Grieving Critically: Barack Obama and the Counter-Eulogy

Ancient Mourning: Homeric and Athenian

The ancient Greeks modeled two forms of public mourning: the Homeric mode ² and the Athenian mode. Homeric mourning, named after the dirges recorded in Homer’s poetry, was loud, dramatic, and attention-seeking (see Derderian 2001, 15–62; Holst-Warhaft 1992, 86–94). It featured “extravagant, out of control behavior” (Holst-Warhaft 1992, 94) and was highly individualistic, demonstrating “personal interest in the fate of the deceased” (Derderian 2001, 17). Homeric mourning commemorated the deceased hero’s individual body, pain, and suffering. And above all, it emphasized “the unique individuality of the dead, the loss to the surviving family caused by the death, and the call to vengeance” (Honig 2009, 11).

Because of its disruptive qualities and individualistic focus, some believed “[Homeric] funerals were potentially a serious challenge to civic harmony” (Foley 2001, 25). And so, in the sixth century, Solon enacted laws restricting the more extreme features of Homeric lamentation (Foley 2001, 25; Garland 2001, 22–37; Honig 2013, 100). As Gail Holst-Warhaft (1992, 96) explains, these reforms were “part of the broad process of democratization”—a reflection of the polity’s efforts to minimize familial and aristocratic loyalties. Athenians thus “would almost certainly have interpreted such changes . . . as conforming to and supporting the ideology of the democracy . . . while minimizing the visibility of all aspects of private life” (Foley 2001, 25).

With loud, private, and individualized grieving largely prohibited, the Greeks turned to a new form of mourning, which I call the Athenian mode. The defining and most innovative feature of this mode was the epitaphios logos or official funeral oration, a commemorative speech delivered at the end of public funeral ceremonies (Loraux 1986; Thucydides 1954, 143; Todd 2007, 149–53). “[C]omposed in accordance with a nomos” (Loraux 1986, 2), epitaphioi logoi were governed by “standard expectations about the ordering of topics and the contents of the message” (Salkever 1993, 134) and were typically structured in two sections. The first, epainesis (from the Greek ἐπαινεῖν [“to praise”]), emphasized the noble ancestry of the fallen (progonoi), described their heroism (paideia, aretē), and praised the city (politeia) (Wills 1992, 59–60). The second, parainesis (from the Greek παραινεῖν [“to exhort, advise”]), reminded the living that the dead had won honor (paramythētikon) and encouraged survivors to live valiantly like the fallen (protreptikon) (Wills 1992, 60).

Although the epitaphioi praised citizens who had died, they were not, like Homeric rituals, consumed with individualized grief. Instead, the speeches “substitute[d] . . . public praise for private mourning” (Holst-Warhaft 1992, 124) and redirected survivors’ attention to the city. They accomplished this refocusing in several ways. First, in contrast with the Homeric model, the epitaphioi praised the dead anonymously, rather than individually. The speeches also downplayed lived achievements and instead focused on what Nicole Loraux calls the “fine death”—that is, the dead’s “civic choice” to sacrifice their lives for the city (Loraux 1986, 104). These rhetorical moves “launched a new economy of substitution, in which no one [was] said to possess such singularity that his loss should be seen as devastating to family or city” (Honig 2009, 12). These strategies also taught listeners that “the dead had no other life than that of Athens,” that survivors “had no other family but the city,” and that life became meaningful only in complete and mortal “submission to the city” (Loraux 1986, 105).

Ancient epitaphioi also redirected grief from individuals to the city by perpetuating an idealized narrative about Athens’ greatness and perfection. Through epainetic praise of progonoi and politeia, the orations asserted the city’s superiority and intimated that Athens and Athenians were always already just. And by describing the city as peaceful and unified, the speeches distracted listeners from any internal discord. This seductive praise and panegyric diverted audiences from their individualized mourning and consoled their personal losses with an idealized, rosy narrative—the portrait “official Athens wished to give of its relationship to others, to history, [and] to the political system that gave it its strength and prestige” (Loraux 1986, 263).

Although the Athenian model neutralized the threat of vengeance and familial loyalties by redirecting attention from the individual to the city, it did not eliminate the excesses of Homeric rituals. Instead, Athenian mourning merely transferred the Homeric mode’s ostentation, passion, and emotion to a different locus: the city. This re-focused fervor introduced a new set of ills, which Socrates describes in Plato’s Menexenus. According to Socrates, Athenian funeral orations deceived hearers with falsehoods and “credit[ed] [the dead] both with qualities [they] do possess and with qualities [they] don’t” (Plato 2010, 117). Orators also “heap[ed] all manner of approval on the city” and praised Athens indiscriminately (117). In Socrates’ assessment, this “embellish[ed]” laudation “fill[ed] [listeners] . . . with feelings of [their] own nobility” and made them “feel that [they had] suddenly become taller, more noble, and more good looking” (117-18). It also created (or perhaps exacerbated) us/them divisions by convincing Athenians that they had “become more impressive” to foreigners (118).

Socrates describes an additional problem: official funeral rhetoric dampened audiences’ critical faculties and numbed their ability to appreciate reality. According to Socrates, funeral orations “cast a spell over [listeners’] souls,” “entranc[ing],” and seducing them (Plato 2010, 117). And after a state funeral, “the speech, and the voice of the speaker, so took [the audience] over” that listeners lost touch with reality (118). “[I]t [was] not until three or four days later,” Socrates argues, “that [they] came to [their] senses and realise[d] where [they] actually [were]” (118). In the meantime, audiences remained dazed and disoriented—numbed by their own “aura of impressiveness” (118). If Homeric mourning left participants drunk off individual grief, the Athenian mode offered an equally intoxicating, desensitizing cocktail—an uncritical love potion that left audiences dangerously infatuated with their city.

