In an age of mobility in which people live in multiple locations over the course of their lifetimes, Charlottesville has functioned as my second hometown. I met and married my wife there; my oldest child was born in the University of Virginia hospital, and a dogwood tree shelters the grave of another child we left behind.
Last Friday night I watched in horror as tiki-torch-carrying neo-Nazis swarmed the Rotunda. My wife and I took many late night walks there; our kids, on our frequent visits to Charlottesville, played on those steps; and I, sweaty-palmed, once defended my dissertation in its Upper East Oval Room.
Like many people who are attached to that place, I felt personally sickened and violated.
And, please, Mr. President, spare me the talk about people lawfully protesting the removal of the statue of Robert E. Lee. How we deal with our Confederate history is an important and complex question, but the young people, mostly men, trampling on the Grounds (UVA's term for the campus) on Friday night and, for that matter, the white supremacists that rolled into town on Saturday, were not there to have such a discussion. They were there to terrorize and intimidate the local population and to demonstrate the power of their movement, as the words of their own leaders attest.
While I am not a pacifist, I lean in that direction. I have a strong preference for nonviolent forms of protest, which I believe unmask the hatred and cruelty that lurks behind racist ideologies. Therefore, I was saddened by the violence that occurred, no matter the political stripe involved. But I hasten to add that condemning violence as a method of addressing society's problems is conceptually distinct from a moral judgment that people trying to protect their community from intimidation and prejudice are equivalent to the domestic terrorists who ended up killing another human being.
Of all the craven and despicable moments to which we have been witness over the last year, the president's inability to consistently and unequivocally condemn the KKK and Nazis in American streets was the nadir for me.
The specter of Nazis leads me to reference one last location, Germany, a beautiful and fascinating--though history-haunted--country where I have lived and developed strong friendships and attachments.
Despite their economic success, the German people, more than a half century after World War II, evince deep psychological scars. I have had a front-row seat, living with host families as a graduate student there, to shocking displays of anger and tearful expressions of embarrassment over the complicity of friends, neighbors and family members who made excuses for and went along with the schemes of the National Socialists. On many occasions I remember feeling sorry for these people, who were burdened by their guilt--who had opportunities to speak up and stand up to evil, but demurred.
I remembering feeling, naïvely, that, as an American, I was glad I did not have that very specific cross to bear.
My study of American democracy has led me to the conclusion that it is seriously broken. Some of the reasons are structural (perhaps a topic for a different commentary) but most are repairable, if we have the will to change.
But I believe Charlottesville is a watershed: In spite of our country's polarization, it could remind us that we can reach consensus on the importance of safeguarding our basic democratic commitment to human dignity and to civility. Or we could be swept further downstream, where President Trump seems to be leading us.
New and returning students are making their pilgrimage to UVA to begin the fall semester, but they, their parents and residents of Charlottesville are on edge and need our support. And, as my German friends have reminded me, speaking out and being counted when you can is much better than living with a lifetime of regret.
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Scott Roulier is the David Trimble Professor of Political Science at Lyon College in Batesville.
Editorial on 08/18/2017