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Saturday, November 16, 2013
Hands Off The Cambridge Insomnia Cookie Workers- Drop The Charges Now !
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Dear All,
Last night the Cambridge Police attacked a legal
picket of Insomnia Cookies in Cambridge, where workers have struck and initiated
an IWW union drive. The police assault was apparently based on a false report by
Insomnia that picketers were blocking the sidewalk in front of the store. The
cops demanded we shut down our PA, which we did, then tried to force us off the
sidewalk, and subsequently punched IWW member Jason Freedman in the face, threw
him on the trunk of a car and then on the ground, pinning him partially under a
parked car and on the curb as they piled on top of him. Jason's face was covered
in blood and he sustained injuries to his back and arm. You can see pictures of
the attack here. Predictably, Jason has been charged with multiple
offenses including assault on a police officer. At the company's bidding,
Cambridge Police had previously failed to shut down our legal pickets but last night they
unfortunately succeeded. This incident has to be seen in the context of
increasing criminalization of dissent and official efforts to tear away our
remnants of civil liberties, labor rights and any protections against brutality
by the police.
***The
Roots Is The Toots- The Music That Got Them Through The Great Depression And
World War II- From Deep In The Songbook-Sultry Billie Holiday’s Am I Blue…
Am I Blue?"
…
he nothing but a kid, nothing but a bog Irish kid fretting away his time, his
after school time, was hungry. No, not food hungry although that happened often
enough when his father was out of work like a million other fathers in the
reared-back Depression night, but hungry for some new sounds, new musical sound
that he kept hearing every time he passed Riley’s Market, Riley’s who to draw a
crowd had placed a jukebox in the place to lull the patrons. But since he had
no money, no nickels to play such an entertainment, he would just linger for a
moment and then pass on. And that hunger was not abated until one day he went
over to his grandparents’ house and mentioned something to grandmother who was
alone in the house at the time about those sounds he heard at Riley’s. His
grandmother summoned him to go to her china closet and bring out the radio, a
beautiful old Emerson in perfect working order as far as he could tell, hidden
there behind a stack of dishes.
See
his grandfather an old Puritan, if as bog Irish as he and the whole blessed
family, refused to have what he called the devil’s music, that n----r music in
the house. After he brought the radio to his grandmother she told him to turn
it on and what he heard that afternoon, and many afternoons after that when his
grandfather was not present, was out of heaven, some music all sultry and
bluesy (although he would not have known then to call it that, call what ailed
him the blues either), especially one voice, one voice that spoke of all the
anguish and sorrow of the world, spoke through the subtle pauses between the
notes of her own personal sorrows, and sang his blues away for a time. He did
not learn until much later that she was a Negro, and that the distance between
her negritude and his own bog-Irishness, was very short, very short
indeed...
*******
Peter
Paul Markin comment on this series:
Whether we liked it or not, whether we even knew what it
meant to our parents or not, or frankly, during that hellish growing up absurd
teenager time in the 1950s trying to figure out our places, if any, in the cold
war red scare world, if there was to be a world, and that was a close thing at
times, or whether we cared, music was as
dear a thing to them as to us, their sons and daughters, who were in the throes
of finding our own very different musical identities. As well, whether we knew
it or not, knew what sacred place the music of the late 1930s and 1940s, swing,
be-bop swing, be-bop flat-out, show tunes, you know jitter-bug stuff, and the
like held in their youthful hearts that was the music, their getting through
the tough times music, that went wafting through the house on the radio, on
record player, or for some the television, of many of those of us who
constitute the now graying fading generation of ‘68. And some of us will pass
to the beyond clueless as to what our forebears were attuned to when they came
of age in a world, a very darkly-etched world, which they too had not created,
and had no say in creating.
Yes they were crazy for the swing and sway of bespectacled Benny
Goodman blowing that clarinet like some angel- herald letting the world
know, if it did know already, that it
did not mean a thing, could not possibly matter in the universe, if you did not
swing, with and without Miss (Ms.) Peggy Lee, better with, better with, swaying
slightly lips moistened, swirling every guy in the place on Why Don’t You Do Right vowing he would
do just that for a smile and a chance at those slightly swaying hips. Mr. Harry
James with or without the orchestra , better with, blowing Gabriel’s horn,
knocking down walls, maybe Jericho, maybe just some Starlight Ballroom in
Kansas City blasting the joint with his You
Made Me Love You to the top of the charts. Elegant Duke Ellington with or
without Mr. Johnny Hodges blowing that sexy sax out into the ocean air night in
some Frisco club, blowing out to the Japan seas, on Taking The ‘A’ Train. Tommy Dorsey all banded up if there is such a
word making eyes misty with I’ll Never
Smile Again. Jimmy Dorsey too with
his own aggregation wailing Tangerine that
had every high school girl throwing dreamy nickels and dimes into the jukebox, with
or without fanfare, Glenn Miller, with or without those damn glasses, taking
that Sentimental Journey before his
too soon last journey. Miss (Ms.) Billie Holiday, Lady Day, with or without the
blues, personal blues, strung out blues too, singing everybody else’s blues
away with that throaty thing she had, that meaningful pause, yeah, Lady Sings The Blues. Miss Lena Horne
with or without stormy weather making grown men cry (women too) when she
reached that high note fretting about her long gone man, Jesus. Miss (Ms.) Margaret Whiting going for that Old Black Magic. Mr. Vaughn Monroe with
or without goalposts. Mr. Billy Eckstine, too. Mr. Frank Sinatra doing a
million songs fronting for the Dorseys and anybody who wanted to rise in that
swinging world, with or without a horde of bobbysoxers breaking down his doors,
putting everybody else to shame (and later too). The Inkspots, always with that
spoken refrain catch that nobody seemed to tire of, doing teary I’ll Get By or If I Didn’tCare. The Mills Brothers with or without those paper
dolls. The Andrews Sisters with or without rum in their Coca-Cola, The Dewdrops
with or without whatever they were doing with or without. Mr. Cole Porter, with
or without the boys, writing the bejesus out of
Tin Pan Alley and Broadway tunes. Mr. Irving Berlin with or without the
flag, ditto Mr. Porter. And Mr. George Gershwin with or without his brother,
creating Summertime and a thousand
other catchy tunes. Yeah, their survival music.
