Getting Through the Bad Times
by Sam Smith
Progressive Review online (11/04)
[From a talk at the Shelter Rock
Unitarian Universalist Congegration, Manhasset, NY, delivered
one week before the election of 2004.]
This is a time for metaphors. A time
for parallels and parables.
Logic has failed us, theories have failed
us, technology has failed us, policy has failed us, diplomacy
has failed us, our military, our leaders in government, media,
and the intelligentsia. . . even our faith seems to have failed
us.
And so we yearn for stories that makes
sense, that help to end the madness. . .
We seek allegories and anecdotes and allusions
to turn things right. . . .
But it does no good if the tales and the
metaphors are delusional. . . if they drag us even further into
a psychopathic state that veers wildly between arrogance and fear.
It does no good if it sends us deeper
into a new middle ages where reality is ignored or sent to the
inquisition while myth becomes the dominant truth. . . only this
time propagated not by the church but by cable TV.
We live in a nation hated abroad and frightened
at home. A place in which we can reasonably refer to the American
Republic in the past tense. A country that has moved into a post-constitutional
era, no longer a nation of laws but an autotocracy run by law
breakers, law evaders and law ignorers. A nation governed by a
culture of impunity, a term from Latin America where they know
it well - a culture in which corruption is no longer a form of
deviance but the norm. We all live in a Mafia neighborhood now.
It's crazy, it happened so fast, it's
like in Rosencrantz & Guildenstern when Rosencrantz asks
shortly before his death: "What was it all about? When did
it begin? . . . Couldn't we just stay put? . . . We've done nothing
wrong! We didn't harm anyone. Did we? . . . There must have been
a moment, at the beginning, when we could have said -- no. But
somehow we missed it.. . . Well, we'll know better next time."
Yet we have seen it all before. And it
came with stories. A German professor after the World War II
described it this way to journalist Martin Mayer:
What happened was the gradual habituation
of the people, little by little, to be governed by surprise,
to receiving decisions deliberated in secret; to believing that
the situation was so complicated that the government had to act
on information which the people could not understand, or so dangerous
that, even if people could understand it, it could not be released
because of national security. . .
To live in the process is absolutely
not to notice it -- please try to believe me -- unless one has
a much greater degree of political awareness, acuity, than most
of us ever had occasion to develop. Each step was so small, so
inconsequential, so well explained or, on occasion, 'regretted.'
The German professor went on:
Believe me this is true. Each act, each
occasion is worse than the last, but only a little worse. You
wait for the next and the next. You wait for one shocking occasion,
thinking that others, when such a shock comes, will join you
in resisting somehow.
Suddenly it all comes down, all at once.
You see what you are, what you have done, or, more accurately,
what you haven't done (for that was all that was required of
most of us: that we did nothing). . . . You remember everything
now, and your heart breaks. Too late. You are compromised beyond
repair. "
Soon after September 11, people began
talking about Pearl Harbor. Our leaders and much of our media
then drew the conclusion that our salvation lay in world dominance,
in empire.
Within just days we moved from tragic
reality to delusional myth. Empires don't have their major military
and economic icons damaged or destroyed by a handful of young
men with box cutters. Empires don't turn suddenly phobic at everything
foreign, everything sharp, every place crowded. Empires don't
jettison their Constitution and turn on their own people out
of blind fear. Empires don't get hopelessly bogged down invading
two small countries they have invaded. . . one which had a military
budget less than two percent of ours, the other with a gross
domestic product smaller than the cost of the bombs we were dropping
on it.
No, it wasn't Pearl Harbor. It was more
like Dien Bien Phu. The journalist Bernard Fall early in our
Vietnam conflict noted that the French, after their failed battle
at Dien Bien Phu, had no choice but to leave Southeast Asia. America,
with its vast military, financial, and technological resources,
was able to stay because it had the capacity to keep making the
same mistakes over and over. Our war against "terrorism"
has been in many ways a domestic version of our Vietnam strategy.
