Why the Trump Administration Canceled Me
Among the official White House records housed in the Jimmy Carter Library and Museum, in Atlanta, is a photograph of the late president shaking hands with an 80-year-old Black schoolteacher, Septima Poinsette Clark. The photo was taken in February 1979 at a White House ceremony honoring Clark with a “Living Legacy” award, in recognition of her work as a voting-rights educator and civil-rights activist.
I intended to use this photo to illustrate my talk next week at the Carter Library discussing my new book, Spell Freedom, which tells the story of Clark and her work training Black citizens to assert their constitutional rights. The venue seemed to be a perfect match for the theme. But late last month, I found out that I wouldn't be speaking at the Carter Library after all. My publisher informed me that my book event had been canceled, and I subsequently learned from other sources that all programming at the library, which is operated by the National Archives and Records Administration, now needs to be approved by the new administration in Washington.
I was confused. My presentation had been arranged back in the fall and had already gone through NARA’s routine vetting process, usually a pro forma confirmation that affiliated programs are of high quality and based on research using the National Archives’ rich resources. Spell Freedom is my third book of narrative history, and I’ve given numerous presentations at NARA locations before. The event was already up on the Carter Library website. Clearly, the criteria for “approval” had changed.
My little cancellation drama was not unfolding in a vacuum. Just a few weeks into Donald Trump’s second administration, the president fired the archivist of the United States, Colleen Shogan, who was the first woman to lead NARA, and pushed out most of the senior staff. Trump made no secret of his special animosity toward the National Archives, which protects presidential records and had played a role in exposing his improper handling of files from his first presidency.
Trump has also purged the governing board of the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, in Washington, and installed himself as board chairman. Speaking of his new side gig, the president promised “no more woke” and “no more anti-American propaganda” on Kennedy Center stages. He also signed executive orders ending all diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts. The National Endowment for the Arts and the National Endowment for the Humanities revised their funding guidelines to align more closely with the administration’s ideology.
[Read: America now has a minister of culture]
Sitting at my desk, I tried to channel my suspicion and anger into action. I’m a journalist, so I went to the press. Reporters at The New York Times and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution found that other events had been canceled at the Carter library: Joining Spell Freedom on the chopping block were Mike Tidwell’s The Lost Trees of Willow Avenue: A Story of Climate and Hope on One American Street and Brian Goldstone’s There Is No Place for Us: Working and Homeless in America. Other events went on as scheduled; it seemed obvious that books on race, poverty, and the climate had failed the new administration’s ideological test—though we can’t know for certain, because government officials declined to answer reporters’ questions.
Stifling inconvenient discussions is dangerous business, and it goes far beyond book talks. The Trump administration has flaunted its contempt for many of the country’s cultural, scholarly, scientific, medical, and educational institutions while announcing its intention to defund and destroy them. Investigation and expression on vital topics disfavored by the White House is being squelched. As many writers have already warned, these moves represent a frightening step toward autocratic rule and an erosion of democratic values. The core value that defines NARA, as well as the many libraries under its management, is the notion that the United States is ruled by laws—and that the office of the president matters more than whichever party or person happens to occupy it.
NARA has always been a proudly nonpartisan institution; it holds and protects sacred historical documents, and it is our nation’s collective memory bank. From the Declaration of Independence to the files of the tiniest bureau of the federal government, it’s all there, neatly filed. The presidential libraries chronicle the policies and proclamations of Republican and Democratic presidents alike, providing the essential primary-source material for analyzing their impact on the country and the world.
In recent decades, the archives have been open to all researchers, and therefore to all stripes of historical interpretation. Public programs, including book talks, bring the documents to life, expanding our understanding of the national story and fortifying our collective ownership of our nation’s past—its triumphs and its mistakes. They serve an educational function, which is why it makes sense that they are under attack. Another of the president’s executive orders promotes “patriotic education” in the country’s K–12 schools, threatening to withhold federal funding from those that teach that the United States is “fundamentally racist, sexist or otherwise discriminatory.” That cuts out a lot of history.
Under the new administration, the National Endowment for the Arts has declared that its most urgent priority is funding projects that honor the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Our foundational document, held and displayed in the National Archives building on the National Mall, insists that all men are created equal and rails against the tyranny of despots and kings. It is certainly patriotic; it is also revolutionary in every sense of the word. The president is right to recognize its monumental importance, and he should also honor the principles written into it.
Septima Clark was dedicated to making her country live up to its democratic ideals, to honor in practice—not just in words or flag pins—the historical principles outlined in the Declaration and the Constitution. A widowed grandmother who stood up to local tyrants, she lost her job and 40 years of pension benefits in 1956 when she refused to renounce her membership in the NAACP, which the southern states had outlawed as “subversive” and “Communist.” She took her teaching talents to the emerging civil-rights movement, developing hundreds of “citizenship schools” across the South that trained tens of thousands of Black citizens to read, write, and reclaim their voting rights. She stared down the Klan, knelt in prayer before a southern sheriff’s tanks, guided the hands of the poor and unlettered so they could hold a pencil and sign their name at the voter-registration office.
In this new culture of cancellations, it seems—though no official will admit it—that this story does not fit into the administration’s definition of “patriotic” narratives of American history. I would argue that the story is absolutely one of fierce patriots—Black citizens who so loved and believed in the promise of the United States, in the constitutional right to vote, in the Declaration’s claim of equality, that they faced down suppression, violent reprisals, economic ruin, imprisonment, and death to participate in their own government and assert their rights as Americans.
I think Clark would have some sharp words for the current administration, with its callous attempts to bend language, art, science, and history to its liking. “I believe unconditionally in the ability of people to respond when they are told the truth,” Clark proclaimed. “We need to be taught to study rather than believe, to inquire rather than to affirm.” This may not fit the current government’s definition of patriotism, but to me, it’s the right spirit in which to honor the history and guard the future of the United States. It’s the kind of patriotism we need right now.