There Is No Unity,Only Politics: A Reply to Kurtz

There Is No Unity, Only Politics

“There is no Dana, only Zuul.”—Dana Barrett (Reitman, 1984)

Kurtz’s essay opens with a well known line from the popular film, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, in which Ferris declares, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” This reference points to the speed with which the social justice conversation has evolved in the United States in the aftermath of George Floyd’s death. My essay, of course, was published several months before that tragedy, but the point is a good one: the pressures of the coronavirus pandemic combined with a rekindled Black Lives Matter movement to spark political dissent among athletes with a collective power not seen since the late 1960s and early 1970s. Yet, Kurtz is less concerned with whether I may or may not have adequately anticipated the political landscape of 2020 than he is with my neglect of a byproduct of this rapid revolution. In short, he concludes that my argument entails—whether intentionally or not—support for specific social justice causes and the corresponding insistence that those causes cultivate their own sense of unity as a part of the resistance.

I certainly would not be the first author to question their own words, but I admit that Kurtz’s allegation left me perplexed. Had I, in fact, issued a blanket statement of support of all claims to social justice and endorsed replicating the logic of unity? The short is answer is no, and it is tempting to point this out and simply leave things at that. After all, do I want to mount a comprehensive defense of an argument I have not made? Quite literally, there is no moment in my original essay in which I offer a defense of unity in the terms outlined in my article. Indeed, the entire logic of the argument rests on a critique of the quest to erase division and conflict that has long characterized democratic politics in the United States (and elsewhere). Moreover, I explicitly note that members of the sports media sympathetic to protesting athletes and even some athletes themselves invoked “unity” as an inherently positive value (p. 464). My primary concern remains that unity is too often seen as “an end in and of itself, thereby foreclosing ongoing contestation” that is essential to democratic discourse (p. 465). In other words, the quest for unity is a fool’s errand, for we cannot escape contingency and contestation. There is no unity, only politics.

Reading Kurtz more generously, he is clearly pointing to potential consequences of my argument that extend beyond what I state explicitly. To do so, he turns his attention to athletes who opt against performances of activism in order to “discover the means to generate insights which do not fall along simple lines of ‘good’ or ‘bad’” (p. 3). Setting aside that I do not use these terms as my standard of judgment, I agree with Kurtz that it is important to consider the nuances of different forms of political expression. His case rests largely on a photograph of Rachel Hill, a player for the National Women’s Soccer League’s (NWSL) Chicago Red Stars. In the photo, Hill remains standing during a performance of the national anthem while her teammates kneel in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement. She is not entirely disengaged, however, as her hand rests on the shoulder of a teammate as she places her own hand over her heart. Kurtz finds the photo “arresting” (p. 9), though his interest lies more with Hill than the central figure of Casey Short, a Black woman whose anguish, I would argue, is the far more compelling visual.

Hill’s willingness to wear the “Black Lives Matter” t-shirt indicates her support for her teammates’ cause, but her decision to remain standing marks her performance as different. I think Kurtz is right to call attention to the nuances of this moment. I will comment more extensively about Hill and her explanation for her decision later, but I find it curious that Kurtz’s argument is built on her case alone. There are other athletes, after all, who have resisted these newly emergent forms of solidarity. For example, on July 23 San Francisco Giants pitcher Sam Coonrod was the only player among four teams in action in Major League Baseball (MLB) who opted not to kneel during a moment of unity on opening day (Gartland, 2020). On September 14, the Pittsburgh Steelers opened their National Football League (NFL) season with a promise to “unite as one” by paying tribute to Antwon Rose, Jr., a Black teenager killed by local police in 2018. Offensive lineman Alejandro Villanueva, however, paid tribute instead to Alwyn Cashe, an Army sergeant killed in action in Iraq in 2005 (Martin, 2020). And, throughout the summer, players in both the National Basketball Association (NBA) and Women’s National Basketball Association (WNBA) made a range of choices about their own messaging. Most notably, Los Angeles Lakers star LeBron James opted not to replace his last name on his jersey with any slogan on behalf of racial justice, indicating that doing so “didn’t really seriously resonate with my mission” (Zillgitt, 2020).

Is Hill a uniquely representative example for exploring the limits of solidarity among athletes? I am not convinced she is, and the rest of Kurtz’s argument does little to persuade me.

