Author: mfinger

As I’ve been ruminating over the end of the course, I have been drawn back to the question from the beginning of the semester of when 68 ended. That line of inquiry leads to the questions of whether 68 has ended and when it began.

At the beginning of the semester, I think the notion of 68 as an era as opposed to a year was foggy for me, as I imagine it was for some other people as well. When I registered for this course, I wasn’t expecting to read a novel from 1925 or watch a lecture on the history of slavery in Barbados.

While I certainly don’t think 68 should be contained to a single year, I think it is possible to identify a beginning, or at least a select few contenders. I would argue that the first step in this process is deciding the geographic scope you’re considering. If you were to limit yourself to 68 in America, you might come to a different conclusion than if you focused more on the European experience or if you were to emphasize the global 68.

After consideration, I would argue that the global 68 is inseparable from the American 68 because of the central geopolitical role played by the United States in the 20th century. An analysis more focused on Europe would probably require more knowledge of the history of European socialism and communism than I have. I would leave the analysis of Europe to Vinen.

I believe that Dr. Kinyon, in the course of our discussion on the beginning of 68 many weeks ago, proposed Reconstruction as a strong contender. This seems the most logical to me. While the history of transatlantic slavery certainly informed the experience of African Americans in the 20th century, I think we would be better served to narrow the scope a little more. I think the same could be said for the beginning of 68 and/or The Troubles in Ireland. While surely one cannot understand The Troubles without knowledge of British colonialism in Ireland, the Irish War of Independence seems to me to be a stronger contender there.

Personal perspective also seems to play an important role in developing individual conceptions of the beginning or end of 68. For those who experienced 68 on the New Left and were particularly concerned with American involvement in Vietnam, the end of World War II may seem more relevant than Reconstruction. The beginning of the Cold War and the rise of the United States to fill the power vacuum left by the decline of Great Britain in the mid 20th century directly connects to American intervention in Asia.

Whether or not we can put a “beginning” pin on 68’s timeline, identifying the end of 68 seems to pose a different challenge. Because we know 68 happened, it is logical to conclude that it at some point began. Pinpointing the end of 68 is a bit more of a moving target because it requires us to decide if 68 has ended. We’ve talked many times in class about the ties between 68 and 2020. I think it’s worth wondering if the connections between 68 and 2020 more strongly support the notion that history is cyclical and that we’re in the midst of another historical swell, or if 2020 is a continuation of 68. I personally tend more toward the first position, but I think interesting arguments could be made in support of the latter.

If I were to identify strong contenders for the end of 68, I think I would list the end of the Cold War (if I had to pick a year, I’d go with either 1989 or 1991), the Gulf War (which supports the selection of 1991), or September 11, 2001. The American victory in the Cold War (I recognize some might debate the notion of victory here but I do believe that the US won the Cold War), and the military triumph in Kuwait reversed the perception that the US was not the superpower Americans thought it once was. I would argue that the uncertainty and fear perpetuated by the Cold War facilitated the social upheaval on the 60s and 70s. 2001 was a paradigm-shifting year for Americans that reshaped opinions on the role the US should play in the word. Perhaps 1991 was the end of 68 and 2001, or maybe 2008 or 2016, was the beginning of 2020.

In class last week we spent some time discussing whether or not we found Tom Hayden’s version of the events that took place in Chicago believable. I tried to keep that conversation in mind as I read Fr. Berrigan’s writing. I was struck by the conclusion I reached after reading The Trial of the Catonsville Nine: I think I found Voices of the Chicago Eight more believable. Believable might not be the best word, as I don’t feel that Dan Berrigan was lying. It is more accurate, perhaps, to say that I found Voices of the Chicago Eight to be more honest and therefore more persuasive.

I think that there are two primary factors that brought me to this conclusion. First, the way the text itself was written, formatted, etc. Second, the content, i.e. the actual story. I talked in class last week about how struck I was by the level of detail Haydon included in the memoir part of the text. The specificity made the events very personal for me. On the other hand, this attention to detail makes me hesitant to completely trust this story, as memory is so fallible. As far as the play portion of the text, it was meaningful to me that the playwrights detailed the relationship between the court manuscripts and the dialogue. While editing is, of course, important, there is something profound in absorbing the dialogue and knowing that those words were really said in court. The Trial of the Catonsville Nine felt much more put-on to me. The infusion of the quotes and the way the defendants’ testimony was formatted more like poetry than a traditional piece of dramatic literature was almost off-putting.

