***The Walking Daddy Of Joy Street-Take Two

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

The Walking Daddy Of Joy Street was a piece of work, a real throwback to ancient times, maybe back to Pharaoh times, if that guy needed a fixer man, and to ancient dreams not all pleasant. A time back in the 1960s Boston from whence he came when everything touched by, washed by, the young, held some kind of big flower, big cloud puff promise. He held himself among the young although maybe cutting the high side a little since he had come of age at the tail end of the be-bop beat era, the tail end of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Neal Cassady rushing through mad monk existences before beat, beat down, beat around, beatitude became just another commercial venue, and had smoked his first joint in some poetry- strewn back room of some Harvard Square coffeehouse in about 1959.

See he had fed right in that new scene, fed right into that big cloud puff stuff as the max daddy ganja man in town, at least the white section of town. Yah, it was that way then too. Christ, the stories they told about him when he was on the high wire, the stories they told about his own mad monk madnesses that played fast company with anything his fellahin beats did. Stories, just to get this straight not told by some fried-brained fool all twisted up and brain-mashed from too many hits, way too many, of the pipe making stuff up in order to walk in Walking Daddy’s reflected glory. Stories told straight up in ganga bong pipe smoke-filled rooms and rolled dollar cocaine snort dens about when Walking Daddy turned, or helped turn the town hip.

Walking Daddy was right there at the beginning, right then at a time when everybody who had caught that 1960s breeze that came out kicking from the stinking dinosaur 1950s (Jack and company excluded) at the time when everybody was practically giving as much dope away as they were selling. The righteous of the earth bent on a mission, a magic puff mission. No sales pitch, no come-on, but just to, well, just to turn the brethren on, new age a-borning turn the sleepy-headed brethren on. He was seen, day and night, passing out big rough-edged blunts like they were going out of style, and righteous stuff too.

They told a story of some Back Bay bust, booze-busted, dope-busted, maybe some underage sex thing busted too, such things were all kind of mixed up together then on police blotters, where some number, maybe twenty, guys and gals were busted at some too noisy party and hauled into to the stationhouse. Somehow Walking Daddy heard about their plight and through some nefarious and slinky connections got a pouch full of Acapulco Gold into the jailhouse and by the time they were done the place smelled like some college dorm, or some Chinese opium den. Beautiful. (Somebody else who had another part of that same story said that Walking Daddy had gone bail for all of them as well. That sounds right too.)

Then that cloud puff all kind of turned in on itself. Too much war madness, Vietnam War madness for those too young to remember or who have forgotten, too much parent authority anger and counter-offensive against the stillborn new age, too much hubris, too much bad dope, and hell, too much, too much. The always lurking greed-heads got greedier, the product got poorer, or really some slap-dash quick- change artists looking for easy money, started passing oregano and other crap as dope to make a fast killing and broke the high. Yah, just broke the high. Walking Daddy just soldiered on though, after all he was a dope-dealer and that was his profession, and had been an honorable one too before the greed-heads burned the thing to the ground, but it was not the same, not the same at all when the tide ebbed sometime in the early 1970s..

Nobody knew his real name, although the name Bob and Tom had been thrown around the place by some young women who seemed to know him more personally, and whom he employed under some unknown conditions to package his product, but Walking Daddy will do just find because this memory blast is not about a name but more a sense of the times. (We can skip the reference to the Joy Street part of his moniker too since we know where his kingdom was). A sense of the times and of some of the denizens who survived in that heady atmosphere of 1970s in Boston before everything turned to ashes, to violence, and to some bizarre behaviors once cocaine became the drug de jus. See Walking Daddy had a sense of that earlier time too, that 60s time, a sense that weed had been played out just like when he had started out and beat had turned to retreat , and people wanted to move on and get their kicks on Route 666 then. Get their kicks on cousin cocaine.

Walking Daddy’s place then, the time when I would see him around, was smack dab in the center of the action, right there on Joy Street up on Beacon Hill right near the State House. Now the place itself wasn’t anything, maybe less that anything to speak of, two small rooms, a living room and a bed room with a small kitchenette, a studio really. But what made it a magnet was that Walking Daddy, all forty-four years of him, all six-one and one hundred and ninety pounds of him, all long brown hair, beard, eyes of him, was the main man cocaine dealer around that area at a time when cocaine (sister, coke, snow, girl, or whatever you call it in your neighborhood) was just emerging as the drug of choice for those with discretionary incomes who wanted to get their kicks after tiring of marijuana or other lesser drugs.

This all happened at a time before guys were winding up very dead in some Sonora dusty dirt road, some Mexican dirty road trying to make a score without connections. Guys like his friend Billy Smoot who didn’t know the whole thing was rigged up, that the fix was in, and that it had been since eternity and wound up face down with two slugs in him for trying to go “independent” when the cartels moved in. That shook Walking Daddy to the core, but what was he to do the great Mandela has turned the wheel and called his profession. A time too before cousin cocaine got whipped around in some crack bong pipes and guns started to foul the play. And so Joy Street became a Mecca and Walking Daddy “walked with the king.”

Sure Walking Daddy wanted to make money, make lots of it from an overheard conversation passed on from one of his“employees” but he also had, and this was passed on too, an idea that he would make his Joy Street digs something of an old time opium den, a place when select company could unwind, could do their lines, and get their kicks in a friendly environment. And what allowed Walking Daddy to do that was two, no, really three things. First he was, unlike poor Billy, connected, connected down Mexico way and so would not expect to find himself in some dusty back road ditch, face down. Second he was connected at the State House at just that moment when cocaine was getting to be the marijuana of the 70s generation who wanted good stuff and had the dough to pay for it. (Some wag said that he could have been an honorary member of the Bar Association for his client services to that community. Another said he knew more Assistant-Attorneys-General than the Attorney-General did. And he certainly more about their private recreational habits.) So while, once in a while, out on the streets he had to stand for a drug pat-down by some clueless cop who thought he was on the level, was just doing his job, the cop that is, before higher powers stepped in, he was left alone. Third, and this is where Walking Daddy took a certain pride in his work, he was inclined to give away as much stuff as he sold, especially to the bags full of young women college students who dotted the area.

Strangely though he wasn’t tagged with any woman, although there were always plenty of women around including those previously mentioned “employees” and while there was a little talk that maybe he was a fag, gay, a homo, by those who were outside his circle it seemed more like he was just not into sex, or women or stuff like that although a few were more than ready to give him a chase. Oh yes, and he never touched the stuff himself, maybe a little weed like in the old days if it was passed around but no sister.

