The House Un-American Activities Committee: The Day Freedom of Expression Became a Crime

Throughout history, personal stories have been adversely affected by the acts of unjust and misguided governments. Such unjust actions are often justified for a variety of reasons, including an individual’s ethnicity, culture, gender, religion or political beliefs. This last item — political beliefs — sparked a decision that had far-reaching effects on the fabric of American society.

The date is May 26, 1938. The United States remains in a fragile state as a result of the Great Depression as its citizens watch with growing unease storm clouds gathering across Europe and Asia. But on this spring day in 1938, a war of a very different sort was being declared as the United States Congress established the House Un-American Activities Committee — a name that would in time become synonymous with fear, suspicion, and repression of free thinking.

Seeds of Suspicion

The committee’s origin grew from the genuine feelings of anxiety and concern in much of America. In the 1930s, the U.S. was a nation caught between ideologies. The rise of fascism in Europe and the spread of communist influence worldwide had many Americans wondering: who among us might harbor allegiances to a foreign power?

The committee’s original purpose seemed straightforward — to investigate any alleged disloyalty and subversive activities by private citizens, public employees, and organizations suspected of having communist or fascist ties. Reflecting the fears of their constituents, Congress believed they were creating a shield to protect American democracy from enemies within.

But what began as a tool for national security would gradually transform into something far more reaching, far more troubling, and far more destructive to the ideals of personal freedom — the freedom to think, act, and speak freely.

The Evolution of Fear

In its early years, the committee investigated various groups and individuals, though not in a way that garnered much attention. But history has a way of amplifying certain loud voices, and the committee found its loudest voice in Representative Martin Dies Jr. of Texas, who chaired it from 1938 to 1944.

Dies cast a wide net, often making sensational accusations that grabbed headlines but sometimes lacked substantial evidence.

The committee’s approach evolved with the times, and during World War II, it focused on Nazi sympathizers and fascist organizations. But as the war ended and the Cold War began, the committee’s attention shifted decisively toward communist influences.

This is when the committee truly found its dark purpose — and when it began touching the lives of ordinary Americans in ways that would forever change how we think about loyalty, dissent, and freedom.

The post-war years brought us to the era most associated with the committee’s infamy: the reign of Senator Joseph McCarthy and the broader phenomenon we now call McCarthyism. Though McCarthy himself wasn’t directly part of HUAC, the committee became a central stage for the anti-communist fervor that swept the nation.

Pencil drawing of Joseph McCarthy

Pencil Drawing of Senator Joseph McCarthy

Hollywood in the Crosshairs

Perhaps no single episode better illustrates the committee’s reach — and its tragedy — than its investigation of Hollywood. In 1947, the committee turned its attention to the film industry, convinced that communist writers, directors, and actors were using movies to spread subversive propaganda.

The hearings produced the infamous “Hollywood Ten“—writers and directors who refused to answer questions about their political beliefs and associations. These men were cited for contempt of Congress, served prison sentences, and found themselves blacklisted from working in their chosen profession.

Imagine being a screenwriter, someone whose life’s work involved crafting stories that moved audiences, only to find yourself branded as un-American for your political beliefs. The ripple effects were profound: careers destroyed, families torn apart, and an entire industry gripped by fear. Actors, writers, and directors began policing their own associations, their scripts, even their thoughts.

Pencil drawing of American screenwriter Dalton Trumbo

Pencil Drawing of American screenwriter Dalton Trumbo

This wasn’t just about Hollywood, though. The committee’s actions sent a clear message to every American: think carefully about what you believe, what you say, and whom you associate with. The very foundation of free thought and expression — pillars upon which America was built — began to crack under the weight of suspicion.

The Human Cost

The point is, history isn’t just about government policies and committees — it’s about the human stories that unfold in their wake. Teachers lost their jobs for belonging to the wrong organizations. Labor union leaders found themselves under investigation. Even librarians were questioned about the books they chose to stock.

