The Texas Board of Education recently succeeded in coercing Texan textbook publishers to define marriage as “between a man and a woman” in health textbooks. Conservatives on the Board, led by Republican Terri Leo (above), argue that textbooks should reflect Texas Law, which has unambiguously defined marriage as heterosexual. Leo further asserts that textbooks’ use of “asexual stealth phrases,” such as “two individuals” instead of “a man and a woman,” in their discussions of marriage is detrimental to youth.

Critics are quick to respond that there is little scientific evidence that the use of such phrases increases the likelihood of homosexual activity in adolescents. Mary Helen Berlanga, a liberal board member in Texas, protested these revisions, claiming, “We’re not supposed to rewrite the books.” Liberals also point to the fact that the books were exclusionary even before such revisions, noting the absence of “two males or two females holding hands [in any picture].”

This is neither the first nor the most passionate battle over the content of textbooks, especially when social and ethical rhetoric comes face to face with science. Evolution, for example, has been at the center of such controversy for years - some textbooks today are forced to carry a sticker identifying evolution as “only a theory” and urging kids to keep their minds open (paradoxical, given the inflexible passions of those who lobby for the stickers). There is, then, a broader question: can general judgments about attempts to change the content of school textbooks exist without reference to political bias or the specific controversy being discussed? Can Berlanga’s assertion that textbooks need not be rewritten be universally correct?

The answer, somewhat dishearteningly, is no. The issue cannot be extrapolated beyond the particular texts and ideas in individual instances. In some cases, textbook activism is clearly wrong. In others, it is clearly right. In most though, it is a thoroughly unsatisfying shade of gray.

One unilateral policy that would seem to make a lot of sense would be to leave textbook writing to the textbook writers. After all, the writers of textbooks are presumably among the best scholars in their fields, and much better educated on a given topic than any activist is likely to be. If being well-educated means you have valid opinions and ideas, then textbook writers are the epitome of the description. If this isn’t the case, then what exactly is the point of education?

Unfortunately, even eminent scholars tend to go astray. The history textbook Growth of the American Republic, written by Samuel Eliot Morison of Harvard and Henry Steele Commager of Columbia and used by most Ivy League colleges into the 1950s, contains this gem about the effects of slavery on the black populace: “Sambo suffered less than any other class in the South. Although brought here by force, the incurably optimistic negro soon became attached to the country and devoted to his ‘white folks.’” In the same textbook, there is an oddly firsthand assessment that blacks in the South were “adequately fed, well cared for, and apparently happy.” These are hardly statements of academic truth by today’s standard.

In fact, these passages did provoke complaints, but Morison and Commager laughed them off. Most people who want activists out of our textbooks today would have to concede that a little public activism might be in order here, or at least that they wouldn’t want their children learning what Morison and Commager had to teach. Our liberal hero Berlanga would probably not say, “We cannot start censoring books because we do not like the terminology,” if the terminology in question was “the incurably optimistic negro.”

Another easy answer, concerning controversial social issues like gay marriage, might be that discrimination on any basis whatsoever is always wrong – and, hence, that the liberal side of any social issue is the correct one. Today, popular thought argues that almost all abolitionists, suffragists, and civil rights leaders were in the right, though in their day many considered them radicals and subversives. When it comes to the burning social issues of the past, and the progressive side of the equation was always the correct one. Extrapolating from this trend, it seems a plausible conclusion that discrimination on any basis is wrong, that any attempt to bestow civil rights on “fringe groups” is laudable, and that history, without fail, eventually proves the liberals right. If this is the case, a quick edit by Ralph Nader could solve all controversy.

But, is progressivism always right? Today, for example, many people who support gay marriage would probably think that allowing people to marry household pets is ridiculous. In fact, they would find it just as ridiculous as today’s conservatives find the idea of gay marriage. It is entirely plausible that pet marriage will become a burning issue in thirty years, and I highly suspect that most of us will sympathize with conservatives seeking to define marriage as exclusively among humans. And, in fact, we see polygamy as a sign of backwardness and have illegalized it in this country, although it is an accepted cultural norm in many regions of the world. Progressivism, it appears, is only right as long as you’re comfortable with it. Unless Americans are willing to agree to support the liberal side of every social issue, America will eventually be faced with one with which it just can’t agree; and suddenly impassioned school board speeches about “values,” “morals” and “common sense will flood the airwaves once again.

Ultimately, there are no first and final principles when it comes to burning social questions. As the saying goes, “The winner gets to write the history books.” But that doesn’t make unrepentant reactionism right. Sure, the über-progressive activists may be going a bit too far, but truth is always somewhere in the middle. Despite the ultra-conservative leanings of some of its base, the Republican Party should take heed. They may have won the election, but history may show them the real losers.