SubStance

In the middle of everything—in the middle of everything—here we are. Breathing. Not breathing. Choking on the fumes of the history we inherit: climate change, white supremacy, global pandemic. Waiting for the great exhale.

At the dedication of St. Gaudens' Boston monument to the first Black regiment raised in the North to fight in the Civil War, Robert Lowell said, William James "could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe." Lowell's poem, written some seven decades after the monument's unveiling, at the height of the Civil Rights era, is a bitter record of the country's failure to fulfill the promise of emancipation, of its reluctance to let Black people breathe: "The monument sticks like a fishbone / in the city's throat."

The country's throat. Still! Another five decades later!

I do not think it is too much to say that the global rise of white nationalism is the echo of the still unresolved civil, legal, and political history of the Americas, the tension between the ideal of a multi-racial democracy and the difficulty that whites would have accepting it. The broader question is whether the fruits of Europe's long period of technological and military dominance can be shared with those whose exploitation and domination helped make that period possible, whether at home—where the resistance to immigration and refugees is basically a resistance to the distribution of the goods of the welfare state to people who are not white—or abroad—where the consequences of climate change will be felt most strongly, and where the understandable demand to continue developing, to access the cars and air conditioning and other goods that allow Europe its immense comfort, confronts the (equally understandable) demand to reduce the use of fossil fuels, the building of factories, and the like. We've had our development, the West says. But you can't have yours. And you can't have ours, either.

But you know all this.

One effect of the moment is that the global-historical forms of conflict now seem to penetrate down the very marrow of daily life, so that a billion tiny moments or gestures that might in other times have happily [End Page 127] signified only in the small local contexts of their occurrence now instead immediately connect to, or allegorize, the global-historical patterns to which they indubitably also belong. This has the effect of destroying what we were used to thinking of as the "private" or even "local" sphere of our actions. We might think of this as a "politicizing" of the formerly "personal," but this formulation, which is already a half century old (Carol Hanisch's essay with that title was published in 1970), feels sadly out of date, as though it itself had been swallowed up by one of its newer versions, "the local is the global," which in turn has been swallowed up by something even larger: there is no local, no personal, anymore. It is all global, all political.

Perhaps the condition of having a personal or local sphere was itself a function of European privilege. In some respects, of course, it was. A Black person at a police traffic stop is not having a merely local experience, but a politically and deeply historically overdetermined one. A trans person at a medical appointment is not just having a private conversation between patient and doctor, but participating (and knows they are participating) in a national and transnational discussion about bodies, gender, sexuality, and so on. The examples can be multiplied.

So perhaps it was only ever the white bourgeoisie that got to live the illusion of a life completely separated from history, from structure. And perhaps the world-historical shifts that make such illusions difficult—you are no longer experiencing local flooding or a heat wave, but the effects of climate change; you are no longer able to trust the people you see at the store who don't wear masks, because they belong to a mass movement that hates you and people like you—are good, insofar as they force some of us to live in the reality that everyone else...