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Link – Frontier

We undertake a genealogy of the American national identity to uncover its roots in Puritanism and the mythos of the ever-expanding Wilderness – this identity relies on ethnocentrism to make value judgments about populations.
Clifford 01 [Michael, Associate Professor of Philosophy at Mississippi State University, Political Genealogy After Foucault: Savage Identities, p. 58-59]
Perhaps the most important enunciative modality of subjects refers to the site of their emergence. Subjectivity is the most defined, the most articulated, where it is bound to an architectural structure or an institution. Here the discourse which delimits subjects can be refined, perpetuated, and put into practice: workers in a factory, soldiers at a military base, patients in a hospital. Yet the most important site of the emergence of modern political subjects is neither a building nor an institution, and it is only by means of an arbitrary delimitation of space that we can even call it a “place.” This site, I would contend, is the nation, what Benedict Anderson has defined as an “imagined political community.”31 The nation delimits a space of political subjectivity; it gives subjects an identity by virtue of their identification with the nation: as an American or German, as Japanese or Bengali. It is a place both real and ideal; real to the extent that it designates fixed (or disputed) geographical boundaries, ideal in that it is a place whose boundaries are defined less by fences, rivers, or mountains than by political subjects who share what Walker Connor calls an “essential psychological bond.”32 That bond has less to do with shared language, shared economy, or shared territory than it does with having a common discourse— through which certain components are articulated as shared, that is, national.33 For all the variation in nations and national identities, we see two common themes recurring in national discourse, in the discourse through which a nation defines itself as such, according to Max Weber. The first theme is that of a “common political destiny” and the second to a myth of “common descent.”34 In this sense, a nation has less to do with physical space than it has to do with time. National identity is both constituted and defined by a temporal dimension, by a “presence” that is at once pastprescribed and future-oriented. The latter idea, the myth of common descent, has to do with the idea that the people of a nation share a common genetic origin. This may have something to do with the word nation itself, which, as Connor points out, derives from the Latin verb nasci, “to be born.”35 For centuries the word nation was used almost interchangeably with the word race. It was not uncommon, Connor reminds us, to refer to the English or German races rather than nations. However, says Connor, this sense of common origin or descent need not be based on actual historical fact. That would be irrelevant, he argues, to the constitution of a nation and, what amounts to the same thing, its self-recognition as a nation. “What ultimately matters is not what is but what people believe is. And a subconscious belief in the group’s separate origin and evolution is an important ingredient of national psychology.”36 Oddly, however, Connor wants to say that America “is not a nation in the pristine sense of the word” precisely because the American people lack this (sense of) common blood or genetic origin. On the contrary, the discourse through which America is defined is ingrained with both of those elements—the myths of common origin and of common destiny—that Weber ascribes to nations generally. In fact, in the nationalist discourse of the United States, both of those elements are present as two sides of the same coin. The notion of a common origin is seen not just in the fact that Americans tend to view themselves as a nation of immigrants, all hailing from foreign shores, but that our ancestors, of whatever “blood” origin, faced a hostile and forbidding land, a wilderness full of beasts and savages. Says Frederick Jackson Turner, “the frontier promoted the formation of a composite nationality for the American people. . . . In the crucible of the frontier the immigrants were Americanized, liberated, and fused into a mixed race, English in neither nationality nor characteristics. The process has gone on from the early days to our own.”37 The American myth of descent has to do with a sense of coming from a stock of people who plunged headlong into this wilderness and who tamed it with little more than their own courage, ingenuity, and personal fortitude. Of course, this myth, this discourse, tends to be highly white, male, and Anglo-European. It says nothing of the Middle Passage, of that segment of the population forced to come to America whose lineage was considered dark, alien, and “inferior.” Yet in many ways