REDS, WARREN BEATTY, REVOLUTIONS AND HISTORY

Yesterday I promised to write regularly about that infamous year, 1968, from the perspective of the forty years that have passed. I was there for so much of it and have wanted to re-think it for some time but could never seem to face it in its entirety. Among other things, it’s the year I graduated from college. And worked in the McCarthy campaign. And was present at the Chicago "police riot" at the Democratic Convention. I’m going to do it – I promise.

But last night’s insomnia led to the two of us watching Reds, Warren Beatty’s remarkable film about John Reed, Louise Bryant, Greenwich Village radicals, Eugene O’Neill, Emma Goldman and left wing intellectual life before and during World War I.
At the end of what was, in the theaters, the first act, there’s a wonderful montage. John Reed (Warren Beatty) gives an impassioned speech, revolutionaries begin to sing the "Internationale" and the film cuts between scenes of political passions and those of the passions, both physical and intellectual, between Reed and Louise Bryant. To me, it’s the perfect metaphor for our lives in 1968 — shared political passions even with the most intense of lovers – inextricably combined with personal passions intensified by the sadness, rage and sense of mission brought on by events – in their case the attempt to build a "workers paradise" in Russia, on ours, the war in Vietnam. The YouTube clip of this beautiful five minutes won’t post outside YouTube – it’s been blocked, but you can see it here. In the meantime, watch the trailer and think about what it’s like when life, love and politics intersect with such precision.

Reds – Reds

Posted Apr 30, 2002

Warren Beatty’s award winning epic mixes drama and interviews with major social radicals of the period. "Reds" tells the story of the love affair between activists Louise Bryant and John Reed. Set against the backdrop of the tumultuous start of the twentieth century, the two journalists’ on-again off-again romance is punctuated by the outbreak of WWI and the Bolshevik Revolution. Louise’s assignment in France at the outbreak of the war puts an end to their affair. John Reed’s subsequent trip to Russia

1968 WAS FORTY YEARS AGO — SO MANY STORIES — AND A PROMISE

That’s me in 1968. As everybody knows, it was a remarkable, scary, thrilling, transforming year to alive and young; even more, to be part of the struggle to end the war in Vietnam and, generally, change the world. The outcomes are known, and the journey endlessly chronicled, but I think I’m going to spend this year – right here – as anniversaries pass, writing about what I felt and meant to be, what I hoped for, what I remember. Just as we did in Nablopomo, I’m announcing it here… just to be sure I do it….

Happy New Year.

HUNDRED DOLLAR LAPTOP: ONE PER CHILD – AN UPDATE

The One Laptop Per Child project is an exciting one; I’ve written about it before; that November 3rd post garnered a remarkable level of traffic. On Christmas eve, another story appeared. Here’s how it starts:

Laptop Project Enlivens Peruvian Hamlet Dec 24, By Frank Bajak [this is also an AP photo]

ARAHUAY, Peru (AP) – Doubts about
whether poor, rural children really can benefit from quirky little computers evaporate as quickly as the
morning dew in this hilltop Andean village, where 50 primary school children
got machines from the One Laptop Per Child project six months ago.

These offspring of peasant families
whose monthly earnings rarely exceed the cost of one of the $188 laptops – people who can ill afford pencil
and paper much less books – can’t get enough of their "XO" laptops.

At breakfast, they’re already powering
up the combination library/videocam/audio recorder/music maker/drawing kits. At
night, they’re dozing off in front of them – if they’ve managed to keep older
siblings from waylaying the coveted machines.

"It’s really the kind of
conditions that we designed for," Walter Bender, president of the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology spinoff, said of this agrarian
backwater up a precarious dirt road.

You can read the rest here. It’s popping up all over the place. The state of Maine has had wonderful results in its efforts to distribute laptops to junior high kids, too. You don’t have to go into the developing world to see the value of universal access, even in places where it may seem far-fetched unless you know the machine and its capacity. Here’s more.