We keep making the same mistakes over and over because we can
still afford to. Or think we can.
One of these mistakes has been to define
the problem by its manifestations rather than its causes. This
turns a resolvable political problem into a irresolvable practical
dilemma, because, for example, while there are solutions to the
Middle East crisis, there are no solutions to the guerilla violence
that grows from the failure to resolve the crisis.
In other words, if you define the problem
as "a struggle against terrorism" you have already
admitted defeat because decentralized low tech guerillas with
a cause will always have another trick to play on a centralized,
technology-dependent society that has lost its way.
There is a good way to deal with guerilla
warfare and that is to resolve the problems that allow it to thrive.
The trick is to undermine the constituency of the most bitter
by dealing honestly and fairly with the complaints and despair
of the most decent and rational. As we have demonstrated in the
Middle East, one need not even reach a final solution as long
as incremental progress is being made. But once that ceases, as
happened when Bill Clinton in his last weeks declared the efforts
there a failure and then George Bush showed he didn't care, the
case for freelance violence quickly strengthened and people simply
forgot that peace was possible.
The answer - humiliating as it may seem
over the short run but wisely courageous as it really would be
- is not yet another war of empire against the Muslim world, but
to end the one we have covertly conducted for a half century
and more.
To get an idea of the price of the alternative
we have chosen instead, consider this. In the mid 1950s, while
in high school, I played the role of an IRA commandant in the
"Informer" - a play written thirty years earlier. It
is now almost 50 years later yet that character and the subject
matter remain depressingly contemporary.
Here, on the other hand, is what France
did. A few years after Dien Bien Phu, General Charles DeGaulle
came to power. He had initially sought an Algerie francaise but
within one year in office was supporting full Algerian self-determination.
He held to this despite an attempted coup by members of the Foreign
Legion and a secret army organization determined to keep Algeria
French. Within a few years the French empire had been dismantled.
By 1961, with Kennedy contemplating involvement
in Vietnam, General de Gaulle strongly urged him not to get involved
in that "rotten country." Said de Gaulle, "I predict
to you, that you will, step by step, be sucked into a bottomless
military and political quagmire." The French had lost 55,000
troops there, almost as many as the Americans would.
DeGaulle understood the difference between
the illusion and reality of empire. Many years ago some people
built castles and walled cities and moats to keep the bad guys
out. It worked for a while, but sooner or later spies and assassins
figured out how to get across the moats and opponents learned
how to climb the walls and send balls of fire into protected compounds.
The Florentines even catapulted dead donkeys and feces over the
town wall during their siege of Siena.
The people who built castles and walled
cities and moats are all dead now and their efforts at security
seem puny and ultimately futile as we visit their unintended monuments
to the vanity of human presumption.
Yet like the castle-dwellers behind the
moat, we are now spending huge sums to put ourselves inside a
prison of our own making. It is unlikely to provide either security
for our bodies or solace for our souls, for we are simply attacking
ourselves before others get the chance.
This is not the way to peace and safety.
Peace is a state without violence, interrogations, and moats.
Peace is a state of reciprocity, of trust, of empirically based
confidence that no one is about to do you in. It exists not because
of intrinsic goodness or rampant naiveté but because of
a common, implicit understanding that that it works better for
everyone.
This state is often hard to come by, but
it is still cheaper, less deadly, and ultimately far more effective
than the alternative we have chosen.
*
Now many these days blame our problems
on George Bush. It's a convenient and perhaps useful way to think
about it, but historically it falls short as Bush himself revealed
during one of the debates when he defended the Patriot Act by
saying, "As a matter of fact, the tools now given to the
terrorist fighters are the same tools that we've been using against
drug dealers."
He was right: the unconstitutional principles
of the war on drugs were the warm-up act for the Patriot Act
- steps so small, so inconsequential, so well explained, as the
German professor would have put it.