America represents a perpetual frontier, a frontier of spirit rather than of territory. Observes Sacvan Bercovitch, “Traditionally, a frontier was a border dividing one people from another. It implied differences between nations. In a sense, antebellum Americans recognized such differences—their frontier separated them from the Indians—but they could hardly accept the restriction as permanent. This was God’s Country, was it not? So they effected a decisive shift in the meaning of frontier, from barrier to threshold. Even as they spoke of their frontier as a meeting ground between two civilizations, Christian and pagan, they redefined it, in an inversion characteristic of the myth-making imagination, to mean a figural outpost, the outskirts of the advancing kingdom of God.”38 American immigrants of virtually any ethnic origin, at virtually any historical time, can rather easily appropriate the discourse of frontier spirit in the face of a hostile land and make it a part of their own family history; as such, it belongs with the larger national mythology.
The frontier mentality produces savagery where America sees itself as the beacon of light to the uncivilized spaces of the universe. This results in colonialism that would destroy any that stand in opposition to it.
Clifford 01 [Michael, Associate Professor of Philosophy at Mississippi State University, Political Genealogy After Foucault: Savage Identities, p. 60-61]
Of course, this New World frontier mentality is at the very heart of what I have called savage nobility. The measure of that nobility tends to be the degree to which one is able to tame one’s own personal quarter of American wilderness. One of the sad ironies of this mythos is that those who were originally considered “savages” in the conventional sense—I have in mind native American Indians and native Africans, but we could include other groups, past and present—were/are the ones for whom the American landscape was/is the most hostile, the most fraught with danger. Nevertheless, even these marginalized and disenfranchised groups have been able to appropriate the frontier motif of the American mythos by conceiving of their own marginalization and disenfranchisement as a hostile “wilderness” of sorts, to be overcome by personal industry and perseverence.40 Thus, one common discursive element that Weber attributes to national identity can be found in a shared sense of the frontier. To be American is to have conquered a hostile wilderness of sorts; herein lies the myth of common descent. The other common discursive element of a national identity, according to Weber, is a sense of common political destiny. In America this destiny is largely a reflection and a projection of that same frontier mentality—the idea that America is destined to conquer all of the wildernesses of the world, natural, social, moral, political, economic and technological. By the middle of the nineteenth century this mythos would become explicit and would be concretized in the jingoistic discourse of “Manifest Destiny,” a term coined by John Louis O’Sullivan in 1845 in a popular magazine with a nationalistic orientation. The notion of Manifest Destiny would be appealed to justify the territorial expansion of the United States for the next fifty years or more. This expansion was about much more than the acquisition of land, of course. It was about sending a beacon of light into the darkness, of bringing American values and ideology to that part of the world that remained a kind of wilderness, awaiting its penetration, appropriation, and spiritual intubation. This era paralleled the period of high colonialism during which native peoples—savages—would have Western culture imposed upon them in often cruel and violent ways.41 Yet colonialism proper differed from the expansionist projects of nineteenth-century America. Americans were “giving” something, not taking it away: namely, freedom and the liberal-democratic values of self-government. Of course, America was willing to go to war with anyone who refused to accept this “gift.” And well into the twentieth century, even after harsh political realities brought the expansionist policies of Manifest Destiny to a close, America continued to define itself as a nation in similar terms, that is, not only as the land of liberty, but of its fount and guardian around the globe. Any nation that did not share these values automatically became a threat, and was thus subject to American interventions, in the form of trade, aid, diplomacy, and, if necessary, war.
Kennedy’s space frontier has framed contemporary politics relating to space exploration. These new conceptions of the frontier attempt to bring western civilization to uncharted areas. This universal call for action in space reifies the hegemonic narratives of colonization through guises of progress and technology. The United States will justify war in the name of this frontier.

