At first glance, the order appears to promise a practical economic boost by cutting the red tape, unleashing U.S. industry, and creating jobs.2 But beneath that surface lies a sweeping erosion of environmental protections. The directive instructs agencies to “eliminate . . . all undue delays” and “suspend, revise, or rescind” any regulation seen as burdensome to timber production. In plain terms: it invites industry to bypass decades of legal safeguards that protect our national forests’ health, accessibility, and resilience.

This isn’t just a policy shift—it’s a rupture in over a century of conservation ethics rooted in leaders like Gifford Pinchot, the first Chief of the U.S. Forest Service. Pinchot believed public lands should serve “the greatest good for the greatest number in the long run.” Our forests are far more than lumber stockpiles; they are ecosystems, carbon sinks, water sources, and economic lifelines for rural communities. They are part of our national story.

The damage this order threatens goes beyond deforestation. It undermines foundational laws like the National Environmental Policy Act3 and the National Forest Management Act,4 which were designed to ensure transparency, public input, and long-term planning of how U.S. public lands should be managed under a multiple-use mandate.5 The idea that our forests should be managed wisely, not plundered for short-term profit, is a principle that has guided bipartisan stewardship for generations. Abandoning it now would be not only reckless, but irreversible.

I think the numbers tell a sobering story. In 2015, National Forests supported 2.4 million livestock animals, while tourism and recreation generated billions annually for rural economies. Logging without adequate oversight jeopardizes these revenues by degrading soil, reducing water quality, destroying habitats, and increasing wildfire risk.And the promise of economic relief? It’s often hollow. Timber jobs tend to be temporary and subject to automation and outsourcing. Forests, once stripped, don’t bounce back on demand.

The administration frames this order as an economic solution, when it's really a distraction from deeper problems. Rather than addressing the flawed trade policies that sparked tariffs on U.S. timber and paper—while conspicuously exempting books to avoid a slew of lawsuits from the Big Five publishers—the order sacrifices public land in a misdirected bid for recovery. As the American Booksellers Association pointed out in April, this strategy does nothing to address root economic failures. Instead, it doubles down on them.

Legal challenges are already underway. The Center for Biological Diversity and other environmental groups have cited violations of federal law and lack of public input.6 But while the courts sort through the legal complexities, the media has a more immediate task: helping the public connect the dots. This is not just about trees. It’s about whether we manage public resources with integrity or treat them as political collateral.

To be sure, some argue that deregulation is necessary to stimulate growth in struggling rural areas. They point to global market pressures, high unemployment, and bloated federal processes. These concerns deserve acknowledgment, but they don’t justify dismantling the very framework that keeps our forests sustainable. We can, and must, invest in rural communities without gutting environmental oversight. The Forest Service’s long-standing model of multiple-use management allows for logging, yes, but also for grazing, recreation, and conservation. That’s the kind of balanced planning that sustains both jobs and landscapes for generations.

This is a call to my colleagues in media and publishing to tell these stories with clarity and courage. We must hold policymakers accountable when they use crisis as cover for exploitation. And we must remember that journalism is not just a profession, but a form of public service.

Reversing this executive order would serve the public in so many way, especially as a recommitment to stewardship, public trust, and the ethical imperative to see beyond short-term solutions. Let’s make sure that’s the story we’re telling.

References

American Booksellers Association. Economic Impacts of Trade Policies on Timber Markets. 8 Apr. 2025, https://www.bookweb.org/news/overview-2025-tariffs-1631822.

Center for Biological Diversity. Legal Challenge to Executive Order on Timber Deregulation. 2025, https://www.biologicaldiversity.org.

Fedkiw, John. The Evolving Use and Management of the Nation's Forests, Grasslands, Croplands, and Related Resources. Gen. Tech. Rep. RM-GTR-175, U.S. Department of Agriculture, Forest Service, Rocky Mountain Forest and Range Experiment Station, 1989. https://www.fs.usda.gov/rm/pubs_series/rm/gtr/rm_gtr175.pdf

United States Department of Agriculture. National Forests and Rangelands: Economic Contributions to Agriculture. 2017, https://www.fs.usda.gov/emc/economics/documents/at-a-glance/benefits-to-people/nfs/BTP-NationalForestSystem.pdf.

USDA Forest Service. History of Forest Management and Conservation Principles. n.d., https://www.fs.usda.gov/learn/our-history.

The White House. Executive Order on the Immediate Expansion of American Timber Production. 2 Mar. 2025, https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/2025/03/immediate-expansion-of-american-timber-production/.

Images

Figure 1. Johnston, Frances Benjamin. Gifford Pinchot. Between ca. 1890 and ca. 1910. Photographic print. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, D.C. https://lccn.loc.gov/200170409.

Figure 2. MediaevalMapmaker. U.S. National Forests Map. Etsy, https://www.etsy.com/shop/MediaevalMapmaker.

Notes

In the United States, the issue of housing has reached a crisis point. As more people face homelessness or the threat of eviction, it’s evident that housing is not just a luxury or commodity but a fundamental human need. The absence of housing as a human right has led to a growing number of vulnerable individuals being displaced, with many finding themselves unable to afford shelter, or worse, being criminalized for their homelessness. The urgency of this issue is further highlighted by the 2024 Annual Homelessness Assessment Report to Congress showing an 18% increase in homelessness between 2023 and 2024.1 In fact, “the number of people experiencing homelessness on a single night in 2024 was the highest ever recorded. A total of 771,480 people – or about 23 of every 10,000 people in the United States” (HUD, 2024). The current system of addressing homelessness, which often relies on temporary shelters and emergency services, is ineffective and fiscally irresponsible. Research consistently shows that the costs associated with policing homelessness, emergency medical care, and short-term shelters far exceed the expenses of providing permanent, long-term housing.2 On top of this, the way we think and talk about homelessness often derives from a place of blame which is evident in aggressive policing tactics used to displace homeless persons. This adverse rhetoric of blame weighs down public opinion when it comes to making change toward eliminating homelessness. As the National Alliance to End Homelessness stated, “We must remind leaders that what solves homelessness is housing,” and making a shift toward recognizing housing as a human right is not only a moral imperative but a practical necessity that could alleviate the economic burdens footed by taxpayers and government entities.

To better understand why housing should be treated as a fundamental human right, this paper explores the issue from three key angles. It begins by examining the economic case for long-term housing solutions, showing how investing in permanent housing can actually save money and improve outcomes. Then, it looks at the current housing crisis and the moral responsibility we have to address it, especially through empathy and a shift in how we talk about homelessness. Finally, it considers the broader structural and global context, including how systems of power and exclusion shape access to housing both in the U.S. and around the world. Together, these perspectives point to the need for a more just, compassionate, and sustainable approach to housing.

The Economic Argument

There is a foundational economic case for recognizing housing as a human right. Housing provides more than just shelter; it enables individuals to lead productive lives, pursue education and employment, and contribute to their communities. Denying people access to stable housing undermines their dignity and prevents them from participating fully in society. Making housing a human right ensures that it is available to everyone, regardless of their economic situation, and that it is recognized as a core component of human well-being. In a 2010 study conducted by Abt Associates for the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), researchers noted that “assigning costs to public programs is a first step toward developing measures of the value of public interventions compared to the public costs incurred by ignoring or avoiding the problems those interventions are intended to address.” By framing the issue in terms of cost savings and long-term fiscal responsibility, it is possible to appeal to a broader audience who may otherwise resist government intervention in housing. In a Community Guide Systematic Economic Review released in 2023, researchers found that the “annual economic burden of chronic homelessness in the U.S. is estimated to be as high as $3.4 billion” (Jacob et al., 2022). The current system, which primarily focuses on managing homelessness after it occurs, is both inefficient and costly.

As the National Alliance to End Homelessness highlights, “providing access to housing generally results in cost savings for communities because housed people are less likely to use emergency services, including hospitals, jails, and emergency shelter, than those who are homeless.” One study found that there was “an average cost savings on emergency services of $31,545 per person housed in a Housing First program over the course of two years,” while “a Housing First program could cost up to $23,000 less per consumer per year than a shelter program” (National Alliance to End Homelessness). Likewise the New England Journal of Medicine reported that “homeless people spent an average of four days longer per hospital visit than comparable non-homeless people. This extra cost, approximately $2,414 per case for the study, is attributable to homelessness” (Dadpay & Huang, 2024). These costs underscore the value of long-term housing initiatives, especially given that current responses to homelessness often rely on punitive and exclusionary measures.