We the generation of ’68, baby-boomers, decidedly not what
Tom Brokaw dubbed rightly or wrongly “ the greatest generation,” decidedly not your parents’ or grandparents’ (please, please do not say
great-grandparents’ even if it is true) generation could not bear to hear that
music, could not bear to think anybody in the whole universe would think that
stuff was cool. Those of us who came of age, biological, political and social
age kicking, screaming and full of the post-war new age teenage angst and
alienation in the time of Jack Kennedy’s Camelot were ready for a jail-break, a
jail-break on all fronts and that included from “their song” stuff. Their staid
Eisenhower red scare cold war stuff (he their organizer of victory, their
gentile father Ike), hell, we knew that the world was scary, knew it every time
we were forced to go down into some dank school basement and squat down, heads
down too, hoping to high heaven that the Russkies had not decided to go crazy
and set off “the bomb,” many bombs. And every righteous teenager had a
nightmare that they were trapped in some fashionable family bunker and those
loving parents had thoughtfully brought their records down into the abyss to
soothe their savage beasts for the duration. Please, please, please if we must
die then at least let’s go out to Jerry Lee’s High School Confidential.
We were moreover, some of us any way and I like to think the
best of us, driven by some makeshift dream, ready to cross our own swords with
the night-takers of our time, and who, in the words of Camelot brother Bobby,
sweet ruthless Bobby of more than one shed tear, quoting from Alfred Lord
Tennyson, were “seeking a new world.” Those who took up the call to action heralded
by the new dispensation and slogged through that decade whether it was in the civil
rights/black liberation struggle, the anti-Vietnam War struggle or the struggle
to find one’s own identity in the counter-culture swirl before the hammer came
down were kindred. To the disapproval, anger, and fury of more than one parent
who had gladly slept through the Eisenhower times. And that hammer came down
quickly as the decade ended and the high white note that we searched for,
desperately searched for, drifted out into the ebbing tide. Gone. But enough
about us this series is about our immediate forbears (but please, please not
great grandparents) their uphill struggles to make their vision of the their newer
world, their struggles to satisfy their
hunger a little, to stop that gnawing want, and the music that in their
youth they dreamed by on cold winter
nights and hot summer days.
This is emphatically the music, the get by the tough times
in the cities, on the farms, out in the wide spaces, of the hard born generation
that survived the dust bowl all farms blown away when the winds gathered like
some ancient locust curse to cleanse the earth and leave, leave nothing except
silt and coughs. All land worthless no crops could stand the beating, the bankers
fearful that the croppers would just leave taking whatever was left and the
dusted crowd heading west with whatever was movable. They drifted west, west as
far as California if the old buggy held up and they had enough gas in the tank,
not knowing what some old time professor, from Harvard I think, knew about the
frontier that it had been swallowed up, been staked out long ago and too bad.
Not knowing as well what some old time Okie balladeer knew that if you did not
have the dough California was just another Okie/Arkie bust.
Survived empty bowls, empty plates, wondering where the next
meal would come from, many times, too many times from some Sally soup-line, some
praise the lord before thy shall eat soup-line. Survived that serious hunger
want that deprives a man, a woman, of dignity scratching for roots like some porcine
beast in some back alley lot, too weak to go on but too weak to stop as well. Survived,
if not west, then no sugar bowl city street urchin corner boy hard times of the
1930s Great Depression, always with that vagrant foot up against some
brick-laid wall, killing time, killing some dreams, sleeping under soot-lined railroad trestles,
on splintered park benches newspapers for a pillow’s rest (one eye open for
swarming festering jack-rollers and club-wielding sadistic cops), and hard
bench bus stations (ditto jack-rollers and cops). Survive the time of the madness just then
beating the tom-toms of war and degradation coming from a hungry want-infested Europe
filled with venom, those drums heralding the time of the night-takers casting a
shadow over the darkened world, portending the plainsong of the time of the
long knives, outlawing dreams for the duration.
Building up those wants, name them, named those hungers on
cold nights against riverside fires, down in dusty arroyos, under forsaken
bridges. Survived god knows how by taking the nearest freight, some smoke and
dreams freight, Southern Pacific, Union Pacific, B&O, Illinois Central,
Penn Central, Empire State, Boston and Maine, or one of a million trunk lines
to go out and search for, well, search for…
Searching for something that was not triple- decker bodies,
three to a room sharing some scraggly blanket, an old worn out pillow for rest,
the faint smell of oatmeal, twenty days in a row oatmeal, oatmeal with.., being
cooked in the next room meaning no Pa work, meaning one jump, maybe not even
that ahead of the rent collector (the landlords do not dare come in person so
they hire the task out), meaning the sheriff and the streets are closing in.
Bodies, brothers and sisters, enough to lose count, piled high cold-water flat
high, that damn cold water splash signifying how low things have gotten, with a
common commode for the whole floor and brown-stained sink. Later moving down
the scale a rooming house room for the same number of bodies, window looking
out onto the air shaft, dark, dark with despair, the very, very faint odor of
oatmeal, who knows how many days in a row, from Ma’s make-shift hot plate on
its last legs. Hell, call it what it was
flop house stinking of perspiration and low-shelf whiskeys and wines. Others
had it worse, tumbled down shack, window pane-less, tarpaper siding, roof tiles
falling, a lean-to ready to fall to the first wind, the first red wind coming
out of the mountains and swooping down the hills and hollows, ready to fall to
the first downpour rain, washed away. Yes, get out on the open road and search
for the great promised American night that had been tattered by world events,
and greed.
Survived the Hoovervilles, the great cardboard, tin can
roof, slap-dash jerry-built camp explosions along rivers, down in ravines and
under railroad trestles. Tossed, hither and yon, about six million different
ways but it all came down to when the banks, yeah, the banks, the usual
suspects, robbed people of their shacks, their cottages, their farm houses.
