Selma. Soweto. Stalingrad. Hallowed ground, places where, in the last seventy years, the forces of humanity managed to conquer the lesser beasts of our nature, bringing us one tiny step closer to the utopia that was promised in Paris, by Marx, so many years ago.
Trayvon. Matthew Shepherd. Michael Brown. Young men slaughtered, either by a police state, or by the same savages that would deny most the basic tenants of happiness, simply because they couldn’t see past their own darkened, fears, and past the fallacies of their own arguments.
Being a Marxist that grew up in the South, I’ve seen the ravages, on both sides, which seem to defy the logic of our existence. After all, how can a species that propagates as well as ours seem so hell-bent on its own destruction? On the flip side, how can the Southeast, marred with the scars of Jim Crow and slavery, play host to some of the most charitable, most hospitable people on the planet?
Both sides have a fault in this. For every instance of fascism that one side puts forth, the other must answer for the genocide in the Ukraine. For every Trail of Tears, there is a Khmer Rouge. For every Great Leap Forward, there is Africa, and the dejection of a continent that capitalism has raped for thousands of years.
When I tell people what I am, and what I believe, it is often met with, at best, a detached curiosity and, at worst, cries of the failures of my beliefs, and the absurdity of my Godless system. But shouldn’t we, as our species evolves, move past the fairy tales of a higher power given to us by other men, and realize that WE are the higher power, capable of making sure we all have what it is that is needed for our species to evolve, and survive?
It’s these questions that keep me awake at night, mining the dredges of my mind for stories, parable and anecdotes that help explain to others how it should be among us. Trapped in time, born perhaps three hundred years before I should have been, I feel that I am stuck in a world I cannot possibly fathom. Is this a wrinkle in time, a predestined thing that I have no power over? Or is this simple biology, a product of the lust of my parents, born because environmental factors demanded my existence?
A wrinkle in time. I guess I’ll remain trapped here, determined to allow what is here to determine what is to come. After all, true time travel is a fairy tale.
This has been “Utopia Lost” by M. Earl Smith. The Insomniac Propagandist is neither a Marxist nor a political publication, but we encourage intellectual discourse. To not publish a piece such as this on political grounds would go against the integrity of the magazine, but the opinions expressed reside solely with the author. TIP does not agree, or disagree, he is busy being paradoxical.