¿Til Death do us Part

Six Degrees of Separation

I was reminded of this theory of interconnectedness today.  First put forward by a Hungarian author in 1929, it postulates that everyone and everything is six or fewer steps away, by way of introduction, from any other person in the world.   Many of you probably know it through that Will Smith movie.

In the late seventies, I met Larry Evans, a laid-off steelworker, self-taught writer and all-around rabble rouser who had moved to Pittsburgh PA from his birthplace of Baltimore, MD after a stint as a VISTA volunteer in a Florida migrant camp.  When we met, I was a VISTA volunteer working with laid-off steelworkers in Pittsburgh through an Adult Literacy program, while also studying at a local community college.

Larry was the founder and guiding light of an innovative worker-writer magazine called the Mill Hunk Herald.   Surviving on goodwill, youthful energy, sporadic donations and hard-fought subscriptions, the quarterly magazine came to life on the floors, tables, kitchen counters and couches of Larry and Leslie Evans’ home on the north side of Pittsburgh.   It was more than a magazine, really.  Open to any who cared to submit and have their poetry, short stories, oral histories, news articles or just plain musings reviewed and rated by a group of their peers to be possibly included in the next publication, the magazine became an extended family of steelworkers, waitresses, factory workers, students, and activists who all had one thing in common – a story to tell.  The name of the magazine came from an old negative stereotype that the majority of men and women who worked in the steel mills surrounding Pittsburgh were uneducated immigrants from middle-European countries.  By assuming the title proudly, being a ‘Mill Hunk’ was no longer a thing to be ashamed of; it was a badge of honor.

The magazine was created by Larry and other ex-union members as a free-wheeling experiment in ad-hoc democratic journalism.  Anyone could submit their writing for consideration.  Obtaining a subscription meant that you automatically became a member of the editorial board, with voice and vote in the selection of which articles would be published quarterly (give or take a couple of weeks depending on how successful fundraising had been the past months).   On a given day or two when a sufficient quantity of articles had been received and it looked like there might be enough money to pay the printer and the postage, an invitation was sent out and a group of between 10 to 30 of the harder-core believers would converge on the Evans’ house with beer, wine and snacks and settle in for a marathon of reading, rating and selecting articles.  As the evening progressed, a thread would begin to arise from among the submitted pieces and we would start focusing the selection process toward a particular theme: maybe there were more works of feminist poetry and reflection; perhaps some compelling oral histories and reflections from an era gone by to guide the choice.  The quality of the writing was not a big issue - the content was:  stories from the heart; stories that needed to be told; stories about the everyday life and struggles of people just trying to make their way in a job-driven, nine-to-five world.  All of it told with a sense of humor and a realization that life is seldom glamorous.  We often purloined political cartoons and other graphics to tie it all together

How could such an endeavor last, you ask?  It thrived for 10 years (1979-1989).  Fundraising was as creative as its production:  Hastily thrown- together events such as the “Mill Hunk Funk” night of music,  the “Mill Hunk Dunk” swim party, a “A Night of Reggaenomics”, complete with a poster designed by yours truly that featured a dredlocked Ronald Reagan (‘RastaRon’) and “Cool Caspar” Weinberger, brought in last minute cash.  Another fundraising tactic was to randomly select people connected to an interesting article or point of view and send them a free copy of the magazine.  This technique netted the magazine support from such heavy hitters as Kurt Vonnegut and Studs Terkel – even a letter from Lech Walesa, Polish co-founder of the‘Solidarnosc’ independent labor movement in the ex-Soviet Union.  We carried out political events as well, once ‘invading’ a traffic island in downtown Pittsburgh in protest of the unjustified 1983 invasion by the U.S. of the tiny Caribbean island of Granada.   I was able to use my position as student-body President of the local community college to co-finance an international Worker-Writer Conference featuring a women writing collective from the U.K.  All in all they were heady times.

But what does all this have to do with Six Degrees of Separation?

I lost track of Larry and the Mill Hunk crowd when I left Pittsburgh in 1984 and began studies and a career that turned me into an expatriate – travelling to and living in a variety of countries.  Then, in or around 2005, I got an itch and from my then home in Nicaragua started surfing the internet to see if I could find anything about the magazine or Larry.  I didn’t locate Larry, but I did come into contact with the co-founder of the ‘West End Press’ a progressive publishing company who had in 1990 put out an anthology of the magazine.  What I told him my history with the Mill Hunk experience and what I had been doing with my life since, he said “I would rot in Hell if I don’t get to you a copy of the anthology.”  And he did – hand delivered in Managua, Nicaragua a month later by a friend.  I think in this case we were hovering within 6 or 7 degrees on the separation scale.

In 2014 I finally got into contact with Larry through a mutual friend (who was obviously somewhat closer within those 6 degrees).  Larry was still living in Pittsburgh and was just finishing up work on a book about growing up in Baltimore.  We communicated through e-mail for a while and I eventually, around October of that year, ordered from him a copy of his book with the creative title “Viking Women Don’t Care”.  Larry sent me an autographed copy, and I sent him a check.  I found it strange at the time that he never cashed the check, but I let it go by.  Then another life change came along and I headed out for a new challenge in Colombia, losing contact with him once again.

A few months back, another of those six degree connections surfaced.  I became Facebook friends with a guy named Tom from my home town of Danville, PA.  We had never met face-to-face, but shared some common friends, interests and experiences, including the fact that he was now living in Pittsburgh.  I undertook the initiative to put him into contact with a long-standing friend and lifelong resident of Pittsburgh, also (casually) named Tom, who as it turned out works in a job directly related to the work of the other Tom’s wife.

Then earlier today I was commenting on a FB post by hometown Tom and asked if he had heard of  the Mill Hunk Herald.  He asked if I knew Larry Evans.  I told him about my connection, not in as much depth as written above, of course.  He switched to a private message and asked me if I was aware that Larry had died in a car accident.  I wasn't.  It hit hard.  Tom included a link to the obituary.  The accident occurred in November of 2014, right around the time that I was waiting for Larry to cash my check.  

Yes, I can believe that the entire world is connected.  My son just informed me that the six degrees is now considered to be down to 3.7 degrees thanks to Facebook.  I wonder who I will come across that will lead me to the next step.  I hope that when they do, it will not be too late.  Rest in Peace, Larry.