*****On Passing Left-Wing
Political “Wisdom” To The Next Generation-With The Lessons Of The 1960s In Mind
From The Pen Of Frank
Jackman
One of the worst
excesses, and there were many although made mostly from ignorance and
immaturity and were moreover minuscule compared to the conscious policies of
those in power who we were opposing, that we who came of political age in the
1960s were culpable of was our sense that we had to reinvent the wheel of
left-wing political struggle. Mostly a very conscious denial and rejection of
those thinkers, cadre and organization who had come before us and whom were
disqualified from the discourse by having been worn out, old-timey, or just
ideas and methods that we had not thought of and therefore irrelevant. The
expression “throwing out the baby with the bath water” may seem a cliché but
serves a purpose here. Most of the time back then until fairly late, maybe too
late when the tide had begun to ebb toward the end of the 1960s and the then
current and fashionable anticommunist theories proved to be ridiculously
inadequate, we turned our noses up at Marxism, and at Marxist-Leninist ways of
organizing the struggle against the American beast.
I can remember more
than a few times when somebody identified him or herself as a Marxist that I
and the others in the room would groan audibly. Occasionally, as well, taking
part in some of the shouting down exercises when the political disputes became
heated. Part of the problem was that those who organizationally claimed to be
Marxists-the Communist Party and Socialist Workers Party and to some extent the
Progressive Labor Party were following political lines that were far to the
right (right being relative here in the context of the left-wing movement in
this country) of the politics of those who considered themselves radical and
revolutionary youth. Those organizations far too eager to traffic with what we
called respectable bourgeois forces who were part of the problem since they
helped control the governmental apparatus. (I won’t even mention the moribund
Socialist/Social Democratic organizations that only old laborites and “old
ladies in tennis sneakers,” although that might be a slander against those nice
do-gooder ladies, followed as the expression went at the time.) I know, and I
know that many others at the time, had
no time for a look at the history books, had nothing but a conscious disregard
for the lessons of history, good and bad, that we thought was irrelevant in
seeking to build the “newer world.” (Strangely, later after all our empirical
experiment proved futile and counter-productive, quoting, quoting loudly and
vehemently from this or that book, by
this or that thinker, this or that revolutionary or radical became the rage.
Ah, the excesses of youth.)
Of course not
everybody who came through the 1960s passed through any left-wing political
school. Despite the nostalgia, despite the now puffed-up claims that we had
this or that decisive effect on history, especially these days with the
commemoration of the 40th anniversary of the fall of Saigon in 1975
and the trotting out once again of the overblew claims that the American
anti-war movement stopped the Vietnam War rather than the heroic struggles of
the people of Vietnam, the number of the young who got catch up more than
marginally was significantly smaller that the photographs, videos, and
remembrances of the times would suggest. A case in point is my old friend Sam
Lowell, from my growing in Carver times whose longtime political trajectory I
want to highlight in this sketch.
Highlight to provide
something, I am not sure what, perhaps a cautionary tale, to what appears to be
the makings of the next “fresh breeze” coming through the land that another
Carver corner boy, the late Peter Paul Markin, would harangue us with on lonely
Friday nights was coming. The big turn in the environmental movement, the fight
for better conditions for young workers (and old) epitomized by the “Fight for
$15” movement and above all, the bedrock struggle of the “Black Lives Matter”
movement portends some new awakening and we old-timers who have kept the
political faith have something about all of that early experience which may
push those struggles forward. Here’s Sam’s story and see what you think:
Sam Lowell when he
was young, when he was coming of age in the 1960s along with his hang around
guys at Jimmy Jack’s Diner on Main Street in Carver, did not give a “tinker’s
damn” (Sam’s term which he would endlessly utter especially when the late Peter
Paul Markin would start talking about what was going on outside of the Jimmy
Jack corner world) about politics, about the fate of the world, about the
burning and pressing issues of that day nuclear disarmament, black civil rights
down South (he if anything had the Northern white working class prejudices
inherited from his parents and relatives using the “n” word to refer to blacks
for a very long time), and the exploding war in Vietnam. Sam’s world, like many
guys of that time, like now too as far as anybody can see, was about girls or
sex or name the gender combinations, above all about the music of the times,
about what is now called the classic age of rock and roll (the folk music
minute of that period which Bart Webber tried to get him interested in was, is,
a book sealed with seven seals and he still grinds his teeth when any of us who
hang with him still mention that genre).