Robbed them as an old-time balladeer, a free-wheeling, song-writing red, a
commie, in the days when in some quarters sailing under that banner was a badge
of honor, said at the time not with a gun but with a fountain pen, but still
robbed them.
Survived the soup kitchens hungers, the gnawing can’t wait
in the endless waiting line for scrapes, dreaming of some by-gone steak or dish
of ice cream, and always that hunger, not the stomach hunger although that was
ever present, but the hunger that hurts a man, hurts his pride when he has to
stick his hand out, stick it out and not know why. Planning the fruitless day,
fruitless since he was born to work, took pride in work, planning around Sally
breakfasts don’t be late, six to nine, but with sermon and song attached,
mission stuff in heat-soaked rooms, men smelling of unwashed men, and drink.
Planning around city hall lunches, peanut butter sandwiches, slapped slap-dash
together with an apple, maybe. Worse, worse by far the Saint Vincent DePaul
suppers, soup, bread, some canned vegetable, something they called meat but was
in dispute, lukewarm coffee, had only, only if you could prove you were truly
destitute with a letter from some churchman and, in addition, under some
terrible penalty, that you had searched for work that day. A hard dollar, hard
dollar indeed.
Jesus, out of work for another day, and with three hungry
growing kids to feed, and a wife sickly, sick unto death of the not having he
thought, little work waiting for anybody that day, that day when all hell broke
loose and the economy tanked, at least that is what it said in the Globe (ditto New York Times, Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Times,
San Francisco Examiner if anybody was asking), said that there was too much
around, too much and he with nothing for those kids, nothing and he was too
proud to ask for some damn letter to give to those Vincent DePaul
hard-hearts. And that day not him, not
him yet, others, others who read more that the Globe (and the dittos) were
dreaming of that full head of steam day to come in places like big auto Flint,
waterfront Frisco town, rubber Akron, hog butcher to the world prairie Chicago,
hell, even in boondock trucker Minneapolis, a day when the score would get
evened, evened a little, and a man could hold his head up a little, could at
least bring bread to those three hungry growing kids who didn’t understand the
finer point of world economics just hunger. Until then though he is left
shifting the scroungings of the trash piles of the urban glut, the discard of
the haves, the have nots throw nothing away, and on other horizons the brethren
curse the rural fallow fields, curse the banks, and curse the weather, but
curse most of all having to pack up and head, head anyway, anywhere but the
here, and search, search like that brother on that urban glut pile for a way to
curb that gnawing hungry that cried out in the night-want, want
that is all.
Survived too the look, the look of those, the what did FDR
(Franklin Delano Roosevelt for the young, or forgetful) call them, oh yeah, the
economic royalists, today’s 1%, the rack-renters, the coupon-clippers, the
guys, as one of their number said, who hired one half of the working class to
fight the other, who in their fortified towers, their Xanadus, their Dearborns,
their Beacon Hills, their Upper East Sides, their Nob Hills, and a few other
spots, tittered that not everybody was built to survive to be the fittest. That
crowd, and let’s name names, a few anyway, Ford, General Motors, Firestone,
U.S. Steel, fought tooth and nail against the little guy trying to break bread.
Fought that brother too out pounding the mean streets to proud to ask for a
letter, Jesus, a letter for some leftover food, before he got “religion” about
what was what in the land of “milk and honey.”
Wreaked havoc on that farmer out in the dust bowl not travelling some
road, some road west knowing that the East was barred up, egging him on to some
hot dusty bracero labor filed picking, maybe “hire” him on as a scab against
those uppity city boys. Yes, fought every guy trying to get out from under that
cardboard, tar paper, windowless soup kitchen world along with a hell of a lot
of comrades, yes, comrades, not Russkie comrades although reds were thick in
those battles, took their lumps in Frisco, Flint, Akron and Minneapolis, hell,
any place where a righteous people were rising, kindred in the struggle to put
that survival of the fittest on the back-burner of human history. To stand up
and take collective action to put things
right, hell, made the bosses cry bloody murder when they shut down their
factories, shut them down cold until some puny penny justice was eked out. And
maybe just maybe make that poor unknowingly mean-street walking city brother
and that sweated farm boy thing twice about helping those Mayfair swells.
Survived but took time out too, time out if young perhaps,
as if such things were embedded in some secret teen coda, to stretch those
legs, to flash those legs, to sway those hips, to flash the new moves not, I
repeat, not the ones learned at sixth grade Miss Prissy’s Saturday dance
classes but the ones that every mother, every girl mother warned her Susie
against, to a new sound coming out of the mist, coming to take the sting out of
the want years nights, and the brewing night of the long knives. Coming out of
New York, always New York then, Minton’s, Jimmy’s, some other uptown
clubs, Chicago, Chicago of the big
horns and that stream, that black stream heading north, following the northern
star, again, for jobs and to get the hell away from one Mister James Crow, from
Detroit, with blessed Detroit Slim and automobile sounds, and Kansas City, the
Missouri K.C. okay, the Bird land hatchery, the Prez’s big sexy sax blow home.
Jesus no wonder that madman Hitler banned it, along with dreams.
The sound of blessed swing, all big horns, big reeds, big,
well big band, replacing the dour Brother,
Can You Spare a Dime and its brethren ,
no banishing such thoughts, casting them out with soup lines (and that
awful Friday Saint Vincent DePaul fish stew that even Jesus would have turned
down in favor of bread, wine and a listen to Benny’s Buddha Swings) casting that kind of hunger out for a moment, a
magical realistic moment, casting out ill-fitting, out of fashion, threadbare
(nice, huh) second-hand clothes (passed down from out- the- door hobo brothers and sisters tramping this good
green earth looking for their place, or at least a job of work and money in
their newer threadbare [still nice] clothes), and casting aside from hunger
looks, that gaunt look of those who have their wanting habits on and no way to
do a thing about it. Banished, all such
things banished because after all it did not mean a thing, could not possibly
place you anywhere else but in squareville (my term, not theirs), if you did not
have that swing. To be as one with jitter-buggery if there was (is) such a word
(together, not buggery by itself, not in those days, not in the public
vocabulary anyway). And swing as it lost steam with all the boys, all the swing
boys, all oversea and the home fire girls tired of dancing two girl dancing, a
fade echo of the cool age be-bop that was a-borning, making everybody reach for
that high white note floating out of Minton’s, Big Bill’s Jimmie’s, hell, even
Olde Saco’s Starlight Ballroom before it breezed out in the ocean air night,
crashed into the tepid sea. Yeah.