Programs like Housing First,3 which prioritize placing individuals into permanent housing without preconditions like sobriety, employment, or participation in treatment plans, have been shown to reduce long-term costs by decreasing reliance on emergency services and lowering rates of re-incarceration. By adopting such programs on a larger scale, we could address the root causes of homelessness and provide a more sustainable solution, while ultimately saving taxpayer money.4 A policy shift of this nature would ensure universal access to housing, meeting the fundamental human need for shelter while also establishing a more financially sustainable system that benefits both individuals and society as a whole.

The Moral Argument

While these economic benefits are critical for policy design, a truly transformative approach requires a change in our communicative stance, one that is rooted in rhetorical empathy. Making a moral shift in the way we view homelessness requires a deeper understanding of the needs of those who face homelessness, an understanding that derives from empathy, listening, and rhetorical praxis. In this context, rhetorical empathy offers a powerful lens for approaching the conversation about housing as a right. Blankenship suggests that “rhetorical praxis based on listening and empathy does not necessarily change systemic conditions or even an immediate interlocutor or audience. It does, however, hold potential for changing the speaker or writer and for shifting the focus from changing an Other to understanding an Other.” Rhetorical empathy, as Blankenship articulates, becomes both a place and a stance. It involves "coming alongside or feeling with the experiences of an Other rather than feeling for or displacing an Other, which is usually associated with pity or sympathy.” Rather than attempting to change perceptions immediately, the stance of empathy invites us to first understand the experiences of those affected by housing insecurity, and to recognize their humanity as individuals deserving of dignity, stability, and respect.

It’s important that we consider the power of rhetorical framing; that when we speak of homelessness as a burden or a threat to society, we justify distance and denial. When we blame people experiencing homelessness for their circumstances, using phrases like “they made their choices” or “they’re just lazy,” claims which are usually based on stereotypes rather than facts, we perpetuate a view of other instead of human being. This harmful mindset isn’t born in a vacuum. It’s shaped by the language we use and the narratives we tell. It reinforces the false notion that homelessness is a deliberate choice, when in reality, few (if any) would willingly choose such a life. But when we speak from a place of empathy and when we truly listen, we stop dividing the world into “us” and “them.” We stop othering people and begin to understand that we are all part of the same fragile, interdependent whole.

Krista Ratcliffe’s concept of rhetorical listening also deepens the ethical dimensions of this conversation. She defines rhetorical listening as “a trope for interpretive invention . . . [and] a code of cross-cultural conduct” that emphasizes the importance of listening to others' perspectives to facilitate identification and understanding (Ratcliffe, 1999). When we engage in rhetorical listening, Ratcliffe argues, we move beyond mere acknowledgment of others’ experiences to a more profound and empathetic engagement that challenges our assumptions and promotes more inclusive dialogues where we acknowledge our own cultural biases and remain open to hearing the stories and silences of others especially those marginalized by dominant narratives. In the context of homelessness, rhetorical listening challenges us to move beyond the impulse to defend our viewpoints or correct perceived “failures” in others’ lives. Instead, it stimulates a form of engagement that is not centered on response but on receptivity. It creates a pause that allows empathy to emerge not from projection but in reflection. Ratcliffe reminds us that listening is a form of accountability that places responsibility on the listener to recognize systemic inequities and to resist the urge to dismiss or diminish experiences that disrupt comfortable worldviews. When applied to public discourse and policy, rhetorical listening can reshape the way we perceive the urban landscape itself, particularly in relation to the increasingly common phenomenon of alienation and hostile architecture.

Adopting listening-based strategies can deepen our understanding not only of how we talk about homelessness, but also of how our built environments quietly enforce exclusion particularly through design choices that prioritize control over compassion. Cities across the country invest in hostile architecture, such as benches with dividers or spikes embedded in flat surfaces, designed specifically to prevent people from resting or sleeping in public spaces.5 As discussed in the 99% Invisible podcast episode “Unpleasant Design & Hostile Urban Architecture,” this design philosophy is intended to make spaces uncomfortable for some while remaining invisible to others. Host and producer Roman Mars notes that “the less you have, the more the city is designed to grind you down,” emphasizing how urban environments are frequently weaponized against the unhoused instead of being designed to support them. Similarly, anti-panhandling ordinances and loitering laws serve to criminalize visibility rather than address the root causes of poverty and housing insecurity. These policies do not solve homelessness; they merely push it out of sight, reinforcing cycles of marginalization and incarceration. By shifting away from reactive, dehumanizing tactics toward long-term, dignified solutions, we can move from merely managing homelessness to preventing it altogether thereby reducing public expenditures, promoting social stability, protecting vulnerable individuals, and fostering a more prosperous society.

Building on this critique of exclusionary design, Senda-Cook’s concept of rhetorical cartographies invites us to envision how urban spaces can be intentionally reshaped not just physically, but symbolically to foster inclusion, dignity, and community. As she writes, “by engaging in deliberate, long-term, and repeated efforts to materially reconstruct urban places, such places can be invested with new meanings and reshaped to invite new practices” (Senda-Cook, Middleton, and Endres, 2018). Senda-Cook offers a valuable framework for seeing spaces as more than physical locations but as sites of meaning, continually constructed and contested through rhetorical practice. Reimagining urban spaces to ensure they are inclusive and accessible is therefore an act of physical development and rhetorical intervention. It demands we rethink who space is for and what it is meant to support. The spaces we design and the structures we build are not neutral; they carry messages about who belongs and who doesn’t. We must acknowledge that eliminating homelessness is a complex challenge that cannot be solved overnight. In the meantime, inclusive design offers a vital means to foster connection and provide tangible support for people experiencing homelessness. Features like benches that convert into sheltered rest areas at night or bus stops designed to protect from the elements can offer much-needed safety and comfort outdoors. Additionally, clean and accessible public restrooms and water fountains not only preserve public health but also ease the burden on local businesses, which often bear the responsibility of providing basic sanitation services to the unhoused. When we reshape our environments with empathy, we are not just building cities; we are declaring that every person has worth. When our cities begin to reflect these values, they embody the vision of housing as a human right creating urban environments that foster equity and community for all.

The Structural Argument

As we examine how homelessness extends from individual experiences to the broader city level, we begin to see how economic and structural factors coalesce to shape housing conditions in America and around the world. Recognizing homelessness as the result of both individual and systemic factors reveals how power structures shape the living conditions and identities of citizens. Foucault asserts that “the individual is not to be conceived as a sort of elementary nucleus, a primitive atom, a multiple and inert material on which power comes to fasten or against which it happens to strike, and in so doing subdues or crushes individuals. In fact, it is already one of the prime effects of power that certain bodies, certain gestures, certain discourses, certain desires, come to be identified and constituted as individuals” (Foucault, 1982). Foucault describes how power not only limits individuals but actively constructs the terms of their identity and visibility within society. Recognizing this, it becomes clear that ethical engagement with marginalized communities, like those experiencing homelessness, requires more than just awareness; it demands practices that resist reductive narratives and instead open space for authentic voices to emerge.

Critiques of reductive narrative and human rights rhetoric influenced by power, such as those advanced by Makau Mutua, similarly caution that dominant frameworks are often rooted in Western ideologies. These frameworks may overlook or inadequately address the lived realities of marginalized groups. In the context of housing rights, this critique becomes especially pertinent when considering populations such as refugees, displaced persons, and people experiencing poverty, who are frequently excluded from access to stable, secure housing. The persistent displacement caused by authoritarian regimes, war, and religious conflict underscores the urgency of this issue. Refugees serve as stark reminders of the vulnerability of war torn and oppressed communities and the global need for stronger advocacy and legal protections for housing rights. Incorporating insights from rhetorical decolonialism, as articulated by Phil Bratta and Malea Powell, also enriches our understanding of how housing discourse is shaped by colonial legacies. They emphasize that rhetorical practices are never neutral but instead reproduce power dynamics rooted in histories of colonization and exclusion. Decolonial rhetoric challenges dominant Western narratives by foregrounding the voices and experiences of Indigenous peoples, refugees, and marginalized communities typically excluded from mainstream housing debates. Viewing housing through this lens, moves us beyond superficial acknowledgments of difference and toward transformative engagement that respects diverse knowledge systems and cultural contexts. By applying rhetorical decolonialism, we can reimagine housing rights not only as a matter of policy but as an ethical practice that resists erasure and centers the agency of all communities.

