Monday, June 24, 2013

From The Marxist Archives- For Women's Liberation through Socialist Revolution!

Workers Vanguard No. 866
17 March 2006

TROTSKY

LENIN

For Women's Liberation through Socialist Revolution!

(Quote of the Week)



March 8, International Women’s Day, which originated in 1908 in a march by women garment workers in New York City, was first celebrated in Russia in 1913. In a special edition of Pravda marking the occasion, Alexandra Kollontai, a leader in the Bolshevik Party, polemicized against bourgeois feminism and stressed that the emancipation of women is the task of the entire proletariat, whose historic role is the overthrow of the capitalist order through socialist revolution.

There was a time when working men thought that they alone must bear on their shoulders the brunt of the struggle against capital, that they alone must deal with the “old world” without the help of their womenfolk. However, as working-class women entered the ranks of those who sell their labour, forced onto the labour market by need, by the fact that husband or father is unemployed, working men became aware that to leave women behind in the ranks of the “non-class-conscious” was to damage their cause and hold it back. The greater the number of conscious fighters, the greater the chances of success. What level of consciousness is possessed by a woman who sits by the stove, who has no rights in society, the state or the family? She has no “ideas” of her own! Everything is done as ordered by the father or husband.…

On “Women’s Day” the organised women workers demonstrate against their lack of rights.

But, some will say, why this singling out of women workers? Why special “Women’s Days,” special leaflets for working women, meetings and conferences of working-class women? Is this not, in the final analysis, a concession to the feminists and bourgeois suffragettes?

Only those who do not understand the radical difference between the movement of socialist women and bourgeois suffragettes can think this way.

What is the aim of the feminists? Their aim is to achieve the same advantages, the same power, the same rights within capitalist society as those possessed now by their husbands, fathers and brothers. What is the aim of the women workers? Their aim is to abolish all privileges deriving from birth or wealth. For the woman worker it is a matter of indifference who is the “master”—a man or a woman. Together with the whole of her class, she can ease her position as a worker….

For bourgeois women, political rights are simply a means allowing them to make their way more conveniently and more securely in a world founded on the exploitation of the working people. For women workers, political rights are a step along the rocky and difficult path that leads to the desired kingdom of labour.

—Alexandra Kollontai, “Women’s Day” (February 1913)

***********
Alexandra Kollontai 1913

'Women's Day' February 1913




Source: Alexandra Kollontai: Selected Articles and Speeches, Progress Publishers, 1984;
First Published: Pravda, No. 40(244), 17 February, 1913, St Petersburg;
Transcribed: Sally Ryan for marxists.org, 2000;
Proofed: and corrected by Chris Clayton 2006.

The article 'Women's Day' by Alexandra Kollontai was published in the newspaper Pravda one week before the first-ever celebration in Russia of the Day of International Solidarity among the Female Proletariat on 23 February (8 March), 1913. In St Petersburg this day was marked by a call for a campaign against women workers' lack of economic and political rights, for the unity of the working class, and for the awakening of self-consciousness among women workers.



What is 'Women's Day'? Is it really necessary? Is it not a concession to the women of the bourgeois class, to the feminists and suffragettes? Is it not harmful to the unity of the workers' movement?

Such questions can still be heard in Russia, though they are no longer heard abroad. Life itself has already supplied a clear and eloquent answer.

'Women's Day' is a link in the long, solid chain of the women's proletarian movement. The organised army of working women grows with every year. Twenty years ago the trade unions contained only small groups of working women scattered here and there among the ranks of the workers party... Now English trade unions have over 292 thousand women members; in Germany around 200 thousand are in the trade union movement and 150 thousand in the workers party, and in Austria there are 47 thousand in the trade unions and almost 20 thousand in the party. Everywhere – in Italy, Hungary, Denmark, Sweden, Norway and Switzerland – the women of the working class are organising themselves. The women's socialist army has almost a million members. A powerful force! A force that the powers of this world must reckon with when it is a question of the cost of living, maternity insurance, child labour and legislation to protect female labour.

There was a time when working men thought that they alone must bear on their shoulders the brunt of the struggle against capital, that they alone must deal with the 'old world' without the help of their womenfolk. However, as working-class women entered the ranks of those who sell their labour, forced onto the labour market by need, by the fact that husband or father is unemployed, working men became aware that to leave women behind in the ranks of the 'non-class-conscious' was to damage their cause and hold it back. The greater the number of conscious fighters, the greater the chances of success. What level of consciousness is possessed by a woman who sits by the stove, who has no rights in society, the state or the family? She has no 'ideas' of her own! Everything is done as ordered by the father or husband...

The backwardness and lack of rights suffered by women, their subjection and indifference, are of no benefit to the working class, and indeed are directly harmful to it. But how is the woman worker to be drawn into the movement, how is she to be awoken?

Social-Democracy abroad did not find the correct solution immediately. Workers' organisations were open to women workers, but only a few entered. Why? Because the working class at first did not realise that the woman worker is the most legally and socially deprived member of that class, that she has been browbeaten, intimidated, persecuted down the centuries, and that in order to stimulate her mind and heart, a special approach is needed, words understandable to her as a woman. The workers did not immediately appreciate that in this world of lack of rights and exploitation, the woman is oppressed not only as a seller of her labour, but also as a mother, as a woman... However. when the workers' socialist party understood this, it boldly took up the defence of women on both counts as a hired worker and as a woman, a mother.

Socialists in every country began to demand special protection for female labour, insurance for mother and child, political rights for women and the defence of womens interests.