Survived, as if there was no time to breathe in new fresh
airs, new be-bop tunes, new dance moves, to slog through the time of the gun in
World War II. A time when the night-takers,
those who craved the revenge night of the long knives took giant steps in
Europe and Asia trying to make that same little guy, Brit, Frenchie, Chinaman,
Filipino, God’s American, and half the races and nationalities on this good
green earth cry uncle and buckle under, take it, take their stuff without a
squawk. It took a bit, took a little shock, to get those war juices flowing, to
forget about the blood-letting that had gone on before when the flower of
Europe, when the older brothers and fathers the generation before, had taken
their number when they were called. And
so after Pearl, after that other shoe dropped on a candid world Johnnie,
Jimmie, Paulie, Benny too, all the guys from the old neighborhood, the corner
boys, the guys who hung around Doc’s hands in their pockets, guys trying to rub
nickels together to play some jitter-buggery thing, guys who had it tough
growing up hard in those bad Depression days, took their numbers and fell in
line.
Guys too from the wheat fields, Kansas Iowa, you know places
where they grow wheat, guys fresh from some Saturday night dance, some country
square thing, all shy and with calloused hands, eyeing, eyeing to perdition
some virginal Betty or Sue, guys from the coal slags, deep down in hill
country, down in the hollows away from public notice, some rumble down shack to
rest their heads, full of backwoods home liquor, blackened fingernails, never
ever fully clean once the coal got on them, Saturday night front porch
fiddlings wound up carrying a M-1 on the shoulder in Europe or the Pacific.
Leaving all those Susies, Lauras, Betties, and dark-haired Rebeccas too waiting
at home hoping to high heaven that some wayward gun had not carried off
sweetheart Johnnie, Jimmy, Paulie, or young Benny. Jesus not young Benny. Not the runt of the
corner boy litter, not our Benny. Not carried off that sweet farm fresh boy
with the sly grin, not carried off that coal-dust young man with those
jet-black eyes, and fingers.
Survived the endless lines of boys heading off East and
West, heading off to right some wrongs, at least that is what the guys in
charge said, put a big dent in the style of the night-takers, the guys who
wanted to cut up the world into two to three pieces, and that was that, cutting
the little guy, making the little guys like it, making them take it or else.
Some of those little guys, after Pearl for sure, could hardly wait to get to
the recruiting office, hardly wait to go mano y mano with the night-takers and
their illicit dreams, went gladly from the farms, the factories and the mines,
many to never look back, never to farm, to run a production line, or to dig
from the earth but make new lives, or lay down their heads in some god forsaken
piece of dirt, or some watery abyss. Others, well, others were hanging back
waiting to be drafted by their friends and neighbors at the local draft board,
hanging back just a little to think things over, to see if maybe they could be
better used on the home front, scared okay (as if the quick-step volunteers
were not afraid, or should have been) but who gave a good accounting of
themselves when their number came up. Still others head over heels they were
exempt, 4-F, bad feet, you see. Somebody had to keep the home fires, keeping
the womenfolk happy.
All, all except that last crew, the dodgers found in every
war, who got to sit a home with Susie,
Laura, Betty and even odd-ball Rebecca were constantly waiting for the other
shoe to drop, for their ships to sail or their planes to fly. Hanging in some
old time corner boy drugstore, Doc’s, Rexall, name your drugstore name, just
like when they were kids (a mere few weeks before), talking the talk like they
used to do to kill time, maybe sitting two by two (two uniforms, two girls if
anybody was asking) at the soda fountain playing that newly installed jukebox
until the nickels ran out. Listened to funny banana boat songs, rum and coca
cola songs, siting under the apple tree songs, songs to forget about the work
abroad, and just some flat-out jitter-bugging stuff, frothy stuff in order to
get a minute’s reprieve from thoughts of the journey ahead.
Listened too to dreamy, sentimental songs, Always, I Don’t
Want To Set The World On Fire, Sentimental Journey, songs that spoke of true
love, their true love that would out last the ages, would carrying them through
that life together if they could ever keep those damn night-takers at bay, songs
about faraway places, We’ll Meet Again, Til Then, songs that spoke of future
sorrows, future partings, future returnings (always implying though that maybe
there would be no return), future sacrifices, future morale-builders, songs about
keeping lamp- lights burning, songs to give meeting to that personal sacrifice,
to keep the womenfolk, to keep her from fretting her life away waiting for that
dreaded other drop, songs about making a better world out of the fire and
brimstone sacrifice before them.
Songs to make the best out of the situation about Johnnie,
Jimmie and the gang actually returning, returning whole, and putting a big dent
in their dreams, that small white house with the white picket fence (maybe
needing a little painting, maybe they could do that together), kids, maybe a
new car once in a while you know the stuff that keeps average joes alive in
sullen foxholes, sea-sick troop transports, freezing cargo planes, keeps them
good and alive. Hell, songs, White Cliffs
Of Dover songs, about maybe the damn wars would be over sooner rather than
later. Listened, drawing closer, getting all, uh, moony-eyed, and as old Doc,
or some woe-begotten soda jerk, some high school kid, wet behind the ears, with
that white paper service cap at some obscure angle and now smudged white jacket
implying that he was in the service too, told them to leave he was closing up
they held out for one last tune. Then, well-fortified with swoony feelings they
made for the beach, if near a beach, the pond, if near a pond, the back forty, if
near the back forty, the hills, you know, or whatever passed for a lovers’ lane
in their locale and with the echo of those songs as background, well, do I have
draw you a map, what do you think they did, why do you think they call us
baby-boomers.
