By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
By Jesse Marx
I was trying to remember the last time I heard anyone utter the word "liberal" with the contempt that characterizes Rudy Boschwitz's ads. Then it came to me. We did, we said it loud and often during the '60s, and always with the bitterness reserved for discourse with finks and traitors.
"Liberal" was a word much used by the street demonstrators at the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago, myself among them. There's been a lot written about the epithets hurled there. "Pig" is one that comes to mind, but hardly anyone mentions what the word "liberal" connoted then.
Here's what it meant to many who came to Chicago in 1968. It meant a preference for the slow mechanics of the political process over direct action at a moment in history when time could be measured in lives lost. It meant dutifully subscribing to the pretense that we lived in a democracy when our government was bought and paid for by war profiteers. It meant choosing the lesser of two evils, something we deplored.
And liberalism was epitomized in the person of Hubert H. Humphrey, a man whom we firmly believed had sold his soul for the honor of being number two. Lyndon Johnson jerked Humphrey around and humiliated him in 1964 before finally choosing him as his running mate. Humphrey proceeded to spend his vice presidency capitulating to something unspeakable. He talked up the war. He called it our "great adventure."
Eugene McCarthy was something else entirely. Many of us would have been glad to see him elected. The problem from our perspective was that he siphoned off the energy of our potential allies into a hopeless attempt to redeem the system. His supporters got haircuts and stopped dressing like freaks for the campaign. They said they were "clean for Gene."
"Join us," we hollered at the McCarthy delegates in Chicago's Hilton Hotel, from our vantage point across Michigan Avenue in Grant Park. What we meant was, stop being liberals. Stop pretending your man might actually win just because the majority of Democratic voters prefer him. It's a rigged game, we told them. Don't play.
Eventually they did join us, not because they bought our analysis, not even because McCarthy lost, but because we were irresistible. There was a sense of commitment and energy on the streets of Chicago in 1968, a feeling that we were seizing a moment of history and running with it. Our ranks were ultimately swelled to more than 15,000 by McCarthy supporters and gun-shy media people who'd learned to use us for cover after the police made special targets of them.
That final night in Grant Park, when everybody including the cops ran amok, I witnessed a graphic example of the price of ambivalence. When we'd first gathered, word had gone out that if you were teargassed the worst thing you could do was wash your eyes out with water. Instead of rinsing the chemical away it exacerbated its effects. That was counter-intuitive, and the temptation to find water when you were gassed was strong, but the hardcore protesters knew better. Those who joined later did not.
After a police charge sent about 30 people smashing through the plate glass of a sidewalk-level restaurant at the Hilton, and after innumerable small clashes in which many protesters and several cops got the shit beat out of them, there was a tear gas attack that sent hundreds of us running toward Lake Shore Drive in a dense chemical fog. By the time we reached Buckingham Fountain, a huge cascade of water surrounded by a sizeable moat, everybody was blind and choking.
Those of us who'd come to Chicago with one purpose in mind, to make a shambles of the convention, sat down and waited for the symptoms to pass. The Clean-for-Gene crowd and the reporters headed for the fountain like lambs to slaughter. For a few moments their howls drowned out the noise of the hovering helicopters shining searchlights on us. A cry went up: Don't put water in your eyes! They were slow to catch on. They wanted to believe that what a little water wouldn't do, a lot of water might. It took a long time for all of them to leave that moat.
1996. Blood on the Moon! screamed the hand-lettered sign hung high on the chainlink fence surrounding the officially sanctioned protest pit two blocks from the United Center, where the Democratic Party was holding its convention. Christ the King Over Chicago, explained another sign next to it, and in smaller letters beneath that, Planet Christ! That was it. No demands, no calls to action, nothing.
Two young people stood in front of the signs, smiling. The girl, about 15, handed over a leaflet that repeated the three slogans or whatever they were, along with a phone number. But what was this protest about?
When pressed on this seemingly crucial point the girl giggled self-consciously, and said the blood of the unborn is on our hands. How it got from there to the moon she didn't have a clue. Her dad made the signs, she explained, but he got called in for a job interview so he couldn't be here today. Come back tomorrow and ask him, she suggested. He knows all about that stuff.
