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2 Respect

‘We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man’s mind.’

– Captain Beatty in Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

As with so many constitutional dispensations, South Africa’s democratic lexicon is largely defined by words that, historically and philosophically, flow from freedom – the greatest ideal of them all. Examples include accountability, transparency, excellence, responsibility, dignity and negotiation, as well as phrases like ‘separation of powers’, ‘office of the president’, ‘rule of law’ and so on.

In practice, though, these words and phrases often take on other, less traditional connotations. As political rhetoric is the centrifugal force around which public discourse revolves, it usually plays a determining role in shaping the meaning associated with those words. In South Africa, the influence of the ANC has been hegemonic in its depth and breadth.

The ANC’s formal political ideology is difficult to define. It is, in the grand sense, a racial nationalistic movement – that is, it places at the heart of its political philosophy group identity and the groups it uses to define these differences are racial in nature. In turn, it sees itself as the one true representative of the black majority.

But the problem with racial identity is that, to advocate its interests one must define it. And therein lies the ANC’s primary problem: it is prone to archetypes and stereotypes in equal measure because, in truth, no two people are alike and while race might influence an individual’s identity, it neither determines it nor does that influence manifest uniformly. It is experienced and interpreted differently by each person.

But there are informal influences on the ANC’s ideology too: patriarchy, collectivism and socialism, for example. And the party’s belief it alone knows and speaks ‘the truth’ can be so rigid as to be disturbing. President Zuma, speaking at a memorial for Moses Kotane in March 2015 said, ‘Moses Kotane had a scientific approach [to Marxism-Leninism] and if you take that approach, you never go wrong. We are dealing with science … knowledge obtained through observation critically tested and brought under one principle. So if you talk about Marxism-Leninism, you are talking about people who never go wrong because you are practising science and do not wake up every day to say here [there’s something wrong] ...’

That is the sentiment of a man who believes his party alone is able to claim ownership over right and wrong, one that is not just ideologically superior but morally too. That sort of fundamentalist thinking represents the gateway through which tyranny will quickly step. It also demonstrates that the ANC’s leadership is not in the business of debate or the contestation of ideas, but rather hegemonic control and the imposition of its will.

Zuma himself is a powerful influence on the ANC when it comes to traditional beliefs. He holds several religious and cultural convictions that often run contrary to the values and principles that define the Bill of Human Rights and the constitution, within which it resides. Examples are his many and varied statements that the ANC is sanctioned by God or that same-sex marriage is ‘a disgrace to the nation and to God’.

All of these things come together in a messy amalgam of political impulses that often act to influence South Africa’s democratic lexicon for the worse, subverting both meaning and consequence. As a result, the meaning of many constitutional principles and values that exist both on paper and in philosophical memory differs both subtly and fundamentally from their practical interpretation.

So, we generally live in an ongoing and profound contradiction, one that is unstated and unexamined. The assumption is that meaning is shared. The reality is that these words are often fraught with ambiguity and contradiction, and therefore much confusion follows.

This essay seeks to look at just one such word in some detail – the word ‘respect’ – and to examine how the different political and cultural influences it is subjected to mean that it holds in the South African mind a number of different and often contradictory meanings, generally resulting in much confusion.

Classically, this relationship between denotation and those other forces with a vested interest in meaning often results in a public contestation, one where words are debated and, over time, their meaning is refined and their fundamentals augmented in the public mind. Over many decades the natural by-product of debate is a generally accepted and common understanding.

South Africa, however, is different. The country has not enjoyed the benefit of this sort of long-standing democratic discussion and those forces at play are still locked in a war of attrition for meaning. Certainly, any discussion about them is rarely situated in a century-long historical debate about freedom and its various attributes. We live in something of a bubble where, if we aren’t discovering what democratic principles and values mean for the very first time, we debate their fundamental tenets as if they had only been discovered yesterday. The implication is that they are more negotiable than they really are.

Do not underestimate the magnitude of the power that flows from confused meaning. Culture alone can subvert the greatest constitutional imperative, simply by imposing on it its own interpretation.