More resources:

One Laptop Per Child (OLPC) http://laptop.org/

OLPC Wiki http://wiki.laptop.org/go/Home

Nicholas Negroponte at TED http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/view/id/41

60 Minutes piece http://60minutes.yahoo.com/segment/69/one_laptop_per_child

HOW WE LOOK TO THE ARAB WORLD: CONTROL ROOM AND AL JAZEERA

OK so I’m three years late. Thursday morning I watched CONTROL ROOM, the 2004 documentary about the Al Jazeera news network. Only it’s not really about Al Jazeera, it’s about perceptions of the United States. About the early days of the Iraq war and how they looked through the eyes of the most watched network in the Arab world. And it’s pretty disturbing. As the New York Times said "Whatever your opinions about the war, the conduct of the journalists
who covered it and the role of Al Jazeera in that coverage, you are
likely to emerge from ”Control Room” touched, exhilarated and a
little off-balance, with your certainties scrambled and your
assumptions shaken."

Precisely. Many Al Jazeera staffers speak English. They’re articulate and thoughtful — and angry. Think about it this way: remember how it felt to see American soldiers dragged through the streets of Mogadishu or to follow the captivity of Jessica Lynch and her fellow war prisoners? Listening to interviews with reporters and translators from Al Jazeera is like listening to American journalists who had to film that horrible day; they are deeply in pain, angry and scornful of the declared mission.

Dominant within the film are likeable American spokespeople who just don’t have the words or perceptions to get past that rage. Nobody really looks like a villain – just naive. One in particular:
Lt. Josh Rushing, a young Texas Marine serving as a liaison officer. He became a "star" in reviews of the film, was then forbidden by the service to speak about the war, and left the Marine Corps to work for — Al Jazeera English. You can see the relationships growing, and the struggle of this basically decent young man to represent his country and be truthful and honorable.

The toughest part of the film for me, after all my years as a journalist, was the death of one of the Al Jazeera journalists hit by an American rocket. The tears in the eyes of the staff and crew brought back memories of lost reporters during Vietnam, and a camera crew lost in a helicopter crash when I worked at CBS. We’d met the dead journalist earlier, joking about how hard it would be to work in a flak jacket and helmet. There was sadness for him, and an awareness that events like this would only raise the level of hostility within much of the network’s staff.

As I watched, charmed and provoked by the comments of what essentially felt like my peers and colleagues, yet with a perspective I did not share, I was as unsettled as that Times review promised. These people speak to the entire Arab world and there are some real haters there and yes they run the statements of Bin Laden and more, but there are issues past that. In addition to their power and reach, many share great portions of our values and ideas. One wants to come to the US and move his kids from "the Arab nightmare" to "the American Dream." Another rages at the looting in the streets of Baghdad – predicting that zealots will push all moderates out – that "people like me" will have no place in the Arab world.

In other words, beyond the basic fact that Al Jazeera broadcasts much that is contrary to the best interests of our country and probably to my well-being as Jewish person, there lies another set of facts. All that we feel and shout to one another in newsrooms and control rooms here in the US, our assumptions and common ground – there’s another huge universe out there that we need to understand – who don’t automatically share our values – at least not all of them. And if we don’t learn how to deal with them, their assumptions and anger and dreams, we face a journey that will make our days in Iraq seem simple indeed. Here’s a preview:

WAY BEFORE HER TIME- IN A HAT! REMEMBERING BELLA ABZUG

She was way before her time — way before. Loud, brash, confident, and always in a hat (even on the House floor), born in 1920 and elected to Congress in 1970, Bella Abzug was a force of nature who, early in her career, ignored serious threats on her life to defend Willie McGee, a Mississippi black man convicted of raping a white woman. Although very pregnant at the time, she went to Mississippi to argue his case and face the cruel segregation machine that was the Jim Crow South.

Later, she represented many of those attacked by Senator Joe McCarthy in the 50’s and became one of the leaders of the anti-Vietnam War movement – and an enduring symbol of the struggle to gain the kinds of rights women enjoy today. There was so much to her – and most of it was apparent in the force of her presence, and her impact on others.

Now two of her long-time colleagues, admirers, friends and founding editors at Ms. Magazine have compiled an exciting and inspiring oral history.

