A for Activism

A few weeks ago, Audrey and I went to see Michael Moore’s show on Broadway, The Terms of My Surrender. The tone was set in the opening moment, when Moore—dressed as frumpily as usual—walked onto a stage with an American flag motif as a backdrop and shouted, “How the fuck could this happen?”

Who is that man hiding behind Michael Moore's playbill?

The question seemed to glow in the air. It made us laugh and feel uncomfortable at the same time. We wondered if Moore was planning to tell us something during the show or was going to blame us for doing or for not doing something. The answer turned out to be both.

What followed was a 90-minute extended monologue (with a few entertaining detours) that focused not so much on the fame or infamy that Moore’s words and films have generated for him over the years but on the ways he has gone about earning that fame or infamy. Starting from his childhood days in Flint, Michigan (an archetypical blue collar city), Moore has done much more than shout or make documentary films to demonstrate his activism. He has—well—acted! And he was making a plea or a demand for us audience members to get our act together and begin acting ourselves.

One of his stories hit close to home for me. Moore told about his adventures while attending Boys’ State in Michigan the summer before his senior year in high school. Guess what? I did the same thing in Georgia about five years earlier than Moore had. 

Moore felt uncomfortable during the week he spent with hundreds of overachievers or would-be politicos. So he used his time writing a speech for a Boys’ State contest sponsored by the Elks Club on the life and impact of Abraham Lincoln. As it turned out, Moore had a grievance against the Elks. His father had decided not to join the organization when he learned that being white was a key requirement for membership at that time. That was soon to change, and Moore was a key reason for the change. Amazingly, his speech attacking the Elks in Lincoln’s name won the contest, and he delivered it in front of several Elks leaders who were I’m sure both angry and embarrassed. The story made the national news, and within a year, the Elks and other fraternal organizations were shamed into opening their membership to all races.

My Boys’ State experience was different from Moore’s, though it did have a couple of activist moments. For the most part. I enjoyed the politicizing that went on during the week and even got caught up in the races for Boys’ State governor and legislature that were held there. I didn’t run for office, but served as one of the party whips, which meant that I was expected to whip up support for my party’s candidates. I became deeply involved in backroom intrigue, making promises and counting votes. If smoking had been allowed, we whips would have worked long into the night in smoke-filled caucus rooms. This was 1966, after all, the days of old-fashioned politicos such as Lyndon Johnson and Everett Dirksen and Sam Rayburn. Of course, it was also the time of Georgia’s notorious racist governor Lester Maddox. My memory is that I was never required to shake his hand when he visited the program that summer. I’d like to think that I would have refused to do so if asked. (In my mind, I was much more of a badass than in real life.)

The week was about more than playing at politics; it also was filled with the undercurrent of the Vietnam War. June of 1966 was a high point of the war, and we males approaching high school graduation were getting worried. Feelings ran high in Georgia on both sides of the Vietnam debate. Like most young “activists,” I opposed the war, which was easier in that I didn’t yet have a draft card to worry about heeding or burning. (“Hell no, I won’t go!” I shouted, and then mumbled in an undertone, “. . . unless somebody makes me.”) We could talk tough because we were all certain that we were going to get college deferments, or so we hoped.

One of the loudest of us objectors was a student from Moultrie, Georgia, named John F. (I’m protecting his identity here because I still don’t trust that J. Edgar Hoover isn’t coming back from his place in Hell to get us.) Georgia Senator Herman Talmadge was coming to speak to us one afternoon. (Talmadge was a strong war supporter at the time; amazingly, he would change his stance a few years later). John told us that he was going to grill the senator over the coals, just wait and see! Talmadge spoke for 30 minutes or so, driveling on about why the fight in Vietnam was so important for U. S. interests. Then he agreed to take questions from us guys. John’s hand immediately went up, and there was smoke coming out of his nostrils. “Senator Talmadge,” he shouted. “I’m John F. from Moultrie.”

Senator Herman Talmadge could bring forth fire and brimstone,
or he could sweet talk to get his way.

That was all he could get out before Talmadge gave him a smile and turned on the charm. “John F. from Moultrie. Do you have a brother named Paul?”

“Yessir.”

“Didn’t he work in my office last summer as a college intern?”

“Yessir.”

“Great guy. How’s he doing? Please give him my best. Tell him I remember him well.”

John started to gulp.

“Now, what was your question?”

“A-hum-a- nuh, a-hum-a-nuh,” John seemed to deflate as he sank back into his chair.

It was a perfect lesson on how politicians are able to grab and hold control over an audience.

If only John had had a few lessons from Michael Moore before trying to take on the senator that day.

Up until a few weeks ago, that’s where my Boys’ State memory of John F. ended. But after our evening with Michael Moore, I decided to find out whatever happened to John. Through the magic of Google, I was able to learn a new chapter. It seems that John rebounded from his Boys’ State deflation to head to college and even to Harvard Law School. He practiced law for many years and then found a new outlet for his energies. He became a psychic and teacher of meditation and psychic development. An article I read online refers to John as “one of the nation’s better known serious psychics.”

I am not sure what qualifies one as a serious psychic, but I’m sure it requires a special type of activism. And I’m sure I would have as much to learn from John as from Michael Moore about how to give voice to my thoughts and hopes.