When we encounter an unfamiliar word in our daily lives, we instinctively turn to a dictionary or, with a simple click of a mouse, get right to consulting the Internet. We glance over its meaning and accept it as true, rarely questioning the definition’s legitimacy. As children, we memorize vocabulary lists and recite definitions on assessments, getting credit only for providing the words’ universally accepted meaning.
As an elementary school student, I remember memorizing and recalling definitions easily for vocabulary pop quizzes, but something always felt insufficient. Looking back now, I realize this feeling stemmed from the fact that I had to surrender to definitions imposed upon me.
The bottom line is we seldom pause to ask, “Who held the authority to determine a word’s meaning, and more importantly, who has been excluded from the process?”
These wandering questions hit me even harder when I began thinking more seriously about concepts like “theft.” Growing up, I understood “theft” in simple terms — taking something that isn’t yours. This perspective of theft as an “inherently immoral act” is still very prevalent. In fact, Merriam-Webster defines “theft” as “the felonious taking and removing of personal property with intent to deprive the rightful owner of it.”
Honestly, I never cast much skepticism on this definition. After all, it seemed like common sense. A thief is someone who steals, and stealing is wrong — end of story. It wasn’t until I read Toni Morrison’s “Beloved” that I began to question my once-comfortable assumptions. I can no longer look at theft or many other words, for that matter, as simple equations of right and wrong.
The definition of “theft” becomes wholly inadequate when applied to the painful realities of people facing histories of systemic oppression. I used to think that stealing was defined by what was taken, but Morrison’s book made me realize that historically, theft was purely defined by who was accused of the taking.
As I read these books, questions spilled into the margins of my notebook. Is it just to call someone a “thief” in a world that has already stolen everything from them? What is “theft” when you were never allowed to own? What is “trespassing” if you were never welcomed in the first place?
In “Beloved,” Sethe, the novel’s protagonist, sorrowfully yearns for her wedding to be something beyond “moving over a bit of pallet full of corn husks” or carrying her “night bucket.” Sethe then recounts the story of stealing scraps of fabric from Mrs. Garner’s mending basket, a dresser scarf, an old sash and mosquito netting in the barn to piece together a wedding dress for herself.
Something in me bristled at the unfairness of implicitly calling Sethe a “thief,” but I came to realize Morrison’s deliberate incorporation of subversion here. She uses the word “stole,” which would normally be regarded as a sinful act, to refer to Sethe’s act of seeking deserved dignity and self-expression. Morrison was intentional in how she framed this situation — as it was so often unfairly portrayed in history — to let us witness it firsthand.
This choice leads us to rethink what truly counts as right or wrong. In the past, “theft” was criminalized, while generosity, no matter how performative — especially from those in power — was presented as morally pure.
In other words, laws and social norms criminalized survival behaviors for the oppressed while excusing or glorifying similar actions by those in power, a pattern that unfortunately persists today. This is especially apparent in the criminal justice system, where marginalized communities face harsher penalties for minor offenses. Meanwhile, similar or more severe actions by privileged individuals often go overlooked or lightly punished. In fact, according to The Sentencing Project, “Black youth were 5.6 times as likely to be placed (i.e., detained or committed) in juvenile facilities as their white peers,” highlighting the persisting relevance of Morrison’s novel.
This dynamic is further echoed through the story of Paul D, a formerly enslaved man in “Beloved,” who learns firsthand of the painful veracity of the idea that “definitions [belong] to the definers — not the defined.” Paul D reveals that the enslaved men at the Sweet Home plantation were given the designation of “men,” but that title only extended to that perimeter. One step off, and that status was revoked. Instead of men, they became “watchdogs without teeth; steer bulls without horns; gelded workhorses” and “trespassers among the human race.”
What Morrison brilliantly exposes here is the absurdity of using the word “trespassers,” which the Oxford dictionary defines as “a person who goes onto somebody’s land without their permission.” Shouldn’t the legitimacy of ownership be a prerequisite for trespassing, or is it just a label created by the potent to establish who belongs and who doesn’t? Further, if the oppressor’s definitions are the only ones that exist, how come we, by default, take them to be true?
Historically, Morrison’s portrayal mirrors real-life injustices, like the Black Codes and post-Civil War laws, which systemically denied Black Americans the right to own property while punishing them for trying to occupy spaces reserved for white citizens.
My Ukrainian parents taught me right from wrong in a very black and white way, in which “theft” signifies an inherent wrong, as it clearly violates virtues like honesty and respect for others’ property. Honestly, I do not blame them for this worldview because I can’t ignore the fact that it was built on the constant fear of losing everything they had, which made them cling so strongly to this idea of property rights.
But when I think about the lives of enslaved people, the word “theft” feels cruel and absurd. How can one call someone a thief when they were denied the ability to own land under the Black Codes, forced into unjust, backbreaking labor under sharecropping, or criminalized for simply traveling freely under the vague vagrancy laws? It’s impossible to feel the sting of that injustice on a personal level.
The fact that Morrison’s work is so frequently targeted for bans in schools depicts the very threat her ideas pose to established narratives, reflecting how uncomfortable her stories make readers and institutions when confronted with the realities of slavery, systemic oppression and the power of language. Ultimately, to confront this, we actually have to wrestle with the words we toss around every day in classrooms, offices, the news we scroll past and even over the dinner table, as we question who gets to crown definitions “official” and whose voices have been muffled or ignored.
Only once we do that can we inch closer toward a society where words empower change instead of reinforcing the inequities that are baked into our past.
Michelle Belakh is a freshman double-majoring in linguistics and political science.
Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the staff editorial.