The dangers Socrates identifies in Athenian epitaphioi—falsehoods, flattery, and delusion—may have also silenced internal discussion and muted domestic debate. As Loraux (1986, 143) observes, “the [Athenian] funeral oration [did] not seek, [did] not ask questions.” Instead, it “fixed an official history that [confirmed] the community in the direction . . . it [had] chosen” (131). This “official history” established and asserted the city’s values and goals. But in doing so, the funeral oration may have threatened the very democracy it was designed to protect, supplanting the deliberative discussions that were hallmarks of ancient democratic life.

In short, the Homeric and Athenian modes left a shaky legacy for today’s grieving publics. The Homeric mode may have allowed bereaved communities to express individualized and personalized grief, but its private focus and vengeful tone threatened society’s communal ties. The Athenian mode avoided these dangers by redirecting attention toward the community, but its excessive and uncritical self-celebration stifled reflection, dulled debate, and numbed critical thought. In the following sections, I consider how this fraught heritage can help us assess and critique contemporary mourning practices. To do this, I offer a corpus analysis of the contemporary funeral orations Barack Obama delivered during his presidency. My analysis reveals that Obama’s funereal rhetoric resembles both the Homeric and Athenian modes, incorporating tropes—and, by extension, flaws—reminiscent of each. But my analysis also reveals the potential for a new and less problematic mode of mourning—one that comforts, commemorates, and catalyzes without jeopardizing democratic values or squashing critical thought.

American Mourning: Homeric, Athenian, and Obamaian

In the contemporary United States, public grief typically takes the form of what Karlyn Kohrs Campbell and Kathleen Hall Jamieson (2008, 102) call “the national eulogy”—a formal speech delivered by the president whenever “a traumatic event results in the death of civilians and . . . calls the nation’s institutions or values into question.” ³ As Campbell and Jamieson have noted, these speeches deploy a set of generic tropes to honor the dead and comfort survivors. ⁴ They also “make sense of the deaths and the events that produced them in a way that establishes that the nation and its ideals are strong and secure” (75). National eulogizers thus occupy the same rhetorical situation and face the same exigencies as their ancient Greek counterparts: they must address both Homeric (individualistic) and Athenian (communal) needs. Not surprisingly, national eulogies often address these competing demands using rhetorical elements reminiscent of both the Homeric and Athenian modes. Like Homeric mourning, national eulogies honor individualized grief, and they regularly celebrate the lives and characteristics of particular, identifiable dead. ⁵ And like the Athenian mode, they “appropriate the dead for the city’s purposes” (Stuckey 2006) and present the dead as symbols and exemplars of America’s values and greatness (Campbell and Jamieson 2008; Stuckey 2006, 80). ⁶

In November 2009, Barack Obama (2009) delivered his first national eulogy—a speech honoring fourteen people killed in a mass shooting at Fort Hood, Texas. Over the course of his presidency, he would go on to deliver fifty-six additional memorial speeches. ⁷ With a few notable exceptions (one of which I discuss in the final section), these orations incorporate the typical themes, structures, and topoi of national eulogies—rhetorical techniques that are reminiscent of Homeric and Athenian modes of mourning. ⁸ Studying this corpus against the Homeric and Athenian traditions thus provides a unique opportunity to assess the strengths and weaknesses of America’s contemporary public mourning practices.

I begin my analysis by highlighting the Athenian resonances in Obama’s national eulogies. Obama’s orations reliably incorporate five tropes. First, Obama always emphasizes America’s noble heritage. Like Athenian rhetors, who described and praised their ancestors (progonoi), Obama (2016b) reminds his listeners of America’s founding values by restating its most celebrated creeds: “e pluribus unum”; “in order to form a more perfect union”; “[w]e hold these truths to be self-evident” (Obama 2015a). He also provides celebratory and romanticized descriptions of the noble founders who “gave us institutions to guard us against tyranny” (Obama 2016a); envisioned a democracy where “representatives of the people answer[ed] questions to their constituents” (Obama 2011); and, “in their genius,” “set out to make a more perfect union” (Obama 2012c). He celebrates the “patriots who sparked a revolution” and honors the Americans who, during the Civil War, “saved our union” (Obama 2015c). And he praises the “grandfather(s) who marched across Europe, [the] uncle(s) who fought in Vietnam, [the] sister(s) who served in the Gulf” (Obama 2009), and others who have likewise exemplified American values.

Second, Obama praises the heroic citizens who died. Like Athenian orators, who praised paideia and aretē, Obama (2013b) recounts how the fallen “[ran] toward explosions to treat the wounded,” “work[ed] through disasters” (Obama 2013a), “answered the call” (Obama 2013d), and “did not flinch” in the face of death (Obama 2012b). He insists they “knew the dangers of the job, but . . . never shied away from . . . duty” (Obama 2016a). He commends them for “rush[ing] toward the danger” and “risk[ing] their lives so others might live” (Obama 2013c). And he praises them as individuals who “embodied the best of America” (Obama 2016c).

