Inauguration 1-20-09

January 21, 2009

And in that bright transcendent morning, the once unthinkable was, suddenly and inevitably, done. Who could resist the embracing magic of that moment?

The poet Elizabeth Alexander invoked the common people “repairing the things in need of repair.” In a bleeding world marked by so much unnecessary pain, a world so precariously out of balance, we must find ways to come together in vast missions of repair. “A teacher says, ‘Take out your pencils. Begin.”’

And so it begins.

Years from now the magic will survive or not—and that judgment will rest largely on questions of war and poverty. Martin Luther King Jr’s conscious and courageous connection of racial justice to economic justice and peace is a legacy to embrace in “the fierce urgency of now.” Will this moment be ruined in the furnaces of war, or can we hammer swords into plowshares and become a nation among nations? Can we learn to really live by the principle that anyone’s suffering diminishes us all?

The president’s speech looked in both directions: a return to past glory, a new awakening of peace and justice. A page is turned, and it’s now up to us write the next chapter.

Narrative Push/Narrative Pull

January 19, 2008

























Words words words words. Weird words common words, fragile words and sturdy words, empty words and blah blah blah, imaginary real life, falling filing failing hiding, straight words queer words, plagiarism ecstasy clichéd agony, word games mind storms, music rhythm blossoms thorns.


You, you, you, you. Coffee coffee tea tea. Turn away go pee. Sit down ease in, tremble, panic, sweat, begin. Rub forehead stretch hand stand up begin again. Face the paper, face the screen, bleed a little, breathe steam. Relax flex smile frown, search a word wall up and down. At last at last, surprise find, secret pearl round a grain of mind.




  • You: A singular intelligence and unique mind—the one and only only only one who will ever trod this earth—falling in love just so with this person in this way, suffering suffering suffering like no other. No one else will have these particular babies and not other babies, lose this mother and this father rather than another mother and father, get this scar and that one and not another, experience this ecstasy in this place with this person instead of all the other ecstasies that might have been with all the others, take on that one project and build that exact thing over there, mess everything up over here, pick up this stone on that road, choose and choose and choose and choose. You can choose to not write, choose a strategic silence as a powerful expression, a kind of resistance of stillness, choose to speak without words using brush and body to shout the ineffable. No one else can do what you can do because quite simply no one else is or ever will be just this right now you. But if you want to write you must find words and you must do work. You must.
  • Words: They’re waiting to be breathed into life—to be mustered up in military formation and marched dutifully in black rows onto white fields, or to be piled into incendiary heaps, anarchist bombs and unruly explosions spreading fire and chaos on the page and then running off in all directions. It depends. It depends on what you want your words to do. Do you write to change things, to make a difference, to expose injustice, to fight the power? You decide.
  • Work: The trick is to develop the discipline of the desk, to commit yourself to words on the page in a principled and predictable way. Every day is good—say from 6 a.m. to 8 a.m., or from 3 p.m. to 6 p.m.—or three times a week, or all day Saturday. That’s it—not perfect prose nor a sudden visit from some magical muse nor publishable pieces, but a writing routine. Sounds simple, but it isn’t. You must show up, you must nurture the habit of writing, you must put your words on the page. It’s labor. With words on the page you can rework rethink reorganize and edit and edit and edit, but without words, you are left with good intentions, grand plans, big hopes—in other words, not much.



So get to work.




“How is it,” Edward Said asks, “that the premises on which Western support for Israel is based are still maintained even though the reality, the facts, cannot possibly bear these premises out?” In a notable 1984 essay, “Permission to Narrate” Said attempts to answer his own complex question: “facts,” he writes, “do not at all speak for themselves, but require a socially acceptable narrative to absorb, sustained, and circulate them.”


He’s right, of course. Think, for example, of newspaper headlines you’ve seen that, while the facts and the content may be upsetting, are nonetheless instantly absorbed because they fit easily into a script already written, that is, they conform to a socially accepted narrative: “Toddler Left Unattended in Southside Apartment Bitten by Rat;” “Eight City High Schools Labeled Failing;” “Two Teens Charged in Playground Shooting.”


The facts in each of these situations are supported by a familiar and, therefore, comfortable story. The story adsorbs the facts, sustains them, and circulates them repeatedly, far and wide. It often seems as if the stories are already written, resting comfortably in the back of a computer somewhere, awaiting only this or that predictable fact as authenticating detail, at which point they explode instantly onto the front pages.


Imagine the disequilibrium that would accompany a headline that organized the same facts in the service of a different narrative: Failure of City to Eradicate Vermin Claims Another Victim; City Bureaucracy Delays Childcare Benefit, Unattended Boy Sustains Rat Bite; Easy Access to Assault Weapons Puts Guns in Kids’ Hands.


Or think of the site of ritualized hyper-narratives in conflict: the courtroom. From car accident to corporate looting, from criminal case to child custody dispute, the struggle is always a fight to fit the available facts for judge and jury into a credible narrative that serves a specific outcome.


In a trial I observed years ago a large group of Irish Americans and recent Irish immigrants, all known supporters of the Irish Republican Army, had been charged in federal court in Brooklyn with accumulating weapons to send to the IRA in support of their fight with the British. The prosecution contended that the political beliefs of the defendants along with their avowed support for the IRA motivated them to conspire and to break a number of federal statutes.


The defense told a different story: the defendants, they maintained, were part of a long and proud tradition of anti-colonial struggle against imperialist powers like Great Britain, a tradition that embraced the founding of the United States itself. Further, there was no criminal intent, since the defendants were convinced that they were acting in concert with US policy and as adjuncts to a known federal agency.


It happened that the defendants in the case were acquitted. The defense apparently had an insight the prosecution missed entirely—they worked systematically to put an audience in the jury box that would be receptive to their particular narrative. The facts were only in minor dispute; the larger argument was over whose narrative was believable.


The defense succeeded in selecting a jury that was overwhelmingly recent immigrants from Spanish-speaking countries, from Central and South America. The trial took place at the height of the Malvinas crisis, an ugly war that almost went nuclear between Great Britain and Argentina. The crisis didn’t register with most Americans, but it was the top story in Latin American newspapers where the undisputed bad guy was Great Britain. For these jurors at this time a narrative of independence from the evil empire was easy to hear, completely acceptable to believe.


Here’s a different, perhaps more familiar courtroom story, a parable really. But it’s true enough and it happened in April, 1989. Our own boys were 12, 9 and 8 at the time, and they’d cut their teeth on the swings, slides and sandboxes of Central Park playgrounds, jogging around the reservoir, celebrating birthday picnics at the carousel, awestruck watching West Indian cricket matches.


When the body of a 28-year-old jogger, a white investment banker, was found raped, bludgeoned, and in a coma in the underbrush of Central Park, the telling became, like the river of terrible crimes before it, an international news story with epic legal and policy consequences.


Five children were arrested and charged with assault and attempted murder and gang rape within 24 hours. The immediate language of the media was unequivocal and it resonated: “packs of bloodthirsty teens from the tenements, bursting with boredom and rage, roam the streets, getting kicks from an evening of ultra violence.” The liberal Pete Hamill wrote, “They were coming downtown from a world of crack, welfare, guns, knives, indifference, and ignorance. They were coming from a land of no fathers… They were coming from the anarchic province of the poor…And driven by a collective fury, brimming with the rippling energies of youth, their minds teaming with the violent images of the streets and the movies, they had only one goal: to smash, hurt, rob, stomp, rape. The enemies were rich. The enemies were white.”


Under interrogation, the youth confessed on videotape. Almost immediately, all five repudiated their confessions. They were tried and convicted of rape, sodomy, sexual abuse, riot, and assault, and sent to prison. The victim testified that she had no memory of the attack. There was no forensic evidence linking any of them to the assault. All there was were the videotaped confessions. And the familiar story.


But the narrative was strong. It was black and white, male and female, Wall Street and Harlem, law-abiding adults and barbaric youth, heroic woman versus feral beasts, the establishment versus Black teens, order versus terror, human versus animal, thoughtful versus mindless. It was open and shut. Each young man served six to 12 years in prison.


And now the problem: all five were innocent. The perpetrator confessed 13 years after the fact, and, after some painful re-examination, the prosecution admitted error. But the narrative, the false story, had done its work.




Every narrative is, of course, necessarily incomplete, each a kind of distortion. Reality is always messier, always more complicated, always more idiosyncratic than any particular story can honestly contain. A single insistent narrative by its nature lies.


Perhaps that’s why courtrooms are ultimately dissatisfying—sometimes profoundly, often mildly so: one of the narratives must triumph over the other. And in newsrooms, too, there seems to be little room for nuance, none at all for two contradictory narratives existing side-by-side. And perhaps that’s what makes classrooms at their best such infinitely wondrous places: not only are all master narratives and triumphalist stories—as well as all manner of orthodoxy—challenged and laid low, but whatever emerges as the new truth is then questioned, reflected upon, seen as inadequate in itself. Classrooms can be sites of curiosity, investigation, skepticism and agnosticism, narratives in play.


Whenever a single narrative takes on the authority of truth—that is, when it puffs itself up to a size and density that overshadows every alternative possibility—it becomes like a magnetic hole in space, consuming all available energy and light, sucking the air out of every room. Such is the status of the story told inside the US regarding Israel/Palestine.


The dominant narrative has transformed only slightly over half a century, its broad outline essentially intact: the site of origin for Judaism and the Jewish people is the historic land that lies from the Mediterranean to the Jordan, from Dan to Beersheeba; exiled for millennia the Jews collectively have longed to return to that specific place; the Nazi Holocaust in Europe, in which some six million Jews were rounded up and slaughtered, energized modern Zionism and catalyzed within the international community vigorous support for the creation of a Jewish state; the state of Israel, founded on the site of origin, is a spunky little beacon of liberalism, democracy, and human rights within a sea of autocratic dictatorships.


This narrative ignores certain inconvenient facts, chiefly the actuality of the Palestinian people on that same land, a people whose very existence was initially denied in the narrative broadcast to the West: “Israel is a land without people for a people without land”—this represents the rhetorical erasure of an entire swath of humankind. This kind of statement may be compelling to some, but it is also, importantly, verifiable or falsifiable—that is, its truth or falsity can be discovered. But the verifiability was never of much interest, since it became more important to insist on the historical rights of Jews to the land, and to render inadmissible any talk of native inhabitants, any narrative of Palestinian life. This sentiment had endless variations, the most persistent, that the Israelis found nothing but a primitive backward place, and that upon that rock a modern state was created—the soundbite: “They made the desert bloom.”


When the existence of the Palestinians became undeniable, when they failed to comply and exit easily, they were transformed into an obstacle to progress and peace, rubble to be removed. The dominant available images prescribe a particularly parochial set of options: a barricaded and insulated rejectionist leadership; pitiful masses suffering in teeming refugee camps or squalid, quarantined communities; and, most prominent of all, terrorist suicide bombers, fanatical malevolent creatures, bereft of normal human motivation and well beyond our comprehension.


The recurrent American story—dominant, habitual, profoundly functional—is similarly a tale of democracy and freedom, of forward motion, perpetual improvement and never-ending progress. That story, told and retold in official and scholarly and popular venues over and over and over again, echoes in our consciousness until it achieves the exalted status of common sense, a truth beyond doubt: America is the greatest country on earth; land of the free home of the brave; God bless America.


