The following is the introduction to the Memoir, Remembering Tomorrow, by MIchael Albert. You can see the full book, online, by using the left hand menu on Albert’s ZSpace page.
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
—J. D. Salinger
Memoir nyritakake acara, nerangake urip, njelajah sejarah, lan njupuk pelajaran. Memoar kudu nyenengake, ngandhani sing bener, ngremehake, lan mbukak. Ora diidini khotbah. Memoir kudu dadi novel sing jujur.
My father, Melvin Albert, advised, cajoled, defended, and supported. He was a liberal corporate lawyer. Alzheimer’s killed him before he died. My mother, Pearl Fleischman, taught kindergarten and fourth grade and labored over house, home, and health. Mom was appreciated by all. A few weeks before her 91st birthday she died. Relentless cancer was her Armageddon. The ocean became her cemetery.
I was told my early family lived in the same building as the great comedian Milton Berle. Uncle Miltie reputedly said, "If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door." Did I get my door-building predilections from Miltie?
My sister is nine years my senior. When I was five Anita was fourteen. She was a girl, then a woman. I was a boy, then whatever. Young, we barely crossed paths. Anita went to Cornell, in Ithaca, New York. I saw Cornell while visiting Anita and liked Ithaca’s natural gorges. As a high school junior, I summered at Cornell in a science program for budding Stephen Hawkings. Anita married Jack Karasu, from Turkey, whom she met at Cornell. Jack’s business took Anita to Spain. When Anita returned to the U.S., an artist and teacher, she and I lived far apart. Years later, Anita moved nearer and we are now sister and brother sharing life’s circumstances. Anita’s son, my nephew Marc, works in New York City in advertising. At Marc’s Bar Mitzvah I gave him a copy of Che’s writings. For his last fifteen years, Seymour Melman was Anita’s partner. Seymour was a teacher/activist who spent his life fighting for peace and against military economy.
To assess family influences is perhaps a fool’s errand. My brother Eddie and I had the same parents and sister, lived in the same places, and had similar mental faculties. But rather than becoming two peas in a pod, we became an apple and an kumquat or a tuna and a turtle. Eddie was eight years my senior. We both liked sports, TV, and boy things. As a preteen I always sought Eddie’s company. This annoyed him and I remember Eddie would make me say uncle while I held out against submission. Did lopsided familial fighting produce insecurities? Or did withstanding big brother’s bullying produce a strong will?
Eddie iku pinter lan congenial nanging urip pirouetted saka lintasan suburban khas menyang callous, cedhak suicidal gambling . Pilihan kontingen sing bakal kekancan karo pilihan Eddie. Kanthi corak cilik, bisa uga Eddie duwe keprihatinan sosial sing radikal. Mungkin aku bakal nandhang kecanduan konsumtif.
Nalika isih enom, aku nonton Eddie terus-terusan konflik panas karo wong tuwaku. Apa nom-noman sinetron nggawe aku isin banget utawa nggawe aku waspada? Apa wae, aku mutusake ing kelas sanga yen apa wae sing bakal ditindakake ing urip, aku bakal nolak tunduk marang wong tuwa, guru, lan sedulur. Aku bakal ngormati alesan, nanging ora njupuk pesenan. Aku dadi wong dhewe. Ora katarsis gedhe. Ora ana introspeksi sing geger. Aku mung golek drum dhewe lan miwiti banging. Bang, bang, iki memoar.
Aku minangka Memoirist
Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.
—Groucho Marx
Tulisanku memoar kaya balet pegulat sumo. Kaping pisanan, kenang-kenanganku ing jaman kepungkur ora eidetic. Cramming kasunyatan sekolah menengah ana torture. Jeneng, papan, lan tanggal ora dakkarepake. Dijaluk kanggo watuk munggah urutan lan pola, Aku rekonstruksi saka dhasar kaya mengkono potongan matematika. Pengalaman implan ing otot pikiranku kaya sing ditindakake kanggo wong liya, nanging aku duwe mekanisme puter maneh sing rusak.