Four years before 9/11, I wrote an article
titled, "How You Became the Enemy," about how America
was drifting into the situation in which we now find ourselves.
Here were some examples - all pre-Al Queda and during a Democratic
administration:
* Many paramilitary police units were
conducting between 200 to 700 warrant or drug raids a year- almost
exclusively no-knock entries.
* A paramilitary unit in Chapel Hill
NC conducted a crack raid of an entire block in a black neighborhood.
Up to 100 persons were detained and searched, all of whom were
black (whites were allowed to leave the neighborhood). There
were no prosecutions.
* Police in Fresno CA refer to their beat
as "the war zone."
* The National Guard was deeply involved
in the War on Drugs.
* The military was being used to train
police officers, inevitably increasing the tendency of citizens
to be regarded by these officers as "the enemy."
* The century-old posse comitatus act,
designed to keep the military out of civilian law enforcement,
appeared to be on its last legs.
* Eight-nine percent of the county's
police departments, had paramilitary units.
* Plans by the Federal Emergency Management
Agency in the 1980s to take over the country in an ill-defined
emergency appeared to have been only partially dismantled. Among
the most striking aspect of these emergency plans was the absence
of any provision for a legislature or judiciary.
*
The real turning point, though, for America
was the Reagan administration. Reagan was a brash voice for the
wealthy, the greedy, and the lucky, a Bill O'Reilly with charm.
By the time he ran for president, the overt crudity and the covert
cruelty had been transformed into a faith, a philosophy, and a
political platform. Reagan transformed American politics into
show business and the media was glad to join the cast. The fatuous
banalities passing for sound philosophy or ex cathedra statements
pretending to be arguments passed deep into the mind of America.
Reagan had taught us that truth and reality were no longer important.
Here are just a few things that have
happened since then:
* More than two-thirds of older households
had someone earning a pension in 1983. By 2001, fewer than half
did
* In the 1980s about two-thirds of corporations
included health care benefits with their pensions. Today only
about a third do.
* In 1983, 50 corporations controlled
most of the news media in America. By 2002, six corporations
did.
* Farmers in 1999 were getting 36% less
for their products in real dollars than in 1984.
* In 1980 there were less than 500,000
people in prison in the U.S. By 2000 there were two million.
* Ninety percent of young white male
workers are now doing worse than they would have 20 years ago.
Adjusted for inflation, the income of a recent male high school
graduate declined 28% between 1973 and 1997.
* Anti-trust laws, once considered the
great mediator of commercial excess, have been steadily eroded.
* Organized labor has become a mere shadow
of its former self
* Between 1980 and 2000, the U.S. per
capita spending on schools increased 32%. The per capita spending
on prisons grew 189%
Every president after Reagan - including
Bill Clinton - moved this country to right until we found ourselves
with George Bush who is not so much the cause of our troubles
as their grimmest and most recent manifestation. Placated by
Prozac, persuaded by prevarication and pacified by prohibition,
we have ignored our drift towards the mean and the brutish and
continued to accept the lie that we are the better for it.
Empires and cultures are not permanent
and while thinking about the possibility that ours is collapsing
may seem a dismal exercise it is far less so than enduring the
frustrations, failures, damage and human casualties involved
in constantly butting up against reality like a boozer who insists
he is not drunk attempting to drive home.
Peter Ustinov in 'Romanoff and Juliet'
says at one point: "I'm an optimist: I know how bad the
world is. You're a pessimist: you're always finding out."
Or as GK Chesterton put it, "We must learn to love life
without ever trusting it."
Happiness, courage and passion in a bad
time can only be based on myth as long as reality does not intrude.
Once it does, our indifference to it will serve us no better
than it does the joyriding teenager whose assumption of immortality
comes into contact with a tree.
But this does not mean that one must live
in despair. There are other stories - true stories of real people
- that can lead us elsewhere.
