Memories of a Strike or the Bleak Generation.
Introduction.
All the events described here are part of my recent past. Some may be
romanticized for the story's sake, but they all describe actual people,
actual feelings, and actual events.The action takes place in France in
november-december 1995, during the social movement which shook the
country and paralyzed its economy for about five weeks. I belong to the
new generation of Marxists, even though I do not really like to define
myself in these words, because, beyond "Marxism", "Socialism", and even
beyond "Revolution", I see myself as a proponent of the struggle against
all forms of alienation. Contemporary fighters of alienation have to
primarily adress the issues of their day. This short story is NOT
political, or it is so only to the extent that the issues of social
life are political. What I'm going to spit out here is hard: it deals
with life, with struggle, with hope, and with the loomiong ghost of
death. Sociologists and Psychologists are usually puzzled by our
generation, that is, the one which grew up in the 198Os and is reaching
adulthood now or has in the last few years. This generation resembles
none other. That's because our generation has something a little different about
itself than all other preeceding generations: it is confronted to
issues which never existed before or are acquiring a new meaning:
the advent of global communications, the deterioration of the
environment, the HIV-AIDS virus, recognition of sexual diversity,
wide-spread use of recreational drugs, persisting unemployment
and recurring crises. Sociologists and scholars have tried to
staple names on us. But they don't really get it. WE ARE THE
BLEAK GENERATION.
For any new world to be born, the old one
has to decay. In this sense, what some deem "decadence" is part
of the rebirth.
Memories of a Strike or the Bleak Generation
Paris,end of november 1995
I'm Balthazar. I'm in my studio apartment. Everything's a mess.
I don't really have any pressure to do anything, so I'm just
sitting down on this exploded leather sofa, smoking pot and
listening to Bob Marley. Suddenly, I hear a knock on the door.
I'm getting a bad vibe from this. Who could this be? I want
to be alone. Everything is kind of fuzzy, right now, you know,
so I'll see ya later,. whoever you are. The knock doesn't stop.
I sigh and I open the door. My friend Djordje barges in.
-"Man, everybody's in the street, what the hell are you up to? The
C.R.S. (paramilitary police force) are probably going to look for a fight. If you want to make a difference, get out of here!'
Suddenly, I feel this urge to DO something again, to
make a difference. After all, I hate Chirac's government. I consider
myself a revolutionary, so why don't I go out and fight? We leave and
soon get to the demonstration. Thousands and thousands of people are
there. The sky is blue and as cold as steel. Not a cloud in sight.
Students,. workers,women, men, young and old, gay and straight,
everybody's here TOGETHER to fight the government's reactionary
social and fiscal policies. This is an exilerating feeling. The
subway doesn't run at all, and despite that about 100 OOO people
are here right now. I'm really glad I came. I start believing again,
believing that it IS possible to change the world for the better,that
humans make history and that they don't just move through it. So we
all march. I'm on my crutches but I just have to keep going. This is
stronger than me....I'm back for Revolution again!
II
Students's General Coordination. Same day. Evening.
.
This is chaos. about 800 college students are here. They've elected a
National Coordination which is supposed to start its meetings here, before public scrutiny. The coordination was elected to carry out negotiations with
the Secretary of Higher Education. We're all here because we're desperate.
Overcrowded amphitheaters, professors who don't give a shit, no future after
college graduation because of the general unemployment situation, outdated
educational methods. We're all members of the bleak generation. Our generation
goes to raves. Our generation gets high. Our generation is freaked-out. And youcould actually see that right now. The Anarchist Student Union is occupying the
tribune, and have proclaimed this to be an "Experiment in Spontaneous Democracy". Everyone is speaking about everything, from unemployment and AIDS to the
granting of rights to trees and stars. The exileration is very great but we can't get anything done. Everyone in the back rows is stoned off hashish.
Usual social boundaries are melting, which is good, but nothing is getting done. Adrenaline is getting to my brain. I must get up to the tribune and make a speech. I'm sweating, it seems like everything within me is going to explode.
