Current mood:

nostalgic

Pink diaper baby
The generic term for kids whose parents were members of the Communist Party in America was 'red diaper baby'. In my case, only my father's parents were CP, so I think that made me more of a pink diaper baby. My mother's parents were a strange combination -- heavily Fundi Christian, but my grandfather on that side was also a steelworker and thus a strong union man, far more politically liberal than most of the Baptists he consorted with.

My father's parents had broken with the Party in the late 30s, when it became obvious to anyone with any sense that yes, Stalin was a murderous, paranoid monster. A great many intellectual types refused to believe that things were as bad in Soviet Russia as they were, but Grandpa John, a jobbing carpenter all his life and a roofer, was better grounded, perhaps, and he could see what they were refusing to see. The family story runs that he went into the office of the leader of his cell, wherever it was the fellow worked, and announced he was leaving the Party. When said fellow objected that all those "rumors" about Stalin were just capitalist running dog lies, John took out a match, set the card on fire, and dropped it onto the guy's desk. In the resultant confusion he made his escape. :-)

Still, the ruination of the revolution broke his heart; he took to drinking until, by the time I knew him, he was going through a bottle of vodka a day.

When sufficiently fueled up with the water of life, he would discourse upon the failure of the Revolution. My grandmother, who harbored no illusions about him or the CP, normally would ignore the rants. One day, however, when we were all sitting in her kitchen, she had had enough. She'd spent all day baking for a big family event, and while he discoursed, she was cleaning up. Finally she turned to him with the wet dishrag in her hand and announced, "I am making my own revolution! You do the dishes!" She tossed the soaking wet rag into his face and stomped out of the room.

I can still see the look of astonishment on his now moist face as the rag slid slowly down onto his chest. I was expecting an outburst, but he merely put his glass down, took the rag, and got up to do the dishes, all in utter silence.

I think of this incident now and then when the subject of The Revolution comes up. It's colored my own political consciousness. No wonder I embraced feminism the minute I heard about it. I also thought of my grandparents during the early 70s, when I met the Dreadfully Serious Maoists. The DSM's believed many grim things, among them that women's rights should wait "until after the Revolution." Until that glorious day arrived, women were supposed to be silent, make the coffee, and paint the picket signs under male direction. Yeah, sure . . . No one was supposed to dance until after the Revolution, either. I went right on being a feminist and going dancing.

I've often wondered what happened to the DSMs. They all wanted so badly to be cadre and to fight for The People, but alas, The People just wanted them to shut up and go away.