Like the former LA narcotics detective
I know who learned to face danger while investigating corruption
and the involvement of intelligence agencies in the drug trade.
He had two bullet holes in his left arm and one in his left ear.
He said he had borrowed a trick another cop had taught him; when
in danger he simply considered himself already dead. Then he was
able to move without fear.
Such an ability to confront and transcend
-- rather than deny, adjust to, replace, recover from, or succumb
to -- the universe in which you find yourself is among the things
that permits freedom and courage. This man, with Buddhist-like
deconstruction and Christian-like rebirth, had taken apart the
pieces of his fear and dumped them on the ground -- a mercy killing
of dreams and nightmares on behalf of survival.
I grew up with someone like that. Ann
had come to our house during World War II as a nine year old
child from Britain. It hadn't been easy for her to get to Washington
in July of 1940. Sixty years later she wrote me about it:
I set sail in the Duchess of Atholl
in convoy. There was a slight skirmish with a submarine. I remember
feeling the ship shudder as depth charges were dropped but we
were unscathed and pressed on, though I remember seeing icebergs
and wondering. My mother told me we might well be sunk. If I
was dragged underwater, not to struggle. I would come to the surface
naturally, then not to strike out to England or America but float
on my back, as I had learned at school, until I was picked up.
Within two months, no more British children
were sent to America because the Nazis had started torpedoing
the ships and even machine gunning the children in the water.
After the war, Ann came back and lived
with us becoming a virtual sister. She would marry man, quite
a bit older, who had been a young doctor during the Battle of
London. The doctors were given colored tags to attach to the feet
of air raid victims. Each tag represented one bed and each color
one hospital in London. When the tags were gone so were the beds.
Think about that when you worry about your flu shot.
Ann was one of the first people I thought
about as I watched the World Trade Center go down because she
had learned to face the grim with stolidity but the rest of life
with passion and pleasure. I was in my home when it happened,
six blocks from another intended target, the US Capitol, and
I recalled how much I had learned from her, even as a child, about
getting through the bad times.
To view our times as decadent and dangerous,
to mistrust the government, to imagine that those in power are
not concerned with our best interests is not paranoid but perceptive;
to be depressed, angry or confused about such things is not delusional
but a sign of consciousness. Yet our culture suggests otherwise.
But if all this is true, then why not
despair? The simple answer is this: despair is the suicide of
imagination. Whatever reality presses upon us, there still remains
the possibility of imagining something better, and in this dream
remains the frontier of our humanity and its possibilities To
despair is to voluntarily close a door that has not yet shut.
The task is to bear knowledge without it destroying ourselves,
to challenge the wrong without ending up on its casualty list.
"You don't have to change the world," the writer Colman
McCarthy has argued. "Just keep the world from changing
you."
Oddly, those who instinctively understand
this best are often those who seem to have the least reason to
do so - survivors of abuse, oppression, and isolation who somehow
discover not so much how to beat the odds, but how to wriggle
around them. They have, without formal instruction, learned two
of the most fundamental lessons of psychiatry and philosophy:
You are not responsible for that into
which you were born..
You are responsible for doing something
about it.
These individuals move through life like
a skilled mariner in a storm rather than as a victim at a sacrifice.
Relatively unburdened by pointless and debilitating guilt about
the past, uninterested in the endless regurgitation of the unalterable,
they free themselves to concentrate upon the present and the future.
They face the gale as a sturdy combatant rather than as cowering
supplicant.
In Washington we have a neighborhood known
as Shaw where for decades just such a form of survival thrived.
It has been a particular interest of my historian wife, Kathy.
Until the modern civil rights movement and desegregation, this
African-American community was shut out without a vote, without
economic power, without access, and without any real hope that
any of this would change.
Its response was remarkable. For example,
in 1886 there were only about 15 black businesses in the area.
By 1920, with segregation in full fury, there were more than
300.