The more clearly the workers party perceived this second objective vis-a-vis women workers, the more willingly women joined the party, the more they appreciated that the party is their true champion, that the working class is struggling also for their urgent and exclusively female needs. Working women themselves, organised and conscious, have done a great deal to elucidate this objective. Now the main burden of the work to attract more working women into the socialist movement lies with the women. The parties in every country have their own special women's committees, secretariats and bureaus. These women's committees conduct work among the still largely non-politically conscious female population, arouse the consciousness of working women and organise them. They also examine those questions and demands that affect women most closely: protection and provision for expectant and nursing mothers, the legislative regulation of female labour, the campaign against prostitution and infant mortality, the demand for political rights for women, the improvement of housing, the campaign against the rising cost of living, etc.

Thus, as members of the party, women workers are fighting for the common class cause, while at the same time outlining and putting forward those needs and demands that most nearly affect themselves as women, housewives and mothers. The party supports these demands and fights for them... The requirements of working women are part and parcel of the common workers' cause!

On 'Women's Day' the organised demonstrate against their lack of rights.

But, some will say, why this singling out of women workers? Why special 'Women's Days', special leaflets for working women, meetings and conferences of working-class women? Is this not, in the final analysis, a concession to the feminists and bourgeois suffragettes?

Only those who do not understand the radical difference between the movement of socialist women and bourgeois suffragettes can think this way.

What is the aim of the feminists? Their aim is to achieve the same advantages, the same power, the same rights within capitalist society as those possessed now by their husbands, fathers and brothers. What is the aim of the women workers? Their aim is to abolish all privileges deriving from birth or wealth. For the woman worker it is a matter of indifference who is the 'master' a man or a woman. Together with the whole of her class, she can ease her position as a worker.

Feminists demand equal rights always and everywhere. Women workers reply: we demand rights for every citizen, man and woman, but we are not prepared to forget that we are not only workers and citizens, but also mothers! And as mothers, as women who give birth to the future, we demand special concern for ourselves and our children, special protection from the state and society.

The feminists are striving to acquire political rights. However, here too our paths separate.

For bourgeois women, political rights are simply a means allowing them to make their way more conveniently and more securely in a world founded on the exploitation of the working people. For women workers, political rights are a step along the rocky and difficult path that leads to the desired kingdom of labour.

The paths pursued by women workers and bourgeois suffragettes have long since separated. There is too great a difference between the objectives that life has put before them. There is too great a contradiction between the interests of the woman worker and the lady proprietress, between the servant and her mistress... There are not and cannot be any points of contact, conciliation or convergence between them. Therefore working men should not fear separate Women's Days, nor special conferences of women workers, nor their special press.

Every special, distinct form of work among the women of the working class is simply a means of arousing the consciousness of the woman worker and drawing her into the ranks of those fighting for a better future... Women's Days and the slow, meticulous work undertaken to arouse the self-consciousness of the woman worker are serving the cause not of the division but of the unification of the working class.

Let a joyous sense of serving the common class cause and of fighting simultaneously for their own female emancipation inspire women workers to join in the celebration of Women's Day.

Sunday, June 23, 2013

***Cocaine Blues With Nelson Algren’s The Man With The Golden Arm In Mind-Take Two



From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

The whole set-up reeked of cop, of a cop ambush, just like before, the time several years before when he, Jason Sloan, got caught up in a Boston, statie or fed cop dragnet when they were hassling street people, drug-involved street people, his people, in one of their periodic “make the citizens happy” busts and he had fallen down on a thirty day clinker rap for possession since he had “forgotten” to get rid of a couple of fine ass joints that he was carrying in his shirt pocket in time. Fortunately he had just an hour before handed off a kilo of grass, ganja, herb or whatever you call marijuana in your neighborhood and had parked the dough in a safe place. Now, in 1979, just like back then they, they meaning the authorities, wanted to impress the good citizens of the Commonwealth with their prowess against the dreaded junkie night-crawlers ready to turn them or their kids into zombies in their midst and so they found any convenient target, small target not the big guys, the guys who controlled the market and who had them, those self-same vaunted authorities in their hip pockets, or someplace like that, to push around.

Any guy with a small record was targeted to “mule” for them (they had approached him but no dice, hell, no dice, not after that thirty day drop, yah, hell no) in the big entrapment campaign that was supposed to snuff out the drug market around town posthaste with guys snitching like crazy to get out from under whatever “uncle” or whoever was squeezing their balls to assist them for some consideration (consideration like maybe walking on your own case, or no time, their time, hard time, if you brought down say three small time rickety dealers) Yes, it had the look, the same look, the dreaded look of a planned cop ambush although this time Jason had moved “uptown” (as had the ensnarled drug brotherhood) and he was now dealing “cousin,” cocaine (girl, sister, snow or whatever you call it in your neighborhood), dealing and using, lately more using than dealing, a lot more. Yah, he had broken rule number one of the trade-don’t sample the merchandise but he had been low of late, the last year or so, and frankly the old grass high was nowhere anymore and so he had tried to get well, to get his kicks on Route 666 he liked to say, with sweet sister cocaine running all up and down his brain.