The Puritans provided one of the most durable symbols of the American experiment, a symbol that is as resilient and resonant today as it ever was: America was to be a city on a hill—an exalted place, chosen by God—whose inhabitants, themselves a chosen people, would engage in an errand into the wilderness, their task to shine their countenance upon the darkened world and thereby to enlighten it.


The project of a blessed people bearing civilization and progress and truth offers a ready justification for anything—conquest, theft and mayhem, mass murder: we come in peace, we are messages of God, we embody a greater good. Opposition must be the Devils handiwork.


Beyond political calculation and opportunism, military advantage and strategic aims, imperial dreams and desires, this foundational symbol goes some way toward explaining many misadventures, including the bullheaded and single-minded support the US offers Israel today. That nation, too, was built by a determined band of self-proclaimed chosen people who suffered and survived, arose phoenix-like to create their plucky little democracy in the midst of hostile and threatening and notably darker skinned neighbors. Perpetual but righteous war would become the necessary order of the day for the forces of goodness. And so it is.




The dominant narrative in contemporary school reform is once again focused on exclusion and disadvantage, race and class, black and white. “Across the US,” the National Governor’s Association declared in 2005, “a gap in academic achievement persists between minority and disadvantaged students and their white counterparts.” This is the commonly referenced and popularly understood “racial achievement gap,” and it drives education policy at every level. Interestingly, whether heartfelt or self-satisfied, the narrative never mentions the monster in the room: white supremacy


It’s true, of course, that standardized test scores reveal a difference between Black-and-white test-takers: 26 points in one area of comparison, 20 points in another, 23 in a third.


But the significance of those differences is wildly disputed. Some argue, as Charles Murray and Richard Herrnstein did in their popular and incendiary book The Bell Curve, that genetic differences account for the gap, and there’s little that can be done to lift up the poor inferior Black folks. An alternate theory, popular since the 1960s, holds that Black people are not inherently inferior to whites, but merely culturally deprived, and that fixing the massive pathologies in the family and community will require social engineering on a grand scale.


Each of these explanations has a large and devoted following, the first, while difficult for many whites to endorse publicly, carries the reflected power of eugenics and the certainty that what they’ve always secretly suspected, that whites are indeed superior beings, is true; the second has the advantage of pretending to give a bit more than a pig’s eye for the well-being of Black people while disturbing none of the pillars of white privilege. Either theory can live comfortably beneath the obsessive focus on the achievement gap.


Gloria Ladson-Billings upends all of this with an elegant reversal: there is no achievement gap, she argues, but actually a glancing reflection of something deeper and more profound—America has a profound education debt. The educational inequities that began with the annihilation of native peoples and the enslavement of Africans, the conquest of the continent and the importation of both free labor and serfs, transformed into apartheid education, something anemic, inferior, inadequate, and oppressive. Over decades and centuries the debt has accumulated and is passed from generation to generation, and it continues to grow and pile up. Chicago serves 86% Black and Latino students and spends around $8,000 per pupil per year while a few miles away Highland Park, 90% white, spends $17,000. This is emblematic of what’s going on in every community in America.


Ladson-Billings imagines what could be done if the political powers took the achievement gap seriously: immediate reassignment of the best teachers in the country to schools for poor children of color, guaranteed places for those students at state and regional colleges and universities, smaller classes, smaller schools, a Marshall Plan-type effort to rebuild infrastructure. Ladson-Billings argues that the US owes a moral debt to African-Americans, a dept that `reflects the disparity between what we know is right and what we actually do.



In “Why I Write,” George Orwell gives four reasons why all writers, including himself, write: One: “Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood… Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.” It’s impossible to deny: there’s a peculiar pleasure in showing off, in disproving doubters, in expressing oneself.


Two: “Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed.”


Three: “Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.”


Four: “Political purpose—using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after.”


Orwell elaborates: “I am a person in whom the first three motives would outweigh the fourth. In a peaceful age I might have written ornate or merely descriptive books, and might have remained almost unaware of my political loyalties. As it is I have been forced into becoming a sort of pamphleteer.”


The Spanish Civil War “turned the scale” and for Orwell, “thereafter I knew where I stood.”


“Every line of serious work that I have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism,” he writes. What I have most wanted to do throughout the past ten years is to make political writing into an art. My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice. When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art.’ I write it because there is some lie I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention.”


Of art and politics, combining the aesthetic and the political, Orwell says, “I have tried to write less picturesquely and more exactly,” and concludes, “And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generality.”


In 1984 Orwell provides an unrelenting vision of the totalitarian impulses and powers around him. Neither Winston’s intelligence and memory of things past, nor Julia’s effort to escape through her own individuality and sexuality are a threat to Big Brother—both are short lived, quickly detected, and easily crushed. In fact, the only hope Orwell projects is the prole woman humming a tune in the courtyard outside the room where Winston and Julia rendezvous: “people who had never learned to think but were storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power that would one day overturn the world. If there was hope it lay in the proles.”


Otherwise Oceania, the multinational political entity ruled by Big Brother abounds with doublethink: “War is Peace,” “Freedom is Slavery,” and “Ignorance is Strength,” as well as the Ministry of Peace which wages war, the Ministry of Truth which propagates lies, and Ministry of Love, where torture is carried out.


In the Foreword to a recent edition of 1984 Thomas Pynchon wrote: “His anger, let us go so far as to say, was precious to him. He had lived his way into it—in Burma and Paris and London and on the road to Wigan Pier, and in Spain, being shot at and eventually wounded by fascists—he had invested blood, pain, and hard labor to earn his anger and was as attached to it as any capitalist to his capital. It may be an affliction to writers more than others, this fear of getting comfortable, of being bought off.”


But at the same time Pynchon writes that 1984 is not just an angry diatribe against where the world is inevitably going: “It is not difficult to imagine that Orwell in 1984 was imagining a future for his son’s generation, a world he was not so much wishing upon them as warning against. He was impatient with predictions of the inevitable, he remained confident in the ability of ordinary people to change anything, if they would.”



Educational research, a post-World War II invention chasing federal dollars, has grown to monstrous proportions, and yet I’m hard-pressed to say what good has come of any of it. Grants are funded, projects launched, dissertations written, careers made, but for all that, not much has been accomplished for children. Academic writing is mostly dry and boring, so deadly you risk suffocating just reading the stuff. When it cloaks itself in self-referencing dogma—so smug and so sure, so proud of its ironclad conclusions—I want to throw open the window either to jump or to breathe the free air.


In fact, the language of pseudo-science that has come to dominate the discourse about schools has led to a hollowing out of our consciousness of what actually occurs in classrooms, the intellectual and ethical core of what really goes on. In the “scientific” narrative, teachers and students are reduced to an S-R relationship, standardized tests—simpleminded, deceptive, and fatally flawed—rule supreme, and everyone is asked to genuflect in front of the phrase, “the research says.” All of this becomes a bludgeon to beat educators and children and families into submission.


Narrative inquiry can be a useful corrective to all this, for it posits storytelling and story listening as important ways to understand and improve classroom life. It suits the noisy, idiosyncratic, complex, multilayered, dynamic reality of schools and classrooms. It can fit itself to that reality rather than hammering the natural messiness into a convenient if choked and clotted frame.


Narrative begins with something to say—content precedes form. You must have something to say, something you want to say, something of burning importance that only you can say. You don’t have to think that you’re better than others, or to compare yourself to John Dewey or Toni Morrison, but you do have to believe that the message you want to send is of vital importance and that you must, therefore, muster the confidence to do the work. You must nourish your own awareness, your engagement, your curiosity, and you must harness all of it with dedication and discipline.


The hallmark of writing in the first person is intimacy. But that intimacy can trap a writer into a defensive crouch, into airing grievances or self-justification. Annie Dillard argues that while personal essay is an art, it’s not a martial art, and that the personal pronoun can be the subject of the verb—I see this, I did that—but not the object of the verb—I discuss me, I quote me, I describe me. The goal of the writing is to set up a relationship, a dialog based on both identification and difference, harmony and disharmony. The assumption is that there is a unity in human experience, that within each of us is the human condition. But in narrative the universal is revealed through the specific, the general through the particular, the essence through the unique, and necessity is revealed through contingency.


Narrative writers strive for a personal signature, but must be aware that the struggle for honesty is constant. The mind works in contradiction, and honesty requires the writer to reveal disputes with herself on the page. Human beings are incorrigibly self-deceiving and self-justifying, and in order to create a reliable narrator readers need to see a writer interrogating her own ignorance, investigating what she doesn’t know, searching for and writing into contradictions—rather than running away from them with easy conclusions—as they appear.


Creating a credible narrator is the first and most difficult assignment. Honesty, yes, and also boldness, the strength to claim your position on the page, to resist undermining your own authority by constantly referencing others or refusing to take a stand on issues of real importance. Authority is established when a writer knows when to show and not tell—when to provide an instance or an anecdote or a detail that brings a scene or a person to life—and just as important, when to synthesize, generalize, and sum up. Writing is not a skill separate from thinking, and there’s nothing more interesting, engaging, and, yes, dangerous than an intelligent mind thinking out loud. That’s something shot through with discovery and surprise—a writer must free herself from dogma and self-righteousness, and she must conduct basic research on herself, anti-systemic, experimental, often accidental. She searches for understanding on the page, an investigation of something out there, but, perhaps more important, of something in here, a struggle to make sense—and the reader must actually see the struggle. It’s a journey, not by a tourist, but by a pilgrim.


The writer can never make causal claims and can never generalize—and this can be painfully difficult given the dominant narrative in education—but beyond that, she is free to theorize, to speculate, to wonder, and to advocate. Paradoxically, the inability to generalize and the necessity to stay close to the ground allows the writer to make gigantic existential claims. To do this well, she must continually stay in the middle of things, the concrete and the real, and at the same time remain up in the air, contingent and unfinished.


The Chicago writer David Mamet told an interviewer that he believed that you’re only a writer when you write the last line—before that you’re a failed writer—and that after you write that last line, you’re an ex-writer. Mostly we aspire to write, and reaching toward something mysterious and elusive is where the work actually lives. So we’re mostly aspiring and failed writers, and, as for me, I’m an ex-writer now.


CHILD SOLDIERS…by Therese Quinn, Erica Meiners, Bill Ayers

January 9, 2008


In 2001 Chicago’s Mayor, Richard M. Daley commented on an article in the online journal, Education Next, by then-Mayor of Oakland, California, Jerry Brown. Brown’s essay offered a rationale for the public military academies he was promoting for Oakland. In his letter to the editor, Daley congratulated Brown’s efforts and explained his own reasons for creating military schools in Chicago:


We started these academies because of the success of our Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps (JROTC) program, the nation’s largest. JROTC provides students with the order and discipline that is too often lacking at home. It teaches them time management, responsibility, goal setting, and teamwork, and it builds leadership and self-confidence.


Today, Chicago has the most militarized public school system in the nation, with Cadet Corps for students in middle-school, over 10,000 students participating in JROTC programs, over 1,000 students enrolled in one of the five, soon-to-be six autonomous military high schools, and hundreds more attending one of the nine military high schools that are called “schools within a school.” Chicago now has a Marine Military Academy, a Naval Academy, and three army high schools. When an air force high school opens next year, Chicago will be the only city in the nation to have academies representing all  branches of the military. And Chicago is not the only city moving in this direction: the public school systems of other urban centers with largely Black and immigrant low income students , including Philadelphia, Atlanta and Oakland, are being similarly re-formed—and deformed— through partnerships with the Department of the Defense.