Sam, declared by his
local draft board exempt from military service as the sole support of his
mother and four younger sisters after he father had passed away suddenly of a
massive heart attack in 1965, had pretty much kept his head in the sand about
the war, probably supported the war against demon communism as much as anybody
in town who was not directly involved in the escalation of the war. That is
until one of his hang around guys, Freddie Callahan, Jack’s younger brother,
had lain down his head in some rotted jungle in some unpronounceable hamlet in
the Central Highlands of Vietnam in late 1967 and who would later have his name
placed on that black granite down in Washington, D.C. which would bring a tear
to Sam eye every time he visited it despite his complete change of heart about
the war.
The war, the hellish
flare-up and destructiveness of the war had not been Freddie’s fault, it had
not been Freddie’s war as Sam was at pains to explain when he did get active in
the anti-war movement and people around town thought that he was being
disrespectful of Freddie’s memory and of the flag, actually probably more the
flag until very late, maybe about 1972 when even the American Legion types in
town saw the writing on the wall, some of them anyway.
Bart Webber was the
first to take his slightly held anti-war feelings to the holding up the wall in
front of Jimmy Jack’s Diner night but he was facing the draft himself in 1966
so Sam had not taken his plight to heart. It really had been Freddie’s death
that got him thinking, Freddie whom he had known since fifth grade when his own
family had moved to Carver from North Adamsville when the shipbuilding trade
there bottomed out and his father sought work in the new electronics plant just
built up the road from Carver. Got him thinking about lots of things that did
not add up in the world, the world of people just trying to get by without
being shot at, or shot up by friend or foe.
One day, maybe in
early spring 1968 in any case sometime before summer of that year, Sam had gone
to Boston about thirty miles up the road from Carver on some business when he
was walking near the Park Street subway station and a young guy about his age
in regulation long hair (Sam’s was short although long for Carver young adults
just then and commented on at Jimmy Jack’s by the older crowd going in for the
old-timers’ blue plate specials and gung-ho guys who had no truck with
“fairies” and “hippies”), unkempt beard, blue jeans and sandals, a picture of
heaven’s own high priest hippie who handed him a leaflet for an anti-war rally
sponsored by Students for a Democratic Society that was going to take place on
the Common later that afternoon. (That was the notorious SDS that every
right-thinking American believed, including Sam a little before Freddie’s
death, as they could not understand kids who seemed to have everything going
for them including draft exemptions were so rebellious unless some unknown
source was prodding them, as the agents, paid or unpaid, of Moscow or China or
someplace antagonistic to the interests of the United States. Every time an SDS
rally was broken up by the cops, or mass arrests occurred, those believers
breathed a short sigh of relief).
The guy in hippie
garb pressed the issue, something Sam thought was odd since in his experience
these hippie types were too laid back doing dope and sex and listening to acid
rock to bother about politics usually saying that to get involved only
“encouraged” those politicians who had depended on free-wheeling unpaid
volunteer youth to campaign for them. That drug, sex and rock and roll were
okay with him although he had not been into the dope scene then but rather the
traditional Carver Friday and Saturday night down by the cranberry bogs
drinking cheap whiskey scene, a scene that Carver guys had been doing since
time immemorial at the bogs from what he had heard.
This dippy hippie
started yelling at him that it that it was his “duty” to attend the rally and
help “stop the fucking war.” Something
in that common language “speech” made Sam take notice and he asked the hippie
where he was from. He answered from Lynn, a very working class town on the
North Shore of Boston, and told Sam, who blushed a little at the information,
that he had already been in the Army, had served in Vietnam and had had enough
of seeing his buddies killed or otherwise “fucked up.” Sam then out of the blue
mentioned the death of Freddie Callahan, something he had never talked about
except with the guys at Jimmy Jack’s, and the hippie told him that he had
better get his ass to the rally before half their generation went up in smoke.
