I apologize for my
relative absence from this blog in recent weeks. Part of the reason is the demands of my new
Bennett College job, which grow heavier with every passing day. When I began working at Bennett, I repeated,
as a mantra, that it was the hardest thing I had ever attempted. Little did I know how true that would turn
out to be. But a second reason has been
the evolution of the presidential race.
In the past month or so, the prospects for the Republicans have grown
bleaker and bleaker, leading Obama partisans like myself to indulge in giddy
rehearsals of the mistakes made by the Romney camp and endless checking of the
steady growth in the polls of the Obama lead.
Yesterday I officially marked the all but certain outcome of the race by
going to A Southern Season, the
ultimate yuppie food and kitchen store in Chapel Hill, to buy an extremely
pricey bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape [sixty-eight dollars, for heaven's
sake!], which I plan to drink on election night as I sit in front of the TV set
and watch the results roll in. As I
remarked a few days ago, the pleasures of schadenfreude
are much underrated.
Now that an Obama victory
is all but certain, and even the fate of the struggle for the Senate seems to
have been pretty much settled [the House is quite another matter], I think it
would be seemly for me to stop reveling in the misfortunes of the Republicans
and start thinking seriously about what we are going to do on November
7th. A lengthy interview with Norman
Finkelstein, the link to which is provided in the previous post, crystallized this
thought in my mind. Herewith then is not
a plan or a set of marching orders, but rather a meditation, some reflections
on where we will find ourselves after the defeat of the Republican ticket. I take as the themes of my meditation
two passages. The first is a famous pair
of lines from a Wordsworth poem referring to the French Revolution:
"Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young
was very heaven!--
The second is a line from Erik Erikson's great book, Childhood and Society which I used as
one of the epigraphs of my Autobiography:
"An individual life is the accidental coincidence of but
one life cycle with but one segment of history."
Each of us lives for no
more than a few moments, and then we are gone.
Even if I restrict myself to recorded human history, and set aside as
unfathomable the scale of geological time, my life is no more than the briefest
flicker in the ten millennia since the Neolithic revolution. It is just fortune, good or bad, whether I
happen to be alive during a time of great social progress, or am condemned to
live out my life in one of the many stretches of historical time during which
nothing uplifting or liberating happens.
Something like that, I imagine, is what Wordsworth had in mind. Think how exciting it would have been to live
during the outbreak of the French Revolution, when centuries of encrusted privilege
and repression seemed to be crumbling before one's eyes and the head of
Europe's most powerful monarch fell into a basket.
During the nearly eight
decades of my life, there have been two moments of great hope -- moments when
it was possible to believe that great, positive advances were taking place in
America. The first, which I am not quite
old enough fully to have appreciated, was Roosevelt's New Deal. The second, during which I had the great good
fortune to be all grown up, was the period usually referred to as "the
Sixties," during which a great Civil Rights Movement transformed the lives
of Black Americans and irreversible social progress seemed all but inevitable.
The iconic moment for me
was a lazy Fall afternoon, October 10, 1973, when I sat in the lovely third floor
study of my home in Northampton, Massachusetts, watching on a tiny TV set as
the Mets won the fifth game of the playoffs to take the National League
pennant, the telecast being interrupted by spot announcements of the
resignation of Vice-President Spiro Agnew. Spiro Agnew's resignation would be
followed a year later by the resignation of President Richard Nixon. "Bliss was it in that dawn to be
alive..."
But it was my portion,
dictated by the accident of when I was born, to live long enough to see the
frustration and defeat of those millenarian hopes and dreams. The Sixties were followed by the nightmare of
Reagan, of first one Bush and then another, of wars, assaults on the rights of
women, the dramatic expansion of America's imperial pretensions, the victories
of rightwing orthodoxy, the attack on science and the plain facts of nature and
society, and the complete disappearance form American life of even a memory of
the dreams of socialism.
I supported Barack Obama
enthusiastically because I believed he was the best this terrible time had to
offer, and that belief has been confirmed by the appalling lurch to the right
of the Republican Party in response to his 2008 electoral victory. I welcome with deep relief the prospect of
his re-election because I think his defeat would be a disaster for this country
and the world.
But I never indulged in
the illusion that Obama was a progressive liberal, let alone a socialist, and I
do not suffer that illusion now. My
life, as Erikson so wisely notes, is the accidental coincidence of but one life
cycle with but one segment of history, and for better or worse, it is in this
segment of history that my personal life cycle will come to its natural end.
So, echoing Immanuel
Kant, I must ask, situated as I am in this moment, and confronted as I am with
this world, What can I know?, What must I do?, What may I hope?
Tomorrow, I shall
continue this meditation and address these three questions.
2 comments:
As a member of a (slightly) younger generation who spent a Cold War childhood wondering if things might turn hot and staggered into the Reagan years fearing for my own children's future, I wonder whether there might not be another moment worth adding to your list: the annus mirabilius of 1989 when, overnight, a wall that we'd grown up assuming would never be breached (except by force) was broken down by citizens reclaiming their city. By Christmas its pieces were being sold as souvenirs.
Four years earlier, I'd attended a lecture at which a well-known sociologist explained that the United States and the Soviet Union represented unique political regimes: "permanent empires." Then, in the space of a few years, one of them was gone. Bliss it was even to be middle-aged in that dawn — a reminder of how suddenly things can change.
There have been a series of post-World War II transformatons, starting with the death African colonialism, then of the Soviet Union, now of the Arab Spring, that give one reason to be glad to have been alive to see them. My focus in this meditation is on America, but those other moments are historically equally or more important.
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