The Tyranny of Unity?

“You’re repeating yourself, you know that?”—Tony Stark (Feige et al., 2019)

Kurtz’s interest in Hill appears grounded in a concern that calls for social justice may ultimately impose the same kind of rigidity and uniformity that legitimizes criticisms of excessive patriotic rituals at sporting events. He notes the “chorus of criticism” directed at Hill (p. 11), characterizes unity as a “specter” four times, laments the “cries” for unity or social justice six times, and, perhaps most dramatically, suggests another six times that the weight of unity is “suffocating.” These are forbidding metaphors, and they risk characterizing the advocates of social justice as the vehicles of oppression rather than resistors to it. In light of ongoing racial violence and discrimination in the United States, this seems a rather strange hill to die on: do we really want to suggest that athlete activists warrant criticism because they expect too much of each other?

Even if we were to acknowledge that marginalizing ambivalent or differing voices is unhealthy, we would need a basis of evidence from which to conclude that it is even happening in the first place. Kurtz asserts that Hill faced “ire, vitriol, and pressure to comply from proponents of social justice, at least if social media feeds were to be believed” (p. 3). He later provides six tweets that are critical of her decision, concluding that “genuine dissent has never been, and will never be, easy” (p. 11). Reports of Hill’s decision also suggest she faced a “backlash” (Baer, 2020; Poe, 2020), yet none offer much detail that explains what that entailed. Whatever scrutiny she faced, it was sufficient for her to post a more complete explanation to social media, which Kurtz describes as “thoroughly earnest” (p. 11). Nevertheless, any lingering effects for Rachel Hill appear to be minimal. My own review of her Twitter account suggests there is as much support for her choice as there is criticism and, more importantly, neither her team nor the NWSL suggested that she needed to change her behavior. Whatever the intensity of criticism she faced may have been, it hardly appears to have been “suffocating.” Kurtz’s consistent use of this and similar terms is a case of him repeating himself, and I suspect he knows that.

The same thing can be said of the other athletes I cited above. Sam Coonrod played for the Giants throughout the 2020 season, appearing in 18 games and posting a 9.82 ERA. Alejandro Villanueva retained his starting spot on the Steelers’ offensive line, helping Pittsburgh remain the last unbeaten team in 2020. As for LeBron James, not only did he lead the Los Angeles Lakers to their first NBA championship since 2010, he also remained one of the most visible advocates for social justice in all of sports. All of which is to say that, even if athletes largely accepted the frame of social justice, they did not do so to the totalizing degree asserted by Kurtz.

Of Strategies and Tactics

“Now who’s being naïve, Kay?”—Michael Corleone (Ruddy & Coppola, 1972)

Even if Kurtz mischaracterizes my argument and over-dramatizes the imposition of unity on all athletes, his core concerns warrant substantive engagement. For the moment, then, I want to return to the case of Rachel Hill and accept the premise that her actions placed her outside a conformist discourse that had emerged in the summer of 2020. As noted above, Hill responded to criticisms of her refusal to kneel with her teammates by posting an explanation to social media. Hill’s rationale is based on two core values: the first is “what the flag inherently means to my military family members and me,” and the second is her Christian faith as represented by citing Galatians 5:14, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” In response, Kurtz suggests:

What seems paramount is to examine carefully how Hill exercised her voice on the pitch and to consider more fully the explanation she provided on Twitter as part of coming to terms with the ways her dissent may reflect a nuance that, far from easy posturing, is indicative of democratic expressions of individual conscience which suggest a way through the stifling consensus found within even the most noble demonstrations for social justice. (p. 8)

I have no reason to doubt Hill’s sincerity, nor do I think her refusal means that she actively rejects the Black Lives Matter movement. However, there are at least two reasons to question Kurtz’s defense of her commentary. First, I want to challenge Kurtz’s use of the term “dissent” in this context. Hill certainly differs in perspective and action from her teammates, but that does not necessarily qualify as dissent. My essay is grounded in rhetorical and political theory that values dissent for its contributions to democratic ways of life. In other words, it is not merely a synonym for disagreement, it is about the “the articulation of a new, divergent statement” (Phillips, 2015, p. 62). To dissent is to react to, and mount a resistance to, established norms or instruments of power. Although athletes were invited to express solidarity under emergent conditions that favored Black Lives Matter, it is crucial to point out that such expressions were made in opposition to forces of violence and injustice. Resistance to these forces requires “a kind of nonconforming solidarity” (Ivie, 2005, p. 277), a form of provisional unity that seeks a more democratic outcome. I agree with Kurtz that Hill successfully expresses her “individual conscience,” but the celebration of individual liberties is the hallmark of political liberalism, not democracy.

