Month: June 2026

The Past Is Another World

On June 30, 2026

A split-scene illustration contrasts an ancient society with a modern urban landscape, divided by a central hourglass symbolizing the passage of time. The composition emphasizes that historical societies should first be understood according to the knowledge, values, and circumstances of their own era before being evaluated through contemporary moral frameworks, illustrating the concept of temporal relativity as an anthropological approach to interpreting the past. (Image generated by ChatGPT using DALL·E, 2026.)

Anthropologists are taught early in their education to avoid ethnocentrism. One of the primary methodological tools for doing so is cultural relativism, the principle that beliefs, customs, and social institutions should first be understood within the cultural context in which they exist rather than judged solely according to the standards of another culture (Boas, 1940; Herskovits, 1972). Cultural relativism does not require anthropologists to approve of every cultural practice they encounter. Rather, it requires them to understand those practices as the people within that society understood them before making comparisons or evaluations.

Over the years, I have wondered whether a similar principle might be applied to the study of the past. I propose the concept of temporal relativity as an anthropological analogy to cultural relativism. By temporal relativity, I mean the methodological principle that societies should first be understood according to the historical circumstances, knowledge, values, and social structures of their own time before being evaluated through the moral or cultural standards of the present.

I recognize that historians have long emphasized historical contextualization and have cautioned against presentism, the tendency to interpret the past primarily through modern assumptions and values. My intention is not to replace those concepts or to speak as a historian. Rather, I am approaching the question from the perspective of anthropology. If cultural relativism helps us understand differences between societies existing at the same time, perhaps temporal relativity can help us understand differences between societies separated by time.

Cultural relativism encourages anthropologists to ask what a particular belief or practice meant to the people who lived it. Instead of asking whether another culture is right or wrong according to our own standards, we ask how that culture understood itself. Temporal relativity asks similar questions, but across history rather than across geography. How did people of a particular period understand their own institutions? What assumptions about family, religion, economics, politics, and morality shaped their decisions? What alternatives were realistically imaginable within the historical conditions in which they lived?

Consider slavery in the ancient Mediterranean. From the perspective of contemporary human rights, slavery is morally unacceptable. Temporal relativity does not ask us to abandon that conclusion. Instead, it asks us first to understand why slavery was nearly universal throughout the ancient world, how it was justified philosophically and economically, and how people within those societies understood the institution. Only after reconstructing that historical framework can meaningful comparisons be made between their moral world and our own.

A similar example can be found in historical understandings of marriage. Many societies considered marriage shortly after puberty to be socially acceptable, often viewing the onset of menstruation as a transition into adulthood. Today, many societies would regard such marriages as child marriage or child abuse. Temporal relativity does not excuse these historical practices. Rather, it asks us to understand how those societies defined childhood, adulthood, family, and responsibility before evaluating them through contemporary moral frameworks.

This distinction between explanation and endorsement is essential. Cultural relativism has sometimes been criticized as encouraging moral relativism or excusing harmful cultural practices. I believe this criticism misunderstands cultural relativism as a methodological approach rather than a moral philosophy. Explaining why a society practiced something is not the same as approving of it. The same distinction applies to temporal relativity. Historical explanation should not be confused with historical endorsement.

One reason I find this concept useful is that it encourages intellectual humility. Every society, including our own, operates within assumptions that often appear self-evident to those living within them. Future generations may judge many of our own beliefs and institutions quite differently than we do today. Recognizing that possibility reminds us that we are not uniquely objective observers standing outside history. We are participants within it.

I do not suggest that the past should become immune from criticism or moral evaluation. Rather, I suggest that understanding should precede judgment. Anthropologists have long argued that understanding another culture requires temporarily setting aside one’s own assumptions. Temporal relativity proposes extending that same intellectual discipline across time. Before asking whether historical societies lived according to our standards, we should first ask how they understood themselves according to theirs.

Whether temporal relativity ultimately proves to be a useful concept is, of course, open to discussion. My intention is not to introduce a new historical methodology but to offer an anthropological perspective on historical interpretation. Just as cultural relativism encourages us to recognize that different societies construct different systems of meaning, temporal relativity encourages us to recognize that different historical periods often inhabited fundamentally different moral and intellectual worlds. Understanding those worlds on their own terms, I believe, allows us not only to understand the past more accurately but also to better recognize the historical assumptions that shape our own present.

References

Boas, F. (1940). Race, language and culture. University of Chicago Press.

Herskovits, M. J. (1972). Cultural relativism: Perspectives in cultural pluralism. Random House.

Novick, P. (1988). That noble dream: The “objectivity question” and the American historical profession. Cambridge University Press.

Tosh, J. (2015). The pursuit of history: Aims, methods and new directions in the study of history (6th ed.). Routledge.

When Pride Stopped Protesting

By Katherine Walter

On June 21, 2026

In LGBTQ+ activism

A split-scene illustration contrasts an early LGBTQ+ protest march filled with activists carrying liberation signs and demanding equal rights against a modern Pride parade featuring rainbow flags, corporate sponsorships, and celebratory crowds, highlighting the movement’s evolution from political resistance to mainstream cultural celebration while emphasizing the continuing struggle for transgender equality. (Image generated by ChatGPT using DALL·E, 2026.)