Third, and perhaps most prominently, Obama celebrates the country—the virtuous politeia that produced such stalwart citizens. Just as Pericles celebrated Athens for “keep[ing] to the law . . . because it commands . . . deep respect” (Thucydides 1954, 145), Obama (2009) praises America for being “a nation of laws whose commitment to justice is so enduring that we would treat a gunman and give him due process, just as surely as we will see that he pays for his crimes.” And like Pericles’ boast that Athens was “open to the world” (Thucydides 1954, 146), Obama (2013b) lauds America’s habit of welcoming “people from all around the world—people of every faith, every ethnicity, from every corner of the globe.” Obama’s (2012a) America is “strong” and “resilient,” courageous (Obama 2013d), and “unafraid” (Obama 2013h). Like the Athenian polity, it “is and always will be the greatest nation on Earth”—a school and a model to all others (Obama 2012d).

Fourth, Obama (2014b) rewards the fallen with honor and immutable civic glory. He promises that the “legacy [of the fallen] shines bright in the people that they loved the most,” and he insists their stories will forever “remain[] seared into the memory of a future world” (Obama 2014a). He assures his audience that the fallen “endure through the life of our nation” and that “their memory will be honored in the places they lived and by the people they touched” (Obama 2009). Like Pericles, who promised the fallen would “remain[] eternal in men’s minds” (Thucydides 1954, 149), Obama (2012d) reminds grieving audiences that “the memory of [their] loved one[s] carries on not just in your hearts, but in ours as well.” “I assure you,” he urges, “that their sacrifice will never be forgotten” (Obama 2012d).

Finally, Obama (2013e) closes with parainetic-like admonition, directing survivors to live as nobly as those who died. Though he acknowledges that “[w]e can never repay our debt” to the fallen, he urges his audience to “do what we can, with all that we have, to live our lives in a way that pays tribute to their memory.” He instructs his audience to “remain[] a nation worthy of their sacrifice” and to “liv[e] our own lives the way the fallen lived theirs” (Obama 2015c). He challenges “those of us who remain” to “find the strength to carry on, and make our country worthy of their memory” (Obama 2012b). And he urges that it is “our task, every single one of us, to honor the strength and the resolve and the love these brave Americans felt for each other and for our country” (Obama 2013f). “Let us never forget,” he admonishes, “to always remember and to be worthy of the sacrifice they make in our name” (Obama 2013f).

Like the topoi of the Athenian epitaphios logos, these five tropes function both epainetically and parainetically. By praising his American forbears, Obama illustrates America’s perpetual superiority and reminds his listeners of their civic debts and responsibilities: the present generation must constantly strive to be worthy of the country it inherited from its forefathers. And by celebrating the dead and granting them eternal civic glory, Obama provides subtle incentive for citizens to die honorably, in selfless service of their nation. His celebration of America implies that the country is, in fact, worthy of sacrifice. His praise of the nation also justifies America’s global dominance and suggests—not very subtly—that America’s proper place is at the top of the international pecking order.

Obama’s funeral speeches thus resemble the Athenian epitaphioi logoi in structure, topoi, and effect. But they also contain features that are reminiscent of Homeric grief—particularly its personalized focus on individuals. As already noted, Athenian mourning focused on the city: it “did not distinguish among its members” and “made it a duty to grant no one man . . . the honor of a special mention” (Loraux 1986, 52). The Homeric mode, by contrast, commemorated the fallen individually, emphasizing their uniqueness and irreplaceability. Obama’s speeches do something similar. Rather than celebrate the dead as a nameless aggregate, Obama (2014, 663) singles out, identifies, and describes particular individuals in what David Frank (2014, 663) has described as “almost pointillist complexion.” (Frank 2014, 663) And instead of focusing on their noble deaths, he recounts—often in great detail—the lived achievements of the people he honors. Importantly, Obama never acknowledges that the fallen were imperfect, and he does not describe their flaws or shortcomings. Instead, he highlights and praises only their “good lives” (Frank 2014, 663), reminding listeners that “the lives that were taken from us were unique” (Obama 2013c).

Consider, as an example of this Homeric-like individualism, Obama’s (2013e) “Remarks at the National Peace Officers Memorial Service.” Unlike Athenian orators, who praised the dead anonymously and focused only on the “fine death,” Obama begins with the suggestion that the audience remember the fallen (in this case, police and law enforcement officers) “not . . . just for how they died, but also for how they lived.” He then spends nearly half his speech describing the lives, personalities, and accomplishments of the particular individuals he memorializes, each of whom he identifies by name. Obama recounts the achievements and hobbies of Officer Bruce St. Laurent, “a cancer survivor . . ., a guest teacher . . . who used the laws of traffic to help kids learn physics, [and] an amateur snake charmer of sorts.” He provides a similarly detailed portrait of Deputy Sheriff Barbara Ann Pill, a woman who “counseled abused children and helped families struggling with domestic abuse.”

Individualized portraits in grief are not unique to this speech. Obama’s official eulogies regularly contain personal details and summaries of victims’ lived experiences (see Frank 2014; Obama 2011, 2012b, 662–64). Presumably, Obama offers these details to emphasize the dead’s “honorable dedication to the good of the polis”—a purpose that would resonate with Athenian orators (Honig 2009, 11). But Obama’s attention to individual lives and experiences also marks a dramatic departure from the Athenian trope of anonymity, which referenced the fallen only as “they” and “these men” (Thucydides 1954, 149). While the Athenian epitaphioi focused exclusively on that “small moment of time, the climax of their lives” (namely, the moment of the fine death), Obama regularly provides Homeric-like “details of lives well lived” (Frank 2014, 663). And while Lysias’ and Pericles’ audience knew only of the anonymous “they” who “nobly fought and nobly died” (Thucydides 1954, 148), Obama’s listeners are made intimately familiar nine-year-old Christina, a girl who loved puppies (Obama 2011), eight-year-old Martin, a committed fan of the Boston Bruins (Obama 2013b), and other fallen Americans.