Sam pleaded business
but that afternoon and early evening as the sun went down in Boston Sam was no
longer “not political.” And Lance Jones, the hippie who had “recruited” him was
there that afternoon and many times later to make sure that he did not
backslide, and to give him the “skinny” on what was really going on in Vietnam
and whose interests that commitment was serving. Sam and Lance (and others)
would do many things together, sit-in at draft boards (Sam uneasy about that
given his own status as exempt but Lance said everybody counted in the
struggle), rallies, blocking highways and every other kind of civil protest
against the damn war.
The defining moment,
the moment Sam saw that the movement was ebbing, was becoming ineffective as a
way to stop the “fucking war” as even he was prone to express his outrage at
the constant bombings and constant lies about the situation, was down in
Washington D.C. on May Day 1971 where there was a separation in the movement
between those who wanted to endlessly built, presumably, larger mass rallies to
show the people’s war weariness and those who decided it was time for more
militant in-your-face tactics when the proposal was to “stop the government, if
the government did not stop the war.” Sam had gone with the militants, a
decision he has since never regretted although not for the outcome of the event
itself which was an unmitigated failure but because of the enormity of that
failure he had to think through things a bit more carefully, think more
strategically.
He had been
manhandled and arrested by the cops the first day out as the governmental
forces far outnumbered and were more effective in containing the mass than that
mass of people had been in evading the waiting cops and troops. Sam had spent a
week in detention in RFK Stadium, a goddam football field as he would always
tell everybody afterward, for his troubles (although he tempered his remarks
about the stadium after the coup in Chile in 1973 where those militants were
not merely harassed and detained but jailed for long periods or shot death out
of hand in many cases).
Sam, Lance, Jack
Callahan, Frankie Riley, me, maybe a couple of other guys did other things too,
things like taking those continent-wide hitchhikes to the West Coast, the rock
concerts, all of the stuff that those who had broken from the old expected
cookie-cutter, if in Sam’s case only partially and slowly since he was not sure
that the whole thing had not been a dream, and he had those family
responsibilities although they lessened as his sisters came of age and left the
house and his mother re-married to a good guy who ran a tool and die shop in
town and had government contracts for high precision machine work. But it was
funny thing about Sam, a thing that was not apparent when he hung around Carver
in high school but once he was convinced that he needed to do something he
stuck with it (he would later tell anybody who would listen that “sticking with
it” included his two drawn out failed marriages beyond repair).
Sam, after that
debacle in Washington, had settled in for the long haul, had listened to what
Lance had to say about needing to organize better, get more substantial allies.
Gave a glance at Marx and some other thinkers who knew what they were talking
about if you wanted to effect real
change and not just play at the thing for kicks, or for something to do while
you are in school or on the loose, had read some and while for a long time he
had his misgivings about taking his political cues from around the edges of
rational politics, politics that he and his family, his neighbors, his corner
boys had dismissed or worse stigmatized as “commie” talk which still hovered
over his thinking. But Sam had been the first in the group to sense in the
mid-1970s, particularly after the fall of Saigon and the close of the Vietnam
era which had almost split the country in two, that the Garden of Eden was
going to be postponed for a long time, that the tide had ebbed just as Bart
Webber had sensed the rising tide in the mid-1960s.
But Sam stayed with
the commitment to serious political change, to right some wrongs, to be a
stand-up guy when some egregious governmental decision reared its ugly head.