So on any given day back then, starting in late afternoon Walking Daddy could be seen walking around Cambridge Street, Charles Street, maybe Beacon Street if he was heading to the Common picking up acolytes, picking up a stray a woman or two to add some zest to the nightly doings. Picking up some low-lifes too, some hard-edged corner boys, some North End toughs or Southie hard guys, maybe just out of Deer Island or Walpole, some beat down old winos from Berkeley Street, or some guys from anywhere who had maybe taken too many hits from the bong in the 1960s and never got over it, since Walking Daddy liked to think that he could cater to all kinds with the common denominator of snow to bind his “nation” together. Yah, Walking Daddy was a piece of work.

***American Pyscho Number 34 – With Joseph Cotton’s The Killer Is Loose In Mind

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

The Killer Is Loose, Joseph Cotton, Wendell Corey, 1956

I don’t know about you but I like my American psychos, the cinematic variety okay, strictly, well, bonkers, and with a certain flare. You know guys like Robert Walker in Strangers On A Train or Anthony Perkins in Psycho. Guys you wouldn’t want to invite dinner, or any meal, and would feel ill at ease having within sixteen towns of where you live. So your average Walter Mitty psycho, like this guy Leon Poole I am going to give you the “skinny” on, left me flat. Left me flat because maybe with about a six drug cocktail his weasely little problems could have been brought under control and maybe he could have led a civilized life like the rest of us. Instead he was last seen dressed in drag with about thirty-three (hell, that is only a guess) cop-directed slugs in him on some fellow copper’s lawn. Let me tell you how he got there and you will see why I only go for stone-cold psychos.

This Leon, like a lot of guys back in the1940s and 1950s, maybe now too but that was the time of Leon’s time so let’s stick with that, was kind of clumsy, kind of a guy who couldn’t really navigate in the world, a guy who was naturally the butt of every prank. A guy fit for nothing else but to be a fall guy. A guy, a Walter Mitty guy, who would be afraid to say boo in response. Yah, that was Leon Poole. Not a stone-cold killer bone in his body. Not like the guys who were nurtured into evil from the cradle practically. But see even Walter Mitty-type psychos have a breaking point, or rather points.

First Leon, a seemingly mild-mannered and loyal bank employee by day, was really the finger man for a heist of the bank’s goods, you know money. See Leon had a honey of a wife, who like all wives likes nice things and you know they cost dough, real dough. So Leon took the famous bank robber Willie Sutton’s advice and when where the dough was. In this case right at work. But like all Leon things, like everything he ever touched, the cops were hip to his part in the crime in about two minutes and so they so ran to his apartment house with guns at the ready. They called him out but he refused their kind offer. Cornered like a rat he fired a shot through the door nicking a copper. They returned the fire and in the process wasted Leon’s lovely wife, the only person who ever was kind to the guy. And then the madness started, started like some slow descent into hell. That turned out to be Leon’s breaking point number two.

Of course Leon drew a dime at the state pen for the bank robbery and nicking the cop he wasn’t arguing that, no at all. What started eating at him was that his wife fell at whim of the copper’s guns. That was worthy of revenge. And so in those long lonely nights watching the days turn to night and back again Leon got himself worked up enough to figure a way to get even. He would take out not the cop, some lifer copper, a guy named Joe to give him a name, who liked his shiny badge, liked being a cop, but his wife. Yah, the old eye for an eye story, literally. He became a model prisoner and as part of that act got himself transferred out to an honor farm, a farm outside the walls. That was like giving candy to a baby.

Then the spree started, the relentless spree to get to that dirty copper, no, that dirty copper’s wife back in the city. First off he murdered the guard who was supposed to use his services to unpack some product boxes from the truck at some town market. Leon cut him dead leaving him face down in some watery ditch. Leon then had wheels to make his getaway. He killed a hapless farmer for his truck, a change of clothes, and other provisions to get back to the big city and hi sweet revenge. In the big city, seeking refuge to plot his next moves, he killed an old army NCO right in front of his wife, a guy who had made fun of him when he was in the service. That was definitely not the day to be in Leon’s crosshairs when he shed his Walter Mitty garb. An old score settled but not the big old score.

That was not the finale. This was. Leon headed to that copper’s house. Joe’s house. Of course Joe had the equivalent of the 82^nd Airborne Division worth of coppers at the house. And of course too the cop’s wife, some headstrong red-head, Rhonda to give her a name, who was tired of being a cop’s wife, was not in said house but was innocently waking down the street to that house after a fight with her hubby cop when Leon made his move.You know what happened, you know too that Leon Poole was strictly an amateur, strictly from jump street. And you know too why Leon Poole never made any American Psycho hall of fame. Enough said.

From The Boston Bradley Manning Support Committee Archives (Memorial Day 2012)

A Remembrance Worthy Of The Day- A Memorial Day for Peace-Join The Smedley Butler Brigade-Veterans For Peace In Boston-May 28, 2012, 1:00 - 3:00 pm

http://www.facebook.com/smedleyvfp?ref=ts#!/smedleyvfp

To The Fallen-In Lieu Of A Letter

The mere mention of the name Veterans For Peace evokes images of hard-bitten ex-servicemen and women, many old, ramrod straight holding their beloved black and white peace dove-emblazoned banners flying proudly in all weathers. Of urgent and militant calls for withdrawal of American military personnel from conflicts somewhere in the bewildering number of places that this government has planted its forces. And of relentless exposure of the thousand and one ways that this government (and not just this government) tries to hide its atrocities against overwhelmed opponents and the innocent civilians who get caught up in the juggernaut. Those exercises of our democratic and moral obligations are what drive us most days but I want to put politics aside this day, or put them aside at least long enough to speak of another role that we have taken on over the past several years here in Boston on Memorial Day, a day of remembrance for our fallen.

Others can address, and eloquently, the origins and purposes of the day, a task that usually would come easily to this writer. Others will throw symbolic flowers into our beloved homeland the sea to give somber recognition to the fallen of current conflicts. Still others in other commemorations can, and will, speak of valor, honor, duty and unquestioned obedience to orders accompanied by the far-away tattoo of drums, the echo of the distant roar of cannon, cannon headed to some unmarked destination, and the whish and whirl as an unseen overhead airplane unloads it sacrilegious payload.

Today I choose though to speak of long ago but not forgotten personal remembrance, and to give name to that remembrance. To give name, James Earl Jenkins, old North Quincy rough-house Irish neighborhoods friend and fellow of many boyhood adventures not all fit for public mention, a name now blood-stone etched in black marble down in Washington, D.C. To give name, Kenneth Edward Johnson, my brother and James’ friend also, a name not etched in black stone but a causality of war nevertheless who, despite his fervent desire, “never made it back to the real world” and spent his shortened lonely life reliving the past.