Contemporary Mourning, Ancient Vices

Audiences and scholars generally agree that Obama’s national eulogies “express[] the appropriate sentiments in a memorable fashion” and accomplish “everything that we would expect of a national eulogy” (Jamieson 2013, 161). It is little wonder, then, that the speeches were consistently well-received, with each replacing the one preceding it as Obama’s new “best moment[]” (Silver 2011). But language is not healthy or productive simply because it fulfills cultural, social, or generic expectations. And as Socrates observed, “making a good impression is no great achievement . . . when someone is performing in front of the same people he is praising” (Plato 2010, 118). Obama’s rhetorical popularity should not, then, preclude critical assessment of America’s public mourning practices.

In recent years, scholars studying the content and effects of Obama’s rhetoric have critiqued some of his national eulogies, arguing the speeches have harmful, hidden side-effects. David Frank, for instance, has argued that Obama’s eulogy after the 2011 Tucson shooting “did nothing about the issue” of gun violence and “provided spiritual and psychological comfort, but little more” (Frank 2014, 665, 655). Kathleen Hall Jamieson (2013, 162) likewise characterized the Tucson eulogy as a “stump speech . . . unsuited to contemplative reflection.” And Steven Johnston (2015, 233–34) has critiqued Obama’s (2015, 233–34) 2012 Memorial Day Address as an “abysmal performance”—a “revisionist history” that “disregard[ed] and disown[ed]” the horrors of the Vietnam War (Johnston 2015, 233–34).

These scholars offer various explanations for the flaws they identify, attributing Obama’s rhetorical shortcomings to political pressures, victim characteristics (Frank 2014, 670), venue constraints, reactive audiences (Jamieson 2013, 161–62), and so on. I offer a different explanation. If Obama’s national eulogies are flawed, it is not because his audience did not respond appropriately or because he was constrained by political pressures. Instead, Obama’s national eulogies are problematic because they incorporate tropes that threaten communal bonds, misrepresent reality, and discourage critical thought. These tropes may provide the comfort and assurance grieving audiences expect. But they also unintentionally perpetuate vices similar to those that plagued ancient mourning.

Consider, for instance, the Homeric resonances in Obama’s funeral oratory. As discussed above, Homeric mourning jeopardized communal ties by prioritizing individual and familial loyalties. Obama’s emphasis on individual victims may do the same. By eagerly showcasing the lives and qualities of the dead, Obama may unintentionally intimate that in America, the part comes prior to the whole. His praise of the dead’s fine accomplishments (and his simultaneous dismissal of their flaws) may likewise convey the impression that only some Americans—those who have pulled hard enough on their bootstraps—are worthy of celebration. Like Homeric praise, this individualized commemoration may perpetuate a culture of meritocracy and atomism. It also runs counter to America’s popular democratic narratives by suggesting that civic glory is not equally available to all, but only to the select and elite few who live and die well.

Obama’s funeral speeches may also introduce dangers similar to those that plagued Athenian mourning. Like the epitaphioi logoi, Obamaian funeral oratory does not “attempt to model itself on the truth of the objects that it is celebrating” (Loraux 1986, 265). Instead, it conceals the country’s weaknesses, exaggerates its strengths, and falsely suggests America is the “greatest [nation] in the world” (Obama 2013i). This enchanting rhetoric “[suppresses] . . . contradictions and diversity”; feeds the fiction of a truly united nation; and creates the perception that all citizens are brave, courageous, and self-sacrificial (Loraux 1986, 279). It may also “displac[e][the city] from itself,” distracting listeners with “the phantom of an ideal polis, a utopia” (Loraux 1986, 267).

Obama’s bewitching rhetoric may also share some of the numbing effects of the Athenian epitaphioi. Like Athenian funeral orations, Obama’s self-celebratory language consoles the audience and reaffirms the nation’s ideals. But because it presents a romanticized, rosy portrait of America, it does not encourage self-reflection or critique. As David Frank has argued, Obama’s (2014, 670) self-celebratory funeral oratory does “not prepare the ground for subsequent engagement in the argumentative reason necessary to grapple with issues of blame and policy.” And though it “comfort[s] the nation,” it does “not offer [the] audience a way to work through the trauma as a social problem” (670).

These dazzling, displacing effects are particularly concerning when we recall that, like the epitaphioi logoi, Obamaian funeral orations repeatedly assert the polity’s transcendence over other nations and peoples. Over time, this constant refrain of superiority has a distinct othering effect: enchanted citizens may eventually come to view themselves as innately, inherently, and irrevocably dominant over others. One need only turn to history to identify the alarming possibilities this paradigm shift enables, for if there is any common thread uniting mankind’s greatest atrocities, it is the tendency to discursively construct an “other” and uncritically evaluate “us and OUR actions in positive terms and . . . THEM and THEIR actions in negative terms” (Van Dijk 1997, 28).