King in ’11

(Byron, an interdisciplinary artist, designer and poet who believes deeply that an individual’s choices have a direct impact on the environment, our bodies and our minds, MDA)

But I will suggest another dimension to the description of progress and frontier.  Perhaps we ought to look at progress today, in the twenty-first century, as the idea of moving toward that which we have yet to encounter, rather than as fashioning either ourselves or the world in an image that presupposes what is desirable.  In this formulation, people would approach the idea of frontier as a site for seeking the universally unknown rather than as one which ensures conquest, either of the other or of oneself by one’s unthinking submission to the imperial mindset.    This is to say that the frontier did not close, as the federal government declared in 1890, but rather, in Turner’s words, that it extended “into new regions.”  It left the continent that once was a colony and colonized those we saw as inferior, savage, and in need of our brand of “civilization.” By the middle of the twentieth century, the United States had developed a unique combination of carrot and stick in approaching the foreign, in eradicating undesirable ideas, in remaking the world in its image.  Of course, “carrot and stick” is a euphemism for the reality, which was that the United States divided its policy roughly between foreign aid and terrorism.  In any case, by this point, the frontier had entered many new phases at once.  And the negotiation of the foreign, at least in terms of defining American-ness, was no longer the job of rugged individualist pioneers, but of technocrats, scientists, lawyers, and generals.  And such negotiation required a degree of coordination, of simultaneity, that did not allow much room for improvisation or waiting to see what the Indians would do, or hoping the fish would bite today.      Hence this new conception of frontier itself needed renewal, by reference to the old.  We see this in a variety of sources, perhaps most notably John F. Kennedy’s acceptance speech at the  1960 Democratic National Convention in Los Angeles.  Facing west at his microphone, Kennedy recalled the old West of the pioneers and their determination to bring civilization to the very edge of the Pacific.  And now, “the New Frontier is here, whether we seek it or not.  Beyond that frontier are the uncharted areas of science and space, unsolved problems of peace and war, unconquered [province] of ignorance and prejudice, unanswered questions of poverty and surplus.”  He went on:               . . . I believe the times require imagination and courage and perseverance.  I am asking each of you to be pioneers towards that New Frontier.  My call is to the young in heart, regardless of age. . . to all who respond to the Scriptural call: “Be strong and of good courage; be not afraid, neither be dismayed.”   One can imagine that in Kennedy’s mind, the specter of nuclear missiles and the prospect of Cold War ideologies going horribly awry stood near the front.  Economic collapse would follow a devastating military exchange, whether staged on American soil or elsewhere.  The American tradition of peaceful power transitions would come to an end.  Such was the frontier no one wanted to confront.  Yet there were other concerns, which underlay the fear of nuclear blight.  In one sense, we have not rid ourselves of them since the Cold War.  But in another, they have always existed in history.  For example, how could it be that we might destroy other humans in a disagreement over how best to live in the world?  If we forego the idea that perpetual war is a necessary instrument of progress, we may have choices about how to define progress.  Here, the unknown that watches us from its wilderness—let’s call it the future—cannot in itself be said to represent change.  Rather, the human approach to that frontier may well decide what kind of mind survives in the new New World.  We might then say that the renunciation of war and conquest as the ultimate means of confronting difference, because it would give up the definition of progress as renewal of the old and hence familiar, could produce a genuinely progressive understanding of progress.  It could, in other words, produce an engagement with the radically new in such a way that would obviate conquest.  Instead of asking of the future, What is it, or How can we make it function as something familiar, we might ask what we ourselves are and where we got our definitions.  The future is here, whether we seek it or not.  Indeed, we are always at the edge of the moment that has not yet arrived, always at the threshold of a wilderness whose purposes or laws are exceedingly difficult to predict.  But perhaps if we let go of the anthropocentric location of natural laws long enough to experience the whole of nature just beyond the threshold of the future, we might not be surprised by what finds us in our natural habitat.
Portrayal of outer space as a frontier is nothing but imperialistic - the same type of historical legacy of American domination of the “west” by exterminating natives and taming the wilderness in the name of prosperity

Marshall 95.

