to El-Amin. 'For one of their promising children, who (was) a rising sophomore at the Morehouse College to be murdered just in cold blood … at that time, 1930, is saying that there (were) no human rights given to the people of Georgia,' El-Amin said. Hubert was one of at least 38 lynching victims killed in Fulton County between 1877 and 1950, according to the Equal Justice Initiative. In Georgia, nearly 600 African Americans were lynched in that period – the second highest number of lynchings in any state. 'When we begin to address this history, when we begin to try to create remedies for the harm and suffering that terror violence and lynching violence created, I think we lay a path down that will help us move forward, which is why I was so pleased that Morehouse decided to award a degree posthumously to Dennis Hubert,' said Bryan Stevenson, the executive director of the Equal Justice Initiative. Like many lynching victims, Hubert was a young man with a bright future ahead of him. When he was killed, the student had been the driver for John Hope, the first Black president of Morehouse. 'This is a recognition of Dennis as not only a human being, but also as someone that had made his mark and was beginning to make his mark at Morehouse, and was not able to make his full mark here in the city or in life, but that people have a high regard for him,' El-Amin said. Less than 15 minutes after Hubert arrived at the Crogman School for Negroes that fateful evening on June 15, 1930, several White men attacked Hubert, falsely accusing him of insulting a White woman. 'What do you want of me? I have done nothing,' Hubert told the mob before one of the men shot him point-blank in the back of the head in front of two dozen witnesses. Hubert's killing sent shockwaves across the community, and the men were soon indicted in connection with his killing – accountability that was rare during that period, according to the Fulton County Remembrance Coalition. The defense argued the killing was 'justifiable homicide' because of the alleged insult. 'The African American community was pushing for justice, and they did get some things that were first in terms of justice between Black and White folk,' El-Amin said. Two days after the men were denied bail, the home of Dennis Hubert's father, Rev. G. J. Hubert, was burned to the ground, according to the coalition. When a Black Baptist church held a fundraiser to rebuild the home and support prosecution of the men, a White mob bombed it with tear gas. Days later, Dennis Hubert's cousin, Rev. Charles R. Hubert, escaped an attempt on his life, and the Spelman College chapel was attacked, according to the coalition. The men were acquitted of murder charges, and only two were convicted of lesser offenses, according to the coalition. One man received a sentence of 12 to 15 years for voluntary manslaughter, while another who confessed to firing the fatal shot received a sentence of just two years. El-Amin's mother, who was 12 when her brother was killed, scarcely spoke about Hubert because of the pain his loss had wrought. 'He was probably her protector and her person that she looked up to,' El-Amin said. But when she grew older and El-Amin became her caretaker, his mother would often call him 'Dennis,' which was 'quite moving' for El-Amin. Though Hubert died 20 years before his nephew was born, the tragedy scarred the family for generations. Growing up as the only son in his family, El-Amin said his mother worried about him because she couldn't bear to lose another family member. Other family members moved out of Atlanta to escape the trauma. They were among more than six million Black people who fled the South to escape racial terrorism between 1916 and 1970, according to the coalition. While Hubert's death traumatized El-Amin's family, he says he's comforted by his faith. 'Life doesn't stop with death and … God rewards those who are oppressed and those who are unjustly murdered,' he said. Part of the tragedy of Hubert's lynching was a lack of awareness surrounding his story among Morehouse graduates until only recently, several alumni said. Michael Tyler, a 1977 Morehouse graduate, said he doesn't 'believe that any of my classmates, or anybody during our generation, was aware of what had transpired with Dennis Hubert.' A few years ago, Tyler learned of Hubert's story when he visited an exhibit memorializing him at the National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery, Alabama. Sean Jones, a 1998 graduate who serves as president of the Atlanta branch of the Association for the Study of African American Life and History, discovered that piece of his school's history in 2021, then called for a discussion of it at the next alumni meeting. As a board member of the Fulton County Remembrance Coalition, Jones constantly advocated for the college to formally recognize Hubert and educate both students and alumni about his story. 'It's personal, it's painful, and … oftentimes it's a scary thing, because some persons have nightmares about it once they hear this kind of history,' Jones said. 'But it is something that must be discussed, must be highlighted.' The lack of awareness about the tragedy – even among Morehouse graduates – made the college's tribute that much more meaningful, Tyler and Jones said. 'It was extraordinarily significant and compelling, and something that I am exceedingly proud of my alma mater for doing – telling a story that had not been told in the public domain as it needed to be,' Tyler said. With the long-overdue recognition, '(Hubert's) memory will continue to inspire a new generation of Morehouse Men to serve with courage, speak truth to power, and uphold the ideals of equity and moral leadership in their respective callings,' a Morehouse College spokesperson said in a statement. Morehouse had approached El-Amin about the decision to award Hubert a degree a year and a half ago and initially planned to recognize Hubert last year, he said. Morehouse's faculty and students had nominated Hubert for the honorary degree, according to the college president. 'We remember the son who should have become a man here. We remember the voice that would have preached liberation. We remember the dreamer who was never given the chance to dream aloud,' Thomas said at the ceremony. El-Amin believes the school's decision to honor Dennis was influenced by the work of the Fulton County Remembrance Coalition and the Equal Justice Initiative to memorialize Hubert along with other lynching victims. The organizations in 2021 collected soil from the site of Hubert's killing – now the Crogman School Lofts apartment complex – and placed a marker there in his honor in 2022. A group of Morehouse students who attended the 2022 commemoration joined hands, encircled the memorial marker and sang the 'Dear Old Morehouse' hymn in Hubert's honor, Tyler recalled. 'Ninety-five years later, people are conscious of his life, which means he's still alive, though not here with us physically or in body, but his life, his will, and he is providing inspiration for those of us left behind,' El-Amin said. Such memorials may help educate future generations and prevent the return of past injustices, community members said. They're especially important today 'when there's such a hostility in some spaces to learning the history of struggle and violence against Black people,' Stevenson, of the Equal Justice Initiative, said. 'We can see that those very, very terrible times are not that far away and can easily come back,' El-Amin said.