The committee’s influence extended beyond those directly called to testify. It created what we might call a “culture of conformity” — a climate where Americans began to self-censor, to avoid controversial associations, to keep their political thoughts private. In trying to protect American values, the committee was inadvertently changing what it meant to be American.

The Reckoning

Thankfully, history has a way of (eventually) correcting course, though often at great cost. By the late 1950s and early 1960s, public opinion began to turn against the committee’s methods. The excesses became too obvious to ignore, the damage to innocent lives too severe to justify.

The committee existed until 1975, but its influence waned significantly. Court decisions began to protect the rights of those called before congressional committees. Public sentiment shifted toward valuing civil liberties over security paranoia. The very people the committee had targeted — intellectuals, artists, activists — began to speak out about their experiences.

The Long Shadow

Looking back at the House Un-American Activities Committee, we can now see it as a cautionary tale about the dangers of letting fear override our fundamental values. Historians largely view the committee’s actions as a dark chapter in American history — a time when the pursuit of security led to the trampling of civil liberties.

But here’s what makes this story particularly relevant to our times: the underlying tensions that created HUAC haven’t disappeared. Every generation faces the challenge of balancing security with freedom, of protecting society while preserving individual rights. The specific threats may change — terrorism, cyber warfare, foreign interference — but the fundamental questions remain the same.

Lessons for Today

We can only speculate how history would have unfolded had the House Un-American Activities Committee never been established. Would American society have been more open, more tolerant of dissent, more willing to engage with uncomfortable ideas? Would the civil rights movement, the anti-war protests, or the explosion of artistic expression have happened sooner?

As we navigate our own complex times, with our own fears and uncertainties, the story of HUAC whispers to us across the decades: be vigilant not just against external threats, but against the erosion of the very values that make our society worth protecting. For in the end, the greatest danger to any democracy may not come from its enemies, but from the compromises it makes with its own principles in the name of security.

Even though the House Un-American Activities Committee was disbanded nearly fifty years ago, its shadow still falls across American life, and its basic premise of persecuting people for their beliefs has seen a resurgence in America.

Back to you…

How has your personal story been influenced by some form of discrimination or persecution? Have you ever felt that it wasn’t safe to express your true feelings for fear that you would have to pay a price — a price so high that you remained silent? Do you live in a country — or have lived in a country — that is repressing freedom of thought? Sharing such stories is vital if we want personal freedom to thrive.

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Just Another (Storytelling) Day

It’s January 1st, 2021. In one sense it’s just another day, with another sunrise, and another sunset. But our embrace of the Gregorian calendar has a way of altering our perception of time, and we, therefore, perceive ourselves as having exited one year (past) while entering another (future) at the stroke of midnight. Never mind that there are 24 time zones, and so, two dozen strokes to mark the occasion. Time, like story, is never a simple contemplation.

This “out with the old, in with the new” mindset belies the fact that nothing has actually changed. The scourge of human trafficking and climate change, religious fundamentalism, radicalized racism, pandemic passivism, and sociopathic narcissism still ravage humanity and the planet. Millions strive to change this narrative, but these are very stubborn stories.

But if midnight serves as a reset button, a way to recalibrate, to turn the page and begin writing a new narrative, then it can be a redeeming process. As the year 2020 was coming to a close I spent a few days around Christmas with my family in Sweden and thought a lot about the impending stroke of midnight that would occur after my return to Portugal.

Morning View Outside Stockholm December 2020

The extended dark mornings reminded me of the dark reality humanity was dealing with. Having endured nearly four years of the worst American president in history. A man who has publicly turned his back on 7.8 billion people – yes, even his most loyal supporters – condemning the earth to decades of environmental catastrophe. Adding to the darkness, a pandemic that was long ago predicted, and yet criminally ignored, ravaged country after country. By the time midnight arrived on December 31st over 83 million would be infected, resulting in over 1.8 million coronavirus deaths.

Yet there were lights shining within the darkness, represented by stories that I had heard throughout the year. Stories from friends, family, and many strangers. Stories of loss and disappointment, of dreams that were put on hold, or cancelled altogether. Lives that had shifted from confidence to unnerving uncertainty. Yet each story contained the seed of a different future. One that appreciated the connectedness of humanity, one that cast a light on the illusion of separateness. Was darkness serving a higher purpose?