I get through this ocean of disenchanted youths. How did I do it? I don't know.
Suddenly, I'm up there, and the sight of my crutches imposes respect. People
in the front row, who can see me, seem a little awed. I can just see through
their minds right now. They're thinking: "Who is this guy? Is he an official of the UNEF-ID (Independent and Democratic Student Union of France, controlled by
the Social Democrats). We've never seen him before." I do not let myself be impressed with the bewilderment I have caused and I start the following improvised speech.
-"Comrades! The Student movement, in order not to die, has to solidarize itself
with the workers's movement! Our cause is one and the same, and we only have
one enemy: the government. Our cause is one and the same because we are fight ing a technocratic government which does not understand at all the true
ills of French society. This government will let people rot because of its
neo-liberal logic, it will let people die because it doesn't want to lose
its constituency of old ladies and priests by openly talking about AIDS
and organize efficient prevention, and we have no hope for a better future
outside uniting with the working class in order to bring it to its knees
and then smash it with the closed fist of our angered revolt!"
Some applaud. Some dismiss as an agitator. But I have elicited a response.
I'm happy, and I smile as I get down the steps. Someone is coming towards
me. A petite blonde with short hair, blue eyes and a very pale skin. She's
smiling at me, softly. I'm puzzled. Who is this girl? I've never seen her
before. Yet it seems she definitely wants to talk to me. I take a few steps towards her, as the croud slowly breaks.In a few seconds, I will exchange my first words with someone who passed through my life like a meteorite, and whom yet I shall never forget. I dedicate this story to her, and to all who are condemned to death while their only crime is that they've loved life too intensely.
It is hard for me to keep om writing at this point. But I HAVE TO!
I find myself facing her suddenly. I'm pretty embarrassed. She breaks the silence.
-"Hi!", "my name is J... I really liked your speech. Congratulations! It was really refreshing when students are really so apathetic. They don't realize that
that it's the whole society which has to be changed, not only the government orthe Secretary of Education".
-"My name's Balthazar. Nice to meet you! are you active politically?"
She answered that she was, all though not in the usual sense of the word.
She said she was involved in ACT-UP PARIS and was an art history student.
I answered I was a member of a group called International Socialism.
She laughed, and then said she didn't believe in Revolution, even though
she recognized that a radical social change was necessary. I laughed,
and said that this recognition was already a good start. It felt good to be
laughing with a stranger. Today, I can still hear that warm laughter coming out of her pale throat. Le souvenir de ton rire me donne envie de pleurer.-The
memory of your laugh makes me want to cry....
III
It's getting late. Groups are separating. People are leaving. I ask J if
she would care to have a drink with me somewhere at a nearby cafe. I feel boisterous tonight, and I'm happy. Speeches are always an ego-booster.J accepts. We go to the Latin Quarter. Saint-Michel. We have a beer. And th en another. I already feel she and I could become good friends. She laughs alot, and yet I feel that there is something odd about all this. I can't
help but think that perhaps her roars of laughter are a form escape.
She walks me home, and we part. I have promised to come to an ACT-UP
meeting.
IV
ACT-UP MEETING. SOME DAYS LATER.
The strike is going on. No public transportation. But I have the
feeling that Julie will be expecting me there. So I have to be
there somehow at 7:30 tonight. I eventually get there because some
guy on a motorcycle, a random stranger, accepts to drop me off.
Another proof that solidarity exists, and is not a vain word.
I get into the building. The faces are all friendly and warm.
The walls are dusty. They are talking about a new treatment
which prevents AIDS patients from going blind. The presentation
is very technical, and yet I get see the bright shine of hope
illuminate some of these people's eyes. They know that what this
man is talking about could change their lives, could render their agony less degrading. Some of them have horribly scarred faces.
I know that these are the first symptoms of the virus taking
control of their tormented, doomed bodies. I'm tormented. I'm
doomed. But not as they are. My heart goes out to them. SOLIDARITY
is the feeling I experience. It's beautiful
and frightening at the same time. Now, the presentation is
drawing to an end. They've been saying that this treatment
is already available in the United States and that they are
now lobbying the French government to get it approved in
France. I hope they succeed. Julie was here all along, even
though I didn't see throughout the presentation. She waves,
smiles at me and, within a few minutes, we face each other
again.
