Recently, this newspaper published the most recent in a long line of articles assailing the idolatry of the University’s founder, Thomas Jefferson. The article posited that we must acknowledge the role slavery played in the inception of this University, and, by extension, permanently illuminate Jefferson’s enduring hypocrisy, which chagrins us and which we constantly attempt to mitigate. The Monticello website — under the “Property” heading — works to couch Jefferson’s slave ownership in apologetic terms: he was a benevolent slave master, it affirms, though he “did not always succeed in ‘lessening the violence of slavery.’” Further down, it lists “reasons” as to why Jefferson failed to free his slaves, none of which make mention of his moral cowardice, and the fundamental incongruence between his maximalist rhetoric on individual liberty and his complacency in the face of institutionalized oppression, a complacency shared by a great majority of his countrymen at the time. Jefferson was quite literally a revolutionary thinker — but ultimately he was only a man. It is a disservice to his legacy, and his ideals, to attempt to deify him.
The tradition laid down by Jefferson should serve as a foundation for moral and social progress: it was a product of its time, and should not be ascribed contemporary relevance. Our University’s love affair with tradition lends to a desire to justify Jefferson’s actions at all costs for fear that to defame his character would invalidate the Enlightenment ideals he so aptly espoused. Mr. Jefferson owned over 600 slaves in his lifetime. By the standards of the day, this was neither uncommon nor controversial, yet a man of Jefferson’s intellect could not help but see his own hypocrisy; yet Jefferson’s apathy in the face of circumscription of personal liberties does not diminish the validity of his sentiments on said liberties, ideals which undergird this University. We must dispel the myth in favor of the man, and see Jefferson not as morally exemplary but as a deeply flawed, albeit insightful, man.
Examples of the transgressions of notable historical figures, particularly those involved in the founding or freedom of nations, are notoriously difficult to find. Autobiographies tend to become, in the words of one New York Times reporter, “carefully constructed literary creation[s]” that present the figure as an idol, a collection of flattering anecdotes that perpetuate a one-dimensional conception of the human being behind his or her ideas. Mahatma Gandhi, who came to be the living embodiment anti-imperialism and passive resistance, had warped views about female sexuality that some argue have contributed to India’s persistent and sordid misogyny, made most manifest in the harrowing frequency of rape and sexual assault. Mother Teresa, whose name is universally connoted with altruism, was a firm believer in the suffering of the ill, “like Christ on the Cross.”
These people have been reduced, in the public eye, to one-dimensional concepts — a soundbite. Liberty. Nonviolence. Selflessness. One-word characterizations that do not lead to uncomfortable cognitive dissonance. It is convenient to think there existed people so taken with their life’s work, their praiseworthy ideals, that they in a sense belonged to them, and transcended the vagaries of brutish humanity to become what they eventually gained notice for.
Can we internalize the ideas forwarded by Jefferson — considered notions of religious liberty and equality of opportunity — while acknowledging his dire callousness? We can — but we must be careful not to conflate the value of his ideas with that of his person. He was an intelligent man, but not a wholly good one, and his refusal to free his slaves seems particularly egregious when juxtaposed with his views on the fundamental rights of those he saw as truly human (read: not everyone).
Reconciling complex humanity, with its vacillations and blemishes, with an abstract good is complicated: we must somehow both pay tribute to the latter while recognizing the problems in the former. We cannot live in ignorance of the misdeeds of well-thinking men, yet we cannot disregard their work for it; we must only avoid confusing the merit of an idea, or an artwork, for that of a man or woman.
It is tough to concede terrible people can do, or think of, good things. But humans are complex: atrocities were carried out by men who deeply cared for their families, and non-violent movements were orchestrated by a man who largely neglected his. It would be most convenient to live in a world in which we could draw neat lines between the good and bad, and categorize people into the one or the other. Yet in this muddled and discordant world, no such binary will ever exist, and so we must take what has merit, knowing that evil will persist in spite of it, hoping there will be less in the future.
Tamar Ziff is a Viewpoint writer.
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