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listen; they d o n ’t read; they d on ’t care. They’re stupid and proud of it. Things are bad and rapidly getting worse. In my m ind ’s ear I could hear the refrain from a popular Jim my C liff song: ’’Never needed nobody to show me how to walk. Never needed nobody to teach me how to talk!” This could be the anthem of the young, sung to a laid-back reggae beat. My head was shaking with deep discouragement. Suddenly, I regained hearing in my real ear as a change in my coauthor’s voice brought me round.) ’’All of this, of course, is not untrue. Yet, over the years, I have come to realize that thoughts which fill me with despair about the future of humanity and, simultaneously, puff me up with self-righteous indigna tion are invariably erroneous.” (Erroneous? Boy, did I feel stupid, young and inexperienced! Too late to stop the audible signs of my despondency from traveling across Ma B ell’s wires. I pretended to be exhaling deeply, but it was mere useless cover up. A sigh is a sigh, and I knew it. But there was some chance she had missed it, for she was off and running again.) ”So, of necessity and in pursuit of truth, I thought to take this matter under study from an entirely different perspective. I have not been old so long I cannot remember being young. I searched my memory and recalled the times I spent sitting at an elder’s knee and listening; and listening; and listening. I remember how well spoken older people were and how they never suffered from shortness of breath. They talked and talked and — how well I can remember — never listened. In fact, I realized that, when I was young, the old wanted us around only when they required an audience or, better yet, an army. Why should the young listen to the old? Who — if not one’s predecessors — is responsible for all the prejudice, superstition and ignorance in the world? The old, are they not perpetually defending the established wisdom, the order of the status quo — even if it means insisting that the earth is flat? tradition, not truth, is the cause they rally 'round. This line of thinking brings George Orwell’s 1984 to mind. In that novel, you will recall, the state enforces complete tyranny over its citizens. The strategy for maintaining power and control entails a continous revision of history. Books, newspapers, official documents, all forms of evidence bearing witness to the past are amended to conform with the present party line. ’Who controls the past, controls the future; who controls the present, controls the past,’ states the party slogan.” (Icy tingles of paranoia crept up my spine. She was right! Who is it who controls our past, present and future? I thought o f Henry Kissinger writing his memoirs, o f feminist historians being denied tenure, of the Inquisition. God knows, I shuddered, our only hope is with the young! They must turn deaf ears to the false whisperings of the aged... Hey, wait just a minute, I thought. I ’ve been this way before. You’re not leading me down the primrose path again, honey. I'll just wait and listen before getting too excited. I ’m not finding out I've come down on the wrong side again.) ’’However, being satire, Orwell’s novel should not be read as literally true." (N ow was I right or was I right? Did I see that coming or what?) "Doing so would be altogether too naive. Only the addlebrained can believe that there is one, correct and forever accurate account of human events or that some Evil One — be that a person or a party — can suppress this truth eternally and enslave the rest of us. Such a vision is, essentially, the stuff of childish nightmares and, therfore, all the more frightening.” (Well, sure, I knew that.) "Returning to reality — or, rather, my version of it as opposed to Orwell’s — we are bound to realize that continuous revision is the permanent mode of history.. Unfortunately, nothing stays the same. Each event is modified by those that follow from it. Thus, our view of the past is everchanging, as it must be. Moreover, our perceptions change not necessarily because our initial apprehension was incorrect or because we later purposefully misrepresent what we like to call the facts of the matter. We change our mind about the past because time passes, because we must. To borrow a phrase from Dionysius of Halicarnassus: ’History is philosophy learned from examples.’ ” (O ld Dionysius, did he say that? Must have been some time ago — BC, no doubt. I ’ll tell you, the more things change the more they stay the same.) "And here, you see, we’ve stumbled onto the source of all contention between the generations. Caught in the flow of time, we can never free ourselves of the causes set in motion by our predecessors nor of the consequences visited upon us by our heirs. We can assume, therefore, that opposition between those who come before and those who follow after is inevitable, a natural aspect of the human condition. Moreover, this quarrel is neither personal nor one that is peculiar to our times. ’How can you destroy what I’ve spent a lifetime building?’ lament the old in desperation. ’How could you leave the world in such a mess?’ demand the young in outrage. The argument has remained the same since the dawn of recorded history. And so we stand glaring at each other across time, all of us overeagerly pointing an accusing finger. I will allow that the young are not altogether incorrect in complaining that, as guides, the older generation leaves a lot to be desired. We’re only human. Besides, let’s look at it from an aged point of view. Our every hope — our only hope — for the future lies in you, the young. And believe me, from where I stand, you oftentimes appear to hold so little promise that the situation looks godawful grim, indeed. That’s when it’s hardest to remember that each generation is duty-bound to provide guidance to the next. It would be so much easier to write you off as failures, to simply let you cut off your nose to spite your collective face. After all, why should I care? 24 ’НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, СІЧЕНЬ 1980 Видання C оюзу Українок A мерики - перевидано в електронному форматі в 2012 році . A рхів C У A - Ню Йорк , Н . Й . C Ш A.
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