The kid she was with, her boyfriend apparently, put a protective arm around her as if to shield her from all this unseemly curiosity. A few minutes later they were entwined around each other, making out passionately, oblivious to the people filing past on the other side of the fence, toward the convention.
In his officially assigned spot next to the horny anti-abortionists stood a Whitewater crackpot with two full-sized dolls inexplicably pinned to his lapels. His mantra, which he repeated over and over in a monotone, went like this: Filegate, Whitewatergate, Bill and Hillary are looking more and more like Bonnie and Clyde every day. Who do you think shot Vince Foster?
Hatred of the war topped everyone's list on the streets of Chicago in 1968, but there were many causes and agendas. Mine, and that of people like me, was the struggle against "corporate imperialism." Ours was surely a concern born of privilege. College kids who'd read Marx and Marcuse and C. Wright Mills talked about corporate imperialism. Others just wanted a fair shot at a corporate job.
To us corporate imperialism meant the slow, inexorable insinuation of The Corporation into the texture of everyday life. It meant the total dominance of the economy by The Corporation, so there would be no option left but to serve it. It meant the corporate hijacking of the culture, counter- and otherwise, by the simple expedient of buying it.
It's hard to believe, I'm sure, but the first major rock musician had yet to sell out to advertising in 1968. We warned about it, though. We said they'd co-opt our music and flog industrial beer and weird-looking clothes with it. Now it's a rare person who sees anything unusual about that, or about the bizarre phenomenon of consumers paying for T-shirts and other items of apparel with corporate names and symbols all over them. We're not only dragooned into serving as walking advertisements, we pay good money for the privilege.
People don't talk about corporate imperialism anymore, but the recently concluded Democratic convention was a good example of it. The dead hand of the spin doctor lay heavy on that event, and corporate hegemony was total. Corporate logos, corporate shills, and corporate lobbyists were everywhere. Ameritech literally wrapped itself in the flag as it sold prepaid phone cards out of booths decorated in red, white, and blue bunting at the United Center. Ameritech's was the biggest corporate presence, but far from the only one. The first floor corridor of the United Center was a gauntlet of corporate kiosks promoting everything from software to Saturns.
The list of corporations that contributed $100,000 or more to the convention's host committee is long. It includes Browning Ferris Industries, Chrysler, Archer Daniels Midland, Walgreen, Xerox, Paine Webber, Lockheed, Motorola, and many others.
Political and media bigshots rubbed shoulders with celebrities at venues like the George magazine party hosted by John F. Kennedy, Jr., but corporate-sponsored events dominated the schedules of ordinary delegates. Bufffets were laid out in the hotel lobbies courtesy of Ameritech, which also gave away a fair number of their prepaid phone cards to the credentialed media so they'd be remembered kindly.
What did Ameritech have in mind? Rep. Edward Markey of Massachusetts, chair of the subcommittee that oversees Ameritech, explained it succinctly. "It's an opportunity for them to show off what they can do," he said proudly. "You've got members of Congress, heads of major corporations, and the most important reporters in America here. This convention is a chance for Ameritech to affect how they are viewed."
In fact, that's all it was. Clinton's nomination was a foregone conclusion, just as Dole's had been. No issues were debated or even raised at either convention. Versions of the corporate agenda had already been adopted by both parties. This was just a chance for The Corporation to say thanks to the Democrats, to show off a little, and buy some goodwill cheap in the process. The media played along slavishly, parroting the official line that folks like Jesse Jackson's supporters were fearsome loose cannons who might (but didn't) inject a little drama into this dull affair.
One afternoon I stood by the podium and watched as a parade of congressional candidates took five-minute turns at the microphone. Each speech opened with a litany of smarm that Dick Morris probably dreamed up while he was lolling around the hotel room with the whore who tattled on him. The candidates had met payrolls, they knew what it meant to run a business, they had families they loved and their husbands and wives and children loved them, and why not? They smiled so much.
As for the Democratic delegates of 1996, in some ways an afterthought in the proceedings, many of them were liberals, a word I no longer utter with contempt. They look pretty good now compared to what is called the mainstream of American politics.