The “meet” had been set-up by Jimmy James, a guy he only slightly knew but who had given him a very powerful name as reference, a name that one did not want to cross in the local market if one wanted to continue doing business and maybe continue breathing for all he knew, knew from the streets around the Common, Boston Common for anyone asking, for this back alley near Beacon Street (nobody in these hard-pressed times wanted to make a meet to far from his or her base, he lived up just a few blocks on Joy Street, for a lot of reasons, mainly some form of laziness, some form of turf protection as the rise in shoot-outs in all neighborhoods was getting out of hand).That part wasn’t so bad. Jason had done more than one dead of night back alley deal but the times were now out of sort for that type arrangement. What was bad, bad medicine, as he surveyed the meet site was there were no lights showing from the windows of the apartment that abutted the alley, none, creating an eerie feeling of being out in some country locale), there were no cars either, Christ no cars in car-crazy Back Bay alley ways, and worse, worse on a Saturday night no foot traffic, no bustling of innocent boy-girl date feet to cover the transaction. So, desperate as he was to make this deal, to make this connection, not for the money so much but to get well, to get a little something for his head, he was going to walk away, walk away without a score.

Jason had to laugh to himself as he went walking back onto Beacon Street heading back to Joy that there were going to be some angry cops, city, state and feds, the way things had been going on the streets of late in their frenzy for high profile street busts, and that the “snitch” Jimmy James was going to be taking his own sad ass tumble over this one, this busted bust, for whatever deal he had made to get out from under whatever they had on him. He hoped that he got roasted, roasted for some hard state pen time where they certainly don’t like snitches (snitches that maybe had put them in the slammer). He made a note as well to contact that reference to give him a heads up about what went done this night and maybe that would help him in the future, if he had a future now that he turned down that score. Yah, he had to laugh.

That though would be the last laugh Jason had for a while, although he did not know that hard fact, that hard street fact, while he was walking up Beacon Street to Joy and his rooming house, his lonely rooming house room, alone now since Shana had fled the scene a few months back when he had started to dip into the coke for his head a lot more than for selling it. Had left when he had stopped giving her and her baby (not his, but some guy back in her stupid unprotected sex high school days , Jesus) some money to keep them together. Hell, before she left, he had borrowed dough off of her (or took dough from her pocketbook, just like when he was just a snot-nosed sneaky kid out his own mother’s purse).

Worse he took the dough, borrowed or taken from that handy purse, after Shana had gone out, had had to go out, on those mean streets downtown, down in “the zone,” and done a number of quick tricks to bring in some dough for the baby when he was feeling low, he Jason, not the baby. The zone was strictly low-rent, guys who would cut your throat as soon as look at you, weird sex fantasy guys and so really no place for a young mother and no place for a righteous man to send his woman, not if he had any sense. Still he needed dough, and so she pedaled her ass for him. Hell, at least he never beat her like some dope ass junkies he knew. She had soon tired of it, had from what he had heard got herself a new walking daddy (a guy from what he had also heard who was the king of the midnight sifters, and so bringing in steady dough, and no hassles). Good luck to her and while she was a good piece of ass under the covers lately he had craved coke more than sex and so yah maybe the new walking daddy would treat her right. Still this night he would face his troubles alone, unlike the last couple of times he had tried to quit (or had to) and she Mother Nurture had helped nurse him along though the hard parts.

As he made the turn on to Joy he knew he was in for a couple of tough days if he could not score before then, and the chances of him scoring now with no dough (he was fronted the dough for that Beacon Street back alley deal and knew, knew for a certainty, that he would be found dead early some morning the next week if he dipped into that stash to get himself well). Desperate having run through every good connection, dough connection he had, since he had not paid back a number of loans, or was working a version of the Ponzi scheme paying one guy off with another guy’s borrowed money, he was forced to go to Vinnie the Shark for this fronted dough. And one was not late with Vinnie’s dough, not unless he liked living face down. He would rather face the withdrawal symptoms , tough as they were as he knew from the previous two episodes he had endured than be found face down somewhere, unclaimed and unidentified, although as he walked up Joy he could already feel those first running nose blues flashing through his system and so maybe face down was so bad after all.

He stopped for some cigarettes and a quart of cheap jack Southern Comfort (the only liquor he could stomach as a kid, cheap or not, and he had kept up that habit occasionally when some choicer drug was not around) at Joe’s Liquor Store. Fortunately Joe, who had run the place by himself for the past forty years serving winos, yuppies and Mayfair swells alike and knew the lore of the hill like no one else, would let him cuff his purchases since he had put Joe onto a few good drug scores for those self-same swells and yuppies a while back. So package in hand he entered the front door of his rooming house, hell, his flop, just about the last one left on that side of the hill, populated with the dregs of the earth, you know winos, old age guys, a few broken down midnight sifters, a grafter or two, a couple of guys on the lam for this and that, a couple of low-profile whores on the first floor (and not bad, not bad at all, especially the younger one who knew all the tricks and knew how to use them, back before he dug cousin more than sex).He could smell, as always the strong smell of disinfectant, of spilled wine, of misplaced urine, of land’s end, and all who enter here give up hope, as he walked up the stairs to his fly-by-night third floor room.

He was short of breath as he hit his landing and after turning the key to his door he immediately flopped down on the unmade bed, unmake for the past several days as he had been scrambling like crazy to put a score together and had no time for the niceties of good housekeeping. He pulled out a cigarette, a Camel, unfiltered, and lit it up thinking how funny it was that he took up smoking back in the early 1960s just when every doctor in the universe, including the long time lungers among them, was telling every teenager who would listen to stop the damn habit. Even funnier as he coughed the inevitable cough after that first drag was how tobacco addiction was kid’s stuff, kid’s stuff at least to him, when old cousin was calling, screaming really. He took the first of a long line of swigs from the Southern Comfort bottle and felt better for a minute, for about a minute each time.

