Nonviolence in the Civil Rights Movement

Every time I read anything by Martin Luther King, Jr., I am struck by the power of his rhetoric. His Letter From a Birmingham Jail is no exception. His response to those clergymen who wrote so unsympathetically toward him and the entire movement is quite simply amazing and inspiring.

The mere fact that he writes so calmly and thoughtfully in the midst of such a tumultuous and frustrating (to put it mildly) situation is enough to prove King's true belief in the forgiveness and nonviolence that he preached, but there is more than that apparent in his work. King utilizes a strategy of building up and complimenting his detractors in such a way as to render impossible any protest or disagreement on their part. For example, he addresses the clergymen's "concern" by stating that he is "sure that none of [them] would want to rest content with the superficial kind of social analysis that deals merely with effects and does not grapple with underlying causes." And who could possibly contradict a statement like that while leaving their own dignity intact?

King later uses another powerful rhetorical tactic when he "assumes" logical and sympathetic questions coming from his detractors, then compliments them on their thinking abilities and their compassion: "You may well ask, 'Why direct action? ... Isn't negotiation a better path?' You are quite right in calling for negotiation." This technique is incredibly clever, for how can they argue when the idea, so highly praised, is attributed to themselves?

Perhaps even more inspiring than King's own writing, however, are the accounts of his actions written by others around him. Rosa Parks' description of King literally turning the other cheek to the man who attacked him is humbling, to say the least. If only more of us could be so completely true to our beliefs -- the world would certainly be a better place.

Of course, King was not the only civil rights activist during this time, and the other heroic acts of nonviolence and forgiveness and understanding are equally impressive. It was a wrenching experience just to read Anne Moody's horrific tale of being not simply arrested, but tortured in the heat of a locked van and interned in cattle stalls, merely for peacefully marching in protest. But to know that those things were happening constantly during this era and then to read James Baldwin's sympathetic account of the white citizens' reactions to black protest in Montgomery is almost more shocking. Baldwin describes the "huffy, offended silence" of the whites on an integrated bus as the result of "a really serious lovers' quarrel: the whites, beneath their cold hostility, were mystified and deeply hurt." The quiet understanding and empathy displayed in these lines are truly mystifying to me. After enduring so much at the hands of these people, Baldwin still genuinely cares about their emotional and mental well-being.

This nonviolent reaction becomes more powerful to behold when I consider, in contrast, the usual reaction of our nation to any sign of threat, real or perceived. Instead of turning the other cheek, we strike back in fury. Instead of empathizing with bystanders (let alone perpetrators), we carelessly and messily attack. Instead of nonviolence, we use all the force we can muster, with threats of more and insults to any who dare oppose our agenda. The U.S. civil rights movement has now culminated in the election of a black president, but we must remember that the world wide human rights struggle continues. The unknown is always more feared and hated than the known, so, as King said, "Let us hope that the...deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear-drenched communities," that we as a nation may choose to live in peace rather than in war, in solidarity rather than in aggression.

Ginsberg and the Beats

Reading poetry by Allen Ginsberg silently to oneself is like watching a movie with the sound turned off. Ginsberg’s poems are as much songs to be sung aloud or speeches to be emphatically voiced or even skits to be acted out as they are words to be read on a page. His use of authentic American dialect and speech patterns (much like Robert Frost or Samuel Clemens used) works to bring his words as easily and smoothly to the lips of his readers as to their minds.

That said, I was a little disappointed with the poem selected for this anthology. Kral Majales is effective (especially in the second half with the repetition of “I am the King of May” before each new thought), but for some reason it’s just not one of my favorites. Nevertheless, it does show the typical expression of irony, anger, and loneliness found in most of his poetry, and it takes on the intimate, almost confessional tone popularized by the apparent movement of writers in the ’50s first to the psychiatrist’s office and then directly to the typewriter to share their most private findings with the world at large.

My favorite poem of Ginsberg’s is one that doesn’t actually show up in the anthology: the classic America. In America, Ginsberg admits, “I smoke marijuana every chance I get. / … When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.” Whatever else you may think of them, the pure honesty of the Beats has to be admired. The perfectly open and candid dialogue between the author and his reader proves effective not only in sharing personal details, but also in addressing much larger issues, such as political and social protestation and commentary. Ginsberg grew up in a politically charged household with communist socialist parents, Jewish emigrants from Russia. He was instilled with a strong faith in the power for change to be found in rhetorical protest, and it certainly seems that this belief shines through in his radically politically-minded poetry. At times, he will directly state his solution to a crisis he observes (“America when will you send your eggs to India?”), and, at other times, he seems to know that all he can do about the problem is bring it out into the open (“America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.”), which he was never afraid to do, even during the era of McCarthyism and enforced conformity.

Proving their worth in literary history, Ginsberg and the rest of the Beats wrote about what was real. They wrote the truth as they saw it, and nothing was too sacred for their exploration—be it politics, American values, sex, drugs, war, their own lives, their secrets, their fears, or their loves.

In the line, “Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love”, Ginsberg reflects the feeling that our most human values—love, compassion, wonder—are threatened and even on the verge of extinction in our unfeeling, impassive modern culture. To me, at least, this sentiment (among others) illuminates how the social criticism of the Beats in the ’50s led directly to the humanist movements of the Hippies in the ’60s.