As military recruiters nationwide fall short of their enlistment goals— a trend spanning a  decade— and as the number of African Americans enlistees (once a reliable and now an increasingly reluctant source of personnel)  has dropped by 41% over the last several years,  the Department of the Defense has partnered with the Department of Education and city governments, to both sell its “brand” to young people and to secure positions of power over the lives of the most vulnerable youth. The federal No Child Left Behind Act is particularly aggressive, providing unprecedented military access to campuses and requiring schools to provide personal student information to the Army. In many schools  JROTC programs replace physical education courses, recruiters assist in coaching athletic teams, and the military is provided space to offer kids a place to hang out and have a snack after school. Iin Chicago’s  Senn High School, which serves a working class immigrant population—last year its students hailed from over 60 countries—was forced, against the express wishes of the school and local community, to cede a wing of its building to a public military school.


          Every citizen should oppose the presence of the military in our public schools. Here are four reasons why:

1. Public education is a civilian, not a military, system.

 Public education in a democracy aims to broadly prepare youth for full participation in civil society so that they can make informed decisions about their lives and the future of society as a whole. The Department of the Defense has a dramatically more constrained  goal in our schools: influencing students to “choose” a military career. The military requires submissiveness and lock-step acquiescence to authority, while a broad education for democratic living emphasizes curiosity, skepticism, diversity of opinion, investigation, initiative, courage to take an unpopular stand, and more. This distinction—of a civilian, not a militarized, public education system—is one for which earlier generations fought.   

During WW I, national debates took place over whether or not to include “military training” in secondary schools.  Dr. James Mackenzie, a school director, argued, in a remarkably resonant piece  published in the New York Times in 1916: “If American boys lack discipline, by all means, let us supply it, but not through a training whose avowed aim is human slaughter.” In 1917 a report issued by the Department of the Interior pointed out that “in no country in the world do educators regard military instruction in the schools as a successful substitute for the well-established systems of physical training and character building.” And in 1945 high school students in New York held public discussions about “universal military training” in schools, where some, an article noted, expressed “fears that universal military training would indicate to the world that we had a ‘chip on our shoulders.’”


2. Military programs and schools are selectively targeted.

  Professor Pauline Lipman of the University of Illinois at Chicago has documented that Chicago’s public military academies, along with other schools offering limited educational choices, are located overwhelmingly  in low income communities of color, while schools with rich curriculums including magnet schools, regional gifted centers, classical schools, IB programs and college prep schools are placed in whiter, wealthier communities, and in gentrifying areas. In other words, it’s no accident that Senn High School was forced to house a military school, while a nearby selective admission high school was not. This is a Defense Department strategy—target schools where students are squeezed out of the most robust opportunities, given fewer options, and  perceived, then, as more likely to enlist; recruit the most susceptible  intensively, with false promises and tactics that include bribes,  gifts, home visits, mailings, harassment,  free video games promoting the glories of war and offering chances to “kill,” and more. Indeed, the Defense Department spends as much as $2.6 billion each year on recruiting.


3.  Military schools and programs promote obedience and conformity.

 Mayor Daley’s  claim that “[military programs] provide… students with the order and discipline that is too often lacking at home” taps into and fuels racialized perceptions and fears of unruly black and brown families and youth. They must be controlled., regulated, and made docile for their own good and for ours. An authentic commitment to the futures of these kids would involve, for a start, offering exactly what the most privileged youngsters have: art education, including dance, music instruction, theater and performance, and the visual arts,  sports and physical education, clubs and games, after-school opportunities, science and math labs, lower teacher-student ratios, smaller schools, and more. . Instead, to take one important example, a recent study by the Illinois Arts Council reports that in the city of Chicago, arts programs are distributed in the same way as the other rich educational offerings —white, wealthy communities have them, while low income communities of color have few or none.

 A 16 year old student attending the naval academy in Chicago said in an interview in the Chicago Tribune: “When people see that we went to a military school, they know we’re obedient, we follow directions, we’re disciplined.”  She understood and accurately described the qualities her school aims to develop—unquestioning  rule-following.


4. Military schools and programs promote and practice discrimination.


              Although the Chicago Board of Education, City of Chicago, Cook County, and the State of Illinois all prohibit discrimination based on sexual orientation, the United States Military condones discrimination against lesbians, bisexuals, and gay men. Promoters of these schools and programs are willfully ignoring the fact that queer students attending these schools can’t access military college benefits or employment possibilities, and that queer teachers can’t be hired to serve as JROTC instructors in these schools. This double standard should not be tolerated. Following the courageous examples of San Francisco and Portland, Chicago should refuse to do business with organizations that discriminate against its citizens.

Military schools and programs  depend on logics of racism, conquest,  misogyny and homophobia. Military schools need unruly youth of color to turn into soldiers, and they need queers and girls as the shaming contrasts against which those soldiers will be created. In other words, soldiers aren’t sissies and they aren’t pussies, either. These disparagements are used as behavior regulators in military settings. Military public schools are a problem, not simply because  “don’t ask don’t tell” policies restrict the access of queers to full participation in the military, but because these schools require the active, systematic, and visible disparagement and destruction of queerness and queer lives. We reject the idea that queers should organize for access to the military that depends on our revilement for its existence, rather than for the right to privacy, the right to public life, and the right to life free from militarism.


We live in a city awash in the randomly, tragically spilled blood of our children. We live, all of us, in a violent nation that is regularly spilling the blood of other children, elsewhere. It sickens us to think of students marching and growing comfortable with guns.

