Fiction and Politics

By Mark Alpert

True story: one evening in 1968, when I was six years old, my dad made an unusual request at bedtime. He told me that a man named King had just died and gone to heaven. He was a good man, Dad said. He asked me to pray for King before I went to sleep that night.

My dad was no liberal. He was a Nixon supporter then, and he’s a Trump supporter now. He’s going to turn 82 soon and spends a large part of his day watching Fox News. But his bedtime request from 1968 is the beginning of this story. It’s a true story, but it’s a bit fictional too, because memory is selective, especially when you’re trying to remember things from so long ago. This incident stands out.

What made Dad’s request seem so unusual at the time was the prayer thing. We were a very secular family. Technically, we were Jewish, but we never went to synagogue or followed any of the Jewish laws. And because we lived in New York City — the Sodom-and-Gomorrah of the 1960s — there weren’t many religious people in our neighborhood either. The idea of a “bedtime prayer” was completely foreign to me, something I’d seen kids do in storybooks but never in real life.

But the strangeness and seriousness of Dad’s request seemed to give it extra weight. So before I got into bed that night, I knelt on the carpet and pictured the man named King, newly arrived in heaven. I had no idea who he was. They didn’t teach current events in my kindergarten, so I knew nothing about Martin Luther King Jr. or the civil rights movement. All I had to go on was his name, so I assumed — with a six-year-old’s unassailable logic — that he was an actual king. I pictured him wearing a gold crown and an ermine robe, standing amid the clouds and waiting for his interview with God.

Now let’s move ahead four years. It’s the spring of 1972 and President Nixon is running for re-election. I’m with my mom in our dining room while she’s opening the mail. She opens an envelope and pulls out a campaign flyer for George Wallace, the Alabama governor and segregationist. He’s running in the Democratic presidential primaries and getting a surprising number of votes. Mom stares at the Wallace flyer for several seconds. Then she tears it to pieces. I’m shocked to see that she’s crying.

Fast-forward another thirteen years. It’s 1985 and I’m looking for a job as a newspaper reporter. In those pre-Internet days, the Bible of the newspaper business was a book called Editor & Publisher, a thick tome you could usually find in the reference section of any decent public library. E&P contained information on every newspaper in the country, including the names and addresses of all the managing editors, so it was very useful for journalistic jobseekers. (Are those E&P reference books still published and updated every year? Or is all that information online now?) I opened the bulky book and started copying the addresses of the newspapers, which were listed by state, alphabetically — Alabama to Wyoming. At first I tackled the task with great fervor, writing down the names of all the managing editors in each state, but after a while my energy began to flag. By the time I reached the letter M, I was copying only the addresses of the very largest newspapers, which of course were the ones least likely to hire a neophyte like me. So that’s probably why I got a job offer from a newspaper in Alabama. I applied to more papers in that state than in any other, simply because it was at the front of the alphabet.

Or maybe that’s not the whole story. Maybe I was fated to go there.

Either way, within a few weeks I was a reporter for the Montgomery Advertiser in the state capital. I attended press conferences and other events at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, where Martin Luther King Jr. was pastor from 1954 to 1960. I reported on the funeral of E.D. Nixon, who was president of the NAACP’s Montgomery chapter in the 1950s, when Rosa Parks served as the organization’s secretary; it was E.D. Nixon who bailed Parks out of jail after she refused to move to the back of the Montgomery city bus on December 1st, 1955. (He also selected King to lead the bus boycott that followed.) I interviewed Parks at the cemetery; she was in her seventies at the time and no longer living in Alabama, but she came back to Montgomery for the funeral.

Last but not least, I met George Wallace. To my astonishment, he was still governor of Alabama. Back in the 1972 presidential campaign, just a few weeks after my mother tore up his flyer, Wallace was shot by an unemployed busboy at a rally in Maryland; the governor survived the assassination attempt but was paralyzed from the waist down. Although his presidential hopes were dashed, he was re-elected governor in 1974 and won yet another term in 1982. By then Wallace had apologized for his segregationist past, and by the time I started going to his press conferences he was a pretty pathetic creature, wincing and squirming in his wheelchair, barely coherent (because he was taking so many painkillers). When he did emerge from his narcotic haze, he talked obsessively about history and his place in it, clearly frustrated that he would be remembered for all the horrible things he said and did in the 1960s. And though I was still just as irreligious as I was in my childhood, I couldn’t help but think that divine justice was at work.