James and Kenneth, what happened to each of them and why, take on special meaning today as I utter their names publicly from the misty past for the first time in a long time because those names link to those we remember today. Not just those, like James, who served under whatever conditions and for whatever personal reasons, those seem beside the point just now, or like my brother, those who do not show up in any official casuality report but all those nevertheless damaged by the close-hand experience of war.

But enough of this, as it only brings another saddened tear. But, as well, enough of war.

****************

<b>Memorial Day for Peace

May 28, 2012, 1:00 - 3:00 pm

Christopher Columbus Park, Boston, Massachusetts

(near the Long Wharf Marriott on the waterfront - Aquarium stop on the MBTA Blue Line and a short walk from Haymarket on the Orange Line)

Please join us

</b>

Please join Veterans For Peace, Smedley Butler Brigade, Chapter 9 and Samantha Smith, Chapter 45, Military Families Speak Out, Mass Peace Action, United for Justice with Peace as we commemorate Memorial Day on Monday May 28, 2012

There will be no parade, no marching band, no military equipment, no guns and drums, no Air Force fly-overs.

There will be veterans and supporters who have lost friends and loved ones. Veterans who know the horrors of war and the pain and anguish of loss. There will be friends and families of soldiers, remembering their loved ones. There will be Iraqi Refugees who have suffered terrible losses and will join with us as we remember and show respect for their loss.

There will be flowers dropped into the harbor for each fallen U.S. soldier from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. Flowers will also be also be dropped into the harbor remembering the loss of Iraqi family and friends.

Additional information will follow as the program is finalized

Veterans for Peace proudly stands in solidarity with and defense of Private Bradley Manning.

We of the anti-war movement were not able to do much to affect the Bush- Obama Iraq War timetable but we can the one hero of that war, Bradley Manning.

I stand in solidarity with the alleged actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious war-related doings of this government, under Bush and Obama. If he did such acts they are no crime. No crime at all in my eyes or in the eyes of the vast majority of people who know of the case and of its importance as an individual act of resistance to the unjust and barbaric American-led wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning may have exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justifications rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.

I am standing in solidarity with Private Bradley Manning because I am outraged by the treatment meted out to Private Manning, presumably an innocent man, by a government who alleges itself to be some “beacon” of the civilized world. Bradley Manning had been held in solidarity at Quantico and other locales for over 500 days, and has been held without trial for much longer, as the government and its military try to glue a case together. The military, and its henchmen in the Justice Department, have gotten more devious although not smarter since I was a soldier in their crosshairs over forty years ago.

These are more than sufficient reasons to stand in solidarity with Private Manning and will be until the day he is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Brother Manning until that great day.

From The Boston Bradley Manning Support Committee Archives (April  2012)

 

 

 

Standing  In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning During The Week Of April 23-29 In The Boston Area-Why I Will Be Standing With Private Manning On Friday April 27^th In Davis Square, Somerville And Saturday April 28^th At Park Street Station In Boston

 http://www.bradleymanning.org/

 

We of the anti-war movement were not able to do much to affect the Bush- Obama Iraq War timetable but we can save the one hero of that war, Bradley Manning. 

 

According to the Private Bradley Manning  Support Network there are a series of actions planned in Washington, D.C at the Justice Department on April 24^th and at Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25^th and 26^th in connection with the next round of legal proceedings in his case. I had originally intended to travel down from Boston to take part in those events that week but some other obligations now prevent me from doing so. Nevertheless there two on-going activities in the Boston area where those of us who support freedom for Bradley Manning can show our solidarity during that week.   

Every Friday from 1:00 -2:00 PM there is an on-going solidarity vigil for Brother Manning at the Davis Square Redline MBTA stop in Davis Square, Somerville.

Every Saturday from 1:00-2:00 PM there is an on-going peace vigil/speak-out in our struggle against the war (or wars) of the moment being orchestrated by the American government and its allies at the Redline MBTA Park Street Station in Boston (Boston Common). Bradley Manning’s case is a natural extension of those struggles.  

Please plan to attend either or both of these events on Friday April 28^th (Davis Square) and/or Saturday April 29^th (Park Street) to stand in solidarity with Bradley Manning. I have included my original comment made when I had expected to go down to the Washington/Fort Meade events as motivation for you to stand with Bradley on those days here in Boston.    

*************

Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Fort Meade Maryland On Wednesday April 25th At 8:00 AM - A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner

 

<b>Markin comment:

</b>

Last year (2011) I wrote a little entry in this space in order to motivate my reasons for standing in solidarity with a March 20th rally in support of Private Bradley Manning at the Quantico Marine Base in Virginia where he was then being held. I have subsequently repeatedly used that entry, <i>Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Quantico, Virginia On Sunday March 20th At 2:00 PM- A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner</i>, as a I have tried to publicize his case in blogs and other Internet sources, at various rallies, and at marches, most recently at the Veterans For Peace Saint Patrick’s Day Peace Parade in South Boston on March 18th.

 After I received information from the Bradley Manning Support Network about the latest efforts on Private Manning’s behalf scheduled for April 24th and 25th in Washington and Fort Meade respectively I decided that I would travel south to stand once again in proximate solidarity with Brother Manning at Fort Meade on April 25th. In that spirit I have updated, a little, that earlier entry to reflect the changed circumstances over the past year. As one would expect when the cause is still the same, Bradley Manning's freedom, unfortunately most of the entry is still in the same key. And will be until the day he is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Brother Manning until that great day.

*****
Of course I will be standing at the front gate to the Fort Meade , Maryland on April 25th because I stand in solidarity with the actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious doings of this government, Bush-like or Obamian. If he did such acts they are no crime. No crime at all in my eyes or in the eyes of the vast majority of people who know of the case and of its importance as an individual act of resistance to the unjust and barbaric American-led war in Iraq. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning (or someone) exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justification rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.

Of course I will also be standing at the front gate of Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th because I am outraged by the treatment meted out to Private Manning, presumably an innocent man, by a government who alleges itself to be some “beacon” of the civilized world. Bradley Manning had been held in solidarity at Quantico and other locales for over 500 days, and has been held without trial for much longer, as the government and its military try to glue a case together. The military, and its henchmen in the Justice Department, have gotten more devious although not smarter since I was a soldier in their crosshairs over forty years ago.