To many of those who read this blog Bella is a seeming anachronism. There’s no way to recall the desperation of those times not only because of the war but also because of the growing frustration of women trying to find an equal place in the world. Bella broke down barriers, put the fear of God into politicians (and her staff and many of her admirers) with her fierce commitment and energy, and was a funny, loving person between battles – and this book brings all that to life.

So take a look at this engrossing story. If you have a young woman friend who doesn’t know what came before there was an all-girl sweep of high school science awards (much less any girls competing at all), or women running the New York Times, or women so commonly in authority that their roles on TV are not “first” or “woman fill-in-the-blank” but simply jobs — chief residents like Miranda Bailey or hospital directors like Lisa Cuddy or even really bad bad guys like Angela Petrelli share it with her this holiday – or for her birthday – or when she graduates. And remind her of this:

When you get your meds from a woman pharmacist or get a ticket from a woman cop or have your plane waved to the gate by a woman airport worker — remember that they, and we, stand on the shoulders of this remarkable woman. Take a look at her story (the book is called – Bella Abzug: How One Tough Broad from the Bronx Fought
Jim Crow and Joe McCarthy, Pissed Off Jimmy Carter, Battled for the
Rights of Women and Workers, … Planet, and Shook Up Politics Along
the Way— then decide what you’re going to do to take us to the next landmark.

I LOVE LA — NO, REALLY

I’m sitting right here – next to the pool, at the Mosaic Hotel in Beverly Hills, where we’ve been coming for years. What a treat to be writing outside in December. The whole time I lived here I complained – about the lack of "intellectual rigor", about the meanness of Hollywood (which, by the way, makes Washington politicians look like amateurs), about the lack of autumn foliage, about the spoiled kids and on and on. I guess I still think a lot of those things, but when we drive in from the airport, passing all the pastel buildings, the sun shining, the air balmy and gentle – I remember the good things. Maybe our East Coast weather builds character and a grounding in reality but this really is lovely. At least for visiting.

It’s also different to come to LA as an observant Jew. Orthodox Jews are a parallel universe – something like Harry Potter compared to the Muggles. It’s a culture with, by necessity, many of its own institutions, the strengths of which are determined largely by the size of the community. LA has lots of observant and formally Orthodox Jews so there’s a spectrum of services — and standards. Yeshiva girls in sweatshirts and leggings, every kind of kosher restaurant, schools, and of course, shuls. Here’s little bit of what we’ve seen in the couple of hours we’ve been here on this trip.

This is B’nai David Judea, a modern Orthodox congregation on Pico near Robertson, in the heart of the Orthodox community. We’ve been to services there a couple of times on Shabbat – it’s a lovely community and a beautiful sanctuary – and the congregation is young, hip, and in many cases, Hollywood.

Just a block away there are several kosher groceries and delis. Here’s one.

And these guys – they’re the backbone of Jeff’s Gourmet Kosher sausage. We’re taking lots home to our friends – there’s nothing like it near us.

And this — this is a real, live, kosher Subway! Not too shabby.

There’s more to LA than the stereotypes that were our reality when we lived here. Lots that’s nice. Sadly, the ugliness and banality conceals much of it; only after a long absence (and perhaps the added perspective of a religious community) that I, at least, have been able to see both sides. So bring it on Randy Newman — it’s a great song.

REMEMBERING JFK: 44 YEARS AND 2 DAYS AFTER THE KENNEDY ASSASSINATION**

Thanksgiving Day was the 44th anniversary of the assassination of John Kennedy. I didn’t want that to be my holiday post, though, so I’m writing about it today.** I was a senior in high school when our vice-principal, Mr. Hall, a huge scary guy (and football coach) came onto the intercom and announced, his voice breaking, that President Kennedy had been shot, and had died. I remember standing up and just walking out of my creative writing class. No one stopped me – or any of the rest of us. We wandered the halls in tears, then went home, riding the school bus in tears. I remember the next morning, taking the car out and just driving around — running in to my friend Jack Cronin on his drugstore delivery route – and standing on McClellan Drive in his arms as we both wept. I remember, Jewish girl that I was, going to Mass at St. Elizabeth’s Church that Sunday just to be with the people of his faith. I cried for four days.