Stayed with it far longer that Lance who wound up going to school and becoming
a CPA, longer than Bart who decided writing law briefs was easier than sitting
around with about twelve people dedicated to changing the world and projecting
when the next great mass upsurge would occur. Stayed with longer than Frankie
Riley who also was drawn to writing legal briefs although he made a comeback in
the lead-up to the first Iraq war in 1991. Longer than even the late Peter Paul
Markin who had totally lost his moorings, let that “wanting habits” hunger that
all the Jimmy Jack’s hang out guys had near the surface of their lives get the
best of him and got caught up in the down side of the dope trade and wound up
in a back alley face down under mysterious conditions in Sonora down in Mexico
after a dope deal went bad. Yeah, those were not good years
So Sam faced the next
few decades doing his best to keep up the good fight, working mainly with ad
hoc committees that would rise and fall over specific issues like the effects
of the “Reagan revolution” in this country, the struggles in Central America
throughout the 1980s, the struggle against apartheid in South Africa, that
first Iraq war in 1991, and a laundry list of other causes great and small
which filled his political life in hard times. But always kept his eyes open
and ears to the ground to see if some new version of that 1960s experience
would get some wind in its sails as new generations got caught up in the
whirlwind of trying to right the world’s wrongs. He knew that the 1960s
experience could never be exactly replicated, that each new generation would
come to understandings in its own ways and forms, did not believe that a lot of
1960s stuff should be replicated but he did believe that another wave would
come, believed in that vision for a long time. But when, damn it.
One of Sam’s worries
as he got older and got more concerned about the future, especially in the post
9/11 world of the early 2000s, got much more concerned about the possibilities
of a socialist future if not for him then for later generations as the American
body politic took one of its prolonged turning in and against itself was that
there would be no one to pass on whatever accumulated political wisdom he and
his dwindling band of aging 1960s sisters and brothers had been through. No one
to make sense of the political battles won and lost, no one to pick up the
skills necessary to organize any effective opposition to the fierce predatory
appetites of the American imperium, or maybe better said, any opposition at all
as the post-2003 anti-war landscape demonstrated. Most importantly no one to
learn how to avoid the mistakes of the past, mistakes made, unlike the American
government, mostly out of willful ignorance, foolhardiness and hubris but
certainly avoidable. Avoidable since a great if fairly obvious lesson from his
own experiences had been that uprisings against the government, against the
social norms of the day are short and precious opportunities not to be
squandered by willful ignorance, foolhardiness and hubris.
Sam’s youthfully
derived certitudes had taken a hammering in the process of the reactionary
counter-offensive that erupting in the mid-1970s as the spirit of the 1960s
rapidly dissipated, and took a decisive turn right under the auspices of the
Reagan Revolution. The self-serving, self-promoting, social Darwinist view of
society systematically laid out in that period has held a full head of steam
since then as everyone almost daily has his or her nose rubbed in the hard fact
that most people are not getting ahead while the bourgeoisie, the economic
royalists, what did one wag call them, oh yeah, “the one-percent” with all the
guns, prosper with no sweat. That ethos
had never really abated despite a couple of promising uprising blips around
opposition to the second Iraq war in 2003 which evaporated after the hellish
bombs began to fall in earnest in Baghdad and after the world financial
meltdown in 2008 and the subsequent short-lived and anarchistic Occupy movement
of late 2011.
So Sam had more
recently begun to feel that feeling in the extreme, the fear that there would be nobody to pass
the torch to, nobody in the American body politic to learn a couple of things
about past left-wing struggles and organizational efforts to attempt to “tame
the monster.” Began to wonder if what he believed had not been an idle thought
or some kind of self-induced paranoia.
Over the previous
several years he had given the immediate reasons some thought as he began to
realize that the generation after his which was the logical place to have
passed that information onto never in the aggregate cared much about his kind
of politics, had turn tail and gotten caught up in the “Reagan revolution” or
after witnessing what happened to the ‘60s crowd ducked their heads, seriously
ducked their heads when the deal went down. He had also become pretty sanguine
about prospects for the generation after that, the grandkids, who seemed
preoccupied with “Me” and with looking down toward the ground with their
technological gadgetry and their ethereal “social networking” tweeter. But of
late he was not so sure he should have been ready to throw in the towel but a
new gathering storm, or what old Bart Webber, who he had run into recently in
town for the funeral of a brother, had called “the fresh breeze” was still in
its embryonic stage.
