Thoughts from the ammo line

Ammo Grrrll is still on THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD, A Political Journey, Part 5: Leaving the Cult. She writes:

I have known many people who have left a marriage and they generally fell into two categories: those for whom it happened in one death blow – an infidelity, a betrayal, the discovery of secret substance abuse, and those for whom it happened after years of misery and an accumulation of grievances over “little” things where the end was not dramatic but somebody just woke up one day and said, “I can’t do this anymore. I am outta here.” Our “divorce” from the Party fell into the latter category.

The Party was all-consuming. It contained almost all of our friends at the time. It contained a ton of memories, several of them even happy. Unsurprisingly considering I later became a standup comic, I had started a little skit and parody group and we entertained at Party functions. There were ways to be a “success” within the Party, to feel good about yourself. And, of course, we were not only “on the right side of history,” but, as always, doing it “for the children.” But it was a real rather than hypothetical child that was the nail in the coffin of our stint in the Party.

As I suggested last week, a key element in our decision to leave was having a baby. Having children is naturally conservatizing, which is one of the reasons the Left hates children and families. We were tired of being poor, tired of giving virtually all our discretionary income to the “Movement” and, really, just plain tired. Saving the world is hard work as it happens! If you weren’t in an endless internal meeting, a fractious public meeting, writing reports or mimeographing leaflets, cleaning the Headquarters, or cooking a meal for everyone, you were standing on a street corner selling the paper.

It’s funny what you remember 50 years later: The Party had public talks called Forums on Friday nights. To increase attendance, it advertised pre-Forum dinners cooked and served at the Headquarters for some minimal donation. People had to sign up by Wednesday nights so the cook knew how much food to buy. The sheet would go around with the menu prominently displayed (pedestrian stuff like “Chili Dogs and Chips, Brownies”). Usually, about 20-30 people signed up. When it was my turn, I wrote: “Indonesian Fried Rice with Chicken and Shrimp, Homemade Whole Wheat Bread, Green Salad, and Baked Alaska.” To my shock and awe, 80 people signed up from the S.F. and Oakland branches! I made ten Baked Alaskas. (Ice cream pie with meringue baked 3 minutes at 500 degrees.) You try it! In one oven.

As in any organization, the Party had the “grunts” and the lazy slackers. I knew the minute I laid eyes on him that Barack Hussein had never done a lick of community organizing “work” in his life that didn’t somehow benefit HIM.

Anyway, our baby was born and naturally, we wanted the best for him. The high school that he would have gone to in our Mission neighborhood was already dangerous in the ’70’s. Our babysitter who went there developed an eating disorder from anxiety over being regularly bullied by Black and Latin girls. When she turned 16, she just stopped going.

There was ONE decent high school – Lowell – for which you had to take an entrance exam. By the time our son would have been in high school, Asians, Jews, white students in general, had to have perfect scores. Blacks and Latins could get in with far lower scores. A good friend got her very smart son in (he was one point away legally) by claiming he was Latin. His absent, deadbeat father – who missed out on a wonderful kid – was half Mexican, so at least he was worth something in the end.

There were other irritants in the Party as well. We watched some pretty sketchy goings-on – bullying wealthy recruits out of substantial trust funds. Convincing rich liberals to “loan” money to various movement front groups without the slightest intention of paying them back. A lesson in dialectics on how a loan turns into a gift… We were never participants in any of those shenanigans and were embarrassed to be associated with those who were.

We were appalled by the support for the Arabs over the Israelis, despite “Jewish” Party leaders trying to convince us why that was the more revolutionary position to take. I lived with that because I believed that we were too small to have much influence anyway. There were never many more than 1,200 members coast to coast. But that still causes waves of shame to think about it today. So what to work on going forward with the war over?

I was never attracted to most of the feminist agenda, and wholly unsuited to working in that movement. I was heterosexual, married, and quite fond of men in general as a sex. I did not subscribe to the ludicrous notion that America was a “rape culture” or that masculinity was in any way “toxic.” One thing I did that I instantly regretted was to cut my long, beautiful hair into the “Joan of Arc” style that was the trademark of the ever-enraged Party feminists. That was totally my bad — a rare instance of my bending to social pressure. Had it been “mandatory,” my anti-authoritarian streak would have compelled me to rival Rapunzel. Evidently, Party feminists chopped off their head hair the better to focus on leg and armpit hair.