Weather Underground Redux

April 20, 2006

The Weather Underground, born Phoenix-like from the ashes of a terrible explosion that killed three of our leaders in Greenwich Village, New York on March 6, 1970, stormed fleetingly across the landscape at the tail end of that mythical and iconic age now simply called the Sixties. Originally a militant formation inside Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), the catalytic radical student group of its day, the Weather Underground rose, hot and angry, to—in our own terms—smite the war-mongers and strike against the race-haters. We went over the top. By the mid-1970’s the American war in Viet Nam had ended and the organization had effectively flamed out. Individuals made their twisty ways, singly and in small groups, upward and onward as best they could.
A palimsest—a ghostly smudge—remained, however, as a reminder that the phenomenon had once come to life, that it had indeed existed—vital, wild and animated—that there was something more to find and to see beneath the authorized story. The lessons and the legacy of that fugitive, ephemeral moment are, of course, contested—the ever-changing present, as always, unsettles and makes novel demands upon the past. We discover unforseen lenses with which to examine the ashes, we create fresh perspectives with which to rethink the details and make meaning of the larger contexts, the historical flow, the cultural and social surround. Revisiting the Weather Underground requires another look at what was said, and what we did.
* * *
In 1965, just as the American catastrophe in Viet Nam was reaching full ignition, I was arrested along with 38 others for disrupting the normal operations of the Ann Arbor draft board, part of the bureaucratic machinery for sorting soldiers from civilians, the living from the dead—issuing, we concluded, toxic warrants to kill and to die. Earlier in the year, at the first Teach-In, I’d heard Paul Potter, then president of SDS, end a talk on the necessity of protest against the U.S. war in Viet Nam by saying, “Don’t let your life make a mockery of your values.” I signed up on the spot. I wore a small peace button, and one that said “Let the people decide.”
We borrowed energy and tactics from the Civil Rights Movement, of course, and we intended, as well, to awaken our fellow citizens to the magnitude of the moral crisis we found ourselves in. This was a huge civil disobedience, part of the First International Days of Protest Against the Viet Nam War, but it was not exactly “popular.” Only about 15 percent of Americans opposed the war then, and even in progressive Ann Arbor we were pretty much on our own that day, surrounded by thousands of students who supported the war and wanted to see us expelled from school, or worse. So much for the myth of the good old days of popular resistance when everyone knew the right road to follow.
But by early 1968 a majority of citizens had come to oppose the war, and a sitting US president had, in effect, relinquished his office because of it. Several developments in those three short years had dramatically shifted the balance and altered the scene.
For one thing, US political leaders—blind and arrogant as they took over the failed French colonial mission—were certain that they would triumph easily over a poor, peasant nation, and would be welcomed as liberators by the natives—that tired, delusional conceit of every would-be conqueror. But the Vietnamese refused their assigned role in Washington’s script, and the National Liberation Front wouldn’t quit; they retreated when necessary, holed up underground as required, and reemerged suddenly to beat back the invaders. The Vietnamese refused to lose.
Further, those of us who opposed the war set out early to organize and to educate our fellow citizens. We marched and picketed and resisted—it’s true—but we also drew up factsheets, created teach-ins, circulated petitions. The most difficult and exhilarating project for me was Viet Nam Summer, a concerted effort to knock on every door in working class neighborhoods—I was assigned to Detroit—and meet people face to face, listen to their concerns, and engage them in dialogue about war and peace. The more we tried to teach others, the more we ourselves learned—about Viet Nam, about America, about politics and possibility, about ourselves. We became better teachers, deeper, more thoughtful and more effective organizers. We also became radicalized as we made the connections between foreign war and domestic racism, between economic hierarchies and the hollowing out of democracy, and eventually we thought of ourselves as revolutionaries, committed to overturning the whole damned system.
Many in the Civil Rights Movement came out early and unequivocally against the war. The Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), for example, issued a statement saying that “No Black man should go 10,000 miles away to fight for a so-called freedom he doesn’t enjoy in Mississippi,” and Muhammed Ali said, “No Viet Cong ever called me nigger… I won’t fight in the white man’s army.” Martin Luther King, Jr., with his great prestige and base of liberal support on the line, denounced the war as illegal and immoral, and with some palpable anguish, condemned his own government as “the greatest purveyor of violence in the world.”
All of this shook the country to its core, and perhaps the last straw was the large numbers of vets returning from Viet Nam that came out and told the plain, recognizable truth. With the anti-war movement at its height and hundreds of thousands of people demonstrating in the streets, they joined the peace movement in droves, bringing a renewed urgency and purpose, even creating their own anti-war organizations which inspired new levels of militancy in our ranks. The movement, which had been organizing GI’s from the start, embraced the vets as a strategic priority, and many vets found a natural ally in the movement, and discovered that they had more in common with their young activist peers than with the old bastards in power. When they lined up, tore their medals and war decorations from their throats, and threw them down on the Capitol steps, they initiated a new dimensions to the crisis.
So when the president relented, those of us who had worked to end the war felt vindicated and triumphant. In Ann Arbor we swirled out of our apartments and snaked through the streets in a spontaneous victory dance, rallying finally on the steps of the home of the president of the University of Michigan. He greeted us with words of encouragement: “Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve won an important victory. Now the war will end.” I think he believed what he said that night; I know that I did.
Five days later Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated and cities around the country erupted—fire in the streets, martial law, tanks and troops patrolling downtown. Three months later it was Robert Kennedy. Whether conspiracies or isolated events, the serial assassinations had an impact on our sense of possibility. Henry Kissinger emerged with a “secret plan to end the war,” Richard Nixon was elected president, and by the winter it was clear that the war would not end—it would escalate and expand in spite of the wishes of almost everyone.
The war became deadlier and deadlier—each day that it dragged on, 2,000 innocent people were murdered by the United States government. Not every week or every month—every day. Two thousand people. Slaughtered. And there was no end in sight. What to do?
Living through that time, the aggression, the assassinations, the terrorist war raging on and on in our names, it seemed as if we were experiencing terminally cataclysmic events and permanent war. Looking back, of course, we can see that even if it felt that way, it wasn’t so—that while it was monstrous and bloody, the war lasted only a decade, and then it was done. Three million people were needlessly killed. But in those days, with the outcome far from certain, we had to choose our actions within a shifting, complex, and speculative world. Should I oppose the war? On what basis? How far should I go in order to prevent more senseless slaughter and dismemberment? Could I be part of mobilizing a more wide-spread resistance? Could we perhaps go beyond ending this war, and end the system that led so inevitably to war after war? Could we have an impact?
Some of us burned out. Others fled to Europe or Canada or Africa. Some ran for office, while others ran for the communes of California or Vermont. Some dug in. Others dropped out. Some created what they thought would become “vanguard” revolutionary political parties and went into the factories to organize the industrial working class, while others joined the Democratic Party with the hope of building a powerful peace wing within it. Some made a religion out of making love, others made a mess of making revolution. No choice was the obvious best choice, none in retrospect was up to the challenge. We in the Weather Underground blasted away at the rulers, and tried at the same time to build up a capacity to undermine and survive what we were certain was an incipient and impending American fascism. With the townhouse explosion, with the deaths of our friends and lovers, we disappeared.
* * *
We issued our first communiqué—a word we borrowed from Latin American guerrillas—called a “Declaration of War” and signed by “Bernardine Dohrn”, in May 1970. It was filled with defiance and hyperbole. We threatened to bomb “a major symbol of American injustice,” and when, a little more than two weeks later the promised explosion rocked the New York City Police Headquarters on Centre Street, the Weathermyth was fully launched. The communiqué was reprinted widely and, oddly enough, through it we instructed the FBI—and through them police forces everywhere—on our reliability and our quirky authenticating signs. We were in communication.
There was a practice then of public storytelling, and the subtext was our own hopeful message: you can’t catch us.
We opened to a world of words and they tumbled from us in a crazy flash flood of awakening zeal. We wrote open letters to the militant Catholic left—and they wrote back urging us to temper our actions with compassion—and to the Black Liberation Army, who urged us to blast away at colonializing racist power everywhere, no holds barred. We argued with both, and we agreed with both.
We scribbled to old friends—roommates from an earlier world, favorite teachers, brothers and sisters. I wrote to John Holt, an inspiring teacher and education writer, a deeply conservative man in some ways but a loving friend as well, and we linked up and corresponded for years. I communicated with my Aunt Sarah, a closeted leftie, and most of us (but not me) wrote to our parents—careful missives meant to reassure, delivered discreetly and then quickly destroyed. We were ill-equipped gunslingers, and we became word-slingers instead.
* * *
We were, of course, like everybody else, a bunch of signifying monkeys, more monkeyish than some, but of a type, hanging tentatively suspended in our interpretive jungle, sending shared meanings spinning along the dense thicket of language. We invented words; we constructed culture. And we were, like others, forever explaining, defining, correcting, implying, editing, translating in sometimes delighted, often desperate efforts to be understood.
The Weatherpeople were all talkers—we already loved words and we read widely; groups of us were regular Scrabble players and Sunday crossword puzzle workers. The garble of Weatherese was mostly an intellectual game—clever and distracting—but learning how to evade arrest had a serious purpose, a purpose that rode along on words, on our talk tactics, mostly. When my car broke down on a highway, the cop who pulled over found me not only respectful and engaging but open and grateful for his presence. I was practicing verbal jujitsu. Soon he offered to give me a push to the nearest service station, and I asked for his name so that I might send a letter of gratitude to his commanding officer. (He refused—the helpful push was outside regulations.) Again and again we learned what you say and how you say it had more to do with survival than anything else.
The preface “Weather” had become as prominent among us as “Mc” is in the wider world, and just as colonizing. We talked of Weathermen and Weatherwomen, Weatherkids and Weatherstories, Weather documents and Weathersymps. The leadership was, of course, the Weather Bureau, a leaflet was a Weather Balloon, and the anti-imperialist struggle was the Weather Going Tide. Recruits went through what amounted to an informal Weatherman Berlitz in order to become functionally bilingual.
When we began doing secret and illegal work we needed a word that cloaked our intentions, and so we spoke of the North Star, and then of the Dash—I’m spending this morning on the Dash, someone might say, implying both a censor’s beep, a word unspoken, as well as the mad dash we anticipated to the underground railroad, following the North Star toward freedom. When we were actually on the run we inoculated ourselves from fear and called our fugitiveness “the Joke”—Have you told your new boyfriend the Joke? Or: I don’t think anyone here knows the Joke. Our organization, publicly the Weather Underground, became the Eggplant, from an obscure rock lyric about “the eggplant that ate Chicago.”
We expropriated an entire lexicon of Weather words from the music—“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows,” of course, from Bob Dylan, “Bad Moon,” our code word for the Haymarket statue, from Creedence Clearwater Revival, “Rescue” from Fontella Bass’s “Rescue Me” was the name for a two-year effort, finally successful, to break a Black Liberation Army comrade from jail. We drew on “Kick Out the Jams” by the MC5 for names and codes, “Purple Haze” in tribute to Jimi Hendrix, and “Volunteers” from the Jefferson Airplane. The Pentagon was called “Maggie’s Farm,” again from Dylan, because, we said simply, “I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.”
Homegrown, as American as cherry pie, the underground was in other ways a foreign country—we spoke patois and did things differently there.
* * *
Our survival had to have meaning beyond the narrow and the particular. For me, and for most of us, we searched for meaning by participating fully in all aspects of life, and we would try to understand everything in order to make ourselves subjects in history and not passive objects to be used and discarded. We would make history, act within it in order to enlarge people and contribute to humanity. We would fight unearned suffering and undeserved pain, all the ways people oppress and exploit and dehumanize one another. We would affirm every gesture toward social justice and liberty, everything that honored each human being as irreplaceably worthwhile and the whole of humanity sacred. And—with some luck—we would participate in an upheaval that would destroy the death machine and allow human beings to reach the full measure of their humanity. Revolution!
We hoped that our actions would speak for themselves. Our efforts would be stained by mistakes, of course, because we could never see fully or far enough, we could never know all things in all ways. We were limited as is everyone, our theories flawed. Still, I believed the greater crime would be to do nothing, or not enough. Inaction was impossible. Stepping into history, we would make errors; staying aloof from history would be its own choice and error. And so, believing in the immense power of people to challenge fate and accomplish the unthinkable, holding on to a profound sense of personal responsibility, I plunged ahead. We would fight, but in new ways. We would bring the war home as we had planned, but with measured force, with precision. We would draw an angry sword against white supremacy, retaliate for racist attacks, and fight alongside our Black revolutionary comrades, but from a new and liberated space. And with care.
Within months we had established a pattern of action—retaliation for what we believed were attacks on the Black struggle, and offensives against the war machine. Our signature was a warning call to some sleepy guard inside the building or to the police nearby or to a journalist with calm and detailed instructions to clear a specific area, and then letters of explanation—sometimes exhorting, sometimes threatening, sometimes still barely decipherable beyond the knowing—claiming credit and publicly defending our actions as politics by other means, signed and delivered simultaneously to several major newspapers in different cities across the country seconds after the blast. The FBI and the big city police knew our signature, and separated what they came to know as the authentic Weather nuts from the variously weird.
Each letter had a logo hand-drawn across the page—our trademark thick and colorful rainbow with a slash of angry lightning cutting through it. New morning, it signified, changing weather. Oddly, as intense as it all looks and sounds, it was in our minds then cautious and responsible, a huge de-escalation from the apocalyptic plans of just months earlier. In any case, I loved that symbol of peace and reconciliation balanced by the hot bolt of justice.
* * *
This was a time when I, along with most of my closest friends, were referred to again and again as “home-grown American terrorists.” That’s what Time magazine called us in 1970, and the New York Times, too, and that was the word hurled in my direction from the halls of Congress. Terrorist. I’d been a national officer of Students for a Democratic Society, and then a founder of the Weather Underground, and I was indicted with many comrades by the Justice Department in 1970 on two single-count conspiracies—one for crossing state lines in order to create a civil disturbance, the other for crossing state lines to destroy government property. I had no intention of answering in federal court—I’d seen by then too many activists entangled in lengthy trials and, no matter what the verdict, neutralized and effectively kept off the streets—and so I took off and lived on the run for the next decade. I thought of myself immodestly as a freedom fighter, but I knew that “terrorist” was tattooed over every inch of me—it was an electrifying label, even then. I imagined a pale figure dressed in an oily overcoat, feverish, eyes blazing, beard and hair wild and unkempt, sitting in the back of a theater with a black bomb in his pocket. Nothing at all like me. No, I said to myself at the time, I’m no terrorist.
When I turned myself in over a decade later, federal charges against me and the rest of us had all been dropped because of “extreme government misconduct,” and I was, so to speak, free. I picked up where I’d left off, took up open political work, returned to graduate school and to teaching, and the label—terrorist—faded into the gauzy haze of memory. But not, it turns out, forever. I’ve partly myself to blame. Moved to remember and to rethink it all, I wrote a memoir called Fugitive Days about the wretched years of the American war in Viet Nam, the dark decade of serial assassinations of Black leaders, the exhilarating upheaval and the sparkling fight for freedom and peace and justice and revolution as I’d experienced it.
It was an odd thing—and sometimes frightening, too—to write about events and people and experiences buried now in the deep, deep past. Those days became suddenly alive—closer than they’d been in decades—and I couldn’t help but feel partly responsible for prying open the crypt and inviting those newly vitalized ghosts to dance at the reunion. As I wrote, the past began to surface all around me. What lessons might it bring? What promises and what warnings?
I knew, of course, that some of the ghosts would not be happy: the Righteous Right led by David Horowitz, born-again prophet of apostasy and self-proclaimed expert on radicalism, could be counted on to read my words as Jeremiad from the worst of the Looney-Tune Left and to fulminate and to fume, and the scholars of “sixties history”—mostly liberal academics and commentators now, members of what seems sometimes like a suffocating corporate structure, the Sixties/New Left, Inc., with Todd Gitlin, former president of SDS and now a professor at Columbia University, as Chairman of the Board—would protect their patents and their own self-authorized books by firing away at mine, performing some sort of self-dramatized conversion, trimming their sails.
I knew, of course, that there were several deeply disturbing aspects to our history, foremost the question of violence, for in 1970 the Weather Underground was literally born from the flames of that Greenwich Village townhouse explosion, a bombing in which my lover and two close friends blew themselves to kingdom come. We who survived went on to carry out a few highly visible anti-government bombings—acts that raise questions each generation will ask and answer differently. While the U.S. was killing two thousand people a day, planting a bomb in a pipe in the Pentagon was our high-pitched wail against the war’s sickness—part scream, part lamentation, part warning. The act was designed as a symbol, and as intended, neither killed nor even hurt a single person. Still, what if someone had been killed? We crossed crucial lines, and troubling questions echoed around us and pushed into our space.

Yet the Weather Underground’s symbolic acts were meant as the strongest possible protest against the Empire’s lethal acts of sustained and premeditated mass slaughter. Consider the U.S. atrocity committed at My Lai. In a matter of hours, U.S. soldiers raped, looted, maimed, and tortured the residents of a village; they burned homes, slaughtered animals; and killed 347 villagers. The My Lai massacre embodied the unvarnished horror of the Pentagon’s murderous frenzy in Southeast Asia. Likewise, Weather’s actions embodied the intensity of the resistance—during the early 1970’s over 20,000 government targets inside the U.S. were bombed, and the Weather Underground took responsibility for about a dozen.


