Starting Over, Kind of.

Greetings from near the bottom, but looking up.

Linocut fabric patch by Sara.

Oh, my dear readers, how I’ve missed you!

My last post was way back on the eve of our mostly-disastrous elections. It sounded a note of hopefulness, as is my wont. That hopefulness was, of course, largely unfounded, as it turned out.

Now we are in these horrible times, and we must do all we can to fight back. But how?

My reaction has been — what’s the word I want? — um, complicated by an unfortunate recurrence of the deep depression that marred a big chunk of last year and continues into the present. I have gotten used to experiencing these bouts of depression every, say, couple of decades — not practically on the heels of the previous one. I first felt this one’s icy pull sometime in December, I think — which seems like forever ago, not just because of my depression but also because of the autocratic political winds that have been battering our politics.

I started having trouble writing to you before my depression began (at least, before I became aware of it). I was stunned by the election results, in grief for the country I love, desolate about how many people bought what MAGA was selling. I started many, many drafts of posts, and found each of them wanting in at least one big way: I felt unqualified to offer anything unique, or even interesting.

Because my main subject — as per the title of this Substack — is me. I focus relentlessly on my own navel. I am a lint-describer. And despite the hyper-self-focused nature of my depression, I recognize that the subject now needs to be us.

Which should be right up my alley, as my origin story is that I was raised by Communists, who told me I’d lead the revolution. For my whole career, as an autobiographer, I’ve played that as the joke it obviously seems to be. I mean, ask anyone who’s known me since kindergarten — I’m a dis-organizer. But in fact I took that destiny totally seriously. And in the 1960s, when I was a child growing up in working-class Manhattan neighborhoods, the need for a revolution seemed obvious. My parents pointed out the racism, the horrible ways capitalism distorted our lives, the awful war we were fighting in Vietnam — and yes, it seemed crystal clear that our politics and economy needed to undergo substantive structural changes. So many people were suffering every moment, and we who saw the injustice were duty-bound to try to fix things.

But how? My dad was opposed to gun-control laws, because he feared that the fascists might take over any minute and how, then, could the people fight back? Voting was important (he nearly got shot by a Klansman in ’50s Georgia when he was working for voting rights), but “My son, those in power will not give it up without a fight.” More and more workers needed to empower themselves through unions, a working-class political movement was called for, and we had to be ready and willing to put ourselves on the line for these things. “The revolution will come, my son,” he’d say, over and over, “perhaps not in my lifetime, but in yours.” And we sang songs together, he and I, Kornbluths of 40-something and zero-something, as we marched up the island of Manhattan from the Lower East Side (where Dad lived) to Washington Heights, north of Harlem, where he’d return me to my mom at the end of each exhilarating revolutionary weekend.

It was such a beautiful, pure, joyful thing, this image I had of the revolution I was going to lead. The end of suffering, the end of want. Luxury hotels and delicious food for everyone, according to their need!

Yes, in many ways it was silly, this idea. Not just that my parents envisioned me to be the prime deliverer of this progress, but also the simplicity — what you might call the naïveté — of the vision. Because how was all this going to happen in this complicated world? My parents subscribed to a very orthodox form of Marxism that essentially took the texts of Marx and Engels — and, yes, Lenin and Stalin — as sacred. And once I left their orbit for long enough that I began to have more of my own ideas, I saw that their examples of where socialism had worked (e.g., the Soviet Union) were based, alas, on fantasy. They were stories that emerged from beliefs and hopes but could not withstand actual observation. These stories made us feel good — they served us, but betrayed the masses who suffered and died under those corrupt regimes.

Also, much of what my parents told me turned out to be absolutely true. Much of what Marx and Engels wrote about was totally (if you will) on the money. Social justice is, I believe, our sacred goal to pursue (as human beings). But how?

Have I convinced you of how unqualified I am to write about our present circumstances? I hope I haven’t, because actually I do feel qualified. Not to lead a revolution (well, okay, at least not yet) but to fight for justice.

It is surreal enough to be living in this time of dominant kakistocracy; on top of that it is somewhat bizarre to be facing it from inside a depression. Me, me, me. But I am determined both to climb out of these emotional depths and also to work for progressive change. To fight the encroachment of fascism. To continue, somehow, on the road to climate justice. To try to protect all those who, due to their color or gender or beliefs or geographical origins, face the brunt of all the giddy hatred being unleashed on them. In the days after the elections, I felt as if my country was no longer mine — that I could no longer expect “the people” to move toward a kinder world. But I’ve been reading what others have been writing, and I’ve been listening, and watching … and I’d have to call it healing. And the part of me that’s been healing is what, I am re-learning, has remained authentic and true: I believe in love. And democracy, as Ralph Ellison told us, is love. This love exists with or without a supernatural god. It exists for Marxists and it exists for Mormons. It calls upon us to share together in the collective enterprise of self-governance. It pierces our arrogance. It elevates what is best about us.

I am reconnecting with you because of love. I will reconnect with myself because of love. I believe we will win the fight for democracy. Perhaps not in my lifetime, but in later lifetimes. (Or maybe in my lifetime!) I believe this not just because I passionately wish for it, but also because of my prerogative as a human being who has lived for some time and seen some things, and has experienced progress and defeat, and has ceased to believe in certain things but has also continued to believe in that one thing: love. As long as we have love in our hearts, and keep acting in the world based on that love, we have more than hope. We have ownership of our humanity.

Please share with me what your hopes are, what you are doing, and how you are feeling.