Our discussion about the nature of the trial itself in Baltimore was further thought-provoking for me. The fact that the defendants declined to participate in jury selection at first felt like some kind of respectful protest by non-participation. Processing the idea that the defendants still elected for a jury trial changed my perspective though. American citizens have a right to trial by jury, but they also have the prerogative to opt out and pursue trial by judge. The Catonsville Nine didn’t go that far, though. It was still about putting on a show, as demonstrated by the appeal to the jury in the closing statement to emphasis character over the law. The Chicago Eight were so openly theatrical; they made no attempt to appear anything but. The theatricality of the Catonsville Nine felt more calculated to me, especially considering that the Chicago Eight were forced together into their trial while the Catonsville Nine planned for it all along. This is why I think I actually find Voices of the Chicago Eight more “believable”.

In reading the excerpt from War and an Irish Town and listening to our class conversation on Monday, I was struck by Eamonn’s telling of his childhood experience with Irish Protestants in Derry. The matter-of-fact way he talked about never having really encountered any Protestants until starting college but being raised in an environment where he was taught to regard them with contempt was a reminder to me about how profoundly sad prejudice and systematic hatred are.

This is not only something I’ve experienced in the context of Eamonn’s story. My family is Irish-American and Catholic. The popular comedic trope about the racist (or misogynistic, or whatever the case may be) old relative that we all have is fulfilled in the case of my family in the older generations and their persisting bitterness toward Protestants. I grew up in an environment where it took me a long time to even realize that being Catholic wasn’t the typical American experience; it didn’t even occur to me until I was in maybe 5th grade that going to Catholic mass and Sunday School every weekend was unusual. I grew up so entrenched in this Irish-American Catholic identity that it skewed my understanding of my surroundings. Of course, young children are the products of the environments in which they exist; I thought being Catholic was normal because that is all I knew. It was difficult for me to understand that historically, being Catholic was seen as bad. That idea was so biblical to me. Religious martyrdom (literally and psychologically) was something that happened hundreds of years ago, how could it be something that dragged people down in a supposedly civilized world, in my life time? As a result of this upbringing, there is this internal wound that flares up when I encounter reminders of the wrongs committed, which perpetuates this bitterness toward the wrongdoers. And my family left Ireland like 150 years ago; my relatives didn’t even suffer the injustices of the 20th century in Ireland.

So this makes me sad. In the grand scheme of the history of the world, two peoples can’t be much more similar than Irish Catholics and Irish Protestants living in the same town. And yet the divide feels enormous. In the breakout room discussions on Wednesday, my group talked about how religious beliefs inform value systems, which play in a significant role in identity formation. From this perspective, the divide between Catholics and Protestants in Ireland seems almost absurd. Two groups of the same race, from the same country, both practicing Christianity should have so much in common in terms of identity. But faith was weaponized and used as a tool for subjugation, and now we are unsure if the world will ever see a united and free Ireland.

I was struck during the course of our discussions this week by the notion of what-ifs. Particularly, the frustrating insatiability and subtle optimism of historical what-ifs. It is so tempting to dwell on these hypotheticals when reflecting on the numerous tragic events that seemingly drastically changed the course of history. Particularly relevant to the study of 68 are the killings of Abraham Lincoln, Medgar Evers, Bobby Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X.

On one hand, I find it infuriating to think of how the world might be different, probably better, if evil had not snuffed out the lives of these men. Sometimes I find myself grasping for this idea that our problems would be gone if Lincoln and King had lived longer and been able to finish what they started. And I do think America would probably be a more just and peaceful place if we’d had more time with them. Would it be perfect? I don’t think we can say that with any certainty.

But on the other hand, I sometimes find a strange sense of reassurance in these historical what-ifs. I want to believe that we as a people can still change, even without the great men we’ve lost. I take comfort in the thought that all over the country, young people are reading the works of Lincoln and King, two men gifted with unparalleled eloquence, and becoming inspired to pick up the torch. I want to believe that America is great not only because of a few specific people, but because of the many who will rise up to take us to the promised land in their absence.

One of my goals for this class is to take a more active role in how I process history. Our class discussions about political theatricality and the importance of perception has led me to reflect more on my background and my education. In the same way that implicit biases affect how we process new information, I am realizing that my biases and those of the system in which I was educated have impacted my view of history. As elementary-school aged children, most of us are inclined to accept the information we are given without much thought. I don’t think it would have occurred to me when I was young to question how the source can introduce subjectivity. Perhaps this was innocence or simply that this kind of critical analysis was a little beyond my abilities at the time. This class can be, for those of us who need it, the opportunity to revisit the major historical events we are discussing prepared to take a harder look.