Maybe he could sleep through it this time as he pushed his pillow, his slip- less dirty sweat-stained pillow, under his head to try to catch a few nods. As he did so he thought about how back in the days, back in those halcyon hippie days about a decade or so back how everybody made big deal about pot, you know marijuana, and how it was worse than tobacco and would get you all addicted. What a joke, what a crying out loud joke that was. What they, he, didn’t know was how sweet cousin could be and while he had heard that horse, h, or whatever you call heroin in your neighborhood was really bad that coke was just fine, just fine to keep the edge off. To keep your dreams clean. He forgot that part from the old blues song from maybe about 1920 or so about “cocaine’s for horses, not for men-they say it’s going to kill you but that won’t say when.”Yah, they forget that part, little good such knowledge would do him this moonless night, if it was moonless.

Just that moment he craved just one little snort, one thin line and so he got up and frantically looked for any residue that might be around. Finding none he took another swig of that rotgut and fell back down on the pillow and tried, tried like seven devil to put some sleep between him and his desire. Yah, the night was starting out rough, rougher than the previous two times. And as he finally nodded off he swore, swore on seven sealed bibles, if they had been around for him to swear on that this time he was done, he was going to sober up.

A few hours later, still dark out as he awoke, he got up to make himself a cup of coffee on his hot plate. And while he was waiting for the coffee to boil he began to think about how the Be-Bop Kid over on Shawmut Avenue would be holding some stuff and that he would use just a few of those fronted dollars to get himself well, sell a couple of eight balls maybe, and then he really would forget this cousin stuff…
*******
Cocaine Blues

Every time my baby and me we go uptown
Police come and they knock me down
Cocaine, all around my brain

Hey baby, you better come here quick
This old cocaine's about to make
Cocaine, all around my brain

Yonder come my baby she's dressed in red
She's got a shotgun, says she's gonna kill me dead
Cocaine, all around my brain

Hey baby, you better come here quick
This old cocaine's about to make me sick
Cocaine, all around my brain

You take Sally and I'll take Sue
Ain't no difference between the two
Cocaine, all around my brain

Hey baby, you better come here quick
This old cocaine's about to make me sick
Cocaine, all around my brain

Cocaine's for horses and it's not for men
Doctor says it kill you but it doesn't say when
Cocaine, all around my brain

Hey baby, you better come here quick
This old cocaine's about to make me sick
Cocaine, all around my brain

Hey baby, you better come here quick

The Latest From The Rag Blog

 
 
 

Markin comment:

I find this The Rag Blog website very useful to monitor for the latest in what is happening with past tense radical activists and activities. Anybody, with some kind of name, and who is still around from the 1960s has found a home here. So the remembrances and recollections are helpful for today’s activists. Strangely the politics are almost non-existent, as least ones that would help today, except to kind of retroactively “bless” those old-time left politics that did nothing (well, almost nothing) but get us on the losing end of the class (and cultural) wars of the  last forty plus years. Still this is a must read blog for today’s left militants.

Additional Markin comment:

 I place some material in this space which may be of interest to the radical public that I do not necessarily agree with or support. Off hand, as I have mentioned before, I think it would be easier, infinitely easier, to fight for the socialist revolution straight up than some of the “remedies” provided by the commentators in these entries. But part of that struggle for the socialist revolution is to sort out the “real” stuff from the fluff as we struggle for that more just world that animates our efforts.

*******

19 June 2013


Bob Feldman : Texas Still Ranks High in Poverty and Segregation by Race and Income, 1964-2012

Poverty in Texas has continued to grow in recent years. Image from WebGovernments.
The hidden history of Texas
Conclusion: 1996-2012/Final Section -- Texas still ranks high in poverty and segregation by race and economic status and low in health care and education.
By Bob Feldman / The Rag Blog / June 19, 2013

[This is the final section of the conclusion to Bob Feldman's Rag Blog series on the hidden history of Texas.]

Despite the surplus wealth accumulated by some ultra-rich folks in Texas between 1996 and 2011, the number of people living in poverty also continued to increase during these same years. The University of Texas' Texas Politics website indicates the extent to which the economic, educational, and health care needs of large numbers of people in Texas are still not being met by Texas society in the 21st-century:

In 2007 Texas ranked second among all the states in the percent of its populace that was poor... The poverty rate for Texas in that year was 16.5 percent. The only other state that had higher poverty rates was Mississippi (20.1 percent)... Texas...clearly has the highest poverty rate of any large industrial state... Its poor population in absolute numbers: 3.934 million people... California...is the only state with a larger number of poor people...than Texas...

Texas therefore has both a large number of poor people and a high percentage of its population living in poverty. In 2007, Texas ranked 9th in the poverty rate for the elderly; it ranked 49th in the percentage of its adult population with a high school diploma; and it ranked first, at 24.4 percent, in the percent of the populace with no health insurance...

Of the Anglo population, 8.4 percent is poor, while 23.8 percent of the African-American and 24.8 percent of the Hispanic populations are poor. In other words, the rate of poverty among the two minority groups is three times greater than among the Anglo population… If we take the entire poor population of Texas (some 3.9 million people)…23.8 percent of all poor Texans are Anglo, and 15.8 percent are African-American, but well over half (53 percent) are Hispanic...

...in the entire United States, the two absolutely poorest [counties]... were both along the Texas-Mexico border -- Cameron County and Hidalgo County... Cameron and Hidalgo were the only two counties in the United States with median household incomes under $25,000... Cameron and Hidalgo counties also had the highest poverty rates of any counties in the United States; each had a rate of about 41 percent...