Bapakku luwih tuwa tinimbang bapak sing rata-rata. Dheweke duwe aku ing 43. Ibuku uga luwih tuwa tinimbang rata-rata. Dheweke duwe kula ing 32. Ibu lara ing sasi papat sawise ngandhut. Liburan adoh saka omah, dheweke diwenehi saran dening dhokter kanca yen aku wis mati. Flush kula metu, kang ndesek. Ibu malah mulih mriksa dokter spesialis dhewe. Aku apik-apik wae, lapor. Ping, ping. Anggone ibu nekad miwiti gendhing cilikku.
Aku duwe penyakit cilik, Celiac. Mangan meh kabeh ngremuk weteng. Dietku sing tetep urip yaiku gedhang, hamburger cincang, lan keju cottage. Kandhane kulawarga aku kerep njaluk panganan saka wong liyo lan ngrampok tong sampah. Apa scrounging enom mengaruhi kadewasanku? Dina iki, aku ora bisa mangan gedhang. Aku bisa ngemis lan nyolong. Apa jaman awalku dadi cithakan mengko?
Ing sekolah dasar aku dadi ahli matematika, nanging nggegirisi babagan ejaan, nulis, lan nulis. Aku nampa buku math ekstra supaya kula sibuk saka kelas siji liwat SMA, ngendi, saliyane kelas akselerasi, kanca Irwin Gaines lan aku ninggalake sekolah kaping pindho saben minggu kanggo lelungan watara mil menyang College lokal, Iona. Ing kana kita njupuk kursus ing persamaan diferensial karo upperclassmen College. Aku lan Irwin dadi loro sing paling apik. Irwin lunga menyang Harvard nalika aku menyang MIT. Irwin dadi ahli fisika, ngetutake dalan sing ditindakake Vietnam.
In ninth grade, I suffered through Latin. It was incredibly shaming. Our octogenarian teacher would spend most classes making students read out loud, one after another. The text was in Latin and when called on you had to translate and recite the appropriate English. I failed every time. I looked a fool, but never walked out of class. This type submissive obedience later wore off. What did my classmates look like? How did my teacher dress? What did I say when shamed? Some memoirists include in their books descriptions of decades-old dress, dialogue, weather, and feelings. They fill up pages with "then I blushed and said ‘what’s up with that.’" They remember details, get them from journals, or just make them up like books about writing memoirs advocate.
Not me. What I can’t remember generally includes who said what to whom, when, wearing what clothes, in what mood, with what facial expression, during what weather pattern. And I kept no journals. But it isn’t just bad memory that makes me an odd memoirist. I also don’t introspect. Corralling inner motivations, much less inner demons, doesn’t excite me. Looking inward would preclude looking outward, even if just for a minute. My visiting a psychiatrist would generate a cacophony of silence.
Another memoir obstructing trait of mine is that though I am intellectually pugnacious, I have little interest in revisiting combats. What benefit could that bring? I avoid ad hominem history.
I don’t remember my father coming home from work and my rushing to greet him, jumping into his arms from the porch outside our house, and accidentally blasting him in the head with a rock I had cradled in my hand. Did forgetting this teach me to censor my memories? Did trauma from this shape my whole life? Does it matter? I can’t see how.
Aku kelingan omah gedhe sing dakdunungi nganti kelas enem. Nanging apa ukuran omah sing gedhe, kamar sing beda-beda, kenyamanan sing apik, lan krenjang sing nyenengake mbantu nggawe aku? Yagene wong kudu peduli?
Apa ana acara sing relevan karo politik nalika isih enom? Mungkin, nanging kepiye wong bisa mutusake apa sing cocog? Aku elinga nalika kelas lima gelut karo bully amarga milih wong liya. Apa sing nggawe aku dadi pembela wong sing ditindhes? Upamane dheweke wis ngalahake aku. Apa aku bakal mbelani wong sing ditindhes? Apa aku utang dalan uripku amarga kelemahane pembully?