There is another factor worth mentioning that also plays a significant role, and although not political in nature it is inextricably linked to culture: language itself. South Africa has 11 official languages and many more besides. But there has been little interrogation of the way in which meaning differs, sometimes subtly, sometimes profoundly, across these numerous verbal codes. What is the exact word for ‘accountability’ in Xhosa? Does ‘transparency’, in the English understanding, translate exactly into a Zulu counterpart? Does ‘dignity’ mean the same thing in Venda as it does in Afrikaans? No doubt every language contains similar ideas but subtle differences in meaning can have serious implications when it comes to technicalities of the law and human-rights philosophy.

The same applies to connotation. Does ‘arrogance’, for example, carry the same force of weight across different languages? Words might share a similar meaning but, in a different cultural context, their effect might vary profoundly. Whereas one culture or language might experience a word as a lifeless and dispassionate description, another might experience it as emotionally charged and deeply expressive of some more primal impulse.

This is an area few academics have ventured into. It would be an interesting exercise indeed to map all the core constitutional principles and values in each of the 11 official languages, and to compare and contrast connotation and denotation in each case. As it would to compare them with the way in which those ideas have been described in Western democratic discourse – possibly the greatest philosophical influence on their broader contemporary form.

The word ‘respect’ is as important a part of the South African political vocabulary as any. Certainly it is omnipresent. The reason is that it is very closely linked to self-esteem, something in short supply given the country’s brutal and degrading history. Therefore, this interrogation is not esoteric. Respect appears in South African debate almost on a daily basis. It is a touchstone idea around which a great many ongoing conversations, ostensibly about mutual respect but in reality about self-worth, take place. And so it is useful to look at the notion of respect a little more closely.

The problem is that, if one suffers from low self-esteem, the idea of respect becomes disproportionately important. It becomes a euphemism for dignity. As a result, any agency inherent to the idea is stripped away from it. You no longer earn respect; rather, you demand it. It must be given to you as a gesture. You might be a serial killer but, as the common refrain goes, ‘everyone is entitled to respect’.

That is the ANC’s general interpretation of respect. It is an understandable impulse given how rife low self-esteem is in the country, and given the cruel and inhuman circumstances that gave rise to that situation, but the fact is, if that is the meaning insisted upon, it does more harm to dignity and self-worth than good.

What, then, is the alternative understanding of the idea?

The Oxford English Dictionary, for one, does not agree with that definition. It defines respect as a ‘feeling of deep admiration for someone elicited by their qualities or achievements’. You will notice how, by that definition, respect is a consequence of action: by behaving in a manner deemed by someone to be praiseworthy or by achieving something a person might celebrate, respect is one of the results that flow from it. In other words, it must be earned.

That requires a fundamentally different attitude to human agency. It suggests that individuals are responsible for maintaining their own reputation. Now you begin to see how, when these two diametrically opposed understandings meet, a fundamental confusion is the inevitable result.

Consider the exchange below that took place on a local-radio talk show in November 2012 between a member of the public and Blade Nzimande, general-secretary of the South African Communist Party. The topic was a painting by artist Brett Murray called The Spear, which depicted President Zuma with his genitals exposed, in a Lenin-like pose. The artwork generated a huge public outcry.

Caller: … May I ask you, what do you say respect is?

Nzimande: What do I say respect is?

Caller: Yes, what does it mean?

Nzimande: Are you asking me really, seriously? Respect is not to paint me as a gang-rapist. If you want to criticise me, if I am wrong or you disagree, you are entitled to do that but to paint me as a gang-rapist … that is being disrespectful. To actually paint the president of the Republic of South Africa with his private parts …

Caller: Surely …

Nzimande: … that is disrespectful. Let me just say also what I do not like is the hypocrisy. Some of these [white people who fail to show respect] today, who appear to be democrats, at the height of the struggles against apartheid, when we were being butchered by the regime, they never marched to P.W. Botha’s house. They never marched to F.W. de Klerk’s office even. Many of them were actually enjoying the privileges of apartheid. Today they are the big ones who are talking about freedom of expression when they took cover at the time when it mattered most to actually fight against this thing.

Caller: The dictionary says respect is a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something, elicited by their abilities, qualities or achievements. So respect, to respect someone, you have to respect them for what they do or say, or the way they behave. So how can we respect certain people …

Nzimande: … No, I don’t know where you take that, I don’t agree with your dictionary, I am sorry. It’s your own dictionary. You respect a person whether you agree with him or not.