El Paso had a poverty rate of 29 percent... Of the 10 poorest counties in the United States, Texas had El Paso (sixth) and Lubbock (tenth) in addition to Cameron and Hidalgo. Texas was the only state to have more than one of the poorest ten counties nation-wide...
And according to a recently-released report of Austin’s Center for Public Policy Priorities, titled "The State of Texas Children 2011," 24 percent of all children in Texas and 22.2 percent of all children in Austin were now living in poverty in 2009, while the poverty level for the total population in Texas increased to 17.1 percent in 2009 (even before the state’s official jobless rate reached 8 percent in December 2010) and 16 percent of all people living in Austin were now economically impoverished.

A May 5, 2011, issue brief of the Economic Policy Institute, titled “Distressed Texas,” also noted that “the African-American unemployment rate in Texas rose from 8.1 percent at the beginning of the Great Recession to a high of 14.8 percent in the second quarter of 2010,” and “in 2010, 13.6 percent of African-Americans and 9.6 percent of Hispanics were unemployed, compared with 6.0 percent of white non-Hispanic Texans.”

And, according to "Ongoing Joblessness in Texas," a May 16, 2013, report from the Economic Policy Institute, "In Texas, where the overall unemployment rate was 6.3 percent in the fourth quarter of 2012 (compared with a national average of 7.8 percent), African American and Hispanic families continue to bear the brunt of that economic pain."

In a February 1, 2003, speech before the W.H. Passion Historical Society at Austin’s Southgate-Lewis House, former Austin SNCC activist Larry Jackson made the following observation about the extent of perceived white racism in 21st-century Austin, a town otherwise known as a progressive enclave:
Austin, Texas has been and still it is, I think, a place that is hung up in the late '40s. I think Austin is a very racist city. Matter of fact, even though I have received a lot of the goodness that Austin offers, and I have been blessed, I find Austin to be a real racist place. And I was born in Hearne, Texas, and I know racism when I see it. And it is here [in Austin] greater than it exists anywhere else in this state.

And there’s just a different kind of a slave mentality here than just other places. There’s also more opportunity here than in most other places. But people here are so hell-bent on seeing themselves a little bit better than the people in Elgin and Giddings because that’s their yardstick. So you don’t have to be a lot better; all you have to be is just alive.
Though there are towns in Texas where racism is certainly more blatant, Austin is a very segregated city and is experiencing substantial displacement of blacks and Hispanics due to gentrification. More overt racism may be found elsewhere in the state, especially in towns like Vidor and Jasper in East Texas that have struggled to overcome histories of KKK-dominated racial violence.

An April 25, 2013, article in Business Insider on the 21 most segregated cities in the U.S. included only Houston (at 20th) among Texas cities. But an August 2, 2012, feature in the same publication, citing a study by the Pew Research Center, called Houston "America's most economically segregated city," citing that "Houston leads the way among the nation's 10 largest metropolitan areas when it comes to affluent folks living among others who are affluent, and poor living with poor."

In Houston, according to the article, "the percentage of upper-income households in census tracts with a majority of upper-income households increased from 7 in 1980 to 24 in 2010. Likewise, low-income households in majority low-income tracts jumped from 25 to 37." Of the nation's 30 top metropolitan areas, San Antonio, Houston, and Dallas topped the Pew study's "Residential Income Segregation Index."

According to the Sentencing Project website’s most recent figures, for every 100,000 African-Americans who live in Texas, 3,162 are now imprisoned, while the rate of incarceration for white people in Texas is currently 667 per 100,000. And since 1995 the total number of people of all races locked up inside state and federal prisons in Texas has increased from 127,766 to 162,186 (including 11,620 female prisoners).

There are some positive signs on the horizon, with major demographic changes likely to transform the state's political complexion. With rapid growth in youth, African-American, and Hispanic populations, and increased clout for the state's urban areas, Texas is projected to change political colors in the next decade or two. As the Center for American Progress Action Fund put it, "changing demographics will have significant impact on [Texas's] social, economic, and political landscape."

But for now, as we enter the post-2012 period of Texas history (and a possible post-2017 “Perry Era” of right-wing political resurgence in U.S. history), the anti-democratic direction of recent Texas history has not been reversed and the people of the state continue to be economically exploited and politically dominated by the white corporate power structure and political establishment of Texas -- which has been the story for the last 190 years of the hidden history of Texas.

[Bob Feldman is an East Coast-based writer-activist and a former member of the Columbia SDS Steering Committee of the late 1960s. Read more articles by Bob Feldman on The Rag Blog.]

The Rag Blog


The Latest From The Rag Blog



Markin comment:

I find this The Rag Blog website very useful to monitor for the latest in what is happening with past tense radical activists and activities. Anybody, with some kind of name, and who is still around from the 1960s has found a home here. So the remembrances and recollections are helpful for today’s activists. Strangely the politics are almost non-existent, as least ones that would help today, except to kind of retroactively “bless”those old-time left politics that did nothing (well, almost nothing) but get us on the losing end of the class (and cultural) wars of the last forty plus years. Still this is a must read blog for today’s left militants.

Additional Markin comment:

I place some material in this space which may be of interest to the radical public that I do not necessarily agree with or support. Off hand, as I have mentioned before, I think it would be easier, infinitely easier, to fight for the socialist revolution straight up than some of the“remedies” provided by the commentators in these entries. But part of that struggle for the socialist revolution is to sort out the “real” stuff from the fluff as we struggle for that more just world that animates our efforts.
*******

12 June 2013


Michael James : California or Bust in a Hot Rod Ford

California AND bust: Michael's 1940 hot rod Ford, San Jose, California, 1960. Photo by Michael James from his forthcoming book, Michael Gaylord James' Pictures from the Long Haul.
Pictures from the Long Haul:
California or bust
I went to the junkyard and sadly looked over the remains of my beloved Ford.
By Michael James / The Rag Blog / June 12, 2013

[In this series, Michael James is sharing images from the past, accompanied by reflections about -- and inspired by -- those images. This photo will be included in his forthcoming book, Michael Gaylord James' Pictures from the Long Haul.]