Ultimately, this thinking is global in scope. While the symptoms of displacement, powerlessness, and inadequate legal protections are acutely felt within the United States, they are mirrored in struggles faced by displaced communities around the world who are denied housing, denied visibility, and denied their humanity. Whether it’s your neighbor down the block or a family across the globe, the principle remains the same: to deny someone a home is to deny them a future. Framing housing as a fundamental right enables the U.S. and other governments to move beyond reactive approaches to homelessness and toward a proactive model that prioritizes prevention.

Conclusion

As a society, we cannot progress by neglecting the most vulnerable among us through punitive policies and the denial of affordable housing. Homelessness is not a matter of personal failure but of systemic neglect. Just as we recognize the fundamental right to air and water, we must also recognize housing as a basic necessity. A home provides more than shelter, it offers stability, security, and the foundation for personal growth and community engagement. The design of our urban spaces tells a troubling story. Hostile architecture, intended to exclude and control, reflects values that are at odds with the principles of dignity and inclusion, and if we are to build a society that uplifts everyone and promotes values of participation and contribution, we must challenge these designs and reshape our environments to support rather than punish those in need. This shift requires a commitment to empathy and understanding. Rhetorical empathy invites us to listen to those who are homeless, not with the intention to fix, but to truly understand their experiences. When paired with thoughtful policy and an investment in permanent, affordable housing, empathy becomes a powerful force for change. Housing should be recognized as a human right because it is critical to survival and essential for well-being. This is not only a moral obligation but also a sound economic decision. By prioritizing compassion over control and access to housing over exclusion, we can create a more just and sustainable system. Ensuring stable housing for all is not just the right thing to do; it is the only path to a fair and thriving society.

References

Blankenship, Lisa. Changing the Subject: A Theory of Rhetorical Empathy. Utah State University Press, 2019.

Bratta, Phil, and Malea Powell. “Introduction to the Special Issue: Entering the Cultural Rhetorics Conversations.” enculturation: a journal of rhetoric, writing & culture, vol. 21, 2016, http://enculturation.net/entering-the-cultural-rhetorics-conversations. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Culhane, Dennis, Michelle Fowle, and Jennifer Moses. How Much Would It Cost to Provide Housing First to All Households Staying in Homeless Shelters? National Alliance to End Homelessness, 11 Mar. 2025, https://endhomelessness.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/3.11.25_Cost-to-Provide-Housing-First-to-All-Households-Staying-in-Shelters.pdf. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Dadpay, Armin, and Philip Huang. The Cost of Homelessness in Dallas & Collin Counties. Dallas County Health and Human Services, 5 Nov. 2024, https://www.dallascounty.org/Assets/uploads/docs/hhs/data-reports/The-Cost-of-Homelessness-in-Dallas-and-Collin-Cos.pdf. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Foucault, Michel. “The Subject and Power.” Critical Inquiry, vol. 8, no. 4, 1982, pp. 777–795. https://doi.org/10.1086/448181. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Hustings, Morgan, Ben Erlenbusch, and Rebecca Davidson. Design against Humanity: Examining Anti-Homeless Architecture. National Coalition for the Homeless, 2023, https://nationalhomeless.org/wp-content/uploads/Design-Against-Humanity_Hostile-Architecture-paper-2023.pdf. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Jacob, V., et al. “Permanent Supportive Housing with Housing First: Findings from a Community Guide Systematic Economic Review.” American Journal of Preventive Medicine, vol. 62, no. 3, Mar. 2022, pp. e188–e201. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC8863642/. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Mars, Roman, producer. “Hostile Architecture.” 99% Invisible, episode 219, 5 July 2016, https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/unpleasant-design-hostile-urban-architecture/. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Mutua, Makau. “Is the Age of Human Rights Over?” The Routledge Companion to Literature and Human Rights, edited by Sophia A. McClennen and Alexandra S. Moore, Routledge, 2016.

National Alliance to End Homelessness. “Housing First.” National Alliance to End Homelessness, n.d., https://endhomelessness.org/resources/toolkits-and-training-materials/housing-first/. Accessed 9 May 2025.

—. “The Supreme Court Rules on Homelessness: What It All Means.” National Alliance to End Homelessness, 1 July 2024, https://endhomelessness.org/blog/the-supreme-court-rules-on-homelessness-what-it-all-means/. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Ratcliffe, Krista. “Rhetorical Listening: A Trope for Interpretive Invention and a ‘Code of Cross-Cultural Conduct.’” College Composition and Communication, vol. 51, no. 2, Dec. 1999, pp. 195–224. JSTOR, https://www.jstor.org/stable/359039. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Salit, Steven A., et al. “Hospitalization Costs Associated with Homelessness in New York City.” The New England Journal of Medicine, vol. 338, no. 24, 1998, pp. 1734–1740. https://doi.org/10.1056/NEJM199806113382406. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Senda-Cook, Samantha, Michael K. Middleton, and Danielle Endres. “Rhetorical Cartographies: (Counter)Mapping Urban Spaces.” Field Rhetoric: Ethnography, Ecology, and Engagement in the Places of Persuasion, edited by Candice Rai et al., University of Alabama Press, 2018, pp. 95–119.

Trump, Donald J. “Making the District of Columbia Safe and Beautiful.” The White House, 28 Mar. 2025, https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/2025/03/making-the-district-of-columbia-safe-and-beautiful/. Accessed 16 May 2025.

U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development. The Costs of Homelessness: A Perspective from the United States. Office of Policy Development and Research, 2010, https://www.huduser.gov/publications/pdf/costs_homeless.pdf. Accessed 16 May 2025.

—. The 2024 Annual Homeless Assessment Report (AHAR) to Congress: Part 1—Point-in-time Estimates of Homelessness. 2024, https://www.huduser.gov/portal/sites/default/files/pdf/2024-AHAR-Part-1.pdf. Accessed 16 May 2025.

Images

Figure 1. belterz. "Homeless Lost Everything." iStock, 3 Mar. 2005, https://www.istockphoto.com/photo/homeless-lost-everything-gm157281028-466214. Licensed under Royalty-Free License.

Figure 2. Blakeley, Chris. Streets of Seattle. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, COVID-19: American Experiences Photograph Collection, photo taken 7 Nov. 2020, LC-DIG-ppbd-01802. https://www.loc.gov/item/2023696265/. Licensed under CC BY-NC-ND.

Figure 3. Highsmith, Carol M. Rose Abrams Is Homeless and Seeking Warmheartedness in Cincinnati, Ohio. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Carol M. Highsmith Archive, photo taken 16 Oct. 2016, LC-DIG-highsm-41935. https://www.loc.gov/item/2016632753/. Licensed under Public Domain.

Figure 4. Vasiliki. "Sleeping Homeless." iStock, 21 Dec. 2006, https://www.istockphoto.com/photo/sleeping-homeless-gm115924918-2598023. Licensed under Royalty-Free License.

Figure 5. Nobu, a homeless man, outside Penn Station, Newark. Photograph by Camilo J. Vergara, taken 22 June 2023. Courtesy of the Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division. https://www.loc.gov/item/2024695516/. Used with permission from Camilo J Vergara.

Figure 6. MattGush. "Homelessness." iStock, 30 May 2021, https://www.istockphoto.com/photo/homelessness-gm1319902065-406626885. Licensed under Royalty-Free License.

Figure 7. Tdorante10. Weathered 1939 World's Fair Benches with Added Guardrails at Lt. William Tighe Triangle, Inwood, Manhattan. 27 Apr. 2019. Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Lt._William_Tighe_Triangle_td_(2019-04-27)_12.jpg. Licensed under CC BY 4.0.