Caller: It’s in the dictionary. And we …

Nzimande: … No, no, no, don’t come and quote the Oxford English Dictionary, I’m sorry, because that is precisely the issue I am fighting. This kind of imposition of certain culture values at the complete disregard of the cultural values of the overwhelming majority of the people in this country, that’s my issue.

For the purposes of this essay, that is as rich a piece of evidence as you are likely to find. It has in it every contentious element of the thesis at hand – all of which meet in a fundamental collision over the meaning of a word that is ubiquitous. On the one hand is Nzimande, unequivocal in his belief that respect is due to the president regardless of his conduct and, on the other, the caller, who is of the view the president should earn his due. Never shall the two meet.

Respect is a word that is used every day. But it means two different things – something earned through virtuous conduct or something demanded and due regardless of behaviour, depending on who you ask. And while we spend an inordinate amount of time discussing who or what we should respect, there is precious little discussion about the word itself and whether or not we actually share a common understanding of its nature in the first place.

To dismiss this confusion as abstract theory is to profoundly misunderstand its real-life consequences. The saga of The Spear is itself a powerful illustration. For a month, South Africa tore itself apart over the painting. There were marches and, at the height of the hysteria, even a call for the artist to be stoned to death. Eventually the painting was defaced and with it the constitutional right to artistic expression was defaced too.

But there are also political consequences. One of the ideas mooted recently by the South African Communist Party is a law guaranteeing ‘respect’ for the president and protecting him from insult. KwaZulu-Natal SACP deputy chairperson, Nomarashiya Dolly Caluza, described the party’s motivation for the suggestion like this: ‘We have African values. We don’t want to see [those aspects] of foreign cultures imposed on us in South Africa. According to African values, respect is the one thing which shows you are a human being … Our president is the chairperson of the African Union [sic], he has been elected to an international education committee, but in his own country he is not respected. We are saying enough is enough. We cannot just keep quiet and let them continue doing this.’

That proposal has, so far, been confined to rhetoric. But should it ever be enacted, the result would be an Orwellian South Africa indeed. And the logic to it would be just as absurd because one can no more demand that a person feel a certain way by law than you can regulate love. People feel what they feel. Each emotion is particular to an individual, as are the triggers that elicit it, each arising from a unique set of experiences and beliefs. One cannot will respect into being by force.

Here is a thought experiment designed to illustrate the absurdity inherent in the suggestion that you can force respect onto a person. Imagine a law is passed demanding you respect the colour X. To ensure this, it prescribes you never insult that colour. If you do, you will be punished. Imagine, too, that you deeply dislike the colour X. All that law can do is control your demonstrable behaviour towards that colour by threatening you. Even if you chose to comply with it, it cannot generate inside of you an actual feeling of respect. If anything, it is likely to double your hostility towards it. For now, you are not only required to feign respect for it publicly but your feelings must be suppressed and no one reacts well to that.

The argument often offered up in response to that is that people are different from inanimate objects – they have feelings. That is true. But the moment you elevate one person’s feelings above another, you subvert individual freedom. Many people respect abhorrent ideas or despicable people – that is their right. And while you can make a case that there exists a public duty to educate and inform them otherwise through reason, evidence and argument, you nevertheless cannot deny them the right to feel that way in the first place. In fact, you cannot prevent it at all because outside of brainwashing, human emotions have a life of their own.

The assumption that you can control impulse and private conviction gives the game away. There is a word for that kind of demonstrable obsequiousness: deference. The OED defines deference as ‘polite submission and respect’. And, for many in the ANC, that is the real impetus behind such a law and its collective understanding of the idea – submission. Misused in this way, respect becomes part of the language of victimhood, devoid of agency both on the part of the person to whom it refers (who is no longer required to act in an upstanding fashion) and the person of whom it is demanded (who is required to respond like an archetype, not an individual). Certainly, that is the attitude one might expect from a king, but not an elected president. The inevitable consequence of it is some kind of censorship because at its heart is control and manipulation.

Here is another illustration: how many people out there dislike Brett Murray’s painting yet still respect the president? You can be sure there are many. The ANC seems to be of that persuasion. Likewise, how many like Murray’s painting and still respect the president? Again, no doubt many. The painting itself bears no general relationship to one’s respect for the president.