The night before I left for my post-high school graduation summer job at a Libby cannery in Sunnyvale, California, I went to see Psycho with my high school sweetheart. Even after a good amount of hugging and kissing goodnight I was still scared shit.

The next morning Buzz Willhauer (a fellow Downshifter Hot Rod Club member) and I leave our Connecticut homeland and head west. We roll through the exhaust-filled tunnels on the Pennsylvania Turnpike and love the raspberry ice cream at the Howard Johnson's. We're riding in my 1940 hot rod Ford with "California or Bust" written on the trunk. It's very hot rolling across Ohio, Indiana, and into Illinois; no AC then and the '53 Olds engine sends heat and fumes through the floorboards.

By late afternoon we're at Lake Forest College for a friendly meeting with the Director of Admissions, a Mr. Gilmore. Then we head down Route 66 and cross the Mississippi at St. Louis on the old Chain of Rocks Bridge, and race ahead of the sunrise as we roll through the Ozarks, passing signs for Merrimac Caverns, and slogans on signs at regular intervals that culminate with a Burma-Shave sign. We stop now and then at Stuckey’s restaurants and Texaco gas stations.

The Ford's been overheating. We stop at a gas station in Joplin, Missouri -- home to Mickey Mantle and Langston Hughes (birthplace), and the scene of both striking miners blocking Route 66 in the '50s and Bonnie and Clyde stick-ups in the 1930s. I'm unscrewing the radiator cap as Buzz comes bopping over with a "what's happening?" The cap shoots off and the boiling liquid explodes, hitting Buzz in the face.

The last time I saw Buzz he was in a hospital bed all gauzed up. The hospital was cool, breezy, and white on a hot Missouri Wednesday. Time for me to go; I've got to go, got to get to the job my dad got me through his connects to Grandpa's cohorts at Libby McNeil and Libby that starts on Monday morning.

I take the Will Rogers Turnpike to Oklahoma City. I remember taking a shower with my back to the wall, fists ready, the Psycho memory really with me, and I'm thinking this motel is on the same road as the Bates Motel in that scariest of flicks.

I get some work done on the Ford's radiator, then head west, through Amarillo and the Texas panhandle and into New Mexico. I pass through a crossroads with a town of shacks, my first contact with an Indian reservation, and along the way pick up a hitchhiker, a Southern kid heading to San Diego to join the Marine Corps, something I too will do -- briefly -- in a couple of years.

I let him off when I turn left and head southwest for Las Cruces and Tucson. I drive through the night and I welcome the trucks, feeling a sense of camaraderie out on the lonesome highway when they are present, following them closely, letting them pull me with their draft. I like the Campbell 66 Express, with its cartoon camel, and the words “Humpin’ to Please.”

With the sun coming up on Friday morning I'm in White Sands, New Mexico, military land, with barbed wire along the sides of the road. The hot rod is overheating, and I stop at a little shack providing shelter to a lone soldier with a rifle. I ask, "How far to the next gas station?" "Eight miles over the top of the mountain."

I fill the steaming and bubbling radiator with my last water from a five-gallon can and floor it! This car is fast and I speed across the desert and up the eastern slope. Up and over the top, the car steaming, I turn off the motor and cruise to the first gas station.

By late afternoon I'm in Tucson, meeting with the Director of Admissions at the University of Arizona. I'm flat out of money, and he cashes a check for a buck and a quarter ($125) I had received from Rodding and Restyling Magazine for a photo piece I had done on an East Braintree, Massachusetts, hot rod and custom car show.

I stop at the Tucson post office to pick up a general delivery letter from my girlfriend Susan. I read it, shed a few lonely and lack of sleep induced tears, observe the Indians hanging round, and then drive on through another night. I am mentally pushed and prodded, driven to keep driving, knowing I have to show up at the Sunnyvale cannery by Monday morning.

Saturday morning and I'm digging the scene, the vibes, at a truck stop in El Centro. I remember hearing a song I know -- Gene Autry's version of "Mexicali Rose." The place is comfortable, nurturing, refreshing, with a parking lot full of trucks and palm trees, the chill of the night giving way to that California warmth as dawn breaks. Travelers and truckers emerge, including some Mexicans and black people. The coffee and pancakes are good.

I drive through the Southern California desert, through San Bernardino, and get to Hollywood late Saturday morning. Nobody is home at the offices of Hot Rod Magazine. I get back in the Ford along with the Downshifters Hot Rod Club scrapbook I had intended to share with anyone at this Mecca of the hot rod world.

At a garage in Riverside a fellow hot rodder helps me install his radiator in my car, with a handshake and agreement to return it once I get to Sunnyvale. I drive north on Highway 101, already infamous in my mind from the Big Bopper’s song with the line “the fool was the terror of Highway 101.”

I pick up another hitchhiker, this time a cowboy headed to a rodeo in Monterrey. I let him off near Bakersfield. Later I pick up still another hitchhiker, this time a migrant worker headed to Fresno to pick peaches.

Late at night near the cutoff to San Jose I stop to let him off. The hot rod stalls and we push it. I jump in, disengaging the clutch, putting the transmission in gear, popping the clutch to start it.

I wake up, or come to as they say. I am on the shoulder of the west side of 101. There are people around. Across the four lane highway are two cars in flames. One of them is mine. I yell out “there’s a guy in that car,” and the truck driver, who had pulled me out of the car, is holding me back and says: “If he is, he’s dead now.”