David Frank has argued that “a civil society, in the wake of tragedy, ought to use symbolic rituals to work through trauma, doing so to allow for both grieving and subsequent problem solving” (Frank 2014, 655 [emphasis added]). Obama’s speeches accomplish the first of these objectives—facilitating individual and communal grief. But his rhetoric may undermine the second. Like Athenian funeral speeches, his rhetoric risks reinforcing us/them binaries, cultivating vainglory, silencing dissent, and transplanting democratic deliberation. And the Homeric-like elements of his funereal speeches threaten to perpetuate meritocracy, individualism, and self-glorification. The resulting orations ought to give us pause. If national eulogies like Obama’s “help[] an audience feel better . . . without inspiring them to act” (Frank 2014, 670), and if they discipline the American citizenry into a comfortable, uncritical understanding of itself, is this the form of public mourning on which Americans should rely?

Toward a New Mode of Mourning: The Counter-Eulogy

In recent years, a number of scholars have begun critically assessing America’s memorials and mourning practices (see Blaire 1999, 16–57; Hirsch & McIvor 2019; Johnston 2007, 115–60; Johnston 2015; Stow 2017). Many of these scholars have observed that, like the national eulogy, America’s commemorative rituals offer “a fundamentally conservative” perspective (Abramson 1996, 707), “suppress oppositional narratives” (Stow 2012, 687), facilitate “politically regressive” political agendas (Sturken 2002, 382), and are “tantamount to self-celebration, mere glorifying and aggrandizement” (Johnston 2007, 116). ⁹ And so, these scholars have proposed new modes of mourning, suggesting modifications that might allow America’s commemorative practices to deliver not just comfort and self-affirmation, but also transformative social critique. For example, some scholars recommend honoring enemies at memorial sites (Johnston 2015, 223; Stow 2017, 103–48) or reforming built memorials to acknowledge America’s participation in atrocities (Johnston 2015, 235; Young 1992, 270). Some propose establishing national holidays that provide occasion for reflection and self-critique (Johnston 2015, 194–239). Others endorse commemorative practices that “invite a plurality of voices into the process” and highlight the complexity and contestability of tragic events (McIvor 2016, 159). And still others suggest adopting elements of various African American funeral traditions—practices that “mourn[] the dead while also seeking to generate a better future for those left behind” (Stow 2012, 693–95).

Following these scholars, I propose a new mode of funereal rhetoric, which I call the counter-eulogy. This modified rhetorical mode would preserve the key features of traditional national eulogies, including celebration of individual dead and affirmation of the country. But it would also adopt modifications similar to those scholars have proposed for other commemorative modes by incorporating elements of three critical modern mourning traditions: the counter-monument movement, Johnston’s (2015, 194–239) new tragic democratic traditions, and African American funeral practices. The resulting counter-eulogy would avoid elevating the individual at the expense of the community (a Homeric flaw), inciting violent revenge (a Homeric flaw), or perpetuating uncritical and smug self-praise (an Athenian flaw). Instead, it would subvert the tropes of traditional national eulogies to facilitate self-reflection, encourage critical thought, and mitigate the dangers of Homeric and Athenian mourning.

First, a counter-eulogy would be patterned after “counter-monuments,” a recent trend in commemorative architecture (Young 1992, 270). Unlike traditional built memorials, counter-monuments do not “aim[] to affirm the righteousness of a nation’s birth” (Young 1992, 270) and “do not assume, much less privilege, self-celebration” (Johnston 2007, 144). Instead, they are “brazen, painfully self-conscious spaces” (Young 1992, 271) designed to confront the past, encourage conversation and deliberation, and “[foster] self-interrogation” (Johnston 2007, 147). These monuments “recognise darker events,” highlight atrocities, and draw attention to victims’ suffering (Stevens, Franck, and Fazakerley 2018, 722). They also resist monumental conventions by incorporating voids, empty space, dark tones, and materials designed to disappear or erode. By abandoning architectural norms, inviting visitor participation, and paying tribute to inglorious events, counter-monuments resist the tendency to demand reverence, solemnity, and deference. Instead, they unsettle, provoke, and require critical contemplation (see Stevens, Franck, and Fazakerley 2018).

A counter-eulogy would do the same. Like a counter-monument, a counter-eulogy would spur critical reflection by boldly and self-consciously abandoning the conventions of its genre. A counter-eulogy would not, for instance, offer a self-celebratory or myopic portrait of the country or its past. Instead, it would present an ambivalent perspective, “highlight[ing] the symbiotic relationship between democracy’s excellence and risk, its nobility and cruelty, its virtue and menace” (Johnston 2015, 216). A counter-eulogy also would not conceal or deny the country’s failures, as national eulogies generally do. Instead, it would present the past candidly and would challenge audiences to reflect on the country’s inglorious moments. Like counter-monuments, counter-eulogies would temper celebration with critique and candor. They would thus adopt what Stow, McIvor, and Johnston have characterized as a “tragic” ethos—a perspective that commemorates the country’s successes while acknowledging that “every gain comes with a loss, every victory or even defeat with a cost” (Stow 2017, 192; see also Johnston 2015; McIvor 2016).