Every aspect of the community followed
suit. Among the institutions created within these few square
miles was a building and loan association, a savings bank, the
only good hotel in the Washington where blacks could stay, the
first full-service black YMCA in the country, the Howard Theatre
(opened with black capital twenty years before Harlem's Apollo
became a black stage) and two first rate movie palaces.
There were the Odd Fellows, the True Reformers,
and the Prince Hall Lodge. There were churches and religious organizations,
a summer camp, a photography club, settlement houses, and the
Washington Urban League.
Denied access to white schools, the community
created a self-sufficient educational system good enough to attract
suburban African-Americans students as well as teachers with
advanced degrees from all over the country. And just to the north,
Howard University became the intellectual center of black America.
You might have run into Langston Hughes, Alain Locke, or Duke
Ellington, all of whom made the U Street area their home before
moving to New York.
All this occurred while black Washingtonians
were being subjected to extraordinary economic obstacles and being
socially and politically ostracized. If there ever was a culture
entitled to despair and apathy it was black America under segregation.
Yet not only did these African-Americans
develop self-sufficiency, they did so without taking their eyes
off the prize. Among the other people you might have found on
U Street were Thurgood Marshall and Charles Houston, laying the
groundwork for the modern civil rights movement.
Older residents would remember the former
neighborhood with a mixture of pain and pride -- not unlike the
ambivalence found in veterans recalling a war. None would voluntarily
return to either segregation or the battlefield but many would
know that some of their own best moments of courage, skill, and
heart had come when the times were at their worst.
Another example. Last summer, I went to
Umbria, a section of Italy north of Rome remarkably indifferent
to 500 years of its history, where even the homes and whole villages
seem to grow like native plants out of the rural earth rather
than being placed there by human effort. It was as if I had been
transported back several centuries while still being allowed to
take along a car and my Diet Coke. I hadn't felt such stability
for a long time, certainly not since September 11.
Yet the Umbrians have been invaded, burned,
or bullied by the Etruscans, Roman Empire, Goths, Longobards,
Charlemagne, Pippin the Short, the Vatican, Mussolini, the German
Nazis, and, most recently, the World Trade organization. Umbria
is a reminder of the durability of the human spirit during history's
tumults, an extremely comforting thought to an American these
days.
We don't have to go that far back, though.
Consider the increasingly cited novel, 1984. Orwell saw it coming,
only his timing was off. The dystopia described in 1984 is so
overwhelming that one almost forgets that most residents of Oceana
didn't live in it. Orwell gives the breakdown. Only about two
percent were in the Inner Party and another 13% in the Outer Party.
The rest numbering some 100 million were the proles.
It is amongst the latter that Winston
Smith and Julia find refuge for their trysts, away from the cameras
(although not the microphones). The proles are, for the most
part, not worth the Party's trouble. Says Orwell:
From the proletarians nothing is to
be feared. Left to themselves, they will continue from generation
to generation and from century to century, working, breeding,
and dying, not only without any impulse to rebel, but without
the power of grasping that the world could be other than it is
. . .
Orwell's division of labor and power was
almost precisely replicated in East Germany decades later, where
about one percent belonged to the General Secretariat of the Communist
Party, and another 13% being far less powerful party members.
As we move towards - and even surpass
- the fictional bad dreams of Orwell and the in many ways more
prescient Aldous Huxley's 'Brave New World,', it is helpful to
remember that these nightmares were actually the curse of the
elites and not of those who lived in the quaint primitive manner
of humans rather than joining the living dead at the zenith of
illusionary power.
This bifurcation of society into a weak,
struggling, but sane, mass and a manic depressive elite that
is alternately vicious and afraid, unlimited and imprisoned, foreshadows
what we find today - an elite willing, on the one hand, to occupy
any corner of the world and, on the other, terrified of young
men with minimal weapons.