Every June, millions of people gather for Pride celebrations across the United States. Streets are filled with rainbow flags, corporate logos, political candidates, and festival-like atmospheres. For many participants, Pride is a joyful affirmation of LGBTQ+ identity and a celebration of the progress that has been achieved over the past half century.

Yet Pride was not created as a celebration.

Pride was born from protest.

The first Pride marches emerged in the aftermath of the Stonewall uprising of 1969, when LGBTQ+ people fought back against routine police harassment and discrimination. Early Pride events were acts of political resistance. Participants marched because they faced criminalization, employment discrimination, housing discrimination, family rejection, and social exclusion. Pride was a demand for change, not a celebration of acceptance (TIME, 2020).

Over time, however, Pride changed.

By the late 1990s and early 2000s, LGBTQ+ organizations were increasingly integrated into mainstream political and corporate institutions. Large corporations began sponsoring Pride events. Politicians who once avoided association with LGBTQ+ causes now sought visibility in Pride parades. Pride organizations became larger, more professionalized, and increasingly dependent upon corporate sponsorship and institutional partnerships.

This transformation brought benefits. Greater visibility helped normalize LGBTQ+ identities, and corporate sponsorships provided resources that allowed Pride events to grow dramatically. Yet there was also a cost.

As Pride became more institutionalized, its activist character began to fade. Events that once centered political demands increasingly emphasized entertainment, marketing, and celebration. What had begun as a protest movement gradually evolved into a cultural festival. Many activists have argued that the commercialization of Pride diluted its political message and encouraged the public to believe that the struggle for LGBTQ+ equality had largely been won (Cornell University, 2022).

That perception grew even stronger after marriage equality became law nationwide. For many Americans, the legalization of same-sex marriage represented the culmination of the modern LGBTQ+ civil rights movement. The dominant narrative became one of victory rather than continued struggle.

But for many transgender people, the struggle was far from over.

The tensions between mainstream LGBTQ+ organizations and transgender activists became particularly visible during the debate surrounding the Employment Non-Discrimination Act (ENDA). Throughout the 1990s and 2000s, transgender activists fought for legislation that would prohibit workplace discrimination based on both sexual orientation and gender identity. However, many political leaders and advocacy organizations believed that including gender identity protections would make the legislation more difficult to pass.

In 2007, a version of ENDA was advanced that prohibited discrimination based on sexual orientation but excluded gender identity protections. Supporters of the strategy argued that political realities required compromise. They believed Congress was not prepared to pass a fully inclusive bill and that securing protections for gay, lesbian, and bisexual workers was better than securing no protections at all (Washington Blade, 2017; HRC, 2007).

For many transgender activists, however, this was not a strategic compromise. It was a betrayal.

The message they received was that transgender equality could be postponed because it was politically inconvenient. As a result, transgender activists increasingly relied upon their own organizations and advocacy networks rather than established LGBTQ+ institutions. These groups spent years educating the public, documenting discrimination, challenging exclusionary policies, and building a movement focused specifically on transgender rights.

Over the following decade, public awareness of transgender people increased dramatically. Media coverage expanded. Public opinion shifted. Gender identity became a more visible topic in American political discourse. As transgender rights gained national attention, major LGBTQ+ organizations—including the Human Rights Campaign—became increasingly active advocates for transgender equality.

Many welcomed this support. Additional resources and national visibility strengthened the fight against discrimination. Yet for some transgender activists, the shift was difficult to forget.

From their perspective, transgender organizations had spent years fighting battles that larger LGBTQ+ organizations had either ignored or treated as secondary concerns. Only after transgender rights became more politically visible and socially recognized did many of those larger organizations fully embrace transgender advocacy. The criticism was not that these organizations eventually supported transgender rights. The criticism was that they had not shown the same commitment when doing so carried greater political risk.

This history reflects a broader problem within modern Pride and LGBTQ+ politics. As movements become institutionalized, they often shift from challenging power to managing relationships with power. Organizations become concerned with political access, public relations, donor relationships, and legislative strategy. The result can be a form of respectability politics that prioritizes achievable victories while leaving more controversial or vulnerable communities behind.

Today, transgender people remain the primary targets of legislative attacks on LGBTQ+ rights in the United States. Hundreds of bills have been introduced in recent years targeting transgender healthcare, participation in public life, and legal recognition (Human Rights Campaign, 2026). Yet many Pride events continue to project an image of completed victory rather than ongoing struggle.

Celebration has an important place. LGBTQ+ people deserve joy. They deserve visibility. They deserve to recognize how far the movement has come.

But Pride should never forget why it exists.

Pride was created because LGBTQ+ people were denied equal rights. It was created because marginalized communities demanded justice from institutions that refused to recognize their humanity. If Pride becomes only a celebration, it risks forgetting the very activism that made those celebrations possible.

The history of transgender activism during the ENDA era serves as a reminder that progress is rarely as complete as it appears. Rights can be delayed. Communities can be sidelined. Movements can become comfortable.

The challenge for Pride today is not whether it should celebrate victories.

The challenge is whether it still remembers how to fight.