Class of 1968 Returns to Campus, Reminds Columbia to Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying

This week’s events commemorating the 40th anniversary of the 1968 protests made for an interesting study in alumni relations. With 1968 protester Hilton Obenzinger’s new autobiographical novel Busy Dying in hand, I headed to Saturday night’s reading by alumni, most—if not all—of whom took part in the protests.

Emceed by Obenzinger, one of the commemoration organizers, the event brought together big literary names that many today probably don’t associate with the 1968 riots at all. The reading eventually began after much greeting and reminiscing, and it offered a range of styles varied enough to keep most of the audience in their seats for close to three hours. Jonah Raskin described the moment he took a left turn from his career as an academic and joined in the protests, ending up with a short stint in jail but no regrets. James Kunen, of Strawberry Statement fame, described taking over the disconnected President Grayson Kirk’s office. Like many of his readers, Kunen described his personal feelings and minute experiences, but his work also acknowledged in passing the fragmented nature of the protests.

Columbia students don’t often get to see the likes of Paul Auster, Sharon Olds, Ntozake Shanke, and others share a stage together. But the readings struck an odd tone—at times they did not exactly showcase the art itself but rather the alumni and their nostalgia. Perhaps an alumni reunion is all the event was meant to be, but it made for an incomplete literary experience.

While the reunion aspect of the event had its merits, I was left to find literary solace in the books themselves—Obenzinger’s in particular. Now a teacher at Stanford, he led an activist’s life long after graduating, and Busy Dying offers a thoughtful close-up look at the mind of a radical. The book brings together short episodes of poetry and prose, built around the author’s account of the 1968 protests—the “Columbia Revolt” chapter.

The rest of the book is full of pleasantly, or perhaps thankfully, short episodes that shape the mosaic of Obenzinger’s life experience. He joins Stanford as a “‘distinguished’ writer,” or, as he puts it, “someone who publishes books that hardly anyone reads—but ... at least I wasn’t ‘extinguished.’” The playful fighter and his descriptive anecdotes may not consistently strike the reader as engaging. Indeed, at times Obenzinger risks digressing from the radical’s version of On the Road into a sluggish account of everything that strikes his fancy—perhaps not every moment of a compelling life translates to a compelling story.

The “Columbia Revolt” chapter, however, is worth the trip. If only for the hard-liner’s account of the general chaos, the atmospheric excitement, and in particular the police brutality—“The cops had made up their minds to beat the shit out of all of us, no matter what we did”—these 44 pages give color to the history. The chapter moves quickly through a wealth of stories, from Obenzinger’s time in Kirk’s office, to the negotiations among various building occupiers and their opposition, to the description of various characters such as David Somerset, who vainly attempted to finish reading Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep before losing himself and his book in a mob of cops.

Obenzinger, described by Auster as the only person in the room with a magazine named after him, comes off as an affable, creative, and thoughtful artist. He is also bound to be unreliable as far as a full account of the protests is concerned. His engagement in the protests is insightful, but not for historical reason so much as existential ones. The magazine name, the interaction with “goofy” poetic great Kenneth Koch, and his occupation of Grayson Kirk’s office all constitute the many ironic but meaningful moments that make up his life.

The book’s release is well timed—or perhaps Obenzinger’s organization of the reading was. But is it self-indulgent? Probably, but no more so than any other artist’s efforts to express himself and impress an audience. The event was overwhelmingly sympathetic to the tumultuous protests that shut down Columbia, and that seemed fine. While it was one-sided, it was not wholly political—what I got out of the readings was generally an embrace of the feeling of personal liberation, rather than the promotion of leftist politics. The tone was more sap than soapbox.

Those present still expressed discontent, though, and it was generally aimed at the University, be it a serious jab at institution policies or the quip that the event was so well attended because there’s nothing else to do at Columbia on a Saturday night. Poet David Shapiro noted that it was “not Columbia” that was a great institution, but rather the “geniuses within Columbia” who are great, as he pointed to the crowd of graying activists.

Regardless of the art, we experienced something unusual this week: alumni talking to students, ’68 protesters interacting with ’08 anti-war activists who are protesting the Manhattanville expansion and the University’s investments in companies tied to the Iraq war. Maybe it was just for show, but it was more than what one typically sees at Columbia. And these weren’t necessarily the alumni seen at the fancy John Jay and Hamilton award dinners—for a school that tends to glorify the individual, the 1968 protesters stand as an unusually influential group of alumni. Even if most students didn’t attend the events, or don’t care about 1968, or don’t even want to consider the effects of such extensive political action, there were lasting impressions for these alums to leave the students, lasting impressions that Busy Dying and other 1968 alumni literature also offer.

This potential impression may best be synthesized by the performance of Bowery Poetry Club founder Bob Holman—also an adjunct professor at Columbia—who insisted simply and, arguably, naively, “What was going on then is still going on now.” The lasting impressions I had of the event were his fervent gesticulations and amusing words imploring us to explore the impossible “other thought,” the subversive alternative to our own inclinations and socio-political webs of understanding: “Think the other thought instead / In order to transcend / The end.”