preface

I HAVE come from growing up in extreme poverty to being a leader of a national organization. If anyone had told me when I began working—first, in tobacco, later in a hosiery mill, and then moving my way up to be a secretary—that I could make real change in the world and actually write books, I would have looked at that person as if he or she were talking another language. I was not the leader type and did not have the education or confidence to do any of these things.

When I first started organizing, I went to trainings that were pretty conventional. They taught me a lot about working for change. I also began to ask why some of the techniques I was learning didn’t work for me and other poor people in my own community. I would go to leadership workshops and leave feeling that I could never be a leader, or I’d go to fund-raising workshops and leave knowing that I could never raise money. And I always knew I could not write!

Obviously, that has changed. It took a long time for me to find my own voice and power, but I did, and I’ve helped others find theirs, too. Still, over the years, I’ve battled a self-doubting voice that says, “I’m not good enough to be a leader or to write a book.” The messages I got as a young person who grew up poor and the assumptions that some people made about me because I did not get to graduate from college have stayed with me. Even though I’ve been exploring what it means to be a leader for decades, and even though this is my second book, the voices of doubt are still there. My experiences have shaped how I think and work now. My passion and my life have come to be about making this world a place where all people can feel powerful and take leadership in creating a just and sustainable world.

I started organizing for peace when I lived in Charleston, South Carolina, and helped start a Quaker meeting there. I had no clue how to organize around peace, but I met another young woman named Carol who came to the meeting because she was also interested in starting a peace group. She was about my age but very different. While I was working as a secretary, she was a hippie with tattered Birkenstocks held together by duct tape who lived on an old sailboat. We went to my house after the Quaker meeting and made a plan for the first meeting of our own group. I had been looking for someone who could lead a peace group that I could be a part of. As we started to put together the agenda, she said, “You have to be the leader.”

I looked at her in shock and said, “I can’t do that.”

She said, “You have to. Look at me. No one would listen to me!”

I knew she was right. People would discount her not only because of how she looked and dressed but because she wasn’t southern. I was scared, but all it took was that one person to help create a plan and to support me. We began to organize. Very soon, a number of interns and medical students joined our group. They had been motivated by a film from Physicians for Social Responsibility about nuclear winter, an environmental catastrophe many believed would happen if a nuclear war took place, making the earth uninhabitable for most life.

We soon joined up with the Nuclear Weapons Freeze Campaign, a national effort to stop and disarm nuclear weapons. The campaign grew powerfully and successfully, and eventually, I was asked to serve on the board. After Ronald Reagan’s election as president of the United States, the Nuclear Weapons Freeze Campaign, the Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy, and Physicians for Social Responsibility mushroomed into mass movements. Historian Lawrence Wittner refers to this history in his article “What Activists Can Learn from the Nuclear Freeze Moment.” In June 1982, nearly a million Americans turned out for a rally in New York City against the nuclear arms race, the largest political demonstration up to that point in US history. The nuclear freeze campaign drew the backing of major religious bodies, professional organizations, and labor unions. Supported by 70 percent or more of the population, the freeze was endorsed by 275 city governments, 12 state legislatures, and the voters in nine out of ten states where it was placed on the ballot in the fall of 1982.

Thanks to popular pressure, the administration largely lost the battle to develop its favorite nuclear weapon, the MX missile, securing funding for only 50 of the 200 originally proposed. The administration also opened negotiations on eliminating strategic nuclear weapons, abandoned plans to deploy the neutron bomb in Western Europe, and accepted the limits of the unratified SALT (Strategic Arms Limitation Talks) II treaty (though previously Reaganites had lambasted the treaty as a betrayal of US national security). Moreover, according to Wittner, the president began to proclaim that “a nuclear war cannot be won and must never be fought.”

Historian Lawrence Wittner concludes, “If this dramatic reversal in US public policy could be produced when the Reaganites controlled Washington politics, then a similar turnabout can be fostered today.”

Despite the huge successes, the movement has dwindled in numbers and lost the power it once had. There was a brief rise at the beginning of the first Gulf War (1990–91) and again at the beginning of the second Iraq War (2003 to present), but soon those gains fell away as well. Many people and organizations are still devoting themselves and their resources to peace, but nothing currently compares to the earlier powerful numbers of the freeze movement.

So why did such a powerful movement fall apart? Why is it almost nonexistent in most people’s minds and in the news today? I believe that there are three major reasons.

First, the national peace movement failed to mobilize most working-class people, low-income people, and people of color. Certainly, the members of this movement made valiant efforts, but they were unsuccessful because of their lack of attention to cultural differences and education levels and their inability to make the connections to the economic issues facing poor people.

Second, many of us in this powerful movement shared a sense of doomsday and worked mostly from a place of anger and fear. We didn’t understand how to move that anger and fear into sustainable, positive action. We used films and maps to show what would happen in the event of a nuclear bomb explosion and how the radioactive fallout and the environmental effects of a nuclear winter would destroy the earth as we know it. We demonstrated the firepower of nuclear weapons in the world with BBs. We would ask people to close their eyes and imagine that the next sound they heard was equivalent to the total firepower contained in all the weapons used in World War II. We would then drop a single BB into a metal can. Again, we would ask them to think of all the firepower used in World War II, such as bullets, bombs, grenades, and the nuclear bombs dropped on Japan. And again, we would drop a single BB. We would explain that since World War II, nuclear weapons had multiplied significantly, primarily owned by the United States and Russia. Then we would ask them to close their eyes and tell them the next sound they would hear was equivalent to the nuclear weapons present now; it did not include bombs, grenades, bullets, or other conventional weapons. We would slowly pour 2,225 BBs into the can. I remember doing this exercise many times and seeing a look of fear and horror and sometimes tears on people’s faces. Many people joined the campaign out of their horror and fear of a nuclear war.

Third, and I believe most important, the freeze movement fell apart because it was a movement without a vision of what a peaceful and cooperative world would look like. I still deeply care about this issue, but when I was in the middle of the campaign built on fear, I suffered from nightmares and constant fear that life as I knew it would be destroyed at any moment. Many others I have talked to who were part of the beginning of this movement say the same thing. Others compare it to the fear of environmental and climate disaster today. I believe it is impossible to sustain a long-term movement without a positive vision of what we can accomplish, what the world would look like on the other side.

So, instead of continuing to focus on the doomsday pictures, I now ask, “What do we want the world to look like?” Those who work for change from a place of joyfulness and hope are more able to be effective, reach more people, and win what they want. The movement is more sustainable.

I have been accused by other activists of being utopian or too optimistic, of not looking at reality. That is far from my truth. A vision in itself is a critique of the present times. Sometimes people think of collective visioning as an escape mechanism or as not being grounded in reality, but how can we move toward what we want if we can’t envision what it looks like? That doesn’t mean we don’t acknowledge the current realities we are up against, but it’s a different frame to work from—a frame I believe can sustain us and give us hope against the horrifying issues and problems facing us today.

People are already afraid. But I know that if people had a vision filled with hope of what could be, knew what they needed to act on, and believed in their power to make it happen, we could create a just and peaceful world today. This book is my next step in helping us get there.

Linda Stout
Belchertown, MA
March 2011