Second, counter-eulogies would also draw inspiration from the “tragic democratic traditions” Steven Johnston (2015, 194–239) has proposed to help cultivate self-reflection and critical thought. Like Johnston’s (2015, 87) proposed holiday “Admission Day”—a designated day for the country to admit its shortcomings—counter-eulogies would “confess[] democracy’s wrongdoing[s]” and offer “an apology, and a plea for forgiveness.” And like Johnston’s (2015, 225, 223) “Ode to the Enemy,” rituals designed to remind Americans that “all lives, not just some of them, are grievable,” a counter-eulogy might recognize enemy dead, highlight “what others have experienced at [America’s] hands,” and admonish the country “to see itself through the eyes of its enemies.” These strategies would shift the national eulogy’s traditional self-celebratory, navel-gazing focus and would force audiences to recognize the merit and standing of other peoples and cultures. This, in turn, would counteract the national eulogy’s Athenian tendency toward vainglory and othering.

Finally, counter-eulogies would depart from national eulogy conventions by borrowing strategies from African American funeral traditions like the Sorrow Songs ¹⁰ and jazz funeral rituals. ¹¹ As David Roediger (1981, 163–83) has noted, these and other black funeral traditions were developed in response to white restrictions on slave burial practices. They were inherently and necessarily politicized, and their existence reflected subtle “insistence and defiance” against white repression (168). Black funeral traditions also offered a unique blend of sadness and joy, and though they lamented death and suffering, they gestured toward a better, more hopeful world (168-74). They thus cultivated “an ambivalent and bicameral orientation toward life” (Stow 2010, 3)—one that acknowledged tragedy but, as W.E.B. DuBois (2015, 197) wrote, also “breathe[d] a hope—a faith in the ultimate justice of things.”

A counter-eulogy would incorporate these elements. Like the Sorrow Songs and jazz funeral practices, a counter-eulogy would commemorate grief in ambivalent tones, encouraging listeners to form their own critical assessments of the commemorated events. It would also embrace politics and would allow audiences to critique, reform, and even defy existing political arrangements. The speeches would honestly acknowledge loss while also aspiring toward more hopeful, promising tomorrows. They would, in short, incorporate “complexity, ambivalence, and the subjunctive mood” and would channel the audience’s collective grief toward an improved future (Stow 2010, 7).

In short, a counter-eulogy would draw inspiration from three critical modern mourning traditions—counter-monuments, Johnston’s tragic democratic traditions, and African American funeral practices—to subvert the conventions of the national eulogy. Rather than offer unconditional, Homeric-like praise of the fallen, a counter-eulogy would provide a more ambivalent perspective—one that acknowledges all the dead’s traits, both good and bad. And in place of excessive, Athenian-like celebration for the city, it would honestly discuss the country’s shortcomings, flaws, and challenges. A counter-eulogy would not focus entirely on the fallen, but would instead highlight and honor the lives of all parties involved in the tragedy—victims and perpetrators alike. It would candidly acknowledge America’s faults and fissions and would, like counter-monuments, challenge audiences to confront and assess their differences.

Obama’s Counter-Eulogy: Eulogy for the Honorable Reverend Clementa Pinckney

In the previous section, I theorized the counter-eulogy, a new mode of critical memorial rhetoric. But what would such a speech look like in practice? Thus far, I have suggested that Obama’s funeral orations adhere to conventional national eulogy norms, which incorporate elements reminiscent of the Athenian and Homeric modes. But on at least one notable occasion, Obama delivered a funeral oration that exemplifies counter-eulogy techniques. In June 2015, Obama offered a eulogy for Clementa Pinckney, an African American reverend who, along with eight of his congregants, was shot in a church in Charleston, South Carolina. Like Obama’s other funeral speeches, this address began with Homeric-like praise of the dead’s life and accomplishments. It also incorporated tropes reminiscent of the Athenian epitaphios logos, including praise of ancestors, praise of country, praise of the fallen, and admonition for the living. But the speech eventually transitioned to more searching, self-reflective rhetoric and by the end had become as much a celebration of Reverend Pinckney as a full-throated critique of America’s racial politics and weapons culture. Like a counter-monument, the oration inverted and deviated from the tropes of its genre. It thus provides a striking and rare example of a counter-eulogy—one that eschews typical national eulogy tropes in favor of a more a critical, subversive approach.

As in his other, more conventional memorial addresses, Obama begins the Pinckney eulogy with unrestrained, individualized praise. He recalls Reverend Pinckney’s “graciousness,” “smile,” “reassuring baritone,” and “deceptive sense of humor,” and he praises the reverend’s habit of “conduct[ing] himself quietly, and kindly, and diligently” (Obama 2015b). He calls Reverend Pinckney “a man of God,” “[a] man of service,” and “anointed,” and he suggests that the reverend was, at his core, “a good man.” Obama also highlights the reverend’s accomplishments and reminds listeners that he was “in the pulpit by 13, pastor by 18, public servant by 23.” He celebrates the reverend’s work as a state senator, praises his commitment to his church, and marvels at his ability to “encourage[] progress,” “seek[] out your ideas,” and “walk in someone else’s shoes and see through their eyes.” “[W]hen Clementa Pinckney entered a room,” he explains, “it was like the future arrived; . . . even from a young age, folks knew he was special.”