Alan Marshall, Institute of Development Studies @ Massey U., “Development and imperialism in space”, Space Policy, 1995, p. ScienceDirect
In the recent past, nationalist and populist calls for an increase in the US space effort were often imbued with ideological stances aimed at the activities of the USSR in space. Only two years before the onset of glasnost, American space advocates tried to ressurrect a flailing US space interest by appealing to intrinsic ideological sentiments of the US public. James Michener stated ‘I am increasingly disturbed by the Soviet Union’s constantly widening lead in the utilization of low-Earth-orbit flight’ and Jerry Grey stated ‘Those goals, set by the Soviet Un INTERPRETATION ion even before the US formed NASA in 19.58, focus on the permanent occupancy of space by Soviet cosmonauts and eventual domination of the entire cosmos by the Soviet Union’.12 Since the break-up of the USSR in September 1991, the efficacy of campaigning for more US space activities on the basis of a fear of a ‘Commie cosmos’ has diminished considerably. That, in turn, means a direct lessening in the role of nationalism as a force in promoting solar system development, but certainly not to its evaporation. Now, those who appeal to nationalist sentiment in order to increase the space effort have to resort to arguments based upon the resurrection of American technological primacy in the face of European and East Asian competition, and upon appealing to the ‘frontierism’ supposedly entrenched in the American psyche as being responsible for the nation’s economic and political greatness. Frontierism, however, is not so much a social or psychological concept as an economic philosophy. It emerges from the individualism so entrenched in American political and economic thought (which serves to secure the operation of ‘l&w faire-ism’ as sacrosanct). Frontierism involves a belief in the individual to surmount the challenges of a new situation, a new territory or a new environment and carve out an existence. Once the individual has done this they deservedly call that territory or environment their own. By this process the frontier grows larger and carves out an extended base for economic and demographic expansion, so contributing to the wealth of the nation (or more accurately to the wealth of the bourgeoisie) by turning unproductive land into an economic resource. In US history, as in the history of some of the other New World nations, frontierism was an economic policy designed to tame the wilderness and present it in economic terms as soon as possible. In reality frontierism is a more accepted and socially-sensitive word for capitalist imperialism, since (just as in capitalist imperialism) it involves the appropriation of economic resources that are considered previously unowned. Like capitalist imperialism, frontierism perceives nothing of value in the frontier lands except what can be scraped from it economically and converted into capital. In nineteenth-century USA, the value of native peoples and the value of the landscape was arrogantly ignored as the West was made to succumb to the utilitarianism of the imperialistic capitalists. Such is also the outlook of those who advocate pioneering the ‘Final Frontier’. Frontierists views that the planets and moons of the solar system are valueless hunks of rock until acted upon by humans to produce economic value and contribute to capital accumulation. Space frontierists such as Wernher von Braun, Arthur C Clark, Kraft Ehrick, William Hartmann and Gerard O’Neill feel that imperialism can be excised from their frontierism by appealing to the innate curiosity in our personal consciousness. To them, frontierism in space will amply channel the human propensity to explore and expand in a constructive and benevolent way. These rationales for space expansion must, however, stand up for themselves, since they are ultimately separate from the frontierism experienced in history. The fact that there is confusion between these socio-psychological elements and the actual economic nature of fronterism in modern day calls for space development gives credit to the nineteenth century idealogues who so convincingly tied bourgeois economic policy with populist ideology that it continues to fool so many into believing fronterism is a worthy nationalist (even universalist) ideal. Because frontierism is ultimately an economic philosophy its success as a rationale for extraterrestrial development relies on economic forces. As such, it is as doomed a rationale as the other economic models of space development discussed earlier. But what of the socio-psychological and socio-biological aspects inherent in modern frontierist thought. Might they offer a convincing rationale for Solar System development?
The American frontier rhetoric of the 1AC highlights an emergence of exceptionalism through notions of progress, civilization and discovery. This wilderness construction is done in the name of otherization, anxiety and violence.

Spanos in 8

William, American Exceptionalism in the age of globalization : the specter of Vietnam , “American Exceptionalism in the Age of Globalization ; The Specter of Vietnam” , 2008, June 21, 2011, LMM