Figure 8. Poor Homeless Man or Refugee Sleeping on the Wooden Bench on the Urban Street in the City." iStock, 12 Feb. 2018, https://www.istockphoto.com/photo/poor-homeless-man-or-refugee-sleeping-on-the-wooden-bench-on-the-urban-street-in-the-gm916886476-252277888. Licensed under Royalty-Free License.

Figure 9. FG Trade. "Refugee Woman Wearing Hijab Praying in a Sheltering." iStock, 6 Jan. 2023, https://www.istockphoto.com/photo/refugee-woman-wearing-hijab-praying-in-a-sheltering-gm1432207916-474540555. Licensed under Royalty-Free License.

Figure 10. Homeless encampment, 3801 Broadway Pl., Los Angeles, 2016. Photograph by Camilo J. Vergara, taken 6 March 2016. Courtesy of the Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division. https://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/vrg.04028. Used with permission from Camilo J Vergara.

Notes

Crowd Control1 began as an open mic event at Mudsmith, a coffee shop on Lower Greenville in Dallas, Texas, before moving to the rooftop of Sundown at Granada. As a co-founder2 and participant, I viewed Crowd Control as an opportunity to cultivate a creative space that reflected what Senda-Cook describes as “the creation of rhetorical cartographies by those who live in, make use of, and aim to reimagine space/place, especially urban space/place.” This analysis explores how we reimagined urban space as a site for artistic expression and community-building, creating an environment where diverse voices could be amplified. Through a cultural rhetorics lens, I examine how Crowd Control resisted hegemonic structures related to gender, class, and race by fostering a participatory culture that challenged the limitations imposed on Dallas’s arts scene between 2016 and 2019. Drawing on rhetorical cartographies, discourse community frameworks, and participant reflections, this study demonstrates how Crowd Control evolved from a grassroots gathering of local creatives into a vibrant, collaborative network that reshaped the experience of open mic events. More than just a stage, Crowd Control became a platform where artistic expression intersected with community, connection, and resistance.

Collecting Feedback and Participant Reflections

To capture the impact of Crowd Control, I gathered feedback3 from participants, whose reflections revealed how the event fostered a sense of belonging and creative empowerment. Many described the open mic as a space where they felt heard and valued, echoing the principles of participatory culture. It was about more than just performing; it was about being part of something bigger, where everyone’s voice mattered. These reflections align with The Cultural Rhetorics Theory Lab’s assertion that “stories do important theoretical and cultural work,” highlighting how personal narratives shape and sustain community spaces. By centering diverse experiences, Crowd Control not only challenged dominant narratives within Dallas’s arts scene but also modeled how open mic events can function as sites of resistance and inclusion. This participant feedback underscores how the event provided a collaborative space where performers and audiences alike engaged in a shared act of meaning-making, reinforcing Crowd Control’s role as a site of cultural transformation.

Understanding Open Mics as a Platform for Expression

Open mic events, short for “open microphone,” provide public performance spaces where individuals can showcase their talents ranging from poetry, music, and spoken word to comedy and storytelling. These events offer low-barrier opportunities for both seasoned performers and newcomers to engage with an audience, fostering artistic exploration and community dialogue. Jessica Waffles, a prominent Dallas concert photographer, notes in KXT that “open mic nights serve as gateways to local music venues,” emphasizing that supporting these events helps sustain venues that are vital to the city’s cultural landscape by promoting local live music.4 While often associated with stand-up comedy, open mics extend beyond humor, serving as platforms for diverse forms of expression. Some events cater specifically to poets and spoken word artists, emphasizing rhythm, language, and narrative, while others highlight music or performance art, blending genres and styles. There were several very successful spoken word nights like Mad Swirl, Wordspace, DaVerse Lounge, Dallas Poetry Slam, and a number of groups working to uplift and empower the different communities that make up Literary Dallas.5 However, in 2017, Dallas offered few opportunities for cross discipline, multi-genre open mic nights. The city’s cultural landscape was shifting, with Deep Ellum, once a thriving hub for the arts, experiencing a lull in foot traffic and fewer opportunities for local shows. In this climate, Crowd Control emerged as a space where a variety of artistic voices could thrive, addressing a critical gap in the local arts ecosystem. JM, a frequent attendee and audience member, reflected that Crowd Control wasn’t “just for the cool kids in Dallas or pitched to one group. There were regular artists that came around but a lot of fresh faces. It was a welcoming community.”

Literature Review

Three key scholarly works inform this analysis of Crowd Control’s role as a reimagined urban creative space and its resistance to institutional barriers that restricted free expression in Dallas’s arts scene. Between 2016 and 2019, Dallas saw a rise in city-imposed restrictions on creative spaces, sparked by the Fire Marshal’s crackdown on venues supporting marginalized voices. Peter Simek, reporting for D Magazine, described how this shift affected the city's creative landscape. He explained that “Dallas had begun to foster a new kind of cultural identity for itself, as artists and cultural promoters took advantage of reclaimed or temporary spaces, rethinking the roles of traditional galleries, and staging events that deliberately cross-pollinated the worlds of music, art, and theater.” However, Simek noted that “stepped-up enforcement came after years in which the city had otherwise turned a blind eye to the arts community’s activity.” Local institutions like The Basement Gallery in Oak Cliff and the film production company Cinderblock Sessions in Fair Park were shut down due to issues with their Certificates of Occupancy.6 As a response, events like Crowd Control emerged as a direct challenge to these restrictions, fostering an inclusive, participatory environment that actively resisted efforts to silence artistic expression. Through our structure, our community engagement, and even our name, a tongue-in-cheek critique of crowd control measures historically used by police and government to suppress affirmative action and protest, Crowd Control pushed back against these restrictions, asserting the importance of creative freedom in the city’s cultural landscape.

Senda-Cook, Middleton, and Endres introduce the concept of rhetorical cartographies as a way to understand how communities counter-map urban spaces, reclaiming and reconfiguring environments to meet their needs. As Senda-Cook explains, “By approaching rhetorical cartographies with a participatory critical rhetorical lens, we can unpack the interactions inhabitants have in particular places and the rhetorical implications of the maps produced through those encounters.” Crowd Control operated within this framework, repurposing Mudsmith and later Sundown at Granada into inclusive, collaborative spaces where artists could challenge dominant narratives through their work. Our continued use of these venues transformed them into creative hubs, demonstrating how marginalized communities can reclaim urban spaces as sites of cultural production. In the context of increasing regulation that sought to limit unconventional artistic spaces, Crowd Control’s ability to redefine these environments underscored its role as a form of spatial resistance.

Cain’s work on individual participation in open-mic comedy performances provides further insight into the social dynamics that shape performative spaces. She highlights how audience-performer interactions create unique participatory cultures, noting that “Pekhonen’s description of 'choreography,' though highlighting interactional patterns across performances, demonstrates contingencies based on the particular performer and the performance witnessed.” At Crowd Control, similar patterns emerged. While some performers drew more audience engagement, often depending on whether they arrived alone or with friends, our space cultivated an overall atmosphere of warmth and support that encouraged first-time participants to return. This positive reception was essential for building a consistent community of artists and audiences, reinforcing the event’s role as a sustainable platform for emerging voices. As Dallas’s regulatory climate stifled opportunities for grassroots artistic expression, Crowd Control’s participatory culture provided an alternative space where artists could thrive despite external pressures.

Lambe’s analysis of queer open-mic spaces explores how amateur performance facilitates emotional expression, community-building, and resistance to normative structures. His work emphasizes that these spaces serve as sites of affective exchange and identity formation, where marginalized voices can assert their presence and redefine communal narratives. At Crowd Control, similar processes were at play. The event became more than just a performance venue; it was a space where artists could navigate personal and social identities, forge networks, and engage in acts of creative defiance. Lambe’s framework resonates with Mondada’s assertion that “in order to recognize and therefore describe the process through which audiences are constituted, it is crucial to deal with hearers as being as active as speakers.” This dynamic was evident at Crowd Control, where audience members played an active role in shaping the performative experience. Their engagement, support, and feedback were not passive; they were essential elements that sustained the space as a site of communal resistance and creative empowerment.