Years later, working on the TODAY SHOW 20th Anniversary of the funeral, I remember all of it rushing back as we cut tape and realized as adults what a gift Jacqueline Kennedy had given the nation through the dignity and completeness of the funeral. I know that many younger people find the Kennedys a little bit of a joke, thanks partly to the Simpsons, but it’s not possible to describe the grief and trauma of those days. Or the gratitude we all felt for his presence — and the profound nature of the loss.

As a 13-year-old, I had the great good fortune to attend the Kennedy Inauguration, traveling all night on the train with my mom to sit in the stands near the Treasure Building and watch the parade go by. We stood outside the White House at the end of the parade, in the last of the blizzard, and watched him walk into the White House for the first time as president. I’d seen the culmination of all the volunteer hours my 13-year-old self could eke out to go "down town" and stuff envelopes — to respond to the the call to help change the world.

It seems so pathetic now; the loss not only of JFK but of his brother, so beloved by my husband that he’s never been the same since 1968, the loss of Dr. King and Malcolm X, the trauma of Vietnam and all that followed, later of the shooting of John Lennon, even. It seemed that all we’d dreamed about and hoped for – worked for – was gone. How could we have been so romantic – so sure that we could bring change? Believed it again in 1967 and 68 as we worked and marched against the war, for Eugene McCarthy or Bobby Kennedy, for civil rights and for peace, for better education and environmental policies, for rights for women, gay Americans and so much more. Most of us haven’t stopped but the American media obsession with America’s loss of innocence emerges from the pain of those weeks.

Now, to me, even the idea of innocence seems a bit — well — innocent. In our case, innocence came largely from a combination of lack of experience and of knowledge. We didn’t know that we stood for the take over of Central American countries and the support of Franco and Salazar as well as the Marshall Plan and remarkable courage and commitment of World War II. We were too close to the WWII generation to have the historic separation that’s possible today. So was much of the rest of the world: in Europe, South America, Africa — all over the world — the Kennedys had won hearts and minds. It’s almost impossible to imagine in light of our standing in the world today. And that’s part of the grief too. Even though much of the anger at the US outside Iraq is based on a warped version of political correctness, we know the experience of riding from the glory of having "liberated" Europe through the Marshall Plan and the glory of the Kennedy outreach to the rest of the world. Personally and publicly, John Kennedy validated all that we wanted to see in ourselves – all that we wanted ourselves, and our country, to be. And today, despite all the revelations of the years since, 44 years and two days later, that’s still true.

**IN ORDER TO OBSERVE SHABBAT, THIS POST WAS COMPOSED ON NOVEMBER 22ND AND POSTED AUTOMATICALLY ON SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 24TH.

JERUSALEM DIARY 2.0: DAY TWELVE TEL AVIV DAY TWO

Breakfast in our little cafe surrounded by locals with dogs and newspapers. This is a wonderful neighborhood – the kind people move into until those who created it have to go someplace else because it’s become too expensive. You can see it happening all around us. But it’s fun for now and the Mediterranean is literally five or six blocks away.

On our way out we passed this noodle stand — I guess these people want fresh ones for Shabbat soup

These kids in the Carmel Market are canvassing to get people to sign up as organ donors. In Israel it is still difficult to convince people to participate because of Halachic rules about burial. Much has been done to change the rules, but the squeamishness has not abated. They were charming kids, and very committed to this issue – and they had quite a stack of cards of new registrants to the organ bank here.

It’s almost Shabbat so my post for tomorrow is written and ready; this is the last one from here. I’m hoping we can go tonight to the beach for the drums that welcome Shabbat then to our friends for Shabbat dinner.

JERUSALEM DIARY 2.0 – DAY FOUR – THE SOTAH AND MEA SHEARIM

Thursday morning I sent myself an email that said this: We are just leaving Mea Shearim, the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood and I am so freaked out. Maybe the SOTAH story had more impact than I realized. I told my husband that I was close to tears, that my chest was tight and I was someplace between scared and angry and he said – "You mean you felt like the Sotah, huh?" Well.