V
-"How are you? Did you find this interesting?"
Sweat is now rolling down my cheecks. I don't know what to say.
I don't know what to say. For lack of a better word, I find myself
uttering -"It was moving...." She smiles. But I feel there is
hidden bitterness in that smile. We start talking, and it turns out that we practically are neighbors. We have a quick dinner-a ham and grilled cheese sandwich French style or croaue-monsieur- and she
walks back with me again. Something tells me that she wants to
come in to talk. I warn her duly about the poor state of my
quarters, but she says she doesn't care. We get in. I put some
jazz on and then ask if she'd like to smoke a joint. She laughs.
-"Sure...anytime, Balthazar. I didn't think you were into that."
-"Well...who isn't here, these days, right?".
We smoke and get light-headed. Pretty soon we lay side by side on
the bed. The music is mellow. We are mellow. I run my fingers
through her golden hair. She doesn't ask me to stop. I feel
great. But something tells me I better leave at that for the
time being. We just talk for hours about life, about France,
about gangsterized cokehead President Chirac. Then, a little
abruptly, she gets up and tells me that she has to leave.
-"I'll call you sometime".
VI
Following Friday. 8:15 AM.
I'm sound asleep. The phone rings and abruptly awakens
me. I leave slumberland with a regret. But I soon
realize this is her. She has such a nice voice.
-"Hey Baltha (my "Balky" in France), what are you doing
tonight?"
-"hmmm....I had nothing planned. Why?"
-"I'm going to this rave with a few gay friends and I was
wondering if you'd like to come."
-" As long as they don't come on to me, sure. I'm not
interested in guys these days..."
Roar of laughter on the other end of the line. Why can I
make her laugh so easily? I don't know. It may be an
asset...we'll see what happens.
I plan to meet her at the club, with all her friends, some of whom I saw the other day. It isn't really a club,
actually, it's an underground space. Probably a squatt.
It's huge. About 1500 people are here. I've heard of this
place before. They have illegal raves here about twice
a month.
VI
THE RAVE
I'm wondering if I'll be able to find them here. It's so
crowded. It would be pretty dark in here, if it were not
for the strobe lights. Suddenly, I feel a touch on my
shoulder. It's her! She smiles, as always when she sees me,
which feels good. -"I've been looking for you all over the
place."
-"Me too, all though I just got here a moment ago". We go
to the bar for a beer. In the course of our conversation,
she casually mentions that she has ecstasy, and asks if
I'd like to take one with her. Wow! I didn't expect that at
all. I feel good, and I end up saying yes.
I take it. It tastes awful. A little bit like aspirin, but
not quite. We start dancing. No noticeable change occurs
for the next fourty minutes or so, and then suddenly.....
REVOLUTION OCCURS INSIDE MY BRAIN!
Everything is so beautiful! Everything is so nice!
Overwhelming feeling of empathy. All my fears, all my
anxieties have just vanished instantaneously. I feel
so light! I can dance, move about, I could probably fly
if I wanted to. Julie is dancing in front of me. Her
forms are SO attractive! She's dancing in front of me,
radiant. O do I wish to touch her! Sudddenly, like
an incandescent flash bursting though my brain, comes
the order: DO IT, MAN! JUST DO IT! YOU CAN, YOU CAN...
IT'S NOT VERBOTEN ANYMORE....
I take her in my arms. She sighs and lays her head
on my shoulder. I start caressing her hair, kissing her
lovely face, feeling her pert breast. It feels SO great! Suddenly, our mouths meet. Her kiss is soft and cunning
but I feel something odd about it, something desperate.
O! She is literally CLINGING to me. This is weird!
It's the first time in my life (and last to this day)
that a woman has ever let me touch her. I feel great
but I'm also greatly aroused by this unexpected flow
of affection. I feel like getting naked. I tell her.