This consideration of how dark times shape us was on my mind when an email arrived from the amazing poet Silvi Alcivar, offering an insight into the nature, and the benefit, of embracing that which has always existed in our world – darkness.

“and i keep thinking about how all the darkness of these days is really showing us where there is light, who holds it, what we have to offer of our own, and how the darkness seems to have a necessary place too. the moon knows this. and the stars. and the roots wintering in earth. and the creatures no one has ever seen who live in depths of ocean humans will never touch. and the dark itself.” ~Silvi Alcivar

I studied my fellow passengers as they boarded the return flight to Lisbon. Everyone was wearing a mask, which on the one hand was reassuring, but masks hide the emotions that play a vital role in telling our in-the-moment story. I wondered why they were there, what their reason was for ignoring – as I had done – the advice of medical experts to stay home over the holidays. What did the season mean to them? How had their year been, and what stories would they create in 2021? Truth told, each of us lives within our own mystery.

And despite the safe practices required by the airline, the reality was that we were taking a risk vs staying at home. But at the same time we were choosing life. We had decided to include others as characters in our story, creating a richer narrative. That’s not a defense of the decisions we had made, just a raw explanation, and it posed a difficult question:

If we find ourselves in the midst of darkness,
how do we choose to live life?

How will you choose to live life on January 1st, after the imagined stroke of midnight sounds and we put 2020 behind us? Will you frame the new year as a new start, or a new chapter, or maybe just another day of storytelling in your exceptional, yet mysterious life?Wheat Stalk Close Up Stockholm 2020

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Aleeza Kazmi at The Moth from The Beacon School in New York City

The Moth has been hosting storytelling events for 20+ years, and the thousands of storytellers who have graced their stages are proof that every story is unique, and that the best stories come from our personal experiences.

I’ve always felt that storytelling should be a required course in high school, as it’s fundamental to how we formulate our thoughts and how we’ll express ourselves throughout our lives. I was delighted to discover this story by Aleeza Kazmi when she was still a student. (she’s a professional storyteller now)

Children of color often deal with issues related to identity when they’re growing up, and in this story, Aleeza recalls such an incident from when she was just six years old. Beyond her particular circumstances, it’s a narrative which speaks to the courage we sometimes need in order to express the fact that we are proud of who we are.

Transcript

So I’m six years old and I’m in the first grade and I’m sitting at a table with my three best friends and we’re all really similar. We all wear the same clothes from the children’s place that our mom’s by us, and we play on the monkey bars during recess and we play house underneath the playground at St. Catherine’s Park, which was behind our elementary school. All of our names start with A, there is Anna, Amanda, Ashia, and Aleeza. We’re working on self portraits, and this is sort of an icebreaker project of the first grade. My teacher, Ms. Harrington, presented it as a way to get to know each other’s faces. These were gonna be hung up on the wall, and I was really excited because we were on our third day of self portraits and we were going to color them in finally.

I was super excited about this because my mom had bought me a coloring book over the summer and I learned how to color inside the lines. I learned all these, yeah, really excited about that, and I learned all these really cool techniques for how to draw properly. I was basically young Picasso and I was ready to show off my skills to my friends. I knew this was an extremely special project because Ms. Harrington had brought out oil pastels. Every table got one box, and every box had one of each color. I love oil pastels because I used there really soft, and so I used to take them and pinch them between my fingers and feel them melt into my skin almost. Because there’s one of each color in every box you had to be patient and wait for your color to not be used, and the color I wanted was being used.

I was ready to color in my face, and all of my friends had colored in their face peach, and since we were all the same girl, I figured I would use peach as well. So finally, peach was available, and I color in my face and I’m going slowly and I’m watching the oil pastel melt into the paper and I color inside the lines. It’s beautiful, and I look down and this self portrait, this girl I had just drawn, is exactly how I see myself. It’s like I’m looking into a mirror, and I’m proud, and I feel Ms. Harrington, my teacher, looking over my shoulder, and I get really excited because Ms. Harrington loved it when people drew well. And I was like, she’s gonna say to me that she’s gonna hang it above her desk, so that when people came in, they knew that I drew this amazing portrait.