Even if it did, even if there were a selection of people whose opinion of President Zuma was so fragile that this particular depiction swayed them one way or the other, there is nothing wrong with that. And the fact that it might swing them one way or the other tells you everything.

Every day, everyone is presented with an endless stream of opinions and information, both favourable and unfavourable, and which may or may not influence the degree to which they respect a person or a set of behaviours. That is how an opinion is formed. If one were really concerned about how something disparaging, like The Spear, might influence an individual’s public standing, every damning opinion would have to be censored.

And there is another commonly used South African word, often exploited as a euphemism for censorship and intricately linked to the idea of respect: ‘offence’. To cause offence is a cardinal sin. And, again, its relationship to low self-esteem is essential if we are to understand its power. In the usual sense of the word, to offend someone is to hurt his or her feelings, nothing more. It is to leave them feeling hurt and wounded. But, together with the confused demand for respect it has been elevated to a higher, more sacred plane in South Africa. To offend someone, in practice, is more commonly understood as diminishing his or her sense of self-worth. Just as with respect, the person is seemingly reduced to a victim, unable to dismiss criticism or evaluate its veracity based on evidence. The implication is that to cause offence is to irrevocably destroy someone’s dignity.

The response has been to try to regulate the problem. It is no coincidence that the SACP’s proposed law focuses as much on banning insults as it does demanding deference. Respect and offence share an intimate relationship.

In Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury describes a world without books – where books are sought out, banned and burnt. The reason, he reveals deep into its pages, is offence. At first it started small, he writes. A minority would express outrage at a seemingly offensive opinion and, as a result, that opinion would be suppressed. So, the first pages were torn out of books. But, as soon as it became acceptable to suppress any opinion that caused offence, it quickly became apparent that for every opinion there was a minority outraged at it. And, soon, every page had to be torn from every book and in no time at all there were no books at all – the very idea of a book was revolutionary.

We are in danger of developing a hierarchy of offence in South Africa and, at the top of the pile, are those who cry loudest about their deeply held personal beliefs, regardless of their nature. They have become emboldened by this and cry louder still until no one dare speak up in opposition for fear of the resultant noise.

The truth is that an opinion, even one that is highly critical and damning of another person, is anyone’s right to hold. As with respect, it is true that the best opinions – or at least the ones that are most credible – are those informed by reason and evidence but, even here, they needn’t be. If a person oversteps the mark in their criticism and lies or defames another, the courts are there for protection. Outside of that, argument is one’s best weapon. So, it is of little surprise that societies able to engage in meaningful debate and people confident in the veracity of their own beliefs are often not weighed down by repressive and constant references to offence, in an attempt to circumvent discussion from first principles.

This conflation of the right to be judgemental and the quality of that judgement is the calling card of many the world over who wish to negate critical interrogation in the name of offence. It is a kind of bullying.

A healthy society is one constantly engaged in peer review and self-reflection. It is a static society, not a dynamic one, that outlaws such things and it is one on a sure path to stagnation. When a society loses the ability to reflect, that is fertile ground for oppression to take root.

The value of your judgement, however, and how it is received, depends on its veracity. If it is grounded in reason, based on evidence and has at its heart the desire to progress and advance thought, discussion and behaviour, it should never be dismissed, however critical the conclusion it arrives at.

The moment respect becomes a proxy for negating offence, criticism is delegitimated. Equally, the moment you start demanding respect, it has likewise lost its intended effect, because what you are really talking about is deference – you are demanding obsequiousness, and that has nothing whatsoever to do with respect. Indeed, it is the ambit of bullies and authoritarianism.

If it is respect you are after, you need to earn it. It is an unrewarding business. Ask any politician. Good behaviour does not always engender respect. But that is the only way to obtain it.

It is no coincidence that so much of the political debate around the idea of respect revolves around Jacob Zuma. He has come to embody its confusion with deference.

Zuma is perhaps South Africa’s ultimate political victim. His personal brand has been infused with the idea, from court cases to his negative portrayal in the media. And always he makes the case that he has been badly treated and suffers an unfair reputation as a result.

To counter this, the ANC often refers to the office of the president as something that demands respect, regardless of who holds that station. It is an impulse that predates Zuma by some considerable time.