That was the point in my life when I started writing fiction. I’d found a story I wanted to tell, one with complex characters and deep, unsettling questions. My first novel was about a governor like Wallace, and though it was never published (mostly because it had all the typical faults of a first novel), it paved the way for all the books that followed. (If you’re curious, I’ve posted the first chapters of The Emperor of Alabama here, here, here, and here.) My latest novel, The Coming Storm, is about politics too, and I make no apologies for choosing this subject. I write fiction about politics because it’s interesting.

Yes, politics can get divisive. And it can get pretty tiring as well, especially in the middle of a campaign season like the one we’re in right now. When we’re bombarded by so much bitter rhetoric, it’s natural to feel the urge to get away from it all, and fiction does a good job of providing an escape. But fiction writers can also explore and confront the bitterness. We need those kinds of novels too.

I’ll end this story by mentioning another. My favorite part of the film of To Kill a Mockingbird (which also takes place in Alabama) is the scene where Gregory Peck (playing Atticus Finch) delivers his stirring summation in the trial of the falsely accused Tom Robinson. “In the name of God,” he tells the jury, “do your duty!” Whatever your politics, make sure you vote on November 6th. Our national story is being written, and each of us has a duty to contribute to it.

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About Mark Alpert

Contributing editor at Scientific American and author of science thrillers: Final Theory (2008), The Omega Theory (2011), Extinction (2013), The Furies (2014), The Six (2015), The Orion Plan (2016), The Siege (2016), and The Silence (2017). His latest thriller, The Coming Storm (St. Martin's Press, 2019), is a cautionary tale about climate change, genetic engineering, and Donald Trump. His website:

8 thoughts on “Fiction and Politics

  1. Your “fate” sounds more like Presbyterian predestination to me… 🙂

    I was in and out of Montgomery when you were there, with my grandparents and other family on Dad’s side of the tree, getting the local history from their perspectives, as well as the nickel tour of everything from Dexter Avenue Baptist Church to the White House of the Confederacy.

    My uncle’s father tried to buy the Advertiser earlier, and may have during your tenure.

    Small world~ and nice reminder to practice our civic duty civilly.

  2. Hmmm. A lot of what is said here reads a lot like religious justice may not have occurred, but it is being interpreted as justice. And it’s being interpreted as religious.

    Perhaps Governor Wallace was, in his thoughts, prayers, soul, and spirit, as contrite as he said he was. Perhaps, in some hour of the lonely, restless pain that he contended with, when the darkness in his soul matched the darkness of the sky that he might have felt kept him from his Maker, he had indeed made peace with God. That Governor Wallace had taken up God on His promise to forgive at the time of one’s confession of sin, God also promising that He is faithful and just at that moment–that is, He will keep his promise to forgive.

    Isn’t it possible that the Governor was being persecuted for his past so that some political gloating and revenge could take place?

    There was a man named Saul from Tarsus who had persecuted and participated in the death of Christians. Yet, after his time of repentance, Christians came to love and forgive him and learn from him.

    Maybe Some hold on to revenge and told-you-so and now-you’ll-get-yours just a little too tightly.

  3. My favorite visual in To Kill A Mockingbird is Atticus placing himself between his client and the mob. What is he holding in his hand? A law book. What a picture of the precariousness of justice when whipped-up passions threaten to take over.

    My dad was a criminal lawyer, and never tired of quoting “the golden thread of English law” — the presumption of innocence and the burden of proof. No society can be just without that thread. That is the duty Atticus pleads for.

  4. I’m from Alabama. I met Governor Wallace and his wife at the Southeastern Governors Conference at the Grand Hotel when I was in high school. I was a Dogwood Trail maid and we were there to greet the governors and for photo ops. One of the other maids and I ended up in an AP photo with Governor Wallace. It ended up on the front page of several papers. Friends from all over the country sent my mother copies. Governor and Mrs. Wallace were very nice.

    Harper Lee (Nell back home) received an award from my college (Spring Hill). It was a rare appearance for her. I was glad I got to see it.

  5. Nothing to add, Mark, except I enjoyed your post. Well said. Politics can be a “taboo” of fiction, as I said in Tuesday’s post, but in the hands of a pro it can be the best kind of testimony of our times. Good luck with “The Coming Storm.”

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