In response to the Prompt: What inspires you (or your writing) to get “political”, and what does the word “politics” mean to you?
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Everything I write is inherently political though I do not write about politics. Nothing inspires me to get political: I am political because I am human and, because I am human, everything I think, feel, and do is personal. Politics is inextricable from living and living is a personal affair.
I was eight when my father asked me not to sing the BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation) radio tune outside our home. In fascist Portugal, listening to a station that reported on events around the world was tantamount to state treason. My father did listen to the BBC at night and I loved the tune they played before the news. I did not understand the news, though; I did not speak English then.
One day my mother heard me sing the melody as she walked me to school and that evening my father had a serious talk with me; when it was over, my childhood had been replaced by the clear understanding, which I have valued ever since, that a song can kill; that there is a price for truth; that speaking a language other than one’s own opens avenues of possibility; that the personal is political, whether one knows it or not, whether one wants it to be so or not.
I could fill a book with the sometimes open, sometimes hidden political implications of decisions I witnessed people making as I grew up. Some were in the public domain, like opening or closing a school, starting a colonial war in Africa, or having a political revolution bring back democracy. Others were more personal, like answering the call for conscription or abandoning country and nationality; telling or not telling on your neighbors; reading or not reading, and reading what; getting married or living with your partner; choosing a partner of one gender or another, or choosing no partner at all. Like a magnifying lens, a dictatorial system only shows more clearly the political nature of even the most personal decisions. In democratic societies, it is sometimes easy to forget it, though those whose intimate choices go against the grain of family, social, or national group will doubtless remind us, if we listen.
When I was twenty-one I came to the States for a year with a Fulbright scholarship. I had studied in a few countries in Europe and had no particular concerns about my adaptation. But being able to speak the language was not enough here; there was a code, a code I had to crack if I wanted to be heard, and as hard as I tried, I kept failing. To my classmates, politics was an uninteresting topic and my curiosity about the politics of the country a little unsettling; my observations on social situations I found baffling were left hanging in the air, as if discussing them was rude, or hostile. I found myself being courted by groups with whom I had nothing in common, whose members spoke of “politics” in one-track ways, and for whom “it” was responsible for the evils they saw everywhere, rather than a force for good, as well as evil, embroidered in the fabric of everyone’s life.
Back in Europe, it felt good to take the bus and listen to people - teachers, shopkeepers, students, waiters, anyone really - discuss the politics of the day (sometimes argue, too) and how it affected their lives. In my constant attempts to give meaning to my American experience, I hit upon the thought that the bus might hold part of the answer to the puzzle. Most people in Europe take the bus, whether in Lisbon, London, or Amsterdam. I also noticed, as if for the first time, that at the end of the workday much of the population can be found having a cup of coffee or a drink at a café, all the while complaining about how the latest economic measure impacted the price of the drink. Sharing space, sharing opinions - sharing, tout court - may be the ingredient that strengthens the social in spite of individual interests and goals. Discussing the price of milk is politics.
Twenty years after my Fulbright experience I moved to the States (life’s a trickster), a country I have come to love deeply. Recently, a colleague commented, “In Europe all people talk about is politics,” to which someone added, “Yeah, they like talking about politics.” All I had to say was: “Yes, we do. We think it’s important.”
I was eight when my father asked me not to sing the BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation) radio tune outside our home. In fascist Portugal, listening to a station that reported on events around the world was tantamount to state treason. My father did listen to the BBC at night and I loved the tune they played before the news. I did not understand the news, though; I did not speak English then.
One day my mother heard me sing the melody as she walked me to school and that evening my father had a serious talk with me; when it was over, my childhood had been replaced by the clear understanding, which I have valued ever since, that a song can kill; that there is a price for truth; that speaking a language other than one’s own opens avenues of possibility; that the personal is political, whether one knows it or not, whether one wants it to be so or not.
I could fill a book with the sometimes open, sometimes hidden political implications of decisions I witnessed people making as I grew up. Some were in the public domain, like opening or closing a school, starting a colonial war in Africa, or having a political revolution bring back democracy. Others were more personal, like answering the call for conscription or abandoning country and nationality; telling or not telling on your neighbors; reading or not reading, and reading what; getting married or living with your partner; choosing a partner of one gender or another, or choosing no partner at all. Like a magnifying lens, a dictatorial system only shows more clearly the political nature of even the most personal decisions. In democratic societies, it is sometimes easy to forget it, though those whose intimate choices go against the grain of family, social, or national group will doubtless remind us, if we listen.
When I was twenty-one I came to the States for a year with a Fulbright scholarship. I had studied in a few countries in Europe and had no particular concerns about my adaptation. But being able to speak the language was not enough here; there was a code, a code I had to crack if I wanted to be heard, and as hard as I tried, I kept failing. To my classmates, politics was an uninteresting topic and my curiosity about the politics of the country a little unsettling; my observations on social situations I found baffling were left hanging in the air, as if discussing them was rude, or hostile. I found myself being courted by groups with whom I had nothing in common, whose members spoke of “politics” in one-track ways, and for whom “it” was responsible for the evils they saw everywhere, rather than a force for good, as well as evil, embroidered in the fabric of everyone’s life.
Back in Europe, it felt good to take the bus and listen to people - teachers, shopkeepers, students, waiters, anyone really - discuss the politics of the day (sometimes argue, too) and how it affected their lives. In my constant attempts to give meaning to my American experience, I hit upon the thought that the bus might hold part of the answer to the puzzle. Most people in Europe take the bus, whether in Lisbon, London, or Amsterdam. I also noticed, as if for the first time, that at the end of the workday much of the population can be found having a cup of coffee or a drink at a café, all the while complaining about how the latest economic measure impacted the price of the drink. Sharing space, sharing opinions - sharing, tout court - may be the ingredient that strengthens the social in spite of individual interests and goals. Discussing the price of milk is politics.
Twenty years after my Fulbright experience I moved to the States (life’s a trickster), a country I have come to love deeply. Recently, a colleague commented, “In Europe all people talk about is politics,” to which someone added, “Yeah, they like talking about politics.” All I had to say was: “Yes, we do. We think it’s important.”
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To Joyce - I read your comments with much attention to make sure I understood your points clearly. I do not share some of your premises, but it was very interesting to hear what you think.Thank you for reading my response to the prompt and taking the time to write.
To Amy Ferris - Thank you for your comments. And congratulations on your publishing successes.
wonderful! just perfectly wonderful. thank you clara!
xox
To Gloria - To write this response I had to make a serious effort to get outside my head because (of course) in my head this is obvious. It was a good exercise for me in that way but I wasn't sure how successful it was. So, thank you very much for your comment.
Such an eloquent story of not just how but why the political is personal and the personal is political. Thank you, Clara!
Thank you, Erin, for your encouragement. I look forward to exploring exactly that: what Portugal means to me. Hopefully, this will give others a glimpse into my own experiences and the country's history.
I just realized: Can you change the time on the post to today? That way it will pull to the top! Thanks Clara!!
As always, Clara, wonderful post. With this piece and through your blog, you never fail to present to us such a rich, multi-faceted picture of your Portugal and where you find yourself in it.
Are you really? That is wonderful. Thanks! I had to write it, you know - the prompt did not let go of me until I sat down to write.
Clara, I am featuring your post on the mainpage!!
Really? That is so interesting, and moving.