Now the two reasons above are more than sufficient for my standing at the front gate at Fort Meade on April 25th although they, in themselves, are only the appropriate reasons that any progressive thinking person would need to show up and shout to the high heavens for Private Manning’s freedom. I have an additional reason though, a very pressing personal reason. As mentioned above I too was in the military’s crosshairs as a citizen-soldier during the height of the Vietnam War. I will not go into the details of that episode, this comment after all is about brother soldier Manning, other than that I spent my own time in an Army stockade for, let’s put it this way, working on the principle of “what if they gave a war and nobody came”.

Forty years later I am still working off that principle, and gladly. But here is the real point. During that time I had outside support, outside civilian support, that rallied on several occasions outside the military base where I was confined. Believe me that knowledge helped me get through the tough days inside. So on April 25th I will be just, once again, as I have been able to on too few other occasions over years, paying my dues for that long ago support. You, Brother Manning, are a true winter soldier. We were not able to do much about the course of the Iraq War (and little thus far on Afghanistan) but we can move might and main to save the one real hero of that whole mess.

Private Manning I hope that you will hear us and hear about our rally in your defense outside the gates. Better yet, everybody who reads this piece join us and make sure that he can hear us loud and clear. And let us shout to high heaven against this gross injustice-<b><i>Free Private Bradley Manning Now!</i>

 

 

An appeal from Daniel Ellsberg

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Help us continue to cover 100% of Bradley's legal fees! Donate today. An appeal from Daniel Ellsberg During the Vietnam War I worked in the Pentagon under Robert McNamara. In Vietnam, my background as a Marine officer allowed me to walk with the troops in combat and see the war up close. What I found was a costly, immoral war that could not be allowed to continue. My decision to reveal the top secret Pentagon Papers to the American public was an act of conscience. These documents showed that we were in a destructive, wrongful war, and that we had entered that war under false pretenses. My hope was that, armed with this truth, the American people could act to end that war. Today, a young soldier named Bradley Manning faces trial for a similar act of conscience, and he needs our help. In releasing documents and videos to the anti-secrecy website WikiLeaks, PFC Manning made an enormously positive impact on world events. He revealed the terrifying misdeeds by American and coalition forces, such as the 2007 Baghdad airstrike that targeted and killed at least 12 Iraqi civilians. He opened a new pathway for truth and justice to reach the world, perhaps preventing the next unjust war from ever beginning. He even helped inspire a new, global movement for openness and democracy, ringing out from Tahrir Square to Wall Street. To me, and many others, Bradley is a hero. Yet, for his courage, Bradley faces life in prison — much like I did 40 years ago. And just as I was arrested and called a “traitor” by President Nixon, Bradley’s charges include an accusation of “aiding the enemy,” even though there is no evidence that any individual was endangered by his disclosures. Bradley, now 25 years old, is far too young, and has too much to offer this country to spend the rest of his life in prison. He needs our support. That support has worked already. In March of 2011, I proudly got arrested along with 35 others at the Quantico Marine Base while Bradley was being held there in solitary confinement. Bradley had spent nine months in conditions considered torture by the UN. However, shortly after our protest, with your help, Bradley was transferred to much more humane conditions in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Americans who care about the future of our country need to be involved in Bradley’s defense. The defining issues of the 21st century, including the transparency and accountability of our government, are at stake. I believe history is on the side of those who seek to reveal the truth, not on the side of those who seek to conceal it. But, as my example shows, there are those in government who rely on crimes and secrets, who will seek to punish him and dissuade others from offering truth to the American people. Mercifully, the Vietnam War did end, and many consider the release of the Pentagon Papers to have helped. With your assistance, Bradley’s impact can be even greater. Help us continue to cover 100% of Bradley's legal fees! Donate today. The Bradley Manning Support Network has been key in coordinating nationwide support efforts for Bradley’s defense, raising hundreds of thousands of dollars from thousands of people. We need money to support ongoing grassroots efforts—including rallies, petitions, and ads. Most importantly, however, we need to continue fully funding Bradley’s legal defense efforts—including possible appeals, all the way up to the US Supreme Court, if need be. The future of truth-telling is at stake, and a young man’s selfless, heroic act of patriotism deserves our support. P.S. If you are one of the 18,000 friends who have already given to Bradley’s Defense Fund, thank you. On the eve of this historic trial, I’m asking you now to please give once more, and to give whatever you can. Your commitment, your creativity, and your energy remain vital, but right now, we need money as well. This is a crucial time in shaping support and public discourse in favor of Bradley. The Bradley Manning Defense Fund, hosted by Courage to Resist in collaboration with the Bradley Manning Support Network, is responsible for 100% of Bradley’s legal expenses. Courage to Resist is a program of the Alliance for Global Justice (AfGJ), a non-profi t organization under Section 501(c)(3) of the IRS Code. Donations are tax-deductible. For more information, contact Courage to Resist at 510-488-3559. Help us continue to cover 100% of Bradley's legal fees! Donate today.

***WHEN DID THE 1960'S END?-The Anti-Vietnam War Events Of May Day 1971

 

Peter Paul Markin comment:

I have recently been reviewing books and documentaries about radical developments in the 1960’s. They included reviews of the Weather Underground, Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) and the memoirs of Bill Ayers, a central figure in that movement. Throughout this material one thing that I noticed was that the various interviewees had different takes on when that period ended. Although in the end the periodization of history is a convenient journalistic or academic convention in the case of the 1960’s it may produce a useful political guide line.

It is almost universally the case that there is agreement on when the 1960’s started. That is with the inauguration of Democratic President John F. Kennedy and his call to social activism. While there is no agreement on what that course of action might entail political figures as diverse as liberals Bill Clinton and John Kerry on to radicals like Mark Rudd, Bill Ayers and this writer agree that this event and its immediate aftermath figured in their politicization.

What is not clear is when it ended. For those committed to parliamentary action it seems to have been the assassination of Robert Kennedy and the events around the Democratic Convention in 1968 that led to the election of one Richard Milhous Nixon as President of the United States. For mainstream black activists it seems to have been the assassination of Martin Luther King that same year ending the dream that pacifist resistance could eradicate racial injustice. For mainstream SDSers apparently it was the split up of that student organization in 1969. For the Black Panthers, the deaths of Fred Hampton and Mark Clark proving for all to see who wanted to see that the American government was really out to get militant blacks off the streets. For those who thought that the counterculture might be the revolution the bloody Rolling Stone’s concert at Altamont in California in 1969 seems to have signaled the end. For the Weather Underground the 1970 New York townhouse explosion and death of their comrades was the signpost. Since everyone, everybody who tried to struggle through and make sense of the decade, can play this game here is my take.

