This is something of a cautionary tale, a warning, inspired by what we've just witnessed and accomplished. The older folk among us well remember these events (and no doubt their memories may differ, as that is the nature of memory), which may make this a bit of a history lesson for the younger among us. But this caution is to be seen as a call to action. So, join me in a trip down memory lane after the fold.
In 1968, I was 11.
In 1968 Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot dead on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee for dreaming of and fighting for such a moment as November 4, 2008 -- 40 years later. (Jesse Jackson, Sr., was with him at the time. I'm sure that was a large part of the reason behind his tears in Grant Park last Tuesday; it was a large part of mine here at home.) All across the country, urban centers (the "inner city", the "ghetto" -- all euphemisms for the virtual free range prison the vast majority of black folk were confined, and still are to a depressing degree) exploded in riots of frustration, helplessness, and the return of hopelessness. I, being the priveleged son of a well-to-do upper-middle class upbringing could only read about it in the papers and watch it on the television -- a.k.a. the idiot box, the boob tube.
In 1968 I was 11.
On that night, in my town Bobby Kennedy was campaigning for the Democratic Party's nomination for President of the United States. He took his campaign to a small urban park and delivered this speech:
Indianapolis, alone among major cities, remained calm, in mourning.
Two months later, Bobby Kennedy was shot dead while campaigning in California.
In 1968, I was 11.
In 1968, much as now, an unpopular and unnecessary war was raging overseas -- in Southeast Asia, a little country called Vietnam. A massive protest movement of mass demonstrations was the main response to the war, and was the central hope of ending it. A large segment of this movement, however, were taking another route to end the war: They backed Minnesota senator Eugene McCarthy for the nomination of the Democratic Party against then-President Lyndon Johnson, using a grass roots organizing effort -- much like that of President-Elect Obama's.
McCarthy won a plurality of votes in New Hampshire, finishing ahead of President Johnson. Johnson announced days later that he would no longer be seeking a second term of office.
The Democratic convention was held in Chicago. McCarthy's campaign had not been able to secure the delegates necessary to carry the Party's nomination; with the assasination of Bobby Kennedy, that appeared to have gone to Vice President Hubert Humphrey, likely to carry on the war. Demonstrators made plans to protest the convention. When they began, Mayor Richard J. Daly's police force became a goon squad, beating, gassing and arresting demonstrators at will on the streets of Chicago. Things were not much better inside the convention as reporters were intimidated -- Dan Rather was even ejected from the hall -- for even daring to ask about the chaos in Chicago's streets.
In 1968, I was 11. Richard Nixon was elected President. America had a psychotic break.
In 1969, I was 12.
Late one night in July, my parents woke me up and got me out of bed to watch TV. The picture was in black and white, blurry and grainy, with ghostly after-images like some double exposure of a photograph. The audio quality wasn't the best and -- well, see for yourself:
In 1969, I was 12. And this was hope.
And I wasn't the only one who felt that way: All over the world, people took time out -- from work, shopping, sleep, whatever -- to witness this and stand and stare at what we could all accomplish if we just stuck together and made it our mission to do it, whatever "it" might be.
We can do it, yes we can.
This is how I feel now. The difference is I've seen how a hugely significant historical event turns into a historical curiosity -- the answer to a pop quiz question, not something that has any resonance with today.
(I've also seen the conspiracy theorists and the cries of "Hoax!" try to take it all away, and I'm damned angry with them -- not only for their shoddy research, but for their whole unearned killjoy smugness.)
We can't let that happen this time. This is either a historical moment that begins a journey toward a true lasting transformation of politics and poicy for this country and the world, or its a trivia question for Black History Month.
We're the ones that can't let that happen.
It's 2008, and I am 51.
In 2048, I will be 91.
I don't want to see myself then, if I'm around and able, feeling the need to write a similar diary to a future version of kos. I also don't want to see the energy and passion of this joint just become a cash and canvassing machine for Democrats, as valuable and necessary as that has been and will be. We need to keep up the pressure for real progress on a real progressive agenda. We need to be activists beyond party loyalty and use this space to educate, communicate, agitate, organize, and mobilize around the issues we care about, the ones that brought us to share in this moment in history, for real progress and real justice.
It's 2008. Let's get to work. Again.
UPDATE: Just want to thank everyone who has commented and tipped thus far. This was my first diary, and it's nice to see our "little" community here is as generous in spirit as our President-Elect.