I also remember getting in a fight with my then-best friend, Donald Pearlman. We were in third grade and I chipped his front tooth. Donald was back playing after a couple of hours. I was depressed for days. Did this give me savage solidarity for others? Maybe. Maybe not. Donald and I lived next door to one another all through primary school. When we were ten, or thereabouts, a large house across the street was sold to Liberia’s U.S. ambassador. Though I never met or even saw the ambassador himself, not long after his family moved in, and not long before his family moved out, Donald and I played one day with the ambassador’s super prissy son. The three of us were on the ambassador’s front lawn, across the street from my and Donald’s neighboring houses, playing a game called "let’s see who can hit the softest." The Liberian lad, I can’t remember his name for the life of me, hit Donald in the accepted target in this game, his arm. Liberia did it very softly. Donald then hit my arm softer still, as per the logic of the game. I hauled off and blasted his Liberian Lordship’s arm as hard as I could and said, "Whoops, I lose." It was cruel, and he ran off crying. Was it that I didn’t like him? Was it a turf war? Was it racism? Since I remember the event, and since I still feel guilty over it, I have to assume the worst. Bang, bang, it was a bad beat.
Another damning deed from that time happened when Donald and I were sitting by the roadside, and saw a big nail there, almost a spike. I picked it up and carefully balanced it in the roadway on its flat hammer-hitting zone with the point facing upward. Before long a multiaxle truck plowed down our street, leaving behind no nail. It had to have been the only such truck to ever get so lost as to mistakenly go through our leafy suburb. Five minutes later a human mountain comes marching down the street asking if we saw anyone put something in the road. He had a destroyed tire and he waved about our missing nail. We said "no." I later suffered unsettling guilt and it didn’t take Aristotle to realize this condition was better avoided. Perhaps my undying inclination to avoid guilt-inducing acts was part innate and part early experience. Perhaps different early experiences could have undone rather than enhanced the innateness. Life is largely unfathomable. It is better to focus on the occasional simple parts we can learn from than to drown in the complicated minutiae beyond our ken.
Aku mlayu dadi presiden badan siswa kelas sanga lan kalah. Ing SMA aku mlayu dadi bendahara sekolah lan menang. Ing SMA, aku uga duwe katresnan pisanan, Nancy Shapiro. Minatku ing fisika saya mundhak. Aku ketemu musik Bob Dylan-lan Dylan dibangun maneh karo bantuan sethitik saka Beatles, Stones, lan kabeh liyane. Taun-taun SMA saya idyllic. Dheweke ora duwe rasa lara pribadi kanggo mbrontak utawa uwal. Setu aku menyang Universitas Columbia kanggo kelas esuk karo Irwin Gaines, Linda Lurie, lan sawetara liyane kepinginan Isaac Newtons, kalebu Larry Seidman. Larry, setaun luwih dhisik tinimbang aku ing sekolah menengah, dadi kanca sing paling cedhak lan ngunggahake standar kanggo kadewasan lan integritas ing uripku. Ana akeh softball, bal-balan tutul, lan tenis. Kanca sing apik iku berkah. Kabeh wong ngerti.
Aku kelingan lungguh ing mobil, ing parkir stasiun sepur, ngenteni bapakku sing saben dina commuted saka New Rochelle menyang New York City lan bali. Iku Januari 1959. Aku rolas. Ing radio ana crita babagan Kuba. Disebutake wong lanang jenenge Castro. Disebutake wong sing jenenge Che. Bapak rawuh. Pateni radio. Dheweke kesel kerja. Aku guess aku nguripake maneh, metaphorically, taun mengko.
My high school yearbook proclaimed I would be a physicist. No one would have guessed I would write piles of books about revolution. But while I wasn’t remotely literary, nonetheless, in high school music lyrics conquered my mind. I dissected songs for hours with Larry Seidman. I remember "Johnnie’s in the basement mixing up the medicine, I’m on the pavement, thinking about the government" and I especially remember the second verse:
Ah get born, keep warm Short pants, romance Learn to dance, get dressed, get blessed Try to be a success Please her, please him, Don’t steal, don’t lift Twenty years of schooling and they put you on the day shift
I got born. I kept warm. I wore short pants. I romanced. I barely danced. Few would emulate my dress. My blessings ran perpendicular to those Dylan’s "Subterranean" lyric rejected. My successes inverted those Dylan rhymed. I pleased some people. I stole. I lifted. I got the 20 years. I work days, but nights too.