Asked in an interview in 2006 why it was he disliked Tony Leon, former president Thabo Mbeki laughed and denied the suggestion. He then went on to identify a ‘banal example’ of what he deemed to be a lack of respect on the part of his counterpart. He pointed out that F.W. de Klerk, as leader of the National Party, after the 1994 election, would occupy the second bench on the opposition side of the house – in other words, the one facing the deputy president, and not Nelson Mandela, the president. Mbeki argued that this system changed with Leon.

When he became the leader of the opposition, Leon adopted the bench opposite the president – something Mbeki took as an affront and a sign of a lack of respect. He argued that this showed that the Democratic Alliance saw Mbeki first and foremost as a political rival and counterpart, and not as a president.

‘You can’t have an opposition party that does not recognise the office of the president,’ said Mbeki. ‘You can hate the president and attack him, and so on, that’s fine, but once you seek to diminish the authority of his office, the whole constitutional system can get into a serious problem.’

‘It is wrong and that is what I am saying that has bothered me about it. I have no problem with Tony Leon, I don’t dislike him whatsoever, but he needs to understand that in our constitutional setting there is such a post as the president of the republic.’

De Klerk, a nationalist himself, understood the game that Mbeki was playing. Although mortal enemies, the National Party and the ANC both spoke the same nationalistic language, and deference before authority has always been central to both. Because it is feigned, that deference must be demonstrable in some way. It must be visible to be believed. Which makes sense, because if it is not authentically felt how else can you reassure yourself that the requirement is being adhered to?

Mbeki might have couched his criticism as the description of something ‘banal’ but that cannot be easily reconciled with his assertion that ‘the whole constitutional system can get into a serious problem’. It cut Mbeki deeply that Leon did not show him what he understood to be the deference shown Mandela. That, as with Zuma’s response to The Spear, is a product of nothing other than low self-esteem.

The truth is that the office of the president is an institution, an abstraction. It is incapable of emotion or hurt. It represents a set of ideals towards which the incumbent should aspire. The incumbent does not, on assuming office, assume with it the values, principles and ideals it symbolises. At best, they can strive to uphold them. Hence the question, is this person fit to be president?

It is unfortunate that, in several fundamental ways, both presidents Mbeki and Zuma have demonstrated quite the opposite. By failing to protect and promote the principles of the office demanded of them, often acting instead deliberately to subvert them, the argument can be made it is they who have disrespected the office.

This conflation of individual and institution lies at the heart of the manner in which so much of the ANC’s formal politics subverts the idea of respect.

But one can dig deeper still. Respect for Jacob Zuma is not tied solely to his formal position. He also harbours a set of private personal cultural convictions, deeply patriarchal in nature, that inform his understanding of the idea.

In December 2013, addressing hundreds of people in Impendle, KwaZulu-Natal, Zuma told of a recent visit he had undertaken to Limpopo: ‘When I was in Venda recently I was so impressed to see how people there express respect for other people. A woman would clap her hands and even lie down to show respect. I was so impressed. If I was not already married to my wives I would go to Venda to look for a woman.’

In essence, there is no difference between Zuma’s sexist attitudes towards women and his attitude to the constitutional position he holds. He demands from women and his political opponents alike demonstrable admiration. And he is in no way responsible for maintaining or earning it. It is entirely detached from his conduct.

This confusion, then, is evident not just in our day-to-day conversations, but also in political exchanges at the heart of our democracy. Zuma, the ultimate patriarch, will often refer to women from the opposition as ntombazana (young woman/girl). It is demeaning and degrading. No doubt it irks Zuma no end that someone of the opposite sex, who should be showing him the kind of respect he saw in Venda, can take to the podium and publicly berate him for his shortcomings. And no one could have embodied that frustration for him more than Lindiwe Mazibuko, former leader of the official opposition and herself a proud Zulu. That dynamic represented the ultimate cultural insult for Zuma. So, when the ANC was not referring to Mazibuko as ntombazana, it would rubbish her dress sense or attempt to insult her weight. From Mazibuko, they expected nothing less than demonstrable and polite submission.