This concern is linked to a second objection to Kurtz’s praise for Hill. By affirming her words as simply an expression of “individual conscience,” Kurtz implies that Hill acts from an identical subject position to those who advocate for social justice. From this point of view, all citizens are free to express themselves and, since everyone is entitled to their own opinion, we can consider each of them equally legitimate. Related to this is the implication that the act of expression itself is sufficient, and that we need not comment on the substance or mode of delivery of what has been said. The fact that Hill spoke out is not the object of my attention, nor does it appear to be what motivated others to criticize her. However, her freedom to reveal her “individual conscience” does not protect her from others exercising the exact same right, nor should it.

Beyond the act of speaking itself, are there reasons to object to Hill’s words? I think there are. As I noted, Hill asserts her position based on her identification with two key institutions: the U.S. military and Christianity. Both of these institutions represent dominant values and identity positions in the United States, and both have regularly been featured as elements of sports culture. In my original essay, I discuss the degree to which militarism in sports has come to define the prevailing wisdom about expressions of patriotism and citizenship. These notions correlate with assumptions about whiteness and masculinity, often combining with the ideological commitments of Christianity (Butterworth, 2011). Although Hill’s actions do not conform with those of her teammates, her identity as a white woman and her identification with the military and Christianity align her with the dominant values of U.S. society.

I find both of Hill’s assertions to be troubling. The insistence that the military somehow “owns” the U.S. flag is offensive to those who demonstrate their patriotism and service to the nation in other ways. Veterans and active service members indeed often warrant our respect and admiration, but we need not restrict our praise only to them. As I noted in my essay, especially since 9/11, sporting events have made a fetish of spectacular displays of militarism, contributing to a cultural disposition in which we are unable to recognize that the flag’s meaning is contestable. This was symbolized obviously by NFL quarterback Drew Brees, who incited angry responses in the summer of 2020 after he linked standing at attention for the national anthem with the service of his grandfathers during World War II (Armour, 2020). His comments not only misrepresented the purpose of protests among NFL players they also implied that the symbolism of the flag can only be assigned to (white) veterans.

Hill’s nod to the military was echoed by Villanueva’s choice to honor Alwyn Cashe instead of Antwon Rose, Jr. Yes, Cashe was Black, but his death occurred 15 years ago in the line of duty, not as a result of racial injustice. Villanueva’s choice thus subverted the message of the Steelers as a team, bringing attention back to the support of the military, a position that is far from a dissenting point of view.

I am similarly skeptical that references to Christian faith are somehow sufficient to demonstrate someone’s sincerity or goodness. As I have argued elsewhere (Butterworth, 2013), sports media narratives about Christian athletes tend to assert “faith” as an inherently positive value without examining anything about the religious commitments connected to that faith. Again, whether Hill is a devout Christian or not isn’t the point; rather, it is that she uses the biblical reference to imply that her actions are necessarily grounded in a moral authority. Sam Coonrod was even more explicit, declaring that he could not bring himself to kneel because, “I’m a Christian” (quoted in Gartland, 2020). Once again, this references an act that is out of step with other members of the team, but the reference to faith claims an identification with the overwhelming majority of the population. It may result in a smattering of critical comments that quickly diminish, but it hardly presents an argument on behalf of democratic engagement.

Part of the problem is a false equivalency embedded in Kurtz’s argument. Whether intentional or not, he relies on an assumption that all public acts and expressions are equally free and subject to scrutiny. That might apply in a Habermasian “ideal speech situation” (Habermas, 1970, p. 367), but is historically untenable in the history of the United States. Rachel Hill is a white woman, largely protected by privilege, who defended her actions by appealing to two of the most obvious institutions of power in the United States, and yet were are supposed to worry that her discomfort with some criticism is tantamount to her being “suffocated” by advocates of social justice? Kurtz suggests that my commitment to “unity as contingent and provisional” (p. 466) reveals a theoretical naivete. Yet, in Hill we are led to believe that her identity and individuality are so under attack that we can now equate her purportedly marginal status with those suffering racial injustice. Now who’s being naïve?