I am taken to a hospital emergency room. I learn that the migrant worker was not in the car, that the police found him up the road and got his take on the accident. I am glad he is OK, and am eternally grateful to the truck driver who happened on the scene and pulled me from the burning Ford coupe.

I am rescued and nurtured by the Jo and Burke Mathews family in Los Gatos, teachers who knew people my dad knew. I learn later through them that I was hit by a car full of teachers they knew who were returning from a wedding.

I showed up for my cannery job on Monday morning, and life's reality gave me a lesson. Lots of people -- white, Mexican, Black, and Asian -- are standing in line, trying to get a job. And here comes me, a kid from Connecticut with a family connection, and I have a job waiting for me, yet another life experience teaching me about class, privilege, and the role of connections in the workings of the world.

I worked in the garbage dump, the freezing units, and other parts of the cannery in a little team that included three young guys: me, a Mexican, and a black guy, a little early-on version of the "rainbow coalition." I lived in a rooming house in San Jose, visited San Francisco, went to the drag races, met my first Mormons, and danced my ass off to a live Ray Charles at the Pan Pacific Auditorium.

I went to the junkyard and sadly looked over the remains of my beloved Ford. The radiator was unharmed and I shipped it back to the friendly lender. All my clothes, including a madras sport jacket, had burned up; my 12-pound high school shot put and a sword I intended to use as a gearshift lever had both melted.

Quite a trip, quite a summer: I made it to California and busted. I headed back east to Lake Forest College, much closer to my squeeze at U Conn then Arizona would have been. Four years later I'll return to California. I'll experience another bust, that next one during the wonderful days of the Berkeley Free Speech Movement.

[Michael James is a former SDS national officer, the founder of Rising Up Angry, co-founder of Chicago's Heartland Café (1976 and still going), and co-host of the Saturday morning (9-10 a.m. CDT) Live from the Heartland radio show, here and on YouTube. He is reachable by one and all at michael@heartlandcafe.com. Find more articles by Michael James on The Rag Blog.]

The Rag Blog
The Latest From The British Leftist Blog-Histomat: Adventures in Historical Materialism

 

 
 

Markin comment:

While from the tenor of the articles, leftist authors featured, and other items it is not clear to me that this blog is faithful to any sense of historical materialism that Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, Vladimir Lenin or Leon Trotsky would recognize I am always more than willing to "steal" material from the site. Or investigate leads provided there for material of interest to the radical public-whatever that seemingly dwindling public may be these days.

Additional Markin comment:

I place some material in this space which may be of interest to the radical public that I do not necessarily agree with or support. Off hand, as I have mentioned before, I think it would be easier, infinitely easier, to fight for the socialist revolution straight up than some of the “remedies” provided by the commentators in these entries. But part of that struggle for the socialist revolution is to sort out the “real” stuff from the fluff as we struggle for that more just world that animates our efforts.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

'Thatcher's dead, long live the miners'


Photo: Yes.
A brief speech from former miner Dave Douglass at the 3,000 strong anti-Thatcher rally in Trafalgar Square on Saturday is well worth listening to - while for more anti-Thatcher stuff, see some of the letters here - including this great comment - 'Seen the site for Maggie’s grave? It’s OK, but I reckon the dance floor is a bit small...' Anyway, time to 'party like its 1990' I feel...

Edited to add: Thatcher: A Nation Mourns

Edited to also add: The Orgreave Truth and Justice Campaign

 
Let’s Redouble Our Efforts To Free Private Bradley Manning-President Obama Pardon Bradley Manning -Make Every Town Square In America (And The World) A Bradley Manning Square From Boston To Berkeley to Berlin-Join Us In Central Square, Cambridge, Ma. For A Stand-Out For Bradley-Wednesdays From 5:00-6:00 PM

6 Ways To Support Heroic Wikileaks Whistle-Blower Private Bradley Manning

*Sign the online petition at the Bradley Manning Support Network (for link go to http://www.bradleymanning.org/ ) addressed to the Secretary of the Army to drop all the charges and free Bradley Manning-1100 plus days are enough! Join the over 30,000 supporters in the United States and throughout the world clamoring for Bradley’s well-deserved freedom.

*The government is now prosecuting Bradley for the major charges of “aiding the enemy” (Espionage Act) and “material aid to terrorism.” Everyone should contact the presiding officer of the court –martial process, General Linnington, at 1-202-685-2807 and tell him to drop those charges. Once Maj. Gen. Linnington’s voicemail box is full – you can also leave a message at the DOD: (703) 571-3343 – press “5″ to leave a comment.*If this mailbox is also full, leave the Department of Defense a written message. Do it today.

*Come to our stand-out in support of Private Bradley Manning in Central Square, Cambridge, Ma. (corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Prospect Street near MBTA Redline station) every Wednesday between 5-6 PM.
*Contribute to the Bradley Manning Defense Fund- now that the trial has started funds are urgently needed! The hard fact of the American legal system is the more funds available the better the defense, especially in political prisoner cases like Bradley’s.  The government has unlimited financial and personnel resources to prosecute Bradley. And has used them. So help out with whatever you can spare. For link go to http://www.bradleymanning.org/

*Call (Comments”202-456-1111), write The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC 20500, e-mail-(http://www.whitehouse.gov’contact/submitquestions-and comments) the White House to demand President Obama pardon Bradley Manning.

