Harvard Square was empty this Commencement day, as it was last year. Except for the pandemic, it would have been mobbed with black-robed graduates and their beaming, picture-taking families. It would have been the 50th reunion of the Class of 1971.
Some of my classmates were involved in the takeover of the main administration building during the so-called Revolution in the spring of 1969. I was out of town that year, in a frontier kibbutz in Occupied Syria. The then-president of Harvard University called mine “the worst class ever.”
I’m not the worst member of the worst class, but I try. Every five years, at the major reunions, I make a fool of myself in some way. Our reunion committee used to schedule talent shows where any member of the class could sing or recite or play an instrument for five minutes.
At the 20th reunion, I read a poem about a new world forming suddenly, like crystals in a supersaturated solution. At the 30th reunion, in 2001, I read one about the meek, so nervous about it that I had to take my shoes off to be sure of my ground.
At the 35th, I harangued the audience about the Iraq War. At the 40th, I ran a slideshow called “Instead of Apocalypse.” By the 45th reunion, the committee decided those open-mike nights were too hard to manage. Instead, they offered an evening of entertainment by the famous artists and performers in our class. A good friend of mine ran off a few hundred stapled-together booklets of his artwork and my poems. We stood at the doors of the entertainment, handing them out. People took them thinking they were programs for the evening.
This year there were no events to take part in, or to crash. So I postered the Yard.
Every life is big to the person living it.
The bulletin boards had just been cleared. There were many open places where I could tape up little slips of paper. I broke one poem into stanzas:
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Love is not dead, not defeated, not damaged, not out of reach. Love has not been bought, sold, or stolen. Love is not a wholly-owned subsidiary of any corporation. The kingdom of loving is within you. Love is not something you fall into. Love is something you make and keep on making. Love is an act of will. Love is a way of life. Love is the opposite of greed. Love is not blind; lust is blind. Love sees truly. Love is the only path to our survival. Love is revolution.
Revolution cannot be violent. Revolution is change. Violence is just more of the same damn thing. There is no use fighting to save the world with violence. The rulers of this world have more weapons and fewer scruples than anyone else. Violence is their game. We cannot win that game. We must stop playing it. We must play a new game. Our strength lies in one another. Love is real change. Love is revolution.
The world is changing. Learn to travel light. When the water rises, all your stuff will not help you. The things you own will mean nothing any more. Your community will mean everything. Be ready for the change. Pay attention. Help where you can. We will survive by taking care of one another. Selfishness is suicide. Love is revolution.
When the old world ends, the new world begins. In the old world, money was power. In the new world, spirit is power. You choose to make the world better or worse with every act. This is your power. Race, nationality, class, gender, physical appearance – these matter in the old world, not in the new. The most important things in the new world are the quality of your awareness and the strength of your relationships. The old world ran on greed. The new world runs on human connection. Love is revolution.
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I said hello to a few old friends: the guard at the gatehouse, the head of Yard security, an eloquent and clear-minded homeless man. Otherwise I was confident no one would want to look at me. I’m a short, plain old woman with a peace sign on my hat.
I’m invisible. I have trouble talking. But I can still speak my mind, and I hope you will speak yours.
How many lives do you think you have? Is this not your planet?