I can name the day and event exactly when my 1960’s ended. The day- May Day 1971 in Washington D.C. The event- a massive attempt by thousands, including myself, to shut down the government over the Vietnam War. We proceeded under the slogan- IF THE GOVERNMENT WILL NOT SHUT DOWN THE WAR-WE WILL SHUT DOWN THE GOVERNMENT. At that time I was a radical but hardly a communist. However, the endless mass marches of the period and small local individual acts of resistance seemed to me to be leading to a dead end. But the war nevertheless continued on its savagely endless way. We needed to up the ante. That day we formed up in collectives with appropriate gear to take over the streets of Washington and try to get to various government buildings. While none of us believed that this would be an easy task we definitely believed that it was doable. Needless to say the Nixon government and its agents were infinitely better prepared and determined to sweep us from the streets-by any means necessary. The long and short of it was that we were swept off the streets in fairly short order, taking many, many arrests. We had taken a terrible physical and psychological beating that day from which the movement never really recovered. To borrow for Hunter Thompson above we had seen the high water mark washed away right before our eyes.

I walked away from that event with my eyes finally opened about what it would take to made fundamental societal changes. On reflection, on that day we were somewhat like those naïve marchers in St. Petersburg, Russia that were bloodily suppressed by the Czarist forces at the start of the revolution there in January 1905. Nevertheless, in my case, from that point on I vowed that a lot more than a few thousand convinced radicals and revolutionaries working in an ad hoc manner were going to have to come together if we were to succeed against a determined and ruthless enemy. Not a pretty thought but hard reality nevertheless. Enough said.

 

***On Memorial Day- The Road Less Traveled- With A Tip Of The Hat To Poet Robert Frost

From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin :

I am not a big fan of Robert Frost's poetry (although his public readings were very interesting) but this one every once in a while "speaks" to me when there are two (or more) choices to make in life.

Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920.

1. The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same, 10

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference. 20

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Sergeant John Prescott, “Johnny P.”to his pals gathered around a small table, drinking sodas and coffee, in the next room was a quiet, unassuming guy, a guy with just that barebones patriotism that animated many working class kids to “do their duty” and join up when America was in danger, no questions asked. Not quite “my country, right or wrong” but pretty close when all was said and done. And as the early 1960s, the time of high school fun and frolic and for ace football star Johnny P, fun and frolic with one fetching Chrissie O’Shea and their flaming romance that was the talk of the Class of 1964 at old North Adamsville High, turned to mid-1960s and clarion calls that the country was in danger in some place called red-infested Vietnam.. Johnny, and not just Johnny, answered the call. And here, gathered around a small table, in early May 1968 his old corner boys from in front of Salducci’s Pizza Parlor “up the downs” were chatting away like mad.

Suddenly, Frank Riley, fabled Frankie, the king of the be-bop Salducci’s night in those fresher days, yelled to no one in particular but they all knew what he meant, “Remember that night after graduation when Tonio threw us that party at the pizza parlor.” And all the other five gathered at the table became silence with their own memories of that night. See, Tonio was the king hell owner and zen master pizza maker at Salducci’s and a guy who treated Frankie (and therefore most of Frankie’s friends) like a son. So Tonio put out a big deal party right on the premises, closed to all but Frankie, his friends and hangers-on (and girls of course). Tonio, at least this is what he said at the time, appreciated that Frankie brought so much business his way what with his corner boys, their corner boys, and the, ah, girls that gathered round them and who endlessly fed the juke box that he had to show his appreciation in such a way. And everybody had a great time that night, with the closed door wine, Tonio-provided wine, flowing like crazy and nobody, no authorities or parents the wiser for it.

Part of that great time, the part the guys around the 1968 table were remembering just then, the part of that great gun-ho 1964 time occurred late that night when, plenty of wine under their belts, Frankie and the corner boys, talked “heroic” talk. Talked about their military service obligations that was coming up right on them. And this was no abstract talk, no this night, for not only was this a party put on by Tonio to show his gratitude but a kind of going away party for ace football player and part-time corner boy (the other part, the more and more part, with one fetching Chrissie O’Shea), Johnny Prescott, who signed up right after graduation and was getting ready to leave for “boot camp” at Fort Dix, New Jersey in a few days. So everybody was piling on the bravery talk to Johnny about “killing commies” somewhere, maybe Vietnam, maybe Germany, hell, maybe Russia or China. And Johnny, not any rum-brave kind Johnny, not any blah blah-ing about bravery, football or war, Johnny just kind of sat there and let the noise go by him. His thoughts then were of Chrissie and doing everything he could to get back to her in one piece.

Of course heaping up pile after pile on the bravery formula was one Frankie Riley, ever the politician and well as keenly acknowledgement corner boy king, who had so just happened to have landed, through a very curious connection with the Kennedy clan, a coveted slot in a National Guard unit. So, Frankie, ever Frankie, could be formally brave that night in the knowledge that he would be far away from any real fighting. His rejoinder was that his unit “might” be called up. The others kidded him about it, about his “week-end warrior” status, but just a little because after all he would be serving one way or another. Also kind of silent that night was Fritz Taylor just then ready to “do his duty” after having had a heavy-duty fight with his mother about his future, or lack of a future, and her “hadn’t he better go in the service and learn a trade” talk.

Most vociferous that night was Timmy Kiley. Yes, Timmy, the younger brother of the legendary North Adamsville and later State U. football player “Thunder Tommy” Kiley. He was ready to catch every red under every bed and do what, when and where to any he caught. Timmy later joined the Navy to “see the world” and saw much of some dreary scow in some dry-dock down in Charleston, South Carolina. Even Peter Paul Markin, Frankie’s right-hand man, self-described scribe, and publicly kind of the pacifist of the group, who usually got mercilessly “fag”-baited for his pale peace comments was up in arms about the need to keep the “free world” free. But that was just the way he talked, kind of a studied hysterical two-thousand facts diatribe. Markin, student deferred, at that 1968 table had just gotten notice from his friendly neighbors at the North Adamsville Draft Board that upon graduation he was to be drafted. And he was ready, kicking and screaming about some graduate school project that the world really needed to know about, to go. That was the way it was in the neighborhood. Go or be out. Frank Ricco, the so-called token Eye-talian, of the Irish-laden Salducci’s corner boy night (and a kid that Tonio actually hated, some kind of Mafioso, omerta thing with his father) also displayed super-human brave talk that night but he was credited , not so many months later of not only going in the Marines but of seeing some heavy-duty action in jungle-infested Kontum, and some other exotic and mainly unpronounceable place farther south in the water-logged rice paddles of the Mekong Delta of Vietnam.

