things would be different now, things would be their opposite. There had been a chance for peace and plenty,but that was several generations ago, and now we, the descendants, were stuck, and it was up to us to unstick ourselves. It was possible but it would take all our dedication, all our effort. It remained to be seen if we were up to the task. Not we meaning humanity; not we meaning the workers; we meaning the members of the Socialist Workers Party. The very future of the world depended on us.
12.
E VERY F RIDAY AND S UNDAY NIGHT of my childhood was reserved expressly for the Socialist Workers Party. Friday night a forum was held that was open to the public, and where party members, or an invited guest, would speak on a current political event like the grape boycott or desegregation busing or the Equal Rights Amendment. Sunday nights were “branch meetings” for comrades only and pertained to the management and strategy of the Socialist Workers Party itself. This is not to imply that these were the only evenings of political activity. There were also “plant-gate sales,” i.e., selling
The Militant at
the gates of factories during shift changes; “paste-ups,” i.e., illegally pasting posters of upcoming events on walls and lampposts—done late at night to avoid being spotted by the police; the occasional party to celebrate an accomplishment of some sort; conferences; rallies; etc.
When I was very young and still living in Brooklyn, my mother would almost always bring me along with her to these Friday and Sunday night meetings. In the early evening we would catch the subway into lower Manhattan, where we would then ride a wobbly elevator to the eighth floor of an old office building. Upon entering the meeting hall, I would instantly be greeted by a roomful of comrades.
“How’s the little revolutionary doing tonight?” they would call out.
When it was time for the meeting to begin, I would snuggle down beside my mother and listen as the room fell silent and somber. The only sound was my mother’s encumbered, asthmatic breathing amid the clouds of cigarette smoke passing above our heads. And then out of the void would come the rustling of the first comrade’s shoes as they approached the podium. “Good evening, comrades,” they would say into the microphone, and the voice would boom over me. I was warmed by the voice. Lulled by it. I never really understood what it was saying, of course, but I could follow it like a film in a foreign language, tracking the cadence if not the meaning. At a very early age I became expert at knowing when a speech was reaching its climax or when applause was being elicited or when a question from the floor was opening up an entirely new path of discussion. There was always a learned confidence in the speaker’s voice, a complete understanding of why the world worked the way it worked, and this was heartening to me. It proved that it was possible to make order out of chaos. And since my mother never directly addressed the actual content of our existence, never ventured to acknowledge those things that by their very absence resounded so loudly each day, there was something alluring about being in the presence of men and women who had committed their lives to uncovering the hidden, unspoken secrets of the world. Secrets that had been buried by the sediment of years and that, if not for the mighty effort of the comrades—including my mother—would be gone forever.
When the voice was done, another voice would take its place, picking up where the previous voice had ended. Asevening turned into night, and night turned into late night, I would grow drowsy and begin to slump and fade. My mother would lay me down across a row of empty folding chairs, her jacket over me, and I would drift off to sleep listening to the sound of questions asked, points raised, matters discussed, secrets revealed.
I suppose I was not the best companion to have. Once, in the middle of a dream, I rolled
12.
E VERY F RIDAY AND S UNDAY NIGHT of my childhood was reserved expressly for the Socialist Workers Party. Friday night a forum was held that was open to the public, and where party members, or an invited guest, would speak on a current political event like the grape boycott or desegregation busing or the Equal Rights Amendment. Sunday nights were “branch meetings” for comrades only and pertained to the management and strategy of the Socialist Workers Party itself. This is not to imply that these were the only evenings of political activity. There were also “plant-gate sales,” i.e., selling
The Militant at
the gates of factories during shift changes; “paste-ups,” i.e., illegally pasting posters of upcoming events on walls and lampposts—done late at night to avoid being spotted by the police; the occasional party to celebrate an accomplishment of some sort; conferences; rallies; etc.
When I was very young and still living in Brooklyn, my mother would almost always bring me along with her to these Friday and Sunday night meetings. In the early evening we would catch the subway into lower Manhattan, where we would then ride a wobbly elevator to the eighth floor of an old office building. Upon entering the meeting hall, I would instantly be greeted by a roomful of comrades.
“How’s the little revolutionary doing tonight?” they would call out.
When it was time for the meeting to begin, I would snuggle down beside my mother and listen as the room fell silent and somber. The only sound was my mother’s encumbered, asthmatic breathing amid the clouds of cigarette smoke passing above our heads. And then out of the void would come the rustling of the first comrade’s shoes as they approached the podium. “Good evening, comrades,” they would say into the microphone, and the voice would boom over me. I was warmed by the voice. Lulled by it. I never really understood what it was saying, of course, but I could follow it like a film in a foreign language, tracking the cadence if not the meaning. At a very early age I became expert at knowing when a speech was reaching its climax or when applause was being elicited or when a question from the floor was opening up an entirely new path of discussion. There was always a learned confidence in the speaker’s voice, a complete understanding of why the world worked the way it worked, and this was heartening to me. It proved that it was possible to make order out of chaos. And since my mother never directly addressed the actual content of our existence, never ventured to acknowledge those things that by their very absence resounded so loudly each day, there was something alluring about being in the presence of men and women who had committed their lives to uncovering the hidden, unspoken secrets of the world. Secrets that had been buried by the sediment of years and that, if not for the mighty effort of the comrades—including my mother—would be gone forever.
When the voice was done, another voice would take its place, picking up where the previous voice had ended. Asevening turned into night, and night turned into late night, I would grow drowsy and begin to slump and fade. My mother would lay me down across a row of empty folding chairs, her jacket over me, and I would drift off to sleep listening to the sound of questions asked, points raised, matters discussed, secrets revealed.
I suppose I was not the best companion to have. Once, in the middle of a dream, I rolled
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