1. What is terrorism?

2. Is the concept—terrorism—consistent and universal, does it apply to all parties engaged in certain actions, or does it change over time?

3. Which terrorist had a 100,000 British pound reward on his head in the 1930’s?

4. When did he become a “freedom fighter”, his image rehabilitated?

5. How many Israeli Prime Ministers were designated “terrorist” by the British government at some point in their political careers?

6. Which group of foreign visitors to the White House in 1985 were hailed by Ronald Reagan as the moral equivalent of our Founding Fathers, “freedom fighters” against the “Evil Empire”?

7. What did George W. Bush call these same men?

8. Who offered the following definitions? “Terrorism is a modern barbarism that we call terrorism;”; “Terrorism is a threat to Western civilization;” “Terrorism is a menace to Western moral values;”“[W]e have no trouble telling [terrorists from freedom fighters]”; “Terrorism is a form of political violence.”

9. Which US president said, “I am a contra”, referring to the Nicaraguan group designated “terrorist” by international human rights observers?

10. Has there ever been a US president who refused to employ “political violence”?

11. Which form of terrorism—religious, criminal, political, or official and state sanctioned—has caused the most death and destruction in the past five hundred years? One hundred years? Ten years? Which has caused the least?

* * *
When Fred Hampton and Mark Clark were murdered in 1969 in a West Side apartment in Chicago, some of us thought we were witnessing the Gestapo-tactics of a burgeoning police state up-close and in vivid color—the certain and clear face of terror. Fred was the charismatic young leader of the Black Panther Party, and since our offices were just blocks apart on Madison Avenue, we saw each other every day, and he was our friend.
We’d been subject to escalating police harassment ourselves—our apartments regularly ransacked, our cars vandalized, and in a growing number of raids we were systematically beaten. It was all bad and we felt besieged, but we knew that the worst was reserved for our Black brothers and sisters—twenty seven Panthers had been shot down by police forces from L.A. to New York in the past year alone, and we saw nothing ahead to slow the pace. And now Fred was dead.
I’d already encountered the political/criminal terror of the cross-burners and the mobilized mobs of hateful white supremists, but when Fred was killed—I saw all the machinery of not just State-sanctioned violence but of State-sanctioned justification kick into high gear. Sober assessments by the police and the State’s Attorney ran in the papers—the Panthers are a violent gang, they said, authors of random acts of lawlessness that terrorize ordinary citizens; the Panthers brought this tragedy upon themselves by initiating a shoot-out; the police were merely defending themselves. The truth: the police assault was sustained and overwhelming and unanswered; Fred had been slipped a drug by a police infiltrator and was unconscious in his bed when he was killed. Fred was called a violent terrorist, but he was in fact the victim—the forces that killed him were a small part of a vast and wealthy system, armed to the teeth, of official terror.
All these years later I tremble at Fred’s murder, as I trembled then. I trembled with rage, it’s true, and fear. I trembled with uncertainty: What could we do to survive? How could we help the remaining Panthers? How would the movement move forward?
Do you believe in violence?
“Believe” is an odd word here. I see violence everywhere and I detest it, but I don’t think we should discuss this as a religion. Violence isn’t a faith but a fact…
What do you mean, a fact?
I mean that violence is a terrible reality, that the remnants of displaced violence are everywhere apparent and unavoidable if we would just open our eyes.
You saw the video of the recent protests?
The burning cars, the young people throwing rocks and bottles, the shock troops of empire…
“Shock troops of empire”?
So they looked to me—the high-tech helmets, the shields, the uniform anonymity…
And what about the rioters, weren’t they dressed alike, and also as shock troops?
There’s a difference…
The difference, of course, is that they can’t achieve their goals legally and so they turn to violence, destroying anything in their path, provoke the police and the army to respond, isn’t that the difference?
I suppose it depends on where you start the tape…
Start the tape?
Exactly. It depends entirely on where you choose to begin. The countries you’re inclined to defend turn to violence systematically, routinely. They are typically born in violence, and surely sustained by violence. Some would say the cycle of violence begins there.
So you side with the rioters?
At least we should understand them…
And here, as elsewhere, you justify violence?
No, not at all. But I can understand it without justifying it. Violence terrifies me. I admire the teachings of Martin Luther King, Jr., his words always in sharp, gentle, fearless, tough. What King did so brilliantly was to expose the hidden violence that had always been there—the violence of racism, of rights denied. He led a movement that disregarded the official disregard of people’s rights—he negated a negation—and what surfaced all around him was violence—the barbarity of the police, the threats of the mobs, the ongoing brutality of the racist terrorists. He exposed a system of violence, and he was left exposed himself, and he was murdered. The White House, fearing that other Black leaders would “exploit the anger in the ghetto” said, “Nothing is achieved by violence,” and the National Guard was summoned.
And isn’t that true? What is achieved by violence?
Institutionalized violence, the violence of slavery, lynching, segregation, prisons, for example, in our own or any other country—this is the normalized violence that the powerful employ to achieve their privileges. Whole generations might grow up, get old and die, and never lift a hand against one another, and yet the relationship, adequately examined and understood—yes, observed from the start—was violent at its very core. When slaves did rise up against masters—Harriet Tubman, say, or Nat Turner—they were met with incomprehension and rage, called violent terrorists and slaughtered. Colonialism is another such relationship.
During U.S.-lead wars like Viet Nam and Iraq every American is implicated in acts of violence—we know what was being done in our names, we see and read about instances of the terror in gory detail, and we have the opportunity to remain morally silent or to resist. Many remain silent, and others resist. Some take extreme measures.
So you do believe in violence?
* * *
Sooner or later everything in America becomes commodified or disappears. Just so “THE SIXTIES,” something I didn’t even know existed as I lived through it. No one experiences the flow of life in neatly defined chunks, certainly not in decades—oh my gosh, it’s January 1, 1970, I’d better change my clothes—everyone is an intergenerational person, but the imagined Sixties are a bounded myth, constantly being retold, constantly being repackaged and resold as a containable cultural unit. The pitch-men are a shock: Janis Joplin’s image employed to sell Mercedes-Benz, Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda on choppers hyping Diners Club for when you’re on the road, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Martin Luther King, Jr. himself. Imagine.
The war was a national disaster, it’s true, and the current received wisdom is like a stuttering script of repeating slogans—often contradictory but always untroubled. These are some of the sacred articles we are all supposed to know by now: Viet Nam was a quagmire sucking the US down, the well-intentioned and innocent first steps transformed in the Asian jungles into something unspeakable, but not our fault, never our fault; the war was bad or wrong or a mistake, the media heroically and consistently truth-telling throughout, and right-thinking people opposed the war, responsible protesters now part of our proud democratic tradition; the vets suffered most, both in the field and a second time when, on returning home, they were shunned or even spit upon. Like most clichés and myths, these fail to heal, fail even to inform. Each has a thread of truth to hang itself on, while each dissolves complexity and destroys the contextual content. Their tenaciousness is more a function of their seemingly endless repetitions—the Big Lie-style refrain chanted at every turn—on how they allow us to cling to our child-like view of the world. They mostly wilt and die under scrutiny.
Take this last cliché—the vets were reviled at home. When Richard Nixon began his run for the presidency, he based his campaign on a falsehood: the vaunted “secret plan” to end the war. A corollary to this grand disingenuous gesture was another—to stick up for the GI’s, not against the war-makers, the brass, or the rotten politicians who perpetuated the deepening agony for their own puny careers, but, amazingly, against the peace movement itself. And so we discover that returning vets were spit upon by long-hairs, and that cynical image was blown into an icon beyond truth—beyond truth because it is not true.
The Black freedom struggle too, has been in part rendered toothless in the retelling. What many of us experienced as part of a continuum—what Russel Banks in Cloudsplitter called “beads on a string… bubbles of blood on a barbed steel strand that stretches from the day the first enslaved African was brought ashore in Virginia to today, and we have not reached the end of it yet”—is recast to accommodate an uncomplicated conclusion. Martin Luther King, Jr. is recast as a saint with a dream rather than an angry pilgrim and radical activist, and Malcolm X as a memoirist with a bit of a chip on his shoulder rather than an evolving, growing revolutionary. The received truth of history, then, becomes the common sense of the culture—and as everyone knows, there is simply nothing more insistent nor dogmatic than common sense.
People now in their fifties or sixties risk settling for a gutted version of the past—we all opposed the war, we now say, we all fought for civil rights. Actually, the corporate media were sycophantic from the beginning, then, like now, stenographers to power, often irrelevant, mocking and diversionary with occasional luminous points of brilliance. Walter Conkrite called the corrupt and brutal General Ky “the George Washington of Viet Nam” in a smarmy and deferential interview at the start of the war, and the New York Times was still seeing the famous “light at the end of the tunnel” just before the Tet Offensive of 1968. Everyone rehabilitated eventually, and then erased the tapes in favor of a more convenient record.
The US government, though, learned some serious lessons from those times, lessons they’ve implemented ferociously ever since. It abolished the citizen army, for example, almost immediately—a citizen army has the great disadvantage of being filled with citizens, people who are likely at any time to think for themselves and then to speak up spontaneously, people who don’t easily become obedient and willing killers. It also banned the media from any further first-hand encounter with military action—reporters on the ground, too, are unruly and, even in the service of a group of servile media mandarins, likely to report too much the felt experience of war, deviating from the high-sounding mythology and abstratction, and they might say anything then, even the truth. No more free-thinking Gloria Emersons or Michael Herrs. No more Tim O’Briens. No more witnesses. At least they hoped.
* * *
The problems today are huge, as always, and our ability to respond puny by comparison. But respond we will, respond we must. We may claim to be apolitical, to be unaware, but the world keeps turning, keeps charging forward. As Jean-Jacques Rousseau said: You may not be interested in politics, but politics is interested in you.
Rousseau argues in regard to justice, equality “must not be understood to mean that degrees of power and wealth should be exactly the same,” but only that with respect to power, equality renders it “incapable of all violence” and only exerted in the interest of a freely developed and participatory law, and that with respect to wealth, “no citizen should be so opulent that he can buy another, and none so poor that he is constrained to sell himself.” The quest for social justice over many centuries can be thought of as working within the open spaces of that ideal.
For every human being’s life is, in part, an experience of pain and loss—there is always a tragic dimension to our brief time within the light. But our living experience also embraces other inescapable facts: we are all in this together, all passengers and crew on the same global spaceship, and too much (but not all) of what we suffer in life is the evil we visit upon one another; that is, it is unjustified suffering, unnatural loss, unnecessary pain—the kinds of things that ought to be avoidable, that we might even imagine eliminating altogether.
If society cannot be changed under any circumstances, if there is nothing that can be done, not even small and humble gestures toward something better, well, that about ends the conversation. Our sense of agency shrinks, our choices diminish, and our obligation to our fellow human beings ends. What more would there be to say? It would be sufficient then to simply wander weeping in the streets or to retreat into hedonism, concluding that human life is nothing more than a brutish, vicious, swamp-war, that our predatory and destructive sides must triumph, and that if I am to be spared, many, many others will have to be sacrificed, and I will agree to look on with indifference, or with at most a nod toward compassion.
1. Name the countries bordering Afghanistan? Iraq?