By drawing on these frameworks, rhetorical cartographies, participatory performance cultures, and affective exchange, this analysis demonstrates how Crowd Control stood as a bastion of creative resistance in Dallas’s shifting cultural landscape. At a time when city officials imposed constraints on artistic spaces, Crowd Control reclaimed urban environments and transformed them into platforms for free expression, fostering a community where diverse voices could flourish despite systemic efforts to suppress them.

Reimagining Space and Place

The framework for Crowd Control was designed to foster a unique and meaningful space for artists and the community. Held from 7:00 pm to 10:00 pm on the last Thursday of every month, the event intentionally operated on a monthly basis rather than weekly. This decision allowed participants the time and space to create new material, ensuring a fresh and engaging experience each time. While weekly open mics can sometimes feel repetitive, where regulars play the same songs or perform the same bits, the monthly format allowed artists to take risks and showcase their latest work. It also prevented the burnout that can happen when there is pressure to perform every week. From 7:00 pm to 9:30 pm, the event featured an open mic, where participants could sign up for a five-minute slot on a first-come, first-served basis. Time flexibility was built into the schedule to accommodate the ebb and flow of attendance, and the goal was always to avoid situations where someone would wait for hours only to miss their chance to perform. At 9:30 pm, the spotlight artist would take the stage for a 30-minute set. To keep the event accessible, there was never an entry fee. This was an intentional choice to eliminate economic barriers. To cover the spotlight artist’s fee, a $2 raffle ticket was sold, with the winner receiving a $50 gift card to the venue. While Will and I were not paid for running Crowd Control,7 and the spotlight artists often performed for a nominal fee, the energy and commitment of everyone involved made the event feel like a shared creative endeavor, and the absence of money as a driving factor contributed to its authenticity.

The decision to hold the open mic at Mudsmith was intentional as we sought to create an accessible, intimate space where artists could feel comfortable sharing their work. Coffee shops, traditionally spaces for conversation and idea exchange, offered a familiar yet adaptable environment that encouraged creativity. By repurposing Mudsmith as a venue for artistic expression, we challenged the conventional use of commercial urban spaces, transforming it into a energetic hub where poets, musicians, and comedians could experiment and collaborate. This aligns with Senda-Cook’s assertion that “while these are often temporary reconstructions, by engaging in deliberate, long-term, and repeated efforts to materially reconstruct urban places, such places can be invested with new meanings and reshaped to invite new practices.” Crowd Control embodied this transformative potential, as our consistent presence reshaped the space into one that prioritized inclusivity and artistic exploration. As ML, an attendee, described, it was “an incredibly welcoming and encouraging environment that embraced everyone.”

The open mic format of Crowd Control served as a platform for amplifying diverse voices within the Dallas arts scene. Ryker reflected on the event as “a cool gathering of songwriters and creative folks sharing all genres of music,” with the crowd being “receptive and attentive to all acts.” This echoes Cain’s argument that audience reception plays a crucial role in promoting engagement and shaping the overall experience of performative spaces. Positive audience interaction fed energy back into the space, creating a reciprocal environment where performers and attendees alike felt invested. This communal dynamic was pivotal in encouraging return participation and sustaining the success of the event. For participants like MG, who valued the opportunity to “meet other people . . . [and] perform,” and JM, who appreciated how Crowd Control provided opportunities to “newer artists that don’t get a lot of attention,” the event’s ability to support emerging talent across genres highlighted the power of space in facilitating creative expression.

MM’s reflection further underscores how the environment fostered a deeper sense of belonging: “The theme and dedication to the creation of art felt different. I feel like most open mics are an empty slate to impress your feelings upon, but the guidance shown by Britt and Will made it special by giving a sense of direction and community, one that felt more alive and special than other open mics.” While Will and I merely set the tone by establishing an inclusive, supportive environment, it was the people who returned month after month that truly shaped Crowd Control’s culture. They took ownership of the space, extending its welcoming ethos to newcomers. It was common to witness a regular attendee approach someone sitting alone, often a first-time performer, introduce themselves, offer words of encouragement, or exchange contact information. This organic, peer-driven engagement exemplifies what Lambe describes as the transformative potential of amateur performance spaces, where emotional expression and community-building resist normative structures and create new connections.

DVD captured this sentiment in his reflection: “This was my first experience playing any material live and they never made me feel out of place or inexperienced. I never felt embarrassed coming to them with any questions or tips outside of the show either. Definitely was a place I wanted to keep coming back to.” Similarly, Marco described how Crowd Control stood in stark contrast to other open mics where “the experience can sometimes feel awkward or uncomfortable, with a noticeable divide between newcomers and the usual cliques. But at Crowd Control, everyone felt included, whether they were performing or just there to support.” Mallory echoed this sense of inclusion: “I definitely felt like the dynamic was different at Crowd Control, mainly because I just felt so welcome and encouraged. I did not feel intimidated at all. And I felt like everyone was engaged and interested in each artist.” This sense of belonging and reciprocity reinforced the idea that Crowd Control was not just an event but a community-driven dynamic space where social identity, creative expression, and activism intersected.

When Crowd Control outgrew Mudsmith and transitioned to Sundown at Granada8, we had to reimagine how space functioned within the event. The rooftop setting introduced new opportunities for engagement but also shifted audience dynamics. Moving from the intimate confines of an indoor coffee shop to an open-air rooftop altered the sensory and social experience of the event. However, the mission remained the same: to cultivate a space where artists could take risks, grow, and connect. This transition exemplifies how rhetorical cartographies evolve as communities navigate and repurpose urban environments to meet their needs. As Senda-Cook observes, “urban spaces are not static; they are constantly being reshaped by the people who move through them, embedding new narratives into the environment.” Even as the physical space changed, the culture and practices of Crowd Control endured, reinforcing the adaptability of creative rhetorical cartographies. Through consistent engagement, the community continued to infuse new meaning into Sundown at Granada, ensuring that the spirit of Crowd Control thrived in its new home.

Resisting Barriers and Creating Space

Crowd Control’s impact extended beyond serving as an open mic. It became a model for how artistic communities can challenge normative boundaries and reclaim urban spaces in cities where opportunities for free expression are often limited. As Senda-Cook observes, “We deploy an understanding of place-as-rhetoric to identify how urban space/place can be reconstructed to forge new identities and foster new rhetorical and material practices in those places.” Crowd Control embodied this principle by fostering a participatory culture where marginalized voices could thrive, allowing for the creation of new identities that pushed back against the structural limitations that had long restrained the Dallas arts scene. In 2017, as DIY venues and independent art spaces faced ongoing threats of closure, Crowd Control’s emergence highlighted how cultural rhetorics, through storytelling, community-building, and the reimagining of space can actively reshape urban landscapes.

One of the most significant challenges in cultivating spaces that promote free expression lies in encouraging not just self-expression but genuine engagement with others. Crowd Control confronted this barrier by uniting participants around a common theme each month. Themes were proposed and voted on by attendees, allowing the community to shape the direction of each event. Additionally, competitions and collaborative elements encouraged deeper participation. As NMW observed, “There were the leavers, but there was no criticism or shame if you were, and over time, it fostered a community that seemed to come out every week!” This commitment to building engagement echoes Cain’s argument that the receptivity of a crowd plays a critical role in creating an environment that sustains creative expression. The supportive atmosphere cultivated at Crowd Control ensured that the space was not merely a platform for performance but a site of ongoing dialogue and shared experience.

Crowd Control also sought to dismantle the prevailing dominance of white, cisgender singer-songwriter spaces in Dallas. As Cain highlights, cultural landscapes often privilege certain voices while marginalizing others, and in 2016, the Dallas music scene reflected this dynamic. Although the city boasts a rich musical history, ranging from Robert Johnson’s legendary blues recordings at 508 Park Avenue to artists as diverse as Norah Jones, Erykah Badu, St. Vincent, Bobby Sessions, and Stevie Ray Vaughan, open mics had become uniform and insular, offering little opportunity for cross-genre performances or for underrepresented voices to be heard. It felt as though everyone was sticking to their own corner of the city. Crowd Control intentionally disrupted this pattern by embracing diversity across genres and identities. While this inclusivity was not explicitly planned in the beginning, our instinct was to create a space where all styles and backgrounds could be represented. As the event grew, we became more intentional in seeking out artists across genres to emphasize that Crowd Control was a space where “you can perform that genre here too.”9 This conscious effort allowed for a rich mix of performers, from rappers and singer-songwriters to comedians and spoken word artists, all sharing the same stage.

