Deontological

 The New York Times ran a piece today noting that social media—a landscape that was full of calls to action and the budding Resistance after 2016—is now eerily quiet, in the wake of a second Trump victory. The article quotes one influencer on one of the platforms who has observed this phenomenon: "I’ve seen posts from multiple people I follow, people who are like, ‘I literally used to have so much to say, and I have nothing. I got nothing today.'"

It's partly that we've used up the rhetoric of warning at this point. We've spent eight years saying: you have to take Trump's threats seriously! He wants to become a dictator! Look at his behavior! Listen to his words!" And still, people didn't listen. Or, more troubling still—maybe they did listen, and they liked what they heard. So now, what else is there to say? We've shot our bolt. We have no more warnings to add. "We've talked our extinction to death," as Robert Lowell once wrote. 

The Times article also hypothesizes that Democrats feel chastened. Since the election wasn't even close—since it was such a blowout for Trump, and Harris appears to have lost even the popular vote—it's hard to get people excited to go out and protest. There is no underlying sense this time around that somehow we represent the true majority of the country. Instead, we see all too clearly now that liberals are the minority. We are "a stranger and afraid," to borrow a phrase from A.E. Housman. 

But I, oddly enough, have not had this reaction. I have not felt chastened. I have not gone silent. If anything, I've been uncorked. I suddenly have things to say again. I fell silent all of last week, during the run up to the election. I had nothing to say or add then. It just felt like all I could do was hold my breath and wait for the result. Now that it's come, and it's worse than I feared, I have all the pent up words in the world to share. Now is the time to speak. Now is the time to fight!

I guess I don't feel chastened because I never actually believed we were in the majority in the first place. I never thought that we somehow had the silent populace on our side. I always knew that caring about human rights is the minority position. It always has been. This is not because people are evil or uncaring; it's just that most people don't base their politics on issues that mostly affect vulnerable minorities. So, of course, caring about those issues puts you in the minority. 

The reason to care about human rights—and keep fighting for them—has never been because they are the majority position. It has never been because they will make you popular. To the contrary, the reason to do it is because it is the right thing to do. To quote a friend, it's deontological. You should do it for its own sake. 

I was reading Jean Anouilh's version of Antigone last night. In my post-election mood, it seemed right to turn to tales of courage and resistance in the face of tyranny. In Anouilh's twentieth century reinterpretation of the ancient drama, he has Creon confront his niece in one scene by asking her: why would you go back to try to bury your brother yet again, even when you know we will uncover him again, and you will be executed? Why do something so futile and Sisyphean? 

And she replies, in effect, that she will do it because it is the right thing to do. "One must do what one can," she says. Even knowing that she will fail, even knowing that she will pay with her life for the act, she will do it anyway. 

That's why we should keep fighting for human rights, no matter what happens. It's not because the majority is with us. It probably isn't. It's not because the arc of the universe bends toward justice. It probably doesn't. It's not because we are sure of ultimate success. We certainly aren't. It's because it's the right thing to do! It's deontological. It's because: "One must do what one can." 

So let us go be Antigones—covering the grave even when we know full well it will be uncovered again in a few days. Let us do it because it's right!