2. Which country shares the shortest border?

3. Which the longest?

4. Where, when, and under what circumstances did Dr. Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ associate, sustain his shoulder wound?

5. How many Afghans were involved in the September 11 attacks? How many Iraqis?

6. What percentage of the world’s people live in the United States? In Asia?

7. What percentage of the world’s finished products are consumed by people in the U.S.?

8. What percentage of the world’s energy resources are consumed in the US?

9. How large are the undeveloped oil reserves in Afghanistan? In Central Asia? In Iraq?

10. Of the world’s six billion people, how many lack the basics to survive? How many own a computer? How many have a bank account?

11. If the world were a village of 100 people, how many would be:
a) literate?
b) Muslims, Christians, Jews?
c) hungry?
d) homeless?

* * *
It’s impossible to reach the age of sixty—if your eyes are open even a crack—and not feel some regret for something. I regret much—once again I resonate with the generative genius of Bob Dylan singing of “so many things we never will undo; I know you’re sorry, well I’m sorry too.” But, he goes on, “stick with me baby, stick with me anyhow, things are going to get interesting right about now.” Still I’m disinclined to apologize because I hear the demand for a general apology as a howling mob with an impossibly broad demand, and on top of that I’m not sure what exactly I’d apologize for. The ’68 Convention? The Days of Rage? Bombing the Pentagon? Every one of these can be unpacked and found to be a complicated mix of good and bad choices, noble and low motives.
In some part, apologizing is rejecting, letting go or giving up—conversion. There’s something deeply human at stake, something in both the heart and the head, an intellectual severance, an emotional break. And a broad, general apology may be just too much—I am not now nor have I ever been… Even when true, the words are mortifying. They are the end not only of a dream, but of a life. The apology in general is uttered, and suddenly you die.
On top of that, the apology is never enough—to be effective it must be enacted every day, its sincerity proved by ongoing symbolic purges, no one of which is ever adequate. David Horowitz, the poster-boy of 60’s recantation, said that if Bernardine and I were to say we’re sorry for everything and then don sackcloth and ashes it wouldn’t be adequate. There’s always more to do.
Naming names during the McCarthy years was the prescribed form of apology for a radical youth. People were coerced into providing information when no information was needed—the rift was long past, the names already known—and to disassociate with a ghost already gone. The ritual was one of expiation, isolation, and realignment. Loyalty and subservience was the rite of passage, the price of growing up.
In my case, my actions are all well-known, I’ve resolved the legal charges, and I’ve faced the consequences. Yet a central moral question remains—the question of individual responsibility and of the nature of judgment. But I still refuse to grow up if the price is to falsely confess a sin I don’t take to be a sin. What is left to do? Those who refused and suffered the lash of McCarthyism, those who “stood on principle,” had a terrible time trying to articulate what the principle was: Support for the U.S. Communist Party? Not exactly. For Stalinism? No, definitely not. Opposition to anything the U.S. government does? The importance of never telling on friends? Free speech? I feel the same bind. What am I defending?
Perhaps it’s simply the importance of defying the ritual abasement and the rewriting of history. I embrace that defiance. Where in all the noise is there any authentic call for a process of truth-telling, a means to reconciliation? Where might we construct an honest chain of culpability?
America is in desperate need to some kind of truth and reconciliation process—not because I want to see Henry Kissinger, for example, wheeled out in front of a magistrate and forced to confront his victims. Well…it’s tempting, but not the heart of the matter. We need a process to understand the truth of the past in order to create the possibility for a more just future. We need a history lesson as a guide to teaching. It’s really that simple.
I feel most regret for the intense sectarianism and then splitism that I participated in. The dogmatism, the prison of a strict set of rigid ideas, the isolation—I regret it all. I don’t regret escalating the fight against racism, white supremacy, and U.S. imperialism—still the biggest threat to a world at peace and in balance. I’m sorry we weren’t as effective as we might have been, and sorry we didn’t do more to stop the murder.
The victims of violations must have the opportunity to tell their stories of suffering; the victimizers must be asked why and how they created that suffering; society must have the opportunity of witnessing all of this in order to understand the extent and depth of the disaster as a step toward putting it behind us. So we need the stories that constitute the truth-telling, and we need the possibility of amnesty in order to move on.
In this truth-telling you can make no convincing moral distinction among victims—suffering is suffering after all. But distinctions are possible, even necessary, among perpetrators: anti-colonial fighters, for example, are struggling for justice against forces of oppression.
Similarly collective guilt and collective punishment are terrible, reactionary ideas whether in the hands of European Nazis or French colonialists or Israeli settlers. On the other hand, collective responsibility is an essential and powerful and useful concept. Americans are, as a group, responsible for the suffering caused by our wars. We must, as individuals and as a group, do something about it.
So I want to keep it complicated, to defend complexity against the distorting labels that come to us in neat packages and summary forms—apologizing in general is asking too much. As one McCarthy-era resister said: I’d rather be a red to the rats, than a rat to the reds.
* * *
If we are convinced that all history is past, that we are not living inside history and that all the “historic moments” happened before we got here—and, incidentally, had any of us been around for one of them—abolition, say, women’s suffrage, or the fight for the eight-hour day—we’re equally convinced that not only would we have been on the side of the angels, but that we’d have been gutsy and agitating heroes—we not only have a distorted view of history, but, more important, we are blind to the present. We are made to think that this moment is somehow a point of arrival, the only possible outcome, and we are rendered powerless then to imagine another world, or to act on behalf of what could be, but is not yet. Here’s an example:
From 1882-1968 white terrorist mobs lynched close to 5,000 African-American men in the United States. Anti-lynching legislation was introduced into Congress hundreds of times during these years, and on those occasions when a bill passed the House, it was always killed in the Senate. Most white people—even those who opposed the lawlessness—tacitly accepted this situation in part because they bought the general demonization of African-Americans and in part because they had developed a “fixed notion,” abstracted from context and complexity, assuming that the Black people who got lynched were likely guilty.
It’s true that some whites campaigned against it, and that’s a hopeful part of the story, but it’s also true that white opponents were a teeny group—almost no white people took any overt action against lynching whatsoever.
Fast forward to June 13, 2005 when the U.S. Senate passed by voice vote a non-binding resolution expressing “the deepest sympathies and solemn regrets…to the descendants of victims of lynching, the ancestors of whom were deprived of life, human dignity and the constitutional protections accorded all citizens of the United States.” On that day “the Senate remembers the history of lynching to ensure that these tragedies will be neither forgotten nor repeated.” And the action comes in the context of a string of convictions—Byron de la Beckwith, Bobby Frank Cherry, Edgar Ray Killen—for previously unresolved terrorist murders from the civil rights era.
Who can object? On the other hand, what does any of it mean? Is it legitimate atonement for white supremist violence? Or is it superficial and cosmetic and self-congratulatory?
This is tricky. It’s a good thing to note the wrongs of the past certainly, a better thing to identify them correctly and to right those wrongs, to work to repair those wounds. But failing to examine the deeper issues—in this case white supremacy, mechanisms of social control of an entire population, and racial disparity and brutality—and then using that exercise to illuminate today’s injustices, makes the whole thing an empty gesture. Of course the era of lynchings per se should never be repeated, but are there any historical continuities in which we can locate racist oppression and violence today, as in, for example, what’s called the “prison-industrial-complex”? What are we doing about that?
We say of the Holocaust in Europe, “Never Again!” But if “Never Again!” means never allow a German man with a swastika and a moustache named Hitler to rise to power, it’s a silly and a hollow slogan. “Never Again!” must mean more: wide-awakeness, for example, to mass murder, crimes against humanity, and genocide—in Guatemala or Sudan, Cambodia or Rwanda, Palestine or Bosnia or Darfur—and a willingness to act to stop them; or recognition of the toxic combination of social factors—the glorification of military might, for example, disdain for human rights, the drumbeat of nationalism, a compliant media, the demonization of an enemy, fraudulent elections, the manipulation of religion to serve the state, the interlocking of corporate and government interests—that can lead to a catastrophic and murderous outcome.
Today in the United States. 2.1 million of our fellow citizens are in prison. This is 25 percent of the world’s imprisoned population, and it costs us $50 billion a year. And while African-American men make up about 6 percent of the citizenry, they constitute about half of the nation’s prison inmates. And here’s a parallel: if you made a map of lynchings perpetrated in the first quarter of the twentieth century, county by county, and overlaid that with a map of executions carried out in the last quarter of the twentieth century, you’d have an almost identical match. And here’s another: 1/8 of African-American males are disenfranchised for life because of their encounters with the criminal justice system.
Since we are living in the whirlwind of history, since we are all works-in-progress, and since no one knows with certainty what lies ahead, should we raise our voices in protest? Should we cry out? Should we agitate and organize? If not, why not? If so, how?
* * *
The New Yorker ran a block of cartoons after 9/11 under the heading “Americans See the World Anew”—in one a person says, “I just don’t see how they can spell Al Qaeda without a U,” and in another someone gaily tells a friend, “I just love the sound of it—Jalalabad, Jalalabad.” Seeing the world “anew” never transcends this child-like view of ourselves and others. The suffocating sameness of the official talking heads can feel crushing, the unwillingness to use this moment to question basic assumptions crazy.
The civil-rhetorical patriotism evident everywhere—the flags and signs proliferating, the elaborate story and the stock slogans, the giving of blood and the trips to “Ground Zero”—allows, perhaps, a shared grief and a shared incredulity at the start. Given the narrow American palette reaching for the flag might have meant sympathy and unity at the start. But from the start powerful forces were busy using the moment to promote a narrow, repressive patriotism—dissent is unpatriotic, un-American—in the service of horrifying goals and purposes.
Readers Digest featured a cover story a few months later called “Ten Breakthroughs That Can Stop Terrorism”—none had to do with the U.S. posture in the world or even how we might rethink U.S. policy. None looked to the political or the philosophical or the ethical. Rather each was narrow and technical: “Passive Millimeter Wave Camera,” “DNA Chips,” “Truck Transponder,” “Sandia Decon Foam,” and on and on. If that makes you feel safer, what are you smoking?
Time magazine’s 2001 end-of-year issue—with New York Mayor Rudy Giulliani as “Person of the Year”—featured a glowing account of US military might that begins: “One does not normally expect a Republican American President to confirm the wisdom of a Chinese communist, but if ever proof were needed of Mao Zedong’s maxim that ‘political power grows out of the barrel of a gun,’ the war if Afghanistan waged by George W. Bush’s Administration has just supplied it.” A back page essay crows that the world has come around since September 11—that while other countries may not love the US post-Afghanistan, who cares? They have gained, instead, a “deep fear and newfound respect,” and that’s all that’s really needed. When the A-list of world leaders from 106 countries—the business elite, establishment academics, politicians and presidents and princes who attend the World Economic Forum—gathered in New York and, while singing capitalism’s praises, nonetheless slammed US arrogance and self-centeredness, harshly criticized unilateralism and reliance on violence, questioned the pervasive ignorance of environmental degradation and more, American commentators yawned. Who cares?
A National Geographic survey recently found that young Americans—18-25 years-old—could not identify from a blank world map Israel/Palestine (80%), Iraq (80%), Great Britain (50%), or even the US (12%). We are only 4.9% of the global population, but we know neither who we are nor where we are in the world. We are in some profound sense adrift.
What is to be done? The answers change every day, and yet they remain in some principled way the same. We name the obstacles to our own freedom, to our humanity. We unite with others. We fight against the obstacles. U.S. war and expansion in Iraq, for example, or Israel’s insistence on its right to slowly annihilate the Palestinian people, or the caging and disenfranchisement of Black men. Or U.S. use of indefinite detention, “rendition,” torture, and extrajudicial killings since 9/11. In a world of so much injustice, it’s not hard to find a place to begin, something important to do.
Where do we find hope? We find it in the unparalleled growth of opposition to war and neoliberalism worldwide, in the stirrings from below for participatory democracy and justice. I’m hopeful because the future is unknown and unknowable. We are alive—lucky us—in the swirl of history. We are—each of us—works-in-progress; what we do or fail to do makes a difference; nothing is inevitable. We can do something—lots of things—and it all adds up.
What is my advice to activists? Be smarter. Seek the truth. Be stronger. Find your courage. Have real sharp political debate, but hold on to the treasure of unity. Resist dogma, sloganeering, posing, posturing, boasting, and pride. Don’t elevate tactics above principle. Keep your own counsel. Trust yourselves. Seek balance. Love each other. Breathe in, breathe out. Write it up, write it down. Avoid hierarchy. Be generous. Learn from ordinary people. Align with the most oppressed. Learn from experience. Talk to everyone you meet, and listen to what they have to say for themselves. Read, read, read. Think of your ideas as hypotheses, contingent things to work out in practice. Avoid all received wisdom. Resist ideology—any tight framework of settled ideas. Don’t talk in clichés. Be with the despised. Unite with the outcast. Act and then doubt. And then act. And so on.
* * *
Toward the end of the summer of 2005, outside President Bush’s ranch in Crawford, Texas, I joined the encampment known as Camp Casey. Crawford is a town divided: the brightly decorated Peace House faces banners reading, “All the way Mr. President” and “Smoke ‘Em Out, 43”; one side of the road has lawn signs with the iconic image of Marines planting the flag on Iwo Jima and the slogan “Support Our Troops,”—somewhat desperate, I thought, to have to reach so far back for a picture of putative pride in war—the other side answers “Bring Them Home.”
Started by a lone mother, Cindy Sheehan, who vowed to stay for the six weeks of Bush’s vacation in order to ask him a simple question, “Why did my son Casey die in Iraq?”, Camp Casey had become two large encampments by the time I arrived: Camp Casey I, a collection of pup tents lining a ditch outside the ranch, bracketed by crosses bearing the names of American soldiers killed in Iraq, and Camp Casey II, an acre of land nearby donated by a Bush neighbor with a vast tent that looked like something from Cirque de Soleil. The tent was festooned with posters and banners: ANYTHING WAR CAN DO PEACE CAN DO BETTER; WHAT WOULD JESUS BOMB?; JOIN US! It was organized like a tight ship—these were military families after all in the lead—a table of sun screen and caps, a computer and cell phone center, water stations, a sign-up space to volunteer to work. Lunch was served at noon exactly. But it was also abuzz with a thousand projects: visitors were given orientation briefings and assigned a work detail, artists were making murals and wood cuts, the kitchen crew was preparing the next meal for hundreds of protestors. A large circle of young people perched on folding chairs and engaged in intense and animated conversation. These were veterans of the U.S. war against Iraq, women and men, Black and white and Latino and Asian and Native, able-bodied and in wheelchairs. How do we tell the world about this war? they asked. How do we get the truth out? How can we prevent more innocent Iraqis from being killed? How can we prevent more people being sent to suffer and die? How can we build a truly democratic society and create the conditions to stop future wars now? I checked to see if I still had my SDS membership card in my wallet, and there it was, faded but with the old adage printed on the back as true for me today as ever: “We are people of this generation, bred in at least modest comfort… looking uneasily at the world we inherit.”
Cindy Sheehan herself was gritty and authentic—engaged in the task at hand, entirely without entourage or acolytes, “body guards” or “mouth pieces.” When a vet posed for a picture with her and said, “My mom’s not gonna believe this—me and Cindy Sheehan!” she smiled and replied, “Before I was a minor celebrity, I was simply Cindy, you know. And I still am.”
Casey Sheehan was born May 29, 1979 and was killed in an ambush during his first week in Iraq, on April 4, 2004. His Mom wants the president to answer truthfully about why he died. The eloquence of the protest is its straight-forward simplicity. And simplicity ruled Camp Casey. A large sign read: “We will act in a way that reflects the world we want to create… We will act with respect toward the local community, encouraging all to join us.” Under the tent there are no outsiders and we are all equal—every human being fully present, fully recognized. Under the tent we can laugh more, dance more, love one another more, and fight the power more. Under the tent is the sensible and the ethical and the soulful place to be. Eventually, I believe, almost everyone will join us under the tent. Sooner, I hope, than later

