I have a running political discussion on Facebook with a friend, Don, who’s about as far from my point of view as it’s possible to be. He’s ultra-conservative, and I’m…well…not. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone whose political views are as far left as mine. The remarkable thing about our discussions is the fact that we’ve remained friends despite our different views. At the end of each debate, we simply agree to disagree. Recently, Don asked a wonderful question: how did two people who have so much else in common acquire such different views? This post is the first chapter of the story of my political evolution.
I grew up during the sixties and came of age with the end of the Vietnam War (I still have my draft card!) and the Watergate scandal. I remember riding the school bus to middle school and trying to explain to my incredulous classmates why the war in Vietnam was a good thing. I suppose you could say I was a young republican back then. I was even a member of the NRA! (I was a small-bore marksman, capable of hitting an aspirin-size target at more than 50 paces. Now, I’m lucky if I can see the aspirin bottle in the medicine cabinet without help.)
Then they killed Martin and Bobby in 1968 and I began to doubt. Actually, I began to question more than doubt, and I think that was largely due to my mother’s alarming reaction to both assassinations. She was glad they were killed. I remember feeling ashamed, confused, and a little frightened, all at the same time. Her claims of Christian righteousness and her obvious and cruel racism were impossible for me to reconcile. Who was she? Who was I? How could I accept what anyone said at face value?
Puberty had a dulling effect on my political awareness but the Kent State Massacre in 1970 was impossible to ignore. It was unthinkable that American college students could be shot dead for protesting a war, which itself had become an all-too-real horror, thanks to TV. I didn’t dare talk about it at home, however. My mother and stepfather seemed to live in a state of continual rage from 1968 until Carter was elected.
My only misstep was in 1974. My stepfather and I were watching the evening news (Cronkite, I’m sure) when another of the countless reports about the scandal was aired. I remember that by that time the evidence against Nixon was damning and widely believed to be conclusive. I said something like, “Wow, I guess the president really is a criminal!” My stepfather grabbed me by the arm and snarled, “Don’t ever say anything like that again or I’ll throw you out of this house!” I was doubly shocked because it was such uncharacteristic behavior for him. But, I took the hint: no First Amendment rights in that house!
There’s much more to tell, but let’s call this chapter one.