Yahoo
08-04-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
Ragan PR Daily Names The TASC Group One of The Top Places to Work in Communications in 2025
The nonprofit communications and public relations firm was recognized for its employee benefits and dynamic workplace culture NEW YORK, April 8, 2025 /PRNewswire/ -- Ragan PR Daily recognized The TASC Group, a nonprofit communications and public relations firm, as one of the Top Places to Work in Communications in 2025. The award recognizes companies for exceptional onboarding programs, training and development, workplace benefits and cultivating dynamic and supportive workplaces. The TASC Group (TASC) is an independent, full-service nonprofit communications and public relations firm. For over twenty years, The TASC Group has provided comprehensive communications services to a broad spectrum of mission-driven clients spanning the nonprofit, philanthropic and social justice spaces. "We are incredibly honored to be recognized as one of the Top Places to Work in Communications by Ragan PR Daily," said Rida Bint Fozi, president and partner at The TASC Group. "This recognition reflects the extraordinary work of our talented staff. We strive to create a workplace where everyone feels valued and supported." At The TASC Group, team members enjoy a comprehensive benefits package including generous PTO, summer Fridays, a 401k plan, excellent healthcare, a hybrid work schedule and a wellness stipend, encouraging employees to prioritize their mental and physical health. TASC also offers a professional development stipend, empowering employees to learn new skills and advance their careers through continued education. The TASC Group has received consistent recognition for both its dynamic workplace and its excellence in nonprofit communications and cause-driven PR. Last year, Observer recognized TASC as a Top Nonprofit PR Firm and Ragan PR Daily named TASC one of its Top Agencies. In 2023, Business Insider named TASC one of its top 15 boutique PR firms, Inc. Magazine included TASC on its Inc. 5000 list of fastest-growing companies. TASC has also won 26 PRSA Big Apple Awards. Some of The TASC Group's most notable nonprofit and social justice clients include the Trayvon Martin family and their legal team, the Columbia Journalism School, a consortium of asbestos litigation law firms representing cancer victims of Johnson & Johnson and Georgia-Pacific, The David Lynch Foundation and Destination Tomorrow. Media interested in learning more about The TASC Group should contact Kyle McIntyre at kyle@ or (646) 639-1379. For more information, visit Contact: Kyle McIntyrePhone: (646) 639-1379Email: kyle@ View original content to download multimedia: SOURCE The TASC Group
Yahoo
26-02-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Black Gen-Zs Remember Where They Were When Trayvon Martin Was Killed 13 Years Ago
The story of Trayvon Martin sends chills up Black Americans' spines, especially on the 13th anniversary of his death (Feb. 26, 2012). And when George Zimmerman was acquitted of killing the then-17 year old, no one would have known the verdict would give birth to the Black Lives Matter movement, an international revolution. Shane Cameron grew up just hours away from where Martin was killed in Sanford, Fla. Cameron was in elementary school when Martin's killing broke national news. 'I was very upset,' he told The Root. 'It's given me a general anxiety about certain situations— especially when I'm somewhere like Florida.' As a Black boy growing up in Broward County, Cameron said his parents made sure he was aware of the case and others like it. 'They kind of taught me to be aware of how unfortunately, situations like [Martin's] are very common,' he said. 'While a lot of people know about what happened with Trayvon Martin, there's a lot of cases very similar to that. They just don't get the same kind of news coverage.' Martin's death began to hit closer to home for Phoenix Williams after he was targeted while riding a Detroit school bus in 2015. Then, a group of white students called Williams the n-word at least 20 times, his mother told Detroit Free Press. Ten years later, Williams revealed to The Root another hurtful attack he experienced that day. 'One of the things the white boys had called me was Trayvon Martin,' Williams told The Root. 'That's when I feel like I grew a very large distrust for people of that background.' Williams was only 10 when Martin was targeted holding a bag of skittles and an Arizona tea. 'To go through that at 10 and then to be 13, 14 years old and to be called Trayvon Martin as like a slur? It was like 'man I could be him.'' Located just one state away from Florida, Jada Wilson was an eighth grader during the 2012 incident. Still, she remembers the complexities of being raised in Metro Atlanta— a liberal city in a conservative state. She said it was difficult for her southern community to explain what exactly was going on. 'Everyone was definitely alert and understanding of what the situation was [but] just not what to do about it,' Wilson told The Root. 'Or how to go forward with what we were witnessing and what this meant for our community.' A year later, Zimmerman went to trial as the entire country held it's breath while a Florida jury deliberated. Ultimately, he was acquitted in July 2013 citing the state's 'Stand Ground Ground' law. News of the verdict shook the nation sending thousands to the streets to protest. Now in 2025, Wilson says we haven't made much progress. 'I believe we've regressed,' Wilson said. 'It is still a fight to get everyone on the same team or just willing to fight because of the false hope— because of the disappointment in believing that America will never change.' But for the Georgia native, that doesn't mean the work stops. 'It's about doing what's in your power to shape at least your community to be a safe space for our people,' she continued. For the latest news, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.