The music, this survival music, Harry James, Benny, the
Dorsey boys, Bing, Frank, the Mills Brothers, the Inkspots, and on and on wafted
(nice word, huh) through the air coming from a large console radio, the prized
possession centered in the small square living room of my growing up house amid
the squalor of falling roof tiles, a broken window or two patched up with cardboard
and tape, a front door that would not shut, rooms with second-hand sofas,
mattresses, chairs, desks, tables, mildewy towels, corroded sinks, barely
serviceable bathtubs, and woe-begotten
stuffed pillows smelling of mothballs. My broken down, needs a new roof, random
shingles on the ground as proof, cracked windows stuffed with paper and held
with masking tape in need of panes, no proof needed, overgrown lawn in need of
cutting of a shack (there is literally no other way to describe it, then or in
its current condition) of a too small, much too small for four growing boys and
two parents, house. The no room to breathe, no space but shared space, the from
hunger look of all the denizens, the stink of my father’s war wounds that would
not heal, the stink of too many people in too small a house, excuse me shack.
The noise, damn the noise from the nearby railroad, putting paid to wrong side
of the tracks-dom worst of all. Jesus.
That wrong side of the tracks shack of a house surrounded by
other houses, shack houses, too small to fit big Irish Catholic- sized families
with stony-eyed dreams. Small dreams of Johnny or Jimmy getting on the force
(cops, okay), and Lorrie and Pamela getting those secure City Hall jobs in the
steno pool until some bright prospect came by and threw a ring at them but in
the meantime shack life, and small faded dreams. Funny, no, ironic but these
tumbled-down shacks which seemingly would fall with a first serious wind represented
in some frankly weird form (but what knew I of such unnamed weirdness then I
just cried out in some fit of angst, cried out against that railroad noise, and
that sour smell of sweat) the great good desire of those warriors, and almost
to a man they had served, and their war brides who had waited, had fretted
while waiting, to latch onto a piece of golden age America.
And take their struggle survival music from Doc’s jukebox,
from the Starlight Ballroom, from WDJA, with them as if to validate their sweet
memory dreams, their youthful innocence before the guys got caught up, caught
up close and personal, the ugliness of war, the things they would not speak of
unto the grave, and the gals not asking, not asking for all the money in the
world but sensing that he, they, had changed, had lost some youthful thing. That
radio, that priceless radio console taking pride of place, as if a lifesaver,
literally, tuned to local station WDJA in North Adamsville, the memory station
for those World War II warriors and their war brides, those who made it back.
Some wizard radio station manager knowing his, probably his in those days,
demographics, spinned those 1940s platters exclusively, as well as aimed the
ubiquitous advertisement at that crowd. Cars, sofas, beds, shaving gear, soap,
department store sales, all the basics for the growing families spawned (nice,
huh) by those warriors and brides.
My harried mother, harried like all the neighborhood large
brood mothers, harried by the bleak wanting prospects of the day with four growing
boys and not enough, nor enough food, not enough, well, just not enough and
leave it at that. Maybe bewildered is a better expression for her plight, for
her wartime young marriage adventure not wanting to be left with only a memory
of my father if things went wrong in the Pacific. As so she took to turning the
radio on to start her day, hoping that Paper
Dolls, I’ll Get By, or dreamy Tangerine
would chase her immediate sorrows away. Yea, a quick boost of their songs
was called for, their spring youth meeting at some USO dance songs before he
shipped out. Those songs embedded deep in memory, wistful young memory,
or so it seemed as she hummed away the day, used the music as background on her
appointed household rounds. And whether she won or lost the day’s bout with not
enough, with some ill-winded message from some bill due, seemingly always some
four boy hurt, some bad father work news, the list of her daily sorrows and
trepidations could have stretched to infinity she perked up, swayed even to those
tunes.
That stuff, that mother dream stuff, that piano/drum-driven
stuff with some torch-singer, Peggy Lee, Helen Morgan, Margaret Whiting, maybe
even a sneak Billie thrown in bleeding all over the floor drove me crazy
then Some she bleeding with the pain
of her thwarted loves, her man hurts,
her wanderings in search of something in this funny old world, her waitings,
waiting for the good times, waiting in line for the rations, waiting, waiting
alone mind you, for her man to come home, come home whole from some place whose
name she could not pronounce, they should have called it the waiting generation,
just flat-out drove me crazy then. Mush stuff at a time when I was craving the
big break-out rock and roll sounds I kept hearing every time I went and played
the jukebox at Doc’s Drugstore over on Walker Street down near the beach (not
the old torn down Doc’s of their generation over on Billings Road if that is
what you are thinking). As far as I know Doc (the son of their Doc), knowing
his demographics as well as that radio executive at WDJA, did not, I repeat,
did not, stock that stuff that, uh, mush for his rock-crazed after school soda
fountain crowd, probably stocked nothing, mercifully before about 1955. Funny
thing though while I am still a child of rock and roll this so-called mushy
stuff sounds pretty good to these ears now long after my parents and those who
performed this music have passed on. Go figure.
********
Am I Blue?"
Am I blue, am I blue
Ain't these tears in my eyes telling you
Am I blue, you'd be too
If each plan with your man done fell through
Was a time I was his only one
But now I'm the sad and lonely one, lonely
Was I gay till today
Now he's gone and we're through, am I blue
Was I gay till today
Now he's gone and we're through, am I blue
Oh he's gone, he left me, am I blue
Ain't these tears in my eyes telling you
Am I blue, you'd be too
If each plan with your man done fell through
Was a time I was his only one
But now I'm the sad and lonely one, lonely
Was I gay till today
Now he's gone and we're through, am I blue
Was I gay till today
Now he's gone and we're through, am I blue
Oh he's gone, he left me, am I blue
Friday, November 15, 2013
Veterans Day Hypocrisy
by Stephen Lendman
Some people confuse Veterans Day with Memorial Day. They're both federal holidays. The latter remembers combat related dead service personnel.