Mazibuko’s own definition of respect is worth noting, as it reflects the standard definition far more closely. She said in June 2013, ‘To earn our respect, he [Zuma] must deliver on the promise of employment for young people’, before elaborating, ‘I will always be polite to President Zuma, that is my job as a human being and as a parliamentarian. I will never reflect on his personal life, but what I will not do is simply respect, bow, keep my mouth shut when there is so much that he is failing to do to for the people of this country.’

Just like Nzimande and the radio caller, these two universes are never going meet halfway.

Former Sunday Times editor-in-chief Mondli Makhanya has described the ANC’s sycophantic caucus as ‘iziwengu’ – blind supporters more akin to praise singers than individuals with minds of their own. It is an apt description because that is the outcome the party pursues. All in the name of respect. And that pursuit has such a tight grip over Parliament that even the speaker has said, ‘the president is nobody’s equal here’. The irony couldn’t be thicker, for the very call for respect from the ANC is so often wrapped in the politically correct language of equality.

There is an ideal universe out there that many South Africans seem to believe can be realised. It is a world where each person is constantly shown respect and never insulted or offended, where each person is perpetually affirmed and insulated from harm in equal measure. It is as disturbing an idea as it is sad. Bradbury speaks to this egalitarian impulse in Fahrenheit 451: ‘Then all are happy,’ he says, ‘for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against.’

SACP deputy chairperson Nomarashiya Caluza makes reference to what she terms ‘African values’. One should always be wary of any principle or ideal that has before it a geographic disclaimer. What, for example, is the difference between ‘African democracy’ – another common phrase – and democracy per se? Certainly, the fundamentals cannot differ, or it would no longer be democracy. Unless it is government of the people, by the people and for the people, it represents some other kind of power arrangement and history suggests the alternatives lead to more harm than good.

The same logic applies to values. Two different cultures might well disagree on what the term ‘respect’ actually means, but that doesn’t mean they are mutually exclusive, only different. The problem comes when those different interpretations are not clearly expressed and articulated so that their meaning can be well understood and their implications plain to see.

Blade Nzimande dismissing the dictionary definition of ‘respect’ does not mean that idea ceases to exist. Nor does it mean there is no value to that particular understanding. In rejecting it, however, it is not good enough to do so out of hand. One needs to explain why it is of little help and, in turn, why the counter-interpretation is better suited.

There is a distinct lack of this kind of detail in South Africa. That is the power of political correctness. It too negates critical review. And we are the poorer for it.

It is remarkable that this deep desire for affirmation, often the result of hierarchy or position, and the belief that every person is equally virtuous exist side by side. It goes some way towards explaining the national proclivity towards authoritarianism because, if everyone is equally virtuous in their behaviour, the only way one can distinguish a hierarchy is through power and who holds it. And, at the top of that tree is the president – he who is nobody’s equal. By default, he should be due more respect than any other. It represents a profound distortion of a valuable idea.

And dignity is a person’s duty to maintain. There is a reason even the most wretched can appear dignified in the face of trauma and pain. It is a reflection of how they carry themselves, their attitude and behaviour. Kings and peasants both can be dignified in their own homes.

What is the result of this ongoing contestation? In his novel 1984, George Orwell describes ‘Doublethink’, the controlling characteristic of the state’s autocratic language. He writes: ‘Doublethink is basically the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them.’

The genius of Orwell’s invention is the counter-intuitive blow it inflicts when first you try to imagine it made real. How can one possibly believe, say, black and white to be the inverse of one another and yet the same thing? It’s a headache in the making.

In Orwell’s dystopia, the government consists of four principal departments: the Ministry of Peace (which deals with war); the Ministry of Love (torture); the Ministry of Plenty (rationing); and the Ministry of Truth (propaganda). When speaking of the one, inherent to the idea is its real, opposite nature. In 1984, the purpose of Doublethink is to regulate discontent because if troublesome words and ideas do not exist, nothing remains for unhappiness to coalesce around. And so its full and cruel effect is made evident to the reader.

It is not entirely inapplicable to South Africa. Here, this kind of contradiction is alive and well, prevalent in, and often the product of, the ANC government’s particular interpretation. Even those words whose meaning you might think too simple or fundamental to be affected have been altered in some way. Every word is a nexus for a series of competing forces, and through tortuous manipulation and uncritical assumption, black very often means white and vice versa.