In the wake of September 11, this trend
became even more prominent. Our country's policies and budgets
have been strongly skewed in the interest of protecting New York
and Washington (and the natural resources and economic machinery
that support their activities). There has not been much mention
of a terrorist threat to St Louis or Des Moines, at least in the
national media. After all, St. Louis and Des Moines are in the
countryside that is filled with persons who, if left to themselves,
will, in the words of Orwell, "not only without any impulse
to rebel, but without the power of grasping that the world could
be other than it is."
This is not to say that St. Louis or
Des Moines won't be a target, only that it is far from what the
war on terrorism is really about, which is to defend those things,
people, and places that the elite hold most dear - starting with
themselves. Six blocks from my house, for example, they are building
a bunker for congressmen at the cost of $1 million a member, congressmen
already guarded by the most expensive police force per capita
and per acre in the world. A friend who works a block away must
go through several roadblocks a day. But walk east just a bit
towards my house and nothing has changed.
Strange as it may seem, it is in this
dismal dichotomy between countryside and the political and economic
capitals that the hope for saving America's soul resides. The
geographical and conceptual parochialism of those who have made
this mess leaves vast acres of our land still free in which to
nurture hopes, dreams, and perhaps even to foster the eventual
eviction of those who have done us such wrong.
Eric Paul Gros-Dubois of Southern Methodist
University has described Orwell's underclass this way:
The Proles were the poorest of the groups,
but in most regards were the most cheerful and optimistic. The
Proles were also the freest of all the groups. Proles could do
as they pleased. They could come and go, and talk openly about
whatever they felt like without having to worry about the Thought
Police. . .[Orwell] also concluded that the hope for the future
was contained within this group."
As a Washington native I often find myself
thinking of part of my city as occupied and robotic, and part
still free and human. I roughly define the free portion as that
having buildings I can enter without having to prove in some
direct way that I am not a terrorist. While the occupied city
encompasses much of downtown Washington, the consumptive fear
of those in power is so concentrated on their own safety that
they leave the better part of us alone.
I'm not so naïve as to think that
the government or its enemies couldn't at any moment suddenly
expand their interests. Still, upon leaving Washington I'm quickly
struck by the question: where did the war on terror go? The further
I get from this supposed democratic apex the more I feel as if
I'm in a democracy again.
There is plenty of evidence of the divide
in America. More than 130 communities have passed resolutions
challenging post 9/11 draconian laws such as the Patriot Act.
There is nothing new in this. Almost all
great changes in American politics and culture have had their
roots either in the countryside or among minorities within the
major cities. From religious 'great awakenings' to the abolitionist
movement, to the labor movement, to populism, to the 1960s and
civil rights, America has been repeatedly moved by viral politics
rather than by the pyramidal processes outlined in great man
theories of change promulgated by the elite and its media and
academies.
Successfully confronting the present
disaster will require far more than attempting to serially blockade
its serial evils, necessary as this is. There must also be a guerilla
democracy that defends, fosters, and celebrates our better selves
- not only to provide an alternative but to create physical space
for decent Americans to enjoy their lives while waiting for things
to get better. It may, after all, take the rest of their lifetimes.
We must not only condemn the worst, but offer witness for the
better. And create places in which to live it.
We have, as in all authoritarian regimes,
become increasingly dependent upon those who hold us down and
back. But the potential is always there, even under the worst
circumstances. I was reminded of this not long after September
11, as I found myself reflecting on the Solidarity movement of
Poland. We will get out of this mess, I thought, when we can do
in our own way what the Poles did in theirs.
At the heart of the Solidarity achievement
was something with which the Internet has made us familiar -
a form of politics that spread not by the precise decisions of
a small number of leaders but by the aggregated tiny and vaguer
decisions of a mass of citizens. In a sense, Solidarity was an
early and unwired flash mob or internet meetup.
The variety of techniques used by Poles
in the their search for freedom were impressive. For example,
John Rensenbrink in his contemporaneous book, described how kissing
women's hands became popular primarily because it annoyed the
Soviets.