The former honors war and peacetime veterans. It largely thanks living ones. It does so disingenuously.
Veterans Day was formerly Armistice Day. It commemorates the war to end all wars. In 1918, guns on both sides largely fell silent. They did so on the 11th hour of the 11th day of 11th month.
In 1919, remembrance began. Woodrow Wilson proclaimed it, saying:
"To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country's service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations."
In 1938, Congress declared Armistice Day a legal holiday. It called it "a day to be dedicated to the cause of world peace and to be thereafter celebrated and known as 'Armistice Day'."
In 1954, Congress changed its name. Dwight Eisenhower endorsed it. He signed legislation designating November 11 henceforth as Veterans Day.
He issued a presidential order. It called on VA officials to form a Veterans Day National Committee. It mandated them to organize and oversee a national remembrance day.
Parades and public ceremonies commemorate it. They ignore what's most important. They glorify wars. America doesn't wage them for peace. Washington considers it abhorrent.
Veterans Day dishonors living and dead veterans. It ignores longstanding US imperial lawlessness. It airbrushes from history decades of what matters most.
It includes militarism, raw aggression, permanent wars on humanity, mass killing and destruction, exploiting resources and people, seeking unchallenged global dominance, and creating unspeakable human misery.
Depravity defines America's agenda. War is a national obsession. It's a longstanding addiction.
It's got nothing to do with national security. It's not about making the world safe for democracy. Americans are systematically lied to. Young men and women are enlisted on false pretenses.
Propaganda glorifies wars in the name of peace. Patriotism is the last refuge of scoundrels.
Nations are destroyed to liberate them. Plunder is called economic development. Imperial lawlessness is called humanitarian intervention.
Ruthless dominance is called democracy. Monied interests alone benefit. Making the world safe for banksters and other corporate crooks matters most.
Youths are cannon fodder. They're used, abused and ignored. America's imperial appetite is insatiable. One war follows others. Nations are ravaged and destroyed one at a time or in multiples.
Veterans Day should condemn wars. It should feature ways to end them. It should prioritize never again. It should expose America's real agenda.
It should remember Lincoln at Gettysburg, saying:
"(W)e here resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth."
War raged months longer. Ending one leads to others. A destructive cycle of violence continues.
Remembrance should be contrition. It should pledge peace. It should honor anti-war activism. It should turn swords into ploughshares.
It should back rhetoric with policy. It should combine Veterans and Memorial Days. It should change them to Peace Day. It should pledge never again and mean it.
On November 9, Obama's weekly address ignored what's matters most. He didn't surprise. He lied like he always does. He's a serial liar.
He began saying "(t)hank you to that greatest generation who fought island by island across the Pacific, and freed millions from fascism in Europe."
"Thank you to the heroes who risked everything through the bitter cold of Korea and the stifling heat of Vietnam."
"And thank you to all the heroes who have served since, most recently our 9/11 Generation of veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan."
He failed to say Korea, Vietnam, and all other US post-WW II wars were lawless. They were premeditated aggression.
They're responsible for crimes of war, against humanity, genocide, and unspeakable human suffering.
No one involved in them has reason to be proud. Past and present administration and Pentagon officials are war criminals. So are complicit congressional members and bureaucrats.
Obama claimed his "top priority" is assuring veterans "never have to fight for a job when (they) come home."
He "made sure" it wouldn't happen, he said. He lied. Unemployment is at Depression era levels.
Labor Department figures are manipulated. They're fake. Most jobs created don't pay enough to live on. Millions struggle to get by. So do vets.
The National Coalition for Homeless Veterans estimates around 63,000 homeless veterans on any given night.
Over the course of a year, it says, double that number experience homelessness. Numbers are increasing, it adds.
Uncaring government officials bear full responsibility. Services provided are meager at best. Nothing is done to address unemployment.
US resources go for war. Helping returning vets doesn't matter. They're replaced with new recruits sent off to fight. They're lied to about reasons why. They're largely ignored on returning home.
A previous article addressed record numbers of US military and veterans suicides. Most people don't know. Little gets reported.
Obama ignores it. He's preoccupied with waging wars. He's got others in mind. He's mindless about shocking numbers of active duty personnel and vets taking their own lives.
Unbearable emotional pain consumes them. Daily trauma builds. So does intolerable stress. Relief is desperately sought. Suicide is chosen. It's a last option. Others were exhausted.
Daily stress is bad enough. Combat exacerbates it. It's intolerable for many. America consumes its own.
Epidemic post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) levels affect hundreds of thousands of combat forces and vets.
Official numbers understate the problem. It's huge. Independent reports say up to half of Afghan and Iraq vets have emotional and/or physical combat injuries.
They'll never be the same again. They're traumatized. Many can't cope. Their suffering goes largely unnoticed. Many needing help don't get it.
Left untreated, things worsen. Able-bodied youths become physically and emotionally crippled. War is hell and then some.
Horrifying flashbacks persist. PTSD prevents normal functioning. Artificial limbs aren't like nature's.
Damaged emotions aren't made whole. Broken psyches aren't easily repaired. Shattered lives stay that way. Shocking suicide numbers explain best.
So do Depression level numbers of poverty, unemployment, homelessness, hunger, and left on their own vets. Despair defines their condition.
They suffer out of sight and mind. They die the same way. America treats its own with disdain.
Countless numbers of vets are at risk. Suicide levels may increase. Advancing America's imperium matters most.
All federal holidays reflect hypocrisy. Commemorations hide vital truths. America's dark side stays out of sight and mind.
All politicians lie. Obama exceeds the worst of others. He prioritizes war on humanity and then some. He sanitizes his real agenda. Don't expect him to explain.
Stephen Lendman lives in Chicago. He can be reached at lendmanstephen@sbcglobal.net.
His new book is titled "Banker Occupation: Waging Financial War on Humanity."
http://www.claritypress.com/LendmanII.html
Visit his blog site at sjlendman.blogspot.com.