Yahoo
17-02-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
The Rise of the Woke Right
One of the defining features of the social-justice orthodoxy that swept through American culture between roughly the death of Trayvon Martin in 2012 to Hamas's assault on Israel in 2023 was the policing of language. Many advocates became obsessed with enforcing syntactical etiquette and banishing certain words. 'Wokeness,' as it's known, introduced the asymmetrical capitalization of the letter b in Black but not the w in white. It forced Romance languages like Spanish to submit to gender-neutral constructions such as Latinx. It called for the display of pronouns in email signatures and social-media bios. It replaced a slew of traditional words and phrases: People were told to stop saying master bedroom, breastfeeding, manpower, and brown-bag lunch, and to start saying primary bedroom, chestfeeding, workforce, and sack lunch. At the extreme, it designated certain words—such as brave—beyond redemption. This was often a nuisance and sometimes a trap, causing the perpetual sense that one might inadvertently offend and consequently self-destruct. In certain industries and professions, wrongspeak had tangible consequences. In 2018, Twitter introduced a policy against 'dehumanizing language' and posts that 'deadnamed' transgender users (or referred to them by their pre-transition names). Those who were judged to have violated the rules could be banned or suspended. Donald Trump promised that his election would free Americans from ever having to worry about saying the wrong thing again. He even signed an executive order titled 'Restoring Freedom of Speech and Ending Federal Censorship.' But a few weeks into his administration, we hardly find ourselves enjoying a culture of free speech and tolerance for opposing views. Almost immediately, the president did the opposite of what he'd promised and put together his own linguistic proscriptions. Most of the banned words related to gender and diversity, and this time the rules had the force of the government behind them. 'Fear that other words could run afoul of the new edicts led anxious agency officials to come up with lists of potentially problematic words on their own,' wrote Shawn McCreesh in The New York Times. These included: 'Equity. Gender. Transgender. Nonbinary. Pregnant people. Assigned male at birth. Antiracist. Trauma. Hate speech. Intersectional. Multicultural. Oppression. Such words were scrubbed from federal websites.' Plus ça change. The government itself determining the limits of acceptable speech is undeniably far more chilling and pernicious—and potentially unconstitutional—than private actors attempting to do so. But what is most striking about this dismal back-and-forth is how well it demonstrates that the illiberal impulse to dictate what can and cannot be said is always fundamentally the same, whether it appears on the right or the left. An extraordinary number of conservatives have ignored and even delighted in their side's astonishing hypocrisy. But a few consistent defenders of free speech have not gone along with what they see as the new 'woke right.' The pervasive and nitpicky control of language is a crucial, but far from the sole, component of the woke-right movement. Like its antithesis on the left, the woke right places identity grievance, ethnic consciousness, and tribal striving at the center of its behavior and thought. One of the best descriptions I can find of it comes from Kevin DeYoung, a pastor and seminary professor, in a 2022 article called 'The Rise of Right-Wing Wokeism.' DeYoung, reviewing a book on Christian nationalism in The Gospel Coalition, argues that the book's 'apocalyptic vision—for all of its vitriol toward the secular elites—borrows liberally from the playbook of the left.' It 'redefines the nature of oppression as psychological oppression' and tells white and male right-wing Americans that they are the country's real victims. But 'the world is out to get you, and people out there hate you,' DeYoung warns, 'is not a message that will ultimately help white men or any other group that considers themselves oppressed.' Another hallmark of wokeness is an overriding impulse to contest and revise the historical record in service of contemporary debates. The New York Times' '1619 Project,' which reimagined this nation's founding, was emblematic of this trend from the left. But similar attempts are happening on the right. Last summer, the amateur historian Darryl Cooper caused an uproar when he made the case, on Tucker Carlson's podcast, that Winston Churchill was the real villain of World War II. The compelled politesse of the left has been swapped out for the reflexive and gratuitous disrespect of the right. Representative Mary Miller of Illinois recently introduced Representative Sarah McBride, Congress's sole transgender member, as 'the gentleman from Delaware, Mr. McBride.' The activist Christopher Rufo, one of the most belligerent voices on the right, endorsed the move: 'We are all tempted to be polite,' he wrote on X. 