Michael Bronski

Truly remarkable. Whitlock and Bronski take on one of the more seething social issues of all time and attempt to solve it in under 150 pages. In my opinion they don't quite succeed, but this should not detract from the power or nobility of their effort.

The authors present a convincing argument that our knee-jerk tendency to frame certain violent acts as "hate crimes" obscures the larger picture: that existing power structures and pervasive human flaws engender, nurture and feed such acts -- show more and that what is needed in order to make things better is not MORE punishment, MORE incarceration and MORE suffering, but an emphasis on healing and an acceptance of our own responsibilities. This last will, I expect, be the most difficult to accomplish.

I particularly enjoyed how this book managed to be both dispassionate (on a passion-inducing topic) and razor-sharp. On the down-side, there are longeurs in Considering Hate, which is a bit odd considering its brevity, but I think this is due to the fact that the emphases are somewhat out of balance. The material on the depiction of hate in culture (and especially film) is interesting, but there is perhaps too much of it, and not enough of the "well, how do we change things?" -- at least on a practical level. Whitlock and Bronski all but hand things off to the reader and tell him/her to figure it out.

Make no mistake, though. This is a book to lend. I am just greedy, and wanted more. show less

A Queer History of the United States is an insightful and engaging exploration of LGBTQ+ history in America, shedding light on many often overlooked aspects of the queer experience. Bronski does an excellent job of tracing the roots and evolution of queer culture in the U.S., from colonial times through to the present day. The book touches on crucial moments in history, highlighting the struggles, resistance, and resilience of the queer community, often in the face of social invisibility and show more oppression.

The challenge of sourcing material about LGBTQ+ individuals in a time when many were forced to live in secrecy is not lost on the author, and it’s one of the book's strengths. Given that much of queer history was undocumented or hidden due to societal pressures, it’s impressive how Bronski has brought these voices and experiences to the forefront. The book serves as a reminder that historical erasure is a deeply ingrained issue, but one that can be corrected through diligent research and storytelling.

While I have read other books on similar subjects that I personally preferred on the subject, this one still offers valuable perspectives that enrich our understanding of queer history in the U.S. It does a great job of drawing connections between past and present struggles, reminding us of the importance of acknowledging these histories to move forward.

A common phrase we hear about history is that we must learn it to avoid repeating past mistakes. But as we look at the political climate today, one might wonder: What lessons can we take from this history to help us navigate our current moment? As we face ongoing challenges to LGBTQ+ rights and freedoms, perhaps this book encourages us to reflect on the ways in which history repeats itself, not just in the form of political opposition, but in the continued fight for visibility, acceptance, and equality. What can we learn from the resilience of the past to strengthen our own resistance in today’s world? A Queer History of the United States offers a valuable foundation for those seeking to understand the complexities of our shared history and what it might teach us moving forward. show less

Considering Hate is a meditation on restorative justice—that justice that “seeks to replace the adversarial nature of legal proceedings with a survivor-centered focus on the harm that has been done,” that allows “those who do harm [to] acknowledge the full impact of their actions, and agree to make amends or repair the harm to the extent possible.” In other words, restorative justice is about abandoning vengeance as the model for healing the wounds of those who are wronged.

Hatred show more is a consequence not a cause, they assert. More than half the text is devoted to expanding on that simple, but surprisingly novel idea. The authors explore the nature of hate and haters and how politicians and others in powerful positions exploit fear to gain and hold on to power—and how that fear cripples justice. The implication is that human nature is itself a collaborator in the unfairness that permeates our society: “People have always more easily motivated themselves and others through fear than through positive visions of change,” they write. Their history and analysis of hatred includes a careful and illuminating examination of a changing American culture and how it has been expressed in film and influenced by shifts in political power.

Whitlock and Bronski make several points that inspire me to revise my thinking. For one, they have reframed for me the meaning of “public lands.” I have othered “the government”—separated myself from it—for so long that I have forgotten the obvious: public lands belong to the people—to me and my family and my friends and all those people who shop at my grocery store and everyone who sends their children to the school near my house.