Listen to cutting-edge discussions with distinguished guests on the Progressive Radio News Hour on the Progressive Radio Network.
It airs Fridays at 10AM US Central time and Saturdays and Sundays at noon. All programs are archived for easy listening.
http://www.progressiveradionetwork.com/the-progressive-news-hour
http://www.dailycensored.com/veterans-day-hypocrisy/
US Atrocities in Afghanistan
by Stephen Lendman
US drones murder Afghan civilian men, women and children. American grounds forces do it up close and personal.
US inflicted death, torture and other atrocities reflect daily life. Ordinary Afghans suffer most. They struggle to survive. American aggression is one of history's greatest crimes.
War criminals remain unpunished. Accountability is denied. Conflict persists. It's Washington's longest war. It's longer than WW I and II combined. It shows no signs of ending.
Trillions of dollars go mass slaughter and destruction. They're spent for unchallenged global dominance.
Vital homeland needs go begging. Targeted countries are ravaged and destroyed. Imperial lawlessness operates this way.
Its appetite is insatiable. It ignores rule of law principles. It does whatever it wants. It does it where, when, by what means, and under whatever pretexts it contrives.
It does so unapologetically. It targets one country at a time or in multiples. It wages direct and proxy wars. It does so without justification. It lies claiming otherwise.
Atrocities are virtually de rigueur. All US wars are dirty. In March 2012, 20 US forces murdered 16 Afghan men, women, and nine children aged two to 12.
Children were massacred while they slept. Two women were raped before soldiers killed them. Pentagon officials and media scoundrels whitewashed what happened.
One soldier was blamed for crimes 20 US forces committed. Nineteen got off scot-free. Cold blooded murder and other atrocities persist. They do so with disturbing regularity.
On November 12, Reuters headlined " 'Lack of US Cooperation halts Afghan probe into civilian killings," saying:
"Afghanistan's intelligence service has abandoned its investigation into the murder of a group of civilians after being refused access to US special forces soldiers suspected of involvement, according to a document obtained by Reuters."
War crimes were committed. US forces raided Wardak province. They did so from October 2012 to February 2013.
Seventeen Afghan men were detained. They disappeared. Residents found 10 buried in shallow graves. They were several hundred meters from where US forces are based.
"In the report authored by Afghanistan's National Directorate of Security (NDS) intelligence agency, investigators said they had asked the United States for access to three US Green Berets and four Afghan translators working with them but were rebuffed," said Reuters.
On September 23, NDS published its report. "Despite many requests (it made, America hasn't) cooperated," it said. "Without (its) cooperation, this process cannot be completed."
Pentagon officials routinely whitewash serious war crimes. So do US commanders on the ground. Doing so is longstanding US policy. Rare exceptions prove the rule.
Under a decade long military agreement, Afghan officials can't charge US forces with war crimes. Whatever they do, they're immune.
Zakeria Kandahari is an Afghan translator. He works with US Green Berets. He's done so for nine years.
Documents Reuters obtained explained how US interrogations are conducted. Kandahari witnessed Sayid Mohammed's treatment.
He was murdered. Kandahari named three US Special Forces responsible. He kicked Mohammed," he said. He beat him. He threatened him.
"I handed him over to Mr. Dave and Mr. Hagen, but later I saw his body in a black body bag," he said.
Wardak residents accuse US forces of abducting Afghan men and boys. Interrogations involving torture follows.
Karzai is a US installed stooge. He's done nothing to stop what's persisted throughout his tenure. Failure to act responsibly reflects complicity.
Russia Today interviewed journalist Matthieu Aikins. He spent five months investigating the Wardak incident.
Local residents bore testimony. They supplied credible evidence. War crimes were committed. According to Aikins:
"The special forces team was deployed to an isolated valley west of Kabul, where the Taliban and other insurgents groups have a very heavy presence."
"Over last winter, the locals started complaining that the forces team and their translators were murdering people, abducting them, trotting them, and disappearing them."
"Just extraordinary allegations that at the time were essentially unproven."
In November 2012, residents first complained about a so-called Special Forces ODA 3124 unit.
When it withdrew in April, human remains were discovered near America's Nerkh district base.
Local authorities determined that ODA 3124 operations bore full responsibility.
Survivor testimonies confirmed it. Victims described being severely beaten and tortured.
ICRC representatives obtained more evidence. Because of an alleged US investigation, details weren't disclosed.
According to Aikins:
"In the five months that I spent reporting this story, not a single one of the witnesses that I spoke to had ever been contacted by the US military investigator."
"So it does really beg the question whether these investigators are actually going to be able to establish any sort of accountability of what happened."
It bears repeating. Pentagon officials routinely whitewash serious war crimes. So do US commanders on the ground.
Unaccountability is standard practice. US forces guilty of rape, torture and murder go unpunished.
On November 6, Aitkins headlined his Rolling Stone article "The A-Team Killings."
"Last spring," he said, "the remains of 10 missing Afghan villagers were dug up outside a US Special Forces base - was it a war crime or just another episode in a very dirty war?"
Six months after US Special Forces arrived in Wardak province, allegations of torture and murder surfaced.
Locals said 10 civilians were abducted. They disappeared. US Special Forces were responsible.
They killed another eight Afghans during their operations. Perhaps more bodies remain to be discovered.
On February 16, "a student named Nasratullah was found under a bridge with his throat slit," said Aikins.
Family members said US Green Berets abducted him. Other bodies were found. In July, Col. Jane Crichton lied, saying:
"After thorough investigation, there was no credible evidence to substantiate misconduct by ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) or US forces."
According to Aikins:
"(O)ver the past five months, Rolling Stone has interviewed more than two dozen eyewitnesses and victims' families who've provided consistent and detailed allegations of the involvement of American forces in the disappearance of the 10 men, and has talked to Afghan and Western officials who were familiar with confidential Afghan-government, UN and Red Cross investigations that found the allegations credible."
