Outside the County Administration Building in Dallas, tourists dodge in and out of traffic on Elm Street to get a photo with the large, white “X” that’s painted on the asphalt. The “X,” whose painter remains anonymous, marks the exact spot where John F. Kennedy and his presidency were cut down by a bullet.
Americans memorializing the assassination is a given, but the bullet that ended Kennedy’s life completely shifted the way the country recalls his presidency. He is not remembered for his failed invasion of Cuba or for having increased American involvement in the Vietnam War. On the contrary, he has become a romantic symbol for simpler, more innocent times.
Kennedy is not the only American hero retroactively cleansed of sin. America sanitizes its own history to be devoid of blemish. This molding of historical narrative into mythology has become an essential tool in propagating unquestionable patriotism and loyalty to the status quo.
Like Kennedy, when Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down five years later, the nuance of his place in history died with him. Once a transgressive figure who stood against capitalism and called riots “the language of the unheard,” King’s memory has since become a fable promoting the image of a peaceful America.
When George Floyd was murdered by police in 2020, ensuing protests caused billions of dollars worth of property damage. Then-presidential candidate Joe Biden labeled the protests an affront to the legacy of King, saying, “Rioting is not protesting … Violence will not bring change, it will only bring destruction.” However, King’s definition of violence differed.
“A life is sacred,” King said. “Property is intended to serve life, and no matter how much we surround it with rights and respect, it has no personal being.” He made a distinction between violence against property and violence against people: the former was a justifiable means to an end, and the latter was inexcusable. By sterilizing the legacy of King, figures of authority can weaponize his image against any unsanctioned form of protest in opposition to the status quo.
This is not to say there have been no progressive attempts at showing the complexity of American history, but even those have fallen victim to the pitfalls of mythologizing. The musical “Hamilton” has become famous for its diverse cast and left-leaning politics, casting Black and Latino actors to play the founding fathers. However, in trying to give patriotism an inclusive bent, the musical wound up creating a new and misleading version of historical sanitizing.
“I winced for two hours as slave traffickers and owners like Hamilton, George Washington and members of Gen. Schuyler’s family were portrayed as abolitionists,” playwright Ishmael Reed wrote. In fact, Reed loathed “Hamilton” so much that he wrote his own play to reveal the inaccuracies of the musical and the ugly truths behind many of the men that “Hamilton” romanticized.
With the failure of popular media to accurately portray the complexities of history, the burden falls on U.S. museums. Centers like the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture and the Whitney Plantation have taken strides to address the ugly roots of American history, putting the horrors of chattel slavery on full display for the public to see. For this, they are being punished.
In a recent executive order, President Donald Trump declared his intent to rid the Smithsonian of “improper ideology.” Now, any exhibit deemed critical of American history is at risk of being removed. Likewise, the federal government has terminated $55,000 in grant money that was to be sent to the Whitney Plantation. The Institute of Museum and Library Services explained that the grant no longer served the country’s interests.
The new administration understands history not as a means for learning from past mistakes, but as a source of pride that must be protected at all costs.
“It’s not about correcting systemic racism or systemic wrong,” JD Vance said in 2021 on the subject of progressive reconciliation with America’s past, before his election to the vice presidency. “It’s about making us easier to control, it’s about making us ashamed of where we came from.”
About four miles north of UCI’s campus sits the quiet airport where landing planes turn off their engines early, so as not to disturb the affluent neighborhoods of Orange County. Outside one of its terminals stands the statue of its namesake, John Wayne, the Hollywood actor who came to define our understanding of the “Wild West” and became a mythic figure emblematic of rugged American independence.
Wayne, who once said he “[believed] in white supremacy” and claimed that Native Americans “were selfishly trying to keep [American land] for themselves,” came under posthumous attack in 2020 when the Democratic Party of Orange County demanded his name be removed from the airport.
Like clockwork, Trump came to Wayne’s defense, accusing the party’s officials of “incredible stupidity.”
In the 1962 Western “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance,” Wayne played Tom Doniphon, another one of his archetypical cowboys — but in this one, he’s dead. His friend Ransom Stoddard, an aging politician whose claim to fame is slaying the infamous outlaw Liberty Valance, comes back into town to mourn Doniphon. Over the course of two hours, as Stoddard is interviewed by the local newspaper editor, we come to learn that Doniphon is the true hero of the story, the one who really killed Valance.
In his hands, the newspaper editor holds an interview that could send Stoddard’s political career crashing down. He tears the sheets of paper and places them in the furnace. Before heading back into town, he turns and explains himself: “This is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”
Remember that line. Because the American principle has never been put more precisely.
Nicholas Sherwood is an Opinion Intern for the spring 2025 quarter. He can be reached at nesherwo@uci.edu.