Sam had had to laugh
at one point after a small demonstration of few hundred in Boston’s Park Street
on the Common, the historic spot for such activities, against the escalation of
the war in Afghanistan in the early days of the Obama administration (one of the “surges” that was supposed to secure
“victory” and which in the final analysis led to more doors in more villages
being kicked in and the United States’ action acting, once again, as a “recruiting sergeant” for ISIS-type
organizations). That demonstration drew a cohort young people, people who had
not previously been out in the public square but who were bewildered by a
“peace” American President, a Nobel Peace Prize winner to boot, sending more
boots on the ground after he had told the nation that the best American course
was to withdraw from that benighted country. Of course the usual dwindling crew
of AARP-worthy older types, the ones that his old friend Pete Markin had called
when they were young the “little old ladies in tennis sneakers, Quakers up-tights,
and assorted harmless do-gooders” back in the Carver days when he didn’t give a
damn about politics and now here he was a “little old man in tennis sneakers”
carrying on their seemingly utopian struggle.
An unusual
combination indeed. The sly laugh part though was his realization that if there
was any new action, any seeking of the “newer world” as that same Markin liked
to called it comparable to the 1960s, that it would be the grandpas and
grandmas and the grandkids linked up against the world. He was okay with that
if that ever happened but after that initial burst of young energy faded he got
increasingly more morose about that prospect, and the handing of that goddam
torch.
Like with a lot of
things in the world of politics, particularly left-wing politics where due to
the smallness and isolation of those forces there is tendency to have to react
to events not of your own making, the reaction by governments, particularly the
United States, following 9/11 with its attempt to institutionalize the national
security state and to seek vengeance at any target foreign or domestic that it
considered dangerous. No question the scariest time of his political life, the
only time he felt the full heat of physical threat from the average citizen
whom he assumed usually view people demonstrating about anything as mere cranks
and weirdoes was in the aftermath of the frenzied American bombing campaign and
troop occupation in Afghanistan in 2001 right after 9/11 when he had with very
few others had organized a small, a very small demonstration in opposition to
the bombing campaign at Park Street and took more menacing guff from passers-by
than he had ever encountered before. Those were dark days when some locally
well-known committed peaceniks dependable in fair weather favored folding up
the tent rather than face the hostile streets, and no question they were
hostile, were suddenly not available to rally.
Like Sam said he
hoped the later Occupy movement which arose phoenix-like out of the ashes of
the world financial crisis but that fizzled fairly quickly and that sent Sam
into another bout with what the hell, no who the hell was going to lead the
struggle, who among the young who of necessity with their energy and sense of
wonder drive all the great movements, was going to step forward. He felt at
that time that he would have no problem taking a back sit in the struggle if
the new blood came along.
Here is a funny
thing, a quirk of politics. Everybody Sam talked to, young and old, understood
that the social tinder underlying American society only needed a little push to
go wild. Knew that as a result of the vast increase in income inequality, knew
the weight of the endless wars on the budget and human resources was at a breaking point, knew that people, a
lot of people, did not feel they were getting ahead in life always something
that will steadily enflame people. So Sam, and they, the ones he talked to and
talked to him knew something had to flare up. But didn’t, for a long time
didn’t. Then in a rather quick succession the environment, the fight for a
living wage and the fight against police brutality and the fight against the
hard racism against black people were taken up by the young, or rather sections
of the young from say late 2013 to now.
Not everything that
has been proposed, not every action has made political sense but there is some
motion toward upping the struggle, getting back into the street politics that
Sam had been pushing for some time in various committee meetings since the
portals of government seemed to be tone-deaf to what was going on down at the
base of society. Here is the kicker though. The kicker for now as things are
still in flux, still have a way to go before they are sifted out. Things may be
in flux and need sifting out but Sam is starting to get and uneasy feeling
already. Sam went to a meeting of those who wanted to respond to the various
egregious police shootings of the past years around the country and tried to
make some points, give some perspectives. He was rather unceremoniously
dismissed by the young leaders there, both the young black and white leaders,
as an old-timey too talkative guy.
The young, like in
his generation, appear ready to seek to reinvent the wheel. Appear too as well
to be as naïve about the enemies they are facing as they were in his
generation. But what bothered Sam most of late has been that the young in their
identity political way are “ageist” if such a term makes sense, are
disrespectful of his right to have his say since when the deal goes down he will
be on the barricades right beside them. Sam thought that even with the slights
he could still say-“Ah, to young was very heaven” though as old Wordsworth had said
in his sunnier days.