'But complicity in the pronoun game is the opening ante for the entire lie. Once you agree to falsify reality, you have signaled your submission to the gender cult.' Speaking of falsifying reality: The Trump administration seems to be devoting a remarkable amount of energy toward making sure people call the Gulf of Mexico the 'Gulf of America.' In the White House press room last week, the administration went so far as to eject Associated Press reporters because the publication refused to alter its stylebook to comply with the change. 'I was very up front in my briefing on Day 1 that if we feel that there are lies being pushed by outlets in this room, we are going to hold those lies accountable,' the White House press secretary said. 'And it is a fact that the body of water off the coast of Louisiana is called the Gulf of America.' European exploration records have referred to El Golfo de México since the 16th century. Trump supporters fell immediately into line. Representative Mike Collins of Georgia—in a gesture encapsulating the digital-political fusion that has come to define the woke right—tweeted trollingly, 'Stop deadnaming the Gulf of America.' Just as corporations genuflected at the altar of wokeness during and after the summer of 2020—posting their identical black squares on Instagram and Facebook and, in the case of Nickelodeon, Comedy Central, and CBS Sports, pausing their content for a symbolic eight minutes and 46 seconds—some of the country's most prominent companies have preemptively submitted to the woke right's new power play. Google and Apple have both relabeled the Gulf of Mexico on their map apps with Trump's risible neologism. And an NPR analysis of regulatory filings found that 'at least a dozen of the largest U.S. companies have deleted some, or all, references to 'diversity, equity, and inclusion' and 'DEI' from their most recent annual reports to investors.' Some state leaders are following in Trump's footsteps. In January, Arkansas Governor Sarah Huckabee Sanders issued the 'Executive Order to Respect the Latino Community by Eliminating Culturally Insensitive Words From Official Use in Government'—a loquacious way to say she ordered state agencies to stop using the word Latinx. Others, including Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, were woke right avant la lettre. The 2022 Individual Freedom Law, paradoxically known as the 'Stop WOKE' act—developed under Rufo's guidance—imagines the state as one enormous, humid safe space. The legislation aggressively restricts speech in workplaces, K–12 schools, and public universities, and even encourages snitching on community members who dare to advance illicit perspectives. All of these moves are ripe for mockery—and they deserve it. The scholar and provocateur James Lindsay gained a large online following in 2018 after he and two colleagues successfully placed a number of outrageously bogus papers in peer-reviewed academic journals focused on what Lindsay called 'grievance studies,' including one text arguing that dogs engage in 'rape culture' and another that rewrote Mein Kampf from a feminist point of view. Last year, Lindsay applied the same test to the woke right, cribbing 2,000 words from Marx and Engels's Communist Manifesto and submitting them as a critique of liberalism to The American Reformer, a respected platform in conservative Christian media. The gag ran under the title 'The Liberal Consensus and the New Christian Right.' 'What the Woke Right fundamentally don't understand as they make their bid for power now, and why they'll lose,' Lindsay wrote last week on X, 'is that none of us want more ideological crazy stuff. We don't want another freaking movement. We want to go back to our lives.' The obligation to call people aliens or unlearn the name of a body of water appears every bit as petty as the prohibition on describing boring things as 'lame.' More than that, it amounts to a politics of brute domination, a forced and demoralizing expression of subservience that only a genuine fanatic could abide. Voters in both parties are already signaling that the right's woke antics are unattractive to them. When it comes to its edgelord in chief, Elon Musk, an Economist/YouGov found that the share of Republicans who say he should have 'a lot' of influence has dropped significantly over the past three months, to 26 percent. Seventeen percent say they want him to have no influence 'at all.' Over the past two weeks, Trump's approval rating has fallen. The truth is that most Americans bristle at wokeness from whichever direction it arrives. As the left is learning now, no victory can ever be final. The right's illiberal zeal only creates the conditions for an equal and opposite reaction to come. Article originally published at The Atlantic