In his policy book entitled Who Are We?: The Challenges to America’s National Identity published in 2004 in the aftermath of 9/11, Samuel P. Huntington lends his substantial authority as a prestigious scholar to the Bush administration’s “argument” for “staying the course” in Iraq in the midst of a weakening of the American people’s resolve to do so. Unlike his predecessor, Francis Fukuyama, however, and far more than Richard Haass, who modified the former’s Hegelian end-of-history thesis to accommodate the global instability that followed the implosion of the Soviet Union, Huntington, in a surprisingly overt way, draws on the canonical cultural history of the United States to call for another “Great Awakening” as the means of sustaining the American national identity in the face of the challenges posed by the emergence of a discourse and practice of diversity to its unity—and power—and of enabling the “fulfillment” of America’s History-ordained errand in the global wilderness. What Huntington means by a new Great Awakening cannot be entirely understood simply by attending to his invocation of earlier Great Awakenings that were defined by the original Great Awakening of the 1730s and 1740s identified with the great Puritan theologian Jonathan Edwards. His call, which should remind us, ironically, of the “Puritan/American calling” and, more specifically, the “American jeremiad,” so enablingly analyzed by Sacvan Bercovitch, must be seen in the context of the origins of American exceptionalism in the Massachusetts Bay Puritans’ exodus from the “Old World” into the “New,” which is to say, the defining distinction they made between a civilized world that had become “old,” “decadent,” “sterile,” “impotent,” “tyrannical,” “collective,” “immobile,” “effete,” “profane” that is, overcivilized, and a civilized world that was “new,” “creative,” “manly,” “productive,” “free,” “individualist,” “kinetic,” “progressive,” “godly.” More specifically, it must be seen in the context of the threat posed by the settled or sedentary life—the domesticating and familiarizing dynamics of civilization—to the youthful, virile, and creative energies that were precisely the characteristics the early settlers invoked to distinguished themselves from the Old World. Reconstellated into this inaugural American context, it will also be seen that Huntington’s representative call for a new “great [Anglo-Protestant] Awakening” is a call for the reaffirmation or rejuvenation of the perennially American notion of the “frontier”: that forward-moving boundary line between wilderness and settlement, the unfamiliar and the familiar, anxiety and complacency, distrust and confidence, violence and peace, “them” (an enemy) and “us,” that became in the future the sine qua non of rejuvenating American civilization and the exceptionalist American national identity.
The 1AC fears that the New World is becoming Old – it uses a renewed sense of progress and principles of human knowledge to justify imperial policy making.

Spanos in 8

William, American Exceptionalism in the age of globalization : the specter of Vietnam , “American Exceptionalism in the Age of Globalization ; The Specter of Vietnam” , 2008, June 21, 2011, LMM

Like Parkman’s, it is an American exceptionalist problematic determined by his New England heritage and takes the rhetorical form of the jeremiad. If there is a difference, it lies in Webster’s more immediate relationship to his Puritan roots and to the jeremiad than Parkman’s. But to identify Webster’s problematic with American exceptionalism and its form of articulation with the jeremiad as such is inadequate. No less than his Puritan predecessors (e.g., John Danforth and Increase and Cotton Mather) and, Cooper and Parkman, what is at stake for Webster at each of the occasions of his Bunker Hill orations is the perennial New World/Old World opposition, the anxiety that the New World is becoming old (effete and/or dispersed) like Europe, and the need to identity a threat to the well-being of the covenanted nation that would both recuperate the failing consensus and renew the American peoples’ productive energy. I quote from the representative last paragraph of the first of these commemorating orations, which Webster delivered at the laying of the cornerstone of the Bunker Hill Monument at the site of the battle on June 17, 1825, its fiftieth anniversary. After identifying himself and his audience as the belated filial offspring of those Puritan founders, whose “patience and fortitude” and “daring enterprise” had “set the world an example of founding civil institutions on the great and united principles of human freedom and human knowledge (the echo of Winthrop’s sermon on board The Arabella is distinct),” and, more immediately, of the great pioneers of the American Revolution who died at Bunker Hill in their behalf, and the ground on which they stand to commemorate them, the site of “the sepulchers of our fathers,” Hill accomplished. But what is crucial to note in this paradoxical move is that, in invoking “improvement” as the task to which the “spirit of the age invites us,” Webster is internalizing the wilderness, that is, reconstellating the spatial frontier into the ethos of the Anglo-Protestant American “core culture” in its advanced, democratic/capitalist allotrope, in which the “enemy” is identified as the laboring multitude, and, beyond that, the unimproved or in the more current language of policy makers, underdeveloped, world a large. This transformation becomes clear when it is remembered that earlier in his oration, and in preparation for this duplicitous conclusion, Webster had said, in a way that echoes the Puritan calling—and Althusser’s analysis of the interpellated subject and its work ethic: A chief distinction of the present day is a community of opinions and knowledge among men in different nations, existing in a degree heretofore unknown. . . . Mind is the great lever of all things; human thought is the process by which human ends are ultimately answered; and the diffusion of knowledge, so astonishing in the last half-century, has rendered innumerable minds, variously gifted by nature, competent to be competitors or fellow-workers in the theatre of intellectual operation. From these causes important improvements have taken place in the personal condition of individuals. Generally speaking, mankind are not only better fed and better clothed, but they are able also to enjoy more leisure; they possess more refinement and more self-respect. A superior tone of education, manners, and habits prevail. This remark, most true in its application to our own country, is also part true when applied elsewhere. It is proved by the vastly augmented consumption of those articles of manufacture and of commerce which contribute to the comforts and decencies of life; an augmentation which has far outrun the progress of population. And while the unexampled and almost incredible use of machinery would seem to supply the place of labor, labor still finds its occupation and its reward; so wisely has Providence adjusted men’s wants and desires to their condition and their capacity. (WS, 248)