And his description of Poland's dilemma
in the 1980s seems strikingly applicable to our own situation:
It is the struggle of a state in ludicrous
pursuit of a nation that it cannot seem to find. And, it is the
struggle of a nation trying to find a way to meet the state, not
in the posture of supplicant or avenger, but in the posture of
free citizen.
John Rensenbrink tells me that some of
Solidarity's early organizing took place on the trains that many
of the workers rode to the shipyards, where they had time to drink
coffee and talk. In our own history, there are innumerable examples
of change owing a debt to the simple serendipity of people of
like values and sensibilities coming together. For example, the
rise of Irish political power in this country was aided considerably
by the Irish bar's role as an ethnic DMZ and a center for the
exchange of information.
CS Lewis says somewhere that we read to
discover that we are not alone. That discovery is a necessary
for change as well. Part of the dreadful force of southern segregation,
for example, was that it prevented poor whites and poor blacks
from discovering how much they had in common.
We tend to discount the importance of
unplanned moments because of our fealty to the business school
paradigm in which change properly occurs because of a careful
strategic plan, an organized vision, procedures, and process.
During the past quarter century when such ideas have been in ascendancy,
however, America has demonstratively deteriorated as a political,
economic, and moral force. In reality, many of the best things
happen by accident and indirection. While it may be true, as
the Roman said, that "fortune smiles on the well prepared"
part of that preparation is to be in the right place at the right
time. In other words, it is necessary to create an ecology of
change rather than a precise and often illusory process.
The beat generation understood this. Unlike
today's activists they lacked a plan; unlike those of the 60s
they lacked anything to plan for; what substituted for utopia
and organization was the freedom to think, to speak, to move at
will in a culture that thought it had adequately taken care of
all such matters. To a far greater degree than rebellions that
followed, the beat culture created its message by being rather
than doing, rejection rather than confrontation, sensibility rather
than strategy, journeys instead of movements, words and music
instead of acts, and informal communities rather than formal institutions.
The full-fledged uprisings that followed
could not have occurred without years of anger and hope being
expressed in more individualistic and less disciplined ways, ways
that may seem ineffective in retrospect yet served as absolutely
necessary scaffolding with which to build a powerful movement.
One of these ways, for example, is music.
Billie Holiday was singing about lynchings long before the modern
civil rights movement. And Rage Against the Machine was engaging
in anti-sweatshop protests some years before most college student
had ever heard of them.
Another way is found in the magic of churches.
During the 1960s I edited a newspaper in a neighborhood 75% black
and mostly poor in which I came to assume that churches were
the sina qua non of positive change. We had over a 100 of them
in a two square mile area and you just came to rely upon them
as part of the political action, including the Revolutionary
Church of What's Happenin' Now and the Rev. Frank Milner, part-minister
and part-taxicab driver who would come to community meetings
in an outfit complete with clerical collar and a metal change-maker
on his belt.
How important one church can be is illustrated
with a little known story from Birmingham Alabama. Responding
to Rosa Parks' mistreatment, sleeping car porter E.D. Nixon called
up a young preacher and asked if he could use his church for
a meeting. The minister said he would think about it. A few days
later, Nixon called back and the minister agreed. E.D. Nixon's
reply was something like this, "Thank you Reverend King,
because we've scheduled a meeting at your church next Monday at
6:30 pm."
It is for such reasons we must learn to
stand outside of history. Quakerism, for example, prescribes personal
witness as guided by conscience - regardless of the era in which
we live or the circumstances in which we find ourselves. And
the witness need not be verbal. The Quakers say "let your
life speak," echoing St. Francis of Assisi's' advice that
one should preach the gospel at all times and "if necessary,
use words."
There are about as many Quakers today
in America as there were in the 18th century, around 100,000.
Yet near the center of every great moment of American social
and political change one finds members of the Society of Friends.
