Robin Hood, Book Bans, and the Feathered Revolt of 1953

When Indiana's Text Book Commission went after Robin Hood, college students fought back

BY AARON HELMAN // POSTED DECEMBER 9, 2024

The room brims with emotion as parents, educators, and activists take their timed turn at a microphone. There are rules to a dance like this one, two minutes a turn, one title at a time, and when everyone has had a chance to speak, the library board will put the thing to a vote.

This is a public meeting about the banning of books in the year 2024, and by the time the third person speaks, the rules are going to go out the window. The chairman will not have a big enough gavel to restore order, and that's a shame. If they ever get through this first title, there are still 14 to go.

Once they get through all of those, there's another meeting next Tuesday, but it's starting to look like this one won't be over by then. The proceedings are ugly and angry and unceasing. The library is not quiet.

If it's any consolation, we've been here before.

It was autumn 1953 when the Indiana Textbook Commission brought the guillotine down on Robin Hood. The swashbuckling hero had evaded the Sheriff of Nottingham since medieval times, but he was no match for Ada White, a member of the commission, and one of Indiana's highest-ranking censors.

You've probably already figured out why the hero was so subversive during the 1950s. As a vigilante who robbed the rich and gave to the poor, Robin Hood's antics were just a little too red. Apparently, teaching kids about wealth redistribution during the McCarthy era was the first step toward turning Indiana into a communist utopia. Who knew that Friar Tuck was Karl Marx in disguise?

The outrage was swift, and it came from everywhere. The attempt to paint Robin Hood as a Communist hero earned laughs across the Soviet Union. Even the actual Sheriff of Nottingham got in on the fun, decrying the decision from that inland state across the pond. Indiana was the butt of a joke on at least three continents.

But none of that would change the mood of the Commission. They weren't there to serve English lawmen and they certainly weren't there to serve to Soviets.

It would take a Hoosier uprising to get their attention, and that's what was coming next.

Local backlash began at Indiana University, where five students decided that if the Commission wanted to make a joke out of democracy, they'd return the favor. Their solution? Green chicken feathers, just like the one in Robin Hood's hat. Just like that, the Green Feather Movement was born.

At first, the movement was small, just a handful of students handing out green-dyed feathers to anyone willing to wear one. But something about the simplicity of it struck a chord. Soon, the feathers were popping up on other campuses. It wasn't just about Robin Hood anymore; it was about standing up to censorship, hysteria, and the creeping suspicion that the adults in charge had lost their minds.

When it came to the overreach of a mostly fabricated Red Scare, the message those students were sending was simple:

McCarthyism could get plucked.

Of course, it wasn't all fun and feathers. This was the McCarthy era, after all, when accusing someone of “un-American activities” could ruin careers and lives. The FBI reportedly started keeping tabs on the subversive and dangerous college students, each one armed to the teeth with feathers.

Despite the risks, the Green Feather Movement spread. Students at colleges across the country joined in, pinning green feathers to their jackets as a quiet act of defiance. None other than Harvard University organized its own band of “Merry Men”. Those green feathers became an irresistible symbol and a brandmark of quiet defiance. The movement tapped into a deep well of frustration with the era's culture of fear and suppression, offering a way for students to push back without taking themselves too seriously.

The genius of the Green Feather Movement was its blend of humor and seriousness. It was playful enough to avoid outright repression but pointed enough to get its message across. The feathers weren't just a symbol; they were a conversation starter. They made people ask questions, and asking questions was exactly what McCarthy's disciples didn't want.

By 1954, the movement began to wane. McCarthy himself was on the decline, and the cultural tide was slowly turning against the kind of heavy-handed censorship that had inspired the feathers in the first place. The college students celebrated a victory over censorship and stowed their green feathers away, never imagining they'd need to use them again.

That sound that you hear in the distance might be the rustle of anti-censorship advocates digging them back out again.