Teeming with celebration, these introductory remarks convey the impression that the speech will proceed in typical national eulogy fashion—with commendation, celebration, self-congratulation, and admonition. And for a moment, at least, it does. As in his other national eulogies, Obama honors the individuals killed, describing them as “[g]ood people,” “[d]ecent people,” “[p]eople who ran the race, who persevered.” He also turns his attention to the nation, as Athenian orators might have done. Here, though, Obama breaks with convention. Rather than offer a celebratory ode to America and its founders, Obama foregrounds the darker aspects of the country’s past by reminding his audience that historically, “black churches served as ‘hush harbors’ where slaves could worship in safety; . . . rest stops for the weary along the Underground Railroad; bunkers for the foot soldiers of the Civil Rights Movement.” He also recalls that “[w]hen there were laws banning all-black church gatherings, services happened here anyway, in defiance of unjust laws.” Although he does not say so explicitly, his word choice—“hush harbor[],” “rest stop,” “bunker”—hints that America has, historically, forced people of color to seek refuge and safety from sources other than the state. And his direct reference to America’s “unjust laws” suggests that America has been, and perhaps may still be, capable of error. Though gentle—Obama has not yet directly critiqued or condemned America’s past practices—these remarks raise specters of America’s failings and provide an early indication that, unlike typical funereal rhetoric, this oration will not be one of self-praise.

Obama’s deviations from the norms of the national eulogy become more marked as the speech proceeds. His criticisms also become more pointed. Rather than praise the nation’s strengths and virtues, Obama directly condemns citizens’ “rancor and complacency,” “short sightedness,” and “fear of each other.” He also brazenly asserts that America has “been lost” and “been blind.” He argues, for example, that “[w]e were blind to the pain that the Confederate flag stirred in too many of our citizens” and have not acknowledged how “for many, black and white, that flag [is] a reminder of systematic oppression and racial subjugation.” He also identifies and condemns specific instances when America has erred, noting that “the cause for which [Confederate] soldiers fought—the cause of slavery—was wrong[,] the imposition of Jim Crow after the Civil War, the resistance to civil rights for all people was wrong.”

Anticipating, perhaps, that his censured audience might disclaim responsibility for the errors of generations past, Obama next turns his attention to America’s present flaws. He insists that “we”—the current generation—have “been blind to the way past injustices continue to shape the present” and have not recognized “the way racial bias can infect us even when we don’t realize it.” He also condemns “the unique mayhem that gun violence inflicts upon this nation.” Disregarding the possibility that this highly charged and deeply partisan topic might be too provocative for the occasion, he laments that “eight of our brothers and sisters [were] cut down in a church basement, 12 in a movie theater, 26 in an elementary school.” But he also reminds listeners that gun violence persists even between these striking, high-profile shootings—that “30 precious lives [are] cut short by gun violence in this country every single day.” And he describes, in great detail, the “survivors crippled, the children traumatized and fearful every day as they walk to school, the husband who will never feel his wife’s warm touch,” and “the entire communities whose grief overflows every time they have to watch what happened to them happen to some other place.”

After castigating the country for its persistent failings and highlighting its flaws, Obama offers advice and counsel for the living, as Athenian funeral orators did. But here again, he departs from the typical funereal model. Unlike ancient Athenian orators who, like Pericles, encouraged citizens to “fix [their] eyes” on an idealized portrait of the country and “fall in love with her” (Thucydides 1954, 149), Obama (2015b) challenges his audience to recognize and “ask some tough questions about” America’s flaws. He urges listeners to “examine what we’re doing to cause some of our children to hate,” and he pleads with them to contemplate “how we can permit so many of our children to languish in poverty, or attend dilapidated schools, or grow up without prospects for a job or for a career.” He also admonishes his audience to “make sure that [the criminal justice] system is not infected with bias,” and he requests “that we embrace changes in how we train and equip our police so that the bonds of trust between law enforcement and the communities they serve make us safer and more secure.” He warns listeners to “guard[] against not just racial slurs, but . . . also . . . against the subtle impulse to call Johnny back for a job interview but not Jamal.” And he challenges them to take “an honest accounting of America’s history” and “mak[e] the moral choice to change.”

Instead of admonishing survivors to live worthily of their already-excellent nation, then, Obama concludes his oration by begging the audience to fix a country that is deeply and fundamentally flawed. He pleads with listeners to stop “shout[ing] instead of listen[ing]” and to cease “barricad[ing] ourselves behind preconceived notions or well-practiced cynicism.” He also warns against “allow[ing] ourselves to slip into a comfortable silence again.” Americans cannot, he argues “go back to business as usual,” though “that’s what we so often do.” Nor can they allow themselves to “settle for symbolic gestures without following up with the hard work of more lasting change.”

Even in these final admonitions, Obama reminds his audience of “the mistakes of the past” and warns that, if they are not careful, they might “lose [their] way again” (emphasis mine). And he continues to highlight the fractures and fissions that cleave American society. Unlike in his earlier funeral orations, he does not present the country as “one American family” (Obama 2012a), and he does not pretend that America’s citizens are “working together, . . . moving in the right direction” (Obama 2015c). Instead, he acknowledges that America “is a big, raucous place,” that there are individuals “who disagree with us,” and that the country is divided by “debates” with “good people on both sides” (Obama 2015b).

Though Obama castigates, pushes, and provokes, he does not condemn the United States as an irredeemable failure. But he also does not suggest that the country will necessarily or inevitably triumph. Instead, Obama adopts an ambivalent posture. Rather than prophesy the country’s ultimate fate, he suggests that America stands at a crossroads, a moment of pure potentiality. Its response to that potentiality will determine whether it ends in success or ruin. Obama conveys this ambivalence by emphasizing and re-emphasizing “the idea of grace”—“the free and benevolent favor of God as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.” And he insists that in “this terrible tragedy, God has visited grace upon us” by providing the opportunity “to see where we’ve been blind” and “to find our best selves.” He urges his audience to make the most of this opportunity, arguing “it is up to us now to . . . receive it with gratitude, and to prove ourselves worthy of this gift.” And how? “By taking down [the Confederate] flag.” “By recognizing our common humanity.” “[B]y treating every child as important, regardless of the color of their skin or the station into which they were born.” And by doing “what’s necessary to make opportunity real for every American.” “If we can find that grace,” he urges, “anything is possible. If we tap that grace, everything can change.”