Emulating My Muse
Sawetara panyunting minangka panulis gagal, nanging uga akeh panulis.
—T. S. Eliot
Dadi apa gunane memoar saka wong sing kurang memori, tanpa introspeksi, sing nolak kembang api pribadi, lan sing nyingkiri wahyu pribadi? Obah saka konsep siji saka Ngelingi Esuk through draft two and on toward draft 37, I found that pressures mounted from readers for greater personal revelation. "It isn’t just the political experiences, thoughts, books, institutions, and movements that matter," people advised me. "You have to include life lived by real people in real times. Use personal context to familiarize and humanize broader stories." Okay, I let these critics bang on my drum one time. I inserted some personal stuff.
Nalika aku wiwit nulis Ngelingi Esuk, Aku mangan sawetara buku babagan nulis memoar. Dheweke njaluk wahyu, gaya novelis, lan pugnacity. Aku mriksa memoar kanggo ditiru. Tom Hayden Rebel marang bab Kiri Anyar. Dave Dellinger kang luar biasa maringi inspirasi Saka Yale nganti Jail, Bill Ayers pungkasanipun timpa Dina buronan, lan Jane Fonda banget pribadi Uripku nganti saiki, all covered parts of those times. Bertrand Russell’s, Simone de Beauvoir’s, Malcolm X’s, and Gandhi’s autobiographies provided examples of style and content. I read some less memorable shorter works, too, and finally, I also read the first volume of Bob Dylan’s memoir, BABAD. Senadyan wis kapisah saka sosial, BABAD paling kena pengaruh rencanaku.
BABAD jumps all over Dylan’s timeline. Thematic flow facilitates comprehension despite chronological chaos. Emotional, intuitive, and musical links, not sequential causality, connect paragraphs. I assumed babad' disorganisasi nggambarake genius seni Dylan. Aku guess Dylan nulis draf kronologis dhawuh lan nemokake cara nonlinear kanggo ngatur maneh. Aku ngira yen volume mbesuk wis rampung, ngenteni tanggal rilis. Nanging Dylan nindakake dheweke BABAD, I learned from reading him that writing meanderingly respected that a memoir should circle the narrator, the narrator’s life, and even the narrator’s experiences, but should be about perceptions, insights, and lessons that the narrator happened to be positioned to relay. I liked temporal chaos and have tried to modestly mimic Dylan’s method.
The last memoir I read was very short, Kurt Vonnegut’s, while rewriting this one. Kurt’s the master. His words are depressing, every time he writes. Yet the damn thing made me laugh, tear up, and inspired me. That’s a hell of a talent. Chomsky does that too, differently. With these guys I cry, I laugh, the message is a real downer in so many ways, but I am inspired. I can’t do what they do. To inspire I will have to include hopeful content.
Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel| is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.
— Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Ngelingi Esuk is about the sixties, activism, institutions, and ideas. Part One has nine chapters, largely about attending a peculiar college located in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It introduces the civil rights movement and the New Left, recounts fraternity rush through tumultuous expulsion, includes science, sniffing glue, designing corridors, chutzpah, burning draft cards, creating sanctuaries, attending finishing schools, career planning, elections, and riots. We meet Marxism, Abbie Hoffman, the Living Theater, drugs, Hubert Humphrey, the Grateful Dead, Muhammad Ali, and Mr. Basketball, Bill Bradley, and we consider tennis, intellectual chasms, mathematician’s proofs, and human capacities. We meet Noam Chomsky and consider torching libraries, provost propositions, corporate seduction, paths bypassed, Dow Chemical, academic channeling, the calculus of dissent, and the contours of cynicism. I get elected, stand eyeball to gun barrel, and begin considering tomorrows.