The success of Crowd Control’s multigenre approach is evident in the experiences of both attendees and performers, who consistently highlight its collaborative and welcoming atmosphere. Paul emphasizes the importance of such cross-genre interactions, noting, “we need to get back to inter-genre (for lack of a better term) collaborations among artists and performances.” This openness extended beyond artistic styles, fostering connections across racial, gender, and cultural lines. Davey reflects on the event’s unique energy, explaining that “although it was an open mic, it served a different purpose. It felt more like a collective that started and ended its life cycle every night.” Similarly, Mallory underscores the creative freedom and support that defined the space, observing that “it wasn’t just one style or genre of music performed. It was a great place to explore, experiment, and support one another.” Tara, who played a key role in facilitating Crowd Control’s move to Sundown at Granada, reinforces this sentiment by describing the environment as “fun, all [were] welcome, [a] community. Artists supported each other. Shared ideas. It was about the music and the creativity. Letting people be themselves and being expressive. People drove from all over to be a part of it. Some even from other cities and states.” Collectively, these reflections reveal how an open mic event can transcend typical boundaries, transforming open air spaces into dynamic places where creativity can flourish and bring diverse voices together.

The influence of Crowd Control extended beyond the event itself, inspiring other artistic spaces and contributing to a broader cultural shift. JRM noted, “The libretto for ‘Faces of Dallas,’10 which I helped curate, could not have happened without the example set by local interdisciplinary arts programming like Crowd Control.” He further emphasized how “spaces (or space-time continuums) like Crowd Control create spaces in which people can explore their many possible affinities. Deep awareness of those affinities can, in turn, help us better understand our differences.” This echoes Burke’s notion of identification and consubstantiality, where shared experiences in a communal space enable participants to recognize both their similarities and differences, fostering a more inclusive environment. As Burke states, "A is not identical with his colleague, B. But insofar as their interests are joined, A is identified with B. Or he may identify himself with B even when their interests are not joined, if he assumes that they are, or is persuaded to believe so." Burke’s exploration of these ideas provides a framework for understanding how shared experiences within a communal space can forward inclusivity while acknowledging differences

As Crowd Control gained momentum, it became a vital incubator for a new generation of Dallas artists. CBW described how, “Crowd Control came at a vital time in the Dallas music scene. It may have just been my experience or my first glimpse of a scene that already existed, but Crowd Control was kind of an intro/kickoff for that specific 'generation’ of DFW artists/songwriters. When Crowd Control was starting, I feel like everything was beginning for so many musicians. It was the beginning of careers. Crowd Control was the perfect outlet in those beginning stages. In a way, it lit a fire under all our asses.” For many artists, Crowd Control provided a sense of accountability, encouraging them to show up each month with fresh material. The opportunity to engage with other artists and writers served as a powerful motivator, driving their creative growth. As MG reflects, “Seeing everyone else doing the thing is always beneficial. Even though I can be solitary in my work, it was great seeing others just as passionate.” This sentiment underscores how environments like Crowd Control not only inspire individual artists but also cultivate a thriving artistic community, where shared passion and collective energy fuel creative development and shape the trajectory of local arts scenes.

Though the dynamics of the Dallas arts scene shifted in the aftermath of COVID-19, the legacy of Crowd Control endures. As CBW reflected, “Though things changed post-COVID, the legacy, warmth, and community of Crowd Control undoubtedly lives on and continues to encourage careers in so many.” This success demonstrates that by resisting barriers, fostering inclusivity, and creating space for diverse voices, grassroots artistic communities can reshape cultural landscapes and leave a lasting impact.

Shared Goals and Collaborative Networks

Crowd Control was fundamentally designed to cultivate original artistic content while fostering a space where participants could build confidence, overcome creative blocks, and discover solidarity among fellow artists. This mission was reinforced by our use of monthly themes, which encouraged participants to create new material inspired by shared prompts. Themes like Echoes, Indecision, and Trial by Fire provided a unifying thread that linked individual artistic efforts into a collective experience.11 Marco, reflecting on his first time performing, recalled, “[It] had such a warm and inclusive vibe. The first time I performed at one was on the upstairs patio at Sundown, and I remember being amazed by the talent there. You could feel that everyone was in their element, freely expressing themselves in a safe and supportive space. It was truly a special experience.” His experience highlights how these creative prompts transformed Crowd Control from a simple open mic into a collaborative environment where participants drew inspiration from one another and built a community of practice.

This collaborative spirit positioned Crowd Control as a dynamic discourse community in line with John Swales’ framework. Participants shared a common goal: to resist the erasure of marginalized voices and to cultivate an inclusive space where artistic expression was celebrated. Feedback from attendees underscored the significance of this community-driven ethos. Crowd Control wasn’t just about getting on stage, it was about feeling seen and heard in a city where finding space for that wasn’t always easy. This sentiment reinforces the argument from the literature review that storytelling and shared experiences are central to cultural rhetorics, serving as tools for understanding, resisting, and reimagining societal norms. Through the convergence of storytelling, poetry, music, and other forms of expression, Crowd Control created an environment where diverse voices could thrive and where artistic exploration was both welcomed and nurtured.

Moreover, Crowd Control fostered a collaborative network that extended beyond performance. Only several occasions we had the privilege of collaborating with local organizations to co-present events, including State Fair Records in September 2018, Beats By Her in May 2018, and Palo Santo Records in April 2019. These events served as a microcosm of knowledge exchange and mentorship, where experienced artists and newcomers engaged in mutual learning. Social dynamics emerged organically, with regular attendees assuming informal leadership roles by offering feedback and encouragement. This structure echoed the grassroots nature of urban cultural movements, where creative communities reconfigure traditional hierarchies to prioritize accessibility and growth. Lambe articulates this dynamic, noting that “open mic spaces serve as microcosms of resistance and affirmation, where individuals can redefine themselves through creative expression.” By encouraging relationships between seasoned and emerging artists, Crowd Control built an ecosystem where artistic development flourished through communal support and mentorship.

Inclusivity was central to Crowd Control’s mission. We aimed to create an environment that resisted hegemonic structures related to gender, class, and race, breaking away from the rigid expectations often imposed by traditional performance spaces. The open mic format enabled a wide range of voices to be heard, while the informal, welcoming atmosphere reduced the intimidation often associated with public performance. Paul, reflecting on his experience, noted, “I thought it was a very welcoming community of individuals all looking to improve their craft while also coming together socially.” Crowd Control’s commitment to lowering barriers to entry and fostering an inclusive space empowered marginalized voices to share their work and engage with a broader creative community.

The act of reclaiming urban space for artistic expression was itself a form of resistance. By transforming Mudsmith and later Sundown into creative enclaves, Crowd Control disrupted the commercial, consumer-driven nature of these venues, repurposing them as platforms for community-driven storytelling and artistry. As Colby Charles observed, Crowd Control was “the first place I felt safe and welcomed sharing my poetry outside of my home,” underscoring the event’s role in fostering a sense of belonging and inclusion. Similarly, Bayleigh, who performed as the spotlight artist in May 2018, remarked, “It was a great place to meet other fellow musicians who all shared the same goals and were able to build a community.” Ryker also described the crowd as “attentive and respectful.” These reflections emphasize how Crowd Control’s collaborative spirit and commitment to inclusivity created an environment where diverse voices and artistic expressions could flourish, leaving a lasting impact on the Dallas arts scene.

Final Thoughts

Crowd Control exemplifies how cultural rhetorics come to life in urban environments through the intentional reimagining of space. By transforming Mudsmith and later Sundown at Granada into hubs for artistic collaboration, we redefined the typical use of commercial venues, creating a space rooted in inclusivity and creative freedom. As Westonn observed, Crowd Control provided “a place for artists to freely express themselves . . . It was chill and inviting, something so important for first-time visitors and first-time performers.” This insight highlights how reimagined spaces can create a lasting cultural impact, uniting artists from diverse backgrounds and disciplines.