Everything just seems so easy and simple, you know.
Suddenly, I feel her whole body is charged with a
negative vibe. She frowns. Her body is no longer smooth,
but cold.
-"Do you have condoms?", she asks, coldly. I don't
understand. What's wrong with wanting to have sex?
But then I realize I actually don't have condoms.
I tell her.
-"Let's get out of here, then! I'm tired. I want to go home. It's late."
Tired? We're both on X. Late? It's around three o'clock and the rave
doesn't finish till seven. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG? I try to insist that
we stay, that this was just a stupid incident, but she doesn't want to
hear anything. We both get out of this squatt and hail a cab in the
deserted damp and cold street. Not a word is exchanged in the car.
I feel good still, but I now realize how artificial this bodily feeling
is. The cab goes to her place first. She barely says good-bye to me.
Then I get home, finally, around 4 am.
VI
She hasn't called for days. Each time I call, I get her answering machine.
Then finally, one day, she picks up the phone by mistake, and I hear her
voice.
-"We better not see each other anymore, Balthazar. You're going back to Ameri ca. The strike is near dead. We met in extraordinary circumstances.
We never should have."
-"Why?"
-"I...I...can't tell you! You would hold it against me."
I get angry. I WANT A FUCKING EXPLANATION! Finally, she agrees to meet me
at the first cafe we went to together. It's two o'clock in the afternoon.
Fogg and rain fill the air. I get in. She's already there in front of
a fuming bowl of hot chocolate, reading the latest issue of "Le Monde",
which is commenting Alain Juppe's (Chirac's Prime Minister)s latest declaration on the social crisis.
I sit down and say nothing. Then, suddenly, she raises her eyebrows.
I face her. Then, words just came to my mind. I don't know how. I will
always remember that instant of my life. I said;
-"Who are you, Julie?"
She was holding back a sob. I touched her hair, softly. Tried to hold her
hand, but she withdrew it. All within a few seconds.
She answered -"Balthazar, I can't tell you who I am. I don't know anymore.
What I have to tell you is that I am a bearer of the HIV
virus. This is why I'm now working with ACT-UP. I'm
fighting to get a chance to stay alive."
My whole world is shattered. I must have turned white as a ghost.
I couldn't utter a word. And I was thinking to myself "Balthazar,
you stupid idiot! Why didn't you think about it?! What if you
caught it too, now, huh?" Within the fraction of a second, all
my fears, all my anxieties come rushing in on me like a thousand
little monsters. I can just see their ugly shapes. They're grey
as bleakness, cold as death and feverish as illness. I hugged
her and left. The next day I was crying all day, and my mom
found me sitting on my bed. But I didn't tell her anything.
I never saw Julie again.
Conclusion
I made the HIV test, just out of cautiousness. I tested negative. Even though one is supposed to wait for a six months incubation
period, every doctor or knowledgeable person I've confidentially
spoken to about this has told me that I shouldn't worry, because
chances of catching AIDS through kissing are almost nil. So I'm
not worried. Yet some people, here at Swarthmore, have told me
that I had a beautiful soul. This might be true. I don't know,
though, because I'm sort of ashamed of the fearful way in which
I reacted. Nowadays, whenever I have a crush on someone, it is
because I'm looking for a glimpse of her. The memory of her
laugh makes me want to cry...le souvenir de son rire me donne
envie de pleurer. And the memory of extatic, magic blue eyes,
so full of life. I never thought I would have told the whole
cyberworld about this. But I guess it was the only way to get it
out. Julie told me, in our last encounter, that she had come
towards me because she thought I wouldn't be afraid of weakness.
And yet I was. I hate all fearmongers. I hate Le Pen. I hate
Pat Buchanan. These people operate on fear, on fear of weakness
or fear of difference. The fundamental nature of the alienated
human lies there: fear of weakness {whether it be poverty or
illness) or fear of difference.THE ONLY WAY TO FIGHT FEAR IS LOVE.
Balthazar Alessandri O2/27/1996.