"In July, a UN report on civilian casualties in Afghanistan warned: 'The reported disappearances, arbitrary killings and torture - if proven to have been committed under the auspices of a party to the armed conflict - may amount to war crimes."
Aikins recounted Gul Rahim's killing. He spoke to three of his neighbors. They saw US Special Forces arrive.
They heard gun shots. When they left. They saw Rahim's "bullet-ridden body lying among the apple trees, his skull shattered."
A man identified only as Omar was targeted. He witnessed Rahim's killing. He survived.
He was taken to America's Nerkh base. He was put in a plywood cell. Interrogations began the next morning.
His hands were bound above his head. He was suspended and beaten. Afghan translator Zakeria Kandahari was involved.
Two Americans interrogated him. He said he knew nothing about Rahim and local Taliban commanders.
Beatings intensified. Sessions lasted for two days. "At one point," said Aikins, "Kandahari held a pistol to Omar's head and told him that he would kill him as easily as he had killed his friend."
He was certain he'd die. At night, he was shackled in his plywood cell. Americans handed him over to Afghan forces. He realized he was being freed.
" 'I promised that I would kill you,' he says Kandahari told him, 'and I don't know how you're getting away alive."
Wardak is an intense battleground. It's "littered with bomb craters and burned-out tanker trucks," said Aikins.
Many disappeared Afghans "were rounded up by the Americans in broad daylight, in front of dozens of witnesses."
Aikins obtained credible testimonies. Mohammad Hazrat Janan is deputy head of Wardak's provincial council.
US forces terrorize people, he said. They do it "because they could not defeat the insurgents."
People abducted weren't Taliban, he explained. "(B)ut even if they were, no one is allowed to just kill them in this way."
Nerkh district feels besieged, said Aikins. It's a "hotbed of guerrilla resistance." It's close to Kabul. It's a "staging ground for suicide attacks on the capital."
US forces are stationed at Combat Outpost Nerkh. Green Beret units are called Operational Detachment Alpha, ODA, or A-Team. The Nerkha-based one is called ODA 3124.
It's involved in counterinsurgency operations. They part of what's known as "white" Special Forces. So-called "black" ones launch night raids.
CIA elements are involved in local operations. Insurgents control Nerkh rural areas. US forces are vulnerable to ambushes or roadside blasts.
Nerkh incidents didn't occur in a vacuum, said Aikins. "Over the past 10 years human rights groups, the UN and Congress have repeatedly documented the recurring abuse of detainees in the custody of the US military, the CIA and their Afghan allies."
According to Human Rights Watch Asia advocacy director John Sifton:
"The US military has a poor track record of holding its forces responsible for human rights abuses and war crimes."
"There are some cases of detainee deaths 11 years ago that resulted in no punishments."
Aikins said a former ODA 3124 interpreter named Farooq said he "routinely witnessed abusive interrogations during his time with the A-Team, involving physical beatings with fists, feet, cables and the use of devices similar to Tasers."
When Obama begins drawing down US forces, Green Berets and CIA will remain. According to Aikins, they'll be even less oversight than now.
Based on what he's seen and gotten from witnesses, "the fight in Afghanistan may get even dirtier."
Covert war may continue interminably. Afghans have enjoyed rare times of peace. They've had none for over three decades. Future prospects look grim.
For centuries, Afghans experienced what few can imagine. Marauding armies besieged cities. They slaughtered thousands. They caused vast destruction.
Imperial Britain and Czarist Russia vied for control. Local warlords exerted their own dominance. When Soviet Russia withdrew in 1989, a ravaged country remained.
Living Afghans can't remember peace, stability and tranquility. Endless conflicts persist.
Post-9/11, America's attack, invasion and occupation followed. Millions died. Countless others suffer horrifically.
It bears repeating. Nothing ahead looks promising. America came to stay. Permanent occupation is planned.
Afghanistan is strategically important. It straddles the Middle East, South and Central Asia. It's in the heart of Eurasia.
Occupation projects America's military might. It targets Russia, China, Iran, and other oil-rich Middle East states.
It furthers Washington's imperium. It prioritizes unchallenged global dominance. It seeks control over Afghan's untapped natural gas, oil and other mineral resources.
In June 2010, The New York Times headlined "US Identifies Vast Mineral Riches in Afghanistan," saying:
They're worth an estimated $1 trillion. Estimates are notoriously inaccurate.
Whatever they're worth, they include "huge veins of iron, copper, cobalt, gold and critical industrial metals like lithium - are so big and include so many minerals that are essential to modern industry that Afghanistan could eventually be transformed into one of the most important mining centers in the world, the United States officials believe."
An internal Pentagon memo calls Afghanistan the "Saudi Arabia of lithium." It's a key material needed to produce "batteries, laptops and BlackBerrys."
Years of development are needed. Huge potential exists. Heavy investment is likely. An economic bonanza awaits profiteers.
Don't expect ordinary Afghans to benefit. Surviving concerns them most. Violence continues unabated.
Living conditions are deplorable. Vital services are lacking. Millions have little or no access to clean water.
Many don't get enough food. Life expectancy is one of the world's lowest. Infant mortality is one of the highest.
Extreme poverty, unemployment, human misery, and constant fear reflect daily life. Washington prioritizes conquest, colonization, plunder and dominance.
War without end rages. Human needs go begging. Wherever America shows up, death and destruction follow. So does unrelieved dystopian harshness. No end in sight looms.
Stephen Lendman lives in Chicago. He can be reached at lendmanstephen@sbcglobal.net.
His new book is titled "Banker Occupation: Waging Financial War on Humanity."
http://www.claritypress.com/LendmanII.html
Visit his blog site at sjlendman.blogspot.com.
Listen to cutting-edge discussions with distinguished guests on the Progressive Radio News Hour on the Progressive Radio Network.
It airs Fridays at 10AM US Central time and Saturdays and Sundays at noon. All programs are archived for easy listening.
http://www.progressiveradionetwork.com/the-progressive-news-hour
http://www.dailycensored.com/us-atrocities-afghanistan/
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