I was getting ready for her to compliment me, and instead she looks down and she says, “Aleeza, that’s not your color.” And I’m confused by this cuz I don’t understand how colors can belong to people. So I start panicking and I’m like, Was I not supposed to use oil pastels? You know, did I do something wrong? What did I do wrong? I couldn’t figure it out, and I couldn’t find a way to ask her.

She didn’t explain further, she just grabbed the oil pastel box and started looking through it. Didn’t find the color she was looking for. So she went to the crayon bin. Now, every elementary school had this infamous crayon bin where little bits and pieces of broken of crayon that were unwrapped and disgusting and mixed together over years and years and years and never went away.

And I never used crayons. I always used markers or color pencils or something. But Ms. Harrington went to the crayon bin, and she’s rummaging through it, and she pulls out this crayon, and it’s this nub of a brown crayon that’s unwrapped and gross. Ms. Jill Harrington hands it to me and she says, “Lisa, this is your color.”

I still don’t understand it because how can colors belong to people? But I can’t figure out a way to ask her, and so I take it and she tells me to color in my face, and so I do. But crayon and oil pastel don’t mix together and they’re not friends and they don’t wanna be on the same page together. So I’m pushing in this crayon and I’m going in all different directions and trying to make it mix with the peach, but it’s not doing it.

I’m coloring outside of the lines now and I’ve colored into my eye and my lips and now’s red on my chin. I’m panting, and Anna, Ashia and Amanda are all staring at me and I’m embarrassed. When I’m done, I look down and I’m this grotesque monster that can’t decide if it wants to be peach or brown. I wanna scream at Ms. Jill Harrington, “Please do not hang this up, I’ll do it again. I’ll do it your way this time.”

But she grabs my self portrait before I’m able to say anything, and she puts it into the pile with all of my even tone, beautiful peach friends, and it’s hung up on the wall. I go home that night and I ask my mom, “Why am I not allowed to be peach?” And she explains it to me as well as a mother can to a six year old who’s going through an identity crisis.

You know, I’m not peach and your dad isn’t peach. She does her best, but I still don’t understand it, and I don’t wanna ask her cuz I don’t wanna sound stupid, cuz everyone else seems to understand this concept of color, but I cannot wrap my head around it. So I put this idea on a shelf and I don’t think about it again until the sixth grade when I’m in a new school, and we’re all asking each other questions like, “Where did you go to elementary school and what’s your favorite book?” Just trying to get to know each other a little bit, and this one boy comes up to me and he asks me, “What race are you?” Which might be a complex question. Some people, they can’t look at me and know what race I am.

I didn’t know what race I was because I never really thought about it, so I’m trying to look for an answer. I think back to this Jill Harrington and that brown nubby crayon, and I tell him, “I’m brown.” And he looks at me, and he’s so confused, and he says, “What do you mean you’re brown? Brown isn’t a race.”

I find the words finally and they come up, and this little six year old me inside is screaming, and then now I’m screaming and I’m saying, “Who are you to tell me what I am? If I say I’m brown, then I’m brown and deal with it.”

So this boy never spoke to me again, which is fine, because I finally found the words and was able to stand up for myself.

Watch Aleeza’s video, make some notes about what impressed you, then read the manuscript and watch again. You’ll see and hear it differently the 2nd time around. You will also notice a bit of editing. To avoid the talk from reading as a run-on sentence, the word ‘and’ was removed in several places.

[Note: all comments are my opinions, not those of the speaker, or The Moth, or anyone else on the planet. In my view, every story is unique, as is every interpretation of that story. The sole purpose of these posts is to inspire storytellers to become better storylisteners and to think about how their stories can become more impactful.]