Why? In part because they have been willing to fail year after
year between those great moments. Because they have been willing
in good times and bad -- in the instructions of their early leader
George Fox -- "to walk cheerfully over the face of the earth
answering that of God in every one "
The existentialists knew how to stand
outside of history as well. Existentialism, which has been described
as the idea that no one can take your shower for you, is based
on the hat trick of passion, integrity and rebellion. An understanding
that we create ourselves by what we do and say and, in the words
of one of their philosophers, even a condemned man has a choice
of how to approach the gallows.
Those who think history has left us helpless
should recall the abolitionist of 1830, the feminist of 1870,
the labor organizer of 1890, or the gay or lesbian writer of
1910. They, like us, did not get to choose their time in history
but they, like us, did get to choose what they did with it.
Would we have been abolitionists in 1830?
In 1848, 300 people gathered at Seneca
Falls, NY, for a seminal moment in the American women's movement.
On November 2, 1920, 91 year-old Charlotte Woodward Pierce became
the only signer of the Seneca Falls Declaration of Sentiments
and Resolutions who had lived long enough to cast a ballot for
president.
Would we have attended that conference
in 1848? Would we have bothered?
Or consider the Jewish cigar makers in
early 20th century New York City each contributing a small sum
to hire a man to sit with them as they worked - reading aloud
the classic works of Yiddish literature. The leader of the cigar-makers,
Samuel Gompers, would later become the first president of the
American Federation of Labor. And those like him would become
part of a Jewish tradition that profoundly shaped the politics,
social conscience, and cultural course of 20th century America.
While Protestants and Irish Catholics controlled the institutions
of politics, the ideas of modern social democracy disproportionately
came from native populists and immigrant socialists. It is certainly
impossible to imagine liberalism, the civil rights movement,
or the Vietnam protests without the Jewish left.
These are the sort of the stories we
must find and tell each other during the bad days ahead. But there
is a problem. The system that envelopes us becomes normal by
its mere mass, its ubiquitous messages, its sheer noise. Our
society faces what William Burroughs called a biologic crisis
-- "like being dead and not knowing it." Or as Matthew
Arnold put it, trapped between two worlds, one dead, the other
unable to be born.
We are overpowered and afraid. We find
ourselves condoning things simply because not to do so means
we would then have to -- at unknown risk -- truly challenge them.
Yet, in a perverse way, our predicament
makes life simpler. We have clearly lost what we have lost. We
can give up our futile efforts to preserve the illusion and turn
our energies instead to the construction of a new time.
It is this willingness to walk away from
the seductive power of the present that first divides the mere
reformer from the rebel -- the courage to emigrate from one's
own ways in order to meet the future not as an entitlement but
as a frontier.
How one does this can vary markedly,
but one of the bad habits we have acquired from the bullies who
now run the place is undue reliance on traditional political,
legal and rhetorical tools. Politically active Americans have
been taught that even at the risk of losing our planet and our
democracy, we must go about it all in a rational manner, never
raising our voice, never doing the unlikely or trying the improbable,
let alone screaming for help.
We will not overcome the current crisis
solely with political logic. We need living rooms like those
in which women once discovered they were not alone. The freedom
schools of SNCC. The politics of the folk guitar. The plays of
Vaclav Havel. Unitarian church basements. The pain of James Baldwin.
The laughter of Abbie Hoffman. The strategy of Gandhi and King.
Unexpected gatherings and unpredicted coalitions. People coming
together because they disagree on every subject save one: the
need to preserve the human. Savage satire and gentle poetry.
Boisterous revival and silent meditation. Grand assemblies and
simple suppers.
Above all, we must understand that in
leaving the toxic ways of the present we are healing ourselves,
our places, and our planet. We must rebel not as a last act of
desperation but as a first act of creation.
Portions of this talk come from Sam Smith's
book "Why Bother?," which deals with getting through
the bad times including chapters on despair, rebellion, personal
witness, and guerrilla democracy.
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