Hearts and Minds

April 20, 2006

Military recruitment in high schools is an epidemic today,distorting the purposes of education and putting poor kids and kids of color in harm’s way…..

In Purple Hearts the documentary photographer Nina Berman (2004) presents forty photographs—two each of twenty US veterans of the American war in Iraq—plus a couple of accompanying paragraphs of commentary from each vet in his or her own words. Their comments cohere around their service, their sacrifice, their suffering. Purple Hearts bind them together—this award is their common experience, this distinction is what they embrace and what embraces them. This is what they live with.
Their views on war, on their time in arms, on where they hope they are headed with their lives are various, their sense-making about the US military mission wildly divergent. Josh Olson, 24-years-old, begins:
We bent over backwards for these people but they ended up screwing us over, stabbing us in the back. A lot of them, I mean, they’re going to have to be killed…

As Americans we’ve taken it upon ourselves to almost cure the world’s problems I guess, give everybody else a chance. I guess that’s how we’re good-hearted…

He’s missing his right leg now and was presented with his Purple Heart at Walter Reed Military Hospital by President Bush himself. He feels it all—pride, anger, loss.
Jermaine Lewis, 23, describes growing up in a Chicago neighborhood where “death has always been around.” He describes basic training as a place where “they break you down and then they try to build you up.” To him, the “reasons for going to war were bogus but we were right to go in there.”
The vets are all young, and several describe their decision to enlist when they were much younger, more innocent, more vulnerable but feeling somehow invincible. Jermaine Lewis says: “I’ve been dealing with the military since I was a sophomore in high school. They came to the school like six times a year all military branches. They had a recruiting station like a block from our high school. It was just right there.”
Tyson Johnson, III, 22, wanted to get away from the poverty and death he saw all around him. His life was going nowhere, he thought, and so he signed on: “And here I am, back here… I don’t know where it’s going to end up.”
Joseph Mosner enrolled when he was nineteen. “There was nothing out there,” he writes. “There was no good jobs so I figured this would have been a good thing.”
Frederick Allen thought going to war would be “jumping out of planes.” He joined up when recruiters came to his high school. “I thought it would be fun.”
Adam Zaremba, 20, also enlisted while still in high school: “The recruiter called the house, he was actually looking for my brother and he happened to get me. I think it was because I didn’t want to do homework for a while, and then I don’t know, you get to wear a cool uniform. It just went on from there. I still don’t even understand a lot about the army.” The Purple Heart seemed like a good thing from a distance, “But then when it happens you realize that you have to do something, or something has to happen to you in order to get it.”
* * *