She does haunt me. Even now, when I have learned so much that mitigates the horrors of her treatment, I can see her, standing there, as they pull off her hair covering and stand her before God (and the priests), forced to drink the waters full of dirt and ashes. And what does that have to do with Mea Shearim? I’m the intruder there; the very Orthodox residents who choose to remain largely on the outskirts of the rest of the world and live a highly structured and mostly literal interpretation of every law and passage in the Torah – didn’t invite me to go wandering around looking at them while my husband bought a new Tallit (prayer shawl.) Even so, for some reason every time I go there I get so sad.

My husband once accused me of "overidentification with the oppressed." Maybe that’s it. The men are so clearly the ones with the power here, walking by in 2’s and 3’s while harried mothers and kids run errands and see to 3 or 4 children under 5. I have no right to consider them opressed. Or unhappy. Or anything else. What happens is that I imagine myself – stubborn, curious, eager to see and know everything – growing up here and wonder what would have become of me. Maybe I would have had a peaceful and loving life, but my projections won’t let me think about that. I just struggle with the stories I write in my mind about these families (these women) and their lives.

I have always loved The Chosen, and I have great respect for Chassidic Jews, for the most part. But there is something about this infinitely old, infinitely tired part of Jerusalem that just breaks my heart. As I write this, I suddenly wonder if perhaps it has more to do with me and my issues — that their lives are their own and I’m not sure that’s true of mine.

I’m writing this Thursday night in case I can’t finish it before Shabbat tomorrow — so Shabbat Shalom.

JERUSALEM DIARY 2.0 – DAY ONE: LIVING WITH SECURITY -EVERY MINUTE, EVERY DAY

This is the Jerusalem we all love to imagine, and there’s plenty of it that’s just like that. Usually, that’s where we spend most of our time — biblical Jerusalem. It’s thrilling.

This time, though, we’re here to study, and for the first time, instead of staying in a hotel, we’re in an apartment in a real neighborhood (Bak’ah for those of you who know it). We arrived this afternoon after flying from 5 PM Monday DC time through to 2:30 PM Tuesday Jerusalem time. That’s a total of 14.5 hours with the layover in Frankfurt. So, exhausted and eager to get to bed, we spent the evening wandering around the neighborhood instead of going immediately to the Old City as we have in the past.

We needed coffee, milk and some other things so we stopped first at the supermarket just blocks from our "house." But guess what? Before we could get inside, we were stopped at the door, my bag was searched and we were sort of assessed before entering. Nicely, matter-of-factly, but for real. I took this photo of the security guys on the sly, that’s why it’s so blurry. But there you are. Need apple juice? Prepare to have the diaper bag searched.

Bags in tow, we went on to dinner at a wonderful grill/salad place. There are photos of both the salads and the place on the left, but guess what? Before we could go in we had to check in with the guard at the entrance. He asked me not to take his picture, but he was there. Hungry? Meeting friends for coffee? Prepare to be checked out not by the cuties at the next table, but by the guard at the door.

Wandering around after dinner, we found a sweet coffee place. Everyone was sitting outside; the traffic was buzzing by beyond the sidewalk, the coffee was great and we were in a great place – living a neighborhood life in another country — one of particular importance to us. But guess what? The coffee place is part of a local mall, along with a drugstore and some not-very-expensive (almost cheap) apparel stores. And guess who were sitting outside the doors, on stools, on the sidewalk? Yup – security guards. A quick check of our bags of coffee and bottled water, and of my back pack, and we were good to go. But there you are. Going for diapers or hand lotion? Prepare to be searched at the door.

I’m not writing this to complain. Today I just felt, in a different way, what it’s like to live here. Whatever your politics, the idea of a people so under siege that no grocery store or bowling alley or retail mall can exist without security guards checking everyone who enters, is creepy and sad. I know, I know, a grave portion of our globe is at some kind of risk. And I’d probably react the same way witnessing their struggles. But this is where I am, this is where I’ve come to study, this is where I look into the eyes of mothers in the baby food aisle and old ladies squeezing tomatoes and crews of students buying up unthinkable quantities of fast food. And as they move through their lives, relief from their sense of danger, of vulnerability, is possible, sustainable, only until the next time they walk out the front door. And that’s a hell of a way to live.