{"id":127064,"date":"2018-06-28T11:00:40","date_gmt":"2018-06-28T15:00:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=127064"},"modified":"2018-06-29T13:05:30","modified_gmt":"2018-06-29T17:05:30","slug":"what-comes-after-idealism","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/06\/28\/what-comes-after-idealism\/","title":{"rendered":"What Comes After Idealism?"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cClass of \u201936, I guess we did something wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n

This is what my grandmother wrote to her Barnard College classmates fifty years after they had all graduated. My grandmother was charismatic and uncompromising, equally critical of capitalism and sentimentality. In her life as a Westchester housewife and radical leftist, she\u2019d planned protests, played tennis, and published mystery novels. When her children were grown, she moved to Manhattan, waking every morning at five to walk briskly around Central Park (she was mugged only a few times). She spent the rest of the day writing and tending the ivy she\u2019d planted to beautify the trees along her block. Every Saturday, she organized against U.S. atrocities in Central America.<\/p>\n

Days before she died in 1992, while attached to an IV, a blood transfusion, and oxygen, she dictated the final paragraph of her eighteenth book to my mother. The book was, she explained, the first in a new series she planned to write. At her memorial a week later, held in a classroom at Barnard College, her five children yelled and laughed and interrupted one another. She\u2019d taught them to rebel against society\u2019s mawkish ceremonies, like memorial services, as well as its unjust institutions. Her children all inherited her radical politics, and they raised us, her twelve grandchildren, in the same mode. You can be anything, they joked, as long as it\u2019s a public defender. Interpreting this broadly, we complied.\u00a0<\/p>\n

A month after the memorial, I received in the mail a thick spiral-bound book of my grandmother\u2019s unpublished writing, compiled by my aunt. While most of the pages are filled with witty poems that my grandmother composed for celebrations, there is also a photocopy from her fiftieth-reunion book, one of those alumni books to which you\u2019re invited to send in a list of your degrees and progeny along with a brief life update. But my grandmother didn\u2019t send an update. She sent a condemnation in five sentences. \u201cAnyone our age has to stand abashed at the state of the world,\u201d she begins. \u201cFor thirty or so years after we graduated, we felt, we may have been entitled to feel, vaguely self-congratulatory: if we preoccupied ourselves with such matters at all, we could assign to our efforts a small but perceptible effect; things were getting better. That comfortable illusion no longer seems to me possible. Put a finger anyplace on the globe today, and there is warfare, harassment, piles of dreadful weapons, appalling gaps between rich and poor.\u201d She finishes with her biting summation, the first-person plural opening its arms to include every alum: \u201cClass of \u201936, I guess we did something wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n

That despair in her words? I know it well. As a family of atheist Jews, our only god was cynicism. I\u2019d been told my whole life: Work hard to change the world, but guess what? Despite your efforts, the world will grow increasingly fucked.<\/p>\n

Her words remind me, more than anything, of a picture book I read as a child, whose title I can now no longer recall. I\u2019ve searched for it on the Internet to no avail. It was about an old, witchy woman who tried to rid the world of nighttime. With her broom, she swept frantically at the sky all night, resting victoriously when morning broke, only to be devastated when darkness fell again. I was horrified by the book\u2019s metaphoric implications. It was my earliest introduction to futility.<\/p>\n

As I became an adult, I tried, peripatetically and desultorily, to keep my grandmother\u2019s admonitions in mind. I attended protests and planned boycotts, but they were always clearly the wrong protests and boycotts because all around me, night continued to fall; things got worse. I grew angry, rolled my eyes at bumper stickers, at articles preaching to the choir, at everyone\u2019s insufficient efforts.<\/p>\n

Out of that rage, I began to write a novel. I moved to Manhattan, not far from my grandmother\u2019s block, where the ivy no longer grew. I wanted to write about being my grandmother\u2019s granddaughter, about inheriting an idealism laced with disillusionment. I wanted to explain how it felt to grow up with a feverish love for Woody Guthrie\u2019s anti-fascism and Cesar Chavez\u2019s hunger strikes, for linking arms at a protest and singing \u201cWe Shall Overcome\u201d\u2014and then how it felt for that love to be tarnished, as if we stood under dark clouds that spelled out the words DOOM<\/small> and NOT GOING TO HELP<\/small>.<\/p>\n

The book began out of rage and, I\u2019ll admit, hubris\u2014a youthful idealism. I remember a professor telling me that no novel could be written in less than two years. I nodded and inwardly disagreed, confident that I\u2019d finish in a year, eighteen months tops, after which I\u2019d finally go to school to become, in the narrowest sense, a public defender. In fact, it took me fifteen years to finish that book. I wrote other things during that decade and a half. I taught classes, raised babies. But still, intermittently for fifteen years, I worked on draft after draft, each one somehow wrong.<\/p>\n

A strange thing happened to me during this time of failure. I\u2019d begun the book furious about the end of idealism, but as the years passed, I began to understand that when idealism ends, well, that\u2019s when things get interesting. After all, you don\u2019t need to simply desist when disillusioned. No, you can show up for work anyway, not with earnestness or sentimentality (my grandmother would shudder at that) but with a buoyant sense of the absurd. It\u2019s absurd to write another draft of a book that isn\u2019t working. It\u2019s absurd to protest war after war after war. It\u2019s absurd to call our congressional representatives each morning to register our horror at yet another inhumane action of the Trump administration. But there\u2019s beauty in this absurdity\u2014and plenty of humor too.<\/p>\n

For years, as I kept my grandmother\u2019s five sentences in mind, I was angry at myself and everyone else for not figuring out a way to do something unequivocally right. Now I\u2019m keeping her actions in my mind instead. I\u2019m beginning to understand what it means to live with an idealism conjoined with despair, with cynicism. It means you work despite<\/em> futility.<\/em> You go to a protest, shout alongside strangers, and come home to read the terrible news. You plot out your new series of mystery novels while dying in a hospital bed. It\u2019s easy, I see now, to write five lines of condemnation. We do it on Twitter every day. It\u2019s harder to live absurdly, as my grandmother did, to drag the folding table down to Greenwich Village to collect signatures on petitions that will most certainly not remove U.S. death squads from El Salvador, to water the ivy even though one day it, too, will die. We fail and fail. We stand abashed. We are doing something wrong. But look how beautiful we are, as we keep sweeping the darkness back each night, to allow one more day to arrive.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Heather Abel\u2019s debut novel, <\/em>The Optimistic Decade, which is about idealism and disillusionment, is out now from Algonquin.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  \u201cClass of \u201936, I guess we did something wrong.\u201d This is what my grandmother wrote to her Barnard College classmates fifty years after they had all graduated. My grandmother was charismatic and uncompromising, equally critical of capitalism and sentimentality. In her life as a Westchester housewife and radical leftist, she\u2019d planned protests, played tennis, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1382,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-127064","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat Comes After Idealism?<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"When idealism ends, well, that\u2019s when things get interesting.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/06\/28\/what-comes-after-idealism\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"What Comes After Idealism? 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