The 1AC’s attempt to know outer space exerts astro-political subjugation through frontier rhetoric. This building of a space empire simply brings the same ole ism into space.

MacDonald, 2007

[Fraser McDonald, Lecturer in Human Geography at the School of Anthropology, Geography & Environmental Studies in the University of Melbourne, “Anti-Astropolitik: outer space and the

orbit of geography”, June 24, 2011,LMM]
Different orbits have different astropolitical purposes. The most crowded portion of space is the Lower Earth Orbit (LEO), between 150 and 800 km above the surface of the Earth. This is the most accessible part of space (in terms of energy expenditure), and the most useful for reconnaissance satellites and manned flight missions. Medium-altitude orbits (MEO) range from 800 to 35,000 km and are often used for navigational satellites (like the American GPS network). High- altitude orbits exceed 35,000 km and provide the maximum coverage of the Earth with a minimum number of satellites. Of particular interest here is Geostationary Orbit (GEO) whereby the orbital period is identical to one full rotation of the earth such that a satellite at 0° inclination (i.e. above the equator) will appear stationary from any fixed point on Earth. This enables near-continuous contact with the Earth, so it is particularly useful for global communications and weather satellites. These then are some of the ‘environmental’ features which influence (rather than determine) the colonization of outer space and the extent to which any aspiring power can maintain astropolitical dominance. I’ll return to this when discussing the theory and practice of astropolitics. The historic relationship between knowing a space and exerting political and strategic dominion over it is entirely familiar to geographers. Just as the geographical knowledge of Empire enabled its military subjugation, colonization, and ultimately its ecological despoliation, this same pattern is being repeated in the 21st century ‘frontier’ . It is also worth remembering that the geographies of imperialism are made not given. In what follows, I want to examine how the geographies of outer space are being produced in and through contemporary social life on Earth. Such an account inevitably throws up some concerns about the politics and socialities of the new space age. Against this background, I set my argument on a trajectory, which is intermittently guided by two key writers on technology with very different sensibilities. It is my intention to hold a line between the dark anticipations of Paul Virilio and the resplendent optimism of Nigel Thrift. This discursive flight may well veer off course; such are the contingencies of navigating space.
The myth of the American frontier valorizes death and atrocity – this makes even nuclear attacks an act of American heroism and drives the United States to the extremes of total obliteration

Slotkin, ‘85

[Richard, Olin Professor of American Studies @ Wesleyan, The Fatal Environment, p. 60-61]

This ideology of savage war has become an essential trope of our mythologization of history, a cliché of political discourse especially in wartime. In the 1890s imperialists like Theodore Roosevelt rationalized draconian military measures against the Filipinos by comparing them to Apaches. Samuel Eliot Morison, in his multivolume history of naval operations in the Second World War, recounts the posting of this slogan at fleet headquarters in the South Pacific: “KILL JAPS, KILL JAPS, KILL MORE JAPS!” Suspecting that peacetime readers may find the sentiment unacceptably extreme, Morison offers the following rationale; This may shock you, reader; but it is exactly how we felt. We were fighting no civilized, knightly war . . . We were back to primitive days of fighting Indians on the American frontier; no holds barred and no quarter. The Japs wanted it that way, thought they could thus terrify an “effete democracy”; and that is what they got, with the additional horrors of war that modern science can produce.17 It is possible that the last sentence is an oblique reference to the use of the atomic bomb at the war’s end. But aside from that, Morison seems actually to overstate the extraordinary character of the counterviolence against the Japanese (we did, after all, grant quarter) in order to rationalize the strength of his sentiments. Note too the dramatization of the conflict as a vindication of our cultural masculinity against the accusations of “effeteness.” The trope of savage war thus enriches the symbolic meaning of specific acts of war, transforming them into episodes of character building, moral vindication, and regeneration. At the same time it provides advance justification for a pressing of the war to the extreme point of extermination, “war without quarter”: and it puts the moral responsibility for that outcome on the enemy, which is to say, on its predicted victims. As we analyze the structure and meaning of this mythology of violence, it is important that we keep in mind the distinction between the myth and the real-world situations and practices to which it refers. Mythology reproduces the world with its significances heightened beyond normal measure, so that the smallest actions are heavy with cosmic significances, and every conflict appears to press toward ultimate fatalities and final solutions. The American mythology of violence continually invokes the prospect of genocidal warfare and apocalyptic, world-destroying massacres; and there is enough violence in the history of the Indian wars, the slave trade, the labor/management strife of industrialization, the crimes and riots of our chaotic urbanization, and our wars against nationalist and Communist insurgencies in Asia and Latin America to justify many critics in the belief that America is an exceptionally violence society.