*Write letters of solidarity to Bradley Manning while he is being tried. Bradley’s mailing address: Commander, HHC, USAG, Attn: PFC Bradley Manning, 239 Sheridan Avenue, Bldg. 417, JBM-HH, VA 22211. Bradley Manning cannot receive stamps or money in any form. Photos must be on copy paper. Along with “contraband,” “inflammatory material” is not allowed. Six page maximum. Mail sent to the above address is forwarded to Bradley.    

and a seventh...

5 reasons to attend Army whistleblower Bradley Manning’s trial

 


*Please note that this next week court is not in session on Monday (6/24), Tuesday will be a short day, and the trial will resume as normal Wednesday (6/26) at 9:30am, with our weekly vigil taking place from 7-8am that day.

#1: Show the judge the public is watching her

At the beginning of each day of trial, the prosecuting attorney stands and reads to the court information about the levels of public attendance. During most days of the court martial, seats have remained free in the courtroom, and the overflow trailer which provides video feed of the proceedings has remained unused. We hope you’ll help us to change this.
Judge Lind knows that a high-profile case like this one will be part of her legacy. She’s not supposed to read any news about the trial, but there’s no more direct way to show her the importance that her decisions will have for the public than by members of the public taking it upon themselves to fill up her courtroom.

#2: Your attendance means a lot to Bradley and his lawyer

Bradley Manning is a 25 year-old with a conscience who has already spent three years of his life behind bars, and faces potential life imprisonment, all for trying to serve the public good. Despite the gravity of his situation, he maintains optimism, and his attorney David Coombs has explained that his supporters have a lot to do with that.
Mr. Coombs took the opportunity at a public presentation last December to personally thank those who attend the court proceedings and explain how much it means to him:
When I’m in the courtroom, I stand up and I look to my right and I see the United States government, the United States government with all of its resources, all of its personnel. I see them standing against me and Brad, and I have to admit to you that can be rather intimidating and I was intimidated, especially when the President of the United States says, “Your client broke the law.” Especially, when Congress members say, “Your client deserves the death penalty.” I want to tell you, though, today as I stand here, I’m no longer intimidated. I am not intimidated because when I stand up, I know I’m not standing alone. I know I’m not alone because I turn around and I see the support behind me. I see members here today in the audience that are there every time we have a court hearing. I see, what now I’m going to affectionately call the “truth battalion,” those who wear… a black shirt, it has the word “truth” on it and they’re behind me. I look there and I know that I also have unlimited personnel and unlimited resources.

#3: Observe history in action

What happens during Bradley’s trial will affect the future of American journalism and whistleblowing, as well as our fundamental right to know what our government does in our name and with our tax dollars. The legal theory being used by the government to charge Bradley with “Aiding the Enemy” would apply to others who reveal government wrongdoing whether they release 1 document or 1,000, and whether they give information to WikiLeaks or the New York Times. Nobel Peace Laureates, the L.A. Times editorial board, Harvard Law professors, a former State Department Spokesperson and Pentagon Papers whistleblower Daniel Ellsberg all have condemned this charge.
BUT, this trial will not be televised, so attending as a public observer is the only way to see firsthand the precedent that is being set for future generations, and to watch the important players in action.
Decades from now, people will still be discussing this trial. Wouldn’t you like to be able to tell your children and grandchildren that you were there when it mattered?

#4: Communicate to the media this is an issue worth covering

There may always be something new taking over the airwaves, but major U.S. newspapers still send their reporters to cover Bradley’s trial every day it’s in session. While sitting in the media center, reporters can see whether or not public is in attendance in the Ft. Meade courtroom. They often come to conduct interviews with supporters during court recess.
Since attendance at the court martial is one of the most obvious gauges of public interest in the trial that these reporters get to see, the more people who attend the proceedings, the more these papers’ editors will view this as an issue worthy of their front page.

#5: Meet other activists

Interesting people attend the trial from all over the country, and sometimes even the world. There are anti-war veterans from Maryland, lawyers from DC, artists from New York, school teachers from Michigan, and writers from California. And one thing they all have in common is an understanding of the importance this trial carries for one brave young man’s life, as well as our ability as citizens promote transparency in government, and to stop unjust war and human rights violations worldwide.
More importantly, they all know it’s up to us to address these issues and take action to make our world a better place. As we say in our solidarity campaign
, “we are all Bradley Manning.”
So come to the trial, earn a truth t-shirt
, show Bradley and Judge Lind your support in-person, and meet interesting people you’ll be glad to know well into the future. See directions to the courtroom below.

Getting to Ft. Meade to attend the trial

Any member of the public with government-issued ID is welcome to attend.
Check the Upcoming Events section on www.bradleymanning.org
for updates to the trial schedule.
Driving to the Front Gate at Maryland 175 and Reece Rd is the easiest way to access the base (get directions via Google maps
). If driving, make sure you have up-to-date vehicle registration and driver’s license. If you wish to attend the morning session, we recommend arriving at the visitor control center at 9am in order to pick up a map and clear security before court starts at 9:30am. If arriving later you will be able to enter during a court recess.
Don’t have access to a car? Someone from BMSN or a carpool driver can pick you up from Odenton MARC station if you arrive there by 8:45am. E-mail emma@bradleymanning.org
to request a pickup.
If arriving later without a car, the Odenton MARC station is three miles from the entrance to Ft. Meade and is a walk-able or bike-able road if you so desire. You can also call a Maryland cab to pick you up and take you onto the base.
The first day that court is in session each week, we have a vigil from 7-8am in front of the Main Gate at 175 Maryland and Reece Rd. E-mail emma@bradleymanning.org
for vigil updates.
Thank you for supporting Bradley!