To say that the Party and the broader Leftist Movement were “soft” on crime was an understatement. Joe and I hated crime, no matter the color of the perpetrator. We actually believed that crime was destructive to both victim (obviously) AND perpetrator and morally wrong, not just the result of “oppression,” poverty, or racism. In fact, to this day I believe that people are not criminals because they are poor; they are poor because they are criminals. Oddly, in the midst of the counterculture, the one offense that could get you tossed out of the Party at once was using drugs, even weed. But many people made up for the drug ban by becoming enthusiastic alcoholics instead.

And so after considerable discussion between us, we left the Party in 1975. We moved back to a small town in Minnesota and really enjoyed connecting again with my parents, who loved having their grandson nearby. Since we hadn’t left under protest or over some major factional dispute, we remained on good terms with the people and even rejoined the St. Paul branch at a much reduced commitment level for a short period in the late ’70’s. Kind of like giving it one last try with an abusive relationship. It didn’t last long.

A few years after we had left for the second time, the people who were our closest friends within the organization had a dispute that led to their being expelled from the Party after years and decades of devotion. It was pretty demoralizing to behold. The whole Old Guard of inspirational labor leaders was summarily tossed overboard. We were adjudged guilty by association since we knew the wrong people and were no longer welcome even as “friends.” And so we were entirely gone for good. I have never had a day of regret in the 42 years that have flown by since leaving. Stop me before I channel Kamala’s soliloquy on The Passage of Time. It seems like a different lifetime or a weird dream I had.

Having weaned ourselves off the heroin of socialism, we needed a few years of the methadone of liberalism to get by! In 1976, I registered as a Democrat and was initially quite pleased with the election of Jimmuh Carter.

In 1980, with apologies to Mr. Steven Hayward and pretty much the whole Universe, I stood in line for an hour in the freezing cold to vote for Carter against Reagan – AFTER Carter had already conceded defeat. If that doesn’t define “loser” I don’t know what does! Carter didn’t seem upset that he had completely torpedoed the chances of the down-ballot candidates in California. My vote mattered not in the least! In that awesome landslide, Minnesota distinguished itself by being the only state in the Union to fail to go for Reagan either time.

And so began a long losing streak for me as a Democrat in national elections — 1980, 1984, 1988. (And never once did I childishly proclaim that the person “my guy” lost to was “not my President.” Idiots!) By this time, the Vass Consortium had been gainfully employed for several years and had achieved some modicum of financial security. Mr. Vass had done very well in Law School and snagged a good job at a prestigious Twin Cities firm. I had been a successful standup for about ten years. We both finally had “careers” instead of just “jobs”!

I used to joke that as a Minnesota Democrat, I could vote AGAINST my economic self-interest, show my social justice bona fides AND count on being rescued from my idiocy by the smarter conservative voters in the red states! (Thanks, guys!) I wasn’t completely apolitical, but my interest and activist levels were low. I do recall that, as a standup, I trotted out a few snotty bits of material about Reagan and was shocked when they fell flat even with a Minnesota audience. My Mama didn’t raise no fool, and I stopped doing that right quick.

In 1992 an ET-like visage with a Louisiana accent managed the campaign of William Jefferson Clinton and his unpleasant wife-like substance, Sir Edmund Percival Hillary Rodham Clinton. Even as a Democrat, I couldn’t stand her then or ever. But I found Bill intelligent, witty, and – remember? — he campaigned on the economy, trimming welfare, and making abortion “rare” instead of a sacrament. His “bimbo eruptions” were disturbing, particularly his TASTE, but then I would consider Hillary and just nod my head in sympathy.

I voted for Clinton both in 1992 and 1996, even after the Famous Blue Dress. It did bother me that anyone so clueless that he couldn’t even get rid of such icky yet disposable evidence should probably not have the nuclear codes either.

While I admired both Bush 41 and Dole as war heroes, I was not overly inspired by them as conservative standard-bearers. Were you? Be honest. I was to vote Democrat – and holding my nose at that – just one more time in 2000. And I was to make my final leap from “moderate Democrat” (which Bill Clinton would have to be called in retrospect after Obama and the present disaster…) to Conservative.

Next week: The Final Installment — The Democratic Party Leaves ME. And subsequently loses its collective mind.