The 1AC’s frontier movement is part of American expansionism attempting to control the wilderness of space. Just like the Eurocentric powers committed genocide on Native Americans under the guise of benevolence, don’t let the affirmative fool you. It is all part of the same American Empire.

Stuckey in ’11

(Mary E., Professor of Communication at Georgia State University in Atlanta, “The Donner Party and the Rhetoric of Westward Expansion page 238-239, MDA)

In the frontier myth, American expansion is in many ways about control—controlling the wilderness, controlling indigenous peoples (and others), and controlling events. To justify such control, some element of self-control had to be demonstrated. Those seeking to establish control over the frontier, then, worked within a cultural fiction that, unlike American Indians, for instance, white Americans were capable of self-control and thus suited to control the continent. " The expansion of the American nation was justified on the idea that it was somehow benevolent—the gifts associated with “America” and with its presumptive civilization were to be disseminated across the continent. " This idea has always been part of the justification for conquest and colonization in the Americas, and is a vital component of the ideology of empire in general. American Indians, African Americans, and all sorts of Others were castigated and deemed unworthy as participants in the American polity on the grounds of their appetites. Either they were too weak (as in the case of some analyses of indigenous peoples) or too strong ( in the case in negative depictions of African Americans). Anglo-Americans, in contrast, had just the right mix—they were passionate enough to want land and to sacrifice to settle it, but not so passionate as to become subservient to their passions. " They were masters of their appetites and were thus suited to master the continent.
Space Exploration represents a new age of frontierism – Developing this frontier is co-opted by white supremacy, genocide and expansionism.

Stuckey in ’11

(Mary E., Professor of Communication at Georgia State University in Atlanta, “The Donner Party and the Rhetoric of Westward Expansion page 239-240, MDA)

Those who were capable of exerting self-control were more likely to be able to exert control over the external environment. They were the ones best able to convert the “empty wilderness” into a profitable and productive agrarian paradise. Indeed, Tocqueville’s Democracy in America has a section entitled, American Democracy’s Power of Self-Control,” in which he explicitly links whiteness, self-control, and the mastery of territory. Contemplating the tendency of American Indian nations to “vanish,” and the equally frequent revolutions and “convulsions” in South America, Tocqueville even wonders if such types would be better served by despotism. Clearly these “primitives” had no business managing the continent. The developing fiction of the frontier, then, combined erasure and white supremacy and insisted that given their superiority, whites were best suited to continental expansion.
The frontier myth deployed by the United States is based in a drive to conquer the wilderness and therefore justifying violence onto others.

Stuckey in ’11

(Mary E., Professor of Communication at Georgia State University in Atlanta, “The Donner Party and the Rhetoric of Westward Expansion page 241, MDA)

The frontier myth depended first upon the erasure of the continents’ indigenous people, either by rendering them invisible or by assimilating or exterminating them. Second, it required that Americans be seen as an appropriately masterful and civilizing force, who were both competent to conquer the wilderness and justified in doing so by providing a virtuous alternative to the savage and untamed wilds. Americans did not merely impose order on the continent; they rendered it virtuous through their influence.

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