The Rhapsody Of Social Justice - A Happy, Incidental, Bad Musical Comedy

Valeria Simmons stood before a gathering of friends and colleagues in the living room of her modest suburban house and smiled.  This was the event that she had planned for weeks, months even if you counted time tossing and turning in bed at three o'clock in the morning deciding on what canapes and background music to have; and now it was here.  

The bouquet of flowers from her friend, Marjorie, the economist turned florist, the scented candles from The Little Shop On The Corner, the rainbow bunting, and the portrait of Martin Luther King, drawn by her closest college friend were all just right, perfect in fact, and all in keeping with the intended mood of the gathering - serious but with Valeria's particularly happy optimism. 

'I'm so happy you all could come', she began, smiling broadly. 'It means a lot to me', and so it did.  The friendship, the collegiality, the camaraderie centered on their common sentiments of progressive justice was ingratiating.  This was something conservatives in their rush to individualism, markets, and social free-for-all would never understand.  Politics are more than policy and principle.  They are about belonging. 

Valeria, as committed a progressive as any, a woman who was never shy about lawn signs, protests, festoons, and marches 'for dignity', had always valued temperance; that is, expressing the most impassioned ideas in moderate language, suggesting the logic behind the emotion. 

'The President', she said...Now here anyone else could have simply said 'Trump', smirked, and given an ironic smile, but Valeria wanted to set a more reasoned tone.  There was no need for either raising her voice or calling him names - that was for the rabble, but she, a magna cum laude from a prominent Ivy League sister school, felt herself in a different class altogether.  She would be no less critical of the depredations, insanity, and seditious actions of the President than any other progressive; but she would show her commitment in more measured ways. 

In her younger days, the Internationale and Cuban revolutionary songs would be sung, arms locked in solidarity, hugs and warm embraces of love and political union shared all around; but the Sturm und Drang of Che Guevara, Fidel Castro, and Cuban peasant era would be inappropriate, outdated, and looked at with suspicion today.

'Ah, those were the days', Valeria reminisced, the cold water basement apartments in the Village, smoking dope, making love till the wee hours of the morning, and arguing Hegel and Marx over espresso at Cafe Noir.  Politics felt good in those days, it filled life with energy, passion and a raison d'etre. It felt good just to be alive, to love, to share, and to be part of something bigger than oneself. 

She, like most Sixties children of love, never burned down buildings like the Weathermen, never firebombed government offices, nor set fire to police cars in Watts, Newark, or Detroit. They, despite their passionate commitment to the socialist cause were bystanders, well-meaning, sincere, but never willing to risk family and career.  

After college Valeria joined one of Washington's many non-profit agencies supportive of civil rights. She was no Freedom Rider and not one to put herself in the way of Bull Connor's attack dogs and police truncheons, but she was no less a partisan and did her part as a speech writer for the well-known head of her agency who had been arrested with Mark Rudd during the takeover of Columbia, who had moved to Berkeley and was instrumental in the Free Speech movement, and who, on probation and under FBI surveillance, was the spokesman for progressive reform. 

As Valeria reminisced about the halcyon days of the Sixties, the Cuban Revolution, and the promise of social justice throughout the hemisphere, a lone voice began singing Hasta Siempre, Comandante the anthem of the Cuban revolution, and soon the entire group joined her in the chorus. 

Again and again, voices were raised, arms raised, fists thrust into the air in defiant salute, and the chorus was repeated again and again.  It was a heady, unforgettable moment of remembrance, reminiscence, youth, and solidarity. Old passions still burned.  Che Guevara might be gone but La Lucha Continua!, a battle cry turned religious hosannah, catechetical verse.  It was beautiful. 

Aquí se queda la clara,

la entrañable transparencia,

de tu querida presencia,

Comandante Che Guevara.

When the singing quieted, people once again turned their eyes to Valeria who, like them was in tears, smiling through it all, happier than she had been in years.  She walked into the group, shared hugs and kisses and with them, sang loudly and as proud as could be. 

The rest of the evening returned to normal - enjoying the delicious canapes catered by Ridgewell's, sipping the marvelous '82 Chateau Lafitte Rothschild, sampling the roast beef, smoked salmon and especially the delicious pate de foie gras. 

The incongruity of it all was not noticed, nor the irony of the patrician banquet amidst socialist solidarity. It was all part of the order of things in liberal suburban Washington.  It was the commitment that mattered, the interior passion, the unflinching solidarity with the fight for social justice, climate sanity, and economic equality 

Valeria was touched by the outpouring of love and affection shown to her that evening.  Her guests were appreciative of her desire, her magnificent orchestration, the feast worthy of a king, and most of all her love for them and the world around them. 

Bradley Archer, the husband of Penny Archer, longtime associate of Valeria and comrade in arms, who joined his wife only as part of the quid pro quo agreement which held their marriage together, was far less kind, calling the event 'a very bad musical comedy'. 

It had all the elements - music, uplift, happy people and happier endings, bountiful community hijinks - but it all was off kilter.  The dance numbers were correct, the smiles properly bright, the lines delivered con brio but one could not help thinking that this was a show about to be closed down, its limited run finished after a dismal opening.  

The critics would be unsparing.  'A fiasco of unimagined proportions...a gaggle of hyperactive sob sisters...a plotline cobbled from the worst of Lenin...cheers, cries, and flapdoodle signifying nothing at all...' The cast would take a bow, and Valeria would walk out to the edge of the proscenium and receive a giant bouquet of roses. 

Brad looked for a way out, some convenient exit from this awful menagerie and this brutally painful, insufferable cant.  He whispered to his wife that it might be time to leave, but she was in her element, the young farm girl in an Oklahoma! reprise about to take center stage and sing her number, so Brad took another drink from the Martini snifter, added an extra olive and sat in a warm corner, one with some kitschy Peruvian dolls and a French marionette. 

The party went on until late.  No one left as the talk got serious, old chestnuts served, some new animus aired.  Political solidarity has many benefits, perhaps the best is singing from the same choir book. No dissent, no arguments, no umbrage or hurt feelings.  Just a heady togetherness and unity over the central issue - hatred of Donald Trump and all he stands for. 

It was after midnight when the maid cleared the table, straightened the furniture, turned down the heat and retired to her chambers.  Valeria couldn't sleep of course, so enthused and alive was she, delighted, happy, and as optimistic as she ever had been.  It felt good to do good, to be on the right side, to challenge the forces of evil, to be bounteous and compassionate, to be united. 

'You drive', said Brad, now as drunk as a skunk, to his wife.  The curtain had finally come down, the awful show was over, and it was time to go to bed.