Obama’s Pinckney eulogy thus rejects—or, at the very least, subverts—the tropes of a traditional national eulogy and in doing so bears fewer resemblances to the Homeric and Athenian modes. Unlike ancient grieving techniques, it does not lavish praise on the country’s noble ancestry, and it does not insist that the dead were flawless beings who have won civic honor. It also does not present the nation as an idealized, undivided whole or insist that America is perpetually just. Instead, the speech highlights the nation’s divisions, sheds lights on its flaws, and condemns its past and present shortcomings. And rather than entrance listeners with laudations, it instructs them to “acknowledge” their errors and “change” (Obama 2015b). Like a counter-monument, the speech “demand[s] interaction” (Young 1992, 277) and “foster[s] self-interrogation” (Johnston 2007, 147). And like African American funeral practices, it “challenge[s] those who are living to pick up the mantle and carry on the work” (Stow 2010, 11). It does not urge survivors to be willing, like the fallen, to die for their worthy nation. Instead, it challenges the living to transform their country into a nation worth dying for.

Conclusion

If, as Stow (2007, 206) argues, “[a] polity’s capacity for . . . critical reflection” can be “measured . . . by its willingness to adopt a critical mode of mourning,” then Obama’s America likely does not receive high marks. Throughout most of his presidency, Obama delivered national eulogies that in many ways resembled the Homeric and Athenian modes. The effect was not always healthy. Like ancient funeral orations, Obama’s funereal rhetoric did little to prompt critical thought, encourage change, or acknowledge dissenting voices. His speeches also perpetuated an idealized, self-satisfied, and misleading picture of the American state. Obama’s contemporary orations may have left audiences feeling entranced, but they did so at a remarkable cost, sacrificing historical accuracy, candor, and death’s reflective opportunities for the comfortable myopia of self-praise.

But if the corpus of Obamaian memorial speeches illustrates the dangers of traditional national eulogies, one speech—the Pinckney oration—reveals the promise of an alternative. Like counter-monuments and other alternative mourning practices, the Pinckney eulogy subverts memorial convention by replacing smug self-praise with honest reflection and candid critique. In doing so, it spurs critical thought, prompts progress, and avoids the silencing, vainglory, and historical amnesia endemic to traditional national eulogies.

The Pinkney oration is thus a true counter-eulogy—one that eschews the flaws of Homeric and Athenian mourning by offering a more balanced, ambivalent perspective. It illustrates the potential of more reflective mourning practices and proves that funereal rhetoric need not be vain, self-serving, and glib. It also demonstrates that commemoration and critique can coexist, and that memorial speeches can, at once, celebrate and honor life, candidly acknowledge shortcomings, and prompt listeners to explore “roadway[s] to a better world” (Obama 2015b). To borrow Honig’s formulation, the Pinckney speech shows that funeral oratory can offer both a “politics of lamentation” and a “politics of lamentation” (Honig 2013, 89). It can provide comforting words to facilitate affective and expressive responses to loss, but it can also be a “plural, various, contested, [and] partisan” performative utterance that critiques, catalyzes, and calls to action (Honig 2013, 89).

The Pinkney oration may be anomalous, and it is possible that counter-eulogies of its type will never topple the hegemony of traditional national eulogies. As Socrates observed in the Menexenus, grieving audiences are accustomed to soothing and flattering words, and they expect to leave memorial events feeling elevated and affirmed. Because of this, mourning publics might recoil from counter-eulogy rhetoric or reject, as inappropriate or offensive, language that praises, celebrates, or acknowledges lifestyles or ideologies other than their own.

But the Pinckney oration—which was widely celebrated as “a touching eulogy, a rousing political speech[,] and a thoughtful meditation on race in America” (Liptak 2015)—provides hope that audiences might be more receptive to counter-eulogies than we might suspect. And the Pinckney oration is not the only one of its kind. In 1876, Frederick Douglass used counter-eulogy techniques to commemorate Abraham Lincoln at the unveiling of the Freedman’s Memorial in Washington, D.C.: he critiqued Lincoln as “preeminently the white man’s President” and insisted that “Lincoln was not . . . either our man our or model” (Douglass 2016, 241). ¹² Similarly, in 2006, Joseph Lowery incorporated the ambiguous and self-critical tropes of a counter-eulogy in his eulogy for Coretta Scott King—a speech that candidly criticized both America and King herself. ¹³

More speeches of this kind would serve the nation well. If promoted, counter-eulogies like the Pinckney oration could complicate us/them binaries and remind listeners that all lives are both meaningful and ambiguous. Such speeches could also produce democratic deliberation and debate, and could challenge citizens to acknowledge rather than judge a variety of lived experiences, while at the same time recognizing all life as contingent, vulnerable, and aw(e)ful. If America has, in fact, lost its capacity for critical reflection, a shift from the traditional national eulogies to more honest, humble, and critiquing funereal rhetoric of this variety could be the first step toward a more thoughtful and democratic ethos of mourning.