Quiet, quieter than Johnny Prescott thinking of Chrissie, or Fritz, sullenly furious at his mother or at his hard-scrabble fate, or both, was Johnny Callahan. Johnny no stranger to corner boy controversy, no stranger to patriotic sentiments, at least publicly to keep in step with his boys, secretly hated war, the idea of this war coming up and was seriously hung up on the Catholic “just war” theory that had been around since at least Saint Augustine, maybe earlier. See Johnny had a grandmother (and also a mother, but less so) who was an ardent Catholic Worker reader and adherent to their social philosophy. You know, Dorothy Day and that crowd of rebel Catholics wanting to go back to the old, old days, the Roman persecution days, of the social gospel and the like. And grandmother had the “just war” theory down pat. She was the greatest knitter of socks for “the boys” during World War II that the world may have ever known. But on Vietnam she was strictly “no-go, no-go, no way” and she was drilling that in Johnny’s head every chance she got (which was a lot since Johnny, having, well let’s call it “friction” with his mother sought refuge over at grandma’s). Now grandma was pressing Johnny to apply for conscientious objector status (CO) but Johnny knew that as a Catholic, a lapsing Catholic but still a Catholic, the formal “just war” theory of that church would not qualify him for CO status. He wanted to, expected to, just refuse induction. So that rounded out that party that night. Hell, maybe in retrospect it wasn’t such a great party, although blame the times not Tonio for that.

Just then, as each member at the table thought his thoughts, started by Frankie’s remembrance someone from the other room called out, “pall-bearers, get ready.”

Postscript: Sergeant, E-5, John Phillip Prescott made the national news that 1968 year, that 1968 year of Tet, made the Life magazine photo montage of those killed in service in Vietnam on any given week. Johnny P.’s week was heavy with casualties so there were many photos, many looks of mainly working-class enlisted youth that kind of blurred together despite the efforts to recognize each individually. And, of course, Johnny P.’s name is etched in black marble down in Washington, D.C. John Patrick Callahan served his two year “tour of duty” as federal prisoner 122204, at the Federal Correctional Institution, Allentown, Pennsylvania. The road less traveled, indeed.

***In The Time Of Your Parents'(Ouch, Maybe Grandparents') Folk Moment, Circa 1955

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Yes, Freddy had heard it, folk music or whatever his parents and the local DJ on Henry’s Folk Hour called it, you know the stuff that the pioneers way back in their covered wagon or somebody sang around the campfire to keep the Indians away, or to while away some mountain dew Saturday night nursing along the white lightning, or somebody’s idea of summer camp fun along with some make-do banjo or wooden guitar, wafting through the house, through the Jackson household as background music back in the early 1950s. He knew he had heard of folk music before when June Simmons ("June Bug" when they were younger back in Clintondale Elementary days and he had been, well, smitten with her, but that term no longer held sway now that they were high school juniors, and she had not been his June Bug for a while, now being Rick Roberts’ june bug) had asked him one day in class whether he had heard much folk music before Bob Dylan’s Blowin’ In The Wind had hit town and had bowled all the hip kids, or those who wanted to be hip (or beat, depending on your crowd), over.

Yes, now that he thought of it, he remembered having more than one fight, well not really a fight, but an argument with either Frank Jackson, Dad, or Maria Jackson (nee Riley), Ma, whenever they turned over the local (and only local) radio station, WJDA, to listen to their latest, greatest hits of World War II, World War II, squares-ville cubed, even then when he was nothing but a music-hungry kid. You know that old time Frank Sinatra Stormy Weather, Harry James and the Orchestra’s I’ll Be Home, the Andrews Sisters doing some cutesy bugle boy thing, or the Inkspots harmonizing on I’ll Get By (which was at least passable). Yes, squaresville, cubed, no doubt. And all Freddie, and every other kid, even non-hip, non-beat kids, in Clintondale was crazy for was a rock and roll jail-break once in a while-Elvis, Chuck, Bo, Little Richard, Jerry Lee anybody under the age of a million who knew how to rock the house, how to be-bop, and if not that at least to bop-bop. He lost that fight, well, lost part of it. In the end, after hassling Frank and Maria endlessly for dough to go buy 45s, they finally, finally bought him a transistor radio with a year’s (they thought) supply of batteries down at the local (and only) Radio Shack.

But he had lost in the big event because if they weren’t listening to that old time pirate crooning World War II music they were swinging and swaying to such upbeat folk stuff provided by Henry the folk DJ on that same sole local station. Stuff, hold your nose stuff, like Lonnie Donegan goof trebling on Rock Island Line making a fool of what Lead Belly was trying to do with that song, trying bring some blood and sweat to that song, Vince Martin and friends, harmonizing on Cindy, Oh Cindy in the martini cocktail hour breezes, The Tarriers, and not Harry Belafonte who at least had some style , trying to be-bop the Banana Boat Song at the ball, Terry Gilkyson and friends making a pitch, a no-hit pitch, to Marianne, and Russ Hamilton blasting the girlfriend world to the first floor rafters withRainbow. Squaresville, cubed.

And you wonder why when rusty-throated Bob Dylan came like a hurricane onto the scene in the early 1960s with Blowin’ In The Wind andThe Times They Are A Changin’, angel-voiced Joan Baez high white note covered his With God On Our Side, or even gravelly-throated Dave Van Ronk covering House Of The Rising Sunor Come All Ye Fair And Tender Ladies Freddie and his crowd finally go that pardon they were fighting for all along. And, praise be, the end of folk musak. Oh yah, and now that Freddie had gone native and embraced the new wave folk message blowing in the teen alienated night Miss June Simmons seemed to be calling him up every once in a while asking whether he would like to go over to Harvard Square some night and listen to some folk stuff at one of the coffee-houses there.

From The Boston Bradley Manning Support Committee Archives (June 2012)

Remarks made by a member of Veterans For Peace at the May 9^th 31 Saint James Street Boston rally in solidarity with our embattled SEIU sister and brother janitors.

Sisters and brothers, hermanas y hermanos, we of  Veterans for Peace stand in solidarity  with our hard-working fellow workers trying to get some justice in this wicked old world and not let them lose their jobs to some faceless corporation seeking to play “the race to the bottom” for their own profits.