This point is intimately related to another very important one, that “privatizing public holdings and services” stifle the collective rights of ordinary citizens—you, me, us! Would I be so complacent if they were to seize my front yard? I’m not referring to eminent domain, where my land is put to use for the good of my wider community; I’m talking about selling my land to someone who has greater financial resources than I have so that they can profit from it. (The notion that the benefit will eventually “trickle down” to me has lost its shine; even those who use the argument have become aware of its transition from a not-too-well-thought-out welfare strategy to a sly power ploy.)

As an example, the authors relate the case of Pinochet’s 1973 seizure of control of Chile’s government from legally elected socialist Allende. Supported by a US government fearful of a trend toward nationalizing natural-resource extraction industries (such as mining and oil), Pinochet authorized a group of young Chileans who had studied free-market economics at the University of Chicago to design and implement a new economic policy for Chile. The end result, write Whitlock and Bronsky, was “dismantling labor unions, reducing wages, making draconian cuts in public employment, and privatizing public holdings and services.” And, “the result was a highly effective engine of upward redistribution, transferring public resources to private hands and encouraging the accumulation of wealth by a few at the expense of others.

In this era when the redistribution of wealth is a major political issue, this term—upward redistribution—called my attention to the very important fact that redistribution is not just about taking from the rich and giving to the poor. There exists a mirror image. Seizing public assets with the supposition that people who already have more are better equipped to use it properly is simply taking from the poor and giving to the rich. It’s not a new notion, but rather somewhat reminiscent of the model of European colonization. During the nineteenth century, in search of more land for crops and pastureland to feed Western civilization, European colonists seized real estate in distant lands, where they systematically murdered the people they found living there and using it in common freehold. One such British “farmer” was reported to have said that exterminating the locals was a shame, but necessary since they didn’t know how to put their land to good use and interfered with those who did.

The solutions the authors propose suggest a balance that can be accomplished through mob accountability, or collective responsibility, as Whitlock and Bronsky term it—no small task in a litigious American culture, where admitting error or wrongdoing results in swift action to correct your sin by legalistic economic ruin.

Philosopher Hannah Arendt, they point out, wrote that our common humanity “has the very serious consequence that in one form or another men must assume responsibility for all crimes committed by men and that all nations share in the onus of evil committed by all others.”

“Responsibility must be separated from punishment,” these authors write. “To do so opens new understandings of collective moral engagement and agency rooted in an ethic of interdependence rather than of retribution. . . . Rather than emphasizing guilt and blame, public focus might usefully shift to such concepts as societal accountability, healing, and redress.”

Considering Hate is an important contribution to the body of literature that calls us to examine our thinking about violence and vengeance as a path to a better society—the notion that a bigger war is the remedy for war—and to consider the common-sense approach of abandoning revenge as a viable tactic in addressing injustice, poverty, and all the other ills of human society. show less

The authors make a compelling case against using a "hate" framework to understand violence and justice in American culture.

When we blame "hate" for violence, we focus on individual wrongdoers rather than larger social, economic, and political structures that encourage violence. We also let ourselves off the hook as we focus on those "hateful" individuals rather than on our collective responsibility for these larger problems.

They contend that such a frame entrenches the dominant American show more thinking about violence and justice in 4 crucial ways:

1) Enemy Orientation...thinking of the Other as the enemy;

2) Supremacist assumptions...some people are better and more important and more worthy than others;

3) Unregulated markets and consumer commodification...which reduces people and justice to commodities;

4) Individualism...repudiates interdependence and shared responsibility.

Rather than focus on these hurtful and counterproductive ideas, the authors champion a reimagining of violence, goodness, and justice that emphasizes interdependence and the radical embrace of the neighbor.

Whitlock's and Bronski's ideas are a refreshing alternative to what we typically hear in the American mass media. They are particularly useful to help us rethink violence and justice during a time when criminal justice reform is getting more and more attention.

If you are looking for further insight in how we can better think about violence, goodness, and justice, you'll appreciate this book. show less