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Interviewing From a Historical Perspective

The process of crafting an impactful story often begins with identifying events and insights from your life’s journey, but such stories become more compelling and diverse when they include the experiences of others, as additional voices will broaden and deepen the narrative landscape, allowing audience’s to better understand the point you’re proposing, or the lessons you have learned.

One way to do this is by interviewing people who can offer listeners/readers a perspective that expands beyond yours. As with the disciplines of writing and speaking, interviewing is an art form that one must study and practice. When clients ask me how to conduct interviews I steer them to the On Being podcast, hosted by Krista Tippett.

Her interviews with renowned scholars, writers, poets, scientists, and religious leaders explore the most fundamental and profound questions. What does it mean to be human? How do we want to live? And who will we be to each other? If you’re looking to sharpen your storytelling skills, consider this podcast is an interviewing masterclass.

The podcast recently replayed a timely episode recorded on November 17, 2016: This History is Long; This History Is Deep – it’s an interview with Isabel Wilkerson. By reading the transcript while listening you can identify when Krista is diving deeper into a particular topic, or moving their conversation into new territory.

…our country is like a really old house. I love old houses. I’ve always lived in old houses. But old houses need a lot of work. And the work is never done. And just when you think you’ve finished one renovation, it’s time to do something else. Something else has gone wrong. ~ Isabel Wilkerson

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95,000 Names – 95,000 Stories

Traditions are an essential element of every culture. Merriam-Webster defines the term as “the handing down of information, beliefs, and customs by word of mouth or by example from one generation to another without written instruction.” Stories, in other words. But not just spoken, as humans are prone to create celebrations based on these stories. Such is the case with Pride Month.

The Christopher Street Liberation Day March took place on Sunday, June 28, 1970, one year after the Stonewall Uprising, and provided the sparks that would ultimately ignite the LGBTQ+ movement for equality. In subsequent years gay pride marches and parades would spread to cities across the United States and throughout the globe. The number of events continued to increase rapidly, and in 1999 President Bill Clinton declared June as “Gay & Lesbian Pride Month.”

The modern version of Pride events are largely celebratory, but a remembrance of those who lost their lives to the AIDS epidemic remains a solemn component. Some five decades later, the month of June 2020 has become a focal point for many others whose lives tragically ended before their time, as COVID-19 deaths approach half a million and protesters take to the streets with voices raised in support of Black Lives Matter, protesting to eliminate extreme police violence.

With Pride events cancelled this year due to the virus, it felt as though origin stories which were threads of the tradition would fail to find a public voice. But last week The Kitchen Sisters broadcast an insightful podcast episode that told one of these stories – 95,000 Names: Gert McMullin, Sewing the Frontline.

Aids Quilt in Front of Washington Monument

Photo by National Institutes of Health, Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported (CC BY-SA 3.0)

As with any tradition, the efforts of many people comprise the narrative threads, yet most contributors remain behind the scenes and their story fades over time. Thankfully, the story of Gert McMullin lives on.

In 1985, Gert McMullin was one of the first San Franciscans to put a stitch on the AIDS Quilt, the quilt that began with one memorial square in honor of a man who had died of AIDS, and that now holds some 95,000 names. Gert never planned it this way, but over the decades she has become the Keeper of the Quilt and has stewarded it, repaired it, tended it, traveled with it and conserved it for some 33 years now. Gert knows the power of sewing.

A beautiful story that spans decades, connects two pandemics, and exemplifies the generosity of humans who pour their heart into the lives of strangers.

In 2020, when COVID-19 hit, Gert was one of the first Bay Area citizens to begin sewing masks – PPE for nurses and health care workers who were lacking proper protection – masks she makes from fabric left over from the making of the AIDS Quilt. The comfort, outrage and honoring of an earlier pandemic being used to protect people from a new one.

As I reflect on the month of June 2020 I’m most grateful for the many traditions seeking equality across racial, gender, and sexual boundaries – boundaries that are false, yet harmful constructs born of discrimination. The question at hand is how our personal narratives can be allies to such noble endeavors. How indeed.

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