The impact of Crowd Control extended beyond its physical transformation of spaces, it became a symbol of the resilience of creative communities that refuse to be silenced. In redefining “crowd control” from a term associated with suppression into one of empowerment, Crowd Control demonstrated how storytelling and communal participation can break down barriers and provide a platform for artistic expression.

Personally, Crowd Control was integral to my own identity and creative journey. It profoundly shaped my ability to open up to others, to be vulnerable in my creativity, and to trust my peers for both support and collaboration. Through this space, I learned the power of shared experiences, how to navigate vulnerability, and how to connect with others on a deeper, more meaningful level. Crowd Control was an art venue and a lifeline that fostered kinship and mutual trust, something I carry with me to this day.

References

Burke, Kenneth. A Rhetoric of Motives. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1969.

Cain, Sarah Seewoester. When Laughter Fades: Individual Participation during Open-Mic Comedy Performances. PhD diss., University of Missouri, 2018. ProQuest Dissertations & Theses. https://www.proquest.com/dissertations-theses/when-laughter-fades-individual-participation/docview/2572642907/se-2.

Clemans, Shantih E. “Open Mic: Reciprocity, Parallel Process, and Mutual Aid in a Discussion Group for Faculty Working with Adult Students.” Social Work with Groups 44, no. 1 (2021): 23–33. https://doi.org/10.1080/01609513.2020.1748556.

Cranford, Steve. “All Voices Welcome at Matter ‘Open Mic.’” Matter 5, no. 8 (2022): 2383–85. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.matt.2022.07.007.

Holt, E. “After Cracking Down on DIY Music Venues, Fire Marshals Have Turned to Small Art Gatherings.” Dallas Observer, February 1, 2017. https://www.dallasobserver.com/arts/after-cracking-down-on-diy-music-venues-fire-marshals-have-turned-to-small-art-gatherings-8490378.

Lambe, Ryan J. Performative Space/Transformative Space: Race, Affect, and Amateur Performance in US Queer Open Mics. PhD diss., University of Michigan, 2023. ProQuest Dissertations & Theses. https://www.proquest.com/dissertations-theses/performative-space-transformative-race-affect/docview/2812358684/se-2.

Mondada, L. “BEcomING Collective: The Constitution of Audience as an Interactional Process.” In Making Things Public: Atmospheres of Democracy, edited by Bruno Latour and Peter Weibel, 876–883. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2005.

Pehkonen, S. “Choreographing the Performer-Audience Interaction.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 46, no. 6 (2017): 699–722. https://doi.org/10.1177/0891241616636663.

Senda-Cook, Samantha, Michael K. Middleton, and Danielle Endres. “Rhetorical Cartographies: (Counter)Mapping Urban Spaces.” In Field Rhetoric: Ethnography, Ecology, and Engagement in the Places of Persuasion, edited by Candice Rai et al., 95–119. Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, 2018.

Simek, Peter. “The Fire Marshal Wants to Shut Down Our Party.” D Magazine, December 1, 2016. https://www.dmagazine.com/publications/d-magazine/2016/december/the-fire-marshal-wants-to-shut-down-our-party/.

Simek, Peter. “Why Is the Dallas Fire Marshal Harassing the City’s Arts Scene?” D Magazine, July 25, 2016. https://www.dmagazine.com/politics-government/2016/07/why-is-the-dallas-fire-marshall-harassing-the-citys-arts-scene/.

Waffles, Jessica. “Resolved to Hear More Music? Try One of These 35 Open Mic Nights in DFW.” KXT 91.7, January 2, 2024. https://kxt.org/2024/01/resolved-to-hear-more-music-try-one-of-these-35-open-mic-nights-in-dfw/.

Notes

Jim was one of those guys who seemed to collect wild stories the way the rest of us collect receipts. Born in Brooklyn, New York, in ’45, Jim recounted early memories of fanfare performing pantomime shows with his sister at a place called The Nine O’Clock Club where his parents used to frequent.

It was on the East Coast that Jim’s love for tinkering first took root. His Uncle Bill, a big, loud Irishman who harvested copper from old wiring in the tunnels beneath New York, fueled Jim’s curiosity and taught him how to solder. Jim once told me about the time he helped Uncle Bill install a phone line between their families' brownstone flats, bypassing the telephone system entirely.

It wasn’t long before Jim’s life took him far from the streets of Brookyln. His dad was a career military man, who had survived a couple tours in the Korean War. He had bounced around from base to base, and soon enough, he was transferred again first to San Antonio and then later to Mineral Wells, Texas. Jim spent his teenage years in Mineral Wells, coming of age in the sixties, right in the thick of the Vietnam War. That love for tinkering had followed him across the country, and he cut his teeth working on a ’52 Flathead Ford and a ’56 Pontiac Chieftain, which he drag-raced at the Yellowbelly and Kennedale outlaw drag strips on the outskirts of undeveloped West Dallas. His teen years really were like a Springsteen song, racing in the street in darkness on the edge of town.

Jim knew his number was coming up and he decided to join the Navy before the draft came calling, giving him more control over his fate than others. He enlisted in ’66 and ended up on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific, part of the Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club. He worked as a flight controller on the RA-5C, a state-of-the-art reconnaissance variant of the North American A-5 Vigilante, which was initially designed as a nuclear bomber. They needed people with highly developed mechanical skills and knowledge of hydraulics to manage the RA-5C which had been refitted with surveillance to handle target identification at high speeds and altitudes. Jim’s background made him perfectly suited for the position. While he never saw combat, a deadly explosion on board left him with a bad case of PTSD (when I met him he jumped at everything). Jim left the service in ’69 on an early out as the war was winding down after the Tet Offensive fueled the anti-war sentiment in the States and significantly diminished civilian support in a very public way.

After he got back, he moved to San Francisco with aspirations of becoming an underground newspaper photographer. He wanted to run around and take pictures of riots and protests to capture the proclivities of the counterculture zeitgeist unfolding in the city. This was at a time when the mob was taking over Haight-Ashbury and the youth of Frisco held a mock-funeral for the hippie.1 During his short stint there, Jim lived with a commune of filmmakers who encouraged him to follow his creative expressions. He told me once about his small role in an indie flick called Playland which was submitted to Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucus’ fledging San Franciso based production company, American Zoetrope.

Though San Francisco proved formative for Jim, he also realized the lifestyle he was living was unsustainable and moved back to Dallas to clear his head. At home, he channeled his engineering skills into sound work answering an ad in the newspaper for Showco Sound.2 Showco was an up-and-coming sound equipment company that specialized in the type of outdoor “stadium rock” PA systems used at Woodstock. The laundry list of bands they built sound systems for his astounding: Led Zepplin, Aerosmith, Bowie, Elvis Presley, Elton John, Joe Cocker, Stevie Wonder, Willie Nelson, the Rolling Stones, and on and on and on. At one point, Jim flew down to Caracas to run sound for Rare Earth, an experience that ultimately led him to break off independently to tour with them and later the Doobie Brothers. After a few years on the road, he returned to Dallas and began running remote broadcasts for NPR long before anyone knew what digital recording was. He would manage offsite recording for reporters and have to tap into telephone lines to transmit audio.

All this to say that Jim was basically the most interesting person I’d ever met. He was liberal, passionate, deeply concerned about humanity, and always ready to break down the world’s problems over coffee and cigarettes.

Throughout the course of a lifetime, you brush shoulders with many people, however it is rare to find someone who unfailingly adheres to a philosophy and lives their life with conviction and purpose, with the clarity of thought that Jim does. He has developed a level of understanding and tolerance for people that I never thought possible. His ability to recognize the complexities of life in all its tedious intricacies and then translate that into an inexorable respect for other people, no matter who they are, is something I admire most about him. I interviewed Jim once for podcast series I used to host, and he said something really profound about how people are becoming more and more isolated. “The commercial says that everyone is actually getting more connected to one another when that’s not the case at all . . . and that’s a dangerous place to be for human beings.”3 Jim always aimed to shorten that gap in connectivity. He would combat the distance, not by categorizing groups of people, but by interacting with people on an individual level. And that’s how our friendship developed. We’d meet up at Mudsmith, sometimes planned other times spontaneously. I remember one time in particular where we both rounded the corner of the building and almost collided. He would paint or write, and I would craft poems and devise publishing schemes while we chain-smoked American Spirits, chewed on ideas, and talked about the world.