Military recruiting in high schools has been a mainstay of the so-called all-volunteer armed forces from the start. High school kids are at an age when being a member of an identifiable group with a grand mission and a shared spirit—and never underestimate a distinctive uniform—is of exaggerated importance, something gang recruiters in big cities also note with interest and exploit with skill. Dobie (2005), quoting a military historian, notes that “‘Basic training has been essentially the same in every army in every age, because it works with the same raw material that’s always been there in teenage boys: a fair amount of aggression, a strong tendency to hang around in groups, and an absolute desperate desire to fit in.’” (p. 35) Being cool and going along with the crowd are big things. Add the matter of proving oneself to be a macho, strong, tough, capable person, combined with an unrealistic calculus of vulnerability and a constricted sense of options specifically in poor and working class communities—all of this creates the toxic mix in a young person’s head that can be a military recruiter’s dream.
One of the most effective recruitment tools is Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps (JROTC) which was established by an act of Congress in 1916 “to develop citizenship and responsibility in young people” by installing ROTC in high schools nationwide (Goodman, 2002). JROTC is now experiencing the most rapid expansion in its history. Some credit the upsurge to Colin Powell’s visit to South Central Los Angeles after the 1992 riots when he was head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (Goodman, 2002). Powell stated that the solution to the problems of city youth was the kind of discipline and structure offered by the U.S. military. In the ensuing decade the number of JROTC programs doubled, with over half-a-million students enrolled at over 3,000 schools coast-to-coast, and a Pentagon budget allocation in excess of $250 million annually. Today the evidence is clear: 40% of JROTC graduates eventually join the military, making it a powerful recruiting device (Goodman, 2002).
Chicago has the largest JROTC program in the country and the “most militarized school system in America” (Goodman, 2002), with more than 9,000 students enrolled in 45 JROTC programs, including five Army and one Navy JROTC academies which are run as “schools-within-a-school,” and three full-time Army military academies. That distinction is only the start: Chicago is also in the vanguard of the Middle School Cadet Corps (MSCC) with 26 programs in Junior Highs and Middle Schools involving 850 kids, some as young as 11 (Wedekind, 2005).
Defenders of the JROTC and MSCC claim that the goal is leadership and citizen development, drop-out prevention, or simply the fun of dressing up and parading around. Skeptics point out that the Pentagon money pumped into schools provides needed resources for starving public schools, and question why the military has become such an important route to adequate school funding. Chicago spends $2.8 million on JROTC and another $5 million on two military academies—“more than it spends on any other special or magnet program” (Goodman, 2002)—and the Defense Department puts in an additional $600,000 for salaries and supplies.
There is no doubt that JROTC programs target poor, Black, and Latino kids who don’t have the widest range of options to begin with. Recruiters know where to go: Whitney Young High School, a large selective magnet school in Chicago, had seven military recruiter visits last year compared to 150 visits from university recruiters; Schurz High School, which is 80% Hispanic, had nine military and ten university visits. (Reed, 2005) Bob Herbert (2005) points out that all high schools are not equal in the eyes of the recruiters: “Schools with kids from wealthier families (and a high percentage of college-bound students) are not viewed as good prospects… The kids in those schools are not the kids who fight America’s wars.” Absent arts and sports programs or a generous array of clubs and activities, JROTC and its accompanying culture of war—militarism, aggression, violence, repression, the demonization of others, and mindless obedience—becomes the default choice for these kids.
The military culture seeps in at all levels and has a more generally corrosive impact on education itself, narrowing curriculum choices, promoting a model of teaching as training and learning as “just following orders.” In reality good teaching always involves thoughtful and complicated judgments, careful attention to relationships, complex choices about how to challenge and nurture each student. Good teachers are not drill instructors. Authentic learning, too, is multidimensional and requires the constant construction and reconstruction of knowledge built on expanding experiences.
The educational model that employs teachers to simply pour imperial gallons of facts into empty vessels—ridiculed by Charles Dickens 150 years ago and demolished as a path to learning by modern psychologists and educational researchers—is making a roaring comeback. The rise of the military in schools adds energy to that malignant effort. The popular language is revealing: classroom teachers, we’re told, work “in the trenches.”
A vibrant democratic culture requires free people with minds of their own capable of making independent judgments. Education in a democracy resists obedience and conformity in favor of free inquiry and the widest possible exploration. Obedience training may have a place in instructing dogs, but not in educating citizens.
* * *
Today, two years into the invasion of Iraq, recruiters are consistently failing to meet monthly enlistment quotas despite deep penetration into high schools, sponsorship of NASCAR and other sports events, and a $3 billion Pentagon recruitment budget. Increasingly, recruiters are offering higher bonuses and shortened tours of duty, and wide-spread violations of ethical guidelines and the military’s own putative standards are becoming common place—in one highly publicized case, a recruiter was heard on tape coaching a high school kid about how to fake a mandatory drug test. Recruiters lie: “One of the most common lies told by recruiters,” writes Kathy Dobie (2005) “is that it’s easy to get out of the military if you change your mind. But once they arrive at training, the recruits are told there’s no exit, period…” (p. 40) Recruiters lie and lie, and still the number of young people signing up is plummeting.
The military manpower crisis includes escalating desertions: 1,509 Army deserters in 1995 compared to 4,739 in 2001 (Dobie, 2005). According to an Army study, deserters tend to be children—“Younger when they enlist, less educated… come from ‘broken homes,’ and… ‘engaged in delinquent behavior…’” (p. 35). In times of war rates of desertion tend to spike upward, and so after 9/11 the “Army issued a new policy regarding deserters, hoping to staunch the flow” (p.34). The new rules required deserters to be returned to their units in the hope that they could be “integrated back into the ranks.” This has not been a happy circumstance for either soldiers or officers: “‘I can’t afford to baby-sit problem children every day’” (p.34), says one commander.
At the end of March, 2005 the Pentagon announced that the active-duty Army achieved only about 2/3 of its March goal, and was 3,973 recruits short for the year; the Army Reserve was 1,382 short of its year-to-date goal (Chicago Tribune, March 31, 2005, page 1). This has been, according to military statistics, the toughest recruiting year since 1973, the first year of the all-volunteer army. Americans don’t want to fight this war, and a huge investment in high school recruiting is the military’s latest desperate hope.
The high school itself has become a battlefield for hearts and minds. On one side, the power of the federal government, claims (often unsubstantiated) of financial benefits, humvees on school grounds, goody bags filled with donuts, key chains, video games and tee-shirts. Most ominous of all is “No Child Left Behind,” the controversial omnibus education bill passed in 2001—Section 9528 reverses policies in place in many cities banning organizations that discriminate on the basis of race, gender, or sexual orientation, including the military, and mandating that recruiters have the same access to students as colleges. The bill also requires schools to turn over students’ addresses and home phone numbers to the military unless parents expressly opt out. On the other side, a mounting death toll in Iraq, a growing sense among the citizenry that politicians lied and manipulated us at every turn in order to wage an aggressive war outside any broad popular interest, and something surprising and unprecedented: organized groups of parents mobilizing to oppose high school recruitment.
A front page story in the New York Times (Cave, 2005) reported a “Growing Problem for Military Recruiters: Parents” (p. 1). The resistance to recruiters, according to the Times report, is spreading coast to coast, and, “was provoked by the very law that was supposed to make it easier for recruiters to reach students more directly. ‘No Child Left Behind’…is often the spark that ignites parental resistance.” (p.B6)
And parents, it turns out, can be a formidable obstacle to a volunteer army. Unlike the universal draft, which is the essential entry-point of a citizen-army with everyone, at least in theory, equally eligible, signing up requires an affirmative act, and parents can and often do exercise a strong negative drag on their kids’ stepping forward. A Department of Defense survey from November, 2004 found that “only 25 percent of parents would recommend military service to their children, down from 42 percent in August 2003.” (New York Times, p. 1)
In a column called “Uncle Sam Really Wants You”, Bob Herbert (2005) focuses attention on an Army publication called “School Recruiting Program Handbook.” The goal of the program is straightforward: “‘school ownership that can only lead to a greater number of Army enlistments.’” This means promoting military participation on every feasible dimension from making classroom presentations to involvement in Hispanic Heritage and Black History Month. The handbook recommends that recruiters contact athletic coaches and volunteer to lead calisthenics, get involved with the homecoming committee and organize a presence in the parade, donate coffee and donuts to the faculty on a regular basis, eat in the cafeteria, target “influential students” who, while they may not enlist, can refer others who might.
The military injunction—hierarchy, obedience, conformity, and aggression—stands in stark opposition to the democratic imperative of respect, cooperation, and equality. The noted New Zealand educator Sylvia Ashton-Warner (1963) wrote that war and peace—acknowledged or hidden—“wait and vie” in every classroom. She argued that all human beings are like volcanoes with two vents, one destructive and the other creative. If the creative vent is open, she argued, then the destructive vent will atrophy and close; on the other hand if the creative vent is shut down, the destructive will have free reign. “Creativity in this time of life,” she wrote, “when character can be influenced forever is the solution to the problem of war” (p. 100), and quoting Erich Fromm, “‘The amount of destructiveness in a child is proportionate to the amount to which the expansiveness of his life has been curtailed. Destructiveness is the outcome of the unlived life.’”
Bob Herbert, himself a combat vet from Viet Nam, is deeply troubled by the deceptive and manipulative tactics of recruiters: “Let the Army be honest and upfront in its recruitment,” he writes. “War is not child’s play, and warriors shouldn’t be assembled through the use of seductive sales pitches to youngsters too immature to make an informed decision on matters that might well result in them having to kill others, or being killed themselves.” A little truth-telling, then.
* * *
War is catastrophic for human beings, and, indeed, for the continuation of life on earth. With over 120 military bases around the globe and the largest military force ever assembled, the US government is engaged in a constant state of war, and American society is necessarily distorted and disfigured around the aims of war. Chris Hedges (2003) provides an annotated catalogue—unadorned, uninflected—to the catastrophe:
∑ 108 million people were slaughtered in wars during the 20th century. (p.1)
During the last decade of that spectacular century, 2 million children were killed, 20 million displaced, 6 million disabled.
∑ From 1900-1990 43 million soldiers died in wars and 62 million civilians were killed. In the wars of the 1990s the ratio was up: between 75-90% of all war deaths were civilian deaths (p.7)
∑ Today 21.3 million people are under arms—China has the largest military with 2.4 million people in service (from a population of 1.3 billion citizens), followed by the US with 1.4 million (from a population of 300 million) (p.1). About 1.3 million Americans are in Reserve and National Guard units (p.3).
∑ Vets suffer long-term health consequences including greater risk of depression, alcoholism, drug addiction, sleep disorders, and more. About 1/3 of Viet Nam vets suffered full-blown post-traumatic stress disorder, a psychiatric condition occurring after witnessing or participating in a traumatic event such as murder or rape. Another 22% suffered partial post-traumatic stress disorder. (Hedges, 2003, P. 115) This is the nature of the beast. Anyone who’s been there knows.
On and on, 119 densely packed pages, fact sheet upon fact sheet, twenty-four pages of evidentiary footnotes, fifteen pages of bibliography, all of it adding up to an inescapable conclusion: war is the greatest organized misfortune human beings have ever constructed and visited on one another. And as Adromache, captive widow of Hector, says at the opening of Seneca’s Trojan Women (1992): “It is not finished yet. There is always more and worse to fear, beyond imagination.” (p. 17). In the course of the play her young son will be thrown from a tower and murdered, and the daughter of Hecuba and Prian will also be sacrificed. Beyond imagination.
There are now more than 300,000 child soldiers worldwide (Hedges, 2003, p.8). Why do children join? Here is Hedges’ entire answer to that question: “They are often forced to. Some are given alcohol or drugs, or exposed to atrocities, to desensitize them to violence. Some join to help feed or protect their families. Some are offered up by their parents in exchange for protection. Children can be fearless because they lack a clear concept of death.” (p. 8)
The United States, the only nation which consistently refuses to ratify the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, agreed in 2002 to sign on to the “Optional Protocol” to the Convention, covering the involvement of children in armed conflicts. In its “Declarations and Reservations,” the US stipulated that signing the Protocol in no way carries any obligations under the Convention, and that “nothing in the Protocol establishes a basis for jurisdiction by any international tribunal, including the International Criminal Court.” It lists several other reservations, including an objection to Article 1 of the Protocol which states that “Parties shall take all feasible measures to ensure that members of their armed forces who have not attained the age of 18 years do not take direct part in hostilities.” The US stipulates that the term “feasible measures” means what is “practical” taking into account all circumstances “including humanitarian and military considerations,” and that it “does not mean indirect participation in hostilities, such as gathering and transmitting military information, transporting weapons, ammunition, or other supplies, or forward deployment.”
Because the recruiters lie, because the US steps back from international law and standards, and because the cost of an education for too-many poor and working-class kids is constructed as a trip through a mine-field and a deal with the devil, teachers should consider Bill Bigelow’s advice to make a critical examination of the “Enlistment/Reenlistment Document—Armed Forces of the United States” that recruits sign when they join up. (Copies can be downloaded as a PDF at There they will find a host of loopholes and disclaimers, like this in section 9b:
Laws and regulations that govern military personnel may change without notice to me. Such changes may affect my status, pay, allowances, benefits, and responsibilities as a member of the armed forces regardless of the provisions of this enlistment/reenlistment document.

When Bigelow’s students analyzed the entire contract, they concluded that it would be more honest to simply say to kids something like, “Just sign up… Now you belong to us.” They offer sage advice to other students: “Read the contract thoroughly… Don’t sign unless you’re 100 percent sure, 100 percent of the time” (Bigelow, 2005, p. 46). One of Bigelow’s students who had suffered through the war in Bosnia recommended that students inclined to enlist might, “Shoot a bird, and then think about whether you can kill a human.” (p. 46)
* * *
Jermaine Lewis, the 23-year-old vet from Chicago who spoke about the war being “bogus” in the book Purple Hearts, always wanted to be a teacher, but worried about the low pay. Now, with both legs gone, he calculates that a teacher’s salary plus disability pay will earn him an adequate income: “So I want to go to college and study education—public school primarily middle school, six to eighth grade.” He went through the minefield to get what more privileged kids have access to without asking. It’s something.

Ashton-Warner, S. (1963) Teacher.
Berman, N. (2004). Purple hearts: Back from Iraq. New York: Trolley.
Bigelow, B. (2005). “The recruitment minefield.” Rethinking Schools, 19 (3) pp. 42-48.
Cave, D. (2005). “Growing problem for military recruiters: Parents.” New York Times, June 3, 2005.

Dobie, K. (2005). “AWOL in America.” Harper’s, March 2005, pp. 33-44.
Goodman, D. (2002). “Recruiting the class of 2005.” Mother Jones Magazine. January/February, 2002.

Hedges, C. (2003). What every person should know about war. New York: Free Press.
Herbert, B. (2005). “Uncle Sam really wants you.” New York Times, June 16, 2005, p. A29.

Reed, C.L. (2005). “Military finally gives Hispanic war dead proper recognition.” Chicago Sun Times, July 3, 2005, pp. 18A-19A.

Seneca (1992). Seneca: The tragedies, Volume I. Slavitt, D.R., editor. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press.

Wedekind, G. (2005). “The children’s crusade.” In These Times, June 20, 2005 (pp. 6-7).