Source: Fraser, C. (1998). "Life and death in New York Town" In Revolution, She Wrote (pp. 237-239). Seattle, WA: Red Letter Press.
First Published: Freedom Socialist, Spring 1982
Transcription/Markup: Philip Davis and Glenn Kirkindall
Copyleft: Internet Archive (marxists.org)
2015. Permission is granted to copy and/or distribute this document
under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License.
And what was an ingrained West Coaster like me doing in New York last December?
Well, I’m sorry it wasn’t April in Paris, or whenever it is one does the Italian Riviera. I’ve never been to Paris in April. I’ve never been to Paris. And I always manage to get to Manhattan in the dead of winter.
But it’s always worth it, and this trip was fascinating, memorable, delightful — and stained by tragedy.
The good part came first. Flying on Canadian airlines, to buttress our PATCO friends, was great. I had never seen Toronto, and the trip between the airport and the Amtrak depot permitted a panoramic view of the great city.
The train trip to New York was not a good part. Down with the evil-tempered U.S. Immigration agent who woke us up and grilled us as if we were heinous public enemies smuggling ourselves across the sacred border. I was magnanimously permitted to re-enter my own country, but travellers of color fare much worse with both Yankee and Canadian officials.
Travel tip: try not to cross the border by bus, as I did on the return trip. The baggage inspection ordeal reduces everyone to cattle.
Once in Manhattan, I was beautifully hosted by the 17th St. kids (that street corner on 8th Avenue has got to be the noisiest all-nite marketplace in the world). Then dozens of us took off for upstate New Jersey in cars packed like covered wagons, en route to a charming country home generously lent us for the National Committee plenum of the FSP.
From December 3-6 our organizers examined the shape and options of the world, awarding special attention to the Black struggle, the shattering crisis of U.S. capitalism, permanent and deepening revolution in Poland and Iran, and the status of and prospects for socialist feminism. The plenum was rich and exciting, and the lucky participants were kept fed and watered by haute cuisine chef Max and her culinary elves.
Next, it was back to the mean streets and the raw, driving momentum of the City. The Fraser Defense Committee there, sparked by Laurie and Nancy, is a hustling, bustling operation. They whirled me through a press conference, a half-hour interview on NBC radio, lunches and dinners with case endorsers, a public meeting on the NYU campus in Washington Square, a lovely reception in a Greenwich Village studio, and more.
It was great seeing Flo Kennedy again — she’s a dream to have in your corner. And I particularly enjoyed the company of Marxist critic and literary historian Annette Rubinstein, author of one of my all-time favorites, From Shakespeare to Shaw. Annette chaired my public meeting superbly.
I loved the audience — old friends from the movement whom I hadn’t seen in decades; transplanted Seattleites; women with discrimination cases; a bevy of youth with all that East Coast bounce. They contributed freely to the defense fund, and their warmth provided one of those shining moments when my case brings me pleasure.
But a terrible contrast to the stimulation and dynamism of New York lay in wait.
Throughout my visit, Murry Weiss was a tower of intellectual activity, physical endurance, and zest. At the plenum he led the discussion on the Political Resolution, and immersed himself in every topic and every task of clarifying policy and perspective. At the banquet finale, he presented an hilarious roast of Dr. Susan and preened himself at having finally done one of these spoofs. Back in the city, he met daily with Sam or me for literary work and planning.
He phoned me on Friday to beg off from our meeting because of a cold. By Saturday — the day of my public meeting — he still felt weak but anxious to talk, and I visited him. He bragged happily about his sale of eight tickets to my meeting, and we parted with plans to meet the next day — my last day in New York. But on Sunday he went to the hospital.
Six days later, on December 26, he was gone. And with him went an incredible saga of the role of one larger-than-life individual in history. Murry’s soaring talent for revolutionary leadership and transparent joy in soil-tilling for world socialism were things of beauty. His death stings and saddens.
New York will never seem the same without him. But the fresh promise of spring is already on its way in that surging metropolis, and Murry’s political heirs are there to affirm a season of renewed life and fresh hope for tomorrow.