To be clear, Rachel Hill appears to have suffered little in terms of consequence. Yes, there were some criticisms of her decision to remain standing. Yet, her teammates were not among those who questioned her beliefs, the NWSL publicly supported the players’ right to individual forms of expression, and the Chicago Red Stars happily retained her services. Part of the reason for this, I would suggest, is that Hill is able to operate within the discursive spaces enabled by the institutions of power with which she aligns herself. Citing the military and Christianity are available resources for her as a white woman affirming the “universal” value of patriotism. It is a strategic option. Advocates for social justice, meanwhile, must navigate that strategic terrain using an array of tactics. As Michel de Certeau theorizes, “strategies are able to produce, tabulate, and impose these spaces, when those operations take place, whereas tactics can only use, manipulate, and divert these spaces” (1984, p. 30). Ivie (2005) draws upon de Certeau’s framework to further clarify the rhetorical practices of dissent, which he argues are “situated and more or less momentary, smaller rather [than] larger in scope, ongoing and neither determined nor especially predictable but always involving considerations of timing and other rhetorical tactics” (p. 282). In other words, arguing an equivalence between Hill’s experience and those against whom she stands fails to account for the fundamental inequality that shapes their experiences from the outset. Kurtz would have us fear that Rachel Hill’s voice has no space—even though she freely spoke, endured only mild criticism, and then moved on with her life and career. Meanwhile, the NFL proudly announces its support for Black Lives Matter and Colin Kaepernick is still out of a job.

Joining the Call for Agonistic Democracy

“Welcome to the party, pal!”—John McClane (Gordon et al., 1988)

Academic disputes are often peculiar. Scholars who largely agree on the big picture can find any number of finer points of distinction around which to foster a debate. I think it’s clear that Kurtz and I share a number of principles—both rhetorical and political—and that our disagreements are based in seeking credible ways of assessing dissent and its limits. There is one thing about which we certainly agree. Kurtz concludes at one point that, in a democracy, “We must choose sides” (p. 13). This is a central premise of agonistic democracy, perhaps best articulated by Chantal Mouffe. As she clarifies, any democratic engagement requires an “us” and a “them.” The problem lies in the persistent belief that this division, and the conflicts it provokes, can somehow be eradicated. Mouffe suggests that a more productive approach “requires accepting that conflict and division are inherent to politics and that there is no place where reconciliation could be definitively achieved as the full articulation of the unity of ‘the people’” (2000, pp. 15–16).

Yes, we must choose sides, a position I think is far more evident in my original essay than is acknowledged. So, welcome to the party, I say, I’m glad to have Dr. Kurtz on the team. But if we are choosing sides, then we need to be clear that they are not equally matched. Although I see no reason for Rachel Hill to “punished” in any way (and, no, I give no credence to any appeal to the manufactured outrage of “cancel culture”), I also see no reason to view her as uniquely deserving of praise or sympathy. As I have briefly detailed above, and more comprehensively discussed in my original essay, I find little cause for concern about the institutional stability of the military or Christianity. If I am apt to roll my eyes at Hill, it is not because of an adherence to a “totalizing logic” (Kurtz, 2020) that insists on achieving social justice in a particular way. It is, instead, because the stakes are considerably lower for her than they are for the athletes who have risked their careers and made substantive sacrifices. Rachel Hill is no Maya Moore.

Hill is, of course, a minor player in a much larger drama. If we focus our attention on those with more substantial power and resources to either preserve or challenge our political order, I am even less conflicted. My essay addressed the exercise of authority by those who most possess it: sports leagues, team owners, media. If activist athletes are guilty of advancing a rhetoric of dissent that promotes “unity,” it is because they must do so as a tactical exercise that can only contest power in fragmented and temporary ways. This is not “totalizing”; rather, it is an exercise of “unity as contingent and provisional” (Butterworth, 2020, p. 466). From this point of view, I am not hesitant to choose sides. Kurtz (2020) asks near the end of his essay, “Is there something easy about chastising Robert Kraft and Jerry Jones and praising Angel McCoughtry and Nneka Ogwumike?” (p. 15). Yes, there is, and there is nothing tinted about saying so.