One Friday, I randomly ran into Jim on the front patio of Mudsmith. “I’m headed to the Dakota Access Pipeline protest downtown,” he declared, “Wanna come?”

Naturally, I said yes. I was 26, and fresh off serving in the Democratic Socialist of America (DSA) chapter during my junior year at the University of Kansas. I had taken a Marxism class as an elective the fall prior and it had politically engaged me, so in an effort to get more involved, I reached out to the chapter contact on campus. I cannot for the life of me remember the name of the gal who was working to get the chapter off the ground, but I remember that her and I would meet in the Solidarity Library4 in the Unitarian Church that housed the Ecumenical Campus Ministries5 on Oread Avenue just off campus. Most of the work we did over the course of the six months I was involved, before I left KU and moved back to Texas, involved recruitment, so I’d never actually had the opportunity to organize, and I’d never been to a protest.

Though it might seem odd that Dallas would become a key hub for anti-oil rhetoric, local activists knew that Energy Transfer Partners, the company building the pipeline, was based here and held a 36.4% stake in Dakota Access, LLC. Klyde Warren Park, conveniently named after the son of ETP’s CEO, Kelcy Warren, was identified as the perfect protest stage.6 DAPL protests were popping up all over the country in solidarity with the Standing Rock Sioux after “construction crews destroyed American Indian burial and cultural sites on private land in southern North Dakota” and “Energy Transfer’s private security unleashed attack dogs and pepper spray on nonviolent protesters.”7

That Friday, we joined what my writing and rhetorics professor would later call a “rights claim”—a collective demand to stop the construction of the DAPL on ethical and environmental grounds. The pipeline threatened to rip through indigenous lands sacred to the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. A week after our protest in Dallas, a major gasoline pipeline had ruptured in Alabama, “spilling as many as 336,000 gallons of fuel upstream from a national wildlife refuge,” reminding everyone how risky these projects are despite big oil’s persistence.8 In fact, the SMU Daily Campus cited a report9 from the Pipeline and Hazardous Materials Safety Administration under the U.S. Department of Transportation that “significant pipeline incidents total 5,674 since 1996, an average of 284 incidents per year, including ‘highly volatile liquid releases’ or ‘liquid releases resulting in an unintentional fire or explosion.’ Total damage has amounted to roughly $7.5 billion.”10

This was just two years after the Flint water crisis and one year after Obergefell v. Hodges and the whole decade of my twenties felt like it was drowning in rights culture, with every new movement fighting conservative religious strongholds, oil giants, or climate apathy.

This protest in Dallas wasn’t meant to be symbolic; it was strategic.11 It was a direct callout to one of the most powerful energy companies in the country, right in its own backyard. We wanted to support the Standing Rock Sioux from afar, but we also wanted to remind Energy Transfer Partners that the world was watching, and protesting, wherever they had a footprint. This wasn’t North Dakota farmland; it was a highly visible public park in the heart of the city, surrounded by corporate offices, high-end restaurants, and glass towers that reflected the skyline back at itself. The goal, as I understood it, wasn’t just to raise awareness; it was to apply pressure in a place where the company’s executives might actually see us from their corner offices. An attempt to make a small crack in the armor of corporate power, if only for one day.

I can’t remember where we parked that day, but I do remember carting Jim’s handmade signs several blocks to the catty-corner of Klyde Warren Park. We gathered along the black iron fence that lined the sidewalk as a few police officers directed protesters to stay out of the street and not obstruct traffic.

I asked Jim why we couldn’t just protest in the park, and he explained that while Klyde Warren is technically a public park owned by the City of Dallas, it’s operated by the privately owned Woodall Rodgers Park Foundation. It was built through a public-private partnership, funded by both city dollars and private donations, but because a private company runs it, you can’t protest there without a permit or permission.12 So, we were stuck on the sidewalk.

Our signs read, "No justice, no peace." I held mine high in the air, hands clamped to either side. It was early September and still very warm, and as I strained my arms beads of sweat dripped from my temple onto my shirt. A small group of us rallied together, chanting, "Water is life!" and "You can’t drink oil! Keep it in the soil!" The Indigenous protesters broke into song several times, and I was struck by the natural cadence of their voices—the melody, the rhythm, the way it filled the space around us.

I was timid at first. Not sure what to say or how loud to be. Was I supposed to yell the whole time? But Jim assuaged my doubts and assured me that my presence was enough, that protest is about occupying space, about making people aware of you, even if just for a moment. That brief interruption, someone walking by, glancing over, asking themselves, What are they protesting? Why are they here? That’s where it starts.

Jim had brought his camera and moved through the crowd, snapping photos whenever something caught his eye. He knew a few of the protesters, though I wasn’t sure how, and soon drifted off to mingle, leaving me and my friend Jenny, who had joined us, to take in the scene.

Some passersby honked in solidarity with quick, sharp bursts of support, while others responded with long, drawn-out honks and shouts of opposition. I did what I do best: I observed. I hollered when it felt right, stood tall when my voice grew tired, and let the energy of the moment carry me.

As the sun began to set, the crowd started to thin, and protesters parted with the promise to return at a later date. Jim patted me on the back, and we made the trek back to our cars to head to the Stoneleigh P for some pizza. The weight of the day settled in as we walked.

Looking back, that groundswell of rights claims amidst the DAPL protests laid the foundation for what came to be the most significant social movement of the 21^st century: Black Lives Matter. So many movements form, flourish, and fade, each contributing something unique to the broader tapestry of activism in America. But in hindsight, I am left with the question: how do we really evaluate the legacy of these movements?

In these quiet moments of reflection, I acknowledge that the DAPL still chugs along. Their website proudly offers a page dedicated to all the things they are definitely not doing:13

• We are not on Standing Rock Sioux land.

• The pipeline does not endanger water supplies.

• The pipeline is totally underground, so calm down.

• Oil is fantastic.

• Oil is our savior.

• Bow down to the oil gods and give thanks.

In other words, they’re still working hard to win the PR war.

Meanwhile, the oil keeps flowing. The land is stolen. And the people who fought to protect it? They’re a footnote in the pipeline’s quarterly earnings report. The protest signs were tossed, the hashtags have gone stale, and the social consciousness moved on to organize and tackle the next disaster. And yet, the pipeline’s still there. Still underground. So goes the oil, so goes our memory.

A few years after the protest, I landed a full time job at the University of Texas at Arlington which pulled me away from afternoons at Mudsmith. Then, sadly, Mudsmith closed its doors for good in 2019,14 taking with it our meeting place, our unofficial headquarters for debates, art, and slow-burning rebellion. I haven’t seen Jim in years, but I know he’s out there somewhere, reading Robert A. Johnson like scripture, sucking down cigarettes, and painting labyrinthine canvases full of color and meaning.

As I sift through old photographs, essays, and drawings from this time in my life, I discovered the lyrics to a simple song I wrote about the DAPL."

Westchester Place
manipulates
the water we’re drinking

No justice,
no peace
when money poisons
the ground beneath our feet

North Dakota
running south
the oil drips
into our mouths

they’ll arrest us
no release
throw the tear gas
if we speak

we document
in disbelief
while the pipes rupture,
seep, and leak

A couple of weeks ago, I read an article in The Dallas Morning News15 about Energy Transfer Partners suing Greenpeace16 “for defamation over claims related to protests against the 2016 Dakota Access Pipeline.” The article brought a smile to my face because it confirmed the protests' real impact. No amount of historical erasure or rhetorical rewriting can negate the financial toll of the protests on ETP.

Now, eight years later, I see the answer to my question more clearly—movements build upon one another, each laying the foundation for the next, and perhaps a movement’s true legacy is best measured by the lawsuits it provokes. After all, we live in a country built on precedent.

Notes