Part Two has ten chapters about organizing. Dreams of bombs lead from grassroots media to street rioting. Washington warfare leads from the Pentagon through CIA illogic and Mayday mayhem to Polish lessons. Dirty stories segue into Bread and Roses. Women and revolution fire up. We visit gender from the sadomasochistic to the masochistic-sadistic. I find sexism damaging, learn love, meet Lydia for life, assess marriage, examine women’s intuition, and consider aging. Socializing or not—that is the question. Seattle Liberation macho, Weather storms, and planned mayhem. The Black Panthers rise, fall, and shine a light. I get mugged on Halloween. Lydia gets mugged on our steps. Antarane Buruh lan Modal highlights Ehrenreich, antagonizes Aronowitz, lan inspirasi Albert lan Hahnel. Ora Nukes illuminates class. Sixties books highlight Dellinger and Hayden. I learn fishing on Golden Pond. The ringing of revolution grows quiet.
Perangan Katelu ana patang bab ngenani pawiyatan luhur lan pamulangan. MIT lan Harvard mbukak kekurangan pendidikan. Apa astrologi ekonomi? Aneh byways madhangi akademisi. Ngapusi disiplin urip. Aku tes apik nanging ora manut. Aku mulang karo Chomsky, nanging njaluk dipecat saka U. Mass Boston. Aku nyingkiri slope sing lunyu, lan sinau saka pakunjaran. Kupu-kupu sing mlaku menehi piwulang urip sing penting.
Part Four has six chapters about alternative media. South End Press is born, foreshadows participatory economics, survives capitalism, endures ambition, and succeeds. We visit books from sexual revolution through friendly fascism. Herman and Chomsky uplift us. Toffler surprises us. We pass on fat. Small is our bugaboo. Seas aren’t friendly. South End Press biases persist and what the hell is going on in a Left less diverse than the mainstream? We entice money from a clothing entrepreneur, a Rockefeller, and Hunter the headliner. House sales resuscitate us. Investment packages preserve us. Printer profusion and staring down the IRS protect us. Z Magazine muter mati lan ngalahake rintangan ala. Pemilik NFL nyedhiyakake akeh rasa lara lan ora entuk bathi. Z makalah is prescient but disastrous for Albert and Hahnel. ZMI rocks. LBBS drains life and just misses generating big bucks becoming Left On Line, which morphs into Shareworld, which just misses generating even bigger bucks and morphs into ZNet, which makes okay bucks and becomes an international phenomenon. The megaphone problem leads to what makes alternative media alternative, keeping on keeping on, media and democracy, donor delusions, funding fiascos, and media politics writ larger.
Part Five, basically about ideas, has six chapters. Ideas transcend postmodernism. Kayaking teaches persistence. Marxism morphs into liberating theory with a major in economics that detours into class or multitude. Vision overcomes resistance via pop culture. Parecon leads through The Award of The President of the Italian Republic toward a participatory society. Sammy Reshevsky and Bobby Fischer beget strategy. Strategy traverses Egypt, addresses stickiness and class, unfolds the umbrella problem, revisits lifestyle, visits Australia, Turkey, and India, and considers elections. The Organization to Liberate Society and We Stand try to extend the lessons of the past into the future. I rant about Left defeatism, assess Life After Capitalism, seek serious intellectual engagement, visit Venezuela, and address my generation.
Ing donya saiki struktur sosial saddle kita. Kebebasan mamerake kita. Informasi inebriates kita. Banyu mbuwang kita. Iklim nabrak kita. Gambar ngisolasi kita. Prisons parole us. Kasembadan mbatesi kita. Ragu mateni kita. Weteng njagong kita. Punggung break kita. Mripat wuta kita. Bom nyerang kita. Represi, ketimpangan, lan mayit ngipat-ipati kita. Kuburan palsu nggegirisi kita. Apa kita kudu mbrontak? Kanggo njaluk ngendi? kepriye? Ngrampungake apa? Elingi Besok.
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