I, personally, stand in solidarity as well, because back in the day I too worked for a time as a janitor right over here at Emerson College in the dark of night. That was just to earn some dough. Later, when I got more politically savvy, I was a janitor in a unionized automobile plant. So I KNOW that the brother and sister janitors working at 31 Saint James Street are hard-working. Buffing the floors, vacuuming the rugs, dusting this and that, emptying wastepaper baskets, and, well, cleaning the restrooms, and no offense to the mujeres, in the audience, theirs were the worst to clean. You janitors know what I mean, right?  The office buildings, the factories, the industrial and high tech parks don’t just clean themselves. It takes honest work by the forgotten and unseen obreros to do it. And they should be paid well and have job security for their efforts.

Now Veterans for Peace is best known for its militant anti-war work, especially in these days of permanent war just now centered in Afghanistan but next year who knows where once the imperial government rears its hind legs. But VFP has also participated in the anti-capitalist struggles around Bank of America and home foreclosures and the like. Think about it though, the struggle against war, the struggle against the profit-gouged banks and their predatory practices and the struggle against the race to the bottom capitalists for labor dignity and some social and economic justice. Mi amigos they are all the same struggle, the same fight. So as the old time militant labor slogan goes- an injury to one is an injury to all. Venceramos.

 

From The American Left History Archives-Let Us Solemnly Commemorate OWS On September 17^th Each Year- And Move On- Radical Writer Joshua Lawrence Breslin Pulls The Hammer Down On The Occupy Movement

Markin comment:

“…The Occupy movement has now declared unequivocally that it is a movement of generals without an army. And likes it that way ”- from an article, Whither Occupy?”- by Joshua Lawrence Breslin in the East Bay Other, December 22, 2011.

Note that Brother Breslin ( I will explain that bond in a minute) did not say that the Occupy movement was an army without generals.  Josh’s finely-tuned sense of which way a movement is heading and why picked that nugget out long before this writer in early spring had to concede the point, a sense he has developed, by the way, over forty years of writing for half the unread ( just kidding , Josh), and in some cases unlamented , radical and progressive journals and  newspapers in this country.  Brother Breslin always had shape antennae for the ebb and flow of social movements going back to the 1960s when he saw the ebb of those high heaven movements fall apart around the 1969 “Days Of Rage” at a time when I did not see the ebb until the 1971 May Day Tribe attempts in Washington, D.C. to shut the government down over the ever-continuing Vietnam War. So Josh Breslin is somebody I listen to.

Back in December I, as usual, dismissed his remarks as so much bad air as a result of having been burned by some of his experiences on the West Coast (his base for many years, although he resides now mostly near his old home town of Olde Saco up in Maine) and at the Occupy Boston site at Dewey Square. I, in what now seems like a fit of hubris, defended the movement as just about the best thing since sliced bread. Oh sure I had my fair share of criticisms, criticisms from a socialist perspective about the “no demands” demands and the like. However I saw most of the stuff  that I disliked as “growing pains”  and particularly held out hope for the General Assembly idea as the embryo of an alternative form of government in our new world a-borning .  

Josh, if he is honest,  will admit  that he too shared some of my “generation of ‘68” hopes that this new movement would be the place where we passed on the torch the next generation (really the next next generation, there is a “missing generation (roughly the Occupy kids’ parents). Now those hopes have dissolved in the spring air and that son of a bitch proved right again.

Why have I spilled so much cyberspace “ink”  on the august opinions of an old-time radical writer?  Simply put because I recently was approached by a “true believer,” a self-described socialist ‘true believer” in the Occupy mission to answer some questions about my take on what socialists contributed (or didn’t ) to the movement and other questions along those lines. Naturally when such questions are raised I turn to my old comrade Josh for his opinions, suggestions, etc. Josh and I have shared many a picket line duty, many a lonely vigil, many a forlorn march for some underpublicized cause, and many a rally for some aspect of the world’s ills so our bonds of brotherhood run deep, even if we seldom agree on political perspectives. I have placed his answers to that true believer’s questions below. To finish up though let me quote his closing remark which has been telegraphed in the headline to this piece. “Let’s solemnly commemorate September 17^th each year-and move on.” Pure Josh Breslin. But, damn him, he’s right-again.   

***********
[Markin: I have deleted questions that Josh, for his own reasons, did not answer. My answers will form part of that true believer’s essay so I have not included them here. ]   

Socialists in the Occupy Movement (Massachusetts)

I'm trying to keep this Massachusetts specific, but feel free to refer to national events when applicable.

Feel free to send this to other socialists who may be interested in answering questions.

Feel free to skip any questions that are not applicable by writing N/A.

Share links to relevant articles where appropriate.

1. Your name? Or if you prefer to use a pen-name for this interview, please write it down.

Joshua Lawrence Breslin (my by-line name but just Josh  in mixed company, mixed being political and non-political) 

2. What socialist organization are you a part of? Or if you are an independent socialist, do you have some other affiliation (journal, union, etc.)?

Independent Socialist-East Bay Other , Real Paper, The Barb, Boston Phoenix, Rolling Stone, Green Weekly, and too many other papers and journals to mention

3. How would you describe yourself ideologically?

Traced from youth- Catholic Worker etched-liberalism (same as Markin except that his was Irish mine Gallic-derived) , Cold War social democracy, communist fellow traveler radical –League Of  California Radicals, now for many years, an independent radical 

4. When did either you or your organization get involved in the Occupy Movement (specifically in Massachusetts)?

I attended the pre-encampment meetings before September 30th, had a writing assignment at Occupy Oakland for most of  October and early November, came back and worked at Dewey Square from then on. 

5. Did you or anyone from organization camp out in an Occupy encampment? 

Are you serious? No. Old men do not “camp out” on the highway. And young people shouldn’t either.

8. How would you characterize Occupy's relation/reception to socialists ideas? Good? Bad? Indifferent? –

Indifferent but a studied indifference to any ideas beyond the mush of “ideas” that held the camp together. I once commented that for a political movement that then held the public center of attention there was less political discussion at Occupy than I had run into off-handedly in various pre-Occupy rallies and marches in which I had participated. That observation has only gotten stronger as the movement has fallen apart.    

11. Were you a part of any Occupy working groups? Which ones and your assessment?

Socialist Caucus-short-lived, not well-attended and mainly a “mail-drop” and endorsement vehicle for other actions, including those which I supported and sought endorsements for. The caucus I believe pretty accurately reflected the weaknesses of the non-academic socialist movement in Boston (and probably more generally the radical milieu) as far as numbers go, desire for an all-inclusive socialist organization where groups and individuals could fight out their politics while doing the necessary united front work that has to drive the movement in this period, and general post-Soviet demise indifferent and/or hostility to socialism beyond the endlessly prattled passive poll figure that the younger generations now have a more positive attitude toward socialist ideas and  do not want to shoot every socialist on sight.     

Action for Peace-mainly the same observations as for the Socialist Caucus except that it really was kind of redundant to Veterans for Peace and UNAC organizational efforts reflecting the composition of the members of the group. Most successful action was as part of the February Hands Off Iran rally but that event, a real united front rather than Occupy event, demonstrates the redundant nature of the group. As a general observation about the working groups I would note that pre-Occupy organizations, for a time, found it worthwhile, and rightly so, I think, to work under the Occupy umbrella. Of late I note that most groups now work under their previous individual organizational forms and not under the Occupy umbrella.

General Strike OB- planning for May Day 2012. The best group I worked with, again too small for the task, the general strike task that originally animated its formation. Made up of a core of anarchists who were very hard-working but who also (as I did) kept some distance from OB GA (except for dough). To the extent that it might help you I have placed my May 2012 reflections here.  

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I have noted on several previous occasions  that due to the recent absence of serious left-wing political struggle (prior to the events at Occupy Boston in Dewey Square from October to December 2011anyway) that our tasks for May Day 2012 in Boston centered on reviving the international working class tradition beyond the limited observance by revolutionaries, radicals and, in recent years, immigrants. This effort would thus not be a one event, one year but require a number of years and that this year’s efforts was just a start. We have made that start.

The important thing this year was to bring Boston in line with the international movement, to have leftist militants and others see our struggles here as part of an international struggle even if our actions were, for now, more symbolic and educational than powerful blows at the imperial system. I believe, despite the bad weather and consequently smaller than anticipated numbers on May Day 2012, we achieved that aim. Through months of hard outreach, especially over the past several weeks as the day approached, we put out much propaganda and information about the events through the various media with which we have access. The message of this May Day, a day without the 99%, got a full hearing by people from the unions, immigrant communities, student milieu and other sectors like the women’s movement and GLBQT community.  The connections and contacts made are valuable for our further efforts. 

 Some participants that spoke to me on May Day (and others who had expressed the same concerns on earlier occasions) believed that we had “bitten off more than we could chew,” by having an all-day series of events.  While I am certainly open to hear criticism on the start time of the day’s events (7:00AM does stretch the imagination for night-owlish militants) the idea of several events starting with that early Financial District Block Party and continuing on with the 11:00 AM Anti-Capitalist March which fed into the noontime rally at Boston City Hall Plaza  and then switching over to the immigrant community marches and rally capped off that evening by the sober, solemn and visually impression “Death Of Capitalism” funeral procession still seems right to me. Given our task –introducing (really re-introducing) May Day to a wider Boston audience we needed to provide a number of times and events where people could, consciously, contribute to the day’s celebration. Maybe some year our side will be able to call for a one event May Day mass rally (or better a general strike) but that is music for the future. 

Needless to say, as occurs almost any time you have many events and a certain need to have them coordinated, there were some problems from technical stuff like mic set-ups to someone forgetting something important, or not showing at the right time, etc. Growing pains. Nevertheless all the scheduled events happened, we had minimum hassles from the police, and a couple of events really stick out as exemplars for future May Days. The Anti-Capitalist March from Copley Square, mainly in a downpour, led by many young militants and which fed into the noontime City Hall rally was spirited and gave me hope that someday (someday soon, I hope) we are going to bring this imperial monster down. The already mentioned funeral procession was an extremely creative (and oft-forgotten by us) alternative way to get our message across outside the “normal” ham-handed, jack-booted political screed.

Finally, a word or two on organization. The Occupy-May Day Coalition personnel base was too small, way too small even for our limited goals. We need outreach early (early next year) to get enough organizer-type people on board to push forward. More broadly on outreach I believe, and partially this was a function of being too small an organizing center, we spent too much time “preaching to the choir”-going to events, talking to people already politically convinced , talking among ourselves rather than get out into the broader political milieu. For next year (which will not be an election year) we really need union and community people (especially people of color) to “smooth” the way for us. We never got that one (although we want more than one ultimately) respected middle-level still militant union official or community organizer that people, working people, listen to and who would listen to us with his or her nod. Radical or bourgeois politics, down at the base, you still need the people that the people listen to. Forward to May Day 2013.           

12. Did you or your organization bring any proposals to a General Assembly? How were those proposals received?

As noted the General Strike proposals, in line with the national and international thrust for May Day were well-received, including for money. I would note that during the post-encampment period GA served as more of a “mail drop” and endorsement vehicle similar to the working groups I was involved with. If couched in the right language and sufficiently genetic (read; noncontroversial) most proposals that I was associated with passed with a minimum of friction. The main point though is to trace the political demise of GA from an October “people’s voice” operation to a “rump” in the post encampment period. Its writ did not run very far (and maybe never did except in the political winds). That was highlighted by May Day where the central Occupy struggle event (the Financial District Block Party) fizzled, fizzled badly. As I said back in December “we are generals without an army.” People, including political genius Markin, thought I was crazy when I first said that, but as usual, my political antennae were very sharp.      

 13. What do you or your organization perceive as the weaknesses of Occupy? Please elaborate.

See most of above. I will just outline here as a summary. Too attached to the camp idea beyond its usefulness. Too caught up in camp details once it became a “homeless shelter” toward the end of October.  A studied lack of serious political discussion beyond platitudes. No demands which ordinary people could organize around and fight for. And desperately need to fight for too.  Too wedded to the almost politically infantile ideas that formed the movement (mic check, endless GA prattle, absolute consensus, non-representative assemblies, moral blocks). Too many marches and rallies without purpose other than to proclaim 99%-dom. Too wedded to a purely social media concept of revolution in the U.S. and not taking into consideration the differences between here and let’s say, in Egypt. No links, other than formal and those tenuous, to organized labor, blacks, Latinos, working women, non-radicalized students, ordinary working people, hard-pressed suburban home-owners, etc. Unwillingness, incapacity, or even awareness of political timing of the need to shift perspective as the movement fell apart in winter and spring. Too wedded to the “leaderless” leader concept. In short all the problems that one should have expected of a movement that “had” it for a political minute last fall and essentially squandered it. That is a hard thing to swallow for me. Harder still it is not something that can really be addressed (at least for Boston) at this late date.   

14. Any campaigns that you/organization have been involved in? (ex. Occupy the T). In what way? 

See above.

15. Where do you see the Occupy movement going from here?

As I said above -… “we are generals without an army.” From all appearances of late that looks like the situation for the future as well. I would note that from the declining number of active working groups, smaller size of those groups, and the rather cult-like actions of the remnant of OB GA it is not good. We should have a solemn commemoration for the OWS movement every September 17^th- and move on.