Making History

May 2 2020

When the future historians look back on us

they will see what we missed.

But it never seems, in the midst of it

that history is being made.

Because life lived

feels distinctly unhistorical.

And because we don't make anything at all;

having no choice but surrender

to the tide of events

that carry us along.

And while historians construct narratives

that have beginnings and ends

and make some kind of sense

and satisfy our need to understand,

the past will always seem preordained, looking back;

how the present seems inevitable

wherever history ends up.

While when it comes to looking ahead

the futurists keep getting it wrong.

Because there's too much randomness, accident, contingency

to predict much of anything.

Because you can extrapolate from the present

only so far.

And because great men come and go

and events are unavoidable

and nature is implacable

despite our arrogance it's not.

But while history never repeats

it does seem to rhyme.

So it's a good thing

that along with soothsayers and historians

there are also poets

and singers of song.

Who are just as often wrong

but never claimed to be right.

Whom we only expect

to entertain, distract, observe.

To choose their words carefully

and confect clever rhymes

and laugh at the absurd.

I've lived through a lot of big events.

When we were often breathless

at the importance of now.

At a radical “new normal”

and how history will take note.

But looking back, most of it was noise,

while all that really lasted

were protest songs, and poems

the speeches and slogans

and indelible quotes.

As the great man once said, so unforgettably

in his preacher's resonant voice

the arc of the universe is long

but it bends towards justice.

And according to the troubadour,

who thumbed his nose at authority

and channelled the common man
with such uncommon eloquence,

don't ask, I don't give a damn

next stop is Vietnam.

Who was also a poet, of sorts,

and knew he was living

in interesting times.

And who, unlike the historians

and self-promoting oracles

spoke in its midst

and got it right.

We are living through a global pandemic, when economies are crashing and governments scrambling to keep ahead of the curve. Two intersecting curves, actually: the one of public health, and the one of work. So we are told that history is being made, and that we live in consequential times.

But, of course, daily life never feels that way. And who can really decide, without the benefit of hindsight, just how significant these events will turn out to be?

So in part, this is a poem about epistemological arrogance and uncertainty. Who can definitively say if our future selves will look back and agree that history was being made? Or whether, instead, our current dilemma will simply rate a short paragraph in some grade school history book?

Will there be a “new normal”? Or will the stubbornness of human nature, our inherent vices and flaws, and our short memories mean that in the end nothing will really change? There are certainly possibilities for change in this: a new perspective on the necessary role of government; more attention to inequality; a cultural shift in what (and whom) we value; a greater sense of humility as a species; giving more importance to social cohesion and social trust; and an understanding that the liberal ethos of radical individualism can only take us so far.

It was Mark Twain who is reputed to have said “history doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes.” It seems there is some dispute about the authenticity of the quote. But it certainly sounds like Mark Twain, so why not give him credit? I see a similarity in the notion that “character is destiny” (which I prefer to think of as temperament, not character); but rather than an individual and the course of his life, it's human nature and the playing out of history. I think what is meant by rhyming but not repeating is that while the past predicts the future and there is some kind of rough continuity, it's never exact. And, as the poem says, there are externalities: shit happens which may have absolutely nothing to do with us – our nature, our actions, or our inaction. So sometimes, there is no rhyme as well as no reason.

The other quotes are from Martin Luther King and Country Joe McDonald. Who, if I hadn't just said it, would probably never have appeared in the same sentence together!

“May you live in interesting times” is reputed to be the translation of an ancient Chinese curse. Apparently, it's not. But the saying gained currency when it was used in a speech by RFK, and has since entered the language as a kind of trope. I quite like it. The ironic use of “interesting” has nice dry wit to it. And we always live in interesting times. It's just that our small diurnal lives, as the poem intimates, often don't feel quite so momentous.

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Here are the lyrics to the “Vietnam Song”, written by Joe McDonald, and made famous when it was performed at Woodstock by Country Joe and The Fish. As with most song lyrics, it's better sung than read.

Well, come on all of you, big strong men,

Uncle Sam needs your help again.

He's got himself in a terrible jam

Way down yonder in Vietnam

So put down your books and pick up a gun,

We're gonna have a whole lotta fun.

And it's one, two, three,

What are we fighting for?

Don't ask, I don't give a damn,

Next stop is Vietnam;

And it's five, six, seven,

Open up the pearly gates,

Well there ain't no time to wonder why,

Whoopee! we're all gonna die.

Come on Wall Street, don't be slow,

Why man, this is war au-go-go

There's plenty good money to be made

By supplying the Army with the tools of its trade,

But just hope and pray that if they drop the bomb,

They drop it on the Viet Cong.

And it's one, two, three,

What are we fighting for?

Don't ask, I don't give a damn,

Next stop is Vietnam.

And it's five, six, seven,

Open up the pearly gates,

Well there ain't no time to wonder why

Whoopee! we're all gonna die.

Well, come on generals, let's move fast;

Your big chance has come at last.

Now you can go out and get those reds

'Cause the only good commie is the one that's dead

And you know that peace can only be won

When we've blown 'em all to kingdom come.

And it's one, two, three,

What are we fighting for?

Don't ask, I don't give a damn,

Next stop is Vietnam;

And it's five, six, seven,

Open up the pearly gates,

Well there ain't no time to wonder why

Whoopee! we're all gonna die.

Come on mothers throughout the land,

Pack your boys off to Vietnam.

Come on fathers, and don't hesitate

To send your sons off before it's too late.

And you can be the first ones in your block

To have your boy come home in a box.

And it's one, two, three

What are we fighting for?

Don't ask, I don't give a damn,

Next stop is Vietnam.

And it's five, six, seven,

Open up the pearly gates